A Cruel Bird Came to the Nest and Looked - By Magnus Mills Page 0,53
I felt a curious wave of anticipation pass through me. I remembered this book in particular because it had a colour picture on every other page, so that each story was encapsulated in a few scenes. Sure enough, when I opened it there was a page of text on the left side, and an illustration on the right. To my surprise I recognised the first picture as if I had only seen it the previous day, rather than many years before. It showed three men gazing up at the night sky through a tall, narrow window. I was astounded at the familiarity of the detail; also, the brightness of the colours. The three men wore blue coats, their shoes were buckled and their stockings were white. The words of the story, however, were unfamiliar. Slowly, I turned to the next page. Here was a man in a rowing boat in the middle of a lake; on his head was a yellow crown. I examined the picture and noticed that one of the oarlocks hadn’t been drawn properly. Part of it was missing, which would have made the boat impossible to row. I recalled that this had baffled me throughout my childhood. Again, though, I had no memory of the story itself, and I began to realise that when I was young I couldn’t have read the book properly. I must have spent all my time looking at the pictures. I turned the pages, one by one, and yet more half-forgotten characters were revealed. Invariably they appeared startled, bewildered, surprised or jubilant. Hidden away inside this book, they’d worn the same expressions for years and years and years. At last I arrived at the final page. I paused for a long moment. Then, as I expected, I turned over and saw a man in a broad-brimmed hat. He was peering with astonishment at a silver coin in the palm of his hand.
‘Found something riveting?’ said a voice behind me.
It was Wryneck.
‘Not really,’ I said, quickly returning the book to its place amongst the others.
Wryneck must have somehow detached himself from Sanderling. Now he’d come prowling along the bookshelves from the other direction.
‘I would have thought you’d be in the music section,’ he said, ‘trying to keep a step ahead of your protégé.’
It took a moment to absorb the meaning of his remark.
‘You mean Greylag?’ I asked.
‘Of course,’ replied Wryneck. ‘He’s making extraordinary advances in the field of symphonic music. I’ve called in at the cake once or twice recently and the work he’s doing never fails to impress me. You must be very proud of him.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I suppose I am.’
‘His latest project is progressing by leaps and bounds.’
‘I take it you’re referring to Greylag’s tonal experimentations.’
‘Correct.’ Wryneck was brimming with enthusiasm. ‘They should provide valuable groundwork for the next composition.’
It occurred to me that I should be telling Wryneck all this, rather than him telling me; which served as a reminder that once again I’d neglected Greylag and the rest of the orchestra. Plainly, Wryneck had visited the cake more than ‘once or twice’ in recent days, but in any case it was more than I had. Without a doubt he was fully aware that Greylag did all the composing, and not me, yet he was diplomatic enough to skirt around the matter. As usual I was unable to detect the precise drift of Wryneck’s observations. I had no idea whether he was encouraging me to take a deeper interest in Greylag’s work, or advising me not to interfere, or neither.
‘Well, thank you, Wryneck,’ was all I managed to say. ‘Your comments are always welcome.’
Wryneck nodded, and then continued perusing the bookshelves. Meanwhile, I returned to the main party, where I discovered that most of the wine had gone. There were a few glasses remaining, however, so I helped myself. Sanderling appeared to have finished explaining the art of sailing to the others. He was now standing alone with a full glass in his hand, and a very contented look on his face. Smew was still giving Brambling and Whimbrel the benefit of his wisdom; they both seemed as if they were wilting under the strain. Dotterel and Garganey were standing somewhat aloof and talking quietly. They broke off their conversation as I approached.
‘Ho ho,’ I said. ‘Not plotting Smew’s downfall, I hope?’
‘Hardly,’ said Dotterel. ‘A disunited cabinet is the last thing we need at a time like this.’
Something in his tone caused me to lower my voice.