2008 - The Bearded Tit (26 page)

And hope that they wouldn’t say in reply, ‘Mind your own fucking business!’

A
disdainful snort erupted from behind the newspaper.

‘You are joking, aren’t you?’ Tori said.

‘Not at all. He’s coming with me. He’s going to bring all his camera gear. Turn it into a photographic shoot. In case he gets bored.’

She put down the paper. ‘No, the bit that sounds like the joke is that you’re going round to his house at four o’clock in the morning and expect him: a) to be there, b) to be in a fit state to drive to Norfolk birdwatching, and c) to remember the arrangement in the first place and not tell you to fuck off. And a
Sunday
morning on top of that.’

‘He’s promised not to go to the pub on Saturday and to get an early night.’

Tori would take some convincing. And, in truth, so would I.

‘I’ve explained that late-night drinking and birdwatching are not comfortable bed-fellows. Well, unless you stay up all night.’

‘I hope you didn’t tell him that! He’ll stay up all night and end up falling asleep in the reed beds and be eaten by foxes.’

‘He’s not totally irresponsible, you know.’

‘No, just partially.’

‘He’s managed to keep down a fairly respectable job for three years.’

‘Isn’t that more to do with the fact that he lets his boss use his house for his extra-marital activities?’

‘Anyway, as I’ve said,
you
are invited as well. Your expertise would be welcome.’

She laughed again. ‘No fear; I don’t want to be there when he falls asleep in the hide with a fag in his mouth and burns the whole thing down. I can just see it now.
Flash fire destroys acres of reed beds, hundred of breeding birds killed. Police suspect arsehole
.’

’

I joined in the laughter, acutely aware that the scenario was well within the realm of possibilities.

‘I’ll make it very clear to him that smoking is a no-no.’

‘Will he be able to go for four hours or so without a snout break?’

‘I’ll tell him to wear his full-body-length Nicorette patch.’

‘I foresee disaster. I don’t think the birdlife of Britain is ready for Danny Davidson. I predict he’ll be on the front cover of the RSPB magazine:
Wanted: have you seen this man?

‘He’s very keen to do some photography. I showed him some pictures in the magazine; he was convinced he could do better.’

‘Remind him to take a camera with him then.’

‘Ha.’

‘It won’t happen.’ She was adamant. ‘You and Danny going on an early morning birdwatching trip on a Sunday will not happen.’

‘Don’t be daft. Course it will.’

She held out her hand. ‘Fifty quid it won’t happen.’

I shook her hand.

‘You’re on! I’ll make it happen.’

‘You’ll have to phone him at home on Saturday evening, once an hour, just to make sure he’s there and not out of it.’

‘No, I’m not doing that. That’s patronizing and controlling. I’d hate it if someone did that to me. He’s a grown man, we’ve made an arrangement and I trust him. I’m not going to check up on him; that’s pathetic.’

It was six o’clock on Saturday evening.

‘Hi, Danny, it’s me. What you up to?’

‘Just getting ready for my early night. Watching crap telly; fighting the cat off my pizza.’

‘Good for you,’ I said. ‘Quiet one in then?’

‘Yeah, I’ve got some twitcher coming round at four in the morning to take me to Norfolk.’

‘You’re not going out for a quickie then?’

‘I thought about it, mate, but I couldn’t trust myself. If I nipped in for one, I’d probably have two then three et fuckin’ cetera, pardon my Latin.’

‘Good for you, mate. I’ll see you bright and early then.’

‘OK, see you then. Looking forward.’

‘Cheers.’

Seven o’clock.

‘Oh hi, Danny; it’s only me again. Sorry to pester.’

‘No worries, what’s up?’

‘Nothing. Just to say, don’t forget to bring all your camera gear.’

‘Are you taking the piss?’

I felt slightly ashamed. ‘Ha, no. But you know these early starts. It’s dark; we’re in a hurry; very easy to forget things!’

‘Don’t worry,’ he assured me. ‘It’s all packed ready here, mate. I’m looking at it now.’

‘OK, see you tomorrow.’

‘Cheers.’

Eight o’clock. ‘You are through to Danny Davidson. I’m afraid I’m not here at the moment.’

‘Answerphone.’

‘Oh dear.’ Tori was shaking her head.

‘I’ll try his mobile.’

Voicemail.

‘Try the Imperial Arms.’ Tori grinned.

