Broken Owls

My mother loved our house. It was like a prize to her, a reward for marrying my father. Every curtain was always perfectly pleated, every inch of the floor swept and dusted, and both of our beds made spick and span each morning. She would practically dance around the sitting room as she waited for the ladies to arrive. It was not that father had ever stopped her from entertaining from time to time, but now he was away at war, she had them over for afternoon tea most every day, except for Mr Kimble, who lived at number 23. He came by most Fridays and Sundays to fix any little problems Mother had. She always said she wouldn't know how to manage without him, and as he had a bad leg, I didn't suppose there was any risk that he would get called up.

When the ladies came over, I would sit on the rug playing with my jigsaws or with my doll. Mr Kimble had made a little doll's house himself, and brought it over as a little gift; I must have loved it as much as Mother loved our real house. None of the other ladies had children, save for Miss Jane Witters, who lived two doors down and had a pig-faced baby boy who cried and made foul smells every time she brought him over. They talked about the war and about how empty the streets felt. Jenny Piper, who was a friend of Mother's from her school days, said that it was sometimes hard to find anyone to talk to, and certainly not a man. She joked that it looked like the ladies had taken over the town, now all the best young men were gone. Then Jane reminded her that all the old men were still around, and they thought they knew what a woman's place should be. It didn't sound like a place I would fancy.

'Mummy', I asked. 'Will we have to move away?'

'Oh of course not darling,' she replied with such a warmth of tone that I felt no need to doubt her. Somewhere called Coventry had been bombed the night before and I had worried myself to sleep in case the next place they bombed was here in Stockport. It seemed so certain to me until Mother's reassurance. 'Why don't you go play in the garden, Lily? We will only be talking nonsense I'm sure.' The ladies giggled, so I giggled too and ran out the side door that led onto the alleyway, and from there into the back garden.

Like both our next door neighbours, we had a small square yard out the back of our house, crossed by a washing line that stretched from the corner of the house to Daddy's shed in the opposite corner. Daddy loved to spend his time in there, with his screwdrivers and tools. He was good at fixing radios and that sort of thing, so I always assumed that was what he did for our side in the war. Spiders had begun to build their webs across the shed door in the months since he had gone away, whilst one of the hinges was rusting. I would have to tell Mummy so that she could brush off the spiders and replace the hinge; she wouldn't want Daddy to come home to that.

But it wasn't the yard itself that I loved. At its end was a fence made of wide wooden panels that backed on to what was once a textile mill. When the mill had gone out of use, they had put a fence up around the land to stop hooligans getting in. However, the main building of the mill was a little way from my house, and there were all manner of brambles and trees in that part of the mill's grounds; rather than chop them all down, the people who owned the land had just fenced it off. Now it was a kind of no-man's land, with no one looking after it, like a little stretch of wilderness in the suburbs of the town. To my memory, it seemed to stretch on for miles, like a country lane, though it seems silly to think that now. Nevertheless, it was big enough for me to explore to my heart's content.

Fortunately, I was quite tall for my age, although I wasn't even 10 yet. I say it was fortunate because my father was not a tall man, and whilst he was away I had swiped a tatty old pair of his work trousers, and a shirt, which I hid behind the shed. I slipped into them and hung my dress up on the clothesline, and went for the corner-most fence panel, which after several months of yanking and tugging, I had managed to loosen enough that I could swing it out of the way and slip through the gap. On the other side, the thick forest of sycamores gave enough cover that it was cool and dark in the warm August afternoon.

Over the weeks, I built a den for myself from broken branches. I smeared mud over my face and hid inside to watch the little creatures that passed through – pine martens, toads, and hedgehogs, thrushes, chaffinches, and collared doves. Every now and then I saw the white tail of a fox, dashing off into the undergrowth. I daydreamed my time away thinking about living out in the forest somewhere, living off the land, surrounded by an army of animals who'd follow wherever I go, understanding my words and talking back to me. I squirrelled away nuts and apples and crumbs of bread to set up little feasts for the birds, who would come and sit so close I could almost touch them. I wanted them to sit on my hands, but I could never persuade them to do so.

