Parrot and Olivier in America (10 page)

"Yes sir."

"Isn't it a little late in the year for bird nesting?"

"I was on a message sir. I was chased sir."

"By whom were you chased?"

"Farmers sir."

He lowered his spectacles on his nose. It was a good-sized nose at that, not fat, but long and bossy. I could smell the wheat starch powder of his wig.

"Well, Piggott's boy," he said at last, "let me give you a ride home."

"I'm lost sir. I don't know where to go."

"Then you're an exceptionally fortunate devil," said the gentleman who was--as he told me when I was sitting in his coach together with two gents who I took to be his gamekeepers or something of that nature--Lord Devon himself. His men were Mr. Benjamin and Mr. Poole and they also told me I was a lucky little devil and please not to put my filthy hands on his lordship's seats. I had never traveled in such style before and I sat up very straight with my bleeding legs held away from where they might touch anything and, with my hands clasped in my lap, I was left alone to enjoy the privilege of being able to see, above the hedgerows, a peregrine falcon sailing high up in the pale sky.

"That's a hawk, that is," Mr. Poole said. So he was not a gamekeeper, even if he did have leather patches on his jacket elbows. I looked to his lordship to see what he would say it was.

"What do you say, devil?" he asked me, smiling so his beaky face became suddenly very kind. "Is it a hawk?"

"It's a peregrine falcon, sir."

"And what does a peregrine falcon eat, devil?"

"Birds, sir. Although I heard it will eat a fish," I said. "My father saw one take an asp."

"In fact," Mr. Benjamin said, "almost everything."

"Including printers," said Mr. Poole.

His lordship said nothing to that but took an urgent and violent interest in what was outside his window--a great flock of birds, as it happened, about fifty of them, attacking some mystery inside the hedge. This seemed to engage his attention for a very long time.

"You are an enormous fool, Poole," he said at last.

Waxwings
, I thought, but did not say.

VII

MRS. PIGGOTT HELD her locks back from her appley face. Then Lord Devon clamped my upper arm, and together we marched to her doorway. She must have been astonished to see the Parrot in the company of a lord.

"Madame?"
Devon asked.
"Je suppose que votre nom est Marie Piggott?"

Mrs. Piggott curtsied as if very pleased.
"Mais oui, monsieur,"
she said. "That's me."

"Did you know, madame"--and here he used his cane to flick a dead oil beetle from her steps--"did you know, Mrs. Marie Piggott, that the Alien Act of 1793 requires all foreigners to register with customs officials of the police office?"

"What?" she said.

But his lordship was not waiting for an answer or an invitation, and he charged on up the steps with the Parrot still attached.

A small girlish cry from Mrs. Piggott. A fast retreat.

Benjamin and Poole were hard behind us. Their hats were small black dinghies beached upon their wigless heads. All four of us pursued the fleeing mistress through the hall and into the dining room where she awaited us, standing alongside Mr. Piggott, the pair of them in check against the paneled wall.

For a moment both residents and intruders paused to consider their positions. Then Piggott thrust himself one square forward, all eighteen stone, rubbing his hands together. What larks, he seemed to say.

"Bert Piggott at your service, sir." He would not tug his forelock. He gave his head a little bob instead.

His lordship did not so much as lift an eyebrow. He removed his topcoat, revealing himself in his waistcoat like some dangerous red-chested bird with gold embroidery around its buttonholes and pockets. An older boy would know to be afraid of all this Tory needlework, but I was thrilled to see Piggott in a state of terror.

His lordship threw his coat across a chair. So peaceful did he seem that it was a wonder he did not call to have his slippers fetched.

"Have you registered your wife, sir?"

Piggott lifted up his thirty-pound bucket of head and thrust out his chin. "As you say, sir, she is my wife."

"Then you understand your legal position, Mr. Piggott. You must take her to Exeter tomorrow. You will register her, do you understand?"

"She is as good as English, sir, please."

His lordship must have been a funny fellow when with his mates, for he bugged his eyes up very big. "She is
what
exactly?"

"In a manner of speaking, sir."

Devon turned to Poole and Benjamin. "Mr. Poole," he said, "you are the wicket keeper. Mr. Benjamin--you are silly mid-on."

