Pets on Parade (Prospect House 2) (31 page)

‘So how long ago was that?’ asked Beryl, who had by now finished her baguette, and was surreptitiously glancing at her watch as she spoke.

‘Oh, must be the best part of 20 years,’ I replied, popping the last of mine into my mouth.

‘Long time ago,’ murmured Beryl, distractedly, fiddling with her watch, and glancing round her.

It was indeed. And it was quite a while before Polly and I became friends. For several months, Polly remained a frightened, nervous youngster. But her pale-grey eyes soon matured to a golden yellow. Her broken quills moulted out one by one and strong new flights burst through her wings. Tiny, soft-grey feathers edged with white appeared over the sleek contours of her body and hid the scars of her capture round her neck; and her tail, a moth-eaten collection of six red feathers, erupted in a blaze of vermillion.

‘Sounds as if she turned out to be a smart-looking parrot,’ said Beryl, a little distractedly, looking down the path over my shoulder, adding in an excited gush, ‘Why, look, there’s Mr Entwhistle and Bess.’

I swivelled round on the bench to see Ernie hurrying towards us, his young Border collie trotting obediently by his side. As he drew level with us, he stopped and gave a little bow. ‘Sorry I’m a little late,’ he said, gazing fondly at Beryl before courteously turning to say, ‘Good afternoon, Mr Mitchell,’ with another polite nod of his head.

Ah, I thought. So much for Beryl’s suggestion of having a tête-à-tête with me on the Green. There’d been an ulterior motive. I saw her blush as she got to her feet and exclaim that it was not a problem as Paul here had been entertaining her with reminiscences of his parrot.

‘You will excuse us then,’ she added, linking arms with Mr Entwhistle, who smiled at me, his blue eyes twinkling as he escorted her across the Green to pause before they crossed the road and headed into the rhododendron tunnel. That tunnel of love. Hmm. What next, I wondered? What next?

I settled back on the bench, my mood mellowed by the warmth of the sun on my face. There was still 20 minutes before I had to get back. Time enough for further memories to surface. And they did.

It was a long time before Polly could be coaxed out of her cage. ‘Come on Polly,’ I’d whisper, placing a piece of ripe banana just outside the open door. But she wasn’t tempted. Father tried a more bravado approach and manoeuvred his hand into the cage in the rather optimistic hope that Polly might genteelly hop onto his finger. She did hop on, but only as a means to lash out and give him a savage bite. I didn’t need convincing of the power in Polly’s beak as I’d seen her splinter a block of teak as if it were a matchbox. Yet those black bone-crushers could perform acts of extreme delicacy – such as when she tackled a peanut still in its shell. She’d hold it horizontally and crack it open to display the row of nuts inside. She would then select one, carefully lifting it out, and balance it between the points of her beak and proceed to peel off the skin while rolling it around with her tongue. Fascinating to watch.

I continued to live in fear of Polly’s beak until the day I smashed my aquarium. I was staggering through the lounge, the aquarium clutched between my arms, with the intention of changing the water in the kitchen. But as I swung round the lounge door, I caught the front panel of the aquarium on the door’s handle. The glass cracked and exploded outwards. The contents – my snails, beetles and fish, lovingly collected from the local reservoir – cascaded onto the floor.

Howling with all the force an eight-year-old can muster, I ran out onto the veranda and stood sobbing in front of Polly’s cage. She side-stepped across her perch and tucked her head down against the bars as if wanting me to scratch her head. Without thinking, too occupied with the loss of my underwater world, I stuck my fingers between the bars. Her head whipped up. Her beak caught my finger. But instead of biting it, she gave it a gentle kiss, her tongue running lightly up and down its tip. Then, she too burst out crying. From that moment on we were firm friends.

I felt my eyes prick with tears as I recalled the memory. Or maybe it was just the brightness of the June sun making my eyes water. Whatever, I jolted awake – had I really been dozing like one of Westcott’s retirees? – saw that afternoon surgery was due to start soon and so shunted the memories to the back of my mind.

But they returned that evening, encouraged by my neighbour, Eleanor Venables, who had been privy to the terminal throes of my relationship with Lucy, on account of the thinness of the dividing walls, allowing her to hear every word of our many altercations. As a consequence, feeling sorry for my now solitary existence, she had invited me round for supper. I took some wine, which I, in part, blamed for the resurfacing of those memories. But then Eleanor did have a certain empathy with birds, as evidenced by the dealings the two of us had had with that cockatiel earlier in the year; and the fact that her son was a parrot fanatic, with four of his own.

