‘There was a bird flying around on your train with you?’, said his Uncle arching his eyebrows high in surprise.
‘Yeah,’ mumbled Danny, aware suddenly that admitting to being freaked out by a bird could make him sound even more childish than before, ‘A jackdaw or a crow or something.
‘A murder of crows’, muttered Uncle Charles unexpectedly under his breath.
‘A what?’, asked Danny, shocked by this unexpected phrase.
‘A Murder of crows; it’s the collective noun. You know, like a ‘school of fish’ or a ‘herd of elephants,’ said Uncle Charles, pleased to have engaged Danny’s attention. ‘It’s a bit fanciful isn’t it? But I used to do a bit of ornithology when I was younger. That’s bird watching. And that whole family of birds has odd names for their groups. There’s an Unkindness of ravens, a Story-telling of rooks. Not sure if there’s one for jackdaws, you don’t tend to get more than one of those at a time. Oh, and a Tiding of magpies. That’s rather appropriate really, isn’t it?’ and he began to sing to himself as they pulled up in front of a stone house set slightly back from the road by itself;
‘“Good tidings we bring,
for you and your kin,
we wish you a merry Christmas,
and a Happy New Year.”’
As he sang, Uncle Charles got out of the car, collected Danny’s bag from the back and headed for the house past the cheerfully hand-painted house sign on the garden wall saying ‘Pen an Norvys’. Danny followed him, but glanced back over his shoulder into the unaccustomed tree-filled darkness all around him and felt the same prickling on the back of his neck that he’d experienced in the train carriage. He quickened his step and fell gratefully into the glow of the electric light and warmth of the house that puddled out of the front door as it swung open in front of him.