The Beak Speaks Page 2

  Anyhow, Miss Pettigrew was marking my maths and out of the blue she asked me how my father was getting on. ‘Is he still on his own?’

  ‘He’s got Tammy and me,’ I said.

  ‘I bet you and Tammy look after him very well too. But your father is such a good-looking man. Doesn’t he have a lady in his life?’

  ‘A girlfriend?’

  Miss Pettigrew coughed. ‘I think “girlfriend” sounds a bit young. He needs an older woman. I thought that by now he might have a lady he likes.’

  I shook my head and Miss Pettigrew didn’t say any more about it. But I was already thinking. Miss Pettigrew was right. Dad should have a lady friend. He needed a lady friend. But how on earth could he find one?

  Sanjeev suggested the local newspaper. It comes out once a week and it has a Lonely Hearts column. He brought one to school to show me.

  ‘There are loads of messages from men and women looking for friends. Here’s one:

  Lady, bubbly redhead, stunningly attractive, 35, wishes to meet handsome, rich man, GSOH, with houses in France and Jamaica.’

  ‘What does a lady with a bubbling red head look like?’ I asked. ‘She sounds like a Martian. Anyhow, I’ll never be able to persuade Dad to write to someone himself. I’d have to put an advert in for him. What sorts of things do the ads say?’

  ‘How about this?’ Sanjeev began.

  ‘Gentleman, 75, GSOH, enjoys fast wheelchairs, seeks lovely lady with own old people’s home.’

  ‘Why do they keep saying GSOH? What does that mean?’

  ‘I think it’s a short way of saying Good Set Of Hair,’ Sanjeev explained.

  And that was how my neat idea was born. I talked to Tammy about it and she thought it was great. I had to swear her to secrecy. I said that if she told anyone, her teddy’s eyes would fall out, so she’s taken it very seriously.

  The biggest problem was how to pay for the ad. I had a little pocket money, but I had to earn the rest of the money as best I could, and that meant washing Dad’s Land Rover.

  I hate washing the Land Rover. It gets filthy outside AND in. Dad has to put animals inside, and sometimes they throw up or have a wee or worse, and they leave their hair all over the place and it just STINKS.

  I did that for about a month, although it felt more like a year, until I had the money, and then Tammy and I sat down and we wrote an ad for Dad.

  Peter, 34, tall, dark, handsome vet, GSOH, is looking for a nice lady to come and look after him. Small Paws Animal Clinic.

  Tammy nodded and stuck her thumb in her mouth. ‘What does “handsome” mean?’ she asked.

  ‘Good looking.’

  ‘His ears stick out,’ said Tamsin.

  ‘No, they don’t!’

  ‘They do, like a donkey.’

  ‘You mean a monkey.’

  Tammy shook her head seriously. ‘Like a donkey,’ she insisted, and her eyes grew really wide and she whispered loudly. ‘Daddy’s ears are HUGE.’

  ‘No, they’re not!’

  ‘And he’s got hairy toes,’ Tammy declared with a frown. ‘I wouldn’t marry anyone with hairy toes. I’m going to marry Robbie at playgroup and he hasn’t got hairy toes.’

  ‘You’re too young to marry,’ I snapped. ‘Look, can we get back to the advert?’

  ‘Will the lady be pretty?’

  ‘I don’t know. We haven’t seen her yet.’

  ‘Will she be my mummy?’

  ‘Would you like that?’

  Tammy thought for a long time and then asked if the lady liked Sugar Pops. Sugar Pops is her favourite breakfast cereal.

  ‘She might.’

  ‘Well, if she does, I think I’ll like her but if she doesn’t, then she’s probably a witch because witches can’t eat Sugar Pops. It makes them explode. Robbie told me.’

  I gave up. How could I talk about such important matters to a four-year-old who thinks her dad’s ears are like a donkey’s and tells you that witches can’t eat Sugar Pops in case they explode? You can see why I have to do all the organizing. I took the letter down to the post box and shoved it in.

  3 Dinah: Too Many Ladies in Waiting

  Oh – is it my turn again? I was nodding off there. Mark does go on a bit. Hang on a sec while I get this feather straight. Got to keep up a good appearance, you know. Now, where was I? Oh yes. I was telling you about Mark’s Bright Ideas. This is a typical one, OK? It happened about a month ago. Mr Peter and I were over in the clinic. He likes my company. (Who wouldn’t?) My cage goes in the corner of the surgery.

