by Simon Mason
Will switched to even smaller exotic birds: first parrots, then cockatoos, then parakeets and finally lovebirds. Throughout the autumn, pictures of each kept appearing in the back room, drawn to scale and shown in a well-stocked cage of the appropriate size, helpfully labelled ‘seed-hopper', ‘block of iodine', ‘sprig of millet'.
No-one said anything, except for Lucy, who occasionally complained that he was using up all the Blu-tack.
One Sunday afternoon in November, feeling that time was running out, Will chanced a direct conversation about birds.
‘Look at this Double-Eyed Fig Parrot,' he said to Dad, pointing to his picture. ‘Small enough to fit into a deep pocket.' He stared at Dad in a meaningful way.
‘Are you all right, Will? You look as if you're about to faint.'
‘It's tame,' Will persisted. ‘Gentle. Good with children. Especially younger sisters. Talks. Talks politely,' he added, thinking of the family rules.
‘Extraordinary,' Dad said. ‘Do you know, it's almost enough to make me reconsider our ban on pets.'
Will looked at him. ‘What do you mean, ban on pets?'
‘We agreed we wouldn't have any pets, last year, do you remember, when Lucy wanted a kitten. You were very determined not to have one. You said, “No pets in this house”.'
Will tried hard not to remember.
‘Does that mean I can't have a bird for Christmas?'
Dad put his hand on Will's shoulder and looked sympathetic. Dad could look very sympathetic when he wanted to.
Will sighed. ‘Even at the beginning,' he said, ‘I knew you'd never get me a Harpy Eagle.'
‘Apparently they're very big,' Dad said.
‘And monstrously ugly.'
Will was just about to be sad when Dad added, ‘But Mum and I want to get you something very special this Christmas.'
‘Something very special?'
‘Something extra special. All this work, the New Eagle Gazette and the map and the pictures, has been fantastic.'
Will's grin was the exact opposite of his scowl, his whole face seemed to leap towards his hair. He began to talk in a rush. ‘What is it, Dad? Is it expensive? Is it big? Do you plug it in?'
‘I can't say. It's a surprise.' Dad looked firm. He didn't do firm as well as he did friendly or sympathetic, but Will could tell he wasn't going to say.
‘Aw, Dad!' he said, looking very pleased.
During the last few weeks of the winter term, Will was in a very good mood. He told Timothy that his Christmas present was finally sorted out.
‘What?' Timothy said. ‘The Barmy Eagle?'
‘Harpy Eagle. No, not that. That was a long time ago. But something special. Dad said.'
‘Didn't your hints work then?'
‘Well,' Will said. ‘In a way, they did. I'm not getting a Harpy Eagle, but it's because of the hints I'm getting something extra special. They're funny things, hints. Or maybe it's just mums and dads. What about your Playstation?'
Timothy shook his head gloomily. ‘Ever since I got into trouble last week, they keep going on about me having to be good. I told them I always put Liam's head down the toilet when he's like that, it's not being bad, it's just being normal, but they don't care about being normal, they just care about being good. They say if I get into trouble again, just once, for anything at all, they'll take away my Playstation and give it to someone deserving. That's what they keep on saying.'
‘What are you going to do?'
‘I don't know.' Timothy thought about it, but after a long time he gave up and shook his head again. ‘I can't think of anything,' he said. ‘I might even have to be good. I might have to be good for a whole month.' His voice was dismal.
Will patted him on the shoulder. He felt very mellow now that his own present was sorted out. ‘I'll help you,' he said. ‘Don't worry, Tim, I'll help you get your Playstation.'
At home, Will asked Mum if Timothy's dad was really going to take away his Christmas present if he got into trouble again.
‘It wasn't just a bit of trouble Timothy got into,' Mum said. ‘It was serious. His name went into the book.'
‘Oh,' Will said.
Having your name put in the book was the worst punishment possible at Parkside School. First you were sent to see Miss Strickland, the headmistress. Everyone was frightened of her, even the other teachers. She had a big meaty face which shook when she shouted. Even more frightening, she couldn't say the letter r; she made a whirring noise instead. After she had shouted at you, she wrote your name down in her book with all the other very naughty children's names, and then after that – and this was the worst thing of all – she phoned your mum and dad and told them what you'd done.
