Gerald Durrell: The Talking Parcel

“Tea cozy?” asked the squeaky voice indignantly. “Tea cozy, you ignorant voice? That’s not a tea cozy. It’s a covering against night winds and inclement weather, made out of genuine rainbow caterpillar silk, that is.”

“Oh,” said Simon, “I’m sorry. Well, whatever it is, would you like us to remove it?”

“Of course,” said the squeaky voice. “Spare no effort to make this rescue a successful one.”

At the top of the tea cozy was a sort of plaited loop, and tak­ing hold of this Simon lifted off the whole covering. Under­neath was a large, domed golden cage, furnished with extremely

elegant miniature furniture. Apart from two cedar wood perches and a swing, there was a handsome four-poster bed with red velvet curtains, covered with a beautifully sewn patch­work bedspread made out of the tiniest scraps of multicolored silks and damasks; a small Louis Quinze dining table and chair; and an elegant glass-fronted cabinet full of beautiful hand- painted china. Then there was a full-length gilt-edged mirror with an ivory brush and comb hanging by it, and a very com­fortable chaise longue upholstered in royal blue velvet, and be­side it a rosewood harpsichord.

Sitting at ease on the chaise longue was the most extraordi­nary parrot the children had ever seen. His plumage was purple and gold and green and blue and pink, glittering and gleaming and shifting like an opal. He had a great, smooth, curved beak—so black that it looked as if it had been carved from coal—and eyes the color of periwinkles. But the most surpris­ing thing about the parrot was his feathering, for, instead of lying smooth, each feather was stuck up and curled round, like the fur of a poodle. This gave him the look of a strange-colored tree in spring, when its buds are just bursting. He was wearing a green silk skullcap with a long, black silk tassel. Next to the chaise longue on which the parrot was reclining was a small table, and on it was another cage—but a tiny one, the size of a thimble. In it sat a glittering golden spider, with a jade green cross on its back. It was obvious that the tinkly voice belonged to the spider and that the squeaky voice belonged to the parrot.

“So that's what it is,” said Peter.

“It?” said the parrot, sitting up indignantly. “It?”

“A parrot!” said Penelope, delighted.

“It was just a parrot, an ordinary talking parrot,” said Simon. “Why didn’t we think of that?”

“NOW LOOK HERE!” said the parrot, so loudly and fiercely that the children stopped talking.

“Now look here,” it went on in a lower voice, having got their attention. “Let’s have a tiny bit less of this ‘a parrot’ stuff, shall we?”

“I’m sorry,” said Penelope. “We didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Well, you did,” said the parrot.

“But you are a parrot, aren’t you?” asked Peter.

“Now, there you go again,” said the parrot angrily. “All this screechy-weechy stuff about a parrot. I’m not a parrot, I’m THE parrot.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think we understand you,” said Penelope, puzzled.

“Anyone, or rather any parrot, can be a parrot,” the parrot explained, “but I’m the Parrot. The initials alone should have told you.”

“Initials? What initials?” asked Simon, bewildered.

“Mine,” said the parrot. “You really do ask the most ridicu­lous sort of questions.”

“But what initials?” asked Penelope.

“Work them out for yourself,” said the parrot. “My names are Percival, Archibald, Reginald, Roderick, Oscar, Theophilus.”

“Why, that spells ‘parrot,’ ” said Penelope delightedly. “What lovely initials.”

“Thank you,” said the parrot modestly. “That is why I am not a parrot. I’m the Parrot. You may call me Parrot.”

“Thank you,” said Penelope.

“This, here,” he continued, gesturing to the small cage with his wing, “is Dulcibelle, my singing spider.”

“How do you do,” said the children.

“How do you do,” said Dulcibelle.

“How do you do,” said Parrot.

“I must say,” said Penelope thoughtfully, “I can see why you are the Parrot. I mean, I don’t want to be rude, or anything, but you talk much better than most parrots. I mean, more intelligently, if you know what I mean. I mean, you seem to know what you’re talking about, which most parrots don't " “Of course,” said Parrot. “And d’you know why most par­rots don’t know what they’re talking about?”

“Why?” said Simon.

“Because they’re taught by humans,” said Parrot. “A most reprehensible way of learning.”

“Well, how did you learn?” asked Peter.

“I was taught by the dictionary,” said Parrot proudly.

“By a dictionary?” said Penelope incredulously. “How can you be taught by a dictionary?”

“How else?” inquired Parrot. “The trouble with most—if not all—parrots is, as I say, that they’re taught by humans. That’s why they don’t know what they’re saying, because the humans never explain to them what they’re teaching them.”

“I never thought of that,” said Peter.

“What sane, healthy, normal, intelligent, self-respecting par­rot would go round all day saying ‘Pretty Polly’ if he knew what it meant?” asked Parrot, in a voice shaken with passion. “What decent, honest, shy, retiring, modest bird would go round inviting complete strangers to ‘scratch poll’ if he knew what it meant?"

“When you put it like that, it seems almost like cruelty,” said Penelope thoughtfully.

“Yes,” agreed Simon, “like the awful things they teach to babies—‘Dada, Mama, Bow-wow,’ and so on.”

“Exactly,” said Parrot triumphantly. “Now, what normal baby would go round addressing every member of the ungulates he met as ‘Moo-Moo’ if he knew what it meant?”

“Every member of the what?” asked Peter.

“He means cows,” said Simon, who was cleverer at long words than Peter.

“No, no,” Parrot went on, “the only way to learn to speak is to be taught by a dictionary, and I was extremely lucky that I was brought up by a large, kindly, and comprehensive dic­tionary—in fact, the Dictionary.”

“How can you be brought up by a dictionary?” asked Penel­ope, puzzled.

“Where I come from, you can,” said Parrot. “The Dictionary is the most human book in the place, next to the Great Book of Spells and Hepsibar’s Herbal.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said Penelope.

“You are a singularly obtuse, obdurate sort of a girl,” said Parrot, “besides being inconsequential, incomprehensible, and incoherent.”

“I don’t think there is any need for you to start being rude again,” said Peter, who hadn’t understood half the words but did not like the sound of them and felt he ought to defend his cousin.

“Rude?” said Parrot. “Rude? I’m not being rude, just merely giving some words an airing, poor little things. Part of my job.” “Giving words an airing?” asked Simon. “How can you?” “He’s the Keeper of the Words,” said Dulcibelle suddenly, in her tinkly little voice. “It’s a very important job.”

“When we require interruption from you, we shall ask for it,” said Parrot, eyeing Dulcibelle severely.

“I’m sorry,” said Dulcibelle, bursting into tears. “I was only trying to help, only trying to give credit where credit was due, only trying to . . .”

“Will you shut up?” roared Parrot.