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By Dennis Rookard We all have our regular local pubs, Somewhere were we're welcome and feel at home in. Mines the Travellers Rest. Now to be fair, for the first timer it's rather hard to find. being off the beaten track in one of the quieter parts of town., being hidden behind the as yet to be fully occupied sixties style shopping mall. But should you venture down New Road, you'll find the Traveler's Rest just tucked in between the United Reform church and the old Court house, just across the road from the Library. True it's not much to look at from the outside, a bit down at heel in fact, and sadly both inside and out, in need of a lick of paint. Ever since Charlie the minor bird dropped off his perch in a blaze of glory, things had been rather quiet around the Traveler's Rest. Frankly after we had given him his Viking funeral, we missed having him around. So much so that when our worthy mine host Jack announced that he was to install and second cold black minor bird in the Charlie's old cage, we brightened up somewhat. "And what I don't want you bloody lot to do," stormed Jack, somewhat the worse for wear, the night before the new pub resident was to be delivered, "is to try and teach him to bloodywell swear ! I don't mind," he shouted as his hand shot back - empty glass in hand to hit the optic of scotch behind him, returning it filled to the brim to his lips moments latter - "a cheerful hello from him or even a nice genteel - time gentlemen please," but he growled, "no soding swearing, else your all banned - got it" We all looked at each other at this outburst and collectively sagely nodded at this dire threat to membership of our favourite drinking hole, and after the great one was out of earshot set to plot the down fall into evil ways of the second bird to grace to pub we like to call our second home from home. I don't know where Jack gets his pets, but who-ever it is who does the selling is a master of his craft. Indeed as Jack himself told us latter that evening, it was a sales line straight out of the monty python parrot sketch, "great little talker" he told him, "have him chatting ten to the dozen in no time" was his sale's patter. Mind you he went on warming to his task, "he's a bit on the young side, so don't expect him to start talking so soon." Frankly I smelled a rat as did, for the bird seemed just a little to large to have been fresh out of the egg as it were. For the first few nights, Charlie mark two as he became known just sat in his cage getting used to us. But unlike the former resident of the large cage in the corner of the bar, he soon developed his own little ways, and not all of them nice. Not that we minded to much, we just put it down to the bird settling in, but he had this have this nasty habit of flicking it's food over unsuspecting regulars, and whilst the odd bit of birdseed can be tolerated, the odd feather in the drink can't. But just how do you house train a bird. As for the sounds of him chatting away, came there not a sound. Which meant that drastic action was going to be called for. This came the shape of Jerry who reckons he knows about bird training, leading relays of us to gather round his cage trying to teach him the basics of speech.. But after four or five evenings of 'who's a pretty boy then', following up with ' Jacks a wanker' we were becoming somewhat disenchanted with his lack of progress. By this time, even Jack was beginning to smell a rat, and muttering about suing the pet shop owner, but as a last desperate measure we decided to help him out by calling in expert help. This help came in the form of Jim, who for some years had owned a local poet shop before going under due to sky high rents and what he called the crafty government plot of fixing business rates so that in order to survive he had to take at least two thousand quid a week before showing a profit. As his shop took at the most only a few hundred a week in animal feedstuffs plus the odd pet sale, his doom was sealed. Jim however still has a soft spot for pets of any shape and size, so a few pints poured down his throat did the trick, and he was soon on hand gazing into the cage with his expert eye. Turning to the lurking Jack behind the bar after his lengthy examination he asked "Did you ask about this birds sex before you brought it,". What to you mean growled Jack, hand held in mid swing from his beloved whiskey optic. "This is a bird," announced Jim to our massed laughter. "I know it's bloody bird" cried Jack smashing the bar to make his point, "why don't the bloody thing talk." He yelled. Because, smiled Jim patiently, " this bird is a bird - a female of the spices. This is a lady minor bird, and as such it is not likely to talk. After the laughter died down, we all clustered around the cage, the object of our scrutiny rocking back and forth or her perch, head on one side, peanut in beak starring back at us. Well still make a nice pet said Jim to various grunts around the bar. But sorry gang you'll not get it to talk. Not this one. For a few days all was peaceful in the Traveler's Rest, The bird, now renamed Molly continued to dominate her cage, whilst the knowing regulars remembering to sit well away from her throwing range of bird-seed, cage dropping and anything else she could left in her beak. The weekend came and went, but come the following Monday evening a shock awaited us as one by one we trooped into the bar. No Molly. Where's the bird Jack was the question on every-bodies lips. Don't know came the reply every time the question came up. At last Fred our tame report and guardian of the towns innermost secrets felt moved to practice a bit of his journalistic skills of Jack. Leaning over the bar, he grabbed Jacks arm mid flight towards the dreaded optic, and staring into Jack horror struck eyes, growled in a low voice. "Come on Jack, don't hold out on us, what have you done with that bird." "I really don't know" cried Jack, a by now trembling hand gripping his filled glass, "came down this morning to clean up after last night, and there she was...gone." "What do you mean gone," said Fred. "Like I say Gone, cage door open, window open and bird bloodywell gone." a deep silence greeted this remark. "your telling me," gasped Fred, "that bird, on it's own opened it's little cage, fluttered to that convenient window, unlocked it, and then flew out into the big wide world." Oh come on cried Jack, "very intelligent birds are minor" slowly looking around the assembled regulars, triumph in his eye, Fred pressed on with his attack.. "Not that intelligent" he muttered, "you gave her a little help didn't you." "What do you mean, moaned Jack." "Well come on Jack," cried Jerry from his usual perch and the end of the bar, "a bit suspicious the cage door opening all on his own and some-one, and let's guess who leaving that window open;" Well it wasn't me," yelled Jack "I wouldn't mind betting it was one of you lot." he continued finger pointing around the bar. "And if I find out who, Ill bar the lot of you," he yelled to the bar at large as he backed along his side of the bar to that happy point whereby his outstretched arm could swing round toward the dreaded scotch optic. We never did find out who did the dirty deed. And more to the point neither did Jack, but the pub betting was he was the criminal mind who engineered the great escape. Mind you there has been talk of yet another talking miner bird appearing. But we think this is just talk on behalf of Jack's need to absolve himself from his crime. A sure sine that talking birds in the bar are a thing of the past is that the empty cage as gone. The only problem now is that Jacks taken to having long talks with Jim about guard-dogs and what to feed them with. ENDS |
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