Swallow

Swallow

The tale that I will endeavour to relate to you took place one day in
very late summer somewhere in England's middle lands. It was a day in
very late summer when one is not sure whether to wear a t-shirt, a
light rainproof jacket, or a jumper. The clouds were behaving to such
an erratic extent they caused one to wonder if they were on the right
planet. The Sun, which attempted to take any opportunity to shine
through a gap in the clouds, was extremely bright when it succeeded to.
Occasionally, rain would give up trying to cling to the clouds and fall
gently as a fine mist that almost immediately evaporated when the heat
of the Sun eventually shone through.

A bird was amiably making its way through the middle lands of England,
admiring the green hedgerows and the green fields that were
intermittently interspersed with the yellow of oil-seed rape. The bird,
which was in fact a young swallow, was wondering how long it would take
to fly around a rather large cloud that had suddenly developed when
there was a sudden loud thud and everything went dark.

"What the bloody hell was that?" yelled Robert Hamshaw.

"I don't know, Daddy!" was the answering reply from Sally.

"Maybe it was the ghost of the Cromptons Dad!" shouted Mark,
hopefully.

"It wasn't, was it Daddy? Please say it wasn't," Sally said, finding
her father's left leg and clinging to it.

"No Sally, it wasn't the ghost of the Cromptons."

"But they are ghosts? aren't they Dad?"

"No Mark. Look, go outside and see if you can find out what it was.
I'll finish putting the cakes in the oven."

"Daddy, I don't want to go. Please let me stay here with you."

"Okay, you can help me. Mark, please don't keep going on about the
Cromptons."

"But Dad, I tell you, I've seen them. She's an old crooked thing
clinging to her husband, who looks like he fought in a thousand wars
with the number of medals he's got on his chest."

"Please go and see if you can find out what the noise was," replied
Robert, aware that he would have to find out if Mr. Crompton really did
fight in any wars or whether it was his son's imagination not just
running riot, but taking over the army and putting the tanks and heavy
artillery to good use.

"All right Dad," shouted Mark, as he ran outside the back door and into
the garden. Now for a little detective work, thought Mark to himself,
gleefully, as he wandered over the plank of wood that formed the path
between the house and the vegetable patch that his mother had started
when he was younger. He should have remembered to ask her which herbs
had been planted, because his Dad had difficulty remembering. Mark
started his investigation by examining the kitchen window that had been
the object of the bang that had made them all jump. He couldn't examine
it very closely, however, because at the age of eleven and standing at
a height of only four foot six and three quarters, most of the window
was out of view, particularly because the ground was lower than the
floor of the house. An odd thing he remembered noticing when they first
moved in.

Even though he couldn't see the full window, there was definitely the
outline of an odd shape marking the glass. Mark saw it first when the
light from the Sun shone through the clouds for a brief moment.

"Have you found anything yet, Mark?" he heard his father shout through
the part of the kitchen window they had opened because the oven was
making everyone hot.

"Only some kind of mark on the window," yelled Mark in reply.

He was looking at the ground directly beneath the window when a
movement caught his eye. It was Carter, the cat, but he wasn't looking
at Mark; he was looking at something else. Mark shifted his head
slowly, because Carter was in the hunting stance he adopted when Mark
dragged a woolly mouse attached to a piece of string in front of him
and he didn't want to disturb whatever it was Carter was stalking. It
was then that Mark spotted an odd shape on the lawn of the back garden,
a small distance from the kitchen window.

"Mark! What's going on? Have you found anything?"

Mark couldn't answer his father because he was diving full length
across the garden to cover the odd shape on the grass before Carter
came out of his pre-strike position. He looked up as soon as he got his
hands over the shape and saw Carter looking at him with undisguised
hatred. Mark felt guilty, particularly when Carter walked away in a
clear attitude of contempt with his tail stuck in the air to lie under
some kind of shrub at the bottom of the garden. But then, Mark
remembered something his mother had said to him about the strong
protecting the weak and he immediately felt better.

