Chapter 32
BARDY
To sing a song that old was sung.
“Now, quietly now.” Leonard beckons them to follow him along the broad wooden walkway that leads to the bird hide. Bardy thinks they must look like mismatched ducklings hurrying behind. Leonard lowers his hand to indicate no one should talk as they approach the door.
With a loud slam, the door opens, banging back on its hinges, and nearby, a flock of ducks takes flight. “I still don’t see why we couldn’t have brought the dogs,” a woman declares loudly to her companion. “They could have had a great time in those ponds.”
Tash is back among them. Not that she’s spotted them, yet.
Then she does.
“Oh.” She nudges the big man next to her and gives him an I’ll tell you later look. “Not much to see,” Tash proclaims as she passes them. As the couple disappears around the bend in the walkway, Bardy hears a burst of laughter.
“Well!” Linda ejaculates. Mellow plum now deep purple.
However, there seems to be one advantage to meeting up with Tash again. She has cleared the hide for them. As they step inside, they have the place to themselves. “Oh, excellent,” Leonard declares, speaking just above a whisper, “now take a seat, everyone.”
A series of wooden benches is placed in front of slats that have been raised to enable them to look out over the pool. Leonard starts to set up his telescope and hands his binoculars to Linda. Bardy has to give it to Len, the view is wonderful.
Could he call him Len?
He glances at the man adjusting the eyepiece of his telescope. Nope. Leonard Bernstein was not a “Len.”
“This is an amazing spot,” Bardy says, squeezing onto a bench next to Tay. He’s pleased she came. She has even brought a small sketchbook. So has silver-bright Kate. And Linda, the bird painter.
The broad pool in front of them shimmers with the occasional gust of wind, then settles, its surface flecked with smaller ripples caused by the movement of the feeding birds.
Above the water, swallows and house martins dart and swoop.
Tash clearly has no idea what she is talking about.
The pool is teeming with birdlife. Leonard points out the different species to them, the avocets, little ringed plovers, and dunlins, as well as teals and shoveler ducks.
He invites them to use his telescope when he spots a particularly interesting bird.
“I’m sure they said there was a dowitcher around here,” he mutters.
Kate looks up at him. “I can see why you love it here, and love the birds.”
Leonard looks pleased. “I do have to say, Kate, that I am very taken with the idea that as the land changes below, the birds keep flying over it all, migrating, year after year. Following the old paths, singing the old songs.”
“That’s very poetic, Leonard,” Bardy comments.
“Are all these birds part of the migration?” Satya asks.
“Oh no,” Leonard replies, “some of the species are real home birds and never want to move far . . .”
He knows that feeling. He supposes it is the same for Leonard and Linda. Tay? No, he hopes Tay does move on. Even just for a while. He glances at her. Head down, busily sketching an avocet.
“. . . others are passing through and then decide to stay . . .” Leonard continues.
Is that Kate? Possibly.
Hana? But she didn’t want to stay. Had already stayed too long.
I really loved you . . . but then yes, Bardy, I did want more.
What about Satya? She may have Indian heritage, but she was born in Norfolk, the daughter of a doctor and a businessman. Has based her own business here, too. Yes, Satya is a home bird. Like Jack.
Leonard looks at them over the top of his telescope. “Now, some are exotics who become home birds. Definitely not from around here, perhaps they got blown off course but decided to stay.”
Lou leans back on the bench so he can see Pia. “There you go, we’re the exotics.”
Leonard is now in full flow: “So those are the home birds, then we come to the migrants. You have the seasonal migrants who stay a while, and then the passage migrants who are passing through on their way north or south.”
“And that’s what you like so much?” Kate asks.
Leonard nods. “And it can get quite exciting when the eruptive migrants appear.”
“Oh, people often think I’m one of those,” Satya says.
“What?” Leonard looks puzzled.
“A disruptive migrant.”
“No, no.” Leonard looks distressed. “I said eruptive migrant. That happens when food might be scarce elsewhere in the world and the birds come here to swell the numbers for a while.”
“Makes sense,” Tay says, looking up from her drawing.
“And the other birds accept them?” Pia asks.
“Usually,” Leonard nods.
Pia looks thoughtful, and Bardy wonders if she is thinking about her human rights work with refugees. Were people always as welcoming to migrants as the birds?
Leonard is suddenly distracted by the vibration of his phone. “It’s the bird group. Definitely a dowitcher around.” He picks up the binoculars that Linda had put down when she started sketching.
“How do we spot the dowager?” Kate asks.
“Dowitcher,” Leonard repeats slowly, eyes peering through the binoculars.
“I think a dowager bird would be quite grand,” Pia comments.
“Dowitcher,” Leonard says, patiently, “I can see the mistake you’re making.”
“Any sign of that dowager?” Satya asks, innocently.
