Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [81]
‘The flat’s too small anyway,’ said Lucy.
‘Exactly.’
I saw her looking at me in a funny way. I knew Lucy well enough by now to know that look. It didn’t bode well. A niggle of worry began to worm through me.
‘Lucy … you’re not suggesting …’
‘Well, Willow Wren would be perfect. It’s certainly big enough.’
‘Crystal wouldn’t allow it.’ I saw that look flash back into her eyes. ‘Lucy! You haven’t …’
‘She said it was fine by her but to ask you. She and Eric are looking forward to coming.’
Hmm. Seems it was a done deal. I could hardly turn round and veto it without appearing to be a complete party pooper.
‘And what’s this about it being fancy dress?’
‘Mandy’s idea … thought fancy dress would be a bit of fun. What were you wearing when the ship went down?’
It was enough to make my heart sink, let alone a ship. I had visions of Willow Wren ending up a wreck.
In the event, it all went quite smoothly, and most people made an effort to dress up. With her wings of black hair, I thought Beryl could have come as a crow’s nest. But she turned up in her standard black trousers and top purporting to be the ship’s cat. With her long, claw-like nails and whiskery face she quite looked the part. Eric came as a stoker; he wore a dirty vest hanging out of grubby trousers, his face smeared with coal dust.
‘Doesn’t look much different to normal,’ Beryl whispered to me, hand cupped to the side of her mouth. Catty, very catty … she was playing her part well.
Crystal cruised through the crowd, very debonair as the ship’s captain in crisp, white uniform and gold braid on those lovely shaped shoulders of hers. She could grab my bulwarks any time.
Lucy ummed and aaahed for days beforehand, wondering what to wear. In the end, she decided on a long, white nightgown and powdered her face and arms with flour.
‘What are you supposed to be?’ I queried unwisely as she thumped down the stairs, resembling a rolled-out slab of pastry.
‘A ship’s ghost, of course.’
She was thoroughly miffed when Mandy materialised in similar mode though, with her dumpy figure and naturally pallid complexion, Mandy looked the more frightful of the two.
And me? Well, I plumped for Long John Silver. I had some baggy breeches, a large buckled belt, a black, leather waistcoat and eye-patch. I stopped short of doing the one-legged bit in case I got legless.
‘What about having Liza on your shoulder?’ joked Lucy. ‘I know she’s not an Amazon Green but she’d do.’
The idea didn’t appeal; I had visions of Liza being frightened by the crowd and flying around, panic stricken, landing, claws outstretched, in someone’s hair, à la Mrs Smethurst. Instead, I visited the theatrical outfitters in Westcott.
‘I’m afraid the best parrots are doing the rounds in rehearsals for Treasure Island,’ apologised the assistant. ‘This is all we have left.’
I viewed the two stuffed birds on offer. The African Grey shed a cloud of feathers as soon as I picked it up. Not a pretty polly.
‘How about the Amazon Green, then?’ said the assistant, holding up the other bird.
By the looks of it, the parrot hadn’t stood up too well to the ravages of countless pantomimes. Its emerald plumage was dull and dusty with a crumpled appearance accentuated by a wodge of flock sticking out between its legs and an eye dangling by a thread. But better the bird in hand than the one on the counter, so I hired it.
With the party in full swing, I paraded around with the Amazon Green wired to the shoulder of my jacket. Liza squawked with jealousy when she saw it but was soon overwhelmed by the attention given her by the partygoers. She was inundated with titbits. The following morning, I was to discover her cage floor littered with crisps, cocktail sticks with bits of pineapple still skewered to them, Twiglets, sausage rolls and, smeared to the bars, dollops of pâté.
Mandy floated over to me, merry on vodka and lime. ‘Who’s a pretty boy?’ she said, her unfocussed eyes staring up. Now was she referring to me or the parrot on my shoulder? I assumed me, as I didn’t have an eye dangling out