Bertie and the Kinky Politician Page 3

  The family home was a large Victorian red-brick country house full of passageways and interesting corners, where imaginary creatures lurked in darkened alcoves waiting to pounce. Celeste loved its outdated architecture and the smell of old woolly carpets. Its Gothic decorations were a delight and the house had a powerful and defining influence on her early childhood, allowing her vivid imagination to blossom.

  Outside, the grounds ran to several unattended acres with the house encircled by mossy lawns. Gravel paths lined with low hedges intersected the abandoned vegetable gardens, all leading to the centre where an ancient corkscrew walnut dominated the formal plots. The convoluted limbs simply begged to be climbed and she was able to spy out the whole of her magical kingdom hidden amongst the foliage.

  As an only child in a rural house, the potential for boredom had been of concern to her parents, but Celeste did not seem to mind the isolation and compensated by populating her world with imaginary characters who stood at her shoulder while she fought dragons and poked sticks into rustling anthills. Fortunately, the garden provided endless opportunities for healthy play and so her parents made the fatal assumption all was fine and under control. As it turned out, Ray and Barbara couldn’t have been more wrong. They had no idea, no idea at all, that the tranquillity of home life was not exactly mirrored at Celeste’s school. Matters were moving to a head ...

  Miss Rose Jelf, the most kindly of junior school teachers, shivered uncontrollably. Playground duty in February really sucked. She stamped her feet on the icy concrete and watched over her flock. At least the children shrugged off the biting cold. Young blood ran hot.

  ‘Skip-py! Skip-py!’

  A chant floated down the breeze and caught her attention. Children began to drift around the corner of the library. The shouting swelled ominously. Rose recognised the signs of trouble and scampered off to restore the peace.

  ‘Skippy! Skippy!’ screamed a ring of nylon anoraks. Rose, seriously height-challenged as she was, couldn’t exactly see what was going on in the centre of the swirling crowd so caught Bobby Dukes as he ran past.

  ‘What’s going on, Robert?’

  ‘It’s Skippy, Miss Jelf!’

  ‘Skippy?’

  ‘Celeste Gordon, Miss.’

  Confusion. The only Skippy Rose knew of was the jolly antipodean marsupial who used to appear on television.

  ‘But that’s not very nice, calling Celeste a kangaroo.’

  ‘Not that Skippy.’ Robert sighed patiently, as if explaining to an idiot. ‘We call her that because she likes to catch the boys with her skipping rope. Now it’s Marty’s turn.’

  Startled, Rose experienced a splendid example of middle-aged lady bewilderment as the chanting reached a crescendo. A whiff of hysteria made her skin crawl. She had to act immediately.

  ‘Stop!’ she squeaked at the top of her voice, but her cry was swamped. She wrestled her way forward, heaving shoulders apart, but was badly jostled. ‘Stop! Stop!’ She struggled to a point mid-way towards the gladiatorial ring before becoming stuck in the tightly packed throng like a wanderer caught in quicksand, but now she was able to witness the proceedings – and what she saw instantly arrested her attention.

  Celeste stood calmly, her manner supremely confident, and faced Martin Shufflebottom, the school bully. Both were surrounded by the circle of baying children. Slowly, the chanting faded to leave a silence which Rose found even more unnerving than the screams. Her spine crawled but she shared the paralysis of her fellow spectators. She could have easily leapt in to break up the incident. Well, not exactly leapt, perhaps, but a sudden need to see what would happen next stayed her hand. Instinctively, she realised she was witnessing something extraordinary.

  There appeared to be a stand-off. Marty glowered at Celeste but seemed disinclined to attack, as if things were not entirely going to plan. Normally he would simply wade in with smashing blows to batter his opponents into sobbing submission, but now he just stood there staring with piggy eyes at the willowy Celeste. She showed no fear at facing what could only be described as an apprentice psychopath who enjoyed spitting into the bleeding faces of his defeated victims.

