Secret Stock continued

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Anderson started to move quickly and quietly away from Giles through the nettle and low shrubs. Crouching again, he beckoned to Giles to join him.
“Shh, this bird is really scared of people and we have to be really quiet.” He whispered as Giles knelt down as low as he could next to Anderson. They sat in silence with only their own breaths to be heard; Giles could even hear his heart beating with excitement of what he’d just seen and what he might be seeing next. He could feel the wet ground starting to soak his knees through his jeans

The piece of land in front of them sloped down towards the river and a small beach where the nearby rowing club launched their boats; Giles had seen it from the bridge as they’d crossed over. The nettles had now turned into various reeds which were tall enough to obscure the river itself and, in fact, any view of Giles and Anderson from the bridge itself or the opposite bank of the river. It really was a secret place. Suddenly there was a slight movement in the reeds. Giles started to make out the dark shape of a tall, heron-like bird piecing its way through. Suddenly, a long, sharp-looking bright orange beak poked out of the reeds and drilled into the soft mud. The head followed. It was black. After a moment of poking in the mud, the rest of the bird slowly emerged. A tall, Black Stork, with long red legs emerged into the brightening patch of sunlight, looked up, and cocked its head as if something was amiss. The noise of a train leaving Barnes Bridge Station on the opposite bank eventually permeated Giles’ hearing and he realised he was holding his breath again. The railway passed very close to the secret place and he wondered what the stork would do. Nothing as it happened. The unseen and unseeing train rumbled by on the nearby raised embankment – no more than a hundred feet away; the stork, the man and the boy remained stock still as if all in agreement of the importance of keeping the secret.

Eventually the Black Stork sauntered back into the reeds, seemingly unaware of the presence of the twitchers.
“There is one more bird I want you to see, Uncle Giles – she’s really friendly.” Anderson’s accent was genuinely English but occasionally Giles could make out the slightly clipped words of his mother – the Scandinavian school he’d attended in Barnes had probably helped with this on account that he’d never spent much time in Sweden. The two of them made their way back to near the entrance and after a few moments Anderson started to look into the trees above them and began to whistle gently. It didn’t sound like a bird whistle to Giles but Anderson persisted. Suddenly a small bird colourful bird appeared on a branch about five feet from Anderson’s head. Mainly dark brownish grey, the bright rust orange patches on its wings and tail flashed brightly in its undulating flight down the tree. Anderson put his hand in his pocket and took something out. Offering his hand up, Giles could see a hazelnut between the small boys finger and thumb. He was offering it to the bird. Again, Giles held his breath and felt his heart thumping. It was a Siberian Jay – no one had ever seen one in Britain.

After only a few seconds, but what seemed like an age, the bird eventually fluttered down to Anderson’s hand and alighted on his fingers. The small dark bill immediately set about the firmly held nut. Anderson smiled and brought his hand down for the two of them to watch the feeding. Occasionally, the little bird would stop, look carefully at the two peering faces and then get back to work on the rapidly disappearing nut. When it was all gone, the bird fluttered away; back up into the tree it had just come down from.
“Her nest, is up there, so I always bring her a nut – Mum get’s them for me.”

Giles was dumb-founded. It seemed that Anderson had stumbled across a haven for birds of Scandinavian or Eastern European origin who were just not supposed to be in Britain. It must be the greatest ever discovery – he just couldn’t understand why no one else had spotted them.

Crossing back over the Barnes Bridge footpath, Giles questioned his nephew about the secret place.
“So, Anderson, how did you find this place?”
“Oh, it was a while ago – we were walking along the riverbank with my teacher and she was showing us the trees and plants and things. I saw a beautiful golden bird high in a tree above the secret place and tried to tell the teacher about it. She said that there weren’t any golden birds in this country. I knew there was because I’d seen it – so I went back after school and found my way into the secret place. I saw the bird again – it was golden, I was right.”
“Good, good,” said Giles who was actually more interested in the ‘golden’ bird than the story of how the place was found. “So how big was the bird – did it have any other colours?” he queried.
“Oh, yes it had black wings and black on it’s tail – it was quite big, but not as big as a seagull.”
“It was a Golden Oriole, I think,” said Giles not actually believing what he himself was saying.
“Oh,” replied Anderson disinterestedly.
“So,” continued Giles not wanting to stop the conversation, “how often do you go to your secret place?”
“Most days after school. I don’t take my friends though. Mum knows I go there, but I meet her afterwards at the health club down the road – she goes there every day.”
“Do you think any else knows about the birds in the secret place?” The reply was instant.
“Only Albert.”
“Albert?”