Short Story: A Bird In The Hand

Short Story: A Bird In The Hand

Cyril taught History at the local community school but he knew far more about birds. The feathered kind, you understand. It couldn’t possibly be the other...my reference of course being to women.

If you saw Cyril, you’d understand why. He was an unassuming, humble man. You could pass him in the street and not really notice him as he seemed to blend in with the scenery around him. Nothing at all remarkable to look at; grey hair, grey eyes and even a grey kind of complexion, sallow and lacking in any healthy colour. Very slim and tall, he wore suits all the time and rarely smiled. He also scratched his head quite a lot. His pupils were constantly sniggering that he had dandruff or nits but they didn’t realise that it was actually a nervous complaint he’d had since his youthful days. Cyril had a phobia of people. Experts would declare he suffered from social anxiety. Whatever it was, he forced himself to teach by hardly looking at his students at all and he occasionally spoke to his wife, Sheila, though his eyes never met hers. It was so frustrating for her because Cyril would always talk to his birds in his garden and she was certain he stared intently into their beady little eyes.

Cyril was more than just an ornithologist. He was utterly obsessed with birds. He knew all the species that visited his garden and he could identify all falcons and eagles, birds of the ocean and the entire woodpecker family. He had vast knowledge of birds from abroad, understood migration, breeding and nesting. He could recognise a bird from their flight and identify them from their song. His bookcase was heaving with ornithology books; Sheila’s Catherine Cookson’s squeezed into one end. The rarest species he had ever seen was a golden oriole and his wife never heard the end of it. He’d been walking down by the river early last summer when he’d spotted the exquisite yellow bird. By the time he’d returned to the house, he was almost incoherent with excitement. Sheila only wished he was as passionate with her but apart from a couple of brief intimate encounters; their love life was decidedly dull and had been for the last 10 years. She knew she was a saint to stay.

He’d bought yet another feeder for his garden today. He was outside finding a tree to hang it from and Sheila shook her head with dismay. There had to be at least 30 bird feeders in their garden now. It was getting to the point that when one surveyed the garden; the roses that Sheila had lovingly pruned and the colourful hanging baskets she’d created were obscured by all the different bird accoutrements. Cyril had egg shaped seed bird feeders and globe bird feeders as well as even squirrel busting feeders. That wasn’t to mention the bird tables. He had open top bird tables, wall mounted bird tables, terracotta bird baths and even a thatched, gothic bird table!

Sheila watched from their kitchen window as Cyril began to walk up their pebbled garden path towards the house and straight away birds began to flutter down, chirping fervently. He glanced back and Sheila knew from his posture that he was delighted. She couldn’t blame him in some ways. He was devoted to his birds and they rewarded him by appearing in his garden all times of the day in great numbers. There was talk in the village that Cyril had stolen the wild birds from Bluebell Woods as well as all the other gardens on the estate but surely they weren’t serious. Cyril was simply an avid bird watcher. He encouraged them to his garden. She just wished he was as encouraging with their marriage.

The sound of something being pushed through the letterbox disturbed Sheila from her reverie. What could that be? The post had already been. Sighing, she padded softly to the front door and stooped to pick up a folded piece of paper. Her eyebrows rose in surprise as she read the large poster styled writing. There was to be a meeting in the village hall for all residents and it was about Cyril! With a gasp, Sheila hastened back to the kitchen, saw that her husband was still outside and quickly opened the back door. As she did so, many birds fluttered away with fright at the sound of the door being jerked open. Cyril looked annoyed. “Do you mind? There was a green woodpecker on the grass and a redstart on the new bird table.” His eyes didn’t meet her’s as he added, “What is it?”

“They’re having a meeting,” Sheila replied, worry mounting in her voice, “They think you have something to do with them not getting any birds in their gardens,”

Cyril frowned and shook his head, “What are you talking about? Who are they?”

Sheila looked exasperated, “The neighbours. Who else? Cyril, they think you are stealing the birds from their gardens!”

Cyril scratched his head, “But that’s ridiculous. They come of their own accord,”

Sheila stepped over the threshold, ignoring Cyril’s warning expression. She wasn’t meant to be in the garden when Cyril was with his birds but this time had to be an exception. This was an emergency. “Do they?” she asked, staring at her husband questioningly, “Do they come of their own accord?”

A muscle was beginning to twitch in Cyril’s left cheek and he scratched his head again, turning away from his wife. “You know they do, don’t be daft,”

“Well, perhaps you ought to go,” said Sheila, her hands on her hips, “ To defend yourself.”

She glimpsed a ghost of a rare smile as Cyril turned on his heel and started to stride towards the kitchen, “I really don’t think they are going to believe me,”

“You could try,” said Sheila plaintively, as he passed her. She gazed around for inspiration but was reminded of how the garden no longer displayed her feminine gardening skills and she shook her head with despair and mumbled quietly, “You should at least go,”

But her last words were left outside in the garden with her and a few remaining hungry, tame birds as Cyril closed the kitchen door firmly behind him.