‘No, he’s probably turned his phone off because he’s fed up with me pestering him. I’ll leave it.’

In an annoying sing-song voice, Tori was saying, ‘It’s not going to hap-pen. It’s not going to hap-pen.’

‘Shut up.’

‘That’s fifty quid you owe me.’

Nine o’clock. I found myself walking past the Imperial Arms. Just as I thought. There in the car park was Danny’s car. Oh dear.

Now, the Imperial is not a place I frequent. For a Cambridge city centre pub, it attracted a rough crowd. Loonies, pond-life, mutants, ageing skinheads, ageing hippies, druggies and knife-wielding pikeys. It did do a decent pint of Adnams for £1.90, though, and the jukebox always seemed to be playing ‘Echo Beach’ by Martha and the Muffins, so it wasn’t all bad. Fat Sid, the landlord, was beaming clammily from piggy ear to piggy ear. He caught sight of me and bellowed across the heaving, smoky room with his usual chubbily cordial manner, ‘Piss off, you Arsenal wanker.’ This
bon mot
tickled him greatly, judging by the accompanying guffaw. Some of his cronies joined in the merriment.

‘Only kidding, mate. Haven’t seen you for a while. This is for you.’ He thrust a pint of Adnams at me. ‘On the house!’

‘Actually, Sid, I wasn’t going to—’

‘Drink up, it’s my treat!’ He stood over me as I gulped down the strong, soupy ale.

‘Actually, I was looking for Danny.’

‘Go on, finish it!’

I finished it and a second one was put in its place. ‘This one’s on you. Oh, and so is my gin and ginger beer! Cheers!’

His guffaws disappeared in the general smog of malevolent cheeriness of city-centre Saturday.

I looked round the bar. There was no sign of Danny, but all the reasons why I’d stopped coming to this pub were lined up Wearily at the counter. I wove in and out of the various low-lifes looking for Danny. A few dodgy-looking acquaintances of old bought me a drink and I clearly had to buy them one back. No sign of Danny in the beer garden, by the jukebox, in the gents or under the pool table. Scan the Shirt, a shaven-headed, bare-from-the-waist-up ex-con, swigging a pint of cider with a large dash of gin, told me that he’d been speaking to Danny about five minutes ago. That was promising.

‘Or maybe longer than that,’ the Shirt continued. ‘Or was it last night?’

Then I felt a tap on the shoulder. ‘What are you doing here?’

An unpleasant chill engulfed me. It was Tony Zanetti. Tony owned a small company that made and distributed ice cream of an allegedly superior quality. ‘Ice T’, as he was known, had never liked me after an altercation about a girlfriend of his who had ditched him for me. The truth was that she did ditch him, but not for me. A groundless whisper about me and her had, nevertheless, been born and grown into a strapping rumour that was clearly still in good health.

‘Ah, Tony, can I get you a beer?’ I said as neutrally as possible. I didn’t want to sound patronizing. He looked at me through narrow, alcoholically red eyes.

‘Don’t patronize me. I can buy my own drinks!’

‘OK, fine,’ I said peaceably.

‘No, hang on a minute, I’ll have a double Scotch.’

He swallowed the whisky in one gulp and turned to go, then suddenly grabbed my jacket nearly throwing me off balance. ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ he spat loudly in my face.

Fat Sid hurried over. ‘OK, Tony, that’s enough of that. You can go home now.’

Ice T looked at Sid, then at me, then back at Sid and left the pub. He staggered into the street, treating the neighbourhood to a slurred, halting and uncomplimentary review on the Imperial Arms, its staff and its clientele. Slightly shaken by this episode, I decided to stay in the bar a bit longer and I ordered myself a large vodka.

There was still no sign of Danny but my search for him was no longer uppermost in my mind. It was eleven thirty. I finished my drink and announced to the bar, ‘Right, that’s me, gentlemen. I’ve got to be up by four o’clock. I’m going birdwatching!’

This caused no little amusement.

‘Well, you’d better have another drink, then,’ said Splash O’Brien.

A ‘trebles-all-round’ moment ensued and at roughly 1 a.m. it was a distinctly wobbly path I took from the bar, out of the pub door and into the street. I suppose, had I been a bit more sober, it might have occurred to me that Zanetti may have been hanging around waiting for me with something other than charity in his heart. But as it was, I stepped into the darkness glowing with good humour and not a care in the world.

