Pets in a Pickle (27 page)

‘And one of them is a bit bald.’

‘Bald? How bald?’

How could I describe Liza’s condition other than as oven-ready? There was no way I could cover it – or her – up.

So Major went and Liza stayed. She seemed delighted at the arrangement; after all, she now had our undivided attention once more, and she could tweak out any new feathers which tried to grow through to her heart’s content, without interruption. We gave up hope of ever getting her to stop.

I wasn’t too sure when the idea of the party was first mooted. It was a bit like a sea of whispers. I overheard Mandy and Lucy discussing something down in the ward but they abruptly stopped conferring as soon as I walked in. Both looked guilty, so I knew something was afoot. But at least they were now talking to each other. It was as if the incident with the little tortoiseshell cat had been a watershed. Since then, Lucy had been in a much better frame of mind, helped by a more co-operative Mandy who now tended to share her responsibilities with Lucy rather than treat her as the general dogsbody. She even permitted Lucy to take charge of the anaesthetic machine during a few routine operations – closely supervised, of course. But, nevertheless, it proved there had been a significant shift in their relationship as the anaesthetic machine was usually jealously guarded by Mandy – very much her baby, and not to be tampered with.

It was Beryl who let it slip. She had just finished smoking her coffee-break cigarette, having battled to puff the smoke out through a half-open back door while struggling with the door to stop the wind blowing it back in. Someone needed to tell her that her raven hair, normally heavily lacquered to her head, had sprouted wings and looked as if it was about to take off. But not me. No way.

‘I don’t know what to wear,’ she suddenly said, giving me the eye as if I was about to inspire her. ‘Fancy dress parties aren’t my sort of thing.’

‘Party? What’s this about a party?

‘You don’t know?’ She saw my quizzical look. ‘No, you don’t, obviously. You’d better ask Lucy.’ With that she quickly shimmied back up to reception.

‘It’s Mandy’s idea,’ said Lucy when I eventually tracked her down in the dispensary making up a prescription – another job that Mandy now let her do unsupervised. ‘She fancies having a bit of a knees-up.’

I shrugged. ‘But where’s she going to have it? I hardly think Crystal and Eric would let her hold a party up in the flat. It would disturb all the in-patients. Let alone the neighbours.’

A block of flats had been built in the grounds sold off from Prospect House. People were forever complaining about the noise of dogs and cats. But, as Crystal said, we were there first. When the people bought those flats they knew exactly what they were letting themselves in for. Nevertheless, Crystal did her best to keep things on an even keel; a party in the flat would be rocking the boat too much.

‘The flat’s too small anyway,’ said Lucy.

‘Exactly.’

I saw her looking at me in a funny way. I knew Lucy well enough by now to know that look. It didn’t bode well. A niggle of worry began to worm through me.

‘Lucy … you’re not suggesting …’

‘Well, Willow Wren would be perfect. It’s certainly big enough.’

‘Crystal wouldn’t allow it.’ I saw that look flash back into her eyes. ‘Lucy! You haven’t …’

‘She said it was fine by her but to ask you. She and Eric are looking forward to coming.’

Hmm. Seems it was a done deal. I could hardly turn round and veto it without appearing to be a complete party pooper.

‘And what’s this about it being fancy dress?’

‘Mandy’s idea … thought fancy dress would be a bit of fun. What were you wearing when the ship went down?’

It was enough to make my heart sink, let alone a ship. I had visions of Willow Wren ending up a wreck.

In the event, it all went quite smoothly, and most people made an effort to dress up. With her wings of black hair, I thought Beryl could have come as a crow’s nest. But she turned up in her standard black trousers and top purporting to be the ship’s cat. With her long, claw-like nails and whiskery face she quite looked the part. Eric came as a stoker; he wore a dirty vest hanging out of grubby trousers, his face smeared with coal dust.

‘Doesn’t look much different to normal,’ Beryl whispered to me, hand cupped to the side of her mouth. Catty, very catty … she was playing her part well.

Crystal cruised through the crowd, very debonair as the ship’s captain in crisp, white uniform and gold braid on those lovely shaped shoulders of hers. She could grab my bulwarks any time.