  He lunged, and Celeste evaded his grasp with the twisting grace of a gymnast. Again, Marty leapt, again she nimbly avoided him – and each time it happened the audience cooed in admiration. Marty shook with fury but could not catch her. Celeste merely smiled at his clumsy charges. Rose was mesmerised. He was being humiliated by an expert. Only good could come of this – his reputation was being shredded before the entire school. What happened next left her speechless.

  Celeste pointed down at her feet. ‘You know what to do, Martin. Don’t make me embarrass you any more.’ For a seven-year-old girl, this was an impressive example of masterful psychology.

  ‘Knob off!’ replied Marty, employing language he’d learnt from his father in his dealings with the local constabulary.

  ‘Then I’ll have to use the rope, Marty.’ She was in total command. The finger pointed again and to Rose’s disbelief, Martin howled, shook his fists violently and slowly sank to his knees. There was a gasp of astonishment from the audience. Celeste stepped forward and flipped the skipping rope over his shoulders, lassoing him neatly. With that action, the spell was broken and Rose sprang into action.

  ‘Stop this at once!’ she yelled.

  Celeste turned to see Miss Jelf wriggling forward. That was lucky. The rope had gone over Marty just in time. She’d caught all the boys in school but saved the toughest for last. Martin was damned difficult to pin down, but she’d picked her moment to perfection. Had he known he was the subject of such cunning he might have thought twice before popping behind the library for a quick leak.

  As planned, Celeste caught him at his most vulnerable. My, had he cursed and sworn at the gathering crowds who pointed and laughed at his diminutive embarrassment. Celeste had waited for a very cold day! Unable to control a full bladder, he’d been compelled to endure the tinkling disgrace before zipping up and leaping into action. ‘Hope you like hospital food, you ginger bitch!’ he’d spat. Subtlety was a concept entirely alien to Marty’s intellect. There then followed the cat and mouse dance of survival for Celeste, so necessary to undermine his morale until …

  Rose made a valiant final lunge and burst through at last, hot and agitated, several buttons missing from her coat. A lock of hair escaped from her schoolmarm bun and hung in disarray over one ear. ‘I will have silence!’ she barked, recovering her confidence. ‘Celeste Gordon, what are you doing?’

  ‘Catching Martin.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I like it.’ There was genuine puzzlement in Celeste’s voice. Perplexed, Rose stared at the kneeling bully. This was no casual playground game – Celeste’s strategy for emasculating his reputation had been faultless.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not the rope, Miss. The rope doesn’t really matter. It’s symbolic. Making him submit, that’s important. That’s what I’m after.’ Rose found the depth of perception in Celeste’s answer simply staggering.

  Martin’s eyes, so often filled with malignancy, suddenly brimmed with tears at his colossal humiliation. To the lasting astonishment of all present, he suddenly started sniffling. ‘Leave us alone, Miss Jelf, I – I want her to finish...’

  Celeste’s sunny smile of triumph completely unnerved Rose.

  The consequences of this regrettable incident proved to have a much more profound impact on her life than she could have ever imagined. Raymond Gordon, having pondered for several weeks on an exciting new career offer from P&P, had an uneasy feeling Oakham’s friendly rustic welcome was about to become as frosty as the weather – and promptly moved the entire family to Brazil!

  Shortly afterwards, due to a bureaucracy gone mad, the delightfully minuscule county of Rutland ceased to exist altogether.

  Brazil!

  Even now, the very mention of the country still created a surging excitement in Celeste. For a young girl from a sleepy English shire, the world instantly became a spectacular and mesmerising riot of sight and smell and sound. Ray was based in Manaus in the heart of the rainforest, a bustling, colourful and noisy city on the banks of the Amazon. It was a hell of a change from Oakham! She often rode the company tugs with her father for hundreds of miles up the Madeira, chugging past vast uncharted tracts of tropical rain forest, entertaining the crew with her endless chatter and extravagant fantasies. Each passing day provided a kaleidoscope of never-ending fascination. She had many memories and they were all still very precious to her, but above everything else, she remembered the Amazon for one thing.

  Bertie.

  The love of her life!

  Early one evening, just at the sodden end of the daily tropical storm, when the very ground steamed and smoked in the failing light, her father strode out of the rising mists carrying a tatty wire cage. Inside, shy and startled and very frightened, was a baby parrot. She ran out of the villa to meet him in a transport of joy.

