Where the Birds Come to Nest

How did I end up here? Literally, how did I end up here? A fully grown man hiding in his grandparents’ treehouse like a naughty school boy in the middle of a heatwave. It’s ridiculous.  

Up here, where the birds come to nest, the branches are thick and tangled, and the towering trunk reaches high into the sky. 

*

We arrived at Grandmother Stevenson’s Hertfordshire house at ten o’clock this morning. It was my wife’s idea. She had decided that after all the troubles of the past few months what we really needed was to spend the afternoon reconnecting with nature (anything remotely green counts as nature in my wife’s eyes) and to pay our last respects at the same time.

We were greeted by the smell of freshly baked bread and rose water. As we entered the hallway Grandmother Stevenson apologised for the state of the house - funerals can be very chaotic - and swiftly ushered us into the kitchen. I could tell from the pile of dishes in the Butler sink and the leftover slices of lemon cake that Grandfather Stevenson had enjoyed a proper send off and for a brief moment I felt a pang of guilt. 

Grandfather Stevenson. He had a wicked sense of humour, by which I mean horribly cruel. As a young boy I would spend hours in his company. He used to tell the funniest jokes, mostly about the war, but I can honestly say that he never had a bad word to say about Grandmother Stevenson. Except - well, there are always exceptions. 

Back in the kitchen, my wife started to help Grandmother Stevenson with the dishes, so I took full advantage and went for a stroll around the house. It made sense to me now why Grandmother Stevenson had been so keen to apologise. The housekeeping was not up to her usual high standards. There was stuff everywhere. Books and porcelain figurines on every surface imaginable and little silver-framed photographs spread out like a grand map of the Stevensons’ married life. A map without borders. To the east there was the honeymoon in Venice, where Grandmother Stevenson had her famous argument with the hotel manager; in the north could be found the birth of their first and only child (my father); to the west my graduation and in the south my wedding day. Feeling overwhelmed by the sight of so many celebrations, I hurried out of the front door and worked my way towards the back garden where Grandfather Stevenson and I used to spend so much time together. Yes, in this very treehouse. 

The treehouse was Grandfather Stevenson’s pride and joy. He had built it for Grandmother Stevenson, but due to her vertigo she could not get beyond the first rung of the makeshift ladder. To compensate he bought her a pair of binoculars and left her in the safety of the garden shrubs while he moved in and up. The binoculars were not much use, but Grandmother Stevenson appreciated the gesture.  

I remember my first time. 

Up here.  

Where the birds come to nest. 

Though it had taken some last minute coaxing from Grandfather Stevenson, within a matter of minutes I was taking my first step on the ladder. Grandmother Stevenson was delighted. Finally Grandfather Stevenson would have some company in the treehouse and she could relieve herself of the lingering guilt that had been festering ever since he had built the damn thing. To celebrate my venture Grandmother Stevenson baked raisin scones and prepared a hamper of cheese, boiled eggs, cream crackers and ginger ale. 

I also remember the day Grandfather Stevenson lost his sense of humour. At least, in my eyes, he no longer seemed funny. It was a hot and sticky afternoon, much like today. Grandfather Stevenson had been sitting in the treehouse for several hours when I arrived. He greeted me with a wry smile and extended his hand in a mock show of formality. That was all part of his humour and I was happy to play along. I noticed that the treehouse had been furnished since my first visit and now had a distinctly homely feel. It was as if Grandfather Stevenson had moved in permanently. Had Grandmother Stevenson been up here too? Grandfather Stevenson seemed to read my mind and shook his head. There were two footstools at one end and a small coffee table strewn with newspapers at the other. The ceiling had been painted in sky blue and the floor in forest green, all of which contributed to the new sense of space and serenity. 

‘You can see the parish church from here,’ said Grandfather Stevenson.  

‘Is this what they mean by religious observance?’ I said. 

Grandfather Stevenson chuckled. He was proud of my burgeoning sense of humour. 

We had been hanging out in the treehouse for half an hour, laughing about this and that, making monkey noises, pretending to eat leaves, and throwing nuts over the neighbours’ fence when he handed me the photograph and told me to guard it with my life. Suddenly we were like two secret agents on a mission to save the crown jewels and the success of the entire operation depended on my cunning and agility. As soon as the coast was clear, I snuck a look at the top secret file.

‘Grandmother was very beautiful’ I said. Grandfather Stevenson smiled at me and lit his pipe.  

‘The woman in the photograph is very beautiful. But she’s not your grandmother.’ 

Had this been a movie a storm would have broken at that very moment. Instead, a flock of birds flew overhead and one of the neighbours’ children screamed with delight at the sight of her new trampoline. I stared down at her and wondered how such a simple object could bring so much joy. Then I remembered my own delight when I had made it all the way up to the treehouse for the first time and my incredulity faded away.  

‘Very beautiful.’ 

My wife is very beautiful too and I love her dearly. But recently I’ve lost my sense of humour and I find myself spending more and more time at the office and now I’m hiding out in Grandfather Stevenson’s treehouse like a bandit. 

How did I end up here?

*

I can see Grandfather Stevenson resting on the footstool. He has that mischievous twinkle in his eye, but his hands are shaking. He wants to reach out to me, to share his secret, to confess. He trusts me and knows I’ll understand. I look at him in bewilderment and feel only pity for Grandmother Stevenson. Outside the air is still and the sun is beating down on the rooftops. I want to run away, but my legs do not respond. I want to tell him how unfair it all is, but I’m short of breath. He looks at me pleadingly, seeking forgiveness. I cannot forgive him because I do not understand. He looks disappointed. 

‘I understand,’ he says.