A Cruel Bird Came to the Nest and Looked In

Chapter 18

When the first day of feasting arrived I realised I hadn’t made any festive arrangements. I’d been so busy with the orchestra, the railway and so forth that I hadn’t noticed it creeping up on me. Most of the populace, of course, had all manner of preparations in hand: windows were decorated with brightly coloured lights, doors were garlanded, log fires were kindled, plum puddings were mixed and gooseberry pies were baked. The objective was to eat, drink and be merry, and consequently the public houses were expecting to do a roaring trade.

I should add, though, that the twelve-day feast was actually a misnomer. Celebrations rarely extended beyond the third day; after that the holiday subsided into a kind of limbo as the supply of cakes and ale slowly dwindled and people contemplated returning to work. The only citizens who customarily took the full twelve days were the postmen, so I was surprised when a card was delivered that very first morning. The postman who brought it informed me that mine was the only call he’d made today; furthermore, he’d had to rise from his bed especially to make it. I pointed out that I’d also had to rise from my bed especially to answer his knock, but he seemed unimpressed. He wished me a ‘fruitful feast’ and went on his way, presumably in the direction of the Maypole.

After he’d gone I opened the card. It was from Smew. Apparently he was holding a grand reception from three until five in the afternoon. The venue was the reading room of the great library, and I was invited. This more or less eliminated the other possibility open to me; namely, that of joining Gallinule and his companions in their chosen hostelry. I could imagine the sort of day that lay ahead of them and it was not uninviting. The drink flowed unusually freely when Gallinule was ‘in the chair’, and a pleasant time was therefore guaranteed. At the back of my mind, though, was the question of finance. I could hardly show up at the Maypole with my newly acquired coin and try to get it past the publican. Also, I might be put under pressure to purchase a ticket for the company’s forthcoming play. Once more the problem came down to money. The price was sixpence; and sixpence I didn’t have. As much as I wanted to see this tragedy, I didn’t savour the prospect of sitting in a pauper’s seat.

I looked again at Smew’s invitation and decided I had no alternative but to accept. Indeed, it struck me that it would have been churlish not to. Here I was, being invited to the most prestigious social event of the season, one that was likely to be the envy of many, yet I was considering giving it a miss! I chided myself for being so foolish and set about getting ready.

The card said three o’clock but I determined to make my entrance at half past. Turning up any earlier would have made it look as if I had nowhere else to go, aside from which I wanted to avoid the awkwardness of being first to arrive. As it happened I need not have worried: that particular honour fell upon Sanderling. At three thirty I walked into the reading room to find him attired in his smartest dandy coat, and doing his best to converse with Wryneck. I could see immediately that he was struggling. The two of them appeared to be discussing the numerous portraits hanging around the walls, but there was a very obvious distraction. Close by stood a table laden with glasses, all brimming with wine, and as yet untouched. Poor Sanderling was plainly undergoing a mild form of torture. I watched with interest as he nodded and concurred with Wryneck, all the time casting glances at the wine as though he feared it would suddenly vanish. Meanwhile, Wryneck explained each painting down to the last tiny detail, before steering his hapless pupil towards the next masterpiece, and then the one after that. I wondered how long Sanderling would be able to bear being deprived of the drink that was so near and yet so far. Soon Whimbrel joined me, quickly followed by Dotterel, Brambling and Garganey. These last three were slightly damp. It was now raining outside, apparently, as well as being dark and gloomy. Exactly why our ancestors established the feast at this dismal time of year I didn’t know, but I presumed it was because they needed an excuse to stay indoors.

I glanced around at my companions and noticed that Dotterel seemed rather ill at ease. There was evidently something bothering him but I didn’t get the chance to find out what. Next moment Smew emerged from within some inner sanctum wearing the ceremonial crown and looking unquestionably regal. He regarded the little gathering for some moments, and then spoke.

‘Why, Wryneck,’ he said, ‘aren’t you going to offer our guests some wine?’

‘Ah, yes,’ Wryneck answered, ‘I was so absorbed with the royal paintings that I clean forgot.’

For some reason the wine glasses ranged along the table were of many different sizes. They stood there glowing under the chandelier and I thought they looked most enticing. The larger glasses were towards the back; the medium and small ones nearer the front.

