Read Online Anila's Journey by Mary Finn - Free Book Online Page A

trousers. Again I strapped my case of drawing things safe over my chest, with my money wrapped inside it. When I stepped out along the river path, I felt invisible, like a boy on an errand.
    For all that, I was glad it had grown rosy when I came to the beginnings of the city and the long street they called Burial Ground Road. Not because of all the English people who lay dead in a field there under sad grey slabs of stone. I did not fear their ghosts. But further up that swampy road there were dacoits. Everyone talked about them, those real dacoits with murdering blades. By then, though, the sun was up and all the early wagons out with it, and horses and riders too, galloping by the green open space of the maidan.
    â€œAnila! What an early riser you are.”
    Mr Walker pushed his way past the red curtain. He was dressed in a shirt and breeches, no jacket. I had to struggle with my smile, for he looked just like a heron, long-legged, stooped and spike-haired, and like a heron his colours were grey-blue and grey.
    â€œCome and have something to eat with me. You can have a second breakfast.”
    Breakfast! I followed him through the doorway, past the curtain that smelled of ink and smoke, men’s smells.
    This room was light, with walls of creamy pink, and it looked onto a small walled garden. Through an open window red hibiscus flowers and white climbing roses pushed into the room and tumbled around a little table spread with plates and dishes. Mr Walker pulled out a chair for me and we sat down. The little man scurried out again, muttering.
    The dishes on the table held fish and rice, curds, preserves, nuts, persimmons and some round rough cakes.
    â€œHave an oatmeal cake,” Mr Walker said. “They’re Scottish. Chandra makes them to my grandmother’s receipt, as best he can. I would prefer to breakfast outside, but then Balor would be jealous of the garden birds.”
    Who was Balor?
    Mr Walker smiled and pointed to the top of a bookcase behind me. He kept his finger stretched out. I had hardly begun to figure the grey shape up there for what it was when it suddenly changed its size, took off from its pinnacle and landed in a flurry of feathers on Mr Walker’s finger. Great black beak, black claws firmly folded round a hand.
    The huge grey parrot waddled sideways along Mr Walker’s hand, walked up his arm and kissed him on the mouth with the top of its head. I laughed and so did the bird, a booming deep laugh. This must be Mr Walker’s laugh which I hadn’t heard yet.
    â€œPut your elbow on the table and let your fingers touch mine,” Mr Walker said.
    The bird came down his arm, crossed over and then I could feel the sensitive feet travelling fast up my arm. He was on my shoulder. I felt a tug and my head wrap was loosed, picked up and tossed onto the floor.
    Now it was Mr Walker’s turn to laugh and I could feel the parrot thrum with pleasure.
    â€œBalor likes hair,” he said. “I think he must have been a barber in a past life. If we don’t stop him he’ll have your braid unpicked in the same way he deals with my poor coiff.”
    He tapped his chair back and Balor waddled down my arm again and hopped up.
    â€œI bought him in a street market in Spain, years ago, when he was much more of a street urchin. He’s blind in one eye – if you look carefully at him, you’ll see that. He can speak, like most educated parrots, but I cannot discover what his native language is. He refuses to speak English. Or Bangla, though Chandra claims that he says puja prayers. I called him Balor after an evil one-eyed god from Ireland, your father’s country. Eat, Anila.”
    I took a cake. Mr Walker reached over and cut it in two for me and spread it with butter and a dark fruit jelly from a pot. I took some fish too, and some rice. He poured tea for me and then a cup for himself. We drank in silence until I began to fear that I had seemed too greedy,