"Mark, what was it?" asked Robert when he heard Mark come in through
the back door.

"Ugh, Daddy, Mark's all dirty and he's got dirty stuff in his
hands."

"It's not dirty stuff," said Mark to Sally, as he saw his Dad turn
around from the oven. "It's a bird."

"Aw, look, it's a poor little birdie. Daddy, is he going to be all
right?" Sally looked at her father with eyes that would melt the heart
of the coldest miser. He found himself trying to remember if he was
anything like his son when he was young. He remembered reading a lot of
books, filling his dreams with other people's fantasies. Mark spent his
time within his own world; something that had worried Robert until a
doctor told him that it was natural.

"Sally, be careful for a moment, please? Let me have a quick look
first." Robert gently moved Sally aside and looked at the bird held
delicately in Mark's often clumsy hands. For a brief moment, Robert
felt tears well in his eyes and that strange burning sensation
increasing the probability of more tears to come. He shook his head and
blinked his eyes and could clearly see the bird was breathing.

"What make of bird is it Daddy?"

"Birds don't come in makes, Sally," replied Mark. "Do they Dad?"

"No, not usually," smiled Robert. "I think it's a swallow, but I'm not
sure."

"What should we do Dad?"

"Well, my uncle once told me a story of an explorer who met a witch
doctor who gave the explorer something for his diarrhoea. The explorer
with the diarrhoea thanked the witch doctor, because his diarrhoea was
no more. A few days after leaving the witch doctor, the explorer died.
It turned out that the witch doctor had given the explorer a form of
cement. The moral of the story is that sometimes a little good can do a
lot of wrong. I think we should take the bird to the vet."

The bird woke up.
The bird immediately regretted waking up.
Pain. So much pain. Bright lights. More pain.
The bird started to panic.

Mark was caught by surprise as the bird began to frenziedly flap its
right wing.

"It's definitely frightened," said Robert, as he made a move to take
the bird from Mark's hands.

"No Dad, we can't take him to the vet," Mark knew instinctively that
the bird was male. "All the vet's going to do is put him down."

"Daddy, what does that mean?" asked Sally from behind Robert's leg,
where she had hidden herself when the bird started flapping.

Robert sighed heavily. "Look, we need a box, the old blanket out of the
cupboard in the hall and some of the bird feed we put on the bird
table, okay Sally? You think you can get all those things for
me?"

"I'll try," answered Sally. She promptly ran off to gather up the items
requested by her father.

"Let me have a look at him, Mark," said Robert. He moved to gently take
the bird from Mark's hands, but Mark didn't appear to want to let go.
"Mark?"

"Dad, you won't take him to the vet will you?"

"I can't promise I won't. Not if it's in pain and suffering. The best I
can do is say that we'll see what we can do, okay?"

This seemed to allow Mark to relax slightly, enough for him to let
Robert take the bird out of his hands. The frenzied flap of the wing
seemed to have drained any energy the bird had left and it bothered
Robert that only one wing had been used. As the bird was transferred to
his hands, he noticed why. He didn't possess detailed knowledge about
birds and their physiology, but he was pretty sure that its left wing
was not supposed to be bent at the angle it appeared to be at.

It was a strange experience for Robert, driving the car in silence.
Usually the radio was on or a CD was playing, but Mark had switched the
stereo off as soon as the key had been turned in the ignition. As the
car was speeding along the roads to the vet, the tension being suffered
by Mark and Sally made the air seem heavy. Robert felt extremely guilty
for putting them through this, even though he knew there was nothing he
could do for the bird. Mark sat next to him in the passenger seat, his
hands clenched tightly around the box that Sally had gotten from her
room by tipping her toys onto the floor. She had been particularly
proud of herself when she told Robert about this. Sally sat in the back
seat behind Robert, occasionally letting herself out of the restraint
of the seat belt to check the status of the bird. The first time she
did this, Robert was thinking about how to tell her not to when Mark
told her to be careful and not get out of the seat belt when there were
other cars around. That was the only time any of them had spoken once
they'd got in the car, and so far Sally hadn't got out of her seat belt
when there were other cars around. Sometimes, Mark really did sound
like his mother.