‘Like a drink, Sanderling?’ said Wryneck.

‘Yes, please,’ came the reply.

Wryneck turned and selected the smallest glass and handed it to Sanderling. Whether he did it on purpose I couldn’t tell, but I found I was unable to continue witnessing Sanderling’s torment. Instead I joined a short queue comprising Dotterel, Garganey, Whimbrel and Brambling. Wryneck favoured us all with large measures, but for himself he chose a glass of equal size to the one he’d given Sanderling.

Smew waited gracefully until last.

The eight of us must have looked quite magnificent as we stood assembled in our courtly attire, each holding a glass of the empire’s finest wine. Here we were, the very cream of imperial government, enjoying one another’s company in a library of international renown. All the same I couldn’t help thinking that there was some special element lacking from the occasion. To put it another way, there was no sense of allurement: no sparkle. I was unable to put my finger precisely on what we were missing, but the feeling persisted nonetheless.

I was then struck by an unrelated secondary thought. It occurred to me that we might all be expected to exchange gifts at some stage during the afternoon. A cold chill ran through me as I realised I’d made no provision for this whatsoever. Realistically, I couldn’t envisage Dotterel or Garganey producing a sackful of carefully wrapped parcels out of the blue. On the other hand, I would not have put it past Whimbrel to distribute presents left, right and centre just for the sake of it. How embarrassing, then, to be unable to offer anything in return.

I was still considering my options when Dotterel cleared his throat and addressed Smew directly.

‘Smew,’ he said, ‘there’s a matter of great urgency which I think demands the immediate attention of the cabinet.’

‘Not now, Dotterel,’ said Smew.

‘But it’s most important.’

‘Not now,’ Smew repeated. ‘It will have to wait.’

‘You mean until tomorrow?’ Dotterel enquired.

‘I mean until after the twelve-day feast.’

‘It can’t wait twelve days!’

‘Of course it can,’ said Smew. He had adopted a kind yet masterful tone of voice. ‘Nothing should be allowed to interrupt the festivities,’ he continued. ‘Affairs of state must be put to one side for the time being. So please, Dotterel, try to enjoy yourself and let’s hear no more about it.’

‘Very well,’ conceded Dotterel, bowing his head slightly and accepting a second glass of wine.

This was provided by Shrike, who had appeared as if from nowhere carrying a tray of drinks. After serving Dotterel he began circulating amongst the rest of us, and this time I was glad to see Sanderling receive the biggest glass of all. The general conversation then became much more convivial. Even Dotterel seemed to overcome his disquietude, if only temporarily.

The paintings lining the walls were not all portraits. Some of them depicted maritime scenes from the history of the empire. Sanderling now seized the opportunity to demonstrate what he had learned during his time at the admiralty. One enormous canvas showed a flotilla of sailing ships, merchantmen by the look of them, beating along some wild shore in search of a safe harbour. Taking Wryneck by the sleeve, Sanderling guided him over to the picture and started explaining it to him. Cleverly, though, he made no attempt to talk about artistic technique: brushstrokes, light, colour, perspective and so forth. This would have led him straight out of his depth. Instead he described how a ship actually sailed, commencing from first principles.

‘What you need to understand,’ he began, ‘is that the wind doesn’t simply blow the ship along. Rather, the ship takes the wind and shapes it to its own requirements.’

Wryneck stood listening intently as Sanderling outlined the basic laws of sailing. Dotterel and Garganey also moved a little closer, clearly impressed by Sanderling’s wealth of knowledge. It was a shame he had no ships with which to put it all into practice.

Whimbrel, Brambling and Smew, meanwhile, had become involved in a discussion about Smew’s pencil, which he always carried with him. He was well known for preferring pencils to pens, and now he explained the reason why.

‘The mark of a pencil is softer and less intrusive,’ he announced. ‘Moreover, it can be rubbed out. Ink on the other hand cannot be erased, and if you happen to make a splodge you’re in trouble.’

‘Won’t you require a pen for your duties as regent?’ Whimbrel suggested. ‘Surely you’ll need one for signing decrees.’

‘It is not the pen that counts,’ replied Smew. ‘It is he who wields it.’

