Birds on the Brain

by Hazel Edwards

  Chapter 6

  Recycling

  On his way home from school, Art checked at Snip-pets.

  Serena was still missing.

  Would Serena have followed some other birds?’ Art had been looking at Mrs.Tasker’s bird training book and the online links.

  ‘That happens. I just hope a hawk didn’t get her.’

  So did Art.

  Although he was still upset, Mr. Snip-pets was busy cleaning one of the aviaries. He put clean grit on the floor of the cage.

  ‘Do trained birds always come home?’ asked Art.

  ‘Most times. Back to the place where they’re usually fed and watered. Or to the place where they were hatched.’

  Art hoped Serena wasn’t flying to India. The place not the girl.

  ‘Mrs. Tasker said that the Sultan of Baghdad started the first pigeon post in the twelfth century. He put a message on the bird’s leg.’

  ‘No kidding.’ Mr. Snip-pet was impressed.

  ‘Some pigeons can travel as fast as 135 kilometres an hour.’

  ‘They’ve racers. Serena isn’t a racing pigeon.’

  ‘Who else uses pigeons?’

  ‘Some of the Buddhists up at the monastery use bird for their ceremonies. They sset the bird free. But they always buy pigeons from me. They wouldn’t take Serena.’

  ‘Anyone else?’ Art felt he was a very bad sleuth. It was Wednesday and he hadn’t found anything yet.

  ‘Some people eat them. Pigeon meat is supposed to be like a medicine.’ It wouldn’t be right to eat a dove with a name, Art thought as he slowly walked home.

  He saw piles of rubbish on the roadside grass. Cars cruised past slowly. Drivers looked closely at the rubbish. Art saw Mario in the distance, carrying something with long wires.

  ‘The scavengers!’ muttered Art. He was a junk collector too. Sometimes useful things like wheels or boxes or bits of furniture were thrown away. So he recycled them to his place.

  ‘How was the sleep-over?’ asked Mum.

  ’Okay.’

  ‘Council rubbish collection tomorrow.’ Mum put the notice on the fridge. ‘Indestructible rubbish. Hard garbage they call it.’

  ‘Junk,’ said Art.

  His Mum nodded. ‘Give me a hand for half an hour.’

  Joking, Art held out his hand.

  Mum laughed. ‘The other sort of hand thank you. We’re going to pull that old rubbish out from under the house. Dad forgot to do it before he left.’

  Art groaned. Collecting was fun, but cleaning out was work.

  Every time some charity left a bag, Mum filled it. She made him go through all his clothes and toys. Soon he wouldn’t have anything left to wear.

  ‘Do you want to keep your old bike? Can you fix the bent frame?’

  Ages ago, Art’s bike met a tree. The tree won.

  ‘I’ll keep my bike,’ said Art. ‘Dad’ll help me fix it when he gets back. “ Lately Art felt as though he was always waiting for Dad’s truck to come back. Even then, Dad was often too tired to do anything.

  The phone rang.

  ‘You start underneath, I’ll be there in a moment,’ said his mother lifting the phone. ‘Hello.’

  Underneath their house was a little door. It always stuck. In the wet weather the wood swelled.

  Art tugged at the door. Because they lived on a slope, there was more space under the house at the back than the front. When he was younger, Art had been able to crawl to the front. Now he could only fit halfway.

  At last the door jerked open. Daylight sliced the darkness.He bent over to get inside. He moved slowly.

  ‘Spidersville,’ he muttered. ‘Insect town.’

  Families of creepy- crawlies lived under their house.

  Now, when he tried to stand, he bumped his head.’Ow!’

  A spider’s web brushed against his face. It clung to his hair.

  ‘Ahh.’

  He brushed it away. Spiders had to live somewhere, but why didn’t they choose some-one else’s place?

  He dragged the carpet outside. Then the old potato sacks.

  ‘Yuk!’ Insects crawled form underneath.

  ‘Art! Art!’ the voice came from outside. That was a relief. For a moment, he thought the spider was talking.

  Mrs. Next-Door was calling over the fence again.

