garments in a bin bag. Not so today. Reverend James called us round to the side gate which linked the rectory to the church and then hurried out of the house, his cassock billowing about him, to give us a detailed description of the bird he’d ‘espied’.
‘It was of a size which precluded it being of the tit family and, besides which, it had the colouring which would not have fitted a member of that family, it being grey for the most part, although being in flight and at some distance from the window out of which I was looking, meant that any other coloration of the bird’s plumage may have escaped my attention even though I do have a particularly good ability to enable observation of things at a considerable distance without the need to resort to glasses … although I do have a pair of binoculars which I would have brought to my assistance had there been time to retrieve them from the hall stand where I keep them before the bird had left the garden.’ He stopped. A deep intake of breath followed.
‘When was that?’ I asked.
The Reverend scratched his chin. ‘Let me see now. I’d just finished morning service and had come back over for coffee which Marjorie usually has ready for me around 11.15am. I had partaken of several sips when the bird in question flew into view.’
‘About half an hour ago then?’
The vicar nodded. ‘That would seem a good approximation of the time lapse between then and now.’ He clasped his hands together and tilted his head to one side, his lips curling back over a mouthful of teeth like a horse about to neigh. ‘Do I surmise the bird may be of your ownership?’ He unclasped his hands and pointed to the cage I had dropped by my side.
‘It’s mine actually,’ intervened Eleanor, crisply. ‘Wilfred, a cockatiel.’
I turned from Reverend James to Eleanor. ‘I’m not sure if you two have met,’ I said. That was a mistake.
Reverend James nodded his head vigorously. ‘Oh yes, yes. Indeed, we have had the pleasure of making ourselves acquainted when the good lady first moved into Mill Cottage and I made it my duty to call in on her. Is that not so, my dear?’
Eleanor’s chin dropped sharply as her mouth opened, but before she had a chance to say anything he went on: ‘At that first meeting it was with great pleasure that I discovered through conversation’ – no doubt one-sided, I thought – ‘that Eleanor, here, already has connections in this part of the world inasmuch as her son, who it transpires is of the same faith as me and went to the same college as me, is the vicar of our neighbouring parish of Chawcombe.’ Reverend James beamed benevolently at Eleanor. ‘Words failed me, didn’t they, my dear?’
They did? My God.
Eleanor reached out and patted his arm. ‘Not quite, James. Not quite,’ she said, managing, at last, to get a word in.
Having established without a shadow of a doubt that they did know one another, I picked up the cage and pointedly rattled it. ‘Well, at least we know Wilfred’s alive,’ I said. ‘Let’s just hope he turns up safely somewhere.’
‘We can only pray,’ murmured Reverend James.
Wilfred did turn up again, although not strictly as prayed for since it was in the jaws of a cat – Tammy’s jaws to be precise.
I was alerted by the screeching that erupted from next door the following Thursday afternoon – my half day off. I was giving the back lawn a light cut – the first of the season – when it started. Initially, I thought it was Eleanor having one of her turns, Tammy having started trophy hunting again. I was sort of right and wrong. Right in that Tammy had started to bring things in again; wrong in attributing the screech to Eleanor. It was Wilfred, brought home by Tammy that morning in a somewhat dazed state, but now almost fully recovered as this first screech of the day suggested.
I stood on my pile of bricks by the kitchen while Eleanor filled me in on all the details from the door of her
‘It was of a size which precluded it being of the tit family and, besides which, it had the colouring which would not have fitted a member of that family, it being grey for the most part, although being in flight and at some distance from the window out of which I was looking, meant that any other coloration of the bird’s plumage may have escaped my attention even though I do have a particularly good ability to enable observation of things at a considerable distance without the need to resort to glasses … although I do have a pair of binoculars which I would have brought to my assistance had there been time to retrieve them from the hall stand where I keep them before the bird had left the garden.’ He stopped. A deep intake of breath followed.
‘When was that?’ I asked.
The Reverend scratched his chin. ‘Let me see now. I’d just finished morning service and had come back over for coffee which Marjorie usually has ready for me around 11.15am. I had partaken of several sips when the bird in question flew into view.’
‘About half an hour ago then?’
The vicar nodded. ‘That would seem a good approximation of the time lapse between then and now.’ He clasped his hands together and tilted his head to one side, his lips curling back over a mouthful of teeth like a horse about to neigh. ‘Do I surmise the bird may be of your ownership?’ He unclasped his hands and pointed to the cage I had dropped by my side.
‘It’s mine actually,’ intervened Eleanor, crisply. ‘Wilfred, a cockatiel.’
I turned from Reverend James to Eleanor. ‘I’m not sure if you two have met,’ I said. That was a mistake.
Reverend James nodded his head vigorously. ‘Oh yes, yes. Indeed, we have had the pleasure of making ourselves acquainted when the good lady first moved into Mill Cottage and I made it my duty to call in on her. Is that not so, my dear?’
Eleanor’s chin dropped sharply as her mouth opened, but before she had a chance to say anything he went on: ‘At that first meeting it was with great pleasure that I discovered through conversation’ – no doubt one-sided, I thought – ‘that Eleanor, here, already has connections in this part of the world inasmuch as her son, who it transpires is of the same faith as me and went to the same college as me, is the vicar of our neighbouring parish of Chawcombe.’ Reverend James beamed benevolently at Eleanor. ‘Words failed me, didn’t they, my dear?’
They did? My God.
Eleanor reached out and patted his arm. ‘Not quite, James. Not quite,’ she said, managing, at last, to get a word in.
Having established without a shadow of a doubt that they did know one another, I picked up the cage and pointedly rattled it. ‘Well, at least we know Wilfred’s alive,’ I said. ‘Let’s just hope he turns up safely somewhere.’
‘We can only pray,’ murmured Reverend James.
Wilfred did turn up again, although not strictly as prayed for since it was in the jaws of a cat – Tammy’s jaws to be precise.
I was alerted by the screeching that erupted from next door the following Thursday afternoon – my half day off. I was giving the back lawn a light cut – the first of the season – when it started. Initially, I thought it was Eleanor having one of her turns, Tammy having started trophy hunting again. I was sort of right and wrong. Right in that Tammy had started to bring things in again; wrong in attributing the screech to Eleanor. It was Wilfred, brought home by Tammy that morning in a somewhat dazed state, but now almost fully recovered as this first screech of the day suggested.
I stood on my pile of bricks by the kitchen while Eleanor filled me in on all the details from the door of her
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