Secrets, lies and Granddad

Anonymous

I remember the day Granddad asked me. "Have you told anyone?"

I answered. "No."

Lying was easy after that.

Granddad slid his hands onto his knees and leaned down until his face was at my level. He smelt of Old Spice and Capstan Full Strength and he had missed a bit on his chin when he was shaving.

"I'm going to show you something," he said, "a special thing that you must keep a secret. All right?"

I nodded, trying to keep the fizz of excitement from getting the better of me. Granddad winked at me and said with a voice full of smiles. "Come on then."

We walked down to the far end of the garden where Granddad had a heap of gardening rubbish ready for burning. A male blackbird followed us, dipping and swooping and giving a constant chook of alarm. We stopped at the tangle of hawthorn branches and last year's weeds and the blackie settled in the rowan tree. He dipped his tail feathers and released some droppings before continuing with his strident call. I could see that his eyes were ringed with white.

Granddad carefully moved aside a cut branch. "Now, you stand here in front of me and don't say a word."

I did as I was told and held my breath just in case a word escaped.

"Mrs Blackbird's decided to raise her family here." Granddad spoke softly in my ear. "Isn't that nice?"

I peered through the dried branches and brittle leaves and there was the mother bird, fluffed up and unconcerned by her visitors. She was hidden well back in the bonfire, sitting on an untidy nest made of twigs.

"She's laid three eggs." Granddad said, and she's lined the nest with soft grass to keep them safe. Clever eh?

The blackbird half closed her eyes and gave a little nod as if agreeing with my Granddad.

"I've been watching her for a couple of days and she doesn't mind a wee visit now and then." Granddad replaced the branch. "Now away you go and remember, no telling."

I know now that information is power but back then my six year old self couldn't get away fast enough to tell the boys on the farm. I was jubilant. I wanted a go on their bikes and now I had something to bargain with. Granddad went back into the cottage and of course I belted across the road and right into the farmyard.

The three brothers were tinkering with their bikes as usual and I had never felt so important in my short life.

"Guess what?" I asked but continued without waiting to see if they could guess what "what" was. "A blackbird has made a nest down by the rowan tree at the bottom of our garden. My Granddad said that she's sitting on three eggs."

I did my nervous thing of reaching around and easing my shorts out of my bum. "Can I get a shot of the red bike?"

The brothers looked at each other. One of them edged a bike towards me using the toe of his wellie. It was the oldest bike, yellow, and far too big for me. I pulled it up and tilted it over until it was low enough for me to swing my leg over the bar.

My feet barely reached the pedals so I stood on tiptoe and wobbled out onto the road and away. The hedgerows rushed past me in a blur as I pedalled on. After a mile or so I made an uncertain turn on the brow of a hill then sped back home standing on the pedals. Evening midgies battered my face so I closed my eyes. The bike veered and hit the grass verge and I was sent sprawling onto the warm tarmac while the yellow bike continued solo for a few yards before crashing too.

In the distance I heard the male blackie's call of alarm then a bird flew over me in frantic flight. I knew from the flash of pale throat and the dark speckled plumage underneath that it was a mother blackbird. I sat up and looked at the raw scrapes on my knees and palms and felt sick.

The youngest brother came down our path. He stopped, looking closely at my oozing grazes.

"Ouch," he said without any real sympathy, "look what I've got. More for our collection. We've got loads in an old drawer under my bed."

He held out three greenie blue eggs. The light, glossy surfaces were sprinkled with reddish spots. I knew that these fragile things should be back in the soft lining of their untidy nest.

"I'm away to have a bash at blowing them." He hoisted up the battered bike with his free hand. "I'll find my mum. She'll have a look at your knees."

Putting the eggs in a drawer sounded safe enough so I sat with stooning knees, occasionally licking my rusty blood and spitting out bits of gravel.

The farmer's wife finally came out of the yard wiping her hands on a tea towel.

"You've had a fall then? Come on, let's get you sorted before your Granddad sees you." She helped me up and led me into the scullery. "Here, hold your hands under the cold tap and I'll find the Germoline."

Three eggs lay puddled in the plughole of the cracked porcelain sink. The yolks were flecked with blood and on the windowsill an old rag lay beside pot scourers and a soap dish. Nestled on the rag and far from the safety of their soft nest were three blackbird's eggs. They were neatly pierced at both ends and drying in the sun and I vomited bile, the same colour of yellow as the yolks.

After that, my idea of a secret was to tell everyone in a whisper.