‘That's why,' Mum said. ‘It's serious when Miss Strickland phones you.'
Will shivered. ‘Yes, I see,' he said.
The winter term at school was always the hardest term, and the last two weeks were the hardest part of the hardest term. There was the carol concert to practise for, and the winter fête to organize, and the hall decorations to put up, and the Christmas show to put on. This winter, things were even harder than usual: several members of staff were ill with flu, and everything was running late. The weather was wet, and the children were badly behaved. Miss Strickland shouted and whirred, and there was an outbreak of swine fever among the guinea pigs.
Will walked with Timothy round the field. Timothy had developed a slight twitch in his left eye.
‘It's hard being good, isn't it?' Will said conversationally. ‘I didn't know being good all the time was so hard.'
‘I didn't know what being good was like,' Timothy said. ‘Liam tied my shoelaces together the other day, and I had to pretend I didn't know it was him.' His eye twitched. ‘You should have seen the look he gave me. He thinks I've gone soft.'
‘Think of the Playstation,' Will said.
‘That's all you've got to do.'
Timothy muttered to himself.
A week went by, and the end of the term was almost on them.
Every day, Will and Timothy walked round the field. ‘You can do it, Tim,' Will said. ‘You're going to do it.' He used a kindly, encouraging voice, which somehow reminded him of Mum and Dad. ‘You're nearly there.'
The last event of the last day of term was the Christmas show, a story of love and fellowship throughout the world. It had been written by Mr Sheringham, and contained walk-on parts for figures from all of history. Will was Sir Isaac Newton and Timothy was William Shakespeare. Will had to say, ‘So say I, Sir Isaac Newton, discoverer of gravity,' and Timothy had to say, ‘So say I, William Shakespeare, great English playwright.' In rehearsals they rarely managed to say these things – they said, ‘So say I, Sir Isaac Newton, discoverer of gravy,' or ‘So say I, William Shakespeare, discoverer of Sir Isaac Newton.' But most of their time was spent waiting backstage for their turn to come on.
Because other teachers were still off sick, Mr Sheringham had to organize all the rehearsals and make all the scenery on his own, and day by day he grew more and more anxious and cross, and by the day of the performance, he'd changed from a short, neat person wearing a tie, to a wetfaced man with staring eyes and half a beard. Sometimes he spoke in a fierce whisper, sometimes in a bullish bellow. Neither had any effect on the children, who, just a few days away from Christmas, were boisterous and larky.
On the day of the performance, Will and Timothy waited backstage to go on. All around them there was uproar as the other children, fed up with their costumes and bored by the constant delays, bickered and fought.
‘I hate William Shakespeare,' Timothy said gloomily. ‘Shakespeare's making this very difficult for me.' His eye now twitched continuously.
‘Easy,' Will said. ‘Almost there.'
‘I just hope no-one gets in my way.'
‘Think Playstation,' Will said. ‘Say it after me. Playstation.'
‘Playstation,' Timothy said. ‘Playstation. Playstation.' His eye twitched.
The show dragged on. Backstage, the
children got rowdier and rowdier. Mr Sheringham ran in wet-faced to tell them to be quiet. His voice cracked as he spoke to them.
‘There are mums and dads out there,' he said. Someone at the back cackled.
After he went there was silence for a few minutes, and then a slowly increasing murmur began. A paper ball hit the wall above Timothy's head, and he looked round angrily.
For the second time, Mr Sheringham came backstage, hissing furiously at everyone to be quiet. But as soon as he'd gone, another paper ball hit Timothy on the top of the head. And that did it.
‘Liam!' Timothy shouted, standing up.
Will pulled him back down, but he struggled free and stood up again, and a hail of paper balls came flying across the room. Then a duffel bag. It looped across the room and hit Timothy on the side of his head, and knocked him over. He scrambled up and piled across the room, and Will dived after him.
‘No!' he shouted. ‘Tim, don't!'
Launching himself, he brought him down a few feet from Liam, and they rolled on the floor, everyone else screaming round them.
