A Head Full of Magic, page 9
“That’s it!” Mr Augustus yelled. “The field is out of bounds until I’ve had a chance to conduct a thorough risk assessment.”
“What about our hair and clothes?” I asked, still reeling from the stench of poo and Sir Barclay betrayal. “My T-shirt’s ruined. There’s no way this stuff will come off using paper towels.” I brushed my cheek. It reminded me of sandpaper.
“Right, of course,” he replied, suddenly full of concern. “Try a large splodge of soap onto a warm, wet, paper towel first. That should do the trick. If there isn’t a suitable top in the lost property box, then you can borrow one of my cardigans.”
Great. This wasn’t just the worst Monday ever; this was the worst day of my life. And all because of that scrunched up, dirty-bottomed parrot. There was no point being able to talk to animals. This gift wasn’t special at all. It was worthless. Just like every word that had come out of Sir Barclay’s beak, and I knew I had been right all along. I HATED birds.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Spotty Tailfeathers
I had already decided that rocks were too hard. Sticks were a bit pointless—he wasn’t a dog—and shoes were rather limiting. Unless you could put lots of different types of shoes into a bag and fire them like rounds of ammunition. Cushions, on the other hand, would do the job perfectly. Feather cushions to be precise, as they’re plump and heavy, and don’t make a noise when they land on the floor. Bonus.
I could casually walk up to Nan’s attic-room, pretend to peer out of her Velux window, then WALLOP. I’d fire patchwork cushion, after cushion, after cushion, towards the treacherous fluffball, and give him a dose of his own medicine for covering me and the rest of our hockey team in his revolting poo.
I burst through the front door, eager to get hold of Nan’s cushions, and quickly dumped my bag in the hallway. The strap had rubbed against my neck, which was already sore from being scrubbed with paper towels earlier. I spotted a note from Mum stuck to the end of the banister, informing me she had taken Nan out for a drive to the chemist to pick up a prescription. Good. I could deploy my cushion hurling plan immediately and without being told off.
Upstairs, I launched one of Nan’s window seat cushions towards Sir Barclay who, up until that point, had been enjoying a late afternoon rest in a sunbeam.
WALLOP!
He shot out of his feathers just in the nick of time. Drat.
“Squawk! What in the name of. . . Fleur Marie! What are you doing? Squawk!”
WALLOP!
I launched the second cushion, even harder this time, yet somehow, I still missed. If I’m honest, I always thought Sir Barclay was a little overweight, which I put down to all the cheese and biscuits he scoffs, but as it turns out, his heavy frame is actually quite light. He’s basically all feathers and beak, which was bad news for me, as he was proving to be more agile and difficult to clout than I expected.
“Squawk! She’s gone mad! Somebody call the police! Squawk! Or the army! Squawk! Or my mummy! In fact, scrap that, call Fleur’s mummy. Cindy! Where are you? Your daughter appears to have lost her mind!”
He flapped over to the window, knowing full well that I couldn’t hurl anything else at him for fear it might land on some poor soul loitering underneath, or worse still, Mrs Naylor’s prized flowerpot.
“Do you know what, Sir Barclay? Squawk away! Nobody’s coming to rescue you. It’s just you and me.”
The upset of the day had grabbed hold of me like a boa constrictor, squeezing its body tight around my throat and preventing me from wriggling away.
Sir Barclay looked aghast.
“I knew I could never in a million years trust you, but I tried, honestly I did, for Nan. Like we agreed. Only you turned your back on our agreement, didn’t you? For Celeste! And why? Because you’re jealous of Nan playing chess with me instead of you! Ridiculous! Is that why you keep pinching our chess pieces too?” I shrieked. “Or is the real reason you keep taking them because your bird brain is so small, that you can’t actually play?”
It was immediately clear I had ruffled Sir Barclay Wigbert Titus Smythe’s royal feathers as he snapped his head forward in repulsion.
“Squawk! How dare you!” he replied. “I have nothing but the greatest respect for your nan. Squawk! Something, which indeed you could benefit from learning.”
“Respect? Oh, that’s a good one coming from someone who poos his way out of his problems!”
