expected some kind of placid, domestic fowl to emerge and be driven quietly out through the back door. The image of the sea-raven, hunched and black and indelibly marked with the stink of mud and fish, the slow-blinking cormorant which had set its beak to the cheeks and gums of its saviour . . . this had been forgotten in the euphoria of moving into our rural retreat. The turmoil of the bird’s first appearance by the flaming lights of the fire had upset our picture of domestic bliss. It came from its box as ugly and as poisonous as a vampire bat.
During a night of tears and recriminations, a long, sleepless night when the name of Uncle Ian came in for repeated vilification, we began to face up to that seemingly innocuous clause in the will which stipulated that the cormorant would be a part of our life in the cottage, or else the cottage would be forfeited. The next morning, before the baby could be brought downstairs, I manhandled the crate out of the living-room and put it down carefully in the yard. For all the sound and movement which was evident from within, the bird could have been dead. But that was wishful thinking on my part. In any case, there was some ludicrous clause which forbade us from disposing of our charge by releasing it or killing it; its death on the first day of our responsibility would have looked somewhat suspicious if we were to attempt to construe it as an accident. Undoubtedly, the bird was alive in the fetid straw of the box. Its smells simmered through the panel of perforations.
Ann came down the stairs, still smudging the tears of disbelief from her face. She set about the living-room with water and disinfectant. While she washed the paintwork and sponged vigorously at the curtains, the furniture, the pictures, the books and our precious rugs, I was busy in the yard with my hammer and nails. I hastily erected a sort of cage in one corner, a ramshackle structure of chicken-wire and woodwork, with a section of corrugated iron on the top to afford some weather protection. Into this, I tipped the cormorant. I pushed in the crate, having loosened the lid again, knocked it over with a wary foot and shook out the contents into the new cage. There was a bundle of damp straw, that was all. Nothing stirred. I had seen the same sort of thing in zoos: rows of big cages, each with its informative little sign, and nothing but a bank of straw at the back, in which, if the signs were to be believed, some exotic and possibly savage beast was snoozing. But not a flicker of life. So, after I had closed down the walls of chicken-wire with a series of nails, I took a cane from the shed and tentatively pushed it into the cage and into the mess of straw. One moment the straw lay silent and still. Then it exploded in a chaos of black wings and spitting cries. The cormorant erupted from sleep, flung itself at the wire. Its jabbing bill came through, it hung for a second, scrabbling with its fleshy feet, its wings outstretched on the wire, like some gas-crazed soldier on a French battlefield. I yelped and jumped back. I watched in horror as the bird fell to the ground and began to strut backwards and forwards across the floor of its confines, until it became calmer. It pecked a little at the ground, threw some of the straw in the air and found some nameless morsel hidden among it. I watched the workings of the bird’s throat. Something slid down into the mucous darkness. At least the cormorant was behind bars.
Ann came into the yard and looked at the bird from the back door. She was holding Harry in her arms. He was agog at the spectacle of the cormorant, throwing out his arms and wriggling like a trout. The bird froze for a moment, slowly opened up its wings into a black shroud and croaked. It came to the wire. Snaking its neck, it hissed a long, malodorous hiss and brought up a pellet of half-digested matter which lay steaming in the weak sunshine. Harry gaped at the offering and tried to get free from Ann.
During a night of tears and recriminations, a long, sleepless night when the name of Uncle Ian came in for repeated vilification, we began to face up to that seemingly innocuous clause in the will which stipulated that the cormorant would be a part of our life in the cottage, or else the cottage would be forfeited. The next morning, before the baby could be brought downstairs, I manhandled the crate out of the living-room and put it down carefully in the yard. For all the sound and movement which was evident from within, the bird could have been dead. But that was wishful thinking on my part. In any case, there was some ludicrous clause which forbade us from disposing of our charge by releasing it or killing it; its death on the first day of our responsibility would have looked somewhat suspicious if we were to attempt to construe it as an accident. Undoubtedly, the bird was alive in the fetid straw of the box. Its smells simmered through the panel of perforations.
Ann came down the stairs, still smudging the tears of disbelief from her face. She set about the living-room with water and disinfectant. While she washed the paintwork and sponged vigorously at the curtains, the furniture, the pictures, the books and our precious rugs, I was busy in the yard with my hammer and nails. I hastily erected a sort of cage in one corner, a ramshackle structure of chicken-wire and woodwork, with a section of corrugated iron on the top to afford some weather protection. Into this, I tipped the cormorant. I pushed in the crate, having loosened the lid again, knocked it over with a wary foot and shook out the contents into the new cage. There was a bundle of damp straw, that was all. Nothing stirred. I had seen the same sort of thing in zoos: rows of big cages, each with its informative little sign, and nothing but a bank of straw at the back, in which, if the signs were to be believed, some exotic and possibly savage beast was snoozing. But not a flicker of life. So, after I had closed down the walls of chicken-wire with a series of nails, I took a cane from the shed and tentatively pushed it into the cage and into the mess of straw. One moment the straw lay silent and still. Then it exploded in a chaos of black wings and spitting cries. The cormorant erupted from sleep, flung itself at the wire. Its jabbing bill came through, it hung for a second, scrabbling with its fleshy feet, its wings outstretched on the wire, like some gas-crazed soldier on a French battlefield. I yelped and jumped back. I watched in horror as the bird fell to the ground and began to strut backwards and forwards across the floor of its confines, until it became calmer. It pecked a little at the ground, threw some of the straw in the air and found some nameless morsel hidden among it. I watched the workings of the bird’s throat. Something slid down into the mucous darkness. At least the cormorant was behind bars.
Ann came into the yard and looked at the bird from the back door. She was holding Harry in her arms. He was agog at the spectacle of the cormorant, throwing out his arms and wriggling like a trout. The bird froze for a moment, slowly opened up its wings into a black shroud and croaked. It came to the wire. Snaking its neck, it hissed a long, malodorous hiss and brought up a pellet of half-digested matter which lay steaming in the weak sunshine. Harry gaped at the offering and tried to get free from Ann.