bright eyes

Afternoon at the chateau.

Outside the world is shrouded in a sheen of ice.

From my window I can see trees like statues glistening white.

Snow drifts hardening on the lawn.

The hedge sculpted perfectly into a glimmering fretwork of diamonds.

Good one by the creator of the universe.

Really good.

Back to business.

The noble Heelers is typing up a Gettysburgh Address style letter to Barack Obama.

It is epic stuff.

My brow is fevered as I punch the keyboard.

I look tremendously serious.

Beside me a cup of steaming coffee and a plate of madeira cake lie unattended.

(You should wash that down with lashings of ginger beer. - Enid Blyton note.)

The door opens.

The neighbour's child Hannah enters.

Bright eyed and bushy tailed.

She walks up to my table and places a dead bird on it.

The bird's eyes are open.

The bird's head rests on a cushion of madeira cake.

He looks most poignant.

The noble Heelers' jaw drops nobly.

My Aunty Mary's head appears around the door.

"I'm leaving Hannah with you," she proclaims.

And disappears.

Hannah asks me what type of bird it is.

I rise from the Gettysburgh Address.

Would have brought down the Obama presidency if I'd had five more minutes.

Might even have won us the war on terror.

Later maybe.

More pressing issues at hand.

Hannah and I go to consult a bird book from the Dad's collection.

I'm normally good at identifying birds.

This bird looks to me like some sort of a dead thrush with his head resting on my madeira cake.

It's a particularly rare breed.

But they're becoming more common.

Hannah takes the present specimen with us.

We go to the kitchen and pore over the bird book.

Enter the Dad stage left complete with retinue of one sheepdog.

Hannah has the dead bird in her hands and is stroking him.

She places him on the kitchen table.

To his lasting credit the Dad drinks in the happy scene without comment.

"I think it's a thrush," I murmur.

"No it's more like a redwing," says the Dad absently from behind the kettle.

He takes the bird book and finds a picture of a red wing.

Our little bird is indeed a red wing.

Member of the thrush family with a flush of red on his wing.

"You've been telling me those are starlings for the past week," I inform the Dad accusingly.

The aged parent is dismissive.

"Not at all," exclaims the Dad, "Starlings are a completely different bird."

Hannah tugs my arm.

"Where are we going to get a coffin for him?" she says pointing to the redwing.

A dark presentiment crosses my mind.

An image.

In my minds eye, I can see an image of Ireland's greatest living poet trying to dig a grave in the frozen earth.

The image does not appeal to me.

But the child is still tugging my arm looking for a coffin.

I offer her the choice of my Korean tea caddy made of tin, or a Lyons tea box made of cardboard.

She opts for the Lyons tea coffin.

Still stroking the redwing she places him tenderly in the tea box.

"We'll wait till Aunty Mary gets back before we decide where to bury him," I say consolingly.

As if by magic the Mammy appears.

(Ere Eelers, you can't write that. - Mr Benn note.)

The Mammy is grinning at nothing in particular.

I accost her quietly.

"I gotta tell you Missus," sez me. "Aunty Mary is some woman."

The Mammy's grin deepens grinnily.

"What do you mean?" quoth she.

"I mean Aunty Mary's got chutzpah," sez me.

"What's that?" enquireth the Mammy.

I draw a deep breath.

"It's a word the ancient Israelites came up with for neighbours who left children in their houses carrying dead birds," I explained. "The Israelites would say: That Aunty Mary has got some chutzpah. The next time she does that, I'm just going to stand up, walk out, go down to Goshen and dwell there. We'll see how she likes that."