The Song of the Wren
THE SONG OF THE WREN
by
H. E. BATES
Contents
A Note from the Family
Foreword by Lesley Pearse
The Song of the Wren
The Dam
The Man Who Loved Squirrels
The Tiger Moth
Oh! Sweeter than the Berry
Bonus Story: Music for Christmas
A Note on the Author
A Note from the Family
My grandfather, although best known and loved by many readers all over the world for creating the Larkin family in his bestselling novel The Darling Buds of May, was also one of the most prolific English short story writers of the twentieth century, often compared to Chekhov. He wrote over 300 short stories and novellas in a career spanning six decades from the 1920s through to the 1970s.
My grandfather’s short fiction took many different forms, from descriptive country sketches to longer, sometimes tragic, narrative stories, and I am thrilled that Bloomsbury Reader will be reissuing all of his stories and novellas, making them available to new audiences, and giving them – especially those that have been out of print for many years or only ever published in obscure magazines, newspapers and pamphlets – a new lease of life.
There are hundreds of stories to discover and re-discover, from H. E. Bates’s most famous tales featuring Uncle Silas, or the critically acclaimed novellas such as The Mill and Dulcima, to little, unknown gems such as ‘The Waddler’, which has not been reprinted since it first appeared in the Guardian in 1926, when my grandfather was just twenty, or ‘Castle in the Air’, a wonderful, humorous story that was lost and unknown to our family until 2013.
If you would like to know more about my grandfather’s work I encourage you to visit the H.E. Bates Companion – a brilliant comprehensive online resource where detailed bibliographic information, as well as articles and reviews, on almost all of H. E. Bates’s publications, can be found.
I hope you enjoy reading all these evocative and vivid short stories by H. E. Bates, one of the masters of the art.
Tim Bates, 2015
We would like to spread our passion for H.E. Bates's fiction and build a community of readers with whom we can share not only information on forthcoming publications, but also exclusive material such as free downloads of recently re-discovered short stories. You can sign up to the H.E. Bates mailing list here. When you sign up you will immediately receive an exclusive short work by H.E. Bates.
Foreword
I have always believed that H.E. Bates was the absolute master of short story writing. He managed to create a little world for you to enter into, and that soft focus world would stay with you long after you’d finished the story.
When I first started writing I tried my hand at short stories, assuming quite wrongly it would be easier than attempting a book. Bates was my guiding light; there appeared to be a simplicity about his work that I sought to emulate. I did get a few short stories accepted by magazines, but they could never be in his league. I certainly never created anything as lovely as ‘The Watercress Girl’. Did any writer before or since? I think I found it in a magazine and read it curled up in my aunt’s spare room one wet school holiday and then went on to rush to the library to find more of his work. Fair Stood the Wind for France was the first book I borrowed and I was totally hooked on his work, but it was always the short stories I really admired the most.
Lesley Pearse, 2015
The Song of the Wren
Miss Shuttleworth, moving with an air of delicate vacancy that also had something quite seriously studious about it, walked up and down the banks of the little stream running through the bottom of her garden, carefully distributing various sandwiches from a big blue plate.
Those of cucumber she placed on a large stone urn filled with budding violet petunias. Half a dozen of tomato she arranged about a clump of wild yellow irises growing at the water’s edge. An assortment of anchovy paste, cream cheese, blackberry jam and Gentleman’s Relish she set out at carefully measured intervals on the lawn that bordered the stream. When all had been distributed she stood back in a silence of contemplation that was almost reverent, surveying the result as if it were some fastidiously moulded work of art.
Finally she sat down on the lawn, legs carefully folded and tucked under her, and stared dreamily first at the sandwiches and then at the water sparkling in the warm June sunshine. Since she was wearing a floppy pink cotton dress and an even floppier pink straw hat from which straggling grey curls fell untidily to her shoulders, she looked not unlike a big, resting pink moth. Her intense blue eyes, large in concentration, gave her the impression of not belonging, quite, to this world.
Presently the eyes gave a sudden flutter of expectancy and then of positive, almost child-like delight.
‘We’re not alone, we’re not alone,’ she suddenly said in a sort of expanding whisper, ‘we’re not alone, we’re not alone.’
Two pairs of birds, a male and female blue tit, then a male and female chaffinch, flew with a delicate flicker over the stream, the blue tits going straight for the cream cheese, the chaffinches for the Gentleman’s Relish.
‘Good, good, good,’ Miss Shuttleworth said, again in a carefully expanded whisper, ‘splendid, splendid. Clever creatures.’
Amazing how they knew, Miss Shuttleworth told herself. How did they know? Why was it the chaffinches always went, without fail, for the Gentleman’s Relish and the blue tits for the cream cheese? Was it by some divine intuition or something of that sort? or perhaps a question of taste? However it was it struck her, always, as being little short of miraculous.
Half a minute later her wonder at these things was being enlarged to include a cock robin flying perkily over the clump of yellow irises.
‘Don’t fail me, don’t fail me,’ Miss Shuttleworth whispered, ‘don’t fail me.’
