However, when they reached the old castle Joyce discovered Henry had forgotten to bring a knife, so it became necessary to cut the cake with the toasting fork, and the result was crumbling lumps that attracted the attention of a few hungry birds.
“It doesn’t look very appetizing,” Joyce complained. “No one is going to eat it,” Henry retorted. “Now, don’t mess about. You pick up the biggest lump and I’ll stand by with the fork and tray.”
“Why can’t I stand by with the fork and tray?”
“Because you’d probably be too frightened to do anything but run when old ugly comes swooping down.”
“You have a point,” Joyce agreed.
Scarcely had she raised a piece of stale seed cake to her mouth when the by now familiar shriek came from the and the harpy glided down towards the picnic site. Joyce dropped the seed cake and took refuge behind Henry. “Suppose—suppose the fork and tray doesn’t work?” “I can think of no reason why it shouldn’t work,” Henry replied, taking a firm grip of his brass instrument.
The harpy settled down on the plastic mac and had reduced half of the cake into green mould before the loud clanging sound rang out over the sun-drugged moor. A flock of birds that had been preparing to descend and feed on cake crumbs gave united cries of alarm and dispersed in a sudden explosion of fluttering wings. When fork and tray again made violent contact, the harpy became a grey and brass statue, her head to one side, eyes gleaming, one claw raised—the wrinkled face screwed up into an expression of extreme annoyance. Henry—who had assumed the creature would be frightened and take to instant flight—banged his tray with even greater vigour and shouted: “Shove off! On your way!” for good measure.
Suddenly the harpy spoke, and this was such an unexpected turn of events that Henry dropped the toasting fork and completely ignored Joyce, who was making whimpering noises in the region of his right ear.
“What-do-yer-wanna to make noises like dat?”
It was a man’s voice—rather like that of the foreign gentleman who ran the restaurant in the High Street—and had an undertone of intense displeasure. While Henry tried to think of a suitable answer, the harpy spoke again.
“I comma ’ere to turn fooda into rubbish, which is ’ard enough without you childer making da racket. Why for you banga da fork on da tray?”
Henry discovered he still had a voice, even though it refused to rise above a loud whisper. “We—that is to say—my sister and I—understood, er, that you were frightened of a brass instrument, and—”
“Dat’s a loada nonsense,” the harpy interrupted. “Dat aw-ful man Jason he banga us over da head with brass trumpets, so we flies away. Not frightened—just ’eadache.”
“Oh!” Henry found that a little of his normal self-confidence had returned. “Well—you shouldn’t go around turning food rotten. It’s . . . it’s a rotten thing to do.”
The harpy crouched down on the plastic mac and looked rather like a grotesque broody hen. “Now ’e tella me I shouldn’t do ma job. Ven the world was young. Zeus ’e says to us: ‘Get down thar, gals, and turna da fooda rotten. Dat king of Thrace,’ he says, ‘ ’e not been comma over with da tribute. Not a sacrifice ’ave I had from ’im in a month of Tuesdays.’ Then along come dat Jason and ’is wool thieves and banga da ’eads da trumpets.”
Joyce spoke over Henry’s shoulder. “What happened to your three sisters?”
The harpy rolled her eyes. “You may well ask. Safe and well dey are. Varming da tail feathers on Olympus, while I da food rotten turn. I come down for a little flutter and a Inglisman over me threw da net and brought me ’ere to da castle. Now it fall down, but I still ’ere. No food rotten turn for ’undreds of years. I fed up.”
And one large tear seeped out from the harpy’s red eye and trickled down her wrinkled cheek.
Joyce said: “Oh, what a shame! We’ll bring you lots of food. And you can turn it rotten as much as you like.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Henry protested. “We’re supposed to drive her away, not encourage her. Look,” he addressed the despondent harpy, “why don’t you go home? Back to Olympus? I should imagine your sisters would be very pleased to see you again.”
The harpy yawned and three wasps flew into her open mouth. She gulped, then bared her teeth. “Tasty. Sisters never did I get on with. If I see them not again, da tears will not flow. Most times I sleep and wake ven smell of food call me to vork.”
“Well, you can’t stay here,” Henry said. “Not everyone is as brave as Joyce and me, and you might give somebody a heart attack.”
“I ’ave to come when peoples eat,” the harpy insisted. “If drop dead—too bad. Now I go back and da eyes close.”
And without further words she spread wide her brass wings and soared up towards the castle walls, leaving the children to clear up a lot of rotten seed cake.
Now I would like to be able to record that Henry thought of a wonderful scheme that got rid of the harpy once and for all. I regret to say he did not, and, as the prospect of her being shut away in some zoo could not under any circumstances be entertained—well—she’s still there.
Sometimes the children take along some stale sausages that the butcher was going to throw away, or a few pork pies that no one wanted to buy, and the harpy has a wonderful time turning them rotten. They have grown quite fond of her and often clean her wings and feet with a well-known brand of brass polish, making them shine so brightly that one man maintained he had seen a flying saucer circling above the moor.
But take my advice: should you decide to have a picnic, for heaven’s sake do not lay out your goodies near a ruined castle that is not more than fifty miles from London. And if an obstinate—not to say stupid—adult insists, then get well back and watch the fun, which I do assure you will begin the moment the silly creature raises ham sandwich to mouth.
And don’t bother to take along any kind of brass instrument.
Whatever the old books may say, such things will only make the harpy extremely annoyed.
