In the drive down to Bournemouth that Saturday morning, Jodie also seemed keen to hear about Polly, and I had no hesitation in complying; in particular, a tale which demonstrated Polly’s intelligence.
As a titbit, Polly loved having a piece of buttered toast each morning and would say – very sweetly and in my tone of voice – ‘Chop’, that being the African word for ‘food’. In time, she observed the sequences involved in producing the toast and, eventually, it reached the stage when, as soon as you opened the bread bin, she’d start to waddle up and down her perch saying ‘Chop’ in expectation of the titbit to come.
One morning, I decided to tease her. Having made and buttered my toast, I sat down with my back to Polly’s cage and started to eat it, ignoring her repeated calls of ‘Chop’ made in my voice. Suddenly, the demands for her titbit stopped while I continued crunching and chewing. The demands then restarted, only this time they were very emphatic, stern and made in my father’s tone of voice: ‘Chop! Chop! Chop!’ Clearly Polly was getting impatient. Yet I continued to ignore her. There was another pause, then Polly shouted out, again in my father’s voice, a very angry, ‘What’s the ruddy matter with you?’
Jodie laughed out loud. ‘Paul, that’s amazing. I can see why she’s so precious to you all,’ adding in a gentler voice, ‘and I realise how worried you must be.’ She reached across the car and stroked my knee, giving it a gentle squeeze. Ooooh … eyes on the road, Paul!
My concerns for Polly overshadowed any embarrassment I might have felt about turning up at my parents’ place with a girlfriend in tow. Likewise, it was the same for Mum and Dad when they were introduced to Jodie.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Mum, shaking hands as the two of us crowded into the narrow hallway, her welcoming smile belying the tiredness in her blue eyes, the shadows beneath them. But, as always, she was immaculately turned out: hair permed, a soft blue; smart, dark-blue ‘slacks’ – as she always called trousers; and over them, not tucked in, a cream blouse, frilled at cuffs and neck, with dainty blue-and-red flowers embroidered round its lower edge.
As we proceeded down the hall, Dad shuffled out of the lounge, in his usual baggy, brown cords and fawn cardigan. He murmured, ‘Hello, Paul … thanks for coming,’ before acknowledging Jodie with a wan smile and weak handshake. He looked older than when I had seen him last – which must only have been a couple of months back. Yet his face had hollowed, his cheeks drawn in, the thin straggle of grey across the top of his head making him appear all the more gaunt. He ushered us into the kitchen, repeating what Mum had told me about Polly over the phone.
The reason for their concern was all too obvious. Polly was huddled low down over one end of her perch, next to her feed and water hoppers, both of which were full and looked untouched. Her wings were dropped and her feathers ruffled, standing out like a misshapen feather duster. Her head was partially tucked under her right wing, her eyes closed. Angled round in that manner, her neck was curved, stretched, exposing the left side in which, despite the feathering, a raised, pink lump could be seen poking through – the cancer. I wasn’t going to say it must have been there for some time – that would only have added to my parents’ anxiety – but no doubt it had been, it was just that the feathers would have obscured it in the early stages of its growth. But now it was big enough to be seen, and big enough to press on her windpipe and oesophagus and cause difficulties in breathing and swallowing.
I moved quietly up to her cage. ‘Hello, Polly,’ I whispered, hoping for a response. Polly did manage to pull her head from under her wing, blink and look at me; but then almost immediately tucked her beak back under again. It was heart-wrenching to see how poorly she looked and I had to fight hard against the bubble of anger I felt welling up that Mum and Dad hadn’t called me in earlier. Although, in fairness to them, they had sought advice, but maybe even that had been too late in the day. Stop it, Paul, I reprimanded myself. No time for recriminations now; just let’s see what can be done to save Polly.
I wasn’t sure anything could be done. But no way could I let things be and see 20 years of friendship, with its provision of such marvellous entertainment, just slip away in an agonising and slow death.
‘We’ll set things up on the kitchen table here in case I operate once we’ve caught her up,’ I said, a decision at last made. I didn’t want to put Polly through the trauma of being caught up more than once – assuming that she had sufficient strength left in her to survive being handled in the first place. Jodie fetched my black bag and sterile op packs from my car while Mum cleared the kitchen table – blue Formica – the same table at which I’d teased Polly with the piece of toast many years back. With that memory, my eyes started to itch, my throat felt dry, as I fearfully contemplated what lay ahead and the most likely outcome – an echo of Ollie.