Robert had wanted to be able to do something else, rather than have to
take the bird to the vet, but each time he had tried to investigate the
damaged wing the bird screeched in a heart-rending manner.

It didn't take them long to arrive at the veterinary surgery, and
luckily they got there half an hour before it closed. There were a few
people waiting in the reception area with a menagerie of creatures and
Robert recognised that strange smell common only to vets and pet shops.
There was an anxious moment when Sally was nearly devoured by a huge
Labrador that caused her to dive between Robert's legs and cause him to
nearly flatten a ferret with his foot. The large woman who owned the
Labrador gradually reined it in and Robert apologised to the young man
with the tattoos holding the ferret on a lead. Mark had already made it
to the reception desk and was explaining to the assistant something of
the history surrounding the bird in the box. Robert's sigh and shrug of
the shoulders were of exasperation. Aware that one course of action was
closed to him, Mark plunged feet first into the only option left.

"Hello," said Robert, when he eventually reached the desk.

"Hello," replied the assistant. "Your son was telling me what
happened."

"Yes, what can you do?"

"Strictly speaking, we haven't got any appointments left for today, but
I reckon we can fit you in at the end."

Robert was relieved. At least there wouldn't be a tense ride to another
location. "That's very kind of you," said Robert. There was a seat left
in a corner of the reception area. "Mark, why don't you take the seat
over there and Sally and I will stand guard against the animals."

"Okay Dad. But I don't think Sally should be on guard. Sally, you take
the seat and I'll stand guard with Dad."

Sally made her way over to the spare chair, wary of the Labrador as she
passed it. Mark handed Sally the box with his precious charge nestled
in a blanket within and then turned to watch the animals, daring them
to make a move against the bird. Robert noticed a woman with a parrot
in a cage and that made him feel slightly more relaxed about his
decision to bring the bird here. If she trusted the vet enough to bring
her pet parrot, it was a good sign.

It felt like they had been waiting for hours when finally the
receptionist called over to them and said they could go through to the
surgery. The smell of antibiotic and the remnants of many different
types of animal smell assailed their nostrils as they walked into the
room. The vet was close to the image that Robert had in his mind. He
had white hair, wore a white coat and had a stethoscope hanging from
around his neck.

"Now then," opened the vet, in a deep assuring voice. "What have you
bought me?"

Mark gently laid the box containing the bird on the table in front of
the vet and stepped back, his eyes never leaving the face of the vet.
Robert could tell he was trying to make up his mind whether he could
trust the vet or not. Sally was clinging to Robert's left leg, poking
her head out to catch a view of the proceedings, just as she would if
she were watching a movie and things had become a little scary.

"Ah, hirundo rustica. And a young one at that."

"Pardon?" Robert couldn't help asking.

"Hirundo rustica is the Latin name for the swallow. You appear to have
bought me one in this box. Its left wing appears to be broken. Could
you tell me what happened?"

Before Robert could answer, Mark replied, "The swallow flew into our
kitchen window. I got hold of it before Carter could. Dad said we
should bring it here."

"And very glad I am you did too," smiled the vet. "Not many birds
survive an attempt to travel through glass. We will treat the broken
wing and make sure he's okay." The vet moved to a cabinet and began
taking various items out and putting them in silver trays.

"Please, sir, do you think we can take him home?"

The vet turned towards Mark. "Well," began the vet. "Swallows really
aren't meant to be pets."

"We know that," said Sally. She had come out of hiding now and was
standing at Mark's side. "We want to look after him. He flew into our
window."

