Authors: Daphne Du Maurier
Then he remembered. He had forgotten to make up the fire. It was smouldering, nearly out. He got up swiftly and lit the lamp. The hammering had started at the windows and the doors, but it was not that he minded now. It was the smell of singed feathers. The smell filled the kitchen. He knew at once what it was. The birds were coming down the chimney, squeezing their way down to the kitchen range.
He got sticks and paper and put them on the embers, then reached for the can of paraffin.
"Stand back," he shouted to his wife, "we've got to risk this."
He threw the paraffin on to the fire. The flame roared up the pipe, and down upon the fire fell the scorched, blackened bodies of the birds.
The children woke, crying. "What is it?" said jill. "What's happened?"
Nat had no time to answer. He was raking the bodies from the chimney, clawing them out on to the floor. The flames still roared, and the danger of the chimney catching fire was one he had to take. The flames would send away the living birds from the chimney top. The lower joint was the difficulty, though. This was choked with the smouldering helpless bodies of the birds caught by fire. He scarcely heeded the attack on the windows and the door: let them beat their wings, break their beaks, lose their lives, in the attempt to force an entry into his home. They would not break in. He thanked God he had one of the old cottages, with small windows, stout walls. Not like the new council houses. Heaven help them up the lane, in the new council houses.
"Stop crying," he called to the children. "There's nothing to be afraid of, stop crying."
He went on raking at the burning, smouldering bodies as they fell into the fire.
"This'll fetch them," he said to himself, "the draught and the flames together. We're all right, as long as the chimney doesn't catch. I ought to be shot for this. It's all my fault. Last thing I should have made up the fire. I knew there was something."
Amid the scratching and tearing at the window boards came the sudden homely striking of the kitchen clock. Three a.m. A little more than four hours yet to go. He could not be sure of the exact time of high water. He reckoned it would not turn much before half-past seven, twenty to eight.
"Light up the primus," he said to his wife. "Make us some tea, and the kids some cocoa. No use sitting around doing nothing."
That was the line. Keep her busy, and the children too. Move about, eat, drink; always best to be on the go.
He waited by the range. The flames were dying. But no more blackened bodies fell from the chimney. He thrust his poker up as far as it could go and found nothing. It was clear. The chimney was clear. He wiped the sweat from his forehead.
"Come on now, ]ill," he said, "bring me some more sticks. We'll have a good fire going directly." She wouldn't come near him, though. She was staring at the heaped singed bodies of the birds.
"Never mind them," he said, "we'll put those in the passage when I've got the fire steady."
The danger of the chimney was over. It could not happen again, not if the fire was kept burning day and night.
"I'll have to get more fuel from the farm tomorrow," he thought. "This will never last. I'1l manage, though. I can do all that with the ebb tide. It can be worked, fetching what we need, when the tide's turned. We've just got to adapt ourselves, that's all."
They drank tea and cocoa and ate slices of bread and Bovril. Only half a loaf left, Nat noticed. Never mind though, they'd get by.
"Stop it," said young Johnny, pointing to the windows with his spoon, "stop it, you old birds."
"That's right," said Nat, smiling, "we don't want the old beggars, do we? Had enough of 'em."
They began to cheer when they heard the thud of the suicide birds.
"There's another, Dad," cried Jill, "he's done for."
"He's had it," said Nat, "there he goes, the blighter."
This was the way to face up to it. This was the spirit. If they could keep this up, hang on like this until seven, when the first news bulletin came through, they would not have done too badly.
"Give us a fag," he said to his wife. "A bit of a smoke will clear away the smell of the scorched feathers."
"There's only two left in the packet," she said. "I was going to buy you some from the Co-op."
"I'll have one," he said, "t'other will keep for a rainy day."
No sense trying to make the children rest. There was no rest to be got while the tapping and the scratching went on at the windows. He sat with one arm round his wife and the other round Jill, with Johnny on his mother's lap and the blankets heaped about them on the mattress.
