Battle Fleet (2007) by Paul Dowswell Page B

doesn’t know,’ I said.
    I heard a voice behind me. ‘Well here he is at last. What a handsome creature! Show them in, Aldcroft,’ he said to the footman. ‘These tars can tell me all about him.’ It was Lord Montague himself, returning from an afternoon stroll. He had spotted that we were sailors before he had even set eyes on our faces.
    We entered the grand hall and were told to sit with Sydney on a plush red sofa close to the foot of a great winding staircase. I undid his tether and had him perch on my arm. Lady Montague was summoned and came at once to admire their new pet.
    Lord Montague was cordial, considering our different stations in life. ‘Had a letter from Governor King over the summer, telling me to expect a delivery. Were you incharge of the bird during the voyage?
    ‘Capital, capital,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Tell me all about him. What does he eat? What does he like to do? Can he talk? I’ve heard these birds are marvellous conversationalists.’
    I started to tell him, and the more I talked, the sadder I felt. I hadn’t realised how fond I had become of Sydney.
    ‘You have to be very careful with him, especially to begin with,’ I concluded. ‘He’s shy with strangers, but he’s affectionate with people who treat him well.’
    As I talked, I stroked the top of Sydney’s head. Lord Montague leaned over to him and said, ‘So, I’ll bet you’re missing the sunshine in New South Wales?’
    ‘He doesn’t actually
make
conversation, sir,’ I said cheekily. I was feeling light-hearted and this was certainly one occasion when I could make fun of a toff and not face a flogging.
    Montague’s manner changed in an instant. ‘I’m not an imbecile, lad.’ Then he softened. He sat next to me on the sofa and beckoned me to hand over the bird. Sydney hopped obligingly from my arm to his.
    He put out a hand to stroke Sydney’s head. ‘Don’t peck him, please don’t peck him,’ I thought.
    Emboldened, Montague leaned closer and cooed, ‘You are a pretty bird.’ At once the cockatoo nipped him on the nose and soiled his trousers. Montague yelled andrecoiled in disgust, frightening Sydney even more. He flew up the grand staircase and settled on the topmost banister.
    It was time to leave. As we were shooed out of the door, I heard Montague say to his wife, ‘I wonder what that thing tastes like? Chicken, d’you think? Or maybe pheasant?’
    ‘Don’t you dare,’ was the last I heard of that conversation. I hoped Sydney didn’t start chirping out his old war cry ‘Show us yer arse’, at least not until the family had got to know him better.
    We spent the rest of the day looking at notices in shop windows for lodgings and found a room in a boarding house close to Covent Garden and the Strand. It was small and expensive, being so close to the middle of things, but clean enough. ‘It’ll do for a couple of days,’ Richard said.
    When we’d settled in we wrote our letters. I told my mother and father I had returned safely to England, where I was living, and that I would visit Norfolk soon, but I didn’t say when. I loved my family but our village of Wroxham offered the greatest reason for a boy to go to sea. Life there revolved with the same steady and predictable course as the sails of the windmills that stood around the town.
    Rosie was close to there too, on the coast atYarmouth, Rosie, my childhood sweetheart, who I had told to forget about me when I was transported to New South Wales. Thinking of Rosie made me sad. Having been so attracted to Bel, I knew Rosie was no longer the girl for me. But I still wondered how our life would have worked out together. Me running a village store, and teaching in the local school, she raising our children.
    I wrote to Robert Neville too and received a reply by return of post.
    Hon. Robert Neville
    12 Grosvenor Square
    Mayfair
    17th November, 1803
    Dear Sam and Richard,
    How fortunate that your letter should reach me while I am