  ‘Daddy, he’s so pretty!’ Celeste thought it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. In truth, the parrot was not exactly endearing, with a comically outsized head connected to the oddly shaped body by a scrawny neck. Gawky, pop-out eyes protruded on either side of a viciously hooked bill and both stumpy wings were naked and angular. Its pinky-slate skin was only partially covered in immature plumage sprouting in threadbare tufts. The poor creature looked like it had fallen into a tub of depilation cream, and sat awkwardly on folded grey legs equipped with barbarous-looking claws, but Celeste saw it with different eyes to her father. Without hesitation, she opened the cage.

  ‘Careful, sweetheart, he’s a wild parrot and might try to get away.’ This was unlikely – even Celeste could see that the chic
k was about as aerodynamically svelte as a breeze block – so she ignored the warning and cradled the gangly fledgling to her chest, stroking at the spiky, half-formed feathers. To Ray’s surprise, the bird instinctively snuggled down into her protective embrace and showed no signs of distress.

  ‘He’s so – so blue,’ was all she could manage to say. This was an accurate observation. The infant’s immature feathers were, well, blue! An incredible, wonderful, dazzling, beautiful deep blue. All over. ‘What is he?’

  ‘He’s a hyacinth macaw.’

  ‘I thought you said he was a parrot.’

  ‘Macaws are a type of big parrot. In fact, hyacinths are the largest macaws in all the world.’ Celeste’s face was a picture of wonder. She stroked the bird under its stringy chin, ignoring the wickedly hooked bill. Ray winced. That beak looked vicious enough to remove a fingertip. ‘Be gentle – they’re very rare.’

  Celeste thought about this. ‘But if he’s so rare, hadn’t we better put him back with his mummy and daddy?’

  ‘That’s the trouble, angel. We don’t know where he came from. Captain Carlos at the police station has arrested some poachers down by the docks and discovered this lonely baby. He’s a real long way from home. Carlos says these birds are only found down south, near to Paraguay, where the forest opens out a bit, so this one’s been well and truly kidnapped.’ Ray knelt and wrapped a comforting arm around Celeste. The macaw absorbed her attention totally. Ray saw wonder and love in her eyes. ‘Well, do you like him?’ he asked.

  She nodded vigorously, her plaited copper pigtails dancing.

  ‘Good, I’m glad, because he’s all yours, Celeste.’

  Little did Ray know when he uttered those words he had put into motion a chain of events that would lead, with unshakable inevitability, to the spectacular and humiliating downfall of the British Government thirty years later.

  However, on that particular day, his only motivation was the simple desire to see a smile on his daughter’s face.

  Celeste squealed with joy. ‘Is he? Really?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Daddy. I love you so much!’ Ray felt a lump in his throat. She was growing up so quickly. ‘Does he have a name?’

  ‘Not as far as I know, but you’ll have to be careful with a name. Macaws are frightfully clever and soon learn to talk, so he’ll want his name to be grown up and sensible. Also, they live for a very, very long time; years and years, as long as you and I, so you must pick a good name.’

  Celeste looked serious and tried to imagine an old parrot leaning on a walking stick, but the scruffy bundle of violet fluff just looked so endearingly sweet. It was at that moment inspiration passed her way and dropped a suggestion into her mind. ‘Bertie! I’ll call him Bertie.’ Ray groaned and rolled his eyes, but then saw the gleam of stubborn determination in his daughter’s eyes and knew better than to argue.

  ‘OK, Honey, Bertie it is …’

  Chapter Three

  There was no question that Bertie loved Celeste. His was a true love which had developed steadily over the years, maturing and deepening, growing into an almost human emotion which would endure for the rest of his life. It was not the helpless affection dogs expressed, nor the aloof, calculating condescension exhibited by Sebastian, or even the vague, friendly, uncomplicated inquisitiveness of Barnstaple, the household hamster, but a strong and permanent bond underpinning the cornerstone of his life.

