The
end of September. My birthday in a week.
The
sun’s shining through the window. It’s Saturday morning and no school. I dress
quickly. My vest, shirt and jumper are all still slotted inside each other from
last night, so it makes things even quicker. A brief stop in the bathroom and
down for breakfast.
Mum
and Dad are already in the kitchen and there are fry-ups on the go. As usual my
brother’s nowhere to be seen. Two eggs, two rashers, sausage and beans followed
by tea and toast.
Dad’s
on the phone to the chimney sweep, fixing for him to come next week. The sweep’s
a small man with a big moustache and a bald head, although he wears a cap
nearly all the time. He must wash but maybe it’s difficult for him to get the
soot out of his skin. He works slowly. He told me last year he likes to do
everything by the book. I don’t suppose I’ll see him this year. No school holidays
next week.
As I
clear the table, I hear this strange noise coming from the chimney, a bit like
a chicken, except it can’t be. The noise gets louder and louder, a squawking
sound. Something is coming down the chimney! Luckily we don’t light the fire
until October. There’s a screen in front of the grate. It’s got a woodland
scene on it, a big stag with antlers. It’s not really like any wood around
here. The squawking noise is replaced by a flapping noise. When I move the
screen this bird is staring at me. It’s black but I can’t tell whether it
really is or whether it’s just the soot. There are twigs and bits of grass – black
not green – in the hearth.
Suddenly
the bird takes off and launches itself at the kitchen window. It hits the glass
and falls onto the sofa beneath. I think it’s stunned at first, but then it
begins to move again, doing little flaps with its wings, along the sofa, a jump
onto the dresser and back to the sofa.
I
don’t know where Mum and Dad have got to. I creep out of the room, close the
door and shout for them. I have to explain what’s happened. Dad says the bird
must have been listening to his phone call to the sweep. He tells me he has a
plan to catch the bird and goes upstairs. I decide to stay out of the kitchen
until he comes back.
I
assume the man coming down the stairs is my dad. He’s wearing a boiler suit.
It’s got oil stains on it from when he services the old Volvo and smears of
green paint from when he decorated the utility room. He’s got a beret on his
head. I’ve not seen this before. I didn’t even know he had one. But best of all
is the ski goggles he’s wearing. He only ever went once, with a friend of his.
He told us he spent all week falling over and never went again. He puts on his
boots and then looks in the hall cupboard for his motorbike gloves – gauntlets
he calls them. Mum is hooting with laughter and tells him to stand still while
she takes a photo. I stand next to him, grinning like a Cheshire cat as Mum
would say.
Dad
says it’s time for action and goes into the kitchen. He’s just about to close
the door behind him when I ask him if I can come in. I don’t want to miss the
action. I stand in the corner by the standard lamp.
Dad
starts talking to the bird, calls it Chief for some reason. He’s talking to it
like it’s a person. Chief puts his head to one side, as if he’s taking it all
in. There are black bird-foot marks all over the sofa and something else that
must be bird poo. It’s kind of soothing what Dad is saying, something about the
weather being nice outside, too good to be stuck indoors and sorry about the
nest collapsing. He’s good at this. Maybe he’s done it before.
He
gradually creeps forward nearer and nearer to Chief, talking all the time,
until he’s within reach. The bird doesn’t move an inch, just sits there with
his green eyes looking at Dad. The gauntlets close around him and he’s carried
out to the back door. Dad signals to me to open it, as he’s got his hands full.
Out in the yard he lets go and Chief soars up to the beech trees beyond the
garden.
Add more flour for a sticky,
ready for the fire.