And then there was silence.
Mr Sheringham was small and square. Will hadn't expected him to have such powerful arms. He lifted both Will and Timothy off the ground, and carried them out of the room into the corridor. He was bright red and very wet with anger. Apart from the low sound of voices in the hall where, despite everything, the show was continuing, there was silence. Timothy and Will said nothing, but Timothy was twitching badly, Will could see his face pulling itself out of shape.
‘Who's responsible for this commotion?' Mr Sheringham hissed. ‘Is it you, Peachey?'
Timothy twitched. He saw Liam in the doorway, and made a movement as if he were about to charge past Mr Sheringham towards him, when Will said, ‘No, it was me.' It happened so fast, he'd said it before realizing that he was doing it to save Timothy's Playstation.
Mr Sheringham put his face very close to Will's.
‘Quigley,' he said. His expression was oddly twisted, as if he'd just eaten something very hot, and there was a sort of astonishment in his voice.
‘Go and wait in Miss Strickland's office, Quigley,' he said. ‘I'm going to fetch her.'
‘But,' Will said.
‘We'll do without Newton in this show,' Mr Sheringham said. ‘I never liked Newton. Listen to me, Quigley. Miss Strickland's in a very bad mood today, and I don't think she's ever been as cross as she's going to be with you.'
At that moment Will realized what he'd done. The thought of his Extra-Special Christmas Present came briefly into his head, and at once disappeared.
From behind Mr Sheringham, Timothy said, ‘No, wait a minute! Wait!' but Mr Sheringham rounded on him and pushed him back along the corridor, and Will turned and went down the corridor alone towards Miss Strickland's office.
He was in bed that night when Miss Strickland rang. He was lying awake, and he heard Mum answer the phone. He heard her say, ‘Oh, hello, Miss Strickland.' And then he heard her say, ‘Oh dear. I'm very sorry to hear that.' He'd known straightaway that he was done for. He was already out of bed with his dressing-gown on, when Mum came up to his room to fetch him.
He stood in the back room in his dressing-gown, trying to explain what had happened. It was a very difficult thing to explain. He couldn't say why he had attacked Timothy, or Timothy would lose his Playstation. On the other hand, if he didn't say why he'd attacked Timothy, he might not get his own Special Christmas Present. But the more he thought about it, the more determined he was not to let Timothy down. His face went flat.
‘Why, Will?' Mum said, for the fifth time.
Will shook his head again.
‘Well, what did Miss Strickland say to you?' Mum asked.
‘She was cross.'
‘I bet she was,' Dad said grimly. ‘And what did she say?'
‘She told me off.' His voice was very quiet by now.
‘Speak up, Will. What did she actually say?'
‘Well,' he said slowly, screwing up his face as if trying to remember something from many years earlier. ‘She was shouting. And her face did the shaking thing. And she was making the whirring noise. And …'
Mum said. ‘Did your name go in the book?'
Will looked at his feet and didn't say anything.
‘Did it, Will?'
He nodded.
Dad gave a moan, and swore, and Mum didn't tell him off. Dad began to work himself up into a temper. Dad could get into quite a temper if he wanted to.
‘Please, don't take away my Extra-Special Christmas Present!' Will said quietly.
This only made Mum angrier. ‘You shouldn't think so much about yourself,' she said. ‘I've never known you so selfish, Will.'
‘Now go to bed,' Dad said. ‘Before you make it any worse.'
But it wasn't clear how it could be any worse.
Christmas Eve should have been a wonderful day. But Will couldn't do anything without cool, disappointed looks from Mum and Dad. He wanted to talk to them one last time about his Extra-Special Christmas Present, but he could never work out exactly what he'd say, and besides, they wouldn't let him start. They just gave him cool, disappointed looks. He got the looks while they were wrapping presents, he got them while they were hanging up their stockings, and he got them while they were putting out mince pies and mulled wine for Father Christmas and a carrot for Rudolf. Once he overheard them talking about him. Mum was saying things like, ‘I can't understand it.' And Dad said, ‘Well, I think we're doing the right thing.' Eventually he was so miserable, he went and sat on his bed, not doing anything, not even reading The Beano.