  Sebastian was Celeste’s Persian. Thoroughly pedigree and a real joy to torment, the cat had arrived in spring and immediately laid claim to the territory with that supercilious air of nonchalant arrogance exclusive to felines. Bertie was taken aback at Sebastian’s total lack of respect, not only for him but also for his beloved Celeste, and quickly concluded that the Persian was a lowly beast whose loyalty extended only as far as his next meal. Why on earth she found him appealing was anybody’s guess. Bertie let him settle for a couple of weeks, lulling him into a false sense of security, then showed him who was the real boss. Sebastian barely survived the encounter, both physically and psychologically, and now fled in mortal fear of the macaw because, in the intervening years since his days as a lonely and frightened chick in Brazil, Bertie had indeed grown to become a handsome chap.

  Now a hefty and muscular adult, he measured forty inches from beak to tip of tail and generated a formidable physical presence – even with everything tucked in neatly. When flying, he could justly be described as magnificent, the combination of a full five-foot wingspan and consummate aerial skills drawing gasps of admiration from all. His vivid plumage had deepened to a stunning cobalt, a deep, rich blue almost violet in its intensity, which set off the dazzling sunshine yellow patches edging his lower mandible and matching spectacle rings around his dark brown eyes. With lethally powerful claws and a razor-sharp bill capable of nipping through metal and reducing the hardest Brazil nut to powder, it was either a brave or monumentally stupid cat who stood up to him.

  Sebastian undoubtedly fell into the latter category.

  The fracas had started one evening with a bit of needling over who received the lion’s share of Celeste’s affection. Sebastian employed the usual underhand trick of insinuating himself onto her lap and once lodged across her thighs, began to purr in that smug, self-satisfied way Bertie found so infuriating. He endured this intolerable situation for the best part of an hour, watching with haughty contempt from his perch until Celeste left the room for a few moments. Once alone together, the cat foolishly decided to follow up its tactical advantage by actually having the gall to stalk Bertie.

  Sebastian sneaked around the sofa and crept to within a yard of the perch, his haunches swaying threateningly, belly pressed to the floor. He tried to project an air of terrifying menace, that of a predator at the very pinnacle of the food chain, but the Persian was simply too coiffured to convey any serious threat. To Bertie, who’d retained a little more of his instinctive Brazilian aggression than Celeste realised, the cat was merely a joke. He stared down and refused to panic. This was no crouching jaguar below him, no sleek and sinewy panther, just a soft barrel of ivory fluff that honked up soggy fur balls with disgusting regularity. There was a tense moment, but Bertie’s long tail proved too much of a temptation for Sebastian and he suddenly leapt forward and took a nifty swipe at the trailing feathers.

  It really was an astonishing tactical error. Bertie flicked himself clear of the lunging paw and flew across the room to land on top of the tall dresser, where layers of old carpet were tacked to stop him skidding. This display of power should have been warning enough, but, as Bertie had already surmised, even by the modest intellectual standards of his species, the cat was thicker than a tub of treacle on a frosty Yorkshire morning.

  The attack came from over the back of the sofa in a blur of blue. Bertie launched himself silently, needle-tipped claws thrust forward. His huge wings swept around the petrified cat, enveloping him on all sides, buffeting powerfully. Sebastian froze under the overwhelming assault, then let out a truly spectacular screech of absolute terror and bolted, colliding unceremoniously with a table leg in his blind panic to escape. Bertie twisted in mid-air and raked along the cat’s flank before soaring back up to his perch with majestic fluidity. It was all over in less than three seconds.

  He shook himself to settle his feathers again. On the whole, that had been a most enjoyable interlude. When Celeste returned a few minutes later, the salon was quiet and tranquil.

  ‘Bertie, where is Sebastian?’ she asked, peering behind the chairs.

  ‘Gone,’ he said indifferently, discreetly cleaning his claw to remove an incriminating scrap of blood-speckled fur. He didn’t think Celeste would appreciate his use of jungle law to readjust the household’s animal hierarchy back to its rightful order. No pallid, flaccid-brained, four-footed, honk-happy, wingless, moronic fuzz-ball was going to get the better of him. ‘Bertie loves Celeste.’