closely, with something in his eyes that might have been hope. “Is this the only one you’ve got?” he demanded. When he was answered by silence, he snapped, “For heaven’s sake, answer me properly. I’m not going to eat you.”
Instead of speaking, Peter opened a cupboard by his bed and took out a plaque which he handed to his father. It was a commendation from a bird-protection society. Gavin glanced at it briefly before looking away.
The bitterness was like bile in his throat. They had robbed him. His son was an alien to him. “That’s all very well,” he said in a constrained voice, “but haven’t you got any manly interests? Don’t you play football or cricket or-or something? Doesn’t your school have teams?” The boy nodded. “Well, do you follow them? How do they do? Do they win matches?” He could hear his own voice rising as his desperation grew.
Peter considered this last question before answering it with a shrug. It might have meant no more than that sometimes the teams lost and sometimes they won. But to Gavin’s lacerated sensibilities the shrug looked like contemptuous dismissal. “The sooner I get you away to a place where you can grow up properly, the better,” he said furiously.
He was on the verge of shouting, and he knew he mustn’t do that. So he vented his feelings by slamming down the little cup before saying, “We’ll talk later-this isn’t the right time,” and striding out.
Gavin wasn’t a man who gave up easily, but right now he was on the edge of despair. He knew he’d done every single thing the wrong way. And more frightening still, he didn’t know what the right way was.
Left alone, Peter was motionless for a long moment. When he was sure Gavin wasn’t coming back he went and lifted the cup whose stem had been bent by the force of his father’s hand. He tried to straighten it, but after a while he gave up and put the crooked cup away in a drawer.
Gavin was an early riser. He was awake with the dawn next morning, and went down to the kitchen. A middle-aged woman with a severe face introduced herself as Mrs. Stone, the live-in “help.” “I’m just starting breakfast,” she said. “Can I pour you some coffee?”
“Later, thank you. I’m looking for Norah.”
“She’s out there, feeding those creatures.”
The way Mrs. Stone sniffed and said, “those creatures,” told Gavin he had a kindred spirit. “You don’t care for them?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t be here if jobs were easy to come by,” she declared, sniffing again. “In my opinion animals should know their place, and it’s not in the house. I made it clear when I took the job that I would have nothing to do with animals.” Osbert honked from the floor. “Or birds,” she added.
“Very wise,” Gavin agreed with feeling. Through the window he could see Norah in the distance, talking to the pony-tailed young man who’d hailed from the birdcage. He hurried out.
She’d vanished by the time he arrived, but the young man was there. “Hi. I’m Grimsdyke,” he said. “But everyone calls me Grim.”
“Do you work here?” Gavin asked.
“I live here. I have a couple of rooms, and I pay my rent by helping out. If you’re looking for Norah, she’s gone to see Buster and Mack.”
“Buster and Mack?”
“Buster’s a donkey. Mack is his companion. Just go down that path and bear right.”
Gavin followed the instructions and discovered Norah standing by a low wire fence, accompanied by Rex, the black-and-white dog that went everywhere with her. She was feeding mashed apple to an elderly donkey. “Good morning,” she said pleasantly, but without taking her attention from the donkey. “Go on, eat it all up. Special treat.”
“I take it this is Buster,” he said, trying to match the distant cordiality of her tone.
“That’s right. I got him two years ago from people who ought to have been shot. They’d neglected him so badly that his hooves had grown right under in curves and he could hardly walk. Would you believe they actually tried to prevent me removing him? I told them it was me or the law, take it or leave it. They took it.”
“You always get your way, it seems?”
“Not always, but I’m a fighter.”
“Is that a warning?”
“Take it how you like.”
“Thanks.”
They eyed each other appraisingly before Norah said, “I tried to find another home for Buster, but it didn’t work out. He’s very set in his ways.”
“What does that mean?”
“Obstreperous.”
“Then naturally he felt at home with you.”
“Meaning we’re two of a kind?”
“Take it how you like,” he retorted coolly. “What about the other donkey? Did you have to shoot anyone to get him?”
“I don’t have another donkey.”
“Then who’s Mack?”
She gave a soft whistle and a small monkey came bounding out of the trees, jumped onto Buster’s back and from there into Norah’s arms. “This is Mack,” she said. “He’s a macao monkey. Unfortunately they’re very pretty.”
“Why unfortunately?”
“It makes them popular as pets. They get bought by people who aren’t fit to own a china monkey, let alone a live one.” There was real anger in her voice.
The conversation wasn’t going as he’d meant. He’d intended to greet her calmly, to be dignified and persuasive and make her see that she couldn’t hope to claim half of Strand House. Instead he found himself discussing the sanctuary as if it were to be a permanent phenomenon. And it definitely wasn’t. The thought reminded him of something else. “What’s the idea of giving house room to that layabout?”
“If you mean Grim, I couldn’t manage without him. And he isn’t a layabout. Whatever he looks like, he’s a brilliant zoologist. Unfortunately he’s only here until he’s finished writing his thesis. Then the university will give him a doctorate and research grant, and he’ll vanish around the world.”
“You relieve my mind. I was afraid it might be impossible to get him off the premises.”
She swung around to face him. “You mean, your first thought was about the property?”
“That has to concern me. You’ve hardly improved the value of the property by-this.” He made a gesture.
“That’s all you see, isn’t it, Hunter? Money, and how your financial position is affected. You judge everything by that yardstick, as though there were no other.”
“It’s as good a yardstick as any in a hard world,” he declared grimly.
“Which is only another way of saying that you don’t
He was pale with anger. “Kindly leave my personal feelings out of this.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get personal. It’s just that when I sense sadness in anyone-human or animal-I just can’t help…”
“Once and for all, I am not susceptible to whimsy.”
She wore a puzzled frown. “I’m not being whimsical.”
“This nonsense about sadness in animals! Animals are not sad, Miss Ackroyd.”
“The ones who come here are.”
“You know what I mean. They don’t experience sadness in the way humans do.”
“How do you know?”
“Because they are animals. They’re not humans, they’re
“Actually, there’s no difference. Surely you don’t need me to tell you that human beings are animals?”
“Different kinds of animals,” he said, knowing that he was unwise to be provoked into argument.
“Not different at all,” she responded. “You’d be amazed how alike-”
“No, I wouldn’t, because this conversation is going no further,” he interrupted desperately.
“Yes,” she said, regarding him and nodding as if she’d just been enlightened. “There are some things you find