  ‘You dad is so good at fixing things. I wonder if he could fix this microwave for me?’

  Mrs.Next-Door was a recycler. She was always collecting bits for Dad to “fix up.” The trouble was that most of them ended up under their house to be recycled at the next rubbish collection. Art poked his sore head out of the little door.

  ‘Hello. Dad’s away. But he’ll be back on Saturday.’

  ‘Someone left this on my grass,’ said Mrs. Next-Door, struggling to pass it over the fence.

  It was a very strange looking microwave. Cords dangled from it.

  ‘Are you sure it’s a microwave? ‘Art was doubtful. ‘Who left it?’

  ‘A boy. Must have picked it up further down the street and then junked it.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll put it inside for Dad,’ said Art.

  Mum had a long phone call. Before she’d finished, Art had piled the boxes outside their house. Old paint pots. A broken outdoor chair. The clothes dryer that even Dad couldn’t fix. He piled them onto the wheelbarrow. The wheel squeaked as he pushed it along the path to the grass at the front.

  Down the street , other people’s rubbish looked more interesting. Mario had gone, but others were picking up and dropping junk. Even a police car was cruising around looking for something or someone. Perhaps they were checking for “hot burgs”. Mum must have ‘phone ears’. She finished talking just as he went outside the kitchen. ‘Thanks darling. Recycling is a great idea. What’s rubbish to one person is treasure to another.We’ll probably lose half ours before the official collector arrives.’

  She put out some glasses. ‘Want a lemonade? Hey, what’s this?’ She pointed to the metal box on the kitchen bench.

  ‘Mrs. Next -Door’s micrwave.She thought Dad might be able to get it going again.’

  There were mini cables attached. Art was not sure what these were for. This metal box sure looked different from the microwaves in the shop. Home made? A niggle was growing in his head. The box reminded him of something.

  At that moment, there was a loud knock at the door.

  ‘Good afternoon, madam.’

  There were two police officers in uniform.

  ‘We’re investigating the loss of some police property.’

  Art listened carefully. Police weren’t supposed to lose things. They were supposed to find things like lost children or missing doves.

  ‘What’s missing?’

  ‘Police property.’

  ‘Would have been sold? Or given to a fence?’ Art suggested. Art had heard about ‘fences’. They bought stolen goods for half the price or less. When he first heard the word, he thought it meant someone sitting on a fence to buy things.

  ‘We’d like to have it back.’ The younger police man was a bit embarrassed.

  ‘I don’t understand. Have what back?’ Mum looked puzzled.

  Did they think his mum was a burglar? Or a fence? His mum was so honest she gave back wrong change.

  Then Art realised. ‘Er, was it on the grass?’

  ‘Yes.’

  “I think someone has made a mistake,’Mum shook her head.

  ‘In front of number 46?’ asked Art.

  The policeman nodded. ‘It was!’

  ‘I think there’s been a mistake,’ said Art quickly. ’Our neighbour has bad eye sight and she thought…’

  ‘Show us what your neighbour gave you. What she picked up from the grass.’

  The shorter police officer smiled.

 
Art was glad to see that smile. He didn’t want his mum arrested.

  ‘Mum, I think he means ... the er ... er ... microwave.’

  ‘Oh, that strange microwave,’said Mum, puzzled. ‘My husband is going to fix it. He’s away working.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘I’ll get it,’ offered Art. This was one mistake he didn’t want Mario to hear about. ‘It’s over there, on the kitchen bench.’

  The police officer coughed. ‘Er…it’s not something you would ever cook your dinner in, madam.’

  Art looked at the metal box. What an idiot. He should have known. The police officer continued. ’It’s not a microwave oven.’

  Lawn. Road. Shape of box. Police officer.

  Putting together the clues, Art said quickly, ’Is it one of your speed cameras?’

  The police nodded. ‘And we’re a bit embarrassed to go back to base without it.’

  Art tried not to laugh.

  ‘Oh , sorry.’ Mum went bright red. ‘Will I be charged?’

  ‘No madam. We’re just glad to find it. We won’t even mention it to the senior sergeant.’

