Chapter Text
“Carmody!” The voice bellowed through Skeldale House, calling the veterinary student to the examining room like a rogue dog. “Get in here!”
Richard Carmody’s head snapped up from his books, and his near-sighted gaze found the clock on the wall. Good grief – he’d been reading for two hours straight. Not hearing the doorbell, not even noticing the arrival of a patient this dull Thursday morning. No wonder Mr. Farnon roared like an annoyed bull from the far end of the house.
Carmody rushed to his feet, flew out of the study, and nearly collided with Mrs. Hall and her laundry basket in the hallway.
“Ohterriblysorry…” he muttered in a breath.
“Mr. Carmody,” the housekeeper said gently. “Don’t let Mr. Farnon play you like a fiddle. He will just make a bad habit out of it.”
“Right… of course.” For her sake, Carmody managed to slow his pace down to a dignified stride – or at least, just until he was sure Mrs. Hall was out of sight. Then he dashed to the examining room like a nervous rabbit, and slid in through the door, just as Siegfried was about to fill his lungs for an additional roar.
“Oh, there you are,” the older veterinarian responded impatiently. “Come in here and say hello to Tchai.”
Positioned on Siegfried’s outstretched forearm sat a snow-white cockatoo, resting with its eyes half closed.
“Tchai?” Carmody said, inching closer so as not to scare the bird.
“Tchaikovsky.” There was suddenly a gentleness to Siegfried’s voice like he was speaking over a sleeping newborn. “I thought he would make an educational case this quiet morning. I want you to examine him, Carmody, so we can compare our assumptions.”
“Right.”
Carmody stuck out his left arm, and Tchaikovsky opened his eyes, black and round like obsidian pearls, but not as shiny as Carmody had expected. When the cockatoo shifted over to grab hold of Carmody’s arm, the young vet student also noticed that the bird seemed underweight, and his feathers looked a little dull. Once Tchaikovsky had found his grip on Carmody’s tweed-covered arm, he went right back to sleep.
“He seems quite lethargic.”
Siegfried bowed his head in a nod.
“Is he eating normally?”
“Far from. He used to have quite the appetite, but not much these days, I’m afraid.” Siegfried stroked the yellow top feathers on the cockatoo’s head with a gentle finger and continued. “Tchaikovsky has been a regular patient this past month. He has been the picture of good health his entire life, but now it seems to slowly be declining. This last week, he’s been drinking more than normally.”
Carmody filed this little hint along with the rest of his observations and raised his arm, so he could examine Tchaikovsky from underneath. The feathers around the cloaca were a bit discolored, which could indicate liver failure. Siegfried had noticed this too, of course, and nodded assuredly.
This bird was indeed very sick, and just one more question came to mind.
“How old is he?” Carmody asked.
“That’s a very good question,” Siegfried responded, stroking the cockatoo. “This distinguished old gentleman just turned 64 years old last month.”
“Blimey.”
But it was the last piece of the puzzle. Carmody gently nudged the bird against his chest, his palm resting on the silky cool feathers on Tchaikovsky’s back.
“Mr. Farnon,” Carmody said. “Is this bird… dying?”
“Of old age, yes, I’m afraid he is. Very accurate conclusion, Carmody.” Siegfried’s sombre tone was softened by his tender expression when he watched the bird. “I just gave him a little pick-me-up, so his owner can say goodbye to him tonight, and tomorrow we’ll do what’s best for him… and put him to sleep.” Siegfried freed the bird from Carmody’s arm and placed him inside his traveling cage.
“64 years,” Carmody repeated, gazing at Tchaikovsky through the wooden bars. “Imagine if he could talk, what kind of stories he could tell us. Something quite remarkable, I’d assume. After all, he must have been born just short of 35 years after his namesake. Is his owner Russian?”
“I highly doubt it,” Siegfried responded dryly. “Mr. Wilson’s is more British than shortbread and rainy weather. But why don’t you ask him, when you call him in here?”
Slightly embarrassed since he must have rushed past the owner in the waiting room, Carmody cleared his throat and opened the door. “Mr. Wilson, you may come in.”
Mr. Wilson was a stout build man in his 40’s, with big hands and a weather-beaten face, roughed by outdoor work, no doubt. He took the cage from Siegfried and peeked in through the bars with a sorrowful expression.
“So, I’ll be back with him tomorrow then, Mr. Farnon,” Mr. Wilson muttered.
“If you would be so kind,” Siegfried said. “And give my best to Esther, and tell her that if changes her mind, I could still come to your place and do it in familiar surroundings.”
“Oh, no, she couldn’t bear that,” Mr. Wilson said, shaking his head. “She just wants to remember him as his best, not…” He fell quiet.
“I understand,” Siegfried said softly.
“Esther is heartbroken,” Mr. Wilson said with a sigh. “That’s me daughter,” he told Carmody. “Me little Essie. Ol’ Mr. T’s been her companion this last ten years or so. We inherited him from a neighbour who passed away. Imagine being outlived by our pet?”
“Are your family fond of classical music, Mr. Wilson?” Carmody asked politely.
“Come again?”
“Tchaikovsky. The Russian composer of the Romantic Period…”
“Oh! Oh, dear heavens, no. Not me, anyway. Can’t even pronounce the bloody name, that’s why I call him Mr. T. But his former owner thought herself a bit high and mighty, so that’s why he’s called Tjak… Traik...?”
“Tchaikovsky,” Carmody said helpfully.
“Exactly, lad.”
The Skeldale House vet and the student watched Mr. Wilson and Tchaikovsky leave, and Siegfried heaved a deep sigh.
“Poor Esther,” he said, closing the front door. “I had desperately hoped to find a couple of more years in that old bird. If anyone deserved to have a cockatoo that lived to be miraculously old, it’s her.”
Carmody had a feeling there was more to come; it had only been a couple of days since his arrival at Darrowby, but already certain things seemed quite clear to him. Like Siegfried Farnon’s appreciation of hearing his own voice. Honestly, you didn’t have to work that hard to get the words out of him. Just staying quiet long enough would do.
“A very sweet, but very isolated girl.” Siegfried steered towards the kitchen, where Mrs. Hall was setting the table for lunch. “She happened to be involved in a horrible accident when she was quite young. Run over by a wagon at the age of four, which damaged her right tibia and talus. Poor Mr. and Mrs. Wilson couldn’t afford a decent enough doctor, so it never healed properly, and now she can’t walk without a crutch and a leg brace.”
“How terrible,” Carmody muttered, images springing to his mind about the poor, crippled girl weeping over her beloved feathered companion. It was almost Dickenishly sad.
“Tragic, yes.” Siegfried sat down by the kitchen table. “Isn’t it, Mrs. Hall?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” the housekeeper responded mildly. “I think there’d be plenty of oomph in that girl if her parents would just allow her to leave the house from time to time.”
Siegfried huffed. “She can’t walk on her own, you expect her parents to just let her go galloping around Darrowby all by her lonesome?”
“Well, she would have had some friends to gallop around with, if her mother would stop treating her like she’s broken top to bottom and let her out of the house.”
“Now, Mrs. Hall, as a man of healing and recuperation, I must say…”
The bickering went on all through lunch, and no one even noticed that Carmody slid a book out from his inner pocket and started reading at the table. He managed half a chapter, before Siegfried confiscated the book, scorning him: “Manners, Carmody! Manners!”