“Madam,” he said, and his voice had the rich accents of Somerset, “Madam, your servant.”
The Tyrolean hat looked rather alarmed at being addressed in this fashion.
“Oh, er..., good day,” she said.
“What may I get you?” inquired Mr Bellow.
“Well, actually, I came to get your advice,” she said. “Er..., it’s about my young nephew. He’s going to be fourteen soon and I want to buy him a bird for his birthday... He’s very keen on birds, you know.”
“A bird,” said Mr Bellow. “A bird. And what kind of bird, what particular species of birds, have you got in mind, madam?”
“Well, I, er..., I don’t really know,” said the lady in the Tyrolean hat. “What about a canary?”
“I wouldn’t touch canaries at this time of the year,” said Mr Bellow, shaking his head sorrowfully. “I wouldn’t touch them myself. And I would be a dishonest man if I sold you a canary, madam.”
“Why at this time of the year?” asked the lady, obviously impressed.
“It’s a very bad time of the year for canaries,” said Mr Bellow. “Bronchial trouble, you know.”
“Oh,” said the lady. “Well, what about a budgerigar?”
“Now, I wouldn’t advise those either, madam. There’s a lot of psittacosis around,” said Mr Bellow.
“A lot of what?” inquired the lady.
“Psittacosis, madam. You know, the parrot’s disease. Most of the budgerigars have got it at this time of the year. It’s fatal to human beings, you know. I had an inspector from the Ministry of Health only the other day, come to check on mine. He said they were sure to get it sooner or later, so I couldn’t possibly sell you one of mine.”
“Well, what bird would you suggest, then?” said die woman, getting rather desperate.
“Actually, madam, it’s a very, very bad time of the year to sell birds,” said Mr Bellow. “They’re all in moult, you see.”
“Then you wouldn’t advise me to get a bird?” she said. “How about something else, like a... like a white mouse, or something similar?”
“Ah, well, I’m afraid you’d have to go somewhere else, madam. I’m afraid I don’t deal in them,” said Mr Bellow.
“Ah,” she said. “Oh. Well, I suppose I can always go to Harrods.”
“A very fine emporium, madam,” said Mr Bellow. “A very fine emporium indeed. I am sure they will be able to satisfy your wants.”
“Well, thank you so much,” she said. “Most kind of you.” And she left the shop.
When the door closed Mr Bellow turned and looked at me.
“Good afternoon,” I said.
“Good afternoon, sir,” he said. “And what can I have the pleasure of doing for you?”
“Well, actually, I came to see whether you had any tubifex,” I said. “I work at the Aquarium and we’ve run out of tubifex.”
“At the Aquarium, eh? With that fellow Romilly?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“Well, well,” said Mr Bellow. “And what makes you think that I would have tubifex? I deal in birds.”
“That’s what Mr Romilly said, but I thought there was just a chance that you might have some, for some reason or other, and so I thought I’d come and see.”
“Well, it so happens that you’re right,” said Mr Bellow. “Come with me.”
He led me through the door at the back of the shop and into the small and untidy but comfortable sitting-room. It was quite obvious, from the look of the chair and sofa covers, that the dog enjoyed them as much as Mr Bellow did. He led me through the back into a little paved yard where the plane trees from the churchyard hung over, and there was a small pond with a tap dribbling into it, and in the middle of it a plaster cupid standing on a mound of rocks. The pond was full of goldfish and at one end of it was a big jamjar in which was a large lump of tubifex. Mr Bellow fetched a jam jar and ladled some of the tubifex out into it. Then he handed it to me.
“That’s very kind of you,” I said. “How much do I owe you?”
“Oh, you don’t pay me for it,” said Mr Bellow. “Don’t pay me for it. Take it as a gift.”
“But... but it’s awfully expensive,” I said, taken aback.
“Take it as a gift, boy. Take it as a gift,” he said.
He led me back into the shop.
“Tell me, Mr Bellow,” I asked, “why are all the birds in your window labelled ‘SOLD’?”
His sharp little blue eyes fastened on me.
“Because they are sold,” he said.
“But they’ve been sold for ages. Ever since I’ve been coming down this alley. And that’s a good two months. Doesn’t anybody ever come and claim them?”
“No, I just... keep them, well, for them, until they’re able to have them. Some of them are building their aviaries, constructing cages, and so forth and so forth,” said Mr Bellow.
“Did you sell them when it was the right time of year?” I asked. A faint flicker of a smile passed over Mr Bellow’s face.
“Yes, indeed I did,” he said.
“Have you got other birds?” I asked.
“Yes, upstairs,” he said. “Upstairs.”
“If I come back another day when I’ve got more time, can I see them?”
Mr Bellow gazed at me thoughtfully and stroked the side of his chin.
“I think that might be arranged,” he said. “When would you like to come?”
“Well, Saturday’s my half day,” I said. “Could I come then? Saturday afternoon?”
“I’m normally closed on a Saturday,” said Mr Bellow. “However, if you’ll ring the bell three times, I’ll let you in.”
“Thank you very much,” I said. “And thank you for the tubifex. Mr Romilly will be very grateful.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Mr Bellow. “Good day to you.”
And I went out and made my way down the alley and back to the shop.
For the next couple of days I thought very deeply on the subject of Mr Bellow. I did not believe for one moment that the birds in his window were sold, but I could not see the point of having them labelled as such. Also, I was more than a little puzzled by his obvious reluctance to sell a bird to the woman in the Tyrolean hat. I determined that on Saturday I would do my best to prise the answer to these secrets from Mr Bellow himself.
When Saturday came I made my way down the alleyway and arrived at Mr Bellow’s shop sharp at two o’clock. The notice on the door said “We regret that we are closed”. Nevertheless, I pressed the bell three times and waited hopefully. Presently Mr Bellow opened the door.
“Ah,” he said. “Good afternoon to you.”
“Good afternoon, Mr Bellow,” I said.
“Do come in,” he said hospitably.
I went in and he locked the shop door carefully after me.
“Now,” he said, “you wanted to see some birds?”
“Yes, please,” I said.
He took me out through his living-room and up a very tiny rickety staircase. The top part of the shop consisted of, as far as I could see, a minute bathroom, a bedroom and another room which Mr Bellow ushered me into. It was lined from floor to ceiling with cages and they were full of birds of all shapes, sizes, colours and descriptions. There were groups of tiny vivid little seed-eaters from Africa and Asia. There were even one or two of the gorgeous Australian finches. There were parakeets, green as leaves, and Red Cardinals that were as crimson as royal robes. I was fascinated. Mr Bellow proved to be much abler at his job than Mr Romilly, for he knew the name of each and every bird and its scientific name as well, where it came from, what its food preferences were, and how many eggs it laid. He was a mine of information.
“Are all these birds for sale?” I asked, fixing my eyes greedily on a Red Cardinal.
“Of course,” said Mr Bellow, and then added, “But only at the right time of year.”
“What’s all this about the right time of year?” I asked, puzzled. “Surely if you’re selling birds you can sell them at any time of the year?”