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TO BE PROOFREAD Title: The Bearded Tit: A love story with feathers Author: Rory McGrath Year: 2008 Synopsis: ‘The Bearded Tit’ is Rory McGrath’s story of life among birds—from a Cornish boyhood wandering gorse-tipped cliffs listening to the song of the yellowhammer with his imaginary girlfriend, or drawing gravity-defying jackdaws in class when he should have been applying himself to physics, to quoting the Latin names of birds to give himself a fighting chance of a future with JJ—the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. As an adult, or what passes for one, Rory recounts becoming a card-carrying birdwatcher, observing his first skylark—peerless king of the summer sky —while stoned; his repeatedly failed attempts to get up at the crack of dawn like the real twitchers; and his flawed bid to educate his utterly unreconstructed drinking mate Danny in the ways of birding. Rory’s tale is a thoroughly educational, occasionally lyrical and highly amusing romp through the hidden byways of birdwatching and, more importantly, a love story you’ll never forget. A message to my readers Many thanks to both of you. Another message to my readers There is nothing quite like the sentence ‘And this is a true story’ to make you instantly doubt all that you are about to hear. And ‘This is no word of a lie’ invariably precedes a tale of palpable mendacity. ‘I kid you not, hand on heart’, you just know heralds a pile of arrant bullshit. With all this foremost in my mind, I nervously say to you now that what follows is a true story. Hand on heart. Hand on heart. Some of it anyway. A lot of this happened a long time ago. Strange, is it not, that most of the things that happen in our life seem to happen in the past? This is a love story; well, some of it is a love story. It is a love story with, and without, feathers. It is no ordinary love story, though. It has ‘boy meets girl’ and ‘girl meets boy’ elements to it, but, as far as I know, it is the only love story in which the scientific name for a Caspian snowcock plays a significant part. The truth is that I have only recently become interested in birdwatching in a truly dedicated way: six or seven years maybe. But I realized, as I came to write this book, that birds have been with me all the time, singing in the background of my growing up, hovering over key events of my past and shitting, from time to time, on the windscreen of my life. I hope you find in these pages something to titillate you, tickle your fancy, amuse you, inform you, irritate you or perhaps even offend you. I hope you like it, of course, but if you do not, if you think it’s a piece of garbage, if you think it’s the worst book you’ve ever read and a total waste of money, just go out and watch a kestrel for a few moments and you will glimpse the beauty and the joy of the world, the enormity of nature, the brush-strokes of God and you will realize how microscopic and insignificant you are in the history of the universe…And, at least, you’ll be off your arse for five minutes and out in the fresh air. SCARY Lizards don’t scream with pain. They don’t have the mechanisms for making noise. They can’t purr or growl or bark or sing. The one we were watching was not screaming. It should have been. Its mouth gaped dumbly. Its eyes were blank. Its claws twitched and its tail flicked occasionally from side to side. We knew it was in pain though. It must have been. It was impaled on a metal spike. The point of which was freshly and moistly red. I felt scared. Not for the lizard; not for me; but for the girl next to me. What did she make of this? She, who seemed to be made for compassion and humanity. Made from compassion and humanity, even. The girl whose eyes were green, bottomless pools of love and sympathy. Would she be appalled by this? And the lizard was not alone. A few inches further along the fence, a grasshopper was stuck on a wire barb. Perched next to it was the bird. A beautiful, cleanly marked grey and white bird with black wings. Its bill broad and heavy with a fine hook on the end. A bandit’s black mask failing to conceal two dark eyes, lively with mischief. The great grey shrike. The butcher bird. Lanius excubitor according to the textbooks. Lanius from a Latin word lanio, which means ‘to mangle, tear, rip or mutilate’. Like an excubitor—that is, a vigilante or sentinel—this bird perches high up on branches or telegraph wires alert to any movement on the ground: an insect, maybe, or a reptile or small mammal. Whichever, it will soon disappear in a feathery flurry of black and white death. The shrike will eat it there or take it off to its ‘larder’, where it will be kept for later, stuck on a thorn or a spike. I turned to the girl. ‘Pretty gruesome, eh?’ She looked surprised. ‘Why gruesome? It’s only doing what a shrike does best.’ ‘Lizard-torturing?’ ‘What a very human interpretation. All it’s doing is being a shrike. In fact, when it comes to being a shrike, you can’t beat a shrike. I think it’s quite impressive.’ Her matter-of-factness was scary. ‘You don’t like it, though, do you?’ She looked at me with a puzzled expression. ‘There’s nothing to like. Or dislike. It’s nature. You’re being too human.’ Was this a bad thing, I thought? ‘Sorry, I was born human.’ She tutted. ‘My parents were human. In fact, there’ve been humans in our family for generations. Mind you, there’s always been a question mark over my great-uncle Daisy.’ She was ignoring me. ‘Listen, nature is neither likeable nor dislikeable. Nature is just…er, well, natural.’ And so was she. So natural. And so wise. That was scary. And I was totally in love with her. That was scary too. Part One Falling From The Nest THE BEAUTIFUL STRANGER The seventies rose, ashes-like, from the phoenix of the sixties. With the ‘midi’ replacing the ‘mini’, and the ‘maxi’ replacing ‘the midi’, hemlines dropped like the shutters being pulled down on the age of carefree hedonism. I was eighteen, the age when you are the universe and the universe is you. The real world happened in an incoherent blur of meaningless names, unknown places and vague headlines. The narcissism of being an adolescent shielded me from the constant, grey drizzle of strikes, the Yom Kippur war, three-day weeks, power cuts, inflation, Nixon’s impeachment and the Watership Down scandal. It was a low, nondescript and dispirited decade with the bleak tawdriness of ‘glam-rock’ as its embarrassing background music. They were a decade-long morning-after headache, but, significantly, they were also the most formative years of my life. In fashion, hair was huge and good taste was tiny. I don’t think the phrase ‘big hair’ existed then, but it was the best way to describe mine: its curliness meant that it grew outwards rather than down. All the clothes then were made of too much material: three·piece suits, double-breasted jackets, wide ties and expanses of lapel. And so in 1974, dressed in a dark maroon version of one such fabric nightmare, I arrived, virginal and awkward, in Cambridge to study modern languages: Spanish and French. I was to attend a college called Emmanuel. The cinema across the road was showing Emmanuelle. It seemed only appropriate that I should go and see it. Nine times in the first week, in fact. I saw it so often that for years afterwards I was terrified of bumping into Sylvia Kristel in the street in case she recognized me from the end seat of row W. That said, it was the only meaningful relationship I had in my first year; a sorry state of affairs that I intended to rectify at the beginning of my second. It was 1975, a few days before the official start of the new academic year, and a friend of mine, Richard McShee, and I were discussing the lamentable condition of our love-lives over a coffee in the market square. ‘Too many blokes, Mack. The odds are stacked against us,’ I said. He agreed. ‘Six male students to one female student, apparendy.’ ‘She’s not complaining though!’ I said with half-hearted humour, realizing that comments like that magnified, rather than relieved, the bleakness of our situation. A pigeon landed on the table and pecked at Mack’s sandwich. I attempted to punch it and missed. ‘Oi, that’s not nice!’ ‘Bloody things,’ I said. ‘Flying rats, you know.’ ‘Well, actually,’ said Mack, reminding me that he was studying zoology, ‘they’re more like flying reptiles. Birds are descended from reptiles, not mammals. The feather is an evolution of the scale.’ ‘No shit!’ ‘Plenty of shit actually,’ Mack was pleased with this in a ‘science student makes joke—hold the front page’ sort of way. I reminded him of our agenda. ‘Girls, Mackie!’ ‘But you’ve no need to complain about lack of women, Ror. You had no problems last year!’ This came as big news to me.

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