The Wedding Party (6 page)

‘Here I am with the sugar and the corn-flakes—'

The sudden sound of her voice startled the budgerigar into flight. With what seemed to be almost mischievous flutterings it crossed the rose-bed and flew over a thick cupressus hedge into the road beyond.

With the desperation of a man pursuing a runaway Mr Greenwood wrenched open the garden gate and gave chase, madly waving the butterfly net, with Mrs Daly only a yard
or two behind him, waving the corn-flakes and the bowl of sugar in excited unison.

Outside in the road a lost and bewildered Mr Greenwood stood staring this way and that, unable to see his pet, but joy flooded his face as Mrs Daly called:

‘I see him! There he goes! Over there by the telephone box.'

Both Mr Greenwood and Mrs Daly started running. With a few last spasms of speechless wrath Mr Daly watched them go and then dragged himself back to bed, half-convinced he was part of some wakeful nightmare.

‘He's perching on the top of the box,' Mrs Daly said. ‘Perhaps if I put the corn-flakes and the sugar inside and held the door open he might be tempted to—'

‘I rather fancy I could reach him with the net. But we'll have to be quiet. He's an awfully temperamental thing.'

While Mr Greenwood circled the telephone box with renewed stealth Mrs Daly put the bowl of sugar and the corn-flakes into the box and then stood outside, holding the door open. The air was breathless. The sudden clatter of a crate of milk bottles on the pavement farther down the road was merely one of the customary sounds of early morning and did nothing to disturb her at all.

She could now no longer see Mr Greenwood, who had gone into stealthy hiding on the far side of the box, and though she longed to know what was happening she had sense enough not to call. Once or twice she heard Mr Greenwood feeding the air with sweet whispers but otherwise a long time seemed to pass with nothing happening.

‘Having a bit of late supper, lady? Or is it breakfast? Do you mind? I'd like to use the blower. My milk van's broken down.'

On the face of the early milkman there was an odd look of disbelief, irritation and sheer astonishment that was almost spiritual. As he gazed at Mrs Daly, her wet bedroom slippers and her nightdress protruding some six inches or so from under her dressing-gown his lips seemed to be framing strange silent imprecations, as if in prayer.

‘Oh! I'm so sorry. We're trying to catch a budgerigar.'

‘We?'

The milkman, though accustomed to seeing incredible sights in the early morning, looked sharply round, rather as if expecting to see a crazy ghost.

A moment later one actually appeared in the form of Mr Greenwood, madly running.

‘He's gone again! You frightened him off! There he goes!'

With lean strides Mr Greenwood tore off down the road, waving the butterfly net. Mrs Daly snatching up the bowl of sugar and the packet of corn-flakes and followed in enthusiastic pursuit, to be watched with a sort of drugged patience by the milkman, who finally called out with some acidity that they should try putting salt on its tail.

Three hundred yards down the road a heavily panting Mr Greenwood came to a halt under the last street lamp, on the arm of which the budgerigar was perched with the sly calm that both precedes and succeeds mischief. With little breath left Mr Greenwood could only shake a trembling
forefinger in admonishment, his eyes actually watering with fatigue.

Presently Mrs Daly arrived, panting too. A certain archness, almost a smooth scorn, was now evident in the pose of the budgerigar, whose flight had left it both fresh and exhilarated.

‘I've just thought of something,' Mrs Daly said. ‘Doesn't he have a mate? Don't these birds pine if they don't have company? I mean they're love-birds, aren't they?'

‘No, he doesn't,' Mr Greenwood said. ‘We're always meaning to get another, but somehow – Winkie, do come down now. Do be a good boy and come down.'

‘Yes, Wee Willie Winkie,' Mrs Daly said, ‘you're really very naughty. Why didn't you stay in your nice cage? You'll get eaten by a cat.'

‘Oh! dear, don't say that. That would be the last straw. My wife would go mad.'

‘Did you notice how sharply he looked at me when I called him Wee Willie?' Mrs Daly said. ‘He looked quite shaken. I believe he
knows
– I mean I think he's aware of me as a person. Do you know what? I somehow believe he'd let me catch him. Give me the net.'

‘It's far too high. You'd never reach.'

Mrs Daly set the packet of corn-flakes and the bowl of sugar on the pavement and then suddenly kicked off her bedroom slippers.

