Hope is a Thing with Feathers

I originally wrote this personal piece for my Masters, not expecting it to find a publishing home. It has subsequently been included in an anthology as part of the Every Animal Project, celebrating animals that have been heroes in a variety of ways. I have kindly been given permission by the editor to reproduce this here.

19th December 2020.

My phone pings. A WhatsApp message from Mum.

“Are you watching Boris?”

“Just back from a walk. What’s he saying?”

“Lots to catch up on. Call soon.”

Hertfordshire has been put into tier four. Mum and Lesley are already bubbling in tier two. Christmas is cancelled.

And I haven’t closed the freezer door properly. My tears fall into the melting water leaking all over the kitchen floor.

Christmas Day, 2020.

The sun is shining, and I tell myself not to mope around indoors with my dinner for one but to get out to the local patch for a walk. It will make you feel better, I tell myself unconvincingly.

Reaching Ayres End Lane, the wind pinches my cheeks as it funnels along this exposed part of the route. The perky song of a robin blasts through the crisp air, and I see wisps of melody rising from his beak.

“The days are longer! The days are longer!”

I creep towards the bird and peer up at it from underneath a hedge of holly. Complete with red berries. The cliché of a Christmas card.

What’s she looking at?

I sing louder.

Standing two feet away from him, he still hasn’t noticed me. It turns the corners of my mouth upwards for the first time that week.

“Don’t think I can’t see you.

I have important business to do;

territory to fight over,

and ladies to woo.”

I won’t be put off my stride.

“Happy Christmas, Robin. And thank you.”

What’s Christmas anyway? It’s just a day.

“Spring is coming! Spring is coming!”

Boxing Day, 2020.

I open the curtains. Thick cloud hangs heavy over the rooftops, and the rain comes in waves. The sky is as black as my mood. After Mum and Dad divorced, this became the day when our family celebrated Christmas. This was our day of togetherness.

Except I am alone. I wrap myself up in the duvet. Sobbing. Spiralling into a whirlpool of woe. I stay there for several days.

New Year’s Eve, 2020.

Even though my body feels heavy and every step is an effort, I force myself outside again. Telling myself I must do what keeps me well. Walk. Watch wildlife. Walk. Watch wildlife.

I hear staccato contact calls like a ticking clock from a tree above the holly hedge on Ayres End Lane. I instantly know this is the robin.

“Sun is setting, time for bed! Sun is setting, time for bed!”

Remembering a walk with Stephen Moss, I use his tip to catch this bird’s attention.

“Phhhhiiiiissssssshhhhhhh!”

What’s that?

“Phhhhiiiiissssssshhhhhhh!”

That sound. It’s there again!

That weird woman in the black hat and jacket is back.

I’ve never heard a human make a call like that!

No luck. I don’t linger as the sun starts to glow red in the sky, and it will be dark soon. I will bring mealworms with me next time.

I cock my head for a moment, but I feel the urge to sing again.

“Sun is setting, time for bed! Sun is setting, time for bed!”

24th January 2021.

The dark days of January are darker. This black hex is lifted by ice-laden skies and cloaks the city in a veil of white. St Albans is transformed by the first snow of the year, which dazzles as brightly as the glinting TV aerials on rooftops.  Like an electric shock, it jolts a spark of lightness within me. The crunch of compacting frost under my boots is a motivating marching order to keep walking. Enough to encourage me to venture to the outskirts of town for the first time in weeks.

Freezing rocks fell from the sky last night.

All my food is out of sight.

I will puff myself into a ball.

And wait among the branches, out of the cold.

Remembering to pack a tiny tub of mealworms, I scan the holly hedge for the robin. Pacing back and forth, shaking the container as I go, I can’t see him.

“Phhhhiiiiissssssshhhhhhh!”

It must be too cold. No doubt he is hunkered down somewhere keeping warm.

The woman in black. She’s back!

What’s she doing now?

Curiosity gets the better of me;

I leap out from under the bush to take a look.

As I turn to leave, a tiny brown bird is sheltering under a laurel hedge on the opposite side of the road.

“Robin! There you are!”

I have a broad grin. I creep across the road and scatter a few mealworms on the icy gravel. His fluffed-up feathers make his head look tiny, a cartoon character of a bird. He doesn’t move. Neither do I. Silence. A companionable one?

Crunchy worms are on the ground.

But there’s no other food here to be found.

Now there’s more, flying through the air!

I am SO hungry, but that woman’s standing there.

It’s freezing. I need to eat.

I’m freezing – I need to eat!

After several minutes, the robin darts to gather the worms like a game of pick-up sticks before retreating into the laurel hedge. I am elated.

31st January 2021.

I have a purpose. To keep Robin going when the ground is frozen. To help him stay alive.

