“I’ve got something to confess,” said Oscar, once we were settled. “For several days now, someone else has been living here, in our modest little apartment, in addition to Cara and me. We have a guest staying with us.”
“Really?” I queried, feigning disinterest as I transmitted my response telepathically. “Am I to take it that you have offered shelter and sustenance to some unfortunate relative who has become temporarily homeless?”
“No, not a relative,” he said, firmly.
“Then... a friend?”
“Definitely not a friend. No way. No friend of mine would behave the way he does. He wakes us up in the middle of the night, screaming demands for attention, and when I go to him – it’s always me who goes, Jonah – he’s in such a rage at being kept waiting that he flies at me in anger and invariably shits on the carpet.”
“That is appalling behaviour,” I observed. “Why do you tolerate it?”
“Because it was Cara who brought him home... from the supermarket. You see, they’ve opened this pets’ emporium as an experiment – doggy and pussy accessories, white mice and jerbils...”
“I’ll have some of those next time you go,” I urged, with relish,
“He was the most expensive thing in the shop and...”
At that moment, we were interrupted by Cara, who burst into Oscar’s study without even knocking. “I THOUGHT I heard Oscar talking to you, Anne,” she said. She calls us all Anne, ever since my grandma lived in her back garden. “I’ve got a little friend for you to play with, whenever you come to visit.” Then I saw that she had a daft-looking parrot perched on her wrist; pink and grey it was, with a long tail and a crest.
“Play with it?” I said, “I’ll play with it alright, except you shouldn’t play with your food,” but Cara didn’t hear me, she never does. I flexed my talons in preparation for our first game (and probably our last one too). This caused the bird to squawk in panic and flap up onto the curtain-pelmet where it froze in terror. I relaxed and bided my time.
“Go easy,” murmured Oscar. “Try and be polite to our guest.”
“See?” squeaked Cara, “he wants to play already” and she darted off to her kichen to find us something to eat – a pointless exercise if ever there was, because this cockatoo thing is vegetarian and my diet is all warm red meat, bones’n’all. I licked my beak in anticipation. If I wasn’t mistaken, this interloper was of the species psiccattiformes cacatuidae cacatua rosiecapilla from the antipodes, a flocking breed because it feels safe in numbers... (tsk tsk tsk) ...and this one was a lone female.
“What’s her name?” I asked.
“We call him Bazza,” said Oscar, “on account he’s a galah.” I saw no connection.
All at once the bird started preening itself. I watched its exhibition of vanity as it rooted in among its foliage in search of passengers, then it began to draw one feather at a time through its beak. Personally, I prefer to perform this function in private or, preferably, sitting on some convenient fence-post during a rainstorm, which is when I spread my wings and revel in the deluge of lovely water, but this parrot can please itself. Several thoughts occurred to me as I watched: first, it had already forgotten that it was under threat from me, it had an attention span of about ten seconds; second, it was completely dedicated to its own appearance, it was the epitome of vanity; thirdly, it’s actions reminded me of the actors at the Granary Theatre when they jig and pose in front of the dressing-room mirrors, daubing make-up on their faces. It seemed unfair that this ‘Bazza’ had no mirror in which to admire itself.
“What do you make of it, Jonah?” asked Oscar, out loud.
The bird quivered in shock at the sudden noise, jerked its head out from underneath its wing and squawked a protest, it was so totally self-obsessed. “Can it do tricks?” I asked, and then listened to Oscar’s description of a limited range of circus stunts that galahs had been taught by persons of unlimited patience. He added that they had a capacity to learn a few words and phrases, which they could repeat if shouted at loudly enough. “I think I may be able to relieve you of the embarrassment of his company,” I said.
“You could?” A light of enthusiasm was glowing in Oscar’s eyes.
The window remained open from when I had arrived, and we could hear Cara approaching from the kitchen, so I kicked off from the pipe-rack and flew up to the pelmet, where I nudged the daft galah and urged it to follow me. The stupid bird made no protest, just took off and sailed after me out of the window. Behind us, we could hear Cara screaming its name: “Bazza, dear, COME BACK! BAZZA, you naughty boy, DON’T GO WITH JONAH! It’s DANGEROUS out there!” Too right it is! Oscar stood beside her, smirking and making half-hearted supportive mumbles.
I flipped over and drifted back to hover outside their window.
“Oh, please Jonah,” whined Cara, “please go and fetch him back for me, darling. You’ve no idea how expensive he was. PLEASE fetch him back!”
“You should get yourself out more often,” I chuckled to Oscar, “back down to that Granary Theatre telling them all what to do. They’re lost without you.”
“Is that where you’re taking him?” asked Oscar.
“Her personality will fit in perfectly with the actors’” I chortled, and turned to lead my new friend to her new home, under the eaves of the Granary Theatre.
Jonah was a very experience director, teacher and writer who sadly passed away in February 2006. He was also the author of the highly successful "Playmaker - The Craft of Directing Plays (The Way I Seen It)".