One evening, whilst tucked away in my haven, I had caught a cramp in my leg. I came out of the den and walked around until it started to fade away, before I stopped and realised how totally silent the world around me was. There was no sound from the house or the streets or the old mill, no children playing out, no policeman cycling by, no ladies closing up the shops and walking home. It was as though the world had all packed up and headed off to war and I had been left behind in the rush. I felt my knees shake a little, though it was not cold, then my hands trembled, and my lips quivered. I felt the first vestiges of tears come to my eyes, so I held them open as long as I could to not let them roll down my cheeks. No one would have cared as no one would have seen, but I would have known that I was no longer nature's girl, and was once more a little child in someone else's world. I clenched my fists to stop them shaking and dug my heels into the ground like the boy at the end of the line in a tug-o-war. And then, in a second I forgot the tears, as a voice called out overhead: a long cry of 'Hoo. Hoohoohoo hoohoooo.'

I stood in wonder for a long time. I could not remember that I had ever heard an owl so close before, if I had ever heard one at all. I stared up through the darkening branches into the deep blue sky above, and almost instantly saw its silhouette, perched restfully amongst the high branches. Every time it hooted, its head dipped forward a little. I don't know why but I felt compelled to be nearer to it, so I clutched the lowest branches of the tall, hardy sycamore tree, and pulled myself up. In a few moments I was higher than I had ever been before. Every time I moved to another branch, I would check to make sure the owl was still there; every time she was. Soon I had climbed as high as I thought I safely could, and the owl was no more than three feet from my fingertips. I breathed as silently as I could and watched it settled there, surveying the neighbourhood, maybe looking for a mouse or a friend. Every time it hooted, I smiled, so beautiful was her call.

After a few minutes spent in awe, I heard my mother's voice at the back door. As though responding to its cue, the owl unfolded its glorious brown wings and took to the dusky air, like a spitfire crossing the sky. I watched it go until my eyes strained to see it against the darkness, then my Mother called again. I looked down at the ground far below, took a deep breath for courage, and delicately climbed my way down. Mother called out a third time and I rushed myself out of my father's clothes and back into my pinafore. Needless to say, Mother was becoming a little cross by the time I ran across the yard and into the house.

The next day I went around the house checking the mousetraps. They were all empty. I gathered some crumbs and made a little trail leading up to one of them before I felt a weird twisting in my stomach and cleared them up. At school, I went down to the caretaker's office after the home-time bell to see if he could help; he gave me a funny look and sent me on my way. I checked the traps at home again but there was nothing. That evening I sat on my branch and watched out for the owl, wishing I had something to tempt her back. I had done my research and found out some of the owls it could be – there were tawny owls, barn owls, little owls, short-eared owls, long-eared owls. I had it narrowed down to a tawny, short-eared, or barn owl.

All of a sudden a dark arrow shot across the sky and landed in the tree across from me. A shiver ran down my back and I couldn't help myself from shaking, I could feel myself grinning in spite of myself; I think I might have even let out a giggle. There was a little moonlight on her face and I could make out her features – her feathers ruffled in the wind, brown and spotted. There was a long brown line down the centre of her face. A tawny. She gave a long hoot and drifted lazily to my tree. She didn't stay for long this time, but over the next week, she came back night after night, sitting at the top of my tree or the others nearby, watching over her territory. She was beautiful, graceful, and serene.

I walked home from school on the Friday to find Mother talking to Miss Piper at the door. I didn't know what they had been discussing, but they stopped their conversation dead when I came near and Mother forced a smile.

'Hello sweetie, how was school?'

'Good, thank you mama.' I replied, and wandered inside.

I was surprised to see my grandfather in the living room, sat on Daddy's armchair supping a steaming cup of tea.

'Hullo Lily, my little darling. How's my little girl?' he boomed, rising to his feet and giving me a tender kiss to the forehead. He was a tall, round-faced man with grizzled hair that was fading from his temples. When he sat down I could see the smooth feathery down of his bald spot, and I sometimes fancied I could see my reflection in it. He was a man who intimidated others, I knew, for I had visited him at the pharmacy where he worked, and seen him giving the staff the sort of telling off he'd never think to give to me.

'I'm very well, thanks Grandpa', I gave him a cuddle and he laughed and patted my back. 'Grandpa, guess what I saw in the … the back yard. An owl, a real life tawny owl, sat up there on the branches.'

'A tawny owl? How lovely, Lily'.

'Have you ever seen one Grandpa?'

'Oh yes, many times. How do you know it was a tawny owl?'

'Oh I did my research Grandpa, bigger than the size of a pigeon, brown feathers, brown-white face with a long brown stripe down the middle.'

'It does sound like a tawny. Long hooting sound or a short chrick sound?'