Robert could tell by the look on the vet's face that Sally was using
all of her persuasive powers. This usually meant that she was looking
at someone with big brown puppy eyes, her head tilted to one side and a
small frown wrinkling her forehead; the effect was one of her asking,
"What possible reason could you have for refusing me?"

"What about leaving him here with me for a couple of days? You can
visit him whenever you want." The vet paused for a moment, knowing that
Mark and Sally were about to jump in. "Then," he resumed, just in time.
"We can see if he's fit enough for you to look after him at
home."

"Thank you," exclaimed Mark and Sally in unison.

"But," continued the vet. "You will have to solemnly swear as assistant
vets to follow your instructions to the letter."

"Wow," Mark said wondrously. "We can be assistant vets?"

"Yes, but only if you promise to follow the instructions. Now, what are
your names?"

Robert was very happy with the way the vet was treating Mark and Sally.
He was relieved that they were relaxing in the presence of the man in
the white coat.

Three months had passed since Robert, Mark and Sally had made their
journey to the veterinary surgery. The vet had put the bird's wing into
a splint and had finished giving Mark and Sally their instructions. The
ride home from the surgery was much more relaxed than it was on the
journey there.

The vet had promised them that they could visit the bird after two days
and he would decide whether they could take it home and look after it.
Mark and Sally were very happy when the vet told them that they could;
Robert was less enthusiastic, more concerned with the detail than the
overall feeling of goodness that one should feel when lending a helping
hand. The vet let them have a cage and told them to come back to the
surgery in a week to see what progress had been made.

The bird made a good recovery, according to the vet and despite
Robert's worst fears. It wasn't long before the bird would wake them
all up in the morning with its call, jumping up and down in the cage,
eagerly awaiting the food that would be brought to it.

The vet told them after two months of their first visit to the surgery
that the bird's wing appeared to be completely healed. It was from this
point that Robert found the whole episode got harder, because Mark
would spend such a long time with the bird, reading it stories and
telling it about how his day had been. Sally would love to feed the
bird and watch it jump up and down, squeaking and singing. Robert tried
to broach the subject one evening after dinner.

"Mark, Sally, the bird's better now. We've got to let him go."

"Dad," Mark replied. "The bird's name is Marlowe."

"Yes," interrupted Sally. "And Marlowe isn't ready to fly yet."

"Sally, the vet told us that the bir? Marlowe is fit to fly. If we keep
him any longer, he's not going to be able to survive in the
wild."

"Dad, we're only looking after him a bit longer. We know what the vet
told us about keeping him." It crossed Mark's mind that his mother
would have stuck up for him.

"Okay," said Robert. "When do you think you'll be ready to let him
go?"

"A few weeks I think. Just until we're sure that he's ready to fly,"
replied Mark.

That had been a month ago and Robert had not mentioned anything about
it since. However, he did notice how Mark had become progressively
sullen and quiet. Sally was also behaving badly; not going to bed when
she was told and not eating food that normally she would have wolfed
down. Robert decided that the time had come when he had to lance the
boil. Their moods and sense of equilibrium had suffered enough before
the bird had made its unexpected entrance. They could all do with
things being returned to normal, and like the horrible spot that grows
on your forehead - no matter how much you don't want to deal with it,
life without the spot is always better.

This time, Robert broached the subject on a Sunday, after their
traditional bacon and eggs.

"Mark, Sally. Today we must let Marlowe go free," Robert was careful to
use the bird's adopted name. His statement was met with what was
becoming all too common silence. "Listen, please, let me tell you
something. My mother, your Grandmother, once told me that if you love
someone enough, you wouldn't keep it prisoner, because real love lets
that someone go free." Robert noticed Mark's head come up. "If that
someone loves you back, they will always be with you." For some reason,
as Robert looked into Mark's eyes, he felt the strange sensation that
Mark knew exactly what he was talking about.

"Okay Dad," said Mark. Robert was quite distressed to see tears in his
son's eyes.

"Are we really going to set Marlowe free?" asked Sally.

