A Visitor by Dave Rigby

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.