With thoughts of this little bird’s welfare in my head all week, I muster up enough energy to walk as far as Ayres End Lane again. Redwings congregate on the trees that line the farmer’s field, taking off as one as I approach. Catkins hang like Christmas tree decorations, replacing the icicles that are dripping away. Little beacons of light.

“Phhhhiiiiissssssshhhhhhh!”

I begin calling to Robin before I reach the hedges, giving him a signal that I am on my way. The equivalent of ringing a doorbell, telling him that I am here.

That’s her! Does she have food again?

Quick, I’m starving! Quick, I’m starving!

Before I can even pull the mealworm tub from my pocket, he pops out from the depths of the laurel hedge, hovering like an angel, mid-air. Impatient. He dives beak-first into the pot as soon as I remove the lid before retreating into the foliage with a mouthful.

Back and forth. Back and forth. I am beaming.

Thank goodness I am full now.

And there’s enough to share

with the prospective mate

I’m trying to impress over there!

6th February 2021.

Bulbs are bursting through the forest floor at Batchwood. And even though branches creak and crack with the winter winds, finally, there are signs of spring. A draught intensifies along Ayres End Lane, lifting leaves into a dancing swirl. The chill is biting, but I am only here to see one creature.

It is time to defend my territory. There is shouting from every direction. So many voices. I join in.

“Keep out! Keep out!”

Robin is waiting for me! He is perched on a post in front of the stables.

“Hi Robin!”

I ‘phish’ again, so he knows it is definitely me.

Oh, wait! There she is!

Her black plumage is striding towards me. The tub of worms is in her hand.

“It’s a bit dangerous there, Robin. We’re right on the road. Let’s go to the layby a bit further along.”

Where’s she going? Follow the food, follow the food!

Shaking the tub as I go, I keep calling. Robin bounces along the laurel hedge beside me. It’s like Pavlov’s dog! I’ve trained him. Angel wings flutter like fanning through a paperback book as he dives for the worms, again and again. As he builds confidence, he darts from the hedge more quickly than before. I leave delighted.

Valentine’s Day, 2021.

The snow has finally melted, except for the odd cluster of ice crystals tucked into the cracks and crevices of fallen logs. Branches wave in the wind in time with my breathing, and as I weave my way through Batchwood, it is alive with bird song.

I wonder whether Robin will be at Ayres End Lane today, now the snow has melted.

As I approach ‘our’ feeding spot, I hear a bird in full song, and I see a gleaming redbreast up high in the treetops. That must be him.

“Look at me! I’m a good catch!”

“Look at me! I’m your perfect match!”

It takes a few ‘phishes’ to entice him down, but as soon as I get his attention, he swoops down onto the hedge. Hopping up the branches as if climbing a helter-skelter, he cocks his head as I put the mealworms on the glove to see if he will be a little bit bolder today. We stare at each other as I edge my hand closer to his body. My hand is just inches from him. I am hardly breathing. But still, he stands there, unmoved.

She is so close. REALLY close.

Studying him, I have never looked at a robin this closely before. There are olive freckles on the crown of his chestnut head, his glistening obsidian eye the size of a drupelet on a blackberry, and it is as if his legs are made from fuse wire, which coils around his ankles.

But I’m SO hungry.

Be brave. BE BRAVE!

He makes the leap. A leap of faith. A fleeting perch on my gloved hand before he retreats to the safety of the hedge. The subsequent landings increase from milliseconds to a second. I witness trust building right before my eyes.

5th March 2021.

Signs of spring are in full swing. Bluebell spears are tall beneath my feet, and the first sunshine celandines of the year are in full bloom at Batchwood. Paths are defined once more, now that the entire woodland floor is no longer a homogenous mass of decaying leaf litter. As I snake my way through the snicket up to Ayres End Lane, the damson has erupted with blossom, and the air is alive with the hum of bumblebees. The year has increased its volume, with woodpeckers tapping their percussive beats on old trunks. Trilling wrens join the chorus, and with the promise of sunshine taking the edge of the cold, I decide today is the day to see whether I can persuade Robin to land on my ungloved hand.

As soon as I approach, we go through the same routine. I meet Robin at the fence post. He flies alongside me, shoulder height, like a feathered pet. I don’t even need to ‘phish’ him anymore. He knows and trusts me. We settle at our spot.

I’m going to be a Dad!

Thank god that woman is back!

Impatient, he is fluttering right in front of my face as I take off my glove and empty some worms into my hand. Straight in, he lands. Claws scratch my palm before he finds my finger, gripping on tightly. His beak tickles every crease and crevice, pecking for every last mealworm. He flicks his head from side to side, like a dog shaking its favourite toy, breaking the bigger worms against my hand. I do not stop beaming. Without my gloves, I am freezing, but I am beyond caring. Nothing else matters apart from this connection with this little brown bird.

