AT THE TOP OF THE HILL

We walked up the cycle path on our way to the allotment yesterday afternoon. One bike went past toward town fast then another but as it did so the rider said, ‘Alright?’ and I, recognising a red-faced McPool said, ‘Alright?’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Fancy seeing him on my way to the allotment,’ I said. ‘What are the chances of that?’
‘Who was that?’ she said.
‘He lives on my floor.’
‘In the corner?’
‘No, the other end.’
Things had grown some since last time at the allotment and I spent a while cutting grass between beds.
‘Here’s the cat,’ she said.
The cat hangs out at the allotments came towards where we worked then skipped past jumped into the long grass of the adjacent plot then out again and crouched over a black unmoving object.
It was a bird, a magpie, wasn’t moving, thought it was dead, wished I’d brought my camera to film it being eaten, but then it moved. I shooed the cat away, picked the magpie up. It sat in the palm of my hand, warm, heart beating, eyes blinking, no effort to escape.
‘I think it’s wing is broken,’ I said.
‘Put it this bag, here,’ she said and put some of the grass I’d cut in the bottom of a paper carrier, a soft bed.
The magpie stayed in the bag we pegged for its own protection.
Throughout the three hours of weeding, digging, and planting we checked it was okay but the last time, just before leaving, the magpie was dead. Although its eyes were open and still slightly shiny, its body was cold.
‘I need to bury it,’ I said. ‘Keep the cat from getting it.’
‘Somewhere we’ve not dug over or planted,’ she said.
I wrapped the magpie in a paper shroud, buried it under a concrete slab beneath the elder near the shed at the top of the hill.