Trisha Ashley - Good Husband Material

‘That’s all, I think,’ I said firmly, but even so, she managed to add two packets of jar labels and waxed discs to my purchases before I got away, having spent rather more than I intended.

I was aware of her absorbed gaze through the window as, hampered by the insecurely wrapped tangerines, which threatened to break out of their newspaper bundle at any moment, I untied Bess, frantic and drooling.

As I made my way along the lane something compelled me to look back; in the distance a small figure stood planted sturdily in front of the shop, staring after me. I gave a kind of half-wave, then, feeling uncomfortably aware of the eyes boring into my back, hurried on.

Even before I turned into our garden gate I could hear faint shouting, high-pitched and very penetrating, and when I got the front door open it revealed the astonishing range and power of a parrot’s lungs to the entire village. Possibly even the whole county.

How amazing it is that something the size of an over-stuffed budgie can produce so much noise! I lost no time in rushing into the living room and throwing a cloth over the cage. Bloody bird.

Silence reigned. Sometimes I wish that I could leave him permanently covered, but that would be cruel, even if he is the parrot equivalent of a mental defective.

He was left to me by an elderly neighbour, since I’d looked after the creature once when she was taken into hospital. He came together with a small legacy, and unfortunately I couldn’t keep the money and refuse the parrot.

He was supposed to be very ancient, but years have passed and, though the legacy has gone, Toby hasn’t. There’s nothing more determined on life than a parrot. He’s a dirty bundle of grey feathers touched with crimson, noisy and vicious – and doesn’t biting the hand that feeds you prove he’s stupid?

When I came back from the kitchen with a cup of coffee the shrouded, silent cage seemed to reproach me. I uncovered it and cautiously filled up the seed pot with the Super Expensive Parrot Mix he favours, and he rushed up to it on his horrible crinkled grey feet as if he hadn’t eaten for a week. All was peaceful – if you can ignore the ghastly grindings and crackings of a busy beak.

Sipping my coffee, I looked up tangerine preserve in the book. I’d make the marmalade this very afternoon, before James could return and point an accusing finger at the psychedelic citrus spoil-heap.

The recipe seemed straightforward enough, and soon I was stirring the bottom half of my pressure cooker, entirely full of liquid with bobbing bags of pips and peel in it. (The book said a muslin bag, but I haven’t got one, so in the end I used the feet of a pair of clean tights.)

Then, just at the stage where the marmalade was going critical, Toby decided to treat the world to his full repertoire: Concerto for One Parrot.

I began to feel a bit fraught. Marmalade-making is a surprisingly messy business, and both I and the kitchen seemed to have become horribly sticky. And Bess. Do other dogs eat tangerine peel?

As I thankfully slapped the lid on the last jar the doorbell jangled out its vulgar ‘Oranges and Lemons’ tune (it’s got to go!) and, with a muttered curse, I washed my hands and went to answer it.

On the doorstep was a diminutive old lady, ill-dressed against the cold in a cotton dress covered by a flowered pinny, and with long, draggled grey hair tied up in a skittish ponytail with red-spotted ribbon.

Her pink, dough-like face, set with beady black eyes, had an expression of belligerence that seemed natural to it, and which was not helped by the minor landslide that had reshaped the left side of her face, dragging the eye and corner of her mouth with it.

I’ve seen more attractive old ladies.

‘I’ve come about The Child!’ she hissed accusingly out of the good corner of her mouth.

‘Oh, yes?’ I answered politely, in case she should prove to be the local lunatic. ‘What child?’

‘What child! What child!’ uttered the old lady scathingly. ‘Why, the one I hear screaming and crying night and morning! Morning and night! Hark at it now, the poor thing! It’s a disgrace to neglect a child like that – besides going out and leaving it alone in the house, which I seen you do this morning! If it doesn’t stop I’m going to complain to the authorities, and so I warn you!’

My mind swung into gear with an almost audible click as I grasped the truth of the matter, for even now there was a raucous screaming coming from the living room.

And this must be the quiet, sweet little old lady from next door! Hardly what the estate agent led us to expect.

‘It isn’t a child screaming, it’s my parrot,’ I explained. ‘I’m very sorry if it disturbed you.’

She turned on me a look of indescribable contempt. ‘A parrot? The child was screaming and sobbing for its mother!’

‘Where’s Mummy, then? Toby want biccy!’ pleaded the feathered encumbrance from the other room.

‘Parrot, indeed!’

There was nothing for it but to invite her in to view the wretched bird, and of course Toby immediately shut up and eyed us with malevolence through the bars, turning his head doubtfully from side to side. Then he scratched the back of his head with one foot, before excreting copiously with a horrid ‘glop’.

I averted my eyes. He makes me feel quite ill, sometimes.

‘He’s not very big to be making all that noise, is he?’ said my neighbour, unconvinced. ‘I thought parrots were them big, colourful birds with curved beaks.’

‘I expect you mean macaws, but he is a parrot – a South African Grey – and it’s surprising just how much noise he can make. I have to cover him up sometimes, just to get a bit of peace, but I can’t cover him up all the time.’ (Unfortunately.)

‘He’s not saying anything now, is he?’

We both stared at the silent cage, and Toby stared inimically back.

‘But if you really haven’t got a child, I suppose it must be him I heard.’

‘I haven’t got a child hidden away, and I’m really terribly busy just now …’

She gave one last, doubtful look at Toby and turned to go.

‘Shut that bloody door!’ screeched an eldritch voice, and she whirled round as fast as her game leg allowed her.

Toby blinked innocently at her, then gave a fruity chuckle that slowly worked its way up to an evil cackle.

Backing out, still staring, she fell over the chair in the hall. ‘I never would have believed it!’ she muttered, hauling herself up by the chair back. Then she looked down and added absently, ‘Nice commode!’

‘We like it,’ I replied coldly. How on earth did she know? ‘Well, I’m glad to have met you at last, Mrs … er?’

‘Peach.’ And the dumpy figure limped away down the drive without another word.

Feeling even more ruffled than before, I closed the door and discovered a long, thin brown envelope lying by the wall, which must have come earlier. Quite a stiff envelope – probably one of the garage brochures we’d sent for.

Ripping open the end, I pulled out the enclosure – and then, with a sharp ‘twang!’ something brick red sprang out and hit me sharply on the nose. I recoiled backwards onto the commode and wept overwrought tears.

I soon had myself back under control, of course, and discovered that the flying object was a cardboard garage, ingeniously arranged so that it would fold flat to fit in an envelope. Once opened it sprang back into its garage shape by means of a system of elastic bands. The name of the firm was emblazoned on the side.

I put it back in its envelope and went back to the kitchen to label my marmalade and clean up myself and the kitchen, and when James returned home he found me arranging the jars proudly on the dresser, where they glowed like amber.