  After the police had cups of tea, Mum went in next door for a chat. Art could hear them laughing. Now Mum called her neighbour “Radar” for short. But maybe it wasn’t their neighbour’s fault.

  Remembering how he’s seen Mario carrying something, Art had his suspicions. Perhaps Mario had picked up the police speed camera first, and then dropped it?

  Chapter 7

  The Great Snail Race

  It just so happened that Mario was broke again. Grandad had stopped his pocket-money forever, or at least until his twelfth birthday.

  No friends would lend him any money because Mars Bar usually ‘forgot’ to pay it back. The problem was how to make some money. Last night, he had looked over the junk put out for the indestructible rubbish collection. Even picked up a black box ,but dropped it again. Too many wires he couldn’t use.

  Getting the reward for finding the dove might be one way.

  Earlier he he’d thought of getting some look-alike dove from the Thursday morning market. But there were no crested feather foot fantail pigeons. And he didn’t have nay money to buy birds.

  ‘Probably fly back to its market owners anyway.’ muttered Mario. He was disappointed.

  At school, Mrs. Tasker talked about getting snails ready for the Great Snail Race. Each student was to bring a live snail.

  That gave Mario another idea.

  Of course, even the best -organised events go wrong. And things always go wrong when Mario was there. But then there was the problem with the weather.

  It rained, a lot.

  On Thursday morning, Mount Street school children awoke to the sound of rain.

  It was heavy.

  ‘Glad I found my snail last night,’ said India.

  She looked towards her bedside table. Super Snail was waiting. He was in a jar with plenty of takeaway greenery. There were millions of air holes in the lid. There was a daub of liquid paper on Super Snail’s back.

  Even before breakfast, children sloshed outside. They peered under bushes. They tracked silvery trails across the pavement. They looked in vegetable gardens for fresh racers.

  ‘Get away from my tomatoes!’ Mr. Ginos yelled. ‘I have no snails in my garden.’

  By 8.50,there were 232 students at Mount Street School and 291 snails.

  ‘In this weather, we may not be able to have the race outside,’ said Mrs. Tasker. ‘What a summer!’

  ‘Let’s race the snails in the library,’ suggested Mario. He had a special reason for making sure the race was run.

  ‘Not enough room,’ said the librarian.

  For once, Mario was full of helpful suggestions.

  ‘Take the books out! The snails will think the green carpet is grass.’

  ‘Not mine,’ said India. She cuddled her jar as Super Snail did push- ups.

  ‘He knows his colours.’

  ‘This is the snails’ favourite weather,’ said Mrs. Tasker through her teeth. Mrs. Tasker hated wet weather timetables. She hated extra yard duty. And she hated damp parkas in the rooms.

  Mario looked up at the grey, damp sky. Gluggy cotton wool clouds drifted across the blue-grey.

  ‘Might clear up before lunchtime.’

  Mario’s grandad had a few chickens. So in Grade 4/5T, Mario was the closest to a farmer. And farers were supposed to know about weather.

  ‘First heat at 1pm,’ said Mrs. Tasker in her official, loudspeaker voice.

  ‘How come it’s called a heat? It’s freezing.’ Mario turned to the rest of the class. He did his monkey-gorilla movements, scratching under his arm to show he was joking.

  ‘Attention all grades. Would each grade choose only one snail. This will represent the class. Choose a jockey also.’

  In Grade 4/5T ,there was almost a fight. Everyone knew that his or her snail was best.

  ‘Quiet!’ Mrs. Tasker needed her loud voice.

  ‘A jockey,’ said Mario. ‘It’ll be like the Melbourne Cup. Hey, do you want to have a bet?’

  ‘Shh,’ said India. ‘Or Mrs. Tasker will have you on yard duty until Easter.’

  That wasn’t the only reason India tried to shut up Mario. His money-making schemes were well known. He used to run the bubble gum racket. Then the children discovered he was selling Rainbow Gum at higher than the shop price.

  Then there was the soccer card forgery. Mario used photos of cricketers.

