house,’ Phyllie said.
‘Kind of. Basically, he refused to leave. The old boy who lived here before had to move – he ran out of money – and he took his staff with him, those who’d stood by him. But Don wouldn’t go: said he’d fight till the end to save his birds… So Vig hired him. Have you seen the birds?’
‘No. I’d like to.’
‘I’ll show you around…’ Dorota laughed. ‘By all accounts it was the Battle of Stalingrad, apparently. My interpretation is: let’s not underestimate the strength and resilience of Mr Bridges.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Phyllie told her.
4.
Having been relieved of gate duty, Curtis was tasked with guiding guests to the aviary, parties of five or six at a time. Some of the guests had brought children to the party; and the birds came as a blissful cooing revelation to them.
Watching over proceedings, Don appeared happy to answer questions. He even conceded to enter one of the cages and hold Larry the lizard close to the mesh, for all to get a better look; and as far as Don was concerned, he was putting in a formidable performance. Nerve-racking though tonight might be, Don knew that it was imperative that he remained cordial. Whether or not he wished to be here (and he didn’t), he had done the right thing by turning up, even if the effort had required a mug of brandy with which to calm the raging waters of his discomfort.
It had to be over soon, Don consoled himself. They would all go home and life would revert to normality. The birds were what he cared about – the birds and his friend in the well – and so far, as a relationship, it was working well with Mr Klossen and Miss Teodorescu. Don had even learned how to spell their surnames, out of respect. There had only been that one awkward scene…
Vig and Dorota had been in the house for two days at that point, and Vig had decided to take a stroll around all that he surveyed. Despite the acres and the camouflaging woodland in which Don’s cabin sat alone, it was probably inevitable that the cabin would be located sooner or later. Don supposed that sooner was better: at least he had been half-expecting the visit, squaring the chances with the factor of idle curiosity alone: Vig’s curiosity. Fair enough that the man would want to see all that his one-pound lottery ticket had earned him, including the scrags. So when Vig had knocked on the door, the sound had been both unexpected and according to Fate. Get through this one initial house visit, Don could remember thinking, and he’s not likely to want to come again.
Well, that prediction had proved true (so far); but the accuracy of his prophecy had not diminished the awkwardness of the moment. If Vig had been hellbent on causing a disruption, he could not have chosen a more inconvenient time: it was twelve-thirty. Don had been tucking into a toasted cheese sandwich, a mug of tea steaming on the sideboard. All well and good. The devilish side of this tranquil woodsman scene was that Don, since taking ownership of the little girl in the well in his kitchen, had always played fair with food: this meant that his lunchtime was also hers. Down below the ground, she was eating what Don had prepared for her (her usual), and if there was anything to thank for the advancing of human years, it was this; the natural insurance policy of routine . Being a man of considerable age, Don was also a stickler for things settling in a pre-arranged order, and without this compulsion – virtually unacknowledged at the time of Vig’s visit, blessed ever since – Don might have been sunk, there and then. But routine it had been, and not so much as self-preservation, that had led Don to knocking the trapdoor down into place, and to covering it with the moth-bitten rug. Lunchtimes were for solitary nourishment.
Throughout Vig’s short stay in the cabin (barely more than twenty minutes) the girl had not made a peep in the well. Not a murmur… The problem was that Don had
‘Kind of. Basically, he refused to leave. The old boy who lived here before had to move – he ran out of money – and he took his staff with him, those who’d stood by him. But Don wouldn’t go: said he’d fight till the end to save his birds… So Vig hired him. Have you seen the birds?’
‘No. I’d like to.’
‘I’ll show you around…’ Dorota laughed. ‘By all accounts it was the Battle of Stalingrad, apparently. My interpretation is: let’s not underestimate the strength and resilience of Mr Bridges.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Phyllie told her.
4.
Having been relieved of gate duty, Curtis was tasked with guiding guests to the aviary, parties of five or six at a time. Some of the guests had brought children to the party; and the birds came as a blissful cooing revelation to them.
Watching over proceedings, Don appeared happy to answer questions. He even conceded to enter one of the cages and hold Larry the lizard close to the mesh, for all to get a better look; and as far as Don was concerned, he was putting in a formidable performance. Nerve-racking though tonight might be, Don knew that it was imperative that he remained cordial. Whether or not he wished to be here (and he didn’t), he had done the right thing by turning up, even if the effort had required a mug of brandy with which to calm the raging waters of his discomfort.
It had to be over soon, Don consoled himself. They would all go home and life would revert to normality. The birds were what he cared about – the birds and his friend in the well – and so far, as a relationship, it was working well with Mr Klossen and Miss Teodorescu. Don had even learned how to spell their surnames, out of respect. There had only been that one awkward scene…
Vig and Dorota had been in the house for two days at that point, and Vig had decided to take a stroll around all that he surveyed. Despite the acres and the camouflaging woodland in which Don’s cabin sat alone, it was probably inevitable that the cabin would be located sooner or later. Don supposed that sooner was better: at least he had been half-expecting the visit, squaring the chances with the factor of idle curiosity alone: Vig’s curiosity. Fair enough that the man would want to see all that his one-pound lottery ticket had earned him, including the scrags. So when Vig had knocked on the door, the sound had been both unexpected and according to Fate. Get through this one initial house visit, Don could remember thinking, and he’s not likely to want to come again.
Well, that prediction had proved true (so far); but the accuracy of his prophecy had not diminished the awkwardness of the moment. If Vig had been hellbent on causing a disruption, he could not have chosen a more inconvenient time: it was twelve-thirty. Don had been tucking into a toasted cheese sandwich, a mug of tea steaming on the sideboard. All well and good. The devilish side of this tranquil woodsman scene was that Don, since taking ownership of the little girl in the well in his kitchen, had always played fair with food: this meant that his lunchtime was also hers. Down below the ground, she was eating what Don had prepared for her (her usual), and if there was anything to thank for the advancing of human years, it was this; the natural insurance policy of routine . Being a man of considerable age, Don was also a stickler for things settling in a pre-arranged order, and without this compulsion – virtually unacknowledged at the time of Vig’s visit, blessed ever since – Don might have been sunk, there and then. But routine it had been, and not so much as self-preservation, that had led Don to knocking the trapdoor down into place, and to covering it with the moth-bitten rug. Lunchtimes were for solitary nourishment.
Throughout Vig’s short stay in the cabin (barely more than twenty minutes) the girl had not made a peep in the well. Not a murmur… The problem was that Don had
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