Summer had come round again and I was in the fields cutting the hay, taking bets with myself as to whether the rain-clouds drifting by on the horizon would arrive before I’d finished. I smiled, thinking how strange it was that only a couple of years ago I'd been a Townie with no idea of how much hard work it took to run a farm. The sudden trilling of my mobile phone startled me from my reveries and I flipped open the handset. I know, I know, but there are still some things that I haven’t learnt to live without yet.
I could just make out Aunt Martha's voice through the crackling static. "On the way back this afternoon do you think you could pop into the village and get some things for me, Peter?"
"Sure," I replied, "what do you want?"
"A scuttle... ssss... fish and... ssss... some peanuts."
The reception was getting worse, I could hardly make out what she was saying. "What's that," I checked. "Fish?
"Some... ssss... peanuts and a... ssss... fish."
*
Walking into the kitchen, I was greeted by Uncle Hobart holding forth on animals. "Well I don't reckon it's right keeping them things as pets," he was telling Aunt Martha. "They should be free ter fly about as they want."
Aunt Martha sighed under her breath as she got on with peeling the potatoes. I dropped the shopping on the table. "I couldn't find anything called shuttle fish in the supermarket," I called over my shoulder, "so I got you catfish instead. I hope that's okay?"
Aunt Martha pulled the fish out of the shopping bag, holding it up for Uncle Hobart's inspection and they both started laughing
"What?" I asked, a little bemused, aware I was missing out on some sort of in-joke.
"Go and look in the parlour," Uncle Hobart managed between sniggers.
When I opened the parlour door, I was greeted with a mouthful of foul language. "Get 'em off, yer gorgeous looking tart! Cor, not many of them to the pound! Come on, come on, get 'em down, get 'em down!" Approaching the blue and gold macaw with a huge grin on my face, I looked it in the eye. "Sod off," the bird said, trying to peck my nose.
I nodded. "Cuttle fish!"
"Cuttle fish, cuttle fish," the parrot repeated.
Back in the kitchen, I took the can of beer Uncle Hobart held out to me and sat down. "Not yours, I hope?" I asked Aunt Martha, nodding at the parlour.
"No," she assured me. "It belonged to a friend of mine but he died yesterday and I promised his wife that I'd find it a home. Hobart's all for letting it go."
"They're worth a hell of a lot of money," I observed. "Over a hundred and fifty quid, last time I heard."
Uncle Hobart's eyebrows rose towards the ceiling. "Are they now?" he mused, tapping his chin. "Are they indeed? Well perhaps I were being a bit hasty then. Tell yer what, why don't we 'ang on ter it fer a bit?"
"What's it called?" I asked.
"Peter," Uncle Hobart informed me with a smirk.
I smiled at him dutifully, exhaling audibly.
Aunt Martha chuckled. "No, it's true Peter. That really is its name."
I tutted, finished my beer and went for a leak.
*
The long hot days rolled by as life settled into a smooth routine. The parrot seemed content enough and had finally stopped attacking me whenever I went near it, although its language still left a lot to be desired. We took to covering it up with a tablecloth whenever the vicar came over for afternoon tea with Aunt Martha. I could just imagine his face if it ever let rip with some of its foul-mouthed language in front of him. Even Uncle Hobart was causing me no grief at the moment, so things were really swimming along.
But then, perhaps, that should have warned me.
*
I was checking the fences in the bottom field when the commotion started. Aunt Martha had taken Uncle Hobart into Ealford to sell his old chamber pot, after seeing one just like it on the Antiques Road Show. Uncle Hobart was determined to cash in, although it would have been nicer had he washed it out first, especially as he'd been using it for the past few months.
I noticed the blue flashing lights at the same time I heard the familiar he-haw floating across the fields as half a dozen police cars skidded to a halt in the lane beside the farmhouse. I turned my back on the scene, determined not to let my curiosity get the better of me, experience having taught me that men in blue uniforms and the residents of Nettle Farm are not a happy mix.
Flinching in reaction to the sudden sharp crack of gunfire, I dropped the heavy post-hammer I was using on my foot, my mind going into overdrive as I limped flat-out for the house. As I rounded the corner of the lane I was unexpectedly rugby-tackled to the ground.
"Keep down," a voice growled in my ear.
"But I..." my face was pushed into the mud, cutting off my words.
"Keep quiet you idiot! Lay still or you'll get us both killed."
Spitting mud from my mouth, I tried again, "But I live..."
"There ... in that window," I heard a voice shout.
Once again the yard echoed with the sound of gunshots. I worried at my bottom lip, wondering what the hell was going on. Suddenly everything went very quiet and I held my breath in anticipation.
The voice shouted again, "Okay, I think I got him. We can go in now, but be careful, he might only be wounded."
My mouth went dry. Surely I recognised that voice? Struggling to my feet, I swore quietly when I spotted Detective Inspector Hives scurrying around the corner of the house.