Dad led Mum quietly out of the kitchen, Mum with her arms folded, her hands at her elbows, clutching and unclutching them, while Jodie and I set to work preparing for a possible operation, laying drapes over the table, sliding the instruments and swabs onto them and drawing up the estimated dose of ketamine required to anaesthetise Polly. I worried that I’d miscalculate as I felt I may have done with Ollie. But it was a risk I’d have to take. I was aware my self-confidence was draining away. It was the firm grip of Jodie’s hand on my arm, the look she gave me, and the words ‘If anyone can save her, you can …’ that helped me to rally.
It was an easy task to extract Polly from the confines of the cage, wrapped in the towel Mum provided. She didn’t struggle, not once. Lifting her up, I found she was as light as a feather, almost emaciated. She did squawk, though. A series of piercing, frightened shrieks which tore through me as I pulled one of her legs clear of the towel and injected the anaesthetic into her thigh.
‘I’m sorry, Polly,’ I wept, ‘but it’s got to be done.’
Her shrieks died away as, within minutes, she slipped into unconsciousness. I laid her out, on her back, on the table and Jodie taped down her outstretched wings as instructed. I then set to work plucking the feathers from Polly’s neck to expose the tumour. I disinfected the area and covered it with a green drape that had a hole in its centre to allow me to tackle the growth’s removal. It was large, a misshapen raspberry of tissue pressing on her windpipe; and it looked angry and swollen, tiny blood vessels pumping round its perimeter as I dissected it away from the incision I’d made in her skin. But it shelled out easier than I’d expected, with no damage to the underlying bed of nerves and blood vessels glistening beneath. Carefully, I sewed her neck up and she was placed on a wodge of cotton wool in the bottom of her cage to recover. Anxiously, we sat round, Mum and Dad joining us, cups of tea made and sipped while we waited.
As the anaesthetic wore off, Polly rolled onto her side, legs kicking out, until they made contact with the side of the cage, whereupon she clung to the bars, pulling herself over so as to be able to grip one of them with her beak. Then slowly … oh, so slowly that it was painful to watch, she hauled herself up the bars, twice dropping back down until, on the third attempt, she reached the perch and levered herself onto it, where she swayed backwards and forwards but managed to stay on.
That evening she threw a fit. With a sickening rattle in her throat, she toppled off her perch and collapsed in a corner of her cage. Her shrieks of distress brought tears to my eyes but I didn’t dare handle her for fear of killing her with the extra stress involved. So with a heavy heart, I switched off the light and prayed she’d survive the night.
My own survival that night was another matter. In my concern for Polly’s welfare, I hadn’t made it clear to Jodie as to whether we’d be staying at my parents’ overnight. I’d thrown a few things together and I noticed she’d brought an overnight bag, so I guessed she was prepared for any eventuality – ready to bunk down wherever. In my bed, maybe?
However, there was a guest room. Once Mum realised we were going to stay and see how Polly was the next day, she tactfully said the bed in there was made up. Some
how, it didn’t seem right to share a bed under my parents’ roof, and even more inappropriate with Polly downstairs, fighting for her life. But I didn’t object when, slipping into sleep, I heard my door creak open, the rustle of my bedclothes, and felt the warmth of Jodie’s body as she curled herself round my buttocks and slid her hand over my thigh and murmured, ‘Hello, big boy.’
I finally rose from an empty bed just after seven, hearing the agitated whispers of my parents down in the kitchen. I threw my clothes on, pounded down the stairs, wondering just what I was going to be confronted by. A dead parrot?
I pushed open the door and walked in. Mum and Dad turned to me. ‘She’s still with us,’ said Mum, the relief evident in her voice.
I looked over at Polly’s cage and saw she was on her perch, a little shaky, but gripping it with grim determination. I walked over. As I drew near, she tottered across, and, putting her head down, pressed it against the bars for a scratch, and said in my voice, albeit a very croaky voice, ‘Watch’er, mate.’ I sensed then that she would pull through. I was ecstatic.
‘I was so worried,’ said Mum, filling the kettle. ‘I could hardly sleep a wink all night. Heard you tossing and turning … and moaning quite a bit. So I guess you had a bad night as well.’
