Six chicks have hatched in the birdbox. One big mass of feathers at first, they manage to wriggle and worry each other to find some space. Their beaks are disproportionately large, eyes milky, legs and wings skinny and weak.
The Great Tits set up home in the birdbox in March. They resemble a couple of ceremonial priests with austere black caps and white cheeks topping a golden and green cloak of plumage. They solemnly prepare their wooden chapel, calling a high-pitched antiphony. Beaks full of spongy moss are delivered and woven into a perfect nest.
By April, things quietened down for a while. Mum and dad take turns to nurture and protect the nest. We supplement their insect hunts with dried mealworms, seeds and little berry-pink fat-pellets from the Poundshop.
In May, I hear the chicks. The garden is sunny, quiet and peaceful. There is a light breeze ruffling the leaves on the cherry tree which offers a dappled shade on warm days. Putting a washing out, taking advantage of the spring sunshine, I hear the tiny chirps from the box. Moving closer, one ear straining towards the hole – and they go silent. Behind me a parent is calling to them; letting them know I am a threat.
I skulk away, feeling oddly ashamed.
The next fortnight is hectic. The parents flit in and out of the box, ferrying tasty treats to their young. The adults feed on the shop-bought fare; the live food is the only source of precious water for the chicks. They take disciplined turns, calling swap-time from the cherry tree.
When they hear their parents, the chicks go into a frenzy. I imagine them vying for the best morsels. Their only purpose is to eat, grow and stay safe.
One day, everything instinctive is challenged. There is a new world beyond that little box. It’s terrifying, dangerous and unknown. But it’s also exciting.
Outside, the parents call; encouraging and cajoling: “no more food deliveries, time to come out if you want fed”.
Inside the siblings know only that the wooden walls and mossy nest have been their sanctuary; now it’s the chrysalis releasing them from chicks to juveniles.
There’s a clear hierarchy. Number One chick has had a greedy share of bugs and caterpillars. She is larger, stronger and feels her own vibrancy. She has already been trying to scale the inner wall and has poked her head out of the hole more than once. She’ll go first, no doubt about it.
Two and Three are a little smaller, but healthy and ready for the adventure. They are scared-excited, watching One carefully for technique tips on reaching the hole.
Four and Five allowed themselves to be bullied by One. Two and Three had quickly learned that they could steal what food the parents tried to send their way. They are both weak and struggling.
At the bottom of the nest is Six. He didn’t make it. He was a runt when he hatched and didn’t have the strength to compete with the others for food. He is almost a skeleton already.
One can’t wait any longer. She shimmies up the side of the box with practised control and pokes her head out of the hole. The light is dazzling but she expected it after her previous attempts. The air is fresh and cool after the stuffy, smelly nest and the world is a cacophony of sound. Through all of this, she hears her parents calling; one in the hydrangea opposite and the other in the apple tree on the back wall. She bobs on the edge of the hole for a second before launching herself to the ground. Perhaps not the elegant landing she hoped for, but after a brief fluffing of feathers, she hops into the shrubs, following the calls from the apple tree.
Two and Three know it’s their turn. As long as One was still in the nest, there was no pressure. Three has a go at scaling the wall, but stumbles backwards half-way up. His second attempt gets him to the hole. He has his first sense of the world; huge, bright, noisy and full of threat. But before he can think again, Two is at his back. He topples out of the box to the ground. The parents go silent for a beat, then start to call frantically. Two takes courage from this clue that Three has made it and follows. She manages a few inexpert wing-flaps that do little to slow her fall and plonks unceremoniously next to Three.
Both start towards the parent in the hydrangea, setting off a chorus of panicky squeaking from the adults. Crossing the open-range of the lawn is the shortest route to safety, but also the riskiest. Jackdaws and Magpies sit in the trees like deadly snipers; armed and ready for carnage.
The chicks, heeding the warning, shuffle back into the border like a couple of naughty children. Exhausted, they huddle in the shade, calling for food. But there are two siblings still to fledge. They’ll have to be still and wait.
In the nest Four and Five are stretching their wings and legs into the unaccustomed space. They think perhaps staying here might not be so bad. Another couple of weeks, some good food, rest and the absence of the bullies could be good for them.
The adults have other ideas; their calling becomes more insistent and connects with the chicks’ deepest instincts. Somehow, they both claw and scramble up to the hole like a pair of inept gymnasts. Leaving survival to chance, they tumble to the ground. A quick recovery and sprint to the shrubbery might have saved them both, but Four’s luck has run out. The shadow of a swooping magpie spreads like a blanket above and Four is snatched and lifted away from hope.
Five topples drunkenly to where Two and Three are huddled together; the siblings call plaintively for their parents’ protection.