One day Lizzie takes the bait in a rat trap. It smashes across the base of her beak, and she stands for a second, paralysed by pain and shock, with her head pinned down. Fortunately Robert is in the kitchen, and he rushes to release her, his heart thumping with horror and dismay. He feels terrible, because it was he who set up the trap in the first place, ever since he’d seen a rat preening itself in the electricity box above the fridge. Lizzie stands perfectly still, blood seeping out of the cracks in her beak, and Robert sees that she has long fractures and splits running along the entire length of it. His first thought is that she will have to be put down, and his eyes fill with tears of guilt.
He scoops her up and takes her outdoors, but then brings her back inside. There is no one about, and no one to turn to. He puts her down again on the kitchen table, and goes to the telephone in the hallway. He searches desperately inside the spiral-bound telephone book, where finally he comes across the number of Mr Lakin in Farncombe, which his mother has entered under V for vet. The receptionist takes mercy on him because of the panic in his voice, and Mr Lakin talks him through. He tells Robert to look at Lizzie head on, and see if her face is symmetrical. He asks Robert if he knows what ‘symmetrical’ means. Fortunately Robert has recently learned it in maths. It is one of those words that makes you feel intelligent when you use it.
Robert takes Lizzie in his hands, and she croaks forlornly. He scrutinises her carefully and then goes back to the telephone. ‘Her head is still symmetrical,’ he tells the vet, adding, ‘and she’s not bleeding very much any more.’
‘Well,’ says Mr Lakin, ‘she is almost certainly all right then. It means that nothing important has been broken.’
‘What about her beak?’ asks Robert. ‘It’s all split.’
‘Beaks mend themselves,’ says Mr Lakin.
‘Do they?’ says Robert, sceptically. He has heard that beaks are made of the same kind of stuff as hair and fingernails, so surely they couldn’t mend themselves, not until they grow out?
‘You’ll be surprised,’ says Mr Lakin. ‘They really do. She won’t do much pecking until it doesn’t hurt any more, but she’ll be able to pick up food and swallow it. The only thing is, a bird can die of shock. You’ve got to keep it warm, and try to comfort it as much as possible. A drink of water or milk is a good idea as well, but not too much.’
Robert says, ‘Thank you,’ and the vet says, ‘If it takes a turn for the worse, just bring it in.’ Robert says ‘Thank you’ again, even though Uncle Dick isn’t there with his car, and the bus from Lane End takes an hour. He worries that Lizzie would be dead by the time they arrive.
He sits all evening with her cupped in his hands against his chest, talking to her and putting her up to his face. He loves her dry toasty smell, especially on the top of her head. The thought of her dying fills him with grief, and he tries to let hope get the upper hand, because now that his mother has come back from Hascombe he doesn’t want her seeing him cry.
In the morning Lizzie is in good spirits, and accepts gifts of grapes and cheese, but it is some weeks before she resumes the mischievous and violent pecking which is her main enjoyment in life. Robert worries for ages that when Mr Lakin’s bill arrives, he might not have enough pocket money to pay for it, but no bill ever does. Mr Lakin has several pro bono cases a year of little boys with accident-prone pet corvids, often including incidents with rat traps, and in any case he doesn’t charge for advice.
Lizzie reaches sexual maturity, and the lovable feathers at the base of her beak fall out in manifestation of it. Her violet eyes fade. She looks a lot less pretty now that she is a full-grown rook, but her feathers are glossy and iridescent. She has taught herself how to ant, utilising the ants that live in the crevices of the crazy paving, and two or three times a day she bathes joyously in a bucket that has been left to catch the overflow of one of the gutters. She stands on the edge of the bucket, and then hops in, splashing with delight. She hops out, shakes herself, and then skips back in again. Visitors watch her with pleasure sparkling in their eyes, and they say to Robert, ‘Whoever would have guessed that a bird could be so much fun?’ and ‘When you grow up I expect you’ll be a vet.’
It is autumn, and Uncle Dick warns Robert that soon Lizzie will leave home and go to find some rooks to live with. That’s what they always do, they can’t help it, that’s nature for you, it doesn’t mean that they don’t love you. Lizzie goes for walks with Robert and he holds her on his wrist and reaches up into elder bushes so that she can devour the berries. She loves them so much that she yells with pleasure in between each beakful. The lilac excrement that ensues is so acid that it removes patches of black paint from Uncle Dick’s Ford Prefect.
Every evening Lizzie meets Robert at the bus stop when he comes back from school. The moment that he gets off at Lane End, she lands on his shoulder and murmurs hoarse endearments as she rearranges the hair about his ears. The boys are envious because he seems like a wizard, and the girls are fascinated and repelled. Lizzie stabs anyone who reaches up a finger to pet her, and she is particularly infuriated by fingers that wear rings. Robert feels set apart, privileged, because he has a bird that meets him at the bus stop and comes home with him on his shoulder, even if occasionally she flies away and back again when their progress seems too slow.
It is autumn, and then winter, and Lizzie has still not left home. She sleeps in the lilac bush, her head under her wing, her feathers dusted with frost, and every day she follows her routine, confounded only by the ice on her bucket, which Robert has to remove so that she can bathe. He is astounded by her immunity to cold and high winds. Uncle Dick professes astonishment that Lizzie is still there, he says that he has never before heard of a rook that stayed after autumn, and neither has anyone else, and he is still determined that one day she will learn to say ‘silly bugger’. He says it to her repeatedly, and she just ruffles her feathers and replies ‘Come on’ in Robert’s voice.
The following spring Lizzie starts turning up with another rook, who remains at a sensible distance while she receives her grapes and cheese, or accompanies Robert home from school. Robert is glad that she has found a friend, but worries that he will take her away.
There is no sign of this, however, and she is her usual ebullient and affectionate self, until, suddenly, she has gone altogether.
There has been no slow detachment, no gradual growing apart, no chance to become reconciled or resigned, no chance of farewell. The little shelter in the lilac is deserted, the bucket is disused, there is no more need to buy a bunch of grapes every week. Now they won’t need so much Cheddar either.
Robert and Uncle Dick sit side by side on the doorstep at the weekend, and Uncle Dick says, ‘Well, I did warn you, son. They’re like women, they always bugger off sooner or later. Don’t matter how nice you are.’
Robert doesn’t believe him. He thinks that the bond between them was something special, that Lizzie wouldn’t just disappear all of a sudden. Even so, he can see that Uncle Dick is right. She probably went away with her friend to make eggs. That’s what Uncle Dick says. ‘It’s the call of the wild, son.’
Uncle Dick puts his hand on Robert’s shoulder as he stands up. ‘Sorry, son,’ he says, and as he walks away he adds, ‘Did I tell you, son? Couple of days ago I thought I heard her say “silly bugger”. I wasn’t sure, though.’