His words had the effect of silencing any further comment from either Whimbrel or Brambling, and after that the conversation became noticeably one-sided.

Finding myself alone I decided to go for a browse along the bookshelves, taking my glass of wine with me. Occasionally I selected a title, took down the book and read the preface. Then I put it back again and moved on. This proved to be quite a pleasant pastime. The royal collection was rich in variety: tomes on every subject stood side by side in silent ranks, all waiting to be read. After a while I came upon a book I hadn’t seen since I was a child. It was called Tales from Long Ago, and as I lifted it down I felt a curious wave of anticipation pass through me. I remembered this book in particular because it had a colour picture on every other page, so that each story was encapsulated in a few scenes. Sure enough, when I opened it there was a page of text on the left side, and an illustration on the right. To my surprise I recognised the first picture as if I had only seen it the previous day, rather than many years before. It showed three men gazing up at the night sky through a tall, narrow window. I was astounded at the familiarity of the detail; also, the brightness of the colours. The three men wore blue coats, their shoes were buckled and their stockings were white. The words of the story, however, were unfamiliar. Slowly, I turned to the next page. Here was a man in a rowing boat in the middle of a lake; on his head was a yellow crown. I examined the picture and noticed that one of the oarlocks hadn’t been drawn properly. Part of it was missing, which would have made the boat impossible to row. I recalled that this had baffled me throughout my childhood. Again, though, I had no memory of the story itself, and I began to realise that when I was young I couldn’t have read the book properly. I must have spent all my time looking at the pictures. I turned the pages, one by one, and yet more half-forgotten characters were revealed. Invariably they appeared startled, bewildered, surprised or jubilant. Hidden away inside this book, they’d worn the same expressions for years and years and years. At last I arrived at the final page. I paused for a long moment. Then, as I expected, I turned over and saw a man in a broad-brimmed hat. He was peering with astonishment at a silver coin in the palm of his hand.

‘Found something riveting?’ said a voice behind me.

It was Wryneck.

‘Not really,’ I said, quickly returning the book to its place amongst the others.

Wryneck must have somehow detached himself from Sanderling. Now he’d come prowling along the bookshelves from the other direction.

‘I would have thought you’d be in the music section,’ he said, ‘trying to keep a step ahead of your protégé.’

It took a moment to absorb the meaning of his remark.

‘You mean Greylag?’ I asked.

‘Of course,’ replied Wryneck. ‘He’s making extraordinary advances in the field of symphonic music. I’ve called in at the cake once or twice recently and the work he’s doing never fails to impress me. You must be very proud of him.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I suppose I am.’

‘His latest project is progressing by leaps and bounds.’

‘I take it you’re referring to Greylag’s tonal experimentations.’

‘Correct.’ Wryneck was brimming with enthusiasm. ‘They should provide valuable groundwork for the next composition.’

It occurred to me that I should be telling Wryneck all this, rather than him telling me; which served as a reminder that once again I’d neglected Greylag and the rest of the orchestra. Plainly, Wryneck had visited the cake more than ‘once or twice’ in recent days, but in any case it was more than I had. Without a doubt he was fully aware that Greylag did all the composing, and not me, yet he was diplomatic enough to skirt around the matter. As usual I was unable to detect the precise drift of Wryneck’s observations. I had no idea whether he was encouraging me to take a deeper interest in Greylag’s work, or advising me not to interfere, or neither.

‘Well, thank you, Wryneck,’ was all I managed to say. ‘Your comments are always welcome.’

Wryneck nodded, and then continued perusing the bookshelves. Meanwhile, I returned to the main party, where I discovered that most of the wine had gone. There were a few glasses remaining, however, so I helped myself. Sanderling appeared to have finished explaining the art of sailing to the others. He was now standing alone with a full glass in his hand, and a very contented look on his face. Smew was still giving Brambling and Whimbrel the benefit of his wisdom; they both seemed as if they were wilting under the strain. Dotterel and Garganey were standing somewhat aloof and talking quietly. They broke off their conversation as I approached.

‘Ho ho,’ I said. ‘Not plotting Smew’s downfall, I hope?’

‘Hardly,’ said Dotterel. ‘A disunited cabinet is the last thing we need at a time like this.’

