Up north and personal: Friendly neighbourhood firebrand

The Screech Owl across the orchard is in the throes of a seven year itch: it’s been 14 years since her first decibel-defying event eruption, which was followed by a second one seven years later. And now apparently, the designated term has expired, and she has revved up her always simmering venom.

The sight of the man I’d hired to trim back — not cut down — some scraggly Robinia trees on the boundary where her land meets mine was the spark that ignited her extremely short fuse: “Stop it! Stop it right now!” she shrieked in a voice that could be heard a million miles away. “These are my trees and you are not to touch them”.

Making a hasty retreat from droplets of saliva rocketing in his direction like spit missiles, the man asked me to speak to her but, not being in the mood for confrontation, I told to him finish for the day. The next morning, I approached my screechy neighbour.

“What’s the problem?” I asked with a smile, having decided that harsh words would only fuel her madness.

“Screech, screech, screeeeeech!”

“Okay, okay. Calm down please and explain what it is you’re so angry about.”

“My trees,” she spluttered having turned purple in the face from screeching. “You’re not to touch my trees. I want them for firewood.”

“But they are not your trees,” I tried to explain as, hands on hips, she glowered threateningly, bunching her fists and taking two very purposeful steps forward. Having witnessed those fists in action, I sensibly stepped back, struggling to retain a calm façade but feeling it slip away under the potential onslaught.

I tried again. “Calm down and listen for a minute,” I requested.

“Screech, screech, screeeeeech”.

“Okay. Shut up and damn well listen to me!” I fired back, making my stand. “That is my land, those are my trees so stop carrying on.”

“Screeeeeech!”

“Shut up, woman. See that wall?” I said, pointing at the dry stone dyke on one side of my orchard. “That is my wall as you already know. Those trees are growing out of the top of my wall and they are my trees and I have them trimmed back every single year so that they don’t block sunlight from entering my garden. My wall, my trees, my firewood and if you have any problems with that then go see the patwari, go consult a lawyer, but leave me alone.”

“Screeeeeech!”

“Look. You know perfectly well that my ‘lata’ shows that my boundary is here so, like I said, go talk to the patwari or a lawyer but leave me alone.”

And with that, I adjusted my Indiana Jones hat against the persistent drizzle, marched home, picked up the saw, put on strong leather gloves and — as she stood watching from the shelter of her long verandah, arms tightly folded across her chest, mouth inverted like an upside down bucket — I finished pruning the trees myself, stomped inside and put on the kettle vowing that I would not let her get me down.

Actually, one really should feel sorry for the Screech Owl as there must be a multitude of reasons as to why she is as she is. Her deep-rooted misery is profound and I don’t think I’ve ever, since our original meeting almost 15 years ago, seen her smile an open, honest, genuine smile. She grimaces, scowls, frowns and screeches but never manages to smile and her countless offspring, once they are past infancy, are exactly the same.

Her home — and yes, I have had occasion to visit — oozes sadness and despair and her largely neglected land is the epitome of misery: unhealthy grass, dying trees, very little bird life, lots of garbage and an overall impression of sourness. It is a sad place. Her ingrained anger is not poverty-related although when it comes to having friends she is poverty-stricken indeed. Over the years she has fought with just about everyone on the mountainside. Only in full screeching battle-axe mode can she be described as being remotely happy, as fury brings bright colour to her cheeks and a corresponding glitter to her dark eyes.

By early afternoon the weather had cleared and, as the Screech Owl had disturbed me, I sought solace in the awakening garden: a red-throated thrush, a winter migrant from Central Asia, was busily foraging for insects around the pond; the hellebores, glorious in plum, pink, lime-green and white, are in full flower although on far shorter stems than normal, as a result, I think, of the long dry weeks before snow and rain finally arrived. Spring is definitely in the air, as the first of the daffodils and nargis have just unfurled their petals and, along with the first pink Dutch hyacinth, fill the air with heady perfume and the promise of warmer days to come. The almond trees are in bud too; they blossomed way too early last year, opening their delicate flowers as early as mid-January but are back to ‘normal’ this time around as are the apricots and plums which should, stormy weather and hailstones permitting, put on a breathtaking display in another couple of weeks or so.

The autumn-sown carrots are ready for pulling, as are black Russian winter radish and the giant red mustard has suddenly taken off in the wet, its purple-red leaves growing inches overnight. There is burgeoning new life everywhere I look. Larkspur seeds are sprouting, sweet Williams popping up alongside Californian poppies and Queen Anne’s lace, there is new growth on the roses and the forsythias are in bud. The soil is too wet and muddy to disturb right now but, a week of dry weather and I will be able to throw myself in to a major planting campaign. By the middle of the month, hopefully, I will have been able to shed some of the heavy four layers of clothing I have waddled around in all winter and what a relief that will be!

Ken and Barbie, a stunning pair of emerald green, turquoise blue and blazing red ‘yellow-throated green barbettes’ have taken to hanging around from just after dawn until almost sunset in the hope of being fed. They know, from experience, that their fruit bowl, filled with dried amlok, chopped apples and orange segments, is replenished only once early in the morning and that is that. Ever-hopeful they haughtily stare the dogs down and follow me around the garden flying from tree to tree to keep up and, while I am outside, I know that the mynah family will have invaded the kitchen through the open doors but — what the hell — they are part of the family too!

Published in The Express Tribune, Sunday Magazine, March 6^th, 2011.