"You can't help admiring the beggars," he said, "they've got persistence. You'd think they'd tire of the game, but not a bit of it."
Admiration was hard to sustain. The tapping went on and on and a new rasping note struck Nat's ear, as though a sharper beak than any hitherto had come to take over from its fellows. He tried to remember the names of birds, he tried to think which species would go for this particular job. It was not the tap of the woodpecker. That would be light and frequent. This was more serious, because if it continued long the wood would splinter as the glass had done. Then he remembered the hawks. Could the hawks have taken over from the gulls? Were there buzzards now upon the sills, using talons as well as beaks? Hawks, buzzards, kestrels, falcons—he had forgotten the birds of prey. He had forgotten the gripping power of the birds of prey. Three hours to go, and while they waited the sound of the splintering wood, the talons tearing at the wood.
Nat looked about him, seeing what furniture he could destroy to fortify the door. The windows were safe, because of the dresser. He was not certain of the door. He went upstairs, but when he reached the landing he paused and listened. There was a soft patter on the floor of the children's bedroom. The birds had broken through... He put his ear to the door. No mistake. He could hear the rustle of wings, and the light patter as they searched the floor. The other bedroom was still clear. He went into it and began bringing out the furniture, to pile at the head of the stairs should the door of the children's bedroom go. It was a preparation. It might never be needed. He could not stack the furniture against the door, because it opened inward. The only possible thing was to have it at the top of the stairs.
"Come down, Nat, what are you doing?" called his wife. "I won't be long," he shouted. "Just making everything shipshape up here."
He did not want her to come; he did not want her to hear the pattering of the feet in the children's bedroom, the brushing of those wings against the door.
At five-thirty he suggested breakfast, bacon and fried bread, if only to stop the growing look of panic in his wife's eyes and to calm the fretful children. She did not know about the birds upstairs. The bedroom, luckily, was not over the kitchen. Had it been so she could not have failed to hear the sound of them, up there, tapping the boards. And the silly, senseless thud of the suicide birds, the death and glory boys, who flew into the bedroom, smashing their heads against the walls. He knew them of old, the herring gulls. They had no brains. The black-backs were different, they knew what they were doing. So did the buzzards, the hawks...
He found himself watching the clock, gazing at the hands that went so slowly round the dial. If his theory was not correct, if the attack did not cease with the turn of the tide, he knew they were beaten. They could not continue through the long day without air, without rest, without more fuel, without... his mind raced. He knew there were so many things they needed to withstand siege. They were not fully prepared. They were not ready. It might be that it would be safer in the towns after all. If he could get a message through, on the farm telephone, to his cousin, only a short journey by train up country, they might be able to hire a car. That would be quicker—hire a car between tides...
His wife's voice, calling his name, drove away the sudden, desperate desire for sleep.
"What is it? What now?" he said sharply.
"The wireless," said his wife. "I've been watching the clock. It's nearly seven."
"Don't twist the knob," he said, impatient for the first time, "it's on the Home where it is. They'll speak from the Home."
They waited. The kitchen clock struck seven. There was no sound. No chimes, no music. They waited until a quarter past, switching to the Light. The result was the same. No news bulletin came through.
"We've heard wrong," he said, " they won't be broadcasting until eight o'clock."
They left it switched on, and Nat thought of the battery, wondered how much power was left in it. It was generally recharged when his wife went shopping in the town. If the battery failed they would not hear the instructions.
"It's getting light," whispered his wife, "I can't see it, but I can feel it. And the birds aren't hammering so loud."
She was right. The rasping, tearing sound grew fainter every moment. So did the shuffling, the jostling for place upon the step, upon the sills. The tide was on the turn. By eight there was no sound at all. Only the wind. The children, lulied at last by the stillness, fell asleep. At half-past eight Nat switched the wireless off.
"What are you doing? We'll miss the news," said his wife.
"There isn't going to be any news," said Nat. "We've got to depend upon ourselves."
