would be safer in the towns after all. If he could get a message through, on the farm telephone, to his cousin, only a short journey by train up country, they might be able to hire a car. That would be quickera€”hire a car between tides…
His wife's voice, calling his name, drove away the sudden, desperate desire for sleep.
'What is it? What now?' he said sharply.
'The wireless,' said his wife. 'I've been watching the clock. It's nearly seven.'
'Don't twist the knob,' he said, impatient for the first time, 'it's on the Home where it is. They'll speak from the Home.'
They waited. The kitchen clock struck seven. There was no sound. No chimes, no music. They waited until a quarter past, switching to the Light. The result was the same. No news bulletin came through.
'We've heard wrong,' he said, ' they won't be broadcasting until eight o'clock.'
They left it switched on, and Nat thought of the battery, wondered how much power was left in it. It was generally recharged when his wife went shopping in the town. If the battery failed they would not hear the instructions.
'It's getting light,' whispered his wife, 'I can't see it, but I can feel it. And the birds aren't hammering so loud.'
She was right. The rasping, tearing sound grew fainter every moment. So did the shuffling, the jostling for place upon the step, upon the sills. The tide was on the turn. By eight there was no sound at all. Only the wind. The children, lulied at last by the stillness, fell asleep. At half-past eight Nat switched the wireless off.
'What are you doing? We'll miss the news,' said his wife.
'There isn't going to be any news,' said Nat. 'We've got to depend upon ourselves.'
He went to the door and slowly pulled away the barricades. He drew the bolts, and kicking the bodies from the step outside the door breathed the cold air. He had six working hours before him, and he knew he must reserve his strength for the right things, not waste it in any way. Food, and light, and fuel; these were the necessary things. If he could get them in sufficiency, they could endure another night. He stepped into the garden, and as he did so he saw the living birds. The gulls had gone to ride the sea, as they had done before; they sought sea food, and the buoyancy of the tide, before they returned to the attack. Not so the land birds. They waited and watched. Nat saw them, on the hedge-rows, on the soil, crowded in the trees, outside in the field, line upon line of birds, all still, doing nothing.
He went to the end of his small garden. The birds did not move. They went on watching him.
'I've got to get food,' said Nat to himself, 'I've got to go to the farm to find food.' He went back to the cottage. He saw to thewindows and the doors. He went upstairs and opened the children's bedroom. It was empty, except for the dead birds on the floor. The living were out there, in the garden, in the fields. He went downstairs.
'I'm going to the farm,' he said.
His wife clung to him. She had seen the living birds from the open door.
'Take us with you,' she begged, 'we can't stay here alone. I'd rather die than stay here alone.'
He considered the matter. He nodded.
'Come on, then,' he said, 'bring baskets, and Johnny's pram. We can load up the pram.'
They dressed against the biting wind, wore gloves and scarves.
His wife put Johnny in the pram. Nat took Jill's hand. 'The birds,' she whimpered, 'they're all out there, in the fields.'
'They won't hurt us,' he said, 'not in the light.'
They started walking across the field towards the stile, and the birds did not move. They waited, their heads turned to the wind.
When they reached the turning to the farm, Nat stopped and told his wife to wait in the shelter of the hedge with the two children.
'But I want to see Mrs. Trigg,' she protested. 'There are lots of things we can borrow, if they went to market yesterday; not only bread, and…'
'Wait here,' Nat interrupted. 'I'll be back in a moment.'
The cows were lowing, moving restlessly in the yard, and he could see a gap in the fence where the sheep had knocked their way through, to roam unchecked in the front garden before the farm-house. No smoke came from the chimneys. He was filled with misgiving. He did not want his wife or the children to go down to the farm.
'Don't gib now,' said Nat, harshly, 'do what I say.'
She withdrew with the pram into the hedge, screening herself and the children from the wind.
He went down alone to the farm. He pushed his way through the herd of bellowing cows, which turned this way and that, distressed, their udders full. He saw the car standing by the gate, not put away in the garage. The windows of the farm-house were smashed. There were many dead gulls lying in the yard and around the house. The living birds perched on the group of trees behind the farm and on the roof of the house. They were quite still. They watched him.
Jim's body lay in the yard… what was left of it. When the birds had finished, the cows had trampled him. His gun was beside him. The door of the house was shut and bolted, but as the windows were smashed it was easy to lift them and climb through. Trigg's body was close to the telephone. He must have been trying to get through to the exchange when the birds came for him. The receiver was hanging loose, the instrument torn from the wall. No sign of Mrs. Trigg. She would be upstairs. Was it any use going up? Sickened, Nat knew what he would find.
'Thank God,' he said to himself, 'there were no children.'
He forced himself to climb the stairs, but half-way he turned and descended again. He could see her legs, protruding from the open bedroom door. Beside her were the bodies of the black-backed gulls, and an umbrella, broken.
'It's no use,' thought Nat, 'doing anything. I've only got five hours, less than that. The Triggs would understand. I must load up with what I can find.'
He tramped back to his wife and children.
'I'm going to fill up the car with stuff,' he said. 'I'll put coal in it, and paraffin for the primus. We'll take it home and return for a fresh load.'
'What about the Triggs?' asked his wife.
'They must have gone to friends,' he said.
'Shall I come and help you, then?'
'No; there's a mess down there. Cows and sheep all over the place. Wait, I'll get the car. You can sit in it.'
Clumsily he backed the car out of the yard and into the lane. His wife and the children could not see Jim's body from there.
'Stay here,' he said, 'never mind the pram. The pram can be fetched later. I'm going to load the car.'
Her eyes watched his all the time. He believed she understood, otherwise she would have suggested helping him to find the bread and groceries.
They made three journeys altogether, backwards and forwards between their cottage and the farm, before he was satisfied they had everything they needed. It was surprising, once he started thinking, how many things were necessary. Almost the most important of all was planking for the windows. He had to go round searching for timber. He wanted to renew the boards on all the windows at the cottage. Candles, paraffin, nails, tinned stuff; the list was endless. Besides all that, he milked three of the cows. The rest, poor brutes, would have to go on bellowing.
On the final journey he drove the car to the 'bus stop, got out, and went to the telephone box. He waited a few minutes, jangling the receiver. No good, though. The line was dead. He climbed on to a bank and looked over the countryside, but there was no sign of life at all, nothing in the fields but the waiting, watching birds. Some of them slept — he could see the beaks tucked into the feathers.
'You'd think they'd be feeding,' he said to himself. 'not just standing in that way.'
Then he remembered. They were gorged with food. They had eaten their fill during the night. That was why they did not move this morning…
No smoke came from the chimneys of the council houses. He thought of the children who had run across the
