much.’
All the way home, the fish kicked on the floor of the van. Archie stood on the passenger’s seat, watched the hedgerows lit in the headlamps, the trees which fled from the passing of the car. It blinked at the lights of oncoming traffic. Once again the vehicle smelt of the bird. There was weed on the mats, the slime of eels on the windows. Archie left its signature in shit on the upholstery.
And in the house, only the second time since its arrival in the white wooden crate, Archie came into the living-room. I banked up the fire. I was still cold from the seashore, my feet ached when I took off my boots. The lights of the Christmas tree sparkled in their corner, the flames from the dry and salty log spat upwards to the chimney. Archie stood before the fire, its wings held out a little way from its chest, not stretching them, but draping them out like a fashion model in a Parisian cloak. I put down newspapers to avoid having stains on the rug. But the cormorant slept in the warmth, still standing, its wings mantled and its head turned downwards onto its breast. It slept, while the room was filled with the scents of the Straits. A little steam arose from its plumage and from my thick, woollen socks. My own head began to nod. In the warm room, Archie and I were asleep.
When I awoke, the cormorant was no longer there. I sprang up and shouted, shivering suddenly from the memory of a dream and glancing at the dying fire. I must have been asleep for hours. In my dream, there had been a frantic pursuit down the slippery staircase of the quarry: something, some grey presence was behind me, there were heavy, relentless footsteps, the whiff of smoke in the dark air . . . But then I was awake, trembling a little in my stockinged feet before the embers in the grate. And Archie had vanished.
Again I heard my voice cry out. The bird appeared at the doorway from the kitchen. It had retrieved the dab which it had given to me on the harbour front at Caernarfon, and which I had subsequently wrapped in paper and put in the dustbin. Archie came into the room to meet me, with the fish held in its beak.
‘What the hell have you got there? Here, give it to me, let’s put it back in the bin. I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but . .
The cormorant allowed me to take the dab, followed me through the kitchen and into the backyard. In its search for the fish among the other rubbish, Archie had strewn the yard with pieces of paper, the broken sections of cardboard boxes, discarded vegetables.
‘Bloody hell, Archie . .
I stooped to recover the debris. This time, I put the dead fish at the very bottom of the dustbin. But the bird’s determination to offer its prize to me had given me an idea. We returned to the front room. I closed the door to the kitchen and resuscitated the fire with more logs. Some gentle music on the radio, the twinkle of the lights on the Christmas tree; the black cormorant, sea-scented, staring into the flames.
‘Here, Archie, have a look at this . . .’
The bird snapped from its daydream, drawing its eyes from the golden caverns of the burning logs. It turned its face to me, numb from the heat. I had found the little collar which Ann had once bought for the cat, a flimsy thong just strong enough for a kitten. Sitting on the edge of the sofa, I reached out for the cormorant and put the collar around its neck, adjusting it to the diameter of the bird’s throat and marking the leather with my thumbnail. With scissors, I made a couple of new holes in the collar and tried it again. Archie was submissive in my hands, mesmerised by the fire, standing still with wings relaxed, like a gentleman being measured by his tailor. The collar fitted snugly, neither too tight for Archie to swallow nor slack enough to slip downwards. The cormorant craned to reach it with its beak, but could not. It brought up one foot and scratched vigorously at the collar for a few moments. Then it turned once more to its scrutiny of the
All the way home, the fish kicked on the floor of the van. Archie stood on the passenger’s seat, watched the hedgerows lit in the headlamps, the trees which fled from the passing of the car. It blinked at the lights of oncoming traffic. Once again the vehicle smelt of the bird. There was weed on the mats, the slime of eels on the windows. Archie left its signature in shit on the upholstery.
And in the house, only the second time since its arrival in the white wooden crate, Archie came into the living-room. I banked up the fire. I was still cold from the seashore, my feet ached when I took off my boots. The lights of the Christmas tree sparkled in their corner, the flames from the dry and salty log spat upwards to the chimney. Archie stood before the fire, its wings held out a little way from its chest, not stretching them, but draping them out like a fashion model in a Parisian cloak. I put down newspapers to avoid having stains on the rug. But the cormorant slept in the warmth, still standing, its wings mantled and its head turned downwards onto its breast. It slept, while the room was filled with the scents of the Straits. A little steam arose from its plumage and from my thick, woollen socks. My own head began to nod. In the warm room, Archie and I were asleep.
When I awoke, the cormorant was no longer there. I sprang up and shouted, shivering suddenly from the memory of a dream and glancing at the dying fire. I must have been asleep for hours. In my dream, there had been a frantic pursuit down the slippery staircase of the quarry: something, some grey presence was behind me, there were heavy, relentless footsteps, the whiff of smoke in the dark air . . . But then I was awake, trembling a little in my stockinged feet before the embers in the grate. And Archie had vanished.
Again I heard my voice cry out. The bird appeared at the doorway from the kitchen. It had retrieved the dab which it had given to me on the harbour front at Caernarfon, and which I had subsequently wrapped in paper and put in the dustbin. Archie came into the room to meet me, with the fish held in its beak.
‘What the hell have you got there? Here, give it to me, let’s put it back in the bin. I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but . .
The cormorant allowed me to take the dab, followed me through the kitchen and into the backyard. In its search for the fish among the other rubbish, Archie had strewn the yard with pieces of paper, the broken sections of cardboard boxes, discarded vegetables.
‘Bloody hell, Archie . .
I stooped to recover the debris. This time, I put the dead fish at the very bottom of the dustbin. But the bird’s determination to offer its prize to me had given me an idea. We returned to the front room. I closed the door to the kitchen and resuscitated the fire with more logs. Some gentle music on the radio, the twinkle of the lights on the Christmas tree; the black cormorant, sea-scented, staring into the flames.
‘Here, Archie, have a look at this . . .’
The bird snapped from its daydream, drawing its eyes from the golden caverns of the burning logs. It turned its face to me, numb from the heat. I had found the little collar which Ann had once bought for the cat, a flimsy thong just strong enough for a kitten. Sitting on the edge of the sofa, I reached out for the cormorant and put the collar around its neck, adjusting it to the diameter of the bird’s throat and marking the leather with my thumbnail. With scissors, I made a couple of new holes in the collar and tried it again. Archie was submissive in my hands, mesmerised by the fire, standing still with wings relaxed, like a gentleman being measured by his tailor. The collar fitted snugly, neither too tight for Archie to swallow nor slack enough to slip downwards. The cormorant craned to reach it with its beak, but could not. It brought up one foot and scratched vigorously at the collar for a few moments. Then it turned once more to its scrutiny of the
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