Metropolitan Lines Issue 2 - Brunel University

Emotional Spaceman
by William Leahy
Iwas six when it happened. We
were eating our Sunday meal in
the living room when I noticed
Jenny frothing at the beak. As I
watched her she seemed to topple
from her perch and land gently in
the sand and droppings that
covered the bottom of her cage. I
stared at the vacated perch for a
number of seconds, hoping that our
budgie would suddenly flutter
upwards and come to rest upon it
once more, healthy and cracking her
seed. She did not reappear however,
and the noise she made as she struck
the bottom of the cage had
prompted my brother to look up
also, and he squinted at the empty
silent space. He stood up and
walked over to the corner of the
room where the cage hung on a
large, red, metal stand, next to tall
yellow pampas grass that shot from
a massive chocolate brown vase. On
his way, he passed a dark blue and
tangerine lamp which stood on a
teak-effect sideboard, and a tartan
table which held a wooden bowl of
plastic fruit and a miniature clay
donkey that contained a cigarette
lighter in its saddlebags. Reaching
the cage, my brother peeked over its
frosted glass side panels and
stopped chewing.
Dad, dad, he said quickly, his
mouth half-full, there’s something
coming out of Jenny’s beak. It’s all
bubbly.
Come and eat your dinner and
leave the budgie alone, my mother
said, swallowing some meatloaf. My
father continued eating, chewing his
food slowly.
But Mum, there is. And she’s
lying on the bottom of the cage and
looks all funny. He was almost
hopping with anxiety, and stood
half-turned between cage and table.
Colin! Come and eat your
dinner. Right now! my mother
demanded.
But he’s right! I chipped in,
pointing at the cage with my knife, I
saw her drop off her perch. My
mother was about to reply when my
father stood up quickly, pushing his
chair back over the carpet. He set
down his knife and fork on the
tablecloth, and I saw gravy and
carrot mark its purple-flower
pattern. My mother’s eyes followed
his as he rose, looking worried. He
did not look at her but moved
around the table towards Colin,
squeezing past my chair as he did
so. My mother turned to follow him,
and gave me an unhappy look as her
eyes momentarily met mine.
Just what we need on a Sunday
afternoon, Freddy, she said,
somewhat mysteriously.
My mother and father had earlier
carried the kitchen table into the
living room as they did every
Sunday afternoon, for us to have a
posh-lunch. It was the only day of
the week that we all squashed into
the room in order to eat, and the
only day also on which both the
tablecloth and the gravy boat
appeared. We would, no doubt,
have used the good crockery and
cutlery had we possessed any, but
we made do with the everyday.
Mother’s special Sunday trifle was
intended to make up for that.
Having the table in the middle of
the room presented difficulties in
terms of space, difficulties my father
now encountered as he pushed past
my mother’s chair. Lifting it slightly,
he eased his way through and
reached the corner where the
birdcage hung. He shoved Colin
away, towards the window. Colin
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faculty fiction
looked over to me suddenly, his eyes
widening in his nervousness. I
looked back at him and, without
wanting to, giggled. As Dad looked
into the cage, my mother absently
lifted a piece of boiled potato
toward her mouth, and a spot of
gravy dripped unnoticed onto her
turquoise trouser-suit.
What is it, Frank? she said, the
potato slipping between her teeth
and into the pocket of her cheek.
What is it? My brother and I both
looked up at my father and then at
my mother. Her empty hand shot
up to her necklace, with which she
began to fiddle. Frank, what is it?
My father said nothing, but turned
and moved back to the table with a
look of determination.
Dad, dad, my brother halfshouted,
hopping with anxiety. My
father reached over and grabbed the
fork from beside his plate, and I
could see his knuckles turn white as
he gripped it tightly. He squeezed
his way back again towards the
cage. My mother stopped fiddling
with her necklace and my brother
stopped fidgeting. I swallowed a
piece of carrot. A stream of sunlight
was coming into the room and
thousands of particles of dust were
caught by the light. Outside there
was silence, or so it seemed; no cars
driving past, no dogs barking, no
children shouting. My father
opened the spring-door of the cage
with his left hand, and raised the
fork in his right. In a fifteen-second
burst of energy, he finished Jenny
off. He repeatedly skewered her
through the throat and then, using
the wooden perch as a lever, rubbed
her off the fork when she became
stuck. Finally, breathing heavily, he
watched for any movement on the
bottom of the cage. With his face
returning to its normal shade of
smoker’s yellow, he extracted the
Metropolitan Lines Summer 2008