Phew! Dinner for two,

and I don’t mind dropping a few

for the pygmy shrew.

2nd April 2021.

Defying the weight of my heavy Long COVID legs, I have been making the long journey to see Robin two or three times a week now. I am a woman obsessed. I think about him all of the time. Is he too cold? Does he mind the wind? Is the ground too dry for him to find any food?

And I worry about predators. Is he staying safe from any cats that might live in the big houses along the lane? What about the sparrowhawk that I’ve witnessed hunting in the dark snicket? And the cars that race along the road. “Be careful, Robin”, I say – and pray - silently in my thoughts.

As I march around the bend on Ayres End Lane, which now explodes with frothy blackthorn flowers, my eyes scan the fence post way off in the distance. Is he there? As soon as I spot him, perching and waiting, I feel relief. My breathing slows, and I grin. Any residents out in their gardens no doubt think I am crazy as I shout, “Hi Robin!” on my approach.

‘My’ robin has become so comfortable that he perches on my boot before leaping up to my hand. After a prolonged feed, I am surprised he is comfortable enough to preen. He balances on one leg, stretches out the other, and grooms his splayed wing with his foot before stuffing his head into his breast, ruffling the feathers on his chest.

He stands on my hand once more. And to my delight, he whistles a song.

“Chicks! Keep out of sight – stay back!

I’ll bring you some worms from the woman in black.”

“Is this for me, Robin?”

I don’t think I have ever been happier.

3rd April 2021.

At last, lockdown rules have relaxed, and I travel to Sussex to belatedly celebrate my sister’s birthday. We manage four hours, freezing, outside in her garden. The weather has turned cold again, and we wear hats, scarves and gloves as we snuggle under blankets. I cry when we reunite, and even though we are not supposed to hug, we do, turning away our faces from kissing. To be safe. It has been the longest four months of my life in lockdown loneliness. We swear we will never go through this separation from each other ever again.

4th April 2021.

The hedge is silent. Robin is nowhere to be seen. I pace back and forth along Ayres End Lane.

“Phhhhiiiiissssssshhhhhhh!”

“Phhhhiiiiissssssshhhhhhh!”

Where is he? I call him in my singsong voice, “Rob-in! Rob-in!”.

Has he moved territory? Is he sitting on eggs? Or building a new nest? I venture further along the road peering into hedges and scanning the treetops for over half an hour. Nothing. I concede he is not there and walk home, dragging my feet. I visit several times in the following weeks, and it is hard to admit that he has gone for good.

His disappearance leaves a gaping hole in my heart. I feel empty. I always knew that every meeting could be the last and that it would end sooner or later, but I wasn’t prepared for it at that moment. It sounds silly to say, but I was mourning the loss of this tiny bird. He helped bring light in those darkest days, in a time of isolation and sorrow. He brought elation and delight, and he got me outside of the four walls of my flat.

This sorrow was as acute as the joy that he brought. I will never forget the special connection I felt when I was looking deep into his soul. Nothing else mattered when we were peering eye to eye. Those moments kept me going week in, week out. I no longer felt lonely while standing beside him on the side of the road on a cold winter’s day. I had earned the trust of a wild animal, and I never took it for granted. Even months later, I look to where our meeting and feeding spots were, in the hope that he might reappear again. He never did. And I really missed him.

While I helped him in his time of need, he most certainly helped me in mine. And for that, I will always be grateful.

***

Postscript: 16th January 2022.

It is a rare, bright January day. Stopping for a rest at the corner of a farmer’s field, I face the sunlight and replenish my energy with a leftover mince pie. I close my eyes to feel the warmth of the rays and the crispness of the cold winter wind. A rush of air oscillates beside my ear. Standing heron still, my eyes scan from side to side like an action man. I slowly twist my body to look over my shoulder into the hedgerow behind me. There’s nothing there. Did I imagine it?

My gaze lowers. Right beside my boot is a bright orange light, feathers illuminated like an intense sunset. I bend down. To bird level. I crumble the remaining uneaten half of the mince pie into my hand. I flatten my hand, thinking any movement would prompt him to take off. But instead, he starts to sing a sub-song as beautiful as bubbling molten gold. He cocks his head and stares at me with those glass bead eyes. It takes ten seconds before he flies to my hand, angel wings outstretched before me, taking the largest crumb. Back and forth, back and forth. So confident and bold.

Could this be Robin? This is only half a mile along Ayres End Lane from the original feeding spot. Does he recognise me? I am dressed in the same clothes as last year. Is it too much to wish that he is greeting me as an old friend? Maybe it is his chick, his progeny? Passing on in his genes that the weird woman dressed in black can be trusted. Or perhaps he is just ravenous?

After all, hope is a thing with feathers.