‘So tell me, Paul,’ she asked, spooning out a second portion of sticky toffee pudding for me, ‘was your Polly a good talker?’

I winced at the use of the past tense. Was? It brought me up sharp. Tomorrow I’d find out whether the use of that tense
was
appropriate. But up till now, Polly had been a wonderful mimic and also displayed intelligence in the choice of words she used. The range of her repertoire was astonishing. Having mastered ‘Good morning’, it was subsequently embellished with army slang so that at dawn we were woken, bleary-eyed, with a ‘Wakey, wakey … rise and shine, you shower …’ The Colonel’s wife was amused when, on an occasion she was invited for tea, she swirled across to Polly’s cage to be greeted with a ‘Hello’ in my mother’s voice. ‘Oh, what a charming bird,’ remarked the Colonel’s wife. Polly studied her intently, head cocked to one side, and then, in a very loud voice, still that of my mother, said, ‘You’ve got droopy drawers.’ The Colonel’s wife’s face went bright red. As did my mother’s. There were no further invites for tea.

When I reached the age of 11, I had to return to the UK for schooling, although the holidays meant a welcome return to Nigeria and a reunion with my parrot. ‘Watch’er, mate,’ she’d say as if I’d only been gone a day instead of three months. Partings, though, were a wrench. Her cheery ‘Bye-byes’ would echo in my ears long after I’d boarded the plane back to London.

Then, all of a sudden, it seemed my father’s contract was over and my parents were coming home for good. And so was Polly. They flew home; Polly went by sea as part of her quarantine and, in doing so, she picked up a few choice swear words and a ‘Hello, sailor’ in a Liverpool accent.

She was installed in the kitchen of our new home in Bournemouth and absorbed the sounds therein, only to throw them back at us magnified and distorted. Cutlery crashed into the drawer like scaffolding collapsing; filling the kettle was like Niagara Falls; melodies were snatched from the radio appallingly out of key. Her back-door bell imitation even had the effect of galvanising the Maltese we’d acquired to go rushing into the kitchen, barking at invisible visitors; this evoked a ‘Go in your box, Yambo’ from Polly, and when the little dog meekly obeyed, she followed it up with a ‘Sit, Yambo’ … which he promptly did. He never learnt.

In the drive down to Bournemouth that Saturday morning, Jodie also seemed keen to hear about Polly, and I had no hesitation in complying; in particular, a tale which demonstrated Polly’s intelligence.

As a titbit, Polly loved having a piece of buttered toast each morning and would say – very sweetly and in my tone of voice – ‘Chop’, that being the African word for ‘food’. In time, she observed the sequences involved in producing the toast and, eventually, it reached the stage when, as soon as you opened the bread bin, she’d start to waddle up and down her perch saying ‘Chop’ in expectation of the titbit to come.

One morning, I decided to tease her. Having made and buttered my toast, I sat down with my back to Polly’s cage and started to eat it, ignoring her repeated calls of ‘Chop’ made in my voice. Suddenly, the demands for her titbit stopped while I continued crunching and chewing. The demands then restarted, only this time they were very emphatic, stern and made in my father’s tone of voice: ‘Chop! Chop! Chop!’ Clearly Polly was getting impatient. Yet I continued to ignore her. There was another pause, then Polly shouted out, again in my father’s voice, a very angry, ‘What’s the ruddy matter with you?’

Jodie laughed out loud. ‘Paul, that’s amazing. I can see why she’s so precious to you all,’ adding in a gentler voice, ‘and I realise how worried you must be.’ She reached across the car and stroked my knee, giving it a gentle squeeze. Ooooh … eyes on the road, Paul!

My concerns for Polly overshadowed any embarrassment I might have felt about turning up at my parents’ place with a girlfriend in tow. Likewise, it was the same for Mum and Dad when they were introduced to Jodie.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Mum, shaking hands as the two of us crowded into the narrow hallway, her welcoming smile belying the tiredness in her blue eyes, the shadows beneath them. But, as always, she was immaculately turned out: hair permed, a soft blue; smart, dark-blue ‘slacks’ – as she always called trousers; and over them, not tucked in, a cream blouse, frilled at cuffs and neck, with dainty
blue-and-red
flowers embroidered round its lower edge.