Something in his tone caused me to lower my voice.

‘How do you mean?’ I enquired.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ said Garganey.

‘Not to me, no,’ I said.

‘Well,’ said Dotterel, ‘we’re not allowed to discuss it until after the twelve-day feast. You’ll just have to wait until then.’

At that moment Smew clapped his hands together and we all turned to face him. Wryneck reappeared from amongst the bookshelves.

‘Thank you all for coming,’ said Smew. ‘I think you’ll agree the afternoon has been a great success.’

There was a small ripple of applause.

‘I have a parting gift for each of you,’ he continued. ‘If you please, Shrike.’

I’d noticed Shrike hovering in the doorway. Now he came in bearing our gifts on a tray. We were to receive a bottle of wine apiece.

‘This is the fortified variety,’ explained Smew, ‘something to help you through the inclement weather.’

It turned out that nobody, not even Whimbrel, had thought to bring a gift for Smew, but he seemed unconcerned. He just stood there beaming. One by one we took our bottles of wine, thanked him, and made ready to leave. Sanderling was particularly fulsome in his gratitude. His eyes glistened at the thought of the twelve blissful days that lay ahead.

‘We can all visit each other’s departments,’ he suggested, ‘and share one another’s wine.’

Wryneck, however, had different ideas.

‘Strictly speaking, the admiralty should be closed for the duration of the feast,’ he announced, ‘and likewise the post office, the counting house and the ministry of works. The doors will be locked and the lights dimmed: hardly suitable for socialising.’

‘No,’ said Sanderling, ‘I suppose not.’

‘Therefore, I suggest you save your wine for remedial purposes.’

With these bleak words ringing in our ears we were ushered out into the rain, which was now bucketing down. Whimbrel waited until after the door had closed behind us.

‘Don’t worry, Sanderling,’ he said, ‘you can come up to the observatory and have a drink there.’

‘You mean now?’ said Sanderling.

He was clearly eager to take up the invitation.

‘Well, actually I meant another day,’ replied Whimbrel.

‘When, though?’ asked Sanderling.

‘Tomorrow, perhaps,’ offered Whimbrel.

‘Right,’ said Sanderling, ‘tomorrow it is. Goodnight.’

Next moment he’d gone dashing off through the rain without arranging a proper time. Whimbrel turned to me and shrugged. Meanwhile, Dotterel, Brambling and Garganey had wandered away in separate directions, all clutching their seasonal gifts.

‘I think I’ll call in on the orchestra,’ I said. ‘See what sort of feast they’ve been having.’

I thought Whimbrel looked at me slightly oddly when I said this, but he passed no remark so I wished him goodnight and went on my way.

‘Shall I pop round tomorrow?’ I asked at the last moment.

‘If you like,’ Whimbrel replied.

Then he was all alone in the darkness.

So it was that the twelve-day feast began to tick slowly by. I put into immediate effect my resolve to spend more time with the orchestra. I found them, of course, just as I had left them, hard at work on Greylag’s music. Obviously serfs were not granted holidays like the rest of us, so they just carried on practising as normal. Nor had they been idle during my absence. I soon discovered that Wryneck was quite correct in describing Greylag’s tremendous advances. To tell the truth I’d never heard anything like it: great crashing chords greeted me as I strode down the auditorium; woodwind, brass and strings clambered over one another as they vied for my attention; themes emerged, developed and faded away, only to be resurrected once more. I felt as if I had entered some immense factory where music was being invented for the first time. Occasionally, I picked up the conductor’s baton and offered my services, but most of the time Greylag remained at the helm. Whenever there was a break, which was rare, he explained what he was striving for musically; but most of it went straight over my head. From what I could gather, the nearer he got to his goal, the further it moved away. Even so, he was plainly gaining in confidence. For my part, all I could do was urge him to continue as best he could. Such was the extent of my involvement with the orchestra: they would play and I would listen.

