GEORGE: A Magpie Memoir

One of the gifts of growing older has been birds.

My parents used to sit by the big window in this house, sometimes with binoculars or an old pair of opera glasses, and watch the birds in the garden. I thought it was basically an old-people thing; in particular a thing for old people with limited mobility, like my folks. It was quite charming, the way they’d get excited about the appearance of this or that species.

I didn’t think that one day I would sit by the window, eyes peeled for bird action outside. Now, first thing in the morning, I check to see who is out and about. I’ve placed three birdbaths where we can see them, and scarcely a day goes past without one of us beckoning to the other and pointing at a honey-eater, a silver-eye, a firetail, a wattlebird – or a blue wren.

Blue wrens were much beloved by my elderly neighbour and friend, Margaret. Friends and family gave her a constant stream of blue-wren cards, notepaper, embroidered handkerchiefs and mugs; for some reason I never knew, they were ‘her’ bird. And now they are mine (though I haven’t gone for the blue-wren merch – at this stage, anyway).

I started with just wanting to encourage birds into the garden. There were always plenty passing through- like magpies, bronzewings, parrots and cockatoos – but how to get them to stay? I thought a bird feeding station might be just the thing – a delight – but the sulphur-crested cockies hogged it, made a mess and a racket so we canned that idea. Little birds, I decided. So I planted lots of shrubs and bushes, and over the years they’ve grown into sizeable thickets, and now… I have little birds.

I have blue wrens. My heart’s desire, I tell people. For months I’ve seen them every day; they are nesting snug and hidden from view in my next-door neighbour’s cypress. I think some might even be nesting somewhere in our yard. So far, I have no sense of familiarity. Each time I see one, it’s nothing less than a tiny blue miracle. I still do that involuntary in-drawing of breath, my heart still leaps, I still identify the feeling as joy, or delight. The brilliant blue of the male, the softer brown of the females, their long upright flirty tails and little round bodies, their loud chattering calls and darting flight. All of this a good antidote to the shitty gang of shitty world leaders – madmen, basically – who infest the shitty world at present. Maybe they’re no worse than they ever were, but I’m finding it doesn’t pay to dwell. I’m still avoiding the TV news but somehow I seem to read bits and pieces, and know – for instance –  that Trump has picked an anti-vaxxer to lead the Health Department, and Musk to kill off the public service.

And so this memoir by Frieda Hughes seemed to fit the bill as comfort reading. But it was not the light-hearted, heart-warming animal tale I might have expected. It was the story of an obsession, an overwhelming one, almost an addiction.

Hughes rescues a little magpie nestling found in the aftermath of a storm. She saves its life, and goes on to care for it and love it … and let it live inside, destroying and thieving and shitting all over the place, attacking neighbours and generally being a horrible nuisance. It is a wild bird, but she wants it to be a pet and along with the obsessively detailed and repetitive accounts of her struggles with George’s behaviour, Hughes documents the long breakdown of her marriage. Not my place to comment, I know, but at times I felt sorry for the poor man, ‘The Ex’, with not only a chaotic wild bird practically attached to his wife, but dogs that have INSIDE LITTER TRAYS.

Though she does mention her famous and tragic parents (Sylvia Plath, she says ‘deserted’ her when she committed suicide), it’s not a misery memoir. Or not in that direction. But misery it is. Understandably, Hughes has a life-long quest for ‘home’, for love, for stability and permanence. One of the most poignant episodes from the book was a description of a visit with her father and an Irish friend to a small island. No one lived there, and the animals had no fear. It was like a dream; she was able to put her hands down into rabbit burrows and stroke their fur; she was able to handle the birds that roosted there. A little, underpopulated Eden. When it was time to go home, a storm brewed up and the boat trip away from that perfect place was nightmarishly terrifying. The symbolism made me want to cry for her as I thought about the two-year-old sleeping in her cot, while downstairs in the kitchen her mother was turning the gas oven on.

George: A Magpie Memoir is a strange, sad and also quite fascinating story – but when I read the puffs from other writers I wondered if they’d read the same book. ‘Charming, funny, tender, moving?’ Did it really show that ‘connecting to wildlife has the power to put our troubles into perspective, teach us lessons about life and provide solace for a bruised soul’ (Charlie Corbett)? George was a terror. In Hughes words, ‘a little shit’. There were occasional moments of connection, but as she herself recognises, she was really looking for a creature to rescue, and to love. Wild animals need to be wild, and eventually she had to let George go. She’s gone on to rescue more birds, mainly owls.  No doubt with the same patience, tenderness and huge amounts of disinfectant.