Spitting Feathers. Kelly Harte
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‘I understand that you’re going away for a couple of months,’ I said, deciding to cut to the chase, ‘and that you need someone to look after your parrot.’
‘He’s not a mere parrot,’ Mrs Audesley responded severely. ‘He’s an African Grey. A Congo African Grey, to be precise, and he is very choosy about the company he keeps.’
She gave me a quick up and down again, and I got the distinct impression she didn’t hold out very much hope for me.
‘He’s already turned down several applicants, and if we don’t find somebody soon I may have to cancel my trip.’ She told me that she’d been invited to spend some time with her son and his family in Portugal, and would have taken Sir Galahad—the name of the Congo African Grey—but he’d never been a very good traveller. I got the feeling that she didn’t much care if the trip did have to be cancelled, and that there was an element of simply going through the motions so that she could truthfully tell her son that no suitable parrot-sitter could be found.
We discussed my current situation, which seemed to satisfy her. She didn’t want anyone with regular working hours. It was important, she said, that Sir Galahad wasn’t left alone for more than an hour at a time.
‘My gardener lives in the basement, and he has agreed to step in where possible during absences beyond an hour, but he is often away himself, so close consultation with him will be a necessary part of the sitter’s responsibilities.’
I had no complaints about that, so I showed her copies of my references—from the bank in Manchester and two previous landlords—and she seemed happy enough with them—subject to confirmation by telephone.
‘And when do I get to meet Sir…er…um…Galahad?’ I eventually asked. May as well get it over and done with, I thought, because, despite her tentative approval of my situation, Mrs Audesley had made it perfectly clear that the real test was still to come.
‘He’s waiting for you in the adjoining room,’ the woman said, and it seemed to me that there was a sinister edge to her tone, as if she was getting some morbid pleasure from what was about to take place.
I stood up and, frowning now, made my way towards the door that she indicated by a queenly nod of her head.
‘I’ll leave you alone together for five minutes,’ she said, ‘and we’ll see how the two of you get along.’
One of the joys of ignorance is that you don’t have any preconceived ideas, and I had none whatsoever about African Greys, Congo or otherwise. I was a bit apprehensive, certainly. If it was true that the parrot had already rejected several would-be sitters, then there was a very good chance that he wouldn’t like me either. But I hadn’t lost hope entirely yet, and, most importantly, I didn’t at that stage have any idea what these particular birds are capable of if they take a serious dislike to someone. Had I done so I would probably never have set foot in the same room as him.
I closed the door behind me, because if I was going to make a fool of myself I preferred not to be overheard doing it. I entered what appeared to be some sort of anteroom—not large, like the one I’d just left, but huge by the standards of Sophie’s Shoreditch flat. It was tastefully furnished, with a couple of squashy armchairs and its own blocked-off white marble fireplace, but apart from a couple of landscapes on the walls it was void of any kind of ornamentation. The cage was enormous and hung from a solid-looking brass stand in the far corner of the room. And Sir Galahad was perched on the top of it with his back to me.
I walked up to him slowly and quietly, instinctively aware that this was not the time for my usual slightly-too-loud and sometimes over-the-top friendly approach. I stood watching his back for some time. He wasn’t the most beautiful bird I’d ever seen, but he was certainly handsome, with his dark grey feathers and red-tipped tail.
‘How do, Sirg?’ I eventually said. I couldn’t quite bring myself to use his name in full, because it sounded so daft, and when he manoeuvred his stringy feet around on the bars of the cage to face me I thought I detected a look of puzzlement in his dark eyes. They were surrounded by a circle of white naked skin that I found slightly revolting, but I did my level best not to show it.
He stared back at me hard for some time, and then shuffled a little closer. I lifted my hand to him tentatively and he took one of my fingers gently in his black beak. Or at least it seemed gentle enough until I tried removing it, at which point it turned into a vice-like grip. And as he hung on his eyes never left mine. This lasted for at least a minute, when I decided on two possible options.
One: panic and call for Mrs Audesley.
Or two: show the little varmint just who was the boss.
And, since Option One would guarantee failure, I stared back at him hard, giving him my best evil eye, and then in a low and harsh voice said, ‘Let go of my fricking finger…’
Like Ali Baba and his cave, the bird’s beak sprang open immediately and his head jerked back in surprise. He twisted it away from me sulkily and then slowly turned it back again, and although I must have been imagining it, I could have sworn that he actually winked at me.
Then he waddled to the edge of the cage, hopped onto my shoulder and proceeded to nibble my ear for a moment or two. When I was happy it wasn’t some sneaky trick before taking a piece out of my lobe, I reached up and scratched the feathers on his throat, and he responded by doing a very good impersonation of a vacuum cleaner.
By this time, my five minutes must have been up, because Mrs Audesley entered the room. She seemed rather shocked by the scene of her precious African Grey whispering his version of sweet nothings into my ear, and for a moment, her mouth very slightly agape, she couldn’t say anything.
‘Do I pass the test?’ I wanted to know, and she and the African Grey nodded their heads in unison.
2
The two Cs—Miss Cordial and Miss Congenial—were in the flat by the time I got back to Shoreditch. They were a couple of Home Counties fee-paying-girls-only-school types, who thought it was ‘a lark’ to live in a part of the city famed for its artists, Asian restaurants, and Jack the Ripper—although strictly speaking the fame of the latter is mostly associated with neighbouring Whitechapel. At least that was what they said, but my guess is that they’d far sooner have been within strolling distance of a branch of Waitrose and an exclusive little frock shop if their Daddies’ allowances had only run to it. They were budding would-be It Girls who worked in advertising and marketing respectively, read Tatler avidly, and who both had ambitions of marrying some wealthy, possibly polo-playing chinless wonder who would take them away from the stresses and strains of earning their own living.
Apart from their usual conspicuous consumption, their favourite occupation was making fun of my northern accent. Sophie, my fellow Mancunian, had been in London long enough to soften the edges of hers slightly. Besides which she is very good-looking, wears a thirty-four Double-D cup bra, and has a habit of dating the sort of men the two Cs could only dream about. Which had earned her a certain amount of grudging respect.
How she came to be sharing a flat with two such unlikely females was down to an overheard conversation between what had then been a couple of strangers. In a pub not far from where she worked, Sophie had listened to Jemima and Fiona—as they are known to each other—cattily discussing the recent departure of their former flat-sharer. She’d been swept off her kitten-heel-shod feet by a Brazilian backpacker, apparently, who’d whisked her off to Buenos Aires, and Sophie, desperate for accommodation and never one to miss an opportunity, stepped into the breach.
She told me she could put up with them because the flat was not only handy for work it was also surprisingly comfortable. It was a council flat, as a matter of fact, sublet by the official tenant—which was strictly against the council rules but, since the rent was cheap by London standards, the Cs hadn’t asked any awkward questions when they took over the place. It was a scam, basically, but as I’d seen their landlord—a big burly bloke with a tattoo of a spider’s web on his cheek and a serious attitude—I didn’t blame Sophie for not asking questions either.