"Yes," answered Mark. "Dad's right. We can't let Marlowe be cooped up
in here when he should be outside playing with his pals."

They all got up from the table and went into the small room off the
kitchen where they kept Marlowe in his cage. For some reason, Robert
hadn't noticed it before, but the bird's toes had been painted a bright
pink colour.

"Mark, would you happen to know why Marlowe's toes are painted
pink?"

Mark started to smile. "No Dad."

"That was me!" squeaked Sally. "I thought that Marlowe needed cheering
up."

"Okay," said Robert. The first thought to cross his mind was how Sally
had managed to paint this bird's feet. The second thought was to
consider what the effect of having pink toes would be on the bird, but
decided that it couldn't really cause that much danger. "He certainly
looks fitter doesn't he?"

"Yes Dad. We've been feeding him maggots for the last few days, as
opposed to seed. He's really put on some weight." Mark picked a
Tupperware box off the slab, the same one he used for his fishing and
put some of the maggots that were squirming around into the cage. The
bird moved surprisingly quickly and did not hesitate to snatch the
maggots from the Mark's fingers.

Taste good.
The bird had not really worked out what had been happening. It could
remember being in pain. Somewhere, at sometime.
It wondered what had happened to all the green and the bits of
yellow.

Robert picked up the cage and they all walked out of the back door into
the garden. Mark made his way along the plank underneath the kitchen
window and then turned around to wait for Sally as she made her
precarious way across. It had rained the night before and none of them
wanted to land their feet in one of the deceiving puddles. Mark
remembered his mother doing that once and she ended up knee deep in
water. He laughed with her about that memory.

Robert made his way across the plank once Sally was safely across. He
set the cage down on the lawn and looked at Mark. He wasn't sure what
to do next, knowing that it was his idea to free the bird, but not very
clued up about how to go about doing it. He decided to start by opening
the cage door.

"Dad, before we let Marlowe go, please can we take some pictures of
him?"

Robert could have kicked himself for not thinking of this earlier. "Of
course we can, Mark. Look, wait here and I'll go and get the
camera."

Robert went quickly back into the house and ran upstairs to get the
camera from the bedroom. He was glad when he found that it had film in
it, and that there were at least ten exposures left. As he made his way
back down the stairs, he found himself wondering what would be on the
roll of film when it was developed. He couldn't remember when he had
last used the camera. He felt the tingle of anticipation in the back of
his mind familiar to types of situations like these, where an end was
in sight.

As he made his way out of the back door and around the corner of the
house, he could see Mark and Sally in conversation, but then realised
they weren't talking to each other. This, he should have foreseen. It
always happened in times of stress and he decided that the best way to
deal with it would be to ignore it.

"Mark, Sally," shouted Robert, pretending not to notice the way that
their stances suddenly shot back to what he thought they hoped he would
think as normal. "I've found some film free on the camera. Now, gather
round and strike your pose."

Mark put his arm around Sally and Robert framed them in the viewfinder
of the camera. He took a few pictures of them, noticing that at times
they weren't really looking at the camera at all, but somewhere behind
Robert. He shrugged this off.

"Okay Dad," said Mark. "Let's get this over with."

Mark bent over the cage and opened the door. Marlowe seemed reluctant
to leave the cage until Mark pulled some maggots out of his pocket and
dropped them on the grass in front of the bird. Sally came to stand
next to him to watch as Marlowe hopped forwards to the cage door and
cautiously poked his beak out. Mark knew that Marlowe knew the maggots
were on the grass, but also that he had to make sure that this wasn't a
trick. Suddenly, in one movement, Marlowe had hopped out of the cage,
snapped some of the maggots up into his beak and launched himself into
the air.

"Well done, you two!" shouted Robert, pleased that they had finally
done what needed to be done. "Let's go inside and get something to
drink."

Taste good.
The maggots were wiggling in his beak, but they tasted good. There was
the green; he could see it again. There was some kind of pink though,
which was not? what was that pink?