Lucy ummed and aaahed for days beforehand, wondering what to wear. In the end, she decided on a long, white nightgown and powdered her face and arms with flour.

‘What are you supposed to be?’ I queried unwisely as she thumped down the stairs, resembling a rolled-out slab of pastry.

‘A ship’s ghost, of course.’

She was thoroughly miffed when Mandy materialised in similar mode though, with her dumpy figure and naturally pallid complexion, Mandy looked the more frightful of the two.

And me? Well, I plumped for Long John Silver. I had some baggy breeches, a large buckled belt, a black, leather waistcoat and eye-patch. I stopped short of doing the one-legged bit in case I got legless.

‘What about having Liza on your shoulder?’ joked Lucy. ‘I know she’s not an Amazon Green but she’d do.’

The idea didn’t appeal; I had visions of Liza being frightened by the crowd and flying around, panic stricken, landing, claws outstretched, in someone’s hair, à la Mrs Smethurst. Instead, I visited the theatrical outfitters in Westcott.

‘I’m afraid the best parrots are doing the rounds in rehearsals for
Treasure Island
,’ apologised the assistant. ‘This is all we have left.’

I viewed the two stuffed birds on offer. The African Grey shed a cloud of feathers as soon as I picked it up. Not a pretty polly.

‘How about the Amazon Green, then?’ said the assistant, holding up the other bird.

By the looks of it, the parrot hadn’t stood up too well to the ravages of countless pantomimes. Its emerald plumage was dull and dusty with a crumpled appearance accentuated by a wodge of flock sticking out between its legs and an eye dangling by a thread. But better the bird in hand than the one on the counter, so I hired it.

With the party in full swing, I paraded around with the Amazon Green wired to the shoulder of my jacket. Liza squawked with jealousy when she saw it but was soon overwhelmed by the attention given her by the partygoers. She was inundated with titbits. The following morning, I was to discover her cage floor littered with crisps, cocktail sticks with bits of pineapple still skewered to them, Twiglets, sausage rolls and, smeared to the bars, dollops of pâté.

Mandy floated over to me, merry on vodka and lime. ‘Who’s a pretty boy?’ she said, her unfocussed eyes staring up. Now was she referring to me or the parrot on my shoulder? I assumed me, as I didn’t have an eye dangling out of its socket on a thin twist of wire. But it was to the bird she was giving the eye – her eye – as in the next second she reached up and yanked a bunch of feathers out of its tail.

‘Mandy, what on earth …’

But she’d gone, vanished in a swirl of sheets, the feathers doing likewise as they floated to the floor. Cursing, I craned my neck round to peer at the mutilated parrot only to discover someone had smeared cottage cheese down my jacket in imitation of bird droppings.

Then Liza was let out. The first I knew of it was when she landed on my shoulder with a friendly squawk, bobbed her tail and produced her own version of cottage cheese down my back.

Mandy hovered into view again, even more high spirited. ‘Wooo … wooo …’ she said, raising her hands in the air, fingers fluttering. ‘I’m a ship’s ghost. Wooo …wooo …’ She moved closer. ‘Wooo … wooo …’ If she was trying to scare me, it didn’t work. But it certainly frightened Liza. With a shrill screech, she lashed out at the fluttering fingers.

‘Wooo … ouch … you little sod.’ The fingers were snatched away, one dripping blood.

The next morning, with hammers in my head, I surveyed the mortal remains of the Amazon Green. It was tail-less, exposing a strand of rusty wire; the dangling eye had been lost, revealing a white socket; the other eye was now loose and hanging out at an odd angle as if the bird was trying to study its toes; and its lower mandible had become dislocated and so twisted that the parrot appeared to be sneering at me. Worse still, more stuffing had worked loose so that the bird looked as if it were trying to give birth to an eiderdown.

‘I can’t possibly take it back in this state,’ I moaned.

‘Well, you’re a vet. Stitch it up,’ said Lucy, less than sympathetic.