He caught sight of me at the same moment and slid to a halt. "You!" he exclaimed. I smiled a hello at him. "But..." he looked at the house, then back at me, the confusion on his face clear to see. "But, I thought you were inside, laddie. God, if you're out here, then who the hell have I just shot?"
I knew he hadn't shot me and the alternative sent me running towards the house at top speed. Tearing through the front door, I rushed down the hallway screaming, "Unnnncle Hoooobart," at the top of my voice, praying that I didn't find what I was expecting to find.
Before I opened the parlour door, I took a long, shuddering breath, vividly picturing the scene waiting for me on the other side. Death and destruction, poor old Uncle Hobart slumped on the floor, his lifeblood pumping from a bullet wound in his chest, his brave face twisted in an agonising mask, struggling to hold onto life just long enough to bid me a fond farewell.
I pushed the door open and it swung back against the wall, revealing a blood-spattered body lying on the floor. Walking over, I slowly knelt beside it with my heart thumping furiously in my chest.
"Poor Polly feels sick," were the last words the parrot ever uttered, dying in the palm of my hand as I picked it up. A tear formed in the corner of my eye as I cradled the still warm body.
"What the hell did you have to go and shoot our parrot for?" I shouted, as Detective Inspector Hives walked into the room.
Hives looked around in bemusement, his mouth working soundlessly and it was some time before he was able to speak. "Parrot?" he finally managed. "Parrot?" he repeated.
"Peter, our parrot," I shouted, holding the body out for him to see.
"But I thought... That is... Oh my God! When she said, Peter, I thought she meant you. But then how did..." Shaking his head, Hives slowly turned, still muttering, "Parrot? Parrot?" as he walked out of the room
Sergeant Shooter slid into the parlour, giving me a sickly smile. "They'll probably send him to the Outer Hebrides this time," he commented, shaking his head.
Sweeping the broken glass from the windowsill with the sleeve of my jacket, I laid Peter down, its blood mingling with the dust. "There you are, old mate," I said, "you used to enjoy looking out of this window, didn't you?" Turning back to Shooter, I glared at him. "Now, would you mind telling me what the hell's been going on?"
"Now that's a good idea, Peter boy," Uncle Hobart said, sticking his head into the room through the broken window.
We all retired into the kitchen, Sergeant Shooter quietly taking the can of beer that Uncle Hobart thrust at him. Popping the seal, he took a deep swallow before speaking. "You've got a new postie," he finally told us, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
We nodded in agreement. "So?" I asked.
"Well, she came over to deliver a parcel today but couldn't get an answer, so she went around to the back door and as she was putting the parcel on the back step, she heard a voice shouting from inside the house, 'Peter don't do it, Peter don't do it!' She thought the voice sounded kind of funny, like someone yelling into a tin can. Anyway, then she heard the sound of a gun going off, followed by this blood-curdling scream. Well, you can imagine, she didn't wait around to find out what was going on, and in the circumstances I can't say I blame her. Anyway, she headed straight for the police station and told us all about it, so naturally we came out to check what was going on." Shooter scratched the back of his neck and scowled. "The DI arrived, ordering whoever it was inside the house to throw out their gun and come out with their hands up." Shooter took another drink before continuing. "Well the shout came back, 'Come in and get me copper', and I can tell you, that was like a red-rag to a bull as far as the DI was concerned. He ran around the back of the house to break in, but spotted a movement through the net curtains." Shooter paused, looking uncomfortable. "Well, for some reason, he sort of decided to take a quick pot-shot. The rest you know." He scratched the back of his neck again. "What I don't understand is, if there was nobody in the house, who shouted at the DI in the first place? And there's no sign of a gun either, so who was doing all the shooting?" Shooter fidgeted uncomfortably. "Anyway, it appears that the DI has accidentally shot your parrot."
"Is that all you've got to say?" Aunt Martha's voice lashed out acidly as she strode into the room. "It appears that the DI has accidentally shot your parrot."
Shooter scratched his nose before lifting his shoulders in a helpless shrug. "I still don't understand who it was doing all the shooting," he muttered, looking around in confusion.
Uncle Hobart coughed and we all turned our attention towards him. He was looking decidedly guilty.
"Uncle Hobart?" I said, my stomach tensing.
"Well... er... well." Flapping his hand about for a moment, Uncle Hobart took a deep breath. "Well, I were teaching the bird ter imitate things, like," he explained, looking at the floor.
"And what sort of things would they be?" Aunt Martha enquired.
"Well... er..." More hand flapping. "Yer know, guns and things. So I could get ‘im on telly like and make mesel’ a few bob."
Shooter nodded. "Ah, that might well explain it then."
"Yer got ter admit that bird were bleedin' good though," Uncle Hobart mused.
Walking to the door, Sergeant Shooter frowned and looked back over his shoulder at Uncle Hobart. "Yes," he agreed, "but God knows how I'm going to explain all this to the DI. I mean, he isn't going to take too kindly to being made a fool of by a parrot is he?"
Especially one belonging to Hobart Tuttershed, I thought.