Season 1 · Episode 16
The Reply at Midnight
Published 11th September 2026
The Square was under cloud and a mood.
Under Cloud and a Mood
By noon, the Square was under cloud and a mood.
Mr Jack Daw’s family occupied the Oak in a configuration so complex that no one could tell whether they had convened deliberately or simply accumulated. Jay watched them from the Pine, sleek and blue-grey and determined to look above it all. Colin sang from the hedge with the confidence of a bird who had never encountered a circumstance that could not be improved by a tune.
“Is there an agenda?” asked Jay.
“Several,” said Mr Jack Daw.
“Then I shall not hear them.”
Jay disappeared over the Summerhouse just as the first rain arrived, thin at first and then hard enough to settle the question of outdoor policy for everyone.
Colin carried on singing through it. Brenda emerged from the brambles long enough to tell him that optimism was not waterproof, then vanished again. The Jacks tried to continue their consultation beneath the Oak, but the rain grew heavier, drumming on leaves and sending their carefully assembled seriousness into the lower branches.
The Square surrendered to weather.
All afternoon, the garden shone darkly beneath the downpour. Flora, Fauna and Merryweather travelled through the hedge in their brisk, closely knit way, appearing wherever the shelter was best and declining all invitations to explain their route. Colin surfaced now and then to sing a line at the rain, as though negotiating with it. No one believed he was winning.
The Saturated Garden
By early evening, the rain had eased but not retreated. The Smith family gathered at the bird table, damp, male and loudly unimpressed by the condition of the world. Brenda made two small declarations from the border, each one too concise to qualify as a meeting and too forceful to ignore.
“The garden is saturated,” Batman Smith announced.
“Thank you, Batman,” said one of his brothers.
“Someone needed to say it.”
The Reply at Midnight
As darkness took over, the rain finally loosened its grip. The Square went quiet in the particular way it does after a long soaking: every leaf holding a drop, every path smelling of earth, every branch dark and still under the clouded sky.
Then Marjorie called.
Her voice rose from the trees beyond the Oak with all the force of a statement that had been delayed by weather and would now tolerate no further postponement. The Square listened. She called again. Then again, from a different piece of darkness, as if she had moved only to make sure the whole garden understood the scale of the matter.
“That is not a question,” whispered Batman from the Fence Post.
“No,” said Mr Jack Daw from his dripping branch. “It is a position.”
For a while, Marjorie had the night to herself. Her calls came steady and insistent through the wet trees, then faded away. The garden began to relax.
It relaxed too soon.
Near midnight, Marjorie’s voice returned, sharper now, threading between the branches. A moment later, from somewhere beyond the Summerhouse, came a male reply: not quite what anybody expected, and certainly not delivered in the ordinary manner.
The Jacks froze.
Batman’s beak opened. Closed. Opened again.
“Harold?” he said.
Gary would have had a view. Gary was nowhere in sight.
Marjorie called over the reply, then again. The male voice did not answer at once. When it did, it was from farther away, or perhaps simply less willing to be pinned down. The exchange continued in fragments: Marjorie direct, the other presence obscurely responsive, the dark garden offering no clarification whatsoever.
“He is late,” Batman said at last.
“That does sound like Harold,” admitted Mr Jack Daw.
The Jacks immediately began a silent vote on whether an admission counted as evidence. By the time they had reached a preliminary conclusion, the voices had moved on into the trees and the night had swallowed the rest.
Mortimer Arrives
At dawn, the Square reopened with a great deal of wet feather-shaking and no agreement about what had happened.
Hopalong was first seen working his way up the trunk of the Oak, entirely vertical and serenely unconcerned with the previous night’s developments. Derek appeared nearby, using the same tree in a manner Batman could not endorse but had become too tired to discuss. The Smith family arrived in a brisk red-breasted wave, while the Jacks reclaimed their branches with the relief of birds returning to a familiar argument.
By the time the clouds lifted from black to grey, the garden was full again. Clive hurried through the hedge. Mildred watched everyone from beneath the bird table with the patient expression of someone awaiting the inevitable poor decision. Flora, Fauna and Merryweather swept past in a bright little procession.
Then a Raven landed on the far side of the Oak.
He was large, black and still enough to make even the Jacks reduce their volume.
Mr Jack Daw inclined his head. “Mortimer.”
The Raven regarded the garden as though it had presented him with a disappointing proposal.
“Jack,” he said.
Nobody asked whether he had heard the night before. Nobody wanted to be the first.
Later, Percy flickered through the Pine, too small and quick for the Square’s growing sense of importance. Mortimer remained in place. Clive crossed the bird table, paused beneath the Raven’s eye, and chose a different route without comment.
As the morning wore on, Stirling’s squad resumed its quiet work along the hedge line. The Smiths observed them with professional interest. The Jacks called it a patrol. Mildred called it squirrels walking about. Mortimer said nothing.
An Audience for Gary
At last, Gary came back.
He landed beside the Fruit Tree as if he had merely been away on essential business and not absent at the one moment the Square had most required a gossip.
“Well,” he said. “Anything happen?”
Batman stared at him.
“No,” said Mr Jack Daw. “Nothing at all.”
Gary’s eyes brightened. “Excellent. Then I shall begin with my own news.”
“You have news?” Batman asked.
“Naturally.”
Gary glanced toward the empty place where Nigel was so often expected to appear, then looked back at the Oak.
“But,” he said, “I may need an audience.”
The Jacks were ready before he had finished the sentence.
DUFF. DUFF. DUFF-DUFF-DUFF.