This was all the more odd, for it was seldom the old fellow came out with a new phrase, and Jack would have laughed heartily, except it sounded too pathetic. So he carefully examined the poor bird, and finding no injury beyond the loss of a handful of feathers from his neck, he replaced him on the perch, and turned to reassure Edna, who now appeared in the doorway.
Is he dead? cried she.
No, said Jack. He's had a bit of shock, though. Something got hold of him.
I'll bring him a piece of sugar, said Edna. That's what he loves. That'll make him feel better.
She soon brought the sugar, which Tom took in his claw, but though usually he would nibble it up with the greatest avidity, this time he turned his lack-lustre eye only once upon it, and gave a short, bitter, despairing sort of laugh, and let it fall to the ground.
Let him rest, said Jack. He has had a bad tousling.
It was a cat, said Edna. It was one of those beastly cats the men have at the camp.
Maybe, said Jack. On the other hand I don't know. I thought I saw an enormous bird flying away.
It couldn't be an eagle, said Edna. There are none ever seen here.
I know, said Jack. Besides, they don't fly at night. Nor do the buzzards. It might have been an owl, I suppose. But
But what? said Edna.
But it looked very much larger than an owl, said Jack.
It was your fancy, said Edna. It was one of those beastly cats that did it.
This point was discussed very frequently during the next few days. Everybody was consulted, and everybody had an opinion. Jack might have been a little doubtful at first, for he had caught only the briefest glimpse as the creature crossed the moon, but opposition made him more certain, and the discussions sometimes got rather heated.
Charlie says it was all your imagination, said Edna. He says no owl would ever attack a parrot.
How the devil does he know? said Jack. Besides, I said it was bigger than an owl.
He says that shows you imagine things, said Edna.
Perhaps he would like me to think I do, said Jack. Perhaps you both would.
Oh, Jack! cried Edna. She was deeply hurt, and not without reason, for it showed that Jack was still thinking of a ridiculous mistake he had made, a real mistake, of the sort that young husbands sometimes do make, when they come suddenly into a room and people are startled without any real reason for it. Charlie was young and free and easy and good-looking, and he would put his hand on your shoulder without even thinking about it, and nobody minded.
I should not have said that, said Jack.
No, indeed you shouldn't, said Edna, and she was right.
The parrot said nothing at all. All these days he had been moping and ailing, and seemed to have forgotten even how to ask for sugar. He only groaned and moaned to himself, ruffled up his feathers, and every now and then shook his head in the most rueful, miserable way you can possibly imagine.
One day, however, when Jack came home from work, Edna put her finger to her lips and beckoned him to the window. Watch Tom, she whispered.
Jack peered out. There was the old bird, lugubriously climbing down from his perch and picking some dead stalks from the vine, which he carried up till he gained a corner where the balustrade ran into the wall, and added his gatherings to others that were already there. He trod round and round, twisted his stalks in and out, and, always with the same doleful expression, paid great attention to the nice disposition of a feather or two, a piece of wood, a fragment of cellophane. There was no doubt about it.
There's no doubt about it, said Jack.
He's making a nest! cried Edna.
He! cried Jack. He! I like that. The old impostor! The old male impersonator! She's going to lay an egg. Thomasina that's her name from now on.
Thomasina it was. Two or three days later the matter was settled beyond the shadow of a doubt. There, one morning, in the ramshackle nest, was an egg.
I thought she was sick because of that shaking she got, said Jack. She was broody, that's all.
It's a monstrous egg, said Edna. Poor birdie.
What do you expect, after God knows how many years? said Jack, laughing. Some birds lay eggs nearly as big as themselves the kiwi or something. Still, I must admit it's a whopper.
She doesn't look well, said Edna.
Indeed, the old parrot looked almost as sick as a parrot can be, which is several times sicker than any other living creature. Her eyes closed up, her head sank, and if a finger was put out to scratch her she turned her beak miserably away. However, she sat conscientiously on the prodigious egg she had laid, though every day she seemed a little feebler than before.
Perhaps we ought to take the egg away, said Jack. We could get it blown, and keep it as a memento.
No, said Edna. Let her have it. It's all she's had in all these years.
Here Edna made a mistake, and she realized it a few mornings later. Jack, she called. Do come. It's Tom Thomasina, I mean. I'm afraid she's going to die.
We ought to have taken the egg away, said Jack, coming out with his mouth full of breakfast. She's exhausted herself. It's no good, anyway. It's bound to be sterile.
Look at her! cried Edna.
She's done for, said Jack, and at that moment the poor old bird keeled over and gasped her last.
The egg killed her, said Jack, picking it up. I said it would. Do you want to keep it? Oh, good Lord! He put the egg down very quickly. It's alive, he said.
What? said Edna. What do you mean?
It gave me a turn, said Jack. It's most extraordinary. It's against nature. There's a chick inside that egg, tapping.
Let it out, said Edna. Break the shell.
I was right, said Jack. It was a bird I saw. It must have been a stray parrot. Only it looked so big.
I'm going to break the shell with a spoon, said Edna, running to fetch one.
It'll be a lucky bird, said Jack when she returned. Born with a silver spoon in its beak, so to speak. Be careful.
I will, said Edna. Oh, I do hope it lives!
With that she gingerly cracked the shell, the tapping increased, and soon they saw a well-developed beak tearing its way through. In another moment the chick was born.
Golly! cried Jack. What a monster!
It's because it's young, said Edna. It'll grow lovely. Like its mother.
Maybe,said Jack. I must be off. Put it in the nest. Feed it pap. Keep it warm. Don't monkey with it too much. Goodbye, my love.
That morning Jack telephoned home two or three times to find out how the chick was, and if it ate. He rushed home at lunchtime. In the evening everyone came round to peep at the nestling and offer advice.
Charlie was there. It ought to be fed every hour at least, said he. That's how it is in nature.
He's right, said Jack. For the first month at least, that's how it should be.
It looks as if I'm going to be tied down a bit, said Edna ruefully.
I'll look in when I pass and relieve your solitude, said Charlie.
I'll manage to rush home now and then in the afternoons, said Jack, a little too thoughtfully.
Certainly the hourly feeding seemed to agree with the chick, which grew at an almost alarming speed. It became covered with down, feathers sprouted; in a few months it was fully grown, and not in the least like its mother. For one thing, it was coal-black.
It must be a hybrid, said Jack. There is a black parrot; I've seen them in zoos. They didn't look much like this, though. I've half a mind to send a photograph of him somewhere.