JOHN IRVING CLARKE

Edward, they say, Edward, this is not the end of anything, this is a new chapter opening. The ranked high-backed chairs in uniform green, the parked walking frames and the assemblage of vacant faces is a new chapter. The beige patterned carpets and the lingering smell of assiduous sterility is a new chapter. Eden Lawn House, giving your loved ones the support they deserve, is a new chapter opening.
At least there is a place to sit and watch the birds.
Birdsong: sex and death, the celebration of one and the denial of the other. That robin, for instance, hopping around the flower bed, he’ll take to a perch shortly and hammer out a message, I’m king of this patch. His song is a look-at-me, king of this patch and prepared to share it with the right girl.
Or the blue tits all a twitter, we have found food, we have found food. While the blackbird perches topmost to sign off on the day by tune-bombing the sky with a last post.
Sitting here, I can identify most of the birds by sight. Others though, prefer to remain elusive. L.B.Js; little brown jobs, darting amongst branches and foliage. What joy to know of these birds by their song alone: the short, scratchy notes of the whitethroat and the beautifully whistled response of the blackcap. I know of what you sing.
The blue coats arrive with all the panache of geese landing on a lake.
“Edward,” they cry, “Edward.” They are a vexation, honking at the top of their voices. “Talking to the birds? Well never mind that now. Cup of tea time.” Theirs is an efficient fuss. “And we’ve got a nice slice of lemon drizzle today.” They shuffle and shift and continue, “I reckon it will come to us all, one day, eh Edward, talking to the birds.”
I speak, they speak, but we do not converse. They bustle about the place, strutting their self-importance. And like magpies, they steal my money.

This short story is part of the work produced by The Sandal Scribblers, a writing group organized by John Irving Clarke.

(Illustration by Franco Blandino)