He went to the door and slowly pulled away the barricades. He drew the bolts, and kicking the bodies from the step outside the door breathed the cold air. He had six working hours before him, and he knew he must reserve his strength for the right things, not waste it in any way. Food, and light, and fuel; these were the necessary things. If he could get them in sufficiency, they could endure another night. He stepped into the garden, and as he did so he saw the living birds. The gulls had gone to ride the sea, as they had done before; they sought sea food, and the buoyancy of the tide, before they returned to the attack. Not so the land birds. They waited and watched. Nat saw them, on the hedge-rows, on the soil, crowded in the trees, outside in the field, line upon line of birds, all still, doing nothing.
He went to the end of his small garden. The birds did not move. They went on watching him.
"I've got to get food," said Nat to himself, "I've got to go to the farm to find food." He went back to the cottage. He saw to thewindows and the doors. He went upstairs and opened the children's bedroom. It was empty, except for the dead birds on the floor. The living were out there, in the garden, in the fields. He went downstairs.
"I'm going to the farm," he said.
His wife clung to him. She had seen the living birds from the open door.
"Take us with you," she begged, "we can't stay here alone. I'd rather die than stay here alone."
He considered the matter. He nodded.
"Come on, then," he said, "bring baskets, and Johnny's pram. We can load up the pram."
They dressed against the biting wind, wore gloves and scarves.
His wife put Johnny in the pram. Nat took Jill's hand. "The birds," she whimpered, "they're all out there, in the fields."
"They won't hurt us," he said, "not in the light."
They started walking across the field towards the stile, and the birds did not move. They waited, their heads turned to the wind.
When they reached the turning to the farm, Nat stopped and told his wife to wait in the shelter of the hedge with the two children.
"But I want to see Mrs. Trigg," she protested. "There are lots of things we can borrow, if they went to market yesterday; not only bread, and..."
"Wait here," Nat interrupted. "I'll be back in a moment."
The cows were lowing, moving restlessly in the yard, and he could see a gap in the fence where the sheep had knocked their way through, to roam unchecked in the front garden before the farm-house. No smoke came from the chimneys. He was filled with misgiving. He did not want his wife or the children to go down to the farm.
"Don't gib now," said Nat, harshly, "do what I say."
She withdrew with the pram into the hedge, screening herself and the children from the wind.
He went down alone to the farm. He pushed his way through the herd of bellowing cows, which turned this way and that, distressed, their udders full. He saw the car standing by the gate, not put away in the garage. The windows of the farm-house were smashed. There were many dead gulls lying in the yard and around the house. The living birds perched on the group of trees behind the farm and on the roof of the house. They were quite still. They watched him.
Jim's body lay in the yard... what was left of it. When the birds had finished, the cows had trampled him. His gun was beside him. The door of the house was shut and bolted, but as the windows were smashed it was easy to lift them and climb through. Trigg's body was close to the telephone. He must have been trying to get through to the exchange when the birds came for him. The receiver was hanging loose, the instrument torn from the wall. No sign of Mrs. Trigg. She would be upstairs. Was it any use going up? Sickened, Nat knew what he would find.
"Thank God," he said to himself, "there were no children."
He forced himself to climb the stairs, but half-way he turned and descended again. He could see her legs, protruding from the open bedroom door. Beside her were the bodies of the black-backed gulls, and an umbrella, broken.
"It's no use," thought Nat, "doing anything. I've only got five hours, less than that. The Triggs would understand. I must load up with what I can find."
He tramped back to his wife and children.
"I'm going to fill up the car with stuff," he said. "I'll put coal in it, and paraffin for the primus. We'll take it home and return for a fresh load."
"What about the Triggs?" asked his wife.
"They must have gone to friends," he said.
"Shall I come and help you, then?"
"No; there's a mess down there. Cows and sheep all over the place. Wait, I'll get the car. You can sit in it."
Clumsily he backed the car out of the yard and into the lane. His wife and the children could not see Jim's body from there.