A Cruel Bird Came to the Nest and Looked - By Magnus Mills Page 0,54

you mean?’ I enquired.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ said Garganey.

‘Not to me, no,’ I said.

‘Well,’ said Dotterel, ‘we’re not allowed to discuss it until after the twelve-day feast. You’ll just have to wait until then.’

At that moment Smew clapped his hands together and we all turned to face him. Wryneck reappeared from amongst the bookshelves.

‘Thank you all for coming,’ said Smew. ‘I think you’ll agree the afternoon has been a great success.’

There was a small ripple of applause.

‘I have a parting gift for each of you,’ he continued. ‘If you please, Shrike.’

I’d noticed Shrike hovering in the doorway. Now he came in bearing our gifts on a tray. We were to receive a bottle of wine apiece.

‘This is the fortified variety,’ explained Smew, ‘something to help you through the inclement weather.’

It turned out that nobody, not even Whimbrel, had thought to bring a gift for Smew, but he seemed unconcerned. He just stood there beaming. One by one we took our bottles of wine, thanked him, and made ready to leave. Sanderling was particularly fulsome in his gratitude. His eyes glistened at the thought of the twelve blissful days that lay ahead.

‘We can all visit each other’s departments,’ he suggested, ‘and share one another’s wine.’

Wryneck, however, had different ideas.

‘Strictly speaking, the admiralty should be closed for the duration of the feast,’ he announced, ‘and likewise the post office, the counting house and the ministry of works. The doors will be locked and the lights dimmed: hardly suitable for socialising.’

‘No,’ said Sanderling, ‘I suppose not.’

‘Therefore, I suggest you save your wine for remedial purposes.’

With these bleak words ringing in our ears we were ushered out into the rain, which was now bucketing down. Whimbrel waited until after the door had closed behind us.

‘Don’t worry, Sanderling,’ he said, ‘you can come up to the observatory and have a drink there.’

‘You mean now?’ said Sanderling.

He was clearly eager to take up the invitation.

‘Well, actually I meant another day,’ replied Whimbrel.

‘When, though?’ asked Sanderling.

‘Tomorrow, perhaps,’ offered Whimbrel.

‘Right,’ said Sanderling, ‘tomorrow it is. Goodnight.’

Next moment he’d gone dashing off through the rain without arranging a proper time. Whimbrel turned to me and shrugged. Meanwhile, Dotterel, Brambling and Garganey had wandered away in separate directions, all clutching their seasonal gifts.

‘I think I’ll call in on the orchestra,’ I said. ‘See what sort of feast they’ve been having.’

I thought Whimbrel looked at me slightly oddly when I said this, but he passed no remark so I wished him goodnight and went on my way.

‘Shall I pop round tomorrow?’ I asked at the last moment.

‘If you like,’ Whimbrel replied.

Then he was all alone in the darkness.

So it was that the twelve-day feast began to tick slowly by. I put into immediate effect my resolve to spend more time with the orchestra. I found them, of course, just as I had left them, hard at work on Greylag’s music. Obviously serfs were not granted holidays like the rest of us, so they just carried on practising as normal. Nor had they been idle during my absence. I soon discovered that Wryneck was quite correct in describing Greylag’s tremendous advances. To tell the truth I’d never heard anything like it: great crashing chords greeted me as I strode down the auditorium; woodwind, brass and strings clambered over one another as they vied for my attention; themes emerged, developed and faded away, only to be resurrected once more. I felt as if I had entered some immense factory where music was being invented for the first time. Occasionally, I picked up the conductor’s baton and offered my services, but most of the time Greylag remained at the helm. Whenever there was a break, which was rare, he explained what he was striving for musically; but most of it went straight over my head. From what I could gather, the nearer he got to his goal, the further it moved away. Even so, he was plainly gaining in confidence. For my part, all I could do was urge him to continue as best he could. Such was the extent of my involvement with the orchestra: they would play and I would listen.

In the world outside the feast rolled on. The Maypole, of course, served as a beacon in the surrounding winter darkness. It was always thronging with merrymakers, and more than once I was tempted to pay a return visit. My previous qualms, however, were yet to subside. Therefore, I decided to wait until after the festivities had quietened down. Instead, I spent the