Dear Olly Read Free

came home from work. “Haven’t they flown yet?” she asked from outside the garage. “They’d better hurry. They’ll need to be on their way south very soonnow. It’ll be October next week. You tell them. Then come in for your tea.”
    Olly stayed with them for a few moments more, willing them to fly, and then telling them to as well. “You’ve got a long way to go, d’you hear me? Africa. It’s thousands of miles away. That’s where Matt is. You can’t just sit there feeding. You’ve got to get going.”
    She left the fledglings gazing back at her, beady-eyed and blinking. She ran inside, downed her tea in a few gulps, picked up a sticky bun and a packet of crisps and was out again within minutes. Two of them had already flown and were now up on the garage roof, side by side and begging to be fed. She checked in the nest. The last one would fly at any moment. Determined not to miss the moment, she waited and watched. He was perched on the edge of the nest, hopping about, flapping his wings, but he wouldn’t take off, he wouldn’t fly. No matter how much Olly willed it, he just would not fly.
    Some time later, her mother called her in again, for supper. Olly protested, but it was no use. Her mother was adamant. She sat her down in the kitchenand made her eat a proper meal. When Olly ran back into the garage, a large black cat shot out right past her. She had left the ladder up. The nest had been completely destroyed and lay scattered on the ground. The last fledgling was nowhere to be seen. She found him, eventually, wings spread out and still as death, behind a watering can in the darkest corner of the garage. Olly gathered him into her hands and rushed indoors.
    The kitchen instantly became a casualty ward, her mother deft and calm as she examined him under the light. Olly stood by the sink, crying in her grief and remorse.
    “Well, his wings aren’t broken and there’s been very little bleeding,” said hermother after a moment or two. “I think he’s just stunned, traumatised. I’ll be honest with you though, Olly, his chances are still not very good. I’ll give him a few drops of glucose to get his strength back, and then all we can do is keep him warm somewhere, and just hope he’ll recover.”
    The glucose seemed to have no effect whatsoever. They laid him down in a cardboard box close to the stove, and Olly sat over him and watched him. Only his eyes moved. Sometimes, it appeared he was looking directly up at her, and their eyes would meet. Olly stayed with him all evening, sitting by the box, hoping, praying. She wanted to stay up all night, but her mother wouldn’t allow it.
    “Worrying over him won’t help, Olly. We’ve done all we can. You’ve got school tomorrow.” And she took her off to bed.
    Quite unable to sleep, Olly crept downstairs in the still of the night. The swallow had not moved. She reached in and stroked his head with the back of her finger. “Come on,” she whispered. “Live. Please live.” Her mother found her by the box an hour later, fast asleep, and led her up to bed where she slept heavily for the rest of the night.
    Olly was woken suddenly. “Olly! Olly! Come quickly!” Olly took the stairs in threes. Her mother was standing by the stove. She had the swallow in her hands, and she was laughing out loud. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she cried. “He’s just raring to fly. You can feel the strength in him. You know what we’ll do, Olly. We’ll put a ring on his leg before we let him go. It won’t take a second. It won’t hurt him. Then we’ll know him when he comesback next year, won’t we? Have a look in my bag of tricks. There’s a packet of rings in there I keep for the bird sanctuary. It’s in there somewhere, I know it is.”
    Olly rummaged in the bag and found what she was looking for. The ring was slipped on in a trice – a bright scarlet ring.
    The two fledglings were still perched on the garage roof, as Olly had hoped they would be, the