'Long hoots Grandpa, she was beautiful.'

'She? He, darling, only the gentlemen owls hoot. The ladies are the ones who shriek.'

He chuckled to himself, but I felt a sudden rush of heat to the back of my neck.

'It can't be a boy, Grandpa. I'm sure it was a girl. She looked like a girl.'

He looked down at me with soft, sympathetic eyes, and I felt hotter still, a sudden rash breaking out across my neck and back and face.

'It was a girl. I shall have to ask Mummy, or Miss Hague. They'll know, I'm sure.'

Grandpa sighed, and I readied myself for a fight. But at that moment, Mother walked in.

'Mummy…' I started, but she quickly cut me short.

'Alfred,' she interrupted, which took me aback; although Grandpa was my father's father, and not hers, she always called him papa. 'I have to think about Lily's best interests, and I really don't think…'

'Emily, I'm thinking about Lily's best interests too, and yours. War is here, on our shores, and it's not just London anymore, they're not just coming for the munitions factories, or the airfields. It's coming to the cities. First Coventry, then Manchester. My word, I could hear the bombs falling from the office last night. It was like being in the middle of a volcano. Lily must not be a part of it.'

Mother already looked defeated, but she fought on. 'Oh I can't take her away from her school, and her friends, and … she loves life here at home, just her and me. She's become such a wonderful bright flower, Papa, I can't take her away.'

I went from boiling hot to freezing cold. I think that the paleness of my face took Grandpa by surprise, for he let me speak.

'What does he mean, Mummy? Where are we going to? I don't want to leave.'

She embraced me and turned me away from Grandpa.

'Shh, it's okay Lily, don't cry. We're not going anywhere my sweetheart, we're staying right here.'

I remember the feeling in my blood at that moment. I don't think I had ever been in my mother's arms before without feeling that everything was going to be okay, but there was something limp about her voice, some tiny failing or falseness to it which told me that she could not stand against her father-in-law. He placed his hand on her shoulder and drew her back, and as he drew her back, I let go of her.

'Emily, I know that you don't want to leave, and I understand that. I do, darling, I do. But my Nancy's house is out in the country, it's a beautiful home, and you shall both be very safe there. You can help on the land, and Lily can play with her cousins. A little country air will do you both good, I would say. Hmm?'

And so it was decided. Two days later, we found ourselves in Holcliffe, a small village quite some way from the city. Grandpa drove us and because I felt very queasy along the way, I wound the window down and let the fresh country air in. We passed by fields that stretched into the distance, with bright bunches of yellow daffodils gently lolling as we passed; through little villages, with their grey stone walls and pristine gardens; past the country churches that I counted on my fingers. By the time we got to Holcliffe, I was counting on my toes.

Grandpa beeped the horn as we pulled up in front of the house. It was not quite what I had expected, being nestled in the middle of a row of four short, narrow houses, with dull brown curtains hitched up in the windows. There were clutches of hyacinths in the tiny front garden, with no more than a couple of big strides between the garden gate and the front door. Aunt Nancy came to the door when she heard the horn, and my cousins, Matilda and Louise appeared behind her, forcing their way past her to greet us.

          'Hello Grandpa,' they cried, hugging him. 'Good afternoon Aunt Emily.' They came up to me with broad grins on her face, and in chorus chimed, 'Hello, cousin Lily.'

They each gave me a kiss on my cheek in turn, and squeezed their arms around me; they were both older than me – Tilly was thirteen years old, Lou eleven, and they had to bend down to reach my waist. They stood back waiting for my response, but I am afraid that the drive had upset my tummy so that I felt it squeezing tight, and in a moment I was sick upon the garden, and upon my cousins' lovely Sunday dresses.

          From then on, they did not look favourably upon me. I had expected that they would play with me and show me the garden and the fields outside the village; that we would sit outside and read books and tell each other stories. Instead I found myself left on the outside of a very small circle. The little church school, with its demonic mistress was a small comfort, for at least there no one was allowed to talk, so I couldn't feel left out. When we got home, we would help on the land, where they had planted all kinds of crops to support the war effort. Tilly and Lou would walk on ahead and chase each other through the rows of wheat. I tried to join in but they were much bigger than me and easily lost me in the fields they knew so well. I tried to stay out there in the fields till evening but Mother was always there calling me in. She could see how sad I was and it was making her sad too; when I would come shuffling back to the gate where she stood, she would throw her arms around me as though I had just returned from the Western front. She wouldn't make a sound, but I knew that she was crying, and that she could feel my pain. At night I would sit at the window and watch out over the small garden and across the fields, hoping to catch sight of an owl. I wondered if my owl from home might have followed me here somehow, but when I asked Aunt Nancy if an owl would travel so far, Tilly laughed at me and spent several minutes pointing out how ridiculous I was.