Before she had finished speaking the robin had settled among the tomato sandwiches. Now why always the tomato? Frequently Miss Shuttleworth was disposed to tell herself that it had something to do with colouration, the red of the tomato having some mysterious affinity with the red of the robin’s breast. Could that be it? The fact that there was no answer merely served to increase her wonder.
It was still further increased when a bevy of sparrows descended in chattering disharmony on the anchovy paste, quarrelling greedily. She watched it all with excitement, well knowing that when the anchovy paste had all gone there would be a shrill rush for the blackberry jam. It was just like a properly organised meal, with the fish being followed by a sweet course. Naturally it didn’t always work out quite like that, sparrows being what they were. Often they flouted the rules and raided the robin’s tomato. Not that you could play fast and loose with cock robins for long. They were sharp enough to have their own back in no time.
Over on the far side of the stream a wren was singing his heart out in a willow tree, the notes pure silver. The wren too was a source of wonder. Why did the wren never, ever come to the sandwiches? Pure shyness? Indifference? She had asked herself these and a dozen other questions time and time again and had never come up, yet, with an answer.
For fully another three or four minutes she sat utterly absorbed in the brilliance of the wren’s song, embalmed in a trance of fascination.
‘Excuse me, madam.’
It was less the voice of a man speaking from somewhere behind her than the surprised fluttering of disturbed tits, sparrows, chaffinches and the cock robin that suddenly woke her out of her song-imprisoned trance.
‘Oh! you startled me. Why—’
‘I must apologise for the intrusion, madam. But I’m engaged in making a social survey and I wondered if you would mind answering a few questions.’
‘It’s a general survey on a great variety of subjects.’
‘What is the point of it?’
‘Eventually all the answers will go into a computer and the results will, I hope, become a book.’
Miss Shuttleworth could think of nothing to say. She thought the man was perhaps thirty-five. His large, black-rimmed glasses did not conceal the deadly seriousness of his eyes.
He now proceeded to sit down on the grass, at the same time producing from an attache case a thick blue notebook, several sheets of foolscap paper and a ballpoint pen. A consultation of the sheets of foolscap kept him utterly quiet for fully a minute, during which the tits and sparrows began to fly back.
‘What an extraordinary, amazing, astonishing thing. The tits have gone for the Gentleman’s Relish. They’ve never, ever done that before.’
‘I’m, sorry, madam. What did you say?’
‘I said the tits have gone for the Gentleman’s Relish. Why, I wonder? I suppose they could have sensed the presence of a stranger.’
‘I’m sorry, madam. I don’t think I quite understand what you’re talking about.’
‘My birds. I allot them certain sandwiches every day. They always go for the same ones. They sort of do it according to the Laws of the Medes and Persians.’
‘Oh! they do, do they?’
The man stared hard, eyes big and serious with disbelief, into the sun. This caused him suddenly to sneeze loudly and violently and Miss Shuttleworth said:
‘Blessings upon you. Blessings upon you.’
‘And what exactly does that mean?’
‘Oh! one always says that, doesn’t one? I even say it to the birds. Starlings give a sort of sneeze sometimes. Of course they’re great imitators, starlings. I suppose they might well pick it up from us humans. The sneezing, I mean.’
In silent disbelief the man stared at his notebook, momentarily lost in a trance of his own. Coming out of it at last he said:
‘Oh! by the way, my name’s Adamson. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions now?’
‘Oh! ask away. For the life of me I can’t think what I can do to help. I mean, why me?’
‘It isn’t merely a question of one person. It’s a complex cross-section and sub-sections of views on an infinity of subjects. From them the computer will build up a picture. For instance what do you think about the Common Market?’
‘What market?’
‘The Common Market. What are your views on that?’
Miss Shuttleworth, eyes slowly revolving in order to catch a possible glimpse of birds coming back, was obliged to confess she had never heard of the Common Market.
‘Oh! but you must have. After all it’s been top news in all the papers for weeks.’
Miss Shuttleworth was also obliged to confess that she never read newspapers.
‘But you must have heard it mentioned on radio and television. Or both.’
Miss Shuttleworth was now obliged to confess that she had neither radio nor television, a confession that caused Mr Adamson to make a protracted entry in his notebook.
‘Well, what about space? What are your views on that? You see any purpose, for instance, in further exploration?’
‘I often wonder what birds think about when they’re flying about in space. Do you suppose birds think?’
‘No. Not in the sense that we do.’
‘But I do, you see, I do. I mean the sandwiches, for instance. They must think about those, you see. It must be conscious thought that makes them do what they do.’
‘Oh? Well, we’ll leave space for the moment. What about the permissive society?’
‘The what society?’
‘The permissive society.’
‘Is it for the prevention of something? I never heard of it. Can one join?’
‘Not exactly. It’s a sort of breaking down of rigid rules and pre-accepted social behaviour and moral attitudes and so on. I mean should the young indulge in pre-marital intercourse for instance?’
‘Well, they always have, haven’t they?’
‘What I mean is that there seems to be an entirely new manifestation of it. Do you approve of that or not?’
