Extract from The Songbird’s Way

“Listen to that, girls.” My father stood up, tilted his head sideways and put his hand behind his ear.

I stood up too. “What, Daddy? What are we meant to be listening to?”

“Shhh! We’ve got be very quiet.” He held one finger up to his lip. “Yes! It’s definitely a nightingale. What a treat – you rarely get to hear them nowadays.”

My mother stood up too, and that’s when we all heard the song of the nightingale together. It was impressive – a fast succession of very rich high and low notes – there were trills, tweets and gurgles, each call ending in a loud whistling crescendo.

“Beautiful, eh?” My father looked directly at me. “He’s not afraid to sing out loud, Chip. And he’s only a tiny little thing.”

“He can sing like that because he’s hidden in the bushes.” I went back over to the rug and put my half-eaten sandwich back in the container. “It’s easier to sing when no-one’s looking at you.” 

But my father didn’t seem to be listening to me. By then both my parents appeared entranced by the bird’s song. My mother had moved over closer to my father so that she stood right in front of him, leaning backwards against his chest.

“The songbirds know,” my father whispered to my mother.

“Know what, Daddy? What do the songbirds know?”

He glanced around at me. “They know when to be heard."

I didn’t really understand what he meant but I didn’t ask any more questions. Daddy had turned back to my mother. He gently kissed the top of her head and squeezed her in tighter to him. Then, very softly, he started to sing “Songbird”. 

As well as being my father’s favourite song, the Fleetwood Mac ballad had become mine too. Daddy always sang it alone when his band were rehearsing – it was his solo piece and always came at the end of their set. The others would sit back and we would all just listen to him singing the soothing words as he picked out the delicate, comforting tune on his guitar. And every time he sang that song, no matter who else was there, it felt like he was singing it just for me. 

I felt the cool grass between my bare toes and, as I listened to him sing, the simple words of love and comfort began to enchant me once again. Each syllable, every phrase served to make me feel safe and secure as they eased away my childhood fears. My father’s voice melted into soulful harmony with the nightingale as he sang that day, and I closed my eyes to let the soft, sweet melody of their music wash over me. Listening to him serenading my mother made me feel happy and all the more protected by the certainty of his love for her too. In that moment with both my parents, I belonged – together we were a family, united by love, protected by an unbreakable bond.

I stood up on my tip-toes and mouthed along to the last few lines of the song, wishing it would never end.

“That was really lovely, Bobby,” my mother said when Daddy had finished singing. 

He turned her around until their eyes were locked together. 

“I love you, Nuala.” He smiled after he said the words but he seemed almost nervous.

My mother smiled back at him. “I love you too, Bobby – more than ever.” She leaned up to wrap her arms around his neck and they kissed. There was nobody else around, but this time it went on so long that I felt my cheeks redden a bit. I wasn’t sure whether it was from embarrassment or from joy at witnessing my parents’ love for each other.

When they finally stopped kissing my father held on to my mother’s arms and looked down at her. “I wish you were always here, Nuala. Chip and I miss you so much when you’re on the road. Let’s get married, have more kids. I’ll give up the band and get rid of the stall. I’ll get a proper job instead. We could have daytrips like this every weekend. Come on, Nuala. Let’s do it – marry me. What do you say?”

My mother pulled back, a look of deep shock on her face. “I’d never ask you to give up your music, Bobby. Or the stall. You love them both.” 

She tried to smile then but I knew from her face that it wasn’t going to end well.