  Anyhow, we’d finished at the surgery and Mr Peter was carrying me back to the house. On the way there we heard this distant shouting.

  ‘Help! Dad! Get me down!’

  We looked up and there, right near the top of a tree, was Mark, clinging on to a branch. He was stuck. Not only that, but for some odd reason he had a TV aerial strapped to his head. Mr Peter was gobsmacked.

  He had to call out the fire brigade, and while we were waiting he began asking Mark why he had a TV aerial strapped to his head.

  ‘It’s for the rabbit,’ said Mark.

  Well, there’s an answer for you! We should have known, shouldn’t we? It was for the rabbit. How stupid of us not to realize! I wanted to scream at him – What do you mean, it’s for the rabbit? What rabbit?

  Luckily, Mr Peter more or less screamed it for me. ‘What rabbit?’

  ‘The one in the hutch on the lawn. He looked really bored, Dad, and I thought, the rabbit can watch TV. Then he’ll have something to do.’

  ‘But the rabbit hasn’t got a TV.’

  ‘He has. I put one in his hutch this afternoon, but I couldn’t get a good picture on it and I thought I’d put the aerial higher. I couldn’t climb and carry the aerial, so I put it on my head and now I’m stuck. Get me down, Dad, please.’

  Mr Peter stood there, shaking his head. I sat there on my perch, shaking my head. That’s Mark for you – he’s always doing things like that.

  And then there’s Tamsin. If you think Mark is odd, you should meet Tamsin. She does make me laugh! She’s only four but she’s got more energy than a nuclear power station.

  Come to think of it, you remember I said it was because of Mark that we nearly died? Well, actually it was both of them. It was partly because Mark was trying to fix Mr Peter up with a girlfriend, and partly because Tamsin kept annoying her childminder. She came back one afternoon and Mr Peter asked her what she’d done that day

  ‘I made a crockadipe from an egg box and Nasha helped me paint it,’ she said.

  ‘Lovely. Have you brought the crocodile home?’

  ‘No, cos I put it in a bowl of water and the paint came off and the water went green and the crockadipe went all soggy and fell to bits and Nasha was cross.’

  ‘Oh dear. Why was that?’

  Tamsin shrugged her little shoulders. ‘I don’t know,’ she grumbled.

  ‘It wasn’t a bowl of water, Dad,’ explained Mark. ‘It was a fruit salad that Natasha was making for supper. The paint came off in the fruit juice and the egg box fell to bits. Natasha ended up with a bowl of fruit slices and soggy cardboard lumps all slopping about in green paint. She had to throw it away.’

  ‘No wonder she was cross.’

  ‘Nasha said I was more trouble than a box of monkeys!’ Tammy boasted. (That’s certainly true.)

  Mr Peter seemed annoyed that Tammy had caused so much trouble, but he couldn’t help smiling. ‘I don’t think you should be so proud of being a monkey,’ he began, but Tammy butted in.

  ‘Not one monkey, Daddy, lots of monkeys – a whole boxful, a big box, a big, Big, BIG box as big as a brontosorepuss!’

  I think Tamsin is so clever. Fancy making a crocodile from egg boxes! What a good idea. If only ALL crocodiles were made from egg boxes – there’d be no trouble with them at all, would there? They’d be just about to lunge at you with their snappy jaws all full of teeth and death and then, just before they got you, they’d go all soggy and fall to bits in
the water.

  ‘Oh dear,’ they’d say. ‘I’m a floppy-crocky. Boo hoo.’

  The next day was even worse. I’m not exactly sure what happened, but it had something to do with one of those elastic ropes with a hook at each end. Apparently Tamsin had fastened two of her friends together, back to back, through the window of the playhouse. Clever girl! She’s brilliant! So now there was a toddler on either side and neither of them could get away. They were pushing and pulling and yelling and screaming and eventually the whole lot came tumbling down.

  Natasha said she couldn’t take Tam any longer. She was too much trouble. Boo! Hiss! Measly old Natasha – what a fuss about nothing! She was only having fun. But it meant that Mr Peter no longer had a childminder. He would have to look after Tamsin himself.

