The Pecking Order
On Perrigrew Street, just a few minutes from the municipal gardens and a twenty minute drive from the lake and Hardman’s Wood, there were lots of smart little terraced houses, and three shops. They were a butchers, a bakers and a candlestick makers. Mr Hockle the butcher and Mr Trice the baker did a roaring local trade, and did very well, due to excellent fresh produce, local sourcing etc. The candle stick maker - not so much. It’s not that his candle-sticks weren’t good. No - they were extremely good. It’s just that there wasn’t much call for them, and the candlesticks he supplied were of such good quality that they didn’t break, so generally people only bought one. Not like chops and buns. Mr Chandler, who owned the candlestick makers couldn’t help feeling that he’d entered into a bit of a niche business. It is worth noting that Mr Chandler, Mr Hockle and Mr Trice have been in a tub together. It was at Mr Hockle’s summer barbecue in 2009, and the outdoor spa pool was his brand new purchase, and they were more than happy to have a go in it.
So - Mr. Chandler was grateful that he had such a reliable tenant in the rooms above his shop. The rooms were also rented as a business to a spindly little man called Dr. Federin. His doctorate certificate hung above the door at the top of the stairs, but the writing was rather smudged, and it was hung in a very dingy corner. But there was a shiny brass plaque mounted next to the door. It read - ‘Dr Federin - Reincarnationalist’. Because that is what he was. Dr Federin was a professional reincarnationalist, and proud to be the only one in the world. And he did a slow but steady trade.
On the morning that we too ascend the creaky stairs to Dr. Federin’s office, we are joined by an elderly lady. She is called Quenelle, but she has never eaten a quenelle. She is on her own, and has been on her own for a little over two months, because a little over two months ago, her husband of 58 years passed away. And a little over 8 years ago, on their 50th wedding anniversary, Quenelle and Horace had been given a voucher for Dr. Federin’s Reincarnation service, and they had taken it up. And now Quenelle was walking up the stairs to fetch her reincarnated husband.
Dr Federin always dressed in the same way. Black narrow trousers, a bright yellow shirt with a thin black tie and a bright blue jacket. He darted around the room with quick efficient movements, and stared at you with shiny yellow and black eyes and pale complexion. His yellow shoes were pointy, his legs seems to be permanently bent at the knee, his chest puffed out, and his little goatee beard immaculately trimmed. His office, which had been his premises for more than thirty years, was wood panelled, with books and armchairs scattered all over the place. The fireplace was normally active, and the smell of woodsmoke filled the room. There was a counter of sorts that he had bought from a gentleman’s outfitters that was closing down like an island in the middle of the room. One wall was filled with enormous leatherbound ledgers.
When Quenelle entered the office, Dr Federin greeted her with open arms and hot tea. He consoled her for her loss. He marvelled at what a wonderful man Horace was. And he confirmed that the reincarnation had been a success. And with that he disappeared into the back room and re-entered with holding a cage with a cloth covering it. He whipped off the cloth to reveal a blackbird, sitting on a perch and eying Quenelle with undeniable affection.
‘Hello Horace’, said Quenelle, and as Dr Federin opened the cage, Quenelle’s husband of fifty eight years hopped onto her shoulder and started to sing. It was hard to make out, but you could just about hear the melody of ‘Fly Me To The Moon’. ‘His favourite song’, cooed Quenelle.
‘Here - it’s nearly lunchtime. Give him some of this’. Dr. Federin held out a plate with three biscuits on it. A bourbon, a pink wafer and one of the cow ones. Horace twitched his head from side to side. Dr Federin twitched his head from side to side. Horace hopped onto the plate, and started to peck away at the cow one, now and again pausing to sing ‘Fly Me To The Moon’. ‘He loved those cow ones’ whispered Quenelle.
‘No. He loves those cow ones’ said Dr. Federin, smiling as Horace hopped onto Quenelle’s shoulder and affectionately pecked her hair.
A delighted Quenelle left Dr Federin’s office an hour later, after hearing all the aftercare instructions. She left with her husband sitting on her shoulder, and a heaviness gone from her heart.
She passed on the stairs a young couple, bounding up two steps at a time. This was Angela and Mortimer who had been married for a little over 58 days. One of their wedding presents was a voucher for Dr. Federin’s Reincarnation service, and they were coming to claim it.
It is worth noting at this point that Dr. Federin’s service did not come cheap. It was not ridiculous, but it was not cheap. He had a steady trade, nearly always from couples who had been bought the service as a gift - normally at a wedding, or wedding anniversary or civil partnership or engagement party or whatever. He saw couples very much in love, and was pleased to be able to offer them a little peace of mind. It is also worth noting that many of them never claimed their final product. But some did. Like Quenelle.
When Angela and Mortimer arrived in the office, they were excitable and frisky and found the whole thing hilarious. They found Dr Federin hilarious, but he didn’t mind. He talked them through the process. How they would be reincarnated. Firstly they must fill in ‘THE QUESTIONS’. ‘THE QUESTIONS’ was an enormous questionnaire to be filled in by the partner or spouse. It covered everything from favourite songs and movies and books and foods, to allergies quirks and habits. It was an exhaustive and exhausting process, but, Dr. Federin claimed. Vital.
He encourage Angela and Mortimer to do it while sitting in his office. He prepared a fresh pot of coffee, and served it to them as they giggled and scribbled on the telephone directory sized document.
He sat in his favourite armchair and pulled out an enormous copy of ‘Ulysses’. He had never managed to finish it, and felt that this was a failure on his part. He opened the book, and started yet another battle in this seemingly never-ending war.