They are playing cricket now, I thought. His lordship retrieved his coat, a silky thing as light as butterfly wings, and tossed it to Poole. "Bees sting," he said. "Ants bite. Do keep an eye out."

This was not cricket or any other game I ever heard of and the hidden language was very frightening. I knew it was time to see my father. However, his lordship, as if reading my mind, lifted a finger and raised his eyebrows and I understood I was under his orders.

"So I shall take her to Exeter," said Mr. Piggott, shoving his hands into his apron pockets. "I do business in Exeter, so it is quite convenient."

"So, this is your property, Piggott.
En avez-vous herite? Vous avez cambriole une banque?"

"I'm afraid I don't parlez the lingo, sir."

"Your house. A lovely old place," said his lordship, running his hand admiringly over the tight curling grain of the panels. "Nicholas Owen," he said.

"Sir?"

"Are you a Catholic yourself, perhaps?"

"I am sir, yes."

"Poor old Owen was a Jesuit, I think. They were bad times for Catholics, when he designed this place."

"Could I fetch you some refreshment, sir? A brandy?"

"Brandy?" Devon raised his cane and smashed it down upon the paneling. Mrs. Piggott was not the only one to flinch. "No one told you your house was famous?" he asked, not looking at Piggott but tapping on the wall with his knuckles.

"Famous, sir? Ha-ha."

"Famous, sir," said Lord Devon, who was now caressing the house as if it were a horse, casting an extraordinary smile across his shoulder at the Piggotts. You would think he loved them half to death.

There was a sharp clear click.

"There you are, madame," he said, sliding a small panel sideways. "Here's a nice place for your prayer book."

"Monsieur?"

"
Un endroit parfait pour cacher un livre de prieres
if you were here two hundred years ago."

"Good Lord," cried Piggott, stepping forward urgently. "Good heavens sir. Who would credit it?" He was so set on inspecting the secret cubbyhole that he would have jammed his big booby head inside, but His Majesty detained him. "Ha-ha, sir. Nice place to hide a bottle, your lordship." He wiped himself with a rag, leaving printer's ink upon his neck.

His lordship smiled so sweet, he might have been the printer's mother. "Oh there is much much more than this, Piggott," he cried. "All manner of holes and chapels contrived with no less skill and industry. They've hidden traitors in this house, Mr. Piggott. Can you imagine?"

"Good grief."

"Oh yes, Mr. Piggott, in chimneys."

"Chimneys sir?" said Piggott. "I have a lovely brandy. Let me fetch it now."

The fireplace was set and ready as it always was, and it was certainly the talk of chimneys that drew Lord Devon to inspect it. Piggott hovered at his back, a fat white presence which his lordship seemed at first put out by, but then--

"Ah yes, sir." He beamed. "A brandy would do the trick."

Piggott bobbed his head and winked his eye and tapped his nose and soon I heard him on the stairway, an unexpected direction for the brandy bottle.

His lordship nodded amiably at Mrs. Piggott. She tucked her curls inside her hat as if she might, in doing this, make herself more English.

"Printer's devil," he said to me. "Fetch back your master. Have him bring the brandy now."

I used the door through which Piggott had departed and immediately found him on the staircase which now revealed itself to be a clever hiding place. The first three steps were steps indeed, but Piggott had now lifted them like a hatch and inside was revealed the one-armed Frenchman who had reappeared last night at dinner.

Said I, to no one, "He wants his brandy, sir."

The man with one arm pushed Piggott violently. And as the stair returned to its rightful place, Piggott took me by my neck and turned me back the other way and forced me through a door and down the stone steps into the cellar. Finding what he came for, he pushed me very cruelly up the stairs and I barked my shins and cut my hands upon the stone.

On my return I found Lord Devon kneeling before the fireplace. Behind him, Mrs. Piggott wrung her hands and silently beseeched her husband please to save her, from what I did not know.

"Do you mind?" his lordship asked politely, encouraging the little flame he had begun with his flint and tinder.

"Oh no sir, please sir," cried Piggott in alarm.

"No sir?" queried his lordship who now, as his flame took hold, seemed in a very jolly frame of mind. "Please sir, no sir, is it?"

"It's a summer's day sir."

