***** *** ***** **** *****, ****** Baldo? Hmmn? ***. ** ** **** ********. *** ** **. *** *** **** *********. **** ***** ***** ** ** *******. *****. ****. *** *** **** *** *** *** **** * *** ** *** … Phew! **** *** ******* **** * *******. ******** **!’

Voice fades.

[‘Okay! Here we go! I’ll just leave the cloth on for a few minutes to let him acclimatize. He’s a bit stressed after the car drive. I’ll just … There we go … on to the table. Ooops! Hope I didn’t tip up the water bowl! Right. Good.

How’re you doing over there, little Baldo? Hmmn? Yes. It is very exciting. Yes it is. But it’s only temporary. Only while Alice is in Majorca. Right. Good. Now I’ll just pop off and make a cup of tea … Phew! That was heavier than I thought. Gracious me!’]

Voice fades.

Eh?

Eh?

[Head tip.

Shifts on perch.

Head tip at other angle.

Crest rises.

Eyes new object on table.

Crest lowers.

Slight muttering under breath.

Disquiet.

BIG feather ruffle.]

BEEEUUURRRGH!

Silence.

[Baldo closes his eyes and attempts to regain his equilibrium.

Baldo listens to the sounds from the kitchen.

Kettle boiling.

Baldo waits, impatiently, for the whistle.

Then …

Small cough from new object!]

Eh?!

[Baldo’s eyes fly open.]

‘Namaste!’

[Sound from inside new object!]

‘Ksama Kijie!’

[‘Excuse me!’]

Pause.

(Baldo is an African Grey Parrot, hailing from four previous generations bred in captivity. He is not fluent in Hindi.)

‘Hullo! Hullo!’

Pause.

‘Madad!’

[‘Help!’]

[Shrill whistle – from object –

Followed by …

Kettle whistle – from kitchen, pitched on a comparable metronomic scale.]

‘Lor ’av Mercee! Merimdarane luvlee vali nav sarpaminom se bhari hain!’

[‘Lord have Mercy! My lovely hovercraft is full of eels!’]

Silence.

WAH!

Crump.

[Baldo falls off his perch.]

15

Mr Franklin D. Huff

Miss Hahn arrives, unannounced, one hand swaddled in a white(ish) cloth, bearing a large pork pie. I am sitting on the front porch, knitting her a pair of socks. It’s been months since I’ve felt like getting my needles out.

‘Why on earth didn’t you tell me you were married to Kimberly Couzens?’ she demands. ‘That changes everything.’

‘Does it?’ I ask. I mean, forgive me for being a tad haughty and suspicious, but she’s still the same Carla Hahn who cuts her own hair, has an extraordinarily overweight dog, cries openly on the beach, dresses like a tramp. And lies about her mother’s cat’s age (please God, let’s not forget about that!).

‘Of course!’ She nods. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. It means you’re one of us.’

One of us?

‘I suppose you intend that as a kind of compliment,’ I murmur.

‘I brought you a pork pie.’ She smiles. Ah. She gets my sense of humour! Well that’s refreshing. People sometimes struggle with it. I struggle with it myself, on occasion. Hmmn. Was I actually being funny, though? Or was I simply being rude? I must confess that there is something about our dear Miss Hahn that brings out the spiteful in me, poor creature. Should I mention at this juncture that her ex-partner is a giant, delusional maniac? Or that I hate pork pies because of an infantile terror of the layer of aspic?