Following on from part one of chapter five, find out today whether the birds were able to recruit the help of the bulls. Ed
The birds flew the short distance along the coast to the town with the large round building in its centre, and quickly found a virtually empty market, most of the human inhabitants having retired for their midday siesta. They landed on the curved terracotta roof tiles of a taverna and scanned the square below for anything that might be good for eating.
A flock of Spanish sparrows massed around a spilt sack of grain. The visiting birds swooped down to join them.
“Mind if we share your lunch?” aasked a Sean Connery-speaking Rory, as he took centre stage once more. “I’ll have cocktailsh with my main coursh. Shaken, but not shtirred, mish Moneypenny.”
The sparrows chattered away to themselves, unable to make any sense of the noisy new arrival.
“Cheep-cheep-cheep. Ignore him, and he’ll go away,” one of them huffed to the others. More birds arrived to feed on the grain. A duck flew in with wet feet. Lots of house sparrows hopped from under nearby market stalls. A few skinny pigeons joined the multi-feathered carpet, and then a touch of yellow was added with the arrival of two budgerigars. It was the same two budgies who had witnessed the bullfight, the morning before Valera’s men fired their guns on the beach.
The birds were busy feeding, when two children raced through their path on skateboards, spreading the grain even further and scaring the birds off. The two budgies took refuge on top of one of the red and white market-stall awnings, next to Yul and Bluey.
“Good afternoon ladies,” said Yul, dipping his head slightly in respect for two birds of the opposite sex. “What’s a nice pair of girls like you doing in a rough place like this?”
“Chh-chh-chh. We live just over there in the Rancho La Gloria,” replied the budgie with the red freckles above her beak. “My name is Fuengirola Lola, and this is Malaga Maria. Our mistress works for the local television company. Her name’s Margarita Herrera. She lets us out of the cage when she’s at the studio.”
“Gee, thanks for your life stories. I’m just glad I didn’t ask you for directions to the nearest river, or we’d have been here all day!”
The two budgies giggled to themselves, not knowing if the raven was being rude, or just sarcastic.
The birds carried on clearing the spilt grain, until there was nothing left. By then, the two budgies had been introduced to the flock of birds, so with lunch over, they invited them back to the rancho for a siesta.
“There’s a nice big round washing line in our mistress’s garden, in the shade of a lemon tree at the back of the kitchen. There’s plenty of room on it for all of us.”
Lola and Maria led the other birds out of the market and across a few rooftops to a large villa on the outskirts of town.
“Here we are. Come on in. Help yourselves to water from the trough. Make yourselves at home.”
The birds drank their fill, then shuffled for places on the washing line.
“Our mistress always lets us invite friends round for drinks and a siesta,” cried Lola, not trying to show off too much – especially to Bluey. She’d taken a fancy to Bluey. The afternoon passed as the birds dozed together on the perch. Hardly a sound could be heard from the town, apart from the occasional dog – woken from its own siesta, and barking at dreams of chasing a large fat rabbit. The siesta ended when someone called into the garden from the side entrance,
“Lola. Maria. I’m home.” It was the budgies’ mistress Margarita Herrera.
The other birds flew off to settle in a nearby tree, as the two budgies landed on Margarita’s head.
“Ah, there you are my beautiful ladies. What have you been up to today? Have you had friends round for lunch? Or did you dine alfresco in town today?”
The budgie’s human vocabulary being fairly limited, Maria could only reply, “Chh-chh-chh. We met some new friends. We met some new friends.”
“Oh did you. How nice! Where are they now?”
Maria flew across to the tree to join the others. “Come on. Come on over and meet our mistress.”
Rory, of course, was the first to take up the offer. He returned to the washing line and was soon joined by Lola and Margarita. Recognising the type of bird that had come to see her, Margarita was quick to greet him, “Hello mynah bird, and what’s your name?”
Margarita was used to hearing the budgies say a few words, but she was taken by surprise when the mynah bird answered her question in fluent, clipped, upper-class English.
“My name is Rory. Rory Butterworth. After my master’s name, Clarence Butterworth. It’s a pleasure to meet you madam.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you too Rory,” responded a surprised Margarita.
The other birds joined them on the perch, and Rory made the introductions.
“This is Yul the raven. He’s the leader of our little team. This is Bluey. He can also speak, but not very much. This is Shultz and Klara. They’re Americans. These two are woodpeckers, this is Eric and his flock of starlings and this is Old Jack and his flock of Pompey seagulls. And, last but not least, these are our friends the swallows – Dickie and Mucky. “
Margarita nodded politely as each bird was introduced and dipped its beak. “My, you are a handsome bunch,” she said, then went on to invite the birds to stay for tea. “I’ve brought home some lovely sardines, and a bag of golden sweetcorn. It’s my girls’ favourite, isn’t it girls?”
Margarita went into the kitchen, and Rory told the others what she’d said. Margarita returned shortly with the food she had promised, and scattered it across the lawn.
“There you are,” she called. “You eat that, while I get ready for my ADDA meeting.”
“ADDA,” Rory repeated. “What does that stand for?
“It’s the Associacion para la Defensa de los Derechos de los Animales – or SSPCA in your language, the Spanish Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. I’m chairwoman of the local group, and we’re having a meeting here tonight to discus plans for our next protest against bullfighting and bird-shooting,” Margarita explained.
“Bird-shooting!” exclaimed Rory. “That’s what we’re here for – to stop a local gang of thugs with guns from shooting the birds that fly over here from Africa.”
Margarita pulled up a chair to listen to Rory repeating the swallow’s tale. When he’d finished, Margarita rubbed her nose with her finger and thought for a few seconds.
“Do you know what birds? I think we could work together to stop Valera and his men shooting your friends each year and killing bulls in the bullring. Valera is the owner of the bullring, and leader of the gun club.” It was the first time the birds had heard Valera’s name.
“I tell you what, Rory,” Margarita continued. “Why don’t you all attend the meeting tonight with my friends? With you on our side, I’m sure we can come up with a really good plan to stop these terrible blood sports once and for all. Now then, where’s that large map of mine?”
Check back next weekend to find out what happens next.
Image: Tim Gillin