H
ere’s a tip. If you’ve just been given a new piece of kit like, say, a tripod and spotting-scope, make sure you have a bit of practice at home first: learn how to unpack it, assemble it and use it. Most gadgets nowadays are so simple they don’t even come with instructions, or with instructions so minimal as to be fatuous, that say things like, ‘Congratulations, you are now the proud owner of a Zeta 88 tripod. Step one: set up the tripod. Step two: enjoy!’

And the trouble with instructions is that they are written by people who already know how to assemble or operate a particular machine, so they skip things like: unpack, plug in, switch on, hit ‘user this’ or ‘function that’. They tell you to hit the network setup icon on the control panel when you’re still looking at a blank blue screen and wondering what the hell an icon is (other than a sacred statue in a Greek Orthodox church).

In short, have a little private practice with your new toy and don’t unpack it and try to assemble it when you’re standing at the edge of a lake in the salt marshes at a bird reserve surrounded by dozens of experienced birdwatchers, who, of course, are experts with all bits of birding kit.

‘Don’t you think we should have had a little practice at home with this before bringing it straight out to the reed beds?’ Tori asked.

We were walking to the site from the car park, proudly carrying our new toy, still in its box, and eager to see birds that were a few counties away.

‘No. These things are so simple they don’t need instructions,’ I said confidently.

‘Do you think we should have unpacked it from the box first?’

‘No, coz we’ll want to repack it straight away after, won’t we?’ We stopped on a wooden walkway by the edge of a lagoon in the reed beds. I started to open the box. This was a fiddly job. The cardboard was quite firm and the end of the box seemed to consist of an inordinately complex arrangement of flaps, grooves and slots. I was beginning to tear at one of these flaps when I noticed that I had caught the attention of two passing twitchers laden with paraphernalia.

‘I think you’re opening the wrong end.’ Tori’s voice betrayed a little irritation.

‘It’s only a cardboard box! I’m sure both ends are the same. They’re not that sophisticated.’

‘That’s the bottom. Why don’t you open the top?’

‘It’s taped; that’s what the problem is.’

‘I’m sure the other end will open more easily.’

‘Just a minute!’ I started pulling at the tape and shaking the box.

Something happened. There was a plop, a snigger from the twitchers and the box suddenly felt lighter.

Tori was annoyed. ‘Brilliant. It’s come out of the top and straight into the pond.’

Lesson one: open the box at the right end. ‘Well, don’t just stand there. Get it out! It’s only shallow.’ After twenty minutes of topless sloshing around in the surprisingly deep water of the lagoon, I retrieved the tripod, which fortunately was hermetically wrapped in stout polythene.

‘That’s not a bad catch. They normally only come out at night,’ said a passer-by.

‘I thought you was leech-gathering,’ smirked another.

Now, tripods are straightforward, aren’t they? Extendable legs make them compact and easy to carry. The three legs have two extensions that telescope out on the release of two clips. ‘Well, there’s one leg done!’ I said, standing the tripod up and watching it instantly collapse and fall over.

Lesson two: remember to relock the clips to stop the extensions sliding back inside the main leg.

The tripod was retrieved from the water again and we made a new attempt at getting it to stand up on its own.

‘It still keeps falling over,’ Tori said with a pained expression.

‘Well just extend one bit at a time.’

‘That’s what I did!’

‘But it has to be the same extension. There’s no use you extending the bottom extension on one leg while I’m extending the middle section on another leg. That won’t work!’

Lesson three: only extend each leg the same amount at a time.

Eventually our new tripod was erect and solid as a rock. In the event, it had only taken us an hour and five minutes to put it up and a lot of that time was taken up fishing around at the bottom of a lake trying to find it.

‘Finally got it up then?’ asked the same sarky twitcher who had passed an hour earlier, no doubt having done some top-notch, record-breaking bird spotting.

‘Oh, well spotted,’ I said as disdainfully as I could manage.

‘Are you new to birdwatching, then?’ This guy was getting on nerves I didn’t know I had.

‘Not that it’s any of your fucking business,’ I started.

‘Don’t start!’ hissed Tori.

‘We’re actually doing market research for
Which Tripod?
magazine. We’re testing various models in the field to see which ones are most user-friendly.’

‘Alright, didn’t mean to annoy you,’ the annoying man went on. ‘It’s just that if you
are
birdwatching, you’re going to need something to put on top of that tripod.’

I looked at the tripod. I looked at Tori. I looked back at the annoying bloke.