Bird Cottage

by Eva Meijer

Genres: Biographical; Historical Fiction; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

A novel based on the true story of a remarkable woman, her lifelong relationship with birds and the joy she drew from it

Len Howard was forty years old when she decided to leave her London life and loves behind, retire to the English countryside and devote the rest of her days to her one true passion: birds.

Moving to a small cottage in Sussex, she wrote two bestselling books, astonishing the world with her observations on the tits, robins, sparrows and other birds that lived nearby, flew freely in and out of her windows, and would even perch on her shoulder as she typed.

This moving novel imagines the story of this remarkable woman's decision to defy society's expectations, and the joy she drew from her extraordinary relationship with the natural world.

Release date: April 6, 2021

Publisher: Pushkin Press

Print pages: 256

Sample

Prologue
1965
Jacob flies swiftly into the house, calls to me, and then immediately
flies out again. He rarely makes a fuss about things, and
never flies very far from the nest once his babies have hatched.
He usually visits the bird table a few times in the morning, and
then stays close to the wooden nesting box on the birch tree.
He is a placid bird, large for a Great Tit, and a good father.
I follow him out of doors and hear the machine even before
I’ve left the garden. I run clumsily on clogs that almost slip off
my feet. No. This can’t be happening. Not that hedge. Not
in the springtime. But a stocky man is trimming the hedge
with one of those electric hedge-cutter things. He can’t hear
me through the racket. I squeeze between the hedge and the
machine. The noise drowns out everything, crashing in waves
over me, boring through my body.
It gives him a shock to see me there, suddenly in front of
him. He switches the thing off and removes his ear-protectors.
“What’s up, missus?”
“You mustn’t trim this hedge. It’s full of nests. Most of the
eggs have already hatched.” My voice is shriller than usual.
It feels as if someone is strangling me.
“You’ll have to speak to the Council about it.” He turns
the machine on again.
No. Twigs jab at my back. I move to the left when he
moves, and then to the right.
“Get out of my way, please.”
“If you want to trim this hedge, you’ll have to get rid of
me first.”
He sighs. “I’ll start work on the other side, then.” He holds
the contraption at the ready, more as a shield than a weapon.
But that’s where the Thrushes are, with their brownspeckled
breasts. I shake my head. “No. You really mustn’t.”
“Look, missus, I’m just doing my job.”
“What is your boss’s phone number?”
He gives me a name and the County Council number.
I keep an eye on him until he has left the lane. He’s probably
off to another hedge now.
Cheeping and chirping everywhere. The parent birds
are nowhere to be seen, but the babies make their presence
known. The parents will return and with any luck they won’t
have had too great a shock. I hurry to the house, sweat running
down my back. I don’t even pause to take off my cardigan.
“May I speak to Mr Everitt, please? It’s urgent.”
While I’m waiting for him, Terra comes and perches beside
me. She can always tell when something is wrong. Birds are
much more sensitive than we are. I’m still panting a little.
“Mr Everitt, I appreciate your coming to the telephone.
Len Howard speaking, from Ditchling. This morning I discovered,
to my great horror, that one of your workmen was
trimming the hedges. It’s the nesting season! I’m making a
study of these birds. My research will be ruined.”
Mr Everitt says I have to send in a written request to have
the hedge-cutting postponed so that the Council can decide
on the matter. He can’t make that decision himself. I thank
him very much and ask for a guarantee that there’ll be no
further hedge-trimming till then.
“I’ll try my best,” he says. “They do usually listen to me.”
He coughs, like a smoker.
I know the Great Tits would immediately warn me if
they came back to trim the hedges, but for the rest of the day
I feel very agitated. Sometimes the wind sounds like hedgetrimming;
sometimes I’m tricked by a car in the distance.
Jacob also remains restless. And that’s not like him at all. He’s
old enough—at least six—to know better.
I start writing my letter. They must listen to me.