The Chantic Bird by David Ireland Page A

got before the beak, I was first up on Monday, they wiped me just as quick when I fished out my roll of notes. If they knew where I got that money I’d have gone up for a million years, I bet. They even looked as if I could get a lawyer and take them to court. But I didn’t mind, it was an experience. One thing, though. When I didn’t take much notice of what the beak was saying, he said, ‘Your brain is crippled.’ What a thing to say! Anyway, I got out of there. My brain limped out after me.
    Back at the house I found no Bee and no kids. I got up in the ceiling to have a secret sleep, but I was no sooner settled than one of Bee’s neighbours came in. I thought it was Bee coming back and I made a noise getting down. It turned out to be one of Bee’s friends. She came under the manhole I used, I could see her looking up. I didn’t want her to see my face, so when she called out I only grunted and got back up in the ceiling.
    ‘Are you the electrician?’ she called.
    ‘The wiring,’ I grunted, and didn’t say any more.
    ‘You won’t be coming down for a while, will you?’
    ‘No.’ It was an old house and the manhole was right above the bath. This woman, she must have been some sort of nympho, started to peel off and have a bath. I know it was only because I was there.
    ‘Hey,’ I yelled down. ‘Did Bee say you could do that?’
    ‘She won’t be back for an hour. She won’t mind,’ she said. ‘You won’t tell her I stole some hot water, will you?’ She could tell I didn’t want to meet her face to face; I suppose if she hadn’t been sure of that, it would have been impossible to get near her with her pants off.
    This woman went at last. She must have known where Bee was, because she only took half an hour over that bath, with me up there perving like mad. I heard the kids coming up the path ahead of Bee, who had to carry Allie. Chris must have seen some kid in a new dress, for she was complaining about her own.
    ‘When can I have another dress?’
    ‘That one’s new enough,’ said Bee.
    ‘This is a filthy dress.’ Filthy meant old. They were both like that, new meant clean and filthy meant old. Stevo was busy rousing on Robyn, a fat girl round the corner; so that’s where they must have been.
    Stevo said, ‘You—you wrong number!’ It was getting late; there’d only be a scratch tea. Bee locked no doors, anyone could have come in. Stevo made for the TV and turned it on. Bee clattered around in the sink, getting plates ready, opening drawers, throwing knives and forks around.
    ‘Mummy! Stop doing that noise!’ yelled Stevo. ‘I’m reading the television.’ Only he made it sound like terrorvision.
    ‘Chris!’ called Bee. ‘Help me get Allie ready for bed.’
    ‘She’s not sleepy. Let her look at TV,’ said Chris.
    Stevo said, ‘Bubby does want to go to sleep. She’s got sleep all over her.’ It may have been true, but he wanted to get rid of her and have the set to himself. That was clear enough to his sister, she made noises and the tears appeared right away.
    ‘Don’t get upcited, Chris,’ Stevo said. ‘Don’t get upcited.’ I got down quietly, remembering the noise I made before, and crept up behind the kids in the lounge room. I thought I was going to scare them, but they were used to me. They expected me to jump out of dark corners. The way they said hullo made me feel good, though.
    When we’d had tea, Stevo cornered me again and told me the Chantic Bird from the beginning again and got a bit further than before. The littlies curled up like commas on the floor. First there was the King with his china palace and his garden big as a country. Then he said how travellers came from a long way off to look at the palace and gardens, but they all ended up liking the Chantic Bird, which was way down by the sea and used to sing to the fishermen. Great writers and poets, the wisest men in their countries, even came and saw and wrote about the Chantic Bird, and their books