"Oh I do like getting warm," Lord Devon said, as the kindling--which had lived a lifetime in the house--fairly leaped to its own destruction.

His lordship stood, brushing down his stockinged knees.

"Now," he said. "That drink you promised."

Piggott, you will remember, was a big man with a big head and he was, even when malicious, slow as a cow in his manners. By now, however, both Piggotts were in a state they no longer could disguise. Mrs. Piggott left for the scullery; Mr. Piggott ran after her. They returned by different doors, each holding a different-shaped glass.

"Here's a riddle," said Lord Devon, considering the choice. "Bless me if I won't have them both." He clasped his hands behind his back where the fire was crackling fiercely, exploding in the way of dry pine logs, showering tiny grenades into the room.

Piggott filled the glasses with clearly trembling hands.

"Thirsty weather," said his lordship, raising both in a toast. He sipped. He giggled. Then, in sheer delight at his own wickedness, he threw the brandy on the fire which now leaped at him, licking with its yellow tongue, leaving a glowing bite upon his wig which Piggott, in his panic, attempted to pat out.

For this he was poked right in the belly.

Lord Devon removed his burning wig, astonishing me with the hard bony brightness he revealed. He patted out the damage, keeping his eye on me as if I had some news to give. But it was only the genius forger Watkins I was thinking of and I would not betray him now.

It was hot inside the dining room and no one would move away from the fire. To admit the heat, I saw, would be to confess to something worse. Lord Devon rested his gloved hand on my shoulder and carelessly jabbed his stick into the fire. The stick was handsome black oak with a silver top to it, but he used it like a common poker, jabbing it and banging it, until it was charred and glowing on the tip which he showed to the Piggotts with no nice meaning I was sure.

"Your stick is burning."

"So is your hearth, sir." And with this he gave a good hard jab into the heart of the fire and Piggott watched dumbly as the burning logs were knocked onto his dining room floor and the charred walking stick was stabbed again and again into the hearth as if it were a spear to kill a dragon.

"You see, Piggott," his lordship said. He was having a great old time, careless of the choking smoke, the soot on both his face and hands. As for his silver stick, he now reversed it so he could use it like a navvy's crowbar.

"You see," he said, and--completely indifferent to the heat and burning wood, thrust in his hand like a farmer at a calving and drew into the light a fistful of smoldering currency--not assignats.

The dreadful Lord Devon, who was later paid a bung by Mr. Pitt for services to king and country, held up his treasure--pale white notes carrying the promise of the Stockton and Cleveland Bank to hand over five pounds of gold for each and every one.

Behind my back I heard a noise, and turned to see both Piggotts on the floor, poor devils, him kneeling, her curled up in a ball, her stockings showing.

VIII

AS A LIZARD drops its tail to save its life, so must the Parrot sacrifice his sleeve to escape Lord Devon's grip. Out the door I fled into the inky evening, not a living soul in sight except the house martins scything across the sky. I stumbled coughing, spitting, down the dark side of the mansion, flushing a quail from beneath the pussy willow. The bird was much more wily than the boy, for while I was heading straight for Watkins' secret hole, she pretended a broken wing and hobbled and fluttered toward the river, intending to lead me away from her nest.

I had reached the stinging nettles, just before the door, when the designated wicket keeper caught me.

Mr. Benjamin dropped on me like a spider, wrapping his huge hands around my chest, binding me to him, so close I could smell the inside of his nose.

"Got you," he cried.

The Parrot slid right through his nasty knot, surrendering the remainder of his shirt. I feinted toward the house, cut back toward the river, crashed through the pussy willow where Mr. Poole was waiting for me.

"Got you."

He had fair hair and blue eyes and a red blush to his cheeks like a toy soldier. He was slight but as hard and stitched together as the leather casing of a ball, and though I kicked and spat and scratched at him, there was no escape from the bony shackle around my wrist.

"I'll break your frigging arm," he said.

"Where is he?" That was Lord Devon, hollering from the steps.

"Here sir," called Poole, dragging me brutally, skidding me on my knees, a half-skun hare.

"Not him, you fool!" Lord Devon had a captive of his own--Mrs. Piggott--tripping and stumbling after him. "Not him, not him!"