by Mark Walker
As the lights were turned out and the Potters finally went off to bed, a muffled cry could still be heard from the dark shrouded cage:
“The map, you fool! The map! Brraacck!
“Dig! Dig!
Dig up the bones!”
6
AN OVERCAST AND CHILLY DAWN brought a respite from the rain. Despite his late night, Riggs arose early, and, after a quick bath, knocked softly on the adjoining door to wake Fred Bellows. After breakfasting on toast, jam and hot coffee supplied by the Potters, the two detectives were off to Eel’s Cove shortly before eight. They were given the key to the motorbike with sidecar in the stone hut on top of the cliff, to drive the three kilometers to the small village. Riggs promised to look out for the machine, after inquiring if there was a weight limit for the sidecar. This drew chuckles from the Potters, and a mumbled grumble from Sergeant Bellows. Riggs said they would be returning that afternoon. Mr. Melville was already fishing, and the rest of the Roundhouse had yet to stir.
Kendra and the children arose to a late breakfast of kippered herring on toast, beans, grilled tomatoes and scrambled eggs. But as delicious as it tasted, the children could hardly keep their eyes off the parrot, Captain Blackjack, now happily perched in his uncovered cage. Finishing their meal, they examined him closely. He was large enough to be intimidating at first, but reassured by the Potters and Kendra, they quickly forgot their trepidation, and came right up to the hanging cage. He was truly a beautiful creature. They peered at him, fascinated at the large bird, festooned with bright, multicolored plumes, his eyes wise and friendly. He squawked occasionally but had yet to speak as he had the night before.
“Just be glad he’s being quiet, now,” said Dinky Potter, “because once he gets going, he can babble like a brook, as our other guests will attest.”
Flora and Fauna Phipps had joined them to watch the bird that continued to ignore his audience, preening, and cleaning himself, contentedly crossing back and forth on his perch. Flora commented, “And some of what he says—why I must say, besides the obscenities, he’s got some secret to impart. Sister and I have been speaking about it, haven’t we?”
Fauna replied, “Oh, yes, dear, it’s true, there’s some something afoot, and the spirits are about. It’s tied up in this parrot, you see—he knows.”
Showing wide-eyed interest, Kendra asked, “You mean the bird actually knows some sort of important secret—but about what?”
“Yes,” piped up Michael, “what’s it all about?”
“That’s just it, we don’t exactly know for sure,” replied Flora, as Fauna continued passionately, “But we may have to consult the spirits about it. We only know this bird knows something.”
“The spirits will speak through him somehow,” added Flora, fingering her crystal pendant.
“You’re so right, dear,” whispered Fauna intensely.
Their shared fire danced in the depths of their eyes.
Kendra Danes broke the somewhat serious spell by drawing right up to the cage, and saying in mock pirate voice, whilst wagging her finger, “Well, Captain Blackjack, come on, you old salt! Out with it! Out with the secret, I say! Tell us, or we’ll make ye walk the plank!”
The only response was a: “Brraacck!”
This drew giggles from the children, and a sideways glance from the Phipps’.
Just then there was a sound from the stairs and down them flopped a very tall, lanky young man of about twenty-four. He looked somewhat disheveled and had a shambling, slightly gawky gait. His unruly mop of hair was light as straw, his eyes a pale blue, set deeply into a long face perched on a long neck with a prominent Adam’s apple. A little scruff of blonde hair straggled under his lower lip and down his chin; a soft fur of peach fuzz on his upper lip. He was dressed in a somewhat ill-fitting herringbone jacket with elbow patches on the pushed-up sleeves, loose fitting corduroys, and a tattered roll-neck sweater. He also wore a slightly sideways, self-deprecating smile. He was wiping his hands with a rag as he crossed the room toward them.
Delia beamed with pride, for he was her sweetheart, (for a whole three months!) and stepped forward to greet him. She took his arm affectionately, and a pink tint rose in his cheeks. Delia beckoned Kendra and the children. “I want to introduce you to someone very special. This is Mr. Shayne ffellows. He’s an artist!”
“Hullo,” he said softly, nodding to each in turn.
“What’s that funny smell?” asked Jen making the most awful face.
