The Woman in Red Beakstick

The Crowded Oak

Mr Jack Daw had never found the Oak so crowded or its conversations so easy to leave. All afternoon his cousins argued over what Stirling might do next. He let them. Gary had trusted him with the one part of the story none of them knew, and every guess made that trust feel heavier.

Batman Smith landed beside him. “You seem distracted.”

“I am listening.”

“That is what distracted birds say when they have not heard the question.”

“Then ask it again.”

Batman could not remember it.

He tried to reconstruct it by asking the cousin what the committee was investigating. The cousin offered six possible subjects, three of which involved Gary and one of which involved the weather. Batman said he was willing to help with any of them. Mr Jack Daw suggested he begin by finding a subject the committee had agreed upon. Batman left to inspect the fence instead.

The Jacks occupied the branches through a bright, windy afternoon. Brenda appeared beneath them, Mildred slipped through the lower garden, and a Rook crossed the sky without stopping to accept the committee’s invitation. By evening an unfamiliar Redwing had passed through as well. The cousin declared that witnesses were leaving the Square in suspicious numbers.

“They are birds,” said Mr Jack Daw. “It is one of our more popular methods of travel.”

Marlboro Finds Her Place

After dark, Marlboro took possession of her garden with the unmistakable pleasure of coming home to a place she had chosen. She had told Harold it was a good place. She had told Marjorie it worked. Tonight she saw no reason to present further evidence to either of them.

“You may all stop worrying,” she informed the trees.

The trees offered the privacy she had asked for. Marlboro found herself faintly annoyed that they were so good at it.

She inspected the outer edge of her garden, returned to her favourite branch, and considered whether she ought to invite Harold back one evening. He had respected her new place before. Perhaps he would like to see what she had done with it.

Across the Boundary

Later, Marjorie appeared on the family side of the boundary. She did not go to her daughter’s garden or ask for a reply. She stayed with her own thoughts until Harold joined her much later.

“She is quiet,” Marjorie said.

“She has a place where she can be.”

“I know. I helped make that happen.”

“You did.”

Marjorie watched him. “I can be pleased about it and still wonder how she is.”

“I know that too.”

Harold remained with her for a while. Then he left her to the night, perhaps recognising that she had a conversation with herself to finish.

The Woman in Red Beakstick

Marjorie moved nearer the Oak. Earlier she had tried out the words I am proud of you with nobody present to hear them. They were perfectly good words. She resented how difficult they had become to deliver.

“I might simply say it,” she decided.

“To whom?”

Marjorie turned. An elegant owl had appeared among the branches, her beak touched with red Beakstick. Jolene had chosen precisely the wrong moment to make a graceful entrance.

“To someone who is not here,” Marjorie said.

“That sounds safer.”

“It was, until you arrived.”

Jolene glanced towards the dark beyond the boundary. “Is your daughter settled?”

Marjorie shifted between Jolene and the neighbouring garden. “She has made her own place.”

“Good for her.”

“Why do you ask?”

“I was curious.”

“Curiosity usually arrives with a second question.”

Jolene gave her a smile that answered nothing. For a moment the two of them faced one another in the Oak, neither willing to be the first to step aside.

“I did not come to trouble her,” Jolene said at last.

“I did not say you had.”

“No,” said Jolene. “You managed to make that very clear without saying it.”

She left Marjorie with the night and the unanswered question. Marjorie stayed long enough to be certain Jolene had gone, then reclaimed the branch as if she had never moved from it.

The Square Wakes

The Smiths opened the morning noisily. Steve and Mrs Steve followed, while long-tailed tits hurried through the hedge and the Jacks returned to their favourite subject. Gary appeared among them after sunrise. Mr Jack Daw met him away from the cousin’s busiest branch.

What Does Not Belong to Them

“You have not told them?” Gary asked.

“No.”

“Not Stirling?”

“No.”

Gary looked relieved, though he did not thank him. “I told you because somebody ought to know. I did not mean to give the Square a new story.”

“You did not.”

The cousin arrived just as Clive passed through with a smaller travelling party and Percy vanished into the Fruit Tree. “What have I missed?”

Mr Jack Daw considered the question. Above the Square, the day was clearing; beneath it, Gary was waiting for his answer.

“Nothing,” Mr Jack Daw said, “that belongs to you.”

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