  All this happened just as the Lonely Hearts advert came out in the paper. Oh yes, Mark had told me all about it. I said I didn’t think it was a good idea, but of course he didn’t understand me. Humans are so dense. I’ve no idea why we can understand them, but they have no idea what we’re saying. Personally, I think it’s the schools and the teachers. It’s all very well teaching them maths and stuff, but why can’t they learn Mynah Bird? It’s not difficult. I’ve been speaking it since I was a baby. Ha ha. Mynah joke again.

  Anyhow, all of a sudden there’s a phone call from Julie. She’s Mr Peter’s assistant at the clinic and she had just opened up for the morning.

  ‘You’d better come round at once, Peter. I don’t know what’s going on. The waiting room is jam-packed, and they’re all women,’ she explained. ‘They don’t seem to have any pets with them or anything. It’s just – women!’

  Of course, I knew exactly what was going on and so did Mark, but poor Mr Peter – he had no idea at all. He started muttering, ‘Work, work, work, work, work.’ He grabbed my cage and we hurried round to the clinic. The place was heaving! It was wall-to-wall women, in every size, shape and age.

  ‘They were queuing outside when I arrived,’ Julie began. ‘They waved newspapers at me. Something is going on, but don’t ask me what it is.’

  ‘All right, I’ll sort it out. Julie, can you look after Tamsin today and watch the desk here? The childminder won’t take her any more. Can you do that – just today, please? Please?’ Mr Peter was desperate.

  Julie rolled her eyes. Honestly, you’d have thought he was asking her to jump inside a crockadipe, but she said she’d do it. ‘But I’m not sorting out this lot,’ she added, pointing at the crowded waiting room. ‘They’re all yours.’

  The women stared at Mr Peter, looking him up and down. Poor man! He had no idea what he was in for.

  ‘Are you Peter?’ murmured one lady, in a sweet-as-honey voice.

  He coughed nervously. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m Rowena.’ The lady with the honey voice pushed forward, fluttering her long false eyelashes until one fell off, much to the amusement of the others. What a dreadful performance – no style at all.

  ‘And my name is Rachel,’ said another. She grasped Mr Peter’s hand, shaking it and shaking it. ‘My goodness, what warm hands you have. Are you warm all over?’

  They began to crowd round him, wanting to shake his hand or touch his arm. Mr Peter was stuck in the middle, turning bright red and trying to make himself thinner and thinner, and wishing he could disappear.

  These women had all answered the Lonely Hearts ad. They were eyeing him up! I was beginning to enjoy this, and I thought that maybe I could help.

  ‘Custard!’ I cried. ‘Make custard!’

  ‘Shut up, Dinah,’ hissed Mark, while the clamouring ladies closed in on his dad.

  ‘I’m Lindy.’

  ‘Perry.’

  ‘Excuse me, I’m Sharon and I was here before you.’

  ‘You were not!’

  ‘I was so!’

  They started pushing at each other, trying to get to the front of the crowd.

  ‘Ow! You’re treading on my feet!’ complained one lady who I thought looked rather like Miss Pettigrew, even though she was almost unrecognizable behind a large pair of sunglasses. I knew her from the time Mark took me into school.

  ‘Well, they shouldn’t be so big. Besides, old-age pensioners like you should be banned.’

  ‘How dare you!’

  ‘Will you get your elbow out of my chest?’

  ‘Ouch! I’ll get you for that, you little monster!’

  ‘Make custard!’ I cried again. I slipped upside down and began banging my head on the floor of my cage, it was so funny.

  But they didn’t want to make custard and they began fighting instead. Then somebody’s big blonde wig went flying across the clinic like a terrified Persian cat in for neutering.

  ‘Ow! My hair!’

  Arms and legs were waving and kicking all over the place. Shoes went zooming through the air. Handbags were furiously whirled and twirled, occasionally making very loud thuds as they connected with a target, which would immediately let out an even louder yell.

  Mr Peter forced his way across to the reception desk and climbed on top. He opened his mouth, took a deep breath and roared at the top of his voice.

  ‘STOP THIS AT ONCE!’

  The wriggling, writhing heap of bodies on the floor of the clinic froze, just as if someone had pressed the STOP button on a video machine. Everyone stared at him.

  ‘How dare you come into my clinic and behave like wild animals!’ he bellowed. ‘Only wild animals are allowed to behave like, um, wild animals!’