“Oh, sorry about that,” replied ffellows, “It’s me I’m afraid—turpentine and oil paint, my dear. I know it’s rather smelly, but then I’m afraid I’ve become used to it.”
“Tell them about Mr. ffellows’ name, Delia,” encouraged Doris Potter, adding
“Now he spells his family name with a double F, both lowercase.”
Shayne ffellows continued rather haltingly, “You see my, my father left us when I was small, and we took my mother’s name. But I wanted something more memorable for my career as an artist, so I added an extra F, and used the lower case for recognition. It’s a bit odd I know—”
“Nonsense, Shayne, darling!” exclaimed Delia. “When you’re famous, those double F’s will come in handy. I know it!” she added reassuringly.
But they were interrupted, when Captain Blackjack suddenly came to life:
“Shayne, darling! Shayne, darling!
“Tip us a wink, luv, tip us a wink! Brraacck!”
Everyone broke into laughter (except of course Shayne ffellows).
Then the old bird began to prattle on about some very strange things, presumably quips he had heard over the hundred or so years of his life. He was obviously performing, which many personable birds are apt to do, playing to the newcomers in the room. His prattle was laced with silly phrases, obscenities, and bits of old songs:
“Mary-anne, Mary-anne,
Sittin’ by the seashore
Brraacck!
Shift’n’ sand, shift’n’ sand,
Brraacck!”
But these words caused their heads to turn.
“The map you fool! The map!
“The gold’s worth digging! Brraacck!”
This seemed to particularly annoy Shayne ffellows, who turned away abruptly and excused himself, but the children wanted to see the turret art studio—
“Oh, yes, absolutely, I’ll be happy to show you—and we can get away from this foul-mouthed buzz-bird!” exclaimed ffellows, continuing as he made for the stairs, “It’s such an inspiration up there. The view of the coast and ocean is magnificent, and the light is perfect.” Kendra Danes, the children and Delia followed Shayne ffellows all the way up the spiral staircase to the very top. They came to a final small landing and passed through a great oaken door.
The room was, like the Roundhouse itself, not quite round, and considerably smaller than the great room, feeling quite cozy in comparison, and like the ground floor room below, it was a wondrous mixture of architecture—should it even be called that. The walls were covered with white plaster with parts of the old weathered ship sticking through. To the right, one half of one side was taken up with large windows set in heavy casements like a huge dormer and cut into the thick side of what had been the ship’s foredeck and fo’c’sle. They gave a panoramic view out to sea, just as magnificent as the artist had described. The ceiling seemed to curve and twist with whims of the hull, into a mass of planks and beams and plaster. There was a skylight, making the room a perfect artist’s studio.
Near the center of the room was a small raised platform with a carved captain’s chair, which was used as a modeling stand. Several easels with unfinished paintings sat about. There was a strong smell of oil paint and turpentine, and along some tables were an array of paint pots and brushes. Shayne ffellows unlatched and opened a window to let some fresh, cold saltwater air in. There were easels, drawings and canvases about, and the artist seemed to lose his shyness as he showed his paintings to the children. They were mostly average, some
frankly mediocre, and ranged to subjects from fishing boats, to the cliffs, and people. But his real talent showed in his depiction of people in various activities and especially portraits. The children instantly recognized a portrait of Tom Melville, and another of Dinky and Doris Potter. Delia beamed with pride as he showed them round. The artist explained:
“I’d always had a penchant for drawing, so I went off to London, and got enrolled in the Royal College of Art. Stayed there about a year and half, but I guess I didn’t quite fit in in London and the big city life. I missed the coast, so I came back here and ended up moving to Eel’s Cove. Worked in the chemist shop there for a time, but I’d kept up my drawing and sketching,” he drawled shyly, “and then, I found the ah, Roundhouse here, and uh, it seems to be the most, uh… the most picturesque.”
“Oh, Mr. ffellows, are you sure that’s the only thing you found ‘the most picturesque’ around here?” teased Kendra indicating Delia and giving Shayne ffellows a friendly nudge. Delia blushed, which was quite becoming. Shayne muttered something unintelligible, and swizzled some paintbrushes about in a turpentine jar.
