David Yates’ serialisation of The Last Bullfighter continues this weekend with chapter six. Ed
The monthly meeting of the SSPCA was no ordinary forum that night, as four women, two men, and a flock of birds sat around Margarita’s long wooden dining table. A large map was spread out in the middle of the table, surrounded by several bowls of olives, nuts and seeds, and jugs of wine and water.
After a lengthy introduction, Margarita began the meeting by marking several key areas on the map in thick red crayon. She started by drawing a large circle around the Atlas Mountains – just south of the North African coast. “That’ll be a good place for the migrating birds to congregate,” she said. Moving her index finger across the Mediterranean, she drew another circle around the town, and between the two circles, she drew two parallel lines with a ruler.
There still remained the problem of how they could incorporate the bulls into the attack, but when the budgies mentioned that they knew all the local farms, and often spoke to the bulls, their problems were halved.
“Ah well, that’s a start,” interrupted Yul. “The budgies could join half of our birds and help to get the bulls into shape, while the other half concentrate on training the birds in Africa.”
The meeting went on until after midnight, then Rory, in his best Field Marshall Montgomery-voice, summarised the plan. “Now listen in chaps, this is what we’re going to do. We’re going to divide our forces into three main groups. Bluey, Eric’s starlings and the two swallows will fly to Africa tomorrow morning and round up as many migrating birds as possible. They’ll keep them in a holding area in the mountains, where they’ll be trained for an airborne attack.” Rory glanced around the table to check that everyone was still paying attention. “Yul, the eagles, woodpeckers and the two budgies will visit every local farm, and start training the bulls for their part in the land attack. Margarita and her friends are going to look after logistics, media and espionage.”
Rory drank some water from his glass and continued. “I’ll base myself here at GHQ and take on the role of roving interpreter and work on a few diversionary tactics. That reminds me, we could do with some mobile phones to speak to the birds in Africa. Does everyone understand the plan so far? Right then, let’s all get a good night’s sleep. We launch the attack in ten days time – the morning after the next full moon.”
At first light, Bluey and his team set off, arriving at the coastal town of Tangiers a couple of hours later. As they rested on a stack of white plastic sun-loungers, they arranged to fly off in different directions to gather as many birds as they could, and meet again in the mountains in two days’ time. As they made their final preparations for departure, their attention was drawn to the arrival of two large magpies, who landed on a smaller pile of sun-loungers a short distance away.
“Hey, watch your grain with those two around,” whispered Bluey, “They’ll steal anything, they will.”
The magpies appeared to be up to something, but the other birds couldn’t decide what it was, so they delayed taking off to find out. The magpies kept looking at a row of beach towels closer to the shore – a row of towels with people lying on them. Suddenly, two couples on the towels stood up and ran off to dive into the sea. The magpies spotted their chance. Flying low and fast, they swept in and out of one of the abandoned beach bags in a flash. To many onlookers, it looked as if they were just a pair of opportunist scavengers picking up a free lunch. But Bluey and his friends saw that it wasn’t food they’d picked up, but something far more interesting. With glistening objects in their beaks, the magpies flew across to join the other birds on the taller pile of sun-loungers. One of them, in an unmistakable Liverpudlian accent, asked, “Chat-chat-chat. Hey, lar, would you like ta buy a talkin’ watch?”
“I don’t believe it,” replied Bluey. “We fly all the way down here, and who do we bump into, but two thievin’ magpies from Liverpool.”
“Now then, now then. Calm down, Calm down,” protested one of the magpies. “Me and me bezzy mate Gaz, were only tryin’ to do you’se a favour. Weren’t we Gaz?”
“Yeah, dat’s right Baz. We were only tryin’ to flog ya some cheap pressies to take’ome for the missus and kids. Do ya want dese talkin’ watches, lar, or what?”
Bluey declined the magpie’s offer, and several other offers to steal anything else they wanted off the beach. He did, however, see some potential in using the Scousers’ natural ‘collecting’ skills to help them in their quest. So Baz and Gaz joined the long succession of birds who’d listened to Sam’s tale, and agreed to help the gang by acquiring a few things for the training camp in the mountains – starting with a pair of mobile phones.
Back in Spain, the other group of birds also had good fortune on their side that morning. Yul, the eagles and woodpeckers used the budgie’s knowledge of the local bull farms to conduct a tour. There were six farms within a five-mile radius of the town and, according to Margarita, Valera owned all six. He ran the farms, he owned the bullring, and he was also leader of the gun club. Lola said you could tell which were Valera’s bulls, because they all had a TLS brand on their rumps. The five birds flew into the first farm on their tour. It had been recommended by Maria and Lola because, “The bulls there aren’t like any other bulls in the whole of Spain. In fact, they’re not even from Spain – they’re from Newcastle in the north-east of England!”
It didn’t take too long to find the bulls. All they had to do was follow the smell – and the noise. “This is a particularly noisy bunch,” Lola added, as they approached a large herd of the big black creatures grazing on a stretch of lush meadow by a narrow stream.
“Chh-chh-chh. Hello there,” called Maria, as she landed on a prickly bush near one of the biggest bulls. “Hello there Randy. I’ve brought some friends to meet you.”
Bulls and birds speak to each other all the time, so there were no language problems to overcome – even when the budgies were Spanish, and the bulls came from Geordieland.
“Oh, hi pet,” replied Randy, lifting his head up to see a familiar face in the bush. “How are ya doin’ – ah right? Who’s this you’ve brought to see us then? My, these are canny-lookin’ birds.”
Maria introduced Yul, Harry and Bronski. Randy introduced himself. “Now then folks,” he began. “My name’s Randy. I’m the head stud bull on the farm. As ya can probably tell, we’re not your normal Spanish bulls us lot ya know. We’re all from New-castle. The farmer bought us at a market in France. We were heading for the knacker’s yard up there, but he saved us and brought us down here in two massive lorries. His name’s Valera. A real canny lad he is.”
“Well,” chipped in Yul. “We don’t want to upset you guys, but we’ve got a slightly different story to tell you about your friend, Mr Valera.”
Other bulls bunched around Randy, as Yul repeated the tale he’d heard so often from Dickie and Mucky. At the end of the account, the bulls stood speechless. Maria broke the silence.
“And if you think that’s bad,” she said. “Wait until you hear what’s in store for you lot.” More bulls packed into the huddle, as Maria and Lola told the bulls what they’d seen in the bullring.
“You what!” raged Randy. “You mean we’re not just being kept in these nice conditions because Valera likes us? It’s because he’s making us look good for the bullring! Hey, wait until I lay my hooves on that one. I’ll give him a bullfight he won’t forget in a hurry.”
News of the bulls’ true fate, spread panic amongst the herd, and one bull even fainted – a bull with long hair, extended eyelashes, and redder lips than any of the other bulls. Thump! He flopped to the ground and landed in a pool of cow-pats.
“Oh dear,” cried the budgies. Two other bulls weren’t so sympathetic.
“Get up ya big cow’s blouse,” shouted the bigger of the two. “Come on, stop acting like a fairy,” added the other. “You’re a bull, not a cow. Your name’s Kenny – not Jenny.”
“Aw away lads, give the bull a chance will ya,” defended one of the other bulls. “Neil and Tommy, you’re always pickin’ on Kenny, leave the lad alone. He can’t help it if he thinks he’s a cow instead of a bull.”