Bardy has no idea what is going on, but he can detect the woman’s suppressed mirth.
Leonard shakes his head, momentarily lowering his binoculars. “It’s—”
“Is that the dowager, there, Leonard?” Pia asks, pointing vaguely into the distance.
“It’s a d—”
Kate interrupts him. “You know the bird I really like, that’s the prattling cole, but I hear they’re quite rare.”
“You mean a pratincole,” Leonard insists.
“Yes, the prattling cole isn’t seen much around here,” Pia says, seriously.
Leonard looks to Linda for help, but Bardy sees she has her eyes fixed on Kate, a slight smile on her face. Eventually, Linda says, “Kate, you know which bird I’ve always wanted to see—that would be the spotted cake.”
Leonard turns on his wife. “What are you talking about? Cake? Cake? It’s a spotted crake.”
Satya adds her bit. “Even more than the dowager and the spotted cake, what I’d really like to see is . . .”
“Would that be the black-tailed gobshit?” Lou inquires.
Oh, very good, Lou.
Bardy thinks Leonard’s head is going to spin. “Black-tailed godwit, pratincole, spotted crake, and it’s a DOWITCHER,” he almost shouts.
Satya ignores Leonard. “No, Lou, not the black-tailed gobshit, but the fluffy-backed tit-babbler.”
Most of them are laughing now. Leonard looks totally confused.
“But they live in Thailand!” Leonard blurts. He looks around. “I don’t understand.”
For a moment, they ignore him. “Is there really such a bird?” Pia asks, grinning.
“Oh, yes, I looked it up. Great name,” Satya says.
Kate now turns to Leonard, and Pia and Satya also gather around. Bardy glances at Linda, who says nothing but sits back to see how things unfold.
“Leonard,” Kate says loudly. “Isn’t it really, really annoying when someone can’t understand what you’re saying?” She pauses, “So we are asking you, in fact begging you, for your sake and ours . . .” Pia and Satya join in. “. . . please wear your hearing aids.”
Leonard throws an anguished look at Bardy and Lou.
They both shrug. You’re on your own, mate.
Besides, they’re both laughing.
“It isn’t as simple as that, and they’re not always comfortable.”
“Wear your hearing aids, Leonard,” the three women chorus.
“But they make me feel old,” Leonard pleads.
“WEAR YOUR HEARING AIDS, LEONARD,” they repeat loudly, and the others join in now.
“You’re ganging up on me,” Leonard says, peevishly.
“Do you want me to get angry with you?” Pia asks. She is still laughing, but there is a glint of something hidden.
Leonard looks away quickly. “Linda?”
His last resort.
“Please, Leonard,” she says softly. And even if he doesn’t hear, he understands.
Still, Bardy can see him wavering.
“Don’t know how the fuck you’re going to write a musical if you don’t,” Tay offers, looking up briefly from her drawing.
“Oh,” Leonard says, as if he hasn’t considered this.
And Bardy feels sure the next time he sees the composer, he will be wearing his (bloody) hearing aids.
On the walk back to Pia’s house, Bardy falls in with Pia and Lou. The exotics.
“Good job back there,” he says, nodding toward Leonard.
“Kate’s idea, she thought it would be interesting to see how he felt when we kept mishearing.” Pia smiles slowly. “Having your Kate and Edith . . . pasta bake . . .”
“Ah, yes,” Bardy responds.
“So, Bardy, you home bird, are you okay hanging out with us exotics?” Before Bardy can answer, Pia says, “Lou, do you ever mind being an exotic?”
He appears to consider this. “No, I’ve always liked being Italian, even if it made me a bit different.”
“But then you had the Mafia on your side,” Bardy murmurs.
“I do sometimes wish I felt a bit more like a native,” Pia admits.
They are passing through the countryside now and pause to look up at a church that is at the top of the field beside them, swallows soaring above it. The brick-and-flint walls appear to be growing out of the terra-cotta, stone-strewn field.
“You are more at home than you know,” Lou suggests, gesturing to the field.
“I am sorry, I don’t follow you,” Pia says.
Neither does Bardy.
“Look at all that flint, the countryside’s scattered with it.”
Bardy and Pia nod. To Bardy, this flecking in the soil and in the buildings is just one of the things he loves about North Norfolk.
“All that flint came from Scandinavia, was carried here by the glaciers that moved over this land when we were linked to Europe.”
“Pre-Brexit then,” Bardy suggests.
Lou snorts, but ignores him. “When the glaciers melted, they left the flint here.” He turns to Pia with a grin. “You’re like the Scandinavian flint—tougher than you look.” He then nods toward the field. “But meant to be here. This is your home now. Just like the flint.”
Pia smiles a little mistily at him. “Why, thank you, Lou.”
Yeah, well done, Clemenza.
But then geography had always been Clemenza’s best subject.