He turned to catch sight of it again. There was a sudden loud thud and
everything went dark.

Robert, Mark and Sally all jumped at the sound of the loud thud against
the window. Sally spilt some of her orange juice down her dress. Not
again, thought Robert.

Mark was out of the kitchen faster than a sprinter out of the blocks,
as if the thud against the window was a starter's pistol. Robert was
close on his heels, knowing what had happened and wondering why, how
and what would happen next.

As Mark rounded the corner, he looked and saw the shape in the lawn,
almost in exactly the same place as last time. He looked for, and
found, Carter. The cat was ready to pounce and there was a cold feeling
in Mark's heart, knowing that he was too late.

Robert rounded the corner just as he saw Carter pounce.

What's that pink colour? That's different. It's definitely not
moving.
This time you're mine.

Mark saw the cat's front paws land directly on top of Marlowe, even as
he was diving through the air. He knew the dive was futile; his foot
had slipped on the plank when he jumped. He landed in water that
covered his mother's vegetable patch and it came up to his ears.

"Get Carter!" yelled Robert, to no one in particular. Mark was lying
face down in the vegetable patch, his sobs audible even through the
blood rage that was steaming in Robert's ears. The cat had managed to
get Marlowe in his jaws and he was bounding with feline agility to the
far end of the garden and the hedge that separated their land from the
field beyond. Robert didn't notice that his socks were covered in mud
and that his feet were cold. He didn't notice that one of his toes had
started bleeding. The cat had gone though the hedge, following one of
its well-worn paths. In the mood that Robert was gripped by, this would
not stand in his way. He leapt over the hedge and landed awkwardly. The
farmer often had cows in this field during this part of the year. Cows
tend to leave holes in the soft earth. His foot had managed to find one
of these holes and he heard a crack as his full weight came down on his
foot at an angle that evolution or the gods had not intended. An
involuntary scream erupted from his throat.

Mark came through the hedge shortly afterwards. He saw his father lying
on the ground moaning, but did not stop. He had spotted Carter in the
grass of the field and his whole demeanour changed. He was the hunter
now. He crept quietly up to the place that Carter had picked as his
hiding place. He was careful to keep himself up wind of Carter. Slowly,
ever so slowly he made his way closer to Carter. He could see Marlowe
in the cat's jaws and it took all of his effort not to lose control.
Then, he was within striking distance. He felt himself shoot forward;
he had the cat in his hands; Marlowe dropped to the floor; Carter
scratched Mark's left arm and then Carter was gone.

Mark bent down slowly and gently scooped Marlowe from the mattress of
grass that he had fallen into. He knew there was no hope for Marlowe.
He had seen dead animals before and they all had one thing in common.
The electricity wasn't there anymore. He started walking back to the
house.

"Mark, please, help me," gasped Robert through gritted teeth as Mark
walked towards him. Mark didn't appear to hear him. "Mark,
please."

Mark looked at his father and then held out his cupped hands towards
him. "Look Dad. Look what you've done. Set them free you said. Set the
ones you love free and they'll always be with you. Well, Marlowe came
back, didn't he? You let Mum go and you no longer talk about her or
anything. She doesn't come back does she? Well, she comes back for me
and Sally. We haven't let her go. We will always remember her."

The tale that I have endeavoured to relate to you ends one day in very
late autumn somewhere in England's middle lands. It was a day in very
late autumn when one is very clear that it would not be a good idea to
be outside for any length of time with no coat and no sensible
footwear. The clouds were so thick and heavy in the sky that it was
difficult to believe there was anything else above them.

A man lay in a green field in the middle lands of England, crying the
tears of someone who knows they have lost too much. The man didn't
realise the extent of his own grief, let alone that of his children.
And, while he lay on the damp green grass, his damaged ankle screamed
loudly with pain, but his heart screamed louder. He threw back his head
and through tear-stricken eyes forced himself to see the face of his
wife.