‘You are IMPOSSIBLE!’ he shouted as I clutched the banister. ‘This marriage is HELL!’ By now I was hyperventilating while a light sweat beaded my brow. I stood, paralysed with amazement, in the kitchen doorway, staring at Rudolf’s cage.
‘I don’t know why I married you,’ the bird muttered shaking his head.
‘Don’t talk to me like that!’ Rudy sobbed in my voice now. ‘You’re really upsetting me.’
‘Oh Rose, please don’t cry’ ‘Ed’ pleaded as Rudy bounced up and down on his perch.
‘Uh, uh, uh!’ I heard ‘myself’ sob as Rudy lifted his glossy black wings.
‘Please Rose,’ ‘Ed’ added. ‘We’ll work it out. Please, Rose – I’m sorry. Don’t.’
I gazed, horror-struck, at Rudy as the dreadful truth sunk in: he was obviously a very slow learner but he’d got us both off to a tee. I reached down the mynah bird handbook to have my diagnosis confirmed. With a young Java Hills mynah there can be a delay of several months between it learning its vocabulary and actually speaking, the book explained. But don’t worry – once they’ve started, nothing will stop them! Oh God. They tend to repeat words spoken with enthusiasm or excitement, it went on. So be very careful what you let your bird hear. Oh. Too late for that.
‘Problems problems!’ Rudy yelled in Ed’s voice.
‘Don’t be horrid,’ ‘I’ replied. ‘And take your shoes off before you come in!’
I glanced at the book again. The thing about mynah birds is that they are truly brilliant mimics. Parrots only ever sound like parrots, but mynahs sound like human beings.
‘Anorexic of Axminster!’ shrieked Rudy. ‘Your cooking’s awful too. You couldn’t put Marmite on a cracker with a fucking recipe!’
‘Ed, that is SO unfair!’
‘It’s true!’
I stared in stupefaction at Rudy, as the implications of his sudden loquacity sunk in.
‘You’re selfish!’ he shouted as he stared at me, beadily.
‘And you’re Rude,’ I replied. I pulled down the cover to shut him up.
‘Nighty night!’ he said.
Having my marital rows re-enacted at top volume by a bird had shaken me to my core, so I did what I always do when I’m feeling upset – I got out the ironing board. And as the iron sped back and forth, snorting a twin plume of steam, my heart rate began to subside. I find there’s nothing more therapeutic than a nice pile of pressing when I’ve had a nasty shock. I iron everything, I really don’t mind – tea-towels, knickers, socks. I even tried to iron my J cloths once, but they melted. I’ve never really minded ironing – something my friends find decidedly weird. But then my mum was incredibly house-proud – ‘a tidy home means a tidy mind!’ she’d say – so I guess I get it from her. Now, as I felt my pulse subside, I thought about how appalled she and Dad would be: my marriage only lasted seven months, while they made it to fifty years. I wondered too what they’d have thought of Ed – they never met him – but then they were already middle aged by the time they had me. When I say they ‘had’ me, I don’t mean in the conventional sense. They acquired me; got me, rather than begot me – I was adopted at just under six months. But since you’re asking I don’t mind telling you that my childhood was idyllic in every way. We weren’t well off but my parents were great – we lived down in Ashford, in Kent. Dad was the manager of an upmarket shoe shop and Mum worked in the town hall. She’d been told years before that she’d be unable to have kids, but then they got the chance to have me. Right from the start they told me that I was adopted, so there were no nasty surprises. At least not then.
When I was little my parents would tell me this story about how this pretty lady, seeing how sad they were at not having any children of their own, came up to them in the street one day and asked them if they’d like to have me. And they looked at me lying in her arms, and said, ‘Oh what a sweet baby – yes please!’ So she handed me over, and they took me home and I lived happily ever after with them. It was a nice story – and I believed it for a very long time. I used to imagine this well-dressed woman walking around with me in her arms, scanning the crowd for the kindest-looking couple who were keen to look after a special baby like me. Her search wasn’t easy, because she was very, very fussy, but then, at last, she spotted Mum and Dad. She took one look at their kind faces and just knew that they were right.
Mum and Dad were great churchgoers – really keen – and they said that God had sent me to them. And I did sometimes wonder what God was up to allowing my real mum to give me away. I remember once or twice asking them to tell me about her, but they suddenly looked rather uncomfortable and said that they didn’t know. And I guessed that my question had hurt their feelings so I never asked them again. But I thought about her a lot and I convinced myself that she’d had a good reason for doing what she did. I imagined that she was very busy caring for sick children in India or Africa. And although I was blissfully happy with Mum and Dad, I also thought about how my ‘real’ mum (as I thought of her in those days) would one day visit me. I imagined her walking up to the house looking very pretty, wearing a flowery dress and a pair of white gloves; and I’d run down the path to greet her, just like Jenny Agutter in The Railway Children. Except that I wouldn’t be shouting, ‘Daddy! My Daddy!’ I’d be shouting ‘Mummy! Mummy!’ instead. Then I’d imagine her picking me up and cuddling me, and she’d be wearing some lovely scent; then she’d take off her hat, and her hair would be red and very curly, like mine; it would almost spring out of her head, in long corkscrews, like mine does, and she’d exclaim ‘Rose! My darling! How you’ve grown!’ Then she’d hold me really close to her, and I’d feel her cheek pressing on mine. And we’d go inside for tea, and I’d show her all the drawings I’d done of her – dozens and dozens of them – which I’d kept in a box under my bed.
I never told my mum and dad all this because I knew that they’d feel hurt. So instead I let them tell me this nice story about how I came to live with them. But later on I discovered that’s all it was – a nice story.
I guess you’d like to know the truth, but I’m afraid I simply can’t tell you – because I’ve never told a soul. Not Ed. Not even the twins. I never discussed it with Mum and Dad either, although I knew that they knew. I’ve always kept it to myself because it makes me feel somehow…ashamed. But when I turned eighteen I found out about my real mum, and all my nice daydreams about her stopped. I burned all the drawings of her on a bonfire and I vowed I’d never look for her. And I never will.
People who know I’m adopted sometimes express surprise at this, especially now that my adoptive parents are dead. ‘Why don’t you trace your natural mother?’ they ask, with staggering cheek. I’m always amazed that anyone should think I’d be interested in meeting the woman who’d given me up. It would be like tracking down the burglar who’d nicked your precious family heirlooms to shake his hand. So thanks but no thanks – I’m not interested: I’ve only ever had two real parents and they’re dead. So I never, ever think about my ‘birth mother’, to use the fashionable jargon, and if I do then it’s with contempt.
I guess that’s probably what’s put me off having children myself. I’m not really the maternal sort. When I was little I used to imagine myself with lots of babies, but later those feelings changed. Some adopted kids go the other way and have a big family, but they’ve probably got a nicer story than me. Anyway, enough of my ‘real’ mother – you must be bored with her: I mean, Jesus, I’m boring myself! All you need to know is that I had an idyllic childhood and that my adoptive parents were great.
I used to wish that they’d adopt another little girl or boy for me to play with. I was often terribly lonely and I disliked being an only child. I remember asking Mum and Dad if they couldn’t