I heard a long, sharp, sucking noise that sounded a bit like a whistle. Only it wasn’t. Sir Barclay had inhaled the longest breath ever recorded and almost turned purple.
“I BEG YOUR PARDON?” he squawked. “I have never. Squawk! Nor will I, ever, poo my way out of anything! What do you think I am? Some kind of animal?”
I might only be ten years old, but we had recently learned about rhetorical questions in school, and this felt like it might be one, so I decided to keep quiet for a minute.
Silence.
And then another minute.
And then one more.
And then a final one for luck.
“Alright then,” I said, “how many other scrunched-up African Grey feather-bags are there ‘coincidentally’ lurking about in the school playground that you know of? Conveniently ready to aim, and fire, a bum-full of pineapple cheese and crackers at us while we’re trying to beat Celeste and her terrible team at hockey?”
Sir Barclay’s feet wobbled on the ledge of the Velux window as he leaned further in. Now I had his full attention.
“You mean, somebody actually pooed on you during your practice match? On purpose?”
“Duh!” I said, tapping the side of my plait before I extended my arms to display the full horror of Mr Augustus’s spare mustard top.
Why was he pretending to be clueless? It wasn’t every day I came home with flaky bits of bird poo stuck to my ears. It didn’t make any sense.
“Squawk! But that’s preposterous!” he said. “Why would anyone do such a thing?” He flew to his Birdrobe and rested on the top perch.
This animal was becoming more infuriating by the second. If I knew the answer to that, would I be standing in front of his wrinkled face, wasting my breath?
“Do you think,” he began, after a few seconds of pondering. “What I mean is, could it be in any shape or form as a result of you wearing that dreadful top? What colour is it anyway?”
It was an undeniably horrendous colour, but it was either accept Mr Augustus’s cotton mix top or stay in my own foul T-shirt. I didn’t fancy prolonging the stares and giggles from everyone who had become fascinated with my bird poo encrusted face, neck, and hair, so I reluctantly changed. I spent my entire lunchbreak trying to scrub it off my skin and it still wouldn’t budge. It was like concrete.
“It’s mustard, if you must know, and I didn’t exactly have much choice in the matter. I can’t get this stuff off. Seriously, what did you eat?”
“I keep telling you, Fleur, it wasn’t me. Do you really think I’d betray you, your nan, and our plan, over a silly squabble through a hospital window? I thought we’d moved on from that. Squawk!”
“So did I! But maybe Celeste came up with a fancier plan that you couldn’t ignore!”
“I’ve never spoken to Celeste! Honestly, Fleur, you’re not making any sense.”
I sighed. I was already exhausted from the poo-fest, and the shouting had begun to make my head bang too. I knew what I had seen. Sir Barclay and Celeste were communicating with each other, I just hadn’t figured out why.
“Well, if it wasn’t you, then who was it?”
Sir Barclay dipped his head up and down whilst simultaneously side-clawing along his perch. “Squawk! I don’t know,” he eventually replied. “Are you sure it wasn’t a pigeon? They really are the vilest creatures especially with their toilet habits. We’ve all tried telling them not to keep eating crumbs off the ground, but they never listen. Squawk!”
I tried to scratch a lump of white bird poo off my elbow, but it wasn’t shifting.
“It wasn’t a pigeon, Sir Barclay. It was an African Grey parrot with a face like yours.” He immediately made the horrible, breath-sucking whistle noise again. “Okay, what I meant was, it looked like it had a face like yours.” He loosened his body.
“Squawk! Just because we’re all grey, doesn’t make us all identical you know. We each have our own special features. Not quite the same as your special gifts, but special to us, nevertheless.”
My special gift didn’t feel very special today, but I knew what he meant. I didn’t feel like I was any closer to getting an explanation from him either.
“So, what’s your special feature then?” I asked, keen to pursue other ‘it might not have been Sir Barclay who pooed on us all’ scenarios. He twitched his beak.
“Squawk! If you must know, it’s my eyes. To the normal, unappreciative human, they are purely black and white. Squawk! But if you look closer, you can see that mine have faint swirls of red within my pupils.”