‘But not that bad, eh, son?’ said Dad with a wink and a thumbs up behind Mum’s back.
‘Well, it was a long day for all of us,’ said Mum, pulling some teabags out of a caddie. ‘So we don’t mind if Jodie wants a lie in. But perhaps you’d like to take her up a mug of tea and see what she wants for breakfast.’
I saw the smirk on Dad’s face when the tea was made and I took the two mugs Mum was proffering me. I knew what Jodie would like. So did my father. Really, as if I would, Dad. But I did.
Breakfast consisted of a full English; and it seemed a bit weird to be eating at the table where only a few hours earlier I’d been operating on Polly. She even participated in the meal, taking a small portion of toast liberally spread with butter; and she seemed to have no problem in eating it. I guessed, with the tumour removed, the pressure on her throat had been instantly relieved, so making it easier to swallow and breathe. She was certainly more perky by mid-morning, almost as perky as me, quite cocky, in fact. Mum noticed my buoyant mood and remarked on it, saying how pleased I must have felt to have done what I did. Dad caught my eye and just smirked again as he glanced across at Jodie. Honestly. Fathers!
Whatever the reason, be it the successful operation on Polly or the sex with Jodie, who, despite our intense couplings, had managed to maintain a demure innocence throughout breakfast, I had this tremendous sense of elation akin to the feelings I had when I’d graduated the previous summer. That suddenly jolted my memory.
‘Hey,’ I exclaimed, checking the date on my watch. Mum, Dad and Jodie froze. ‘It’s the sixth of June. A year to the day when I learnt I’d passed my Finals.’
‘Yes, and you took yourself over to the Dorset coast for a celebratory walk if you remember,’ said Mum.
‘On your own?’ queried Jodie.
‘On his own,’ answered Dad. ‘Chapman’s Pool, I think.’
‘Oh, Hardy country,’ exclaimed Jodie. ‘One of my favourite parts of the world.’
Dad finished the dregs of his tea and said, ‘Well, why don’t you get Paul to take you over there today? Unless, that is, you have to get back.’ He raised a hand to his eyebrow and made a pretence of scratching it with a finger to cover the wink he gave me.
‘Would you?’ Jodie turned eagerly to me.
‘I’m sure she’ll appreciate it,’ chipped in Mum.
‘I bet she will,’ added Dad. ‘It’s a nice day for it.’
Oh boy … he was at it again.
So that’s how, an hour later, Jodie and I found ourselves clambering out of my car at the foot of the cliffs that stretched up from Chapman’s Pool, first to breathe in the cool, salt-laden sea breeze that was blowing across the cove, then to pick our way down onto the boulder-strewn beach and along to the shale under-cliffs in search of fossils. Undaunted by not finding any, we began the ascent of the steep cliff path, hand in hand, hauling our way up – the same path I’d scaled the previous summer on an equally gorgeous June day, the sun beating down from an azure sky, the waves crashing on the rocks below me, kittiwakes and guillemots winging across the surf and weaving in the eddies of breeze that buffeted the sheer cliffs and fanned up into my face. It had been heaven then. It was heaven now. Only this time, sharing it with Jodie made it all the more special.
In my solitary climb, my spirits had soared at the prospects ahead of me, prospects that materialised into the practice I was now in. A year of learning, a year of coping, a year of gaining confidence in the treatment of animals of all shapes and sizes. Those pets on parade, and their unforgettable owners: Madam Mountjoy; the Stockwell twins; Ernie Entwhistle and Bess; the Coles with their Boxer, Henry.
When Jodie and I reached the summit and lay stretched out on the cliff edge in a cocoon of soft, dry grass, a turf dotted with clumps of pink thrift and banks of gorse, their sweet, coconut scent drifting through the air, I was lulled by the muted drone of bees, the distant, raucous cries of gulls echoing up from the surf far below, and felt the warmth of Jodie’s lips come down on mine. My spirits soared as they had done a year ago. I became a kite, swaying and dipping through the shimmering blue above me. High … higher … higher still.
Maybe Jodie was pulling my strings. But at that precise moment, suspended between heaven and earth, I was flying so high, I wished it would last forever.
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First published in paperback in 2012
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Pets on Parade (Prospect House 2) Page 25