  And the frozen, fake coins. He used to feed them into the games machine. Then the owner became suspicious of all the drips on the floor and no money in the machine. Mario lost every game to the machine anyway.The rust stuck up the works and he couldn’t win. Or so he said.

  ‘Settle down,’ warned Mrs. Tasker.”You’ll have to do some work this morning first. Enough to make up for tomorrow too. The school photographer is coming then.’

  Grade 4/5T had maths. They were doing percentages. That gave Mario his chance.

  Money. Racing. Betting. Winning percentages.

  Mario worked out the percentages he would make if every child bet on the snails.

  He might be a millionaire by home time.

  ‘Hey. Look at that!’

  Some snails had wandered. One crawled up the map of Europe. It started to nibble the North Pole.

  Next door, the Grade 3 children were excited.

  ‘Look!’

  Another snail had trailed across the maths board. It had slimed out the answer to the last question.

  At recess time, Grade 6 children found a snail on the timetable in the corridor. Friday’s sports lesson had been nibbled away.

  Meanwhile the teachers were worried. They had to mark the start and finish circles.

  ‘The white chalk won’t leave a mark on the damp ground. We may have to cancel,’ said Mrs. Tasker.

  ‘Not all the children can fit under the verandah if it keeps raining.’

  Busy writing lists, Mario overheard. He made a quick suggestion. ‘Mrs. Tasker, what about the white board? There’s one in our room. I’ll get it.’

  Mario wanted the race to be run. It took him about five minutes to convince the Grade 4/5T children.

  They moved the outdoor seats and upturned rubbish bins and put plastic boxes in a circle.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Mrs. Tasker. She looked upwards at the classroom windows overlooking the courtyard. ‘Grade 6 children can stand up there. Those with raincoats can use the chairs. If the little ones crouch down, we could all see. All right. The race will start at 1 o’clock.’

  Mario sighed with relief. Now all he needed were the names of the runners.

  Lunch started at 12.15. Mrs. Tasker used the school camera to take photos. Snail-shaped food was arranged on a big table in the multi-purpose room. Snai
l scones. Snail marshmallows with cherries at the end of licorice sticks for eyes. Green pasta snails. Vegemite sandwiches rolled sideways, Slices of Swiss jam roll with toothpicks sticking out.

  ‘D’you think my snail might like a nibble of this?’ Mario opened the lid of his margarine tub. The snail’s feelers poked out.

  ‘Is it a cannibal? Does it eat other snails?’ asked Art.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mario thoughtfully.’ But we could find out.’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Art.

  Rain was still drizzling down.

  ‘Go outside for a few minutes children,’ said the teachers.

  But Mario was too busy. He needed to finish his lists. He needed to collect money from the other kids. He also accepted IOUs which he stuffed in his jeans pocket.

  ‘Mrs. Tasker , would you like me to write the names of the snails on the board? Then everyone will know who to bet…who to barrack for.’

  ‘Thankyou Mario. You’ve been very helpful today. It’s a nice change.’

  ‘The prep snails is …Sally.’

  ‘How can we tell which snail is which? They all look the same, except mine,’ said India.

  ‘No they don’t. Look at this one. He’s special.’ Laim let the snail coil around his middle finger. The it wandered along the back of his finger. Then it…

  ‘Yuk,’ said Liam.

  ‘Wipe it off with a tissue..’

  ‘How do you know the snail is a he?’ asked India. ‘ I thought snails were hermaphrodites..That means he and she at the same time.’

  ‘What?’ Mario didn’t like big words. Even for swearing. But India used book words all the time.

  ‘Put white-out on him,’ suggested India. ‘That’s what I used.’

  Liam’s snail was chosen as Grade 4/5T’s snail.

  ‘Laim, does your snail have a name? ‘ asked Mrs. Tasker.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘St Mount,’ said Mario. ‘ Patron saint of snail, wasn’t he?’

  ‘That’s not what I learnt,’ smiled Mrs. Tasker who’d heard Mario’s tall tales before. ‘But St Mount, it is. S.M.’

  Mrs. Tasker was the starter. Using the microphone, she named the runners and their jockeys.