I crept closer to him, half expecting him to fly off. I wasn’t going to throw any more cushions at him, but he didn’t know that which is why he followed my movements across the room with extra suspicion.
“Can you see?” he asked, as I stood directly in front of him.
I could. They were beautiful. A small vortex of colour swirled in each eye.
“I thought you were going to say your spotty tailfeathers,” I replied. “I hadn’t noticed them properly until today, and they’re quite something too, aren’t they?”
Sir Barclay frowned. “Squawk! I don’t have spots on my tailfeathers. Squawk!”
I stood back and peered at his bottom. His feathers had a thin red stripe along the ends and not a white spot in sight. This was weird. Something was wrong.
“No, it’s not possible. Squawk! It couldn’t be. . . could it? Squawk!”
“What couldn’t it be?” Now he was the one not making any sense. Something was afoot because he was pacing like he did at the bench before Nan’s dizzy spell.
“I don’t have any special spots on my tail feathers. Squawk! But someone special to me does.”
It smacked me in the face like projectile parrot poo. It was so obvious.
“Your wife!” I shouted. “Dame Genevieve Monroe Ophelia Smythe!”
“Squawk! Exactly, Fleur! She’s alive! Squawk! She’s alive!” He repeatedly nodded his head in excitement. “She must’ve been petrified of you all. Squawk! It’s an instinctive reaction, you see, all the pooing. It’s basically a sign of distress. My poor Jenny Jen. Fleur, we’ve got to find her.”
I held off with the clapping and congratulatory cheers for a moment, preferring instead to tap my chin with one of my plaits. It was perhaps fair enough that Dame Genevieve didn’t engage with my pitch-side conversation, but she had engaged with Celeste. There had to be more to it.
“I’m not sure, Sir Barclay. She didn’t look petrified to me. She looked in control, and it certainly felt targeted towards our red team. Why else would the yellows get away poo-free?”
“CELESTE!” we both shrieked.
“If she’s as mean as you say she is, then she must have put Jenny Jen up to it. She must be keeping her somewhere! At her house perhaps? Squawk! Hurry up, let’s go. Because if we find Celeste, we might find Dame Genevieve and your nan’s book at the same time. Squawk!”
Yes, he was right. This was much more plausible than Sir Barclay turning rogue and doing a runner with Celeste. I felt guilty for even thinking it and tried to forget my mistake by jogging on the spot, and playfully kicking Nan’s cushions to celebrate.
Sir Barclay flapped excitedly and flew around Nan’s room performing somersaults. I stopped playing cushion-football and caught my breath.
“There’s one thing we’ve missed,” I said now, standing still and being serious.
“What’s that? Squawk!”
“If Celeste did give Dame Genevieve orders, then surely. . .”
“Surely what? Squawk!”
“Surely she must be an Animalator too.”
The penny had dropped, along with our faces.
The door creaked open as Sir Barclay and I gazed at each other, both numb and surrounded by Nan’s beach-themed, patchwork cushions, which lay strewn across the bedroom floor. Nan leaned against the wall, holding onto the door handle for extra balance.
“Who must be an Animalator?” she asked, clutching a white paper bag.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Shoddy Shed
There was only one thing more annoying than Mum’s burnt cooking, and that was the fact that she wouldn’t leave Nan alone. Nan had barely placed one un-matching slippered foot in her own room, when Mum dashed up the stairs behind her, destroying any chance of a magic-related chat.
It was lovely having Nan back in the attic again. It felt normal and cosy. At least it did once I picked up Nan’s cushions. . . apart from Mum’s constant presence. I helped Nan into her armchair under Mum’s watchful eye, and she playfully thumped down, lifting both feet hidden inside one green and one purple slipper. Nan and I had a lot to catch up on, but it would have to wait until Mum left us alone.
“Has anyone seen my notebook?” Nan slid her hand down each side of her chair.
I gulped and looked at Sir Barclay, who discreetly switched the kettle on with his claw, while Mum laid out Nan’s bedclothes.
“No,” I said innocently. I pushed the squashy footstool right up to Nan’s chair and sat directly opposite.
“I’ll have a look downstairs later,” Mum said, turning her back on us to straighten Nan’s pillows. “I might’ve taken it down by accident when I tidied up earlier.”