When Angela and Mortimer had finished ‘THE QUESTIONS’, Dr Federin lead them into the backroom - pretending not to see them mock his darting walk, or steal kisses from each other when they thought he wasn’t looking. He didn’t mind. They were very much in love.
The second part of the procedure then took place - THE DRAWING OF FLUIDS. He sat them down one at a time in what looked like a Dentist’s chair, and clamped them down. He took a needle and promised it wouldn’t hurt a bit, and proceeded to draw fluids from the ‘ascendral points’ of their bodies. Elbows, little toe, the scalp, behind the ears These were the points where the soul could be reached. The thin spots. He drew the fluid from them, and they were surprised to see multicoloured tubes filling from the thin spots.
There are things that medicine doesn’t know. Claimed Dr. Federin. There are things only I know.
When they were finished, Dr Federin gave them a certificate that was a sheet of metal ostentatiously engraved. It had a unique number on them that was the ticket to their everlasting life. He gave them the rules. The reincarnation would always be in a bird. The bird makes the best host. And they must allow at least two months for reincarnation to take place in the even of one of them passing. Angela and Mortimer giggled as they half listened, and ran down the steps two at a time.
Dr. Federin watched them from his window. He watched them run out of the office door beside Mr Chandler’s shop, and into the road. And he watched as Mortimer was hit by a van and killed instantly.
This was where things started to go wrong for Dr Federin.
Dr Federin was special. He was extremely special. He did know things that other people didn’t know. He could talk to birds. He had a power over birds. He could make them do all kinds of things. What he couldn’t do was reincarnate people.
It is also true that he had hundreds if not thousands of extremely happy customers. Widows and widowers and bereaved partners with a bird that was to them their dear departed. A comfort.
This is what Dr Federin did. THE QUESTIONS was the important part of the procedure. With those answers he knew exactly what the partner thought of the other. What their favourite colours and books and biscuits were.
The stuff in the chair was showmanship and sleight of hand. A little prick from a needle, and a trick tube and voila. The racks of coloured water capsules were nothing, but he felt that he needed to show his customers something visceral.
Then he entered everything into a database. He used an extremely powerful computer and search engine to monitor the progress of all of his clients. He knew if they went to see their doctors, or were going mountain climbing. He knew if they were ill or had a bungee jump coming up. And when he thought there was a possibility of death coming up - he would start the training.
First of all - he would catch a bird from Hardman’s Wood. He didn’t have to catch them. They came to him when he sang. And then he would start the process. Using his avian communication powers he would train them to sing, train them to recognise and show affection for the client. Train them to be attracted to green rather than blue, Emmerdale rather than X factor. This process took the time. So as not to be cruel to the birds, two months was the minimum time it could take. A bird is very easily overloaded.
So why did Dr Federin tell Angela that it could be done in a week? Because she cried. Because she looked as though her world had fallen apart, and it had. Because he didn’t know if she could last two months.
Deep down he knew he couldn’t do it. But he couldn’t say ‘no’ either.
And so the process began. He went to the woods and caught several birds. He would try this on a few specimens. One of them might take.
He combed through Mortimer’s file, each answer a little heartbreak of it’s own in Angela’s not even grown up handwriting. And he tried the process.
He tried to make the birds understand too quickly. Tagliatelli alla Vongole, Turquoise, The Fast and The Furious Tokyo drift. Seriously. That was Mortimer’s favourite film. Don’t judge him, he’s dead.
But the information was too hard and too much and much much too fast. What happened wasn’t pretty. The birds popped. They just popped. He had a backroom full of popping finches. And each time Dr Federin would have to start the process again. Like reading Ulysses - he was fighting a losing battle.
On the sixth night Dr Federin couldn’t sleep. He had failed. He got through nearly 300 birds. And he hated himself and he hated his business.
He was going to have to tell Angela that she would have to wait, and he would have to look at her face while he broke his promise, and it was all too much.
At four o’clock in the morning, he eventually drifted into a comatose slumber.
But he didn’t have to tell her. Because later that night, very quickly, and very quietly, the rooms above Mr Chandler’s shop filled up with birds. The birds had flown from the lake and Hardman’s wood, which really is much quicker as the crow flies. Takes about five minutes. The birds crept in through the open window in Dr Federin’s room, and soon the floor was three feet deep in a sea of fluttering hopping, disquietingly calm birds.
They washed up onto the bed like a bristling feathery tide, over the bent legs, over the puffed up chest, ever the goatee beard.
They smothered Dr Federin in his sleep. He didn’t even wake. They filled his lungs with feathers and he died right there.
Then the birds left. Apart from one. A bluetit remained, sitting on Dr Federin’s chest where his heart would have been. The bluetit, with its beautiful yellow chest and bright blue jacket. It hopped over to the open copy of ‘Ulysses’ and stared at the text for a few minutes, and then just seemed to give up.
In the coming days, Dr Federin’s fraud was exposed as his office was taken apart. It made the local papers, and Angela had to have it explained to her. Don’t worry - she gets over it.
But in a kitchen in a different part of town, with the radio on, and a blackbird on her arm, Quenelle glimpsed the article and threw the newspaper into the recycling bin without reading it. She shared a cow biscuit with Horace and smiled as he sang ‘Fly Me To The Moon’.
Some things, she decided, you don’t have to know.
3 comments:
Very much enjoyed reading that.
This is utterly, utterly smashing.
Brilliant.
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