Lucy came up to see him.
‘Aren't you getting a Christmas present, Will?' she asked.
He didn't say anything.
‘Why aren't you getting a Christmas present, Will?'
He just shook his head again.
Lucy said, ‘You can have one of mine if you want, Will. Do you want one, Will? If I get more than one Barbie, you can have the other one. I promise. I'm not lying.'
Will lay down on the bed, and Lucy went because she didn't want to see him cry.
As soon as she'd got downstairs, there was a knock on the front door, and when she answered it she found Timothy standing on the doorstep. Timothy looked very awkward. He was carrying a crumpled plastic carrier bag which seemed to be empty.
‘I don't think Will wants to play,' Lucy said. She looked at the bag, wondering what sort of game you could play with an empty carrier bag.
Timothy shuffled around a bit, then he said in a low, gruff voice, ‘I'd better see your mum and dad.'
Dad went to the door. ‘Come in, Timothy,' he said.
But Timothy stayed at the door. He seemed to be having problems with the bag.
He moved it from one hand to the other, and then suddenly, without saying anything, gave it to Dad.
‘For me?' Dad asked.
‘Sort of,' Timothy said.
‘Is there anything in it?' Dad said, holding it. ‘Or is it just the bag? It's quite a nice bag,' he added, as if not wanting to hurt Timothy's feelings.
‘It's inside,' Timothy said.
By this time, Mum was at the front door too, and they all watched while Dad put his hand in the bag, felt round for some time, and eventually pulled out a rather bent and grimy twenty pound note, which he examined in astonished silence.
‘Twenty pounds,' Timothy said, in case Dad didn't recognize it.
Dad said, ‘Um.' He looked up the street to see if Ben was on his way.
‘I didn't steal it,' Timothy said. ‘It's for Will's present. To buy off you the present you're not giving Will so I can give it to him. The Barmy Eagle or whatever.'
Dad turned to Mum and made a gesture to show that he was out of his depth.
‘Isn't it enough?' Timothy said. Moving in front of Dad, Mum said, ‘We don't understand, Timothy. Why do you want to buy Will's present?'
Timothy looked even more awkward at this point, he stood there wit
h his head down, and when he eventually lifted it, he said loudly, ‘You tell them, Will!' And Mum and Dad and Lucy turned round to find Will standing on the stairs behind them.
‘Will?' Dad said.
‘What's all this about?'
‘Well,' said Will, looking embarrassed. ‘It's partly about Tim's Playstation. And it's partly about trying to be good for too long.'
On Christmas Day morning, after breakfast was finished, Will and Lucy lined up outside the living room, where the presents were. First Lucy was in front, then Will was. Then, after she'd stopped crying and Will had said sorry, Lucy was again.
‘OK,' Mum said. ‘In you go.'
Lucy dashed in so fast she almost collided with the biggest, brightest play-kitchen she'd ever seen. She stood there, looking at it, and looking at Mum and Dad, and looking back at it, and grinning.
Will didn't go in straightaway. He stood in the doorway very calmly, looking at everything at once, the huge pile of wrapped presents under the tree, the half-eaten mince-pie and nibbled carrot in the fireplace, the biggest, brightest play-kitchen Lucy had ever seen, and the box on the coffee table covered with two faded towels. So this is Christmas, he thought, and after all the ups and downs of the last few months he felt it was something outside himself, to be thought about, not rushed into.
And then the box on the coffee table covered with two faded towels made a noise. Natter-natter.
Will stood in the doorway, not breathing.
The box under the towels made another noise, tuckle-tuckle-tuckle, and Will walked up to it, and took off the towels. Underneath was a large wire cage, and in the cage were two birds, one blue and one green, cleaning their beaks and peering out at him.
‘Budgerigars,' Will said softly, almost to himself. And because he was confused, he said shyly, ‘Who are they for?'
Mum and Dad were grinning.
‘But I thought,' he began. ‘What you said about pets,' he began again. But he was distracted. ‘Wild Budgerigars come from in Australia,' he said, interrupting himself. ‘They live in flocks and nest in sandy holes.'