‘Birds don’t get married, do they? Why should humans simply in order to propagate the species?’
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think you quite get my point.’
‘Well, what is the point?’
‘A whole new pattern of social behaviour is emerging and sex would seem to be the mainspring of it. Have you any views on that?’
‘Oh! just hark at that wren. If that isn’t sheer divinity I’d like to know what is. Exquisite, so exquisite, Ethereal, in fact, ethereal.’
‘All right, divinity. What are your views on religion?’
‘Which one?’
‘Accepted religion. Organised. The church.’
‘Would you be surprised if I told you I worshipped birds?’
‘I’m very fond of birds myself. But they’ve nothing to do with religion.’
‘But they have, they have. They are religion. That wren is just as surely an apostle as any who fished the Sea of Galilee.’
‘Well, we’ll leave religion. What about life after death?’
‘Now I’ve a question for you. I was asked it by a small boy the other day. He comes into the garden sometimes with his fishing rod and a bent pin and a worm and tries to catch fish in the stream. And the other day as he was putting a worm on his hook he asked me if I thought a worm had a heart? Now there’s a question for your computer.’
‘Possibly. But hardly one of much social significance.’
‘I disagree. I disagree. Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing?’
‘I’m sorry, but I think we’re straying from the main purpose.’
‘Surely not. The question of whether a worm has a heart or whether two sparrows are sold for a farthing is just as significant as your permissive market.’
‘Society.’
‘But society is a market. In which, if I’m not much mistaken, sex is sold.’
‘Yes, yes. Do you mind if I make a note?’ With serious concentration Mr Adamson made a note in his big blue book. After doing so he took off his spectacles, breathed on them and then polished the lenses with his handkerchief. As he did this his eyes looked remarkably, even innocently, naked.
He then turned to his sheets of foolscap. On them were a number of questions for which he still sought answers: abortion, the multi-racial society, immigration, the pill and whether sex should be taught in schools, but suddenly, before he could ask Miss Shuttleworth for her views on such matters, she leapt to her feet as if startled.
‘Good gracious, I hear the church clock striking twelve! I must go and feed the hens. They’ll never forgive me if I forget them. I have one that talks, you know.’
‘Indeed.’
‘In her own language of course, though I understand it perfectly – as in fact I should by now. I’ve had her donkey’s years. Of course people are inclined to laugh when I say I hold conversations with a hen, but after all people talk to their dogs, don’t they? And anyway I’d rather talk to my Biddy than to a lot of people I could name. You will forgive me if I go?’
‘Of course. Thank you for giving me so much of your time.’
‘Why don’t you come too?’ Miss Shuttleworth actually laughed, her voice pitched excitedly high. ‘You could ask Biddy a question for your computer. For instance what it feels like to go cluck.’
‘Cluck?’
‘Broody. Cluck is the local word. Sometimes I feel like going cluck myself. Do you ever?’
Mr Adamson refrained from saying whether he himself ever felt like going cluck and proceeded to pack his notebook and papers into his attache case.
‘I must fly!’ Miss Shuttleworth said. ‘Fly. Do excuse me. Good-bye.’
Miss Shuttleworth seemed positively to take to the air as she swept across the lawn, looking more than ev
er like a huge floppy pink moth.
For a few seconds Mr Adamson stared after her. ‘Mad. Quite, quite mad,’ he told himself. ‘Has a worm got a heart? Do birds think? Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? Really, sometimes one really doesn’t know. One really wonders.’
Across the stream the wren again poured out its ethereal cadence of song, all sweetness on the warm June air, but Mr Adamson, pausing to extract his notebook from the attache case and record in it a quick, earnest note, appeared not to be listening.
There were clearly things of greater importance on his mind.
The Dam
Sometimes, even in September, the lightest sprinkle of fresh snow, like a crusting of white sugar across a cake top, lay on the mountains above the lake. Well before noon the heat of the sun had melted it away.
At the foot of the hotel garden, parallel with the lakeside, ran a pergola of iron grey rock on which grew old and twisted grape vines. The grapes, on their dark muscular branches, everywhere falling off from sheer ripeness, were small, purple black and of a wonderfully aromatic sweetness.
Every morning, with a punctuality so regimented that it was as if she were under military orders, a tall German woman of fifty or so came and sat in the shade of the pergola with a sketching pad, arriving on the stroke of ten o’clock and leaving as a church bell up the mountainside chimed for noon. Upright, stiffish, thick hair blonde almost to a point of illumination, she was, with her pale high cheekbones and Nordically cold blue eyes, strikingly handsome rather than beautiful.
Her first act before taking up her pencil to begin sketching was to gather herself a bunch of grapes. These she then ate slowly, one by one, also at regimented intervals, skin, pips and all, her full lips slowly protruding and then sucking inward almost as in an act of kissing.
It was this act, more than anything else about her, that fascinated George Graham as he sat in the garden, some distance away, trying to read. The sensuous nature of the lips seemed not to belong to the cold statuary of the rest of her face. She seemed, he thought, to be two distinct persons, locked in fascinating disturbing contradiction.