  What a daft thing to say! I expect Mr Peter

  was feeling a bit put out. He tried to sound stern. ‘Someone tell me what this is all about, quietly, or I shall call the police!’

  Sharon pulled a rather torn newspaper from her handbag and pointed to one page. ‘It’s the advert,’ she declared peevishly.

  ‘What advert?’

  ‘The one you put in the paper, in the Lonely Hearts column,’ chorused the women.

  ‘The one I…?’ Mr Peter’s voice trailed off. He had just caught sight of Mark. Uh-oh!

  ‘Mark! Was this another of your Bright Ideas?’

  ‘Sort of,’ said Mark.

  ‘What do you mean, sort of?’

  ‘Sort of – yes. I did it, but Sanjeev thought of it.’

  ‘Sanjeev,’ groaned Mr Peter. ‘I might have known.’

  Mark slipped behind one of the clamouring ladies. I think he was taking cover.

  ‘Is this your son?’ crooned the lady. ‘Isn’t he sweet!’

  ‘No, he isn’t,’ growled Mr Peter. ‘He’s an interfering wotsit! Now, get out of my surgery – all of you. Go on – shoo! Scat!’

  He waved his arms at the women and they backed off like scared mice. Mr Peter saw them out through the door of the clinic and slammed it shut with a sigh of relief. He took a deep breath, turned round and almost jumped out of his skin.

  4 Mark: The Madwoman from Romania

  I could see Dad was surprised. So was I. One woman had stayed behind. Now she rose to her feet. She seemed to glitter as she moved. Her clothes were deeply coloured – dark red velvets, gold brocades and emerald satins. A scarf, threaded with gold and silver, was draped round her neck and over one shoulder. Her arms jangled with bracelets and bangles. Delicate silver earrings dangled from her ears. Her hair seemed to encircle her head like some dense, black galaxy.

  She smiled at Dad as she crossed the room towards him, slipping one arm through his and pulling him towards a chair, so that he could sit down. She smiled again and spoke in a throaty, foreign voice, making her r’s growl.

  ‘Come, Mr Vetman, sit down, you have had shock…’

  ‘I’m still having one,’ Dad murmured.

  ‘Make custard.’ This was Dinah the Mynah. Sometimes she gets words stuck in her tiny brain and keeps repeating them.

  ‘My name – Miriana. I from Romania. I nice lady like it say here.’ Miriana pointed to the advert. ‘Now I make you cup of coffee and I stay and I look after you and this little man and everyon
e is happy No?’

  Little man! Honestly she made me sound like a garden gnome!

  She smiled again at Dad and suddenly flicked a sour glance at Julie. ‘Now I am here she can go home,’ Miriana announced, curling her lip. ‘She too young, like girl.’ Miriana fixed Dad with her dark eyes and growled at him. ‘I woman!’

  Dad was speechless. He seemed to have turned into a statue. He just sat there, staring into the dark pools of her eyes. At last he found his voice.

  ‘Now listen, Miss… um, Mrs…?’

  ‘My name Miriana. I am good for you!’ She flung both arms round him. Dad turned bright red and he tried to grapple with her, but she was like an octopus, clinging to him. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know whether to pull her off, or what.

  ‘I make you happy!’ crooned Miriana.

  ‘I AM happy!’ Dad roared furiously. ‘Will you get off me? Now go! Go! I don’t want a girlfriend!’

  Miriana’s eyes widened. ‘Oh no,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I not your girlfriend.’

  ‘No, you’re not. I’m glad we agree on that,’ snapped Dad.

  ‘I not your girlfriend. I your wife. I be your wife and you be Mr Vetman and I be Mrs Vetman and we have lots of children and we live, how you say? Happy ever forever.’

  ‘Make custard!’ Dinah ordered. She seemed to have custard on the brain.

  ‘Shut up, you crazy bird!’ yelled Dad, leaping to his feet. ‘And you, get out of my surgery! This is not a dating agency. It’s an animal clinic. Go on, get out!’

  But Miriana was not going to give up easily. ‘You want sick animal? I bring sick animal. You wait, I come back.’ Miriana reached the door. She flashed a charming smile. ‘Happy ever forever,’ she growled, and then she vanished.

  Dad spun round and stared at me with a face full of thunder. I suddenly got this sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. He clamped one hand on my shoulder, grabbed Dinah’s cage and steered me back to the house. I didn’t think we were going to end up happy forever at all.