‘I could if you'd let me stand on your back. That would give me another yard. I'm not heavy.'

‘Oh! Lord, I don't know—'

‘It's either that or the cat,' Mrs Daly said. ‘After all we're nearly out to the woods here. Once he gets into the woods we'll never catch him.'

‘All right, then. Just one try. I feel awful at having dragged you all the way out here.'

‘Not half as awful as you'd feel if you went home without him. Now Wee Willie Winkie, listen.' Mrs Daly addressed Wee Willie Winkie in the sternest possible terms. ‘I'm coming to get you. And get you I will. I'll stand no nonsense from you, you little blue devil. Do you hear?'

The budgerigar, looking down at Mr Greenwood already bending his back, actually seemed to hear.

‘You'll have to bend a little lower,' Mrs Daly said. ‘I can't quite reach.'

Mr Greenwood crouched lower on his haunches.

‘Have you got the net?' he said. ‘The thing to try and do is not to swipe at him.'

Mrs Daly said yes, she had the net and she'd try not to swipe. A moment later she climbed on Mr Greenwood's back, clutching the butterfly net in one hand and holding the lamp-post with the other. Then Mr Greenwood raised himself gently upward by something like another foot, at the same time clutching the lamp-post with both hands for support. He had never had a woman standing on his back before and the experience suddenly reminded him sharply of a game called mop-stick which he had often played as a boy.

‘Gently does it,' he said. ‘Gently.'

There was no word of response from Mrs Daly but
suddenly Mr Greenwood was convinced that he heard footsteps.

‘Just making the tea?'

The voice of the policeman returning from night duty was inquisitive and gentle. With calm appraisal he stared at Mrs Daly's bare feet, her cast-off bedroom slippers, the fringe of her nightdress, the butterfly net, the corn-flakes, the bowl of sugar and the bent back of Mr Greenwood, who was unable to see the policeman except through his legs.

‘Oh! Lord – no, we're trying to catch a budgerigar—'

‘No, Wee Willie Winkie, don't you dare move!'

‘So it's Wee Willie Winkie, is it?' the policeman said. ‘And I suppose he's running through the town in his nightgown too?'

‘I've nearly got him,' Mrs Daly said. ‘I'll have him in a moment now – Oh! blast! You wicked little wretch! He's flown.'

In sudden vexation Mrs Daly sat down on Mr Greenwood's back, then promptly slid off it, showing several inches of her bare knees. Again with calm appraisal the policeman stared at her as if all this was, as with the milkman, an everyday affair.

‘Excuse me, madam, but have you been to bed or are you just going? Or what?'

‘Oh! I've been. I've been up hours.'

‘And does your husband here usually let you wander about the streets in your nightdress, madam?'

‘Oh! he's not my husband.'

‘Oh! he's not? It's like that, is it? I see.'

‘Oh! it's not like that,' Mr Greenwood said. ‘It's not at all like that. Not at all.'

‘Then what is it like, sir?' With light scepticism, the policeman stared at the packet of corn-flakes and the bowl of sugar. ‘Just going to have breakfast, too, I take it?'

‘Oh! no. The idea of the corn-flakes and the sugar is to catch the budgerigar.'

‘I see. And does he have cream with them too?'

‘He doesn't like cream.'

The policeman gave a sudden long deep sigh, as if for a moment seriously questioning his own sanity. In the ensuing silence Mrs Daly put on her bedroom slippers, at the same time smiling at the policeman, who failed to smile back and merely put his head to one side.

Then after remarking that it was a matter of great interest to hear that the budgerigar didn't like cream the policeman invited Mr Greenwood with no great urgency but rather with an almost sublime patience to present him with some sort of explanation as to what exactly was going on.

‘Oh! it's quite simple,' Mrs Daly said. ‘I woke up early and thought I heard a thrush cracking a snail on the garden path but it wasn't.'

‘Oh! you did? Go on.'

‘Then I knew it was footsteps. I was worried because I thought it might be an escaped lunatic from St Saviour's and then my husband looked out of the window and saw this gentleman in the garden. With this butterfly net.'

The policeman surveyed Mr Greenwood with an air of keenest inquiry.

‘So that's where you're from, is it?'

‘Oh! no, no,' Mr Greenwood said. ‘Not at all. Not at all. That's a great mistake. I'm not from there at all.'