The meeting was bustling and loud when Cyril entered the hall; possibly because every resident of the village seemed to be present. He surreptitiously tried to find a seat but when quietness suddenly descended, he knew he hadn’t been successful. He placed his holdall on the ground by his feet as he sat down and glanced nervously around.

“The man of the moment!” a prominent and familiar voice made Cyril jump. He twisted in his seat to see his neighbour of three doors down. His face was puce red and Cyril couldn’t tell if it was due to too much port or just plain annoyance. “All the birds are in your garden.” He announced irately, “Why are they in your garden and not visiting ours?” His neighbour was obviously suffering from barely concealed fury and Cyril swallowed as he realised all angry eyes were on him. He squirmed uncomfortably and shook his head. This was absurd. A meeting about absent birds! He was only here because of Sheila; to keep her happy as nothing he did was pleasing her lately. He was regretting it already. His neighbours were obviously mad! All he could really do to appease them was to share his compulsion with them. He couldn’t stop buying bird feeders so the best thing to do was give a few away with some of the special mixture he always prepared...

Walking home, Cyril sighed. He hadn’t been able to supply all his neighbours obviously but their curiosity had got the better of them. He was sure they were rushing home and trying out their feeders already. And Cyril knew, with an iron clad certainty, that the birds would start to visit their gardens again.

Unfortunately, Sheila wasn’t at home when Cyril got in on account that she had left him. For good. She’d tired of his obsession with the birds and his lack of interest in her and their marriage. The village meeting had been the last straw. He might as well have not gone and continued monopolising the birdlife! He screwed up the Dear John letter and threw it on the floor.

At school the following day Cyril’s head was sore; not because of a headache but because of all the scratching he couldn’t stop himself from doing. He ignored his students who were whispering behind cupped hands to each other and tried to concentrate on a worksheet for their homework. He was missing Sheila already and she hadn’t been gone 24 hours. He knew she’d put up with a lot but somehow he just thought she would always be there. He sighed deeply and shook his head. He’d thrown his marriage away over his compulsion with birdlife.

“Sir?”

Cyril glanced up sharply at the quiet voice to see one of his best students watching him warily.

“What is it Michael?” said Cyril, avoiding his gaze.

“It’s this book Sir,” Michael continued hesitantly, “I just can’t seem to get into it. I’m sorry Sir. It isn’t just me. The others think it too. Could we have another?”

Cyril looked exasperated. “The others think what exactly?”

“That it’s boring, Sir. Nothing changes. Every page seems to be the same. No excitement. Just the same day over and over again...” his voice trailed off because his teacher, for the very first time ever, was staring at him, his eyes resting intently on his.

“Boring?” Cyril murmured slowly and with sudden realisation he abruptly stood up, causing his pupil to reel backwards into a chair. Cyril glanced at him dismissively and said loudly; “Class can finish early. I will email your homework,”

Normally Cyril gained slight amusement from watching his pupils dash haphazardly to the door when the lesson was over; most of them eager to escape and pushing themselves into odd angles to squeeze through the doorway. Today Cyril wasn’t a witness to their emergency exit for he was out of the room first, thundering down the corridor and banging the heavy entrance door against the wall on his way out. He ignored a lurking pupil who regarded him with amusement and said, “Be careful, Sir, with the door. We don’t want it off its hinges,” reminding Cyril of all the times he had admonished students for doing the same. But there was no time for indulging in teacher etiquette. There was something important he had to tell his wife.

He dragged her, quite unceremoniously, back from her sisters. She was too shocked to say very much and stood in the kitchen with him, shaking her head with bewilderment.

“What is it, Cyril?” she asked, wondering momentarily if her leaving him had caused him to suffer a nervous breakdown.

“I have something to show you,” he said, his breathing heavy as he released a drawer and lifted out a box. He opened it and straight away Sheila stumbled backwards, covering her face. “What is that smell?” she gasped. Cyril took her hand and gently pulled her to him and nodded to the box. “It’s my mixture,” he said quietly, “It’s what draws the birds to the garden,”

Sheila looked into the box and then back up to Cyril and found him gazing at her lovingly, into her eyes.

“Cyril,” she said in wonder, her voice drifting away as he bent to kiss her, “Perhaps I ought not to ask what that mixture is,”

“Perhaps not,” he agreed and enveloped her in a warm embrace as Sheila sighed with blissful contentment. He had surprised her greatly. Her husband wasn’t as predictable as she had thought. What else could he possibly have up his sleeve?

Outside several birds were chirping, many different species. Now all the gardens of the village were heaven to them, but especially this one.

And all Cyril had to do next was attract birds from foreign climes to his garden. A new project, many new feeders and a brand new mixture...