I puffed out, relieved knowing Mum’s comment was a complete stroke of luck, and that she wouldn’t find it anywhere. I couldn’t take my eyes off Nan’s un-matching slippers, further evidence that recent news reports about flying arms, legs, and slippers, were somehow linked to Nan.
Nan’s eyes twinkled as she caught me examining her slippers. “Everything all right, baby?” She covered one side of her mouth with her hand and whispered to me while Mum’s back was turned, “Have you got something you’d like to ask me? Or are you just going to sit there staring at my feet all day?” She raised her eyebrows then popped a peppermint in her mouth from a little round tin stuffed in her cardigan pocket.
“I’m fine,” I said. I smiled when I realised Mum was looking our way while folding Nan’s clothes. “Now you’re up here where you belong. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come home.”
Mum suddenly burst into tears. “Agreed!” She stopped folding and pulled us together for a hug. “Now look what you’ve done! I’m a blubbering wreck! Let’s put some music on quickly to cheer us all up.” She walked over to Nan’s radio, switched it on, and jiggled her hips while she continued sorting Nan’s nighties.
Nan nodded along. “Don’t fill your mind with ‘what ifs’. They only distract you from what’s here.”
Nan always worried about my mind. Maybe it was time I gave it some care.
“What were you trying to tell me at the hospital the other day?” I whispered.
Nan checked that Mum was occupied, crunched her mint and swallowed. “I’m glad you asked, because—”
“Right, Fleur Marie!” Mum said above the music. “Your nan’s had quite enough excitement for one day. Come and do your homework downstairs. You can keep me company while I cook tea.”
“But Nan’s fine! Aren’t you? We were just about to play a relaxing game of chess, weren’t we?”
I made sure to use all the right words associated with rest and recovery, but Mum was adamant Nan needed peace so there was little point in me arguing.
“It’s fine, baby,” Nan said holding up her palm to calm the mood. “Do as your mum says. All the excitement of choosing pills at the chemist has tired me out.” Nan smiled as I stood, and Mum walked towards the door. “Yes, a nice relaxing half-hour up here watching the world go by,” Nan continued, holding my gaze tight. “It’s not like I can fly about and cause any mischief, is it?” She winked at me knowingly as Mum chortled at Nan’s suggestion.
Only Nan wasn’t kidding, and she knew I understood her hidden joke. Nan held out her arms for a hug and gently pulled me in.
“Your mum will mellow soon, baby, don’t worry. She’s got a kind heart and only wants to look after us,” she whispered as she gave me the biggest cuddle.
“I know,” I said, melting into her body. “I missed you, Nan.”
“I missed you more,” she replied, planting a whiskery kiss on my cheek. “We’ll talk properly soon I promise, and in the meantime, you’ve always got Sir Barclay!”
My heart pounded but I didn’t pull away. I reciprocated with a kiss on her cheek, which smelled of a cross between antiseptic cream, aniseed rock, and toothpaste. Mum coughed impatiently from the door, and Nan patted me on the back—gentle reassurance that confirmed she knew I was an Animalator.
I waited until Mum’s favourite antiques programme was in full swing before I spoke to Sir Barclay again as it felt too risky with her hovering around.
“Where are you going?” Mum asked as I shuffled off the sofa.
“I’m going to Ruby’s for a bit, if that’s alright?”
“Ah that’s nice. Course I don’t mind. Back before teatime though.”
“Got it,” I said, already heading up to my room for my jumper.
“Squawk! You took your time, didn’t you?”
Sir Barclay had flapped down from Nan’s room and was currently perched on my bedroom windowsill, which he had never done before today.
“What are we going to do now?” I asked. “Start looking for Dame Genevieve before she disappears again?”
“Squawk! I’ve already flown uptown, over the school, and Farrow Park, and it’s all clear. She could be anywhere. How can we even be sure Celeste has her? Squawk!”
I flushed with anger. “She’s got her. I don’t know how or where, but that horrible little twerp has managed to get everything that belongs to us.”
“Squawk! I know you’re upset, but you’re not unkind. Try not to let her get to you.”