As we proceeded down the hall, Dad shuffled out of the lounge, in his usual baggy, brown cords and fawn cardigan. He murmured, ‘Hello, Paul … thanks for coming,’ before acknowledging Jodie with a wan smile and weak handshake. He looked older than when I had seen him last – which must only have been a couple of months back. Yet his face had hollowed, his cheeks drawn in, the thin straggle of grey across the top of his head making him appear all the more gaunt. He ushered us into the kitchen, repeating what Mum had told me about Polly over the phone.

The reason for their concern was all too obvious. Polly was huddled low down over one end of her perch, next to her feed and water hoppers, both of which were full and looked untouched. Her wings were dropped and her feathers ruffled, standing out like a misshapen feather duster. Her head was partially tucked under her right wing, her eyes closed. Angled round in that manner, her neck was curved, stretched, exposing the left side in which, despite the feathering, a raised, pink lump could be seen poking through – the cancer. I wasn’t going to say it must have been there for some time – that would only have added to my parents’ anxiety – but no doubt it had been, it was just that the feathers would have obscured it in the early stages of its growth. But now it was big enough to be seen, and big enough to press on her windpipe and oesophagus and cause difficulties in breathing and swallowing.

I moved quietly up to her cage. ‘Hello, Polly,’ I whispered, hoping for a response. Polly did manage to pull her head from under her wing, blink and look at me; but then almost immediately tucked her beak back under again. It was heart-wrenching to see how poorly she looked and I had to fight hard against the bubble of anger I felt welling up that Mum and Dad hadn’t called me in earlier. Although, in fairness to them, they had sought advice, but maybe even that had been too late in the day. Stop it, Paul, I reprimanded myself. No time for recriminations now; just let’s see what can be done to save Polly.

I wasn’t sure anything could be done. But no way could I let things be and see 20 years of friendship, with its provision of such marvellous entertainment, just slip away in an agonising and slow death.

‘We’ll set things up on the kitchen table here in case I operate once we’ve caught her up,’ I said, a decision at last made. I didn’t want to put Polly through the trauma of being caught up more than once – assuming that she had sufficient strength left in her to survive being handled in the first place. Jodie fetched my black bag and sterile op packs from my car while Mum cleared the kitchen table – blue Formica – the same table at which I’d teased Polly with the piece of toast many years back. With that memory, my eyes started to itch, my throat felt dry, as I fearfully contemplated what lay ahead and the most likely outcome – an echo of Ollie.

Dad led Mum quietly out of the kitchen, Mum with her arms folded, her hands at her elbows, clutching and unclutching them, while Jodie and I set to work preparing for a possible operation, laying drapes over the table, sliding the instruments and swabs onto them and drawing up the estimated dose of ketamine required to anaesthetise Polly. I worried that I’d miscalculate as I felt I may have done with Ollie. But it was a risk I’d have to take. I was aware my self-confidence was draining away. It was the firm grip of Jodie’s hand on my arm, the look she gave me, and the words ‘If anyone can save her, you can …’ that helped me to rally.

It was an easy task to extract Polly from the confines of the cage, wrapped in the towel Mum provided. She didn’t struggle, not once. Lifting her up, I found she was as light as a feather, almost emaciated. She did squawk, though. A series of piercing, frightened shrieks which tore through me as I pulled one of her legs clear of the towel and injected the anaesthetic into her thigh.

‘I’m sorry, Polly,’ I wept, ‘but it’s got to be done.’

Her shrieks died away as, within minutes, she slipped into unconsciousness. I laid her out, on her back, on the table and Jodie taped down her outstretched wings as instructed. I then set to work plucking the feathers from Polly’s neck to expose the tumour. I disinfected the area and covered it with a green drape that had a hole in its centre to allow me to tackle the growth’s removal. It was large, a misshapen raspberry of tissue pressing on her windpipe; and it looked angry and swollen, tiny blood vessels pumping round its perimeter as I dissected it away from the incision I’d made in her skin. But it shelled out easier than I’d expected, with no damage to the underlying bed of nerves and blood vessels glistening beneath. Carefully, I sewed her neck up and she was placed on a wodge of cotton wool in the bottom of her cage to recover. Anxiously, we sat round, Mum and Dad joining us, cups of tea made and sipped while we waited.

As the anaesthetic wore off, Polly rolled onto her side, legs kicking out, until they made contact with the side of the cage, whereupon she clung to the bars, pulling herself over so as to be able to grip one of them with her beak. Then slowly … oh, so slowly that it was painful to watch, she hauled herself up the bars, twice dropping back down until, on the third attempt, she reached the perch and levered herself onto it, where she swayed backwards and forwards but managed to stay on.