He was saved from further embarrassment when the children began asking all at once, “Draw me! Draw me!” But Shayne ffellows was able to fend them off with, “Perhaps I shall later, but did you know that children are the most difficult to draw? It’s that your little faces aren’t fully formed yet, or at least that’s what they say, in fact, I have to admit, I’ve never done one before.”
“So, it will be a challenge!” cried Delia, adding, “and don’t forget to show them—you know—” She indicated a covered easel. “Come on, darling, show them!” And Shayne ffellows acquiesced by raising the stained sheet to reveal the beginning of what might be on its way to becoming a true masterpiece—a portrait of Delia herself, dressed in an eighteenth-century gown, and flouncy feathered hat. Although far from complete, the face was beautifully handled, the likeness striking, with her hair and costume roughly sketched in with paint.
Kendra and the children were certainly impressed, and expressive in their praise.
“I’d really like to do a portrait of the Captain, someday too. But really, I must get back to work on Delia’s portrait.”
“Yes, children, I promised I’d pose for a while before lunch.”
Just then they heard the arrival of Tom Melville downstairs, returning with the day’s fresh catch. The children, easily distracted even from the work of a great artist, were eager to watch him clean the fish, and bounded down the spiral stairs to inconvenience him and Doris Potter in the kitchen.
7
THE CHILDREN WERE just tucking into their lunch of fresh battered fish, chips, and mushy peas, when they heard a loud commotion on the stairs. They could detect a perceptible change come over the room. The Phipps sisters put their noses in the air, the Potters busied themselves behind the bar, and Tom Melville muttered to himself. Delia and Kendra moved closer to the children. “These are the blackguards we spoke of last night, so watch your step and don’t aggravate them,” whispered Delia urgently.
The men were arguing amongst themselves over some trifle when they came into view, and the seeming leader lurched across the room to the birdcage.
Captain Liam Smuggleguts was tall and very thin, with the look of warmed-over death about him. He had dark, wild, deep-set eyes in a long hollowed-out face, high cheekbones, and a nose made ruddy from strenuous drinking. He wore his unkempt, salt and pepper hair extremely long, and a heavy moustache hid most of his mouth. He went to the birdcage and opened the door.
“Well, ho, ho, ho, how’s me little Matey this A.M.?” he asked in a phlegmatic baritone. “Listen up, now. Here’s a pretty bird, here’s a pretty bird,” he coaxed, and belched loudly.
“Cap’n’s a pretty bird! Cap’n’s a pretty bird! Brraacck,” screeched the parrot.
It was amusing to watch the hardened, bitter old sailor treating the bird with such affection. He stroked Captain Blackjack’s head and chest, the bird almost falling asleep. He suddenly became aware of strange eyes upon him, looked about, and then down, scowling as he spotted the children.
“Hurmph! Huh! Well! Who’re you?” he asked haughtily.
Dinky Potter spoke up, “Why, er, these are the young guests we told you were coming. Come to stay with us a short time, just a week you know.” He added almost apologetically, “I’m sure they won’t be a bother.”
“Five days,” said Mandy seriously.
The Captain frowned.
Doris Potter rushed in with introductions. “Children, this is the Captain. Captain Liam Smuggleguts,” and indicating each in turn, “Mr. Maynard Gee,” (it was pronounced with a hard G like guard) “Mr. Cutty Shark, and Mr. Graves.”
“That’s Digger Graves,” said the personage with that name in a low, gravelly voice. Then he snickered, and all four began to snicker and chuckle.
Digger Graves was big, barrel-chested man nearing fifty, a sheen of black and blue stubble across his great lantern jaw that almost became a moustache on his upper lip. He was one of those men with a perpetual “five o’clock shadow” whether he’d shaved or not. The face seemed hard as granite, but now was split and cracked all over with little lines as he sniggered; but there was a glint of danger in his dark brown eyes. His most striking features were his shaved head, and the numerous tattoos that seemed to grow out of his collar and his sleeves. Sharp-edged designs ran up the sides and back of his neck onto his naked skull, his cheeks, and covered the backs of his hands.