In the world outside the feast rolled on. The Maypole, of course, served as a beacon in the surrounding winter darkness. It was always thronging with merrymakers, and more than once I was tempted to pay a return visit. My previous qualms, however, were yet to subside. Therefore, I decided to wait until after the festivities had quietened down. Instead, I spent the evenings with Whimbrel at the observatory. I was in good company. Sanderling had also become a regular fixture, and gradually the three of us worked our way through successive bottles of fortified wine. Whimbrel turned out to be a bounteous host and often provided a range of edible treats. For this reason I determined not to mention the sixpence he owed me.

My patience was tried to the limits, however, when he told us one evening how he’d spent the afternoon. Apparently he’d been to a matinée performance of Gallinule’s play.

‘Marvellous piece of work,’ he said. ‘Especially Gallinule himself as the main protagonist: what an actor!’

‘Good show, was it?’ asked Sanderling.

‘Terrific,’ replied Whimbrel. ‘The tale of ambition poised before the fall.’

‘I thought it was sixpence a ticket,’ I ventured.

‘Correct,’ said Whimbrel.

‘Don’t you reserve your sixpence for the telescope?’

‘Normally, yes,’ he answered, ‘but it so happened I had a spare one.’

‘Really?’

‘Quite by chance actually,’ he continued. ‘I meant to tell you about it. Two men appeared at the door yesterday morning asking if they could have a look through the telescope. I pointed out that this was the royal observatory, not a public amenity, but they were very persistent. They said they had their own coins and were prepared to reward me for any inconvenience.’

‘Who were these men?’ I enquired.

‘No idea,’ said Whimbrel. ‘They had foreign accents and wore olive drab uniforms; they seemed harmless enough, though, so I took them up on to the roof.’

‘Let me guess,’ I said. ‘They wanted to look at the railway?’

‘At first, yes,’ said Whimbrel, ‘but then they turned to the west and spent ages peering in that direction. I told them there was nothing out there except the sea but they wouldn’t listen. They just kept plying the telescope with coins as if there was no tomorrow. The pair of them certainly seemed prosperous. They each had a pocketful of money and when they left they gave me a sixpence for my trouble.’

‘Did they say thank you?’

‘Funny you should ask that,’ said Whimbrel. ‘As a matter of fact they didn’t.’

‘And have you still got the coin they gave you?’

‘Indeed I have.’

He reached into his pocket and produced a silver sixpence; except, of course, that it wasn’t a sixpence at all.

‘Good grief,’ said Whimbrel, ‘I’ve been swindled.’

His face betrayed sheer astonishment as he inspected the coin properly for the first time. It was exactly the same as the one I’d been given, with a hammer and anvil on one side and CITY OF SCOFFERS on the other.

There was a long silence, and then Sanderling spoke.

‘I’ve got one of those too,’ he said, rather bashfully.

From his pocket he produced an identical coin.

‘How did you come by yours?’ I asked.

‘I met two men in olive drab uniforms,’ he said. ‘They asked directions to the observatory and then gave me this.’

I decided I had better confess about my own coin as well. I told the story of how I’d acquired it, and then the three of us sat glumly pondering our foolishness.

‘I’ve seen those men on a few occasions, around and about,’ said Sanderling, ‘and others like them.’

‘Where?’ I queried.

‘All over the place, actually. They usually go in pairs and seem to be scrutinising everything.’

‘You mean like tourists?’

‘Not really,’ said Sanderling, ‘more like they’re on patrol.’

‘Doesn’t anyone question their presence?’

Sanderling shrugged. ‘It’s a holiday, isn’t it? Nobody pays them any attention.’

‘They even came to see Gallinule’s play,’ said Whimbrel. ‘There were two of them sitting in the back row this afternoon. Oddly enough, they appeared quite unmoved by the tragedy. There were all these characters on stage being betrayed, coerced, shamed and abandoned, not to mention simply murdered, yet the pair of them just sat there expressionless with their arms folded.’

‘Maybe it wasn’t their cup of tea,’ suggested Sanderling.

‘Yes, maybe,’ agreed Whimbrel.

He picked up a wine bottle and replenished each of our glasses. The prevailing mood was sombre.

‘I’d like to have seen Gallinule’s play,’ I remarked.

‘Then why didn’t you?’ asked Whimbrel.

‘I didn’t have a sixpence,’ I replied. ‘Not a proper one.’

‘Well, I wish you’d told me,’ he said. ‘I could have lent you mine.’