         

*        *        *

It was August 1941, and at long blessed last we had packed our things and made ready to return home. The Blitz had subsided and Mother was to work in a factory at Trafford Park, and though Grandpa had wanted me to stay in Holcliffe, I had stood my ground with such purpose and resolution that at great length he relented.

I held a letter in my fingertips while I watched Grandpa park the car on the pavement outside. He gave a little toot that made me – for the first occasion in quite some time – smile. Slipping the letter into my pinny, I dragged my suitcase out to the car, where my whole family stood. I gave Aunt Nancy a hug and reached out to shake Tilly's hand, as formally and briefly as I could; she squeezed it very hard and it hurt for a good while after. To my surprise, Lou seemed almost upset at my leaving, and she gave me an unexpected peck on the cheek as she bade me goodbye. I wondered if she had realised that she'd missed the chance to make a friend, or if once I was gone, the circle would no longer be so tight, with no one to exclude from it.

Mother sat in the front seat alongside Grandpa, who had a great deal to tell her about the state of Manchester since the bombing. I reached for the letter and held it in my hand. Like a spy, I had kept it from Mother when I had found it – redirected – on Aunt Nancy's doormat. It was from father. He had been invalided and was on his way back to Stockport. By the time we returned home, he would be waiting for us. I couldn't wait to see Mother's face when we arrived home to find him waiting for us.

When we were only a few minutes' drive from home, Grandpa's voice grew grave, and he turned, and over his shoulder said to me, 'Now don't be disheartened, my little darling, those Fascists tried to crush our spirit but they failed. They tried to destroy our homes but they failed. They tried to break us but we were indomitable.'

I was confused, and after a moment I suppose my mind slipped to the worst possible thought.

'Grandpa, did they hit our house?'

'No,' he reassured me. 'They missed the house. Darned close though – they hit the old mill out back, turns out it was being used to make uniforms, or so I hear. They caught it dead on the corner, tore half the outside wall down; happened at night, thank God, or there may have been several good lives lost.'

I sighed with relief, but my relief soon turned to fear as I thought of the brambled wasteland between the mill and our house. I wanted to be home, now. I wanted to know that my owl was okay. I drummed my feet against the floor of the car and Grandpa told me to stop. As we turned the corner and approached our house, I reached for the inside handle and tried to open it, but it was too hard to pull down and I couldn't manage it. Only when we parked up on the pavement was I able to do it.

I ran to the front door and waited an age for Mother to follow me. She turned the key in the door so slowly I thought it would never open. When Grandpa had helped her, I ran through the house and straight to the back door, which I flung open, storming across the yard, only to feel a great arm grabbing at me. I turned and looked at the figure coming from the shed, limping towards me. Father.

He looked so different from the last time I had seen him, though it had not been sixteen months since. He was shorter somehow, and his body seemed twisted as he leant on his cane. His face was so thin and covered in lines that I swore I had never seen before across his brow. I tried to run away but he held me tighter with both his arms.

'It's me, Lily, your dad. Don't you recognise me?'

'Jonathan….' Mother was stood beside us, and now it seemed that her face was thinner and older too, her eyes like hollows in the trunk of a tree. Her voice was shaking. 'You're back… you've come back, so soon.'

He reached out for her and let me go. As he held her, I saw her face over his shoulder – her eyes round and red, streaked with tears, staring desperately at me. Her hands were by her side, fixed there like a prisoner restrained by her guard. I ran to the fence and lifted the panel. The nail tore at my pinny and ripped a shred from it. On the ground beneath the tree and all around, the rubble from the mill had landed. Through the remains of the fence I could see where the bomb had struck it; it could not have been nearer to my house. There was no lack of light now, as the explosion had torn branches from the trees and cast them to the ground.

There at the foot of my tree, I saw what I had dreaded. Lain, wings spread out upon the mud and pieces of shattered rock, lay the feathered remains of the owl. I could still see the brown stripe down the middle of her face. I knelt down in the dirt and the tears fell from my eyes upon her. From behind the fence panels I heard my mother's sobs.

© PS Owen 2016