‘How do I know?' With icy alacrity the policeman turned to Mrs Daly and her butterfly net. ‘How do I know you're not both from there?'

‘Don't be insulting.'

With dignified hands the policeman unbuttoned the breast pocket of his tunic and took out his pencil and notebook.

‘Madam, I'm afraid I shall have to ask you for your name.'

‘And supposing I refuse to give it?'

‘That would be very foolish – that's if you're asking my opinion.'

‘I wouldn't dream of asking your wretched opinion. I've just given you a perfectly rational explanation of what Mr Greenwood and I are doing here and you haven't the grace or sense to accept it.'

‘Madam—'

Suddenly Mr Greenwood let out lyrical cries of delight.

‘He's back! He's at the corn-flakes! He must be hungry.'

With outstretched hands Mr Greenwood darted to the corn-flake box, on which the budgerigar was now perching with an air at once innocent and bold. In a matter of seconds the capture was over. Deftly Mr Greenwood slipped the budgerigar into his trousers' pocket like some unwanted glove and then made a gesture of elation, almost as if to put his arm round Mrs Daly.

‘Oh! Mrs Daly, you've been wonderful. You've been
absolutely marvellous. You really have. I don't know how to thank you.'

‘So it's Mrs Daly, is it?'

As in a dream the policeman sketched at the air with his pencil.

‘Yes, I'm Mrs Daly.'

‘And it's Mr Greenwood, is it?'

‘Yes.'

The policeman drew a gargantuan breath as if preparatory to some sort of explosion and then let air slowly expire.

‘All right, Mrs Daly and Mr Greenwood, I'll give you exactly thirty seconds to make yourselves scarce. And when I say scarce I mean scarcer than that! Corn-flakes an' all!—'

All the way home Mr Greenwood repeated over and over again how wonderful Mrs Daly had been, how grateful he was for that brilliant idea of the corn-flakes and with what a different outlook he could now face the day. In turn she said she'd done it for the bird's sake. She hated the thought of suffering in animals and birds. She simply hadn't been able to bear the thought of those dead blue feathers on the lawn. It had all been so exciting.

‘It's wonderful to start a day doing something like this,' she said. ‘It makes you feel – Oh! I don't know. Almost like a bird—'

In this sustained mood of elation she almost tripped into the kitchen, to find Mr Daly wreathed in bluish smoke and scraping hard with a table knife at a square of scorched toast. Gaily she said something about being back at last and Mr Daly regarded her with a cold, sour eye.

‘Back from where? A trip to Mars? You've been gone hours.'

‘If I've been gone twenty minutes it's as much as it is.'

‘Hours and hours I tell you. And what about my breakfast?'

‘What about it? It surely wouldn't have broken your back to cook yourself a couple of slices of bacon?'

With grim disbelief Mr Daly stared down at her dew-soaked bedroom slippers.

‘Your feet are soaked. Where the hell have you been? Have you been rampaging about the streets like that?'

‘I have not been rampaging anywhere. I've been helping to rescue a bird from being mauled by a cat.'

‘God help me.'

‘Perhaps He would if you'd put yourself in other people's shoes occasionally.'

‘I do not want to put myself in other people's shoes!' Mr Daly said. ‘It's quite bad enough being in my own.'

‘There's no need to shout even if it is.'

‘I'm not shouting.'

‘It's like Bedlam.'

‘It damn well
is
Bedlam. It's ruddy lunacy. What will people think? My wife rampaging the streets with a strange man at the crack of dawn, chasing a stupid budgerigar. I wonder you didn't get run in.'

‘As a matter of fact I very nearly did.'

Mrs Daly actually laughed at the memory of the policeman, but Mr Daly merely choked sharply and threw the piece of burnt toast into the sink.

‘God Almighty, what were you thinking of? Whatever possessed you?'

‘Nothing possessed me. I was simply doing what I thought was right.'

‘Right!' Mr Daly said. ‘Right! Ye gods, right!'

‘I'm going upstairs to change my slippers now,' Mrs Daly said. ‘I'll be back directly to cook your breakfast. By the way, could you lend me five pounds until tomorrow?'

‘What in hell for?'

‘To buy something, naturally.'

‘To buy what?'

‘I don't think you'd understand.'