Maynard Gee was a small, wiry chap, nervous and extremely bug-eyed, reminding one of a small, yapping dog. His floppy, frizzy hair made his head look too large for the rest of his body, and he always seemed to be in motion—when he sat, he fidgeted, when he stood, he would hop from one foot to the other. Indeed, the way he trailed after the Captain was very like a mutt following his master. One of his bug eyes was slightly lazy, which was extremely disconcerting, and it was often difficult to tell which eye was looking where, and what, if anything was in his mind. Due to his size and bug-eyes he was slightly reminiscent of a scruffy, skinny version of the actor Peter Lorre.
Cutty Shark was a very dark-skinned Jamaican. His thick West Indies’ accent fascinated the children. He would often preface or suffix his speech with “Mon”, such as “Mon, doan ask me to do hit”, or “I doan know, Mon,” etc. He also had an impressive set of gold teeth and wore a gold ring in his left ear. The children had to be nudged from time to time by Kendra and Delia not to stare. Like Digger Graves, his head was shaved completely bald.
They were a slovenly crew, dressed in a jumbled patchwork of dirty, well-worn dark sweaters, coats and black jeans, the only spot of color being a red scarf at the throat of Captain Smuggleguts. All four men had a wary, animal quality about them; indeed, there was a bit of smell about them as well. There was little doubt they were all four dangerous, and literally—dirty scoundrels.
“Is Captain Blackjack your bird?” piped up Mandy. The Captain looked down rather stupidly at this young upstart.
“Arw, uh, Hurrumph!” he snorted. “Let’s see, it’s er, it’s little, is it?” he drawled sarcastically. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t little—M, Ma—Amander!”
Mandy winced, as she detested being teased this way, and Captain Smuggleguts, could immediately sense this, so he continued:
“Amander, see that’s the name o’ me very own ship—the Amander Lee. She’s being repaired now.
“And, little Amander, yes, in answer to your question. He’s me very own. I won Captain Blackjack here, in a game o’ the very same name down in the West Indy eighteen year ago. He’s at least a hunnerd year old hisself, and seen more o’ life an’ love, and fights, and bloodshed, and murder an’ riches than the four o’ us old salts put together. And we’ve seen it all, ain’t we Mateys?” He roared his phlegmatic laugh.
His sycophant partners noisily agreed.
The brightly colored bird squawked and screeched, his plumed head nodding and twisting.
The children were instantly enthralled and full of questions. But Captain Smuggleguts motioned for the bird, and the parrot came proudly out of its cage, alternately squawking and clucking, then walked up the Captain’s outstretched arm and perched upon his shoulder.
Then, with some not so gentle prodding from the Captain, the big bird let loose with a string of oaths that made the women blush, the men frown, and the children giggle despite themselves. The parrot then set about happily preening and whistling and clucking to himself. Captain Liam Smuggleguts laughed his coarse smoky, hacking laugh, and perched on a bar stool with the bird perched on him.
“Rum–penny, Rum–penny, Rum–penny, two!” he said to the bird.
“Bring on the rum!
“Bring on the rum! Brraacck!” answered the bird.
“Yup, that’s right, Dinky me ol’ laddy. Bring on the rum for me Mateys, and I’ll have a noggin’ of me Old Buzzard Ale.” He caught the haughty look of the Phipps sisters and the rest of the group and added apologetically, “Hair o’ the dog ye know, hair o’ the dog—harumph!”
Fauna Phipps said flippantly, “Every day it’s the hair of the dog—and some days are hairier than others!” The Captain scowled at her, but Flora and Fauna ignored him and continued their knitting and twittering.
“Something’s going to happen, sister, I just know it.”
She leaned closer and whispered rather loudly: “I’m feeling the vibrations!”
Mr. Melville snorted, lit his pipe and resumed his game of solitaire.
Cutty Shark leaned heavily on the bar, smiled his golden smile, and inquired of the proprietress, Doris Potter, “Are da Johnny Cakes a’ ready dis mornin’, Mohm?” Indeed, they were, and she went to the kitchen for their breakfast, including the specially prepared Jamaican corn fritters, as Dinky Potter began serving the drinks.
