That night, I left him perched on the sheet-feed. In the morning, although he still hadn’t touched the food, he seemed interested to see me. Genuine trust was slow in developing on both sides, but he began to feed and the day came, about a week later, when he succeeded in manoeuvring his way across the furniture to the back of a chair I was seated in. Neither of us moved for some time. It was a distinct advance.
One morning the following week, perched on the printer as usual, Roger put his head at an angle, dilated his eyes and extended a claw to me. With some misgivings, I extended my arm. He gripped it at the wrist and transferred himself from the sheet-feed to me. Acting as a living perch, I walked slowly around the room. When I made to return him to the printer, he clawed his way higher up my arm until he was on my shoulder. He had decided I was not, after all, the enemy.
I suppose the discovery was mutual.
If all else fails, I thought, I can now audition for a part in Treasure Island.
In a couple of months, I learned to handle Roger, and he transferred to the purpose-built perch. He had a small silver ring around one of his legs and I could have chained him to the perch, but there was no need. He behaved reasonably well. True, he used his beak on things, but that is standard parrot behaviour. The worst damage he inflicted was to peck through my telephone cable. Sometimes it’s an advantage to be incommunicado. At least a day passed before I realized I was cut off. I discovered the damage only when Roger fooled me with a perfect imitation of the phone’s ringing tone. I picked up the receiver and the line was dead. This was the first inkling I had that he was capable of mimicry. In time, when he really settled in, he would greet visitors with “Hello, squire,” or “Hello, darling,” according to sex. He must have been taught by Uncle George. He had no other vocabulary and I didn’t want to coach him. I think it undermines the dignity of animals to make them ape human behaviour.
As you must already have gleaned, Roger was winning me over. I found him amusing and appreciative of all the attention I could give him. There were moments when he would regard me intently, willing me to come forward and admire him, utterly still, yet beaming out such anticipation that I was compelled to stop whatever I was doing. The unblinking eyes would beguile me, seeming to penetrate to the depth of my being. As I went closer, he would make small movements on the perch, finally turning full circles and twitching his elegant tail. If I put my face against his plumage, the scent of the natural oils was exquisite.
One evening I returned late from a rehearsal and had a horrible shock. Roger was missing. I dashed around the house calling his name before I noticed the broken window where the thief had got in. I was devastated. My poor parrot must have fought hard, because there were several of those spectacular blue tail feathers under his perch.
The police didn’t give much comfort. “We’ve had parrots stolen before,” said the constable who came. “It’s just another form of crime, like nicking car radios. They know where to get rid of them. A parrot like yours will fetch a couple of hundred, easy. Did they take his cage as well?”
“He doesn’t have a cage. He lives on that perch.”
“How did you get him here in the first place?”
“In a pet-container. It’s in the back room... I think.” Even as I spoke, I knew it was gone. I’d been through the spare room and the box wasn’t there. I should have noticed. Well, I had, in a way, but it hadn’t registered in my brain until now. The bastards hadn’t just taken Roger; they’d had the brass to take his box as well.
“We’ll keep a look-out,” said the constable in a tone that gave me no confidence. “Would you know your own bird? That’s the problem. These Blue and Yellow Macaws all look the same.”
I felt bereft. It was clear to me now how important that parrot had become to me. I was angry and guilty and impotent. I’m a peaceful man, or believed I was. I could have strangled the person who had taken Roger.
Each day, I called the police to see if there was news. They’d heard nothing. Almost a week went by. They advised me to get another bird. I didn’t want another bird. I wanted Roger back.
I had to move the empty perch into the spare room because the sight of it was so upsetting. My work was suffering. I messed up an audition. I couldn’t learn lines any more.
On the sixth day after Roger was stolen, a Sunday morning, my phone rang.
It was Roger.
Reader, don’t give up. I haven’t gone completely gaga over this parrot. Roger hadn’t picked up the phone and dialled my number. Somebody else had. But I could hear Roger at the other end of the line. He was giving his imitation of the phone ringing.
The person who had dialled my number didn’t speak. I said, “Who is this?” several times. Roger, in the background, was still mimicking the phone. It could have been a second phone, but I convinced myself it was not.
I guessed what it was about. The thief was checking whether I was home. He was thinking of breaking into my home again, perhaps to steal something else.
The line went dead after only a few seconds. Not a word had been spoken by the caller.
I was frustrated and enraged.
Fortunately, there is a way of tracing calls. I dialled the message system and obtained the caller’s number. It’s a computerised system and you aren’t given the name or address.
I thought about going to the police and asking them to check the number, but I hadn’t been impressed by the constable who had come to see me. He didn’t regard a missing macaw as a high priority.
Instead, I waited an hour and then tried the number myself. It rang for some time before it was picked up and a woman’s voice said, “Marwood Hotel.”
Thinking rapidly, I said, “Is that the Marwood Hotel in Notting Hill Gate?”
She said, “I’ve never heard of one in Notting Hill Gate. We’re the Marwood in Fulham. Gracechurch Road.”
Fulham was just a ten-minute drive from where I lived. I told her I’d made a mistake. I put down the phone and went straight to the car.
Gracechurch Road was once a good address for the Edwardian middle classes. Now it stands under the shadow of the Hammersmith Fly-Over. The tall, brick villas have become seedy hotels and over-populated flats.
My approach wasn’t subtle. I went in and asked the woman at the desk if the hotel welcomed pets.
She said in the voice I’d heard on the phone, “Provided they behave themselves.”
“A parrot, for instance?”
“I don’t know about parrots,” she said dubiously.
“You have one here already, don’t you?”
She said, “I wouldn’t want another one like that. It makes a horrible sound when it’s excited. Fit to burst your ear-drums.”
“Blue and yellow? Big?” I said, my heart racing.
She nodded.
I asked, “Does it belong to the hotel?”
“No, the foreign gentleman in number twelve. The top floor.”
“When did he arrive?”
“About ten days ago.”
“With the parrot?”
“No, he brought that in one day last weekend. In a box. He says it’s only temporary.”
“Is he up there now?”
She checked the board where the keys were hung. “He should be. If you want, I can ring up.”
I said that on second thoughts I’d call back later. Simply going upstairs and knocking on the door would not be a wise course of action.
She didn’t see me double around the side of the house to the back. These old buildings converted into hotels often have fire-escapes and this was no exception. It was the most basic sort, a vertical iron ladder fixed to the brickwork, with access to the large casement windows on each of the three upper floors. With luck, I wouldn’t be visible to anyone inside.