Magnus Mills: A Cruel Bird Came to the Nest and Looked In

‘Who’s there?’ I demanded.

‘Pardon us, sir,’ came the reply. ‘We didn’t mean to disturb you.’

The voice belonged to Greylag. I walked up and found a large proportion of the orchestra sitting in three rows of hard seats.

‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.

‘Waiting to go to sleep, sir,’ said Greylag.

‘What do you mean “waiting”?’

‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘we’ve only got one bed between us, so we all have to take our turns.’

‘Show me,’ I ordered.

Greylag led me beyond the orchestra pit to an antechamber. Inside was a broad wooden cot in which a dozen cellos lay side by side, all fast asleep.

‘The bassoons have their turn next, sir,’ explained Greylag, ‘followed by the trumpets and trombones.’

‘And meanwhile you all sit waiting in the hard seats?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then why don’t you use the soft seats at the front?’ I enquired. ‘Surely, they’d be much more comfortable.’

‘It’s not allowed,’ said Greylag.

‘Whyever not?’

‘I’m not sure, sir.’

‘Right!’ I snapped. ‘Not allowed, eh? Well, we’ll soon see about that!’

I marched hurriedly to the main door where a noticeboard in an alcove displayed various rules and regulations pertaining to the cake. I read through them and then walked back.

‘You’re quite correct, Greylag,’ I said. ‘You’re not allowed in the soft seats.’

‘No, sir.’

‘Unfortunately, you’re not allowed in the hard ones either,’ I continued. ‘They’re all reserved for commoners.’

A doleful look crossed Greylag’s face, but he said nothing.

‘I’m sorry, Greylag,’ I said. ‘Rules are rules.’

In the subdued hush that followed I went over to the piano. I sat down and began working my way through the minor scales again, one by one, until, predictably, I got stuck.

‘May I, sir?’

I glanced to my left and saw Greylag standing nearby. Something in his manner suggested he wanted to help me, so I inclined my head a little and waited.

‘If the thumb is allowed to pass underneath the forefinger,’ he said, ‘then the hand is able to flow more freely along the keyboard.’

He demonstrated by playing a brief chromatic scale; then I tried the same technique. Sure enough, this made it all seem much easier.

‘Thank you, Greylag,’ I said. ‘So you play violin and piano, do you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ he answered.

‘Come on then,’ I said, rising from the piano stool. ‘Let’s hear a tune.’

Greylag took my place obediently. For a moment he sat with his hands poised over the keys; then he began to play a gentle, lilting piece of a kind I had never heard before. After a few bars he stopped.

‘What sort of music was that?’ I asked.

‘It was a cradle song, sir,’ said Greylag.

‘You mean a lullaby?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I see.’

Somewhere in the distance a clock struck midnight. I’d forgotten how late it was. I looked towards the antechamber where the cellos lay sleeping. The other musicians remained huddled at the back of the hall.

‘All right, Greylag,’ I said, ‘I’ll come back in the morning.’

Without another word I left the cake and walked back towards the palace gates. All was quiet. Darkness had fallen on the capital, and almost every building I passed was bathed in shadows.

There was one exception, however. Eventually I turned a corner and came upon the Maypole. As always, coloured lights were shining brightly behind the frosted windows. A welcoming lantern swung from the lintel. The door was closed, but beyond it I could hear laughter, snatches of songs, and the tinkling of glasses. Wood smoke was drifting from the chimney, and I imagined there to be a huge log fire blazing in the hearth. For a few minutes I stood listening to the sounds of merrymaking. I thought about going in, but then I decided it could wait until another evening.

‘Absent,’ said Smew.

Once again he had taken it upon himself to mark the register; and once again there was no sign of the emperor. I couldn’t see whether Smew had inserted a cross or a tick, because today he was holding the register tilted slightly towards him. Only Wryneck, who sat immediately to his right, had an unobstructed view.

‘We’ll wait for a quarter of an hour,’ Smew announced.

So again we sat around the table in silence as fifteen minutes went by. As usual, we all had our notepads in front of us. There was also a small stack of textbooks positioned between Wryneck and Smew. They all looked identical, but from where I was sitting I was unable to see the title. Eventually, the clock chimed the quarter hour.

‘Well, now,’ said Smew, finally closing the register. ‘Is there any other business?’

Nobody spoke.

‘I’m surprised,’ Smew remarked. ‘Doesn’t the Postmaster General have anything to report, for example?’

‘Actually, I do have some findings to relate,’ said Garganey, ‘but I can hardly proceed without the emperor’s consent.’

‘His Majesty’s absence is merely temporary,’ said Wryneck. ‘Besides which, you could always present a provisional report to cabinet.’

‘Seconded,’ said Smew.

‘Carried,’ said Wryneck.

The clock ticked. Garganey stared frostily across the table at Wryneck. To my left, Whimbrel shuffled his feet uneasily.

‘All right,’ said Garganey at length. ‘I can’t see any harm in a “provisional report” as you so neatly put it.’

‘Thank you,’ said Smew. ‘I’m sure it will be appreciated by all of us.’

A murmur of agreement went around the table. Garganey glanced briefly at his notes. Then he began.

‘Now, as you know, we have for many years been suffering delays in the postal service. Letters posted just around the corner can take three or four days to arrive, whilst those sent to the provinces tend to turn up several weeks later, even when they bear the imperial seal. Hitherto, such delays have been viewed as intrinsic to the postal system, the general assumption being that they are largely unavoidable.’ Garganey paused momentarily before continuing. ‘My recent studies, however, have shown that this is not quite the case. There is, in fact, a simple explanation: namely, the postmen’s custom of stopping halfway through the morning and coming back for breakfast.’

Smew sat bolt upright in his chair. ‘Is this true?’ he demanded.

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Garganey. ‘Breakfast is regarded as sacrosanct amongst the postmen. Even if they’re miles away, they always come back.’

‘What do they do after breakfast?’ asked Brambling.

‘They resume their deliveries,’ replied Garganey. ‘Oh, there’s no doubt they pursue the task earnestly. They set off with fully laden sacks and a cheery greeting for everyone they meet. The trouble is they only work until noon, which means that some of the mail doesn’t reach its destination.’

‘What happens to it?’

‘Any remaining letters go back in the pillar boxes to be collected the following day.’

‘In other words the post is delayed,’ said Smew.

‘Precisely,’ said Garganey, folding away his notes and looking around the table. ‘The solution, gentlemen, is obvious.’

‘Well, you can’t stop them having breakfast,’ said Brambling. ‘It’s the most important meal of the day.’

‘Of course not,’ conceded Garganey. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. Furthermore, important changes cannot be enacted without the express approval of His Majesty. In his temporary absence, therefore, I would like to suggest a trial period during which the postmen have their breakfast before they leave in the morning.’