Ella moved carefully away from Sam and the bird, then ran down the length of the house towards the garden shed.
It was big as old sheds go, longer than it was wide. The front roller door was up to keep some air moving but even so, it was hot inside. Ella felt a pang of sympathy for Sam working out in it. He’d done a reasonable job of cleaning up the shed. He’d found the slots for all the tools. Old Mr Honeychurch had a collection of woodworking and carpentry tools. Lots of old planes, chisels and the like. His screwdrivers and wrenches had shapes traced on a piece of plywood hung on one wall and Sam had matched up most of the tools.
Different weight silver chain hung coiled over bolts, and longer lengths of timber had been neatly stacked.
Right at the back, near a leaning tower of plastic garden pots and assorted tins of oil and paint, Ella spied the bird cage. It was rusty with age, discoloured on the bottom, and the mirror that must once have hung from the top bars was long gone. A couple of dowel-style perches remained though, along with a container for seed.
At a pinch it would do.
Ella scanned the shed for a container she could use for water. Had to be small enough to get through the cage door …
She found what she was looking for on a work bench—a jar that had once stored instant coffee and now held nails. The jar didn’t interest Ella, but its shallow bottle-green lid did. She untwisted it, washed the lid out under the tap from the rainwater tank off the side of the shed, cleaned it and then filled it. The water ran so smooth and cool over her hands that she cupped her palms and drank, and then splashed and washed her face and neck before splashing water over the bottom of the cage to give it a quick rinse. She hurried with the cumbersome cage back towards the front of the house.
The sound of Sam chatting to the bird warmed Ella’s heart well before she rounded the corner. Slowing her steps so she wouldn’t startle Perkins III (she’d already named him in her head), Ella approached the pair.
‘See if he’ll go in here,’ she said, opening the door of the cage and putting the makeshift water container on the cage floor.
Sam took Perkins III from his shoulder to his finger, then to the cage, but the bird didn’t hop in. Not even when Sam urged him, ‘Step.’
‘Can you get hold of him gently, Sam?’ Ella asked. ‘See if you can put him in.’
‘I’ll try,’ Sam said, taking the instruction seriously.
Sam closed his hand confidently around Perkins III’s wings. The bird looked a bit surprised at the treatment, but he suffered it without pecking Sam’s fingers. Sam put his hand into the cage and released the bird onto the dowel perch.
‘Onya, Sammy,’ Ella said, as Sam closed the wire gate.
They watched the cockatiel for a while. He watched them right back, and Ella began to wonder how she might find the owner. She could put a sign up on the wall at the Post Office. They could take a picture of Perkins III and print it out and put it up on the power poles like she’d seen before when people lost a cat or a dog.
‘I wish we could keep him,’ Sam said again. There was such a sad edge to his voice, Ella’s heart ached.
‘I wish we could keep him too. He’d make an awesome Perkins III.’
Sam smiled at that.
‘How’s this for a deal? We’ll put the word out that we found him but if no one claims him, then I think we can keep him. I think that’s fair. Okay, Sammy?’
‘I hope no one claims him!’ Sam said. ‘What would he eat, Mum? Can I go down to the produce store and get some seed for him? Perkins II loved those black seeds.’
‘I think the shop would be shut, Sammy. It’s Sunday.’ Ella thought about it. ‘You could ride your bike home and get some celery out of the fridge though, okay? Doesn’t matter if the leaves are on the tops. I have a bit more to do here before I finish up.’
‘Okay.’ Sam was already down the steps, pounding up the path to where his BMX bike lay against what might have once been a classic white picket fence. Unfortunately, it was now missing a couple of pickets and it too was flaked grey and faded.
Ella returned her attention to the bird. ‘What am I gonna do with you, little guy?’
Sam would love it if they never found his owner, but Perkins III had the look of a well-cared for bird. Ella was pretty certain he had people who loved him.
‘We’d love you too,’ Ella cooed at the cockatiel, and for a moment she was tempted to keep Perkins III secret. They’d buy him a new cage and hang it at the rental house.
Then she sighed. Unfortunately, no can do.
Picking her phone out of the back pocket of her dusty denim skirt, Ella thought about how she could get the message out. Chalk Hill had a community Facebook page that would probably work faster than a note on the Post Office wall.
She took a quick picture of Perkins III in the cage, navigated to the page she needed and posted: ‘Found in town. White cockatiel. Very friendly. We have him at Lot 3 Chalk Hill Bridge Rd.’ She thought about it for a moment then deleted the street address to make it read, ‘Old Mrs Honeychurch’s place. We’re here for another hour or so, then we’ll take him home. PM me if you need to find