I took the parrot into work and attempted to operate on it, suturing with some nylon, but my trembling hands weren’t up to it. The more I bundled the stuffing back and stitched across it, the more distorted the bird became. Its head swelled up and curled over like a dying duck while its back developed a hump worthy of Notre Dame’s bell ringer. All resemblance to a parrot was lost.

Back home, I phoned the theatrical outfitters and explained the situation. The assistant was most sympathetic.

‘It was on its last legs anyway,’ he said. ‘So I doubt if it would have survived another panto season.’ He must have heard Liza squawking in the background as he suddenly added, ‘Have you got a live one there?’

‘Yes. A cockatoo.’

‘Well, let us know if she ever snuffs it. We’ll pay a good price.’

I didn’t elaborate on Liza’s condition; she’d never make a mounted specimen. But at least from that moment on, whenever her squawking provoked me to yell at her, it gave new meaning to the phrase ‘Get stuffed’, since I now knew where it could be done.

‘So what are you going to do with it?’ asked Lucy, looking at the disfigured Amazon Green. ‘Throw it away?’

That had been my intention.

‘Why not let Liza have it?’ she continued. ‘After all, it can’t do her any harm. It’s not as if it can peck her back.’

Liza stared suspiciously as the Amazon Green, wired to a broom handle, was propped up against her cage. But friendly as ever, she waddled up to the bars, raised her one remaining crest feather, and gave a little cluck. The lack of response clearly puzzled her. She gave another cluck – this time it was a little more strident. Still no reaction. Cautiously, she pushed her beak between the bars and tweaked one of its feathers. The parrot rocked on his handle. Liza scuttled back down her perch.

As the parrot slowly came to a halt, Liza advanced again, clearly fascinated despite the creature’s very un-parrot-like shape. She cooed and clucked at it; she snuggled up against the bars; she reached through and nibbled another of its feathers. Then, with a frustrated screech, she yanked. Her head bobbed up, the feather dangling from her beak. She snatched it into her claws, stared down at it with one coal-black eye, ran her tongue over it, and then proceeded to mash it into a pulp before dropping it to the floor. Then, with scarcely a pause, she stretched through the bars and tweaked out another one.

Liza now had a friend unable to stop her advances. She spent hours preening it, gradually stripping it of its plumage while, untouched, hers began to grow through.

However, much to our disappointment, she still demanded attention from us. So the screeching never stopped. It began to wear us down.

I took to walking round with wax plugs wedged in my ears. Lucy wore ear muffs. But when Joan popped round and I couldn’t understand a word she was saying, I realised something more constructive had to be done.

I tried the garden centre again but their aviary was now full. The theatrical outfitters began to feature more and more in my thoughts. Liza, resplendent now in her new white plumage, would be a taxidermist’s delight.

‘Don’t be so cruel,’ reprimanded Lucy. ‘Liza just needs human company all the time … someone who’s potty about birds.’

‘And deaf,’ I shouted.

‘Try asking Beryl,’ mouthed Lucy, ramming her ear muffs back down again as Liza started to join in the conversation.

‘Let me think,’ said Beryl when I broached the subject with her over a cigarette at the back door. ‘There’s the vicar over at Chawcombe – Charles Venables.’

‘Not the one whose dog I gave first prize to at the fête?’

‘Reverend Charles, yes. The Venables are potty about parrots. They’ve got four of their own. Surprised they haven’t been in to see you yet.’

I wasn’t. Not after that débâcle last August.

‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ queried Lucy when I told her of the Venables’ love of parrots.

‘It doesn’t seem fair to burden someone else with Liza’s screeching.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t be so soft. You say they’ve got four parrots already, so I doubt if an extra squawk here or there will make any difference. Go on, give them a ring.’

‘But really, I’d hate any comebacks.’

‘Ring them.’

It was Liza who jolted me into action. She decided we’d done enough squawking of our own and joined in. It was a particularly piercing screech. How such little vocal cords could produce that intensity of noise I couldn’t imagine. She must have puffed up her little lungs to their maximum capacity and let rip with all the power she could muster since the sound that vibrated through her larynx was like an express train’s whistle as it thundered out of a tunnel. I flinched, despite my ear plugs.