On arrival at Debenhams, the cage was placed in the porch and Mrs Hawdon sat patiently beside it until I should arrive. I arrived five minutes later, to find a large crowd already assembled. I forced my way through the crowd and, without paying any attention to my friend, such was my hurry, knelt down beside the cage and gazed at its contents. The owls were twice the size they had been when I had left them two weeks before and were now alert and attractive to look at. They had grown new downy feathers which were light grey in colour with stripes of dark grey and brown.
The next stage of the journey entailed getting them to Waterloo Station from where I could catch a train to Eton. I hailed a taxi, while Mrs Hawdon and the commissionaire brought out the cage and the boxes of food. As the taxi drew up I said to the driver in a merry voice, ‘You don’t know what you’re taking on, old chap.’ He looked at me faintly bored and then stiffened as he saw the commissionaire advancing with the cage. ‘That isn’t coming in here, is it?’ he asked, scowling at me. ‘Oh, yes, it is,’ I replied as I bundled myself and the cage into the taxi, at the same time thanking and saying goodbye to Mrs Hawdon. Then turning to the driver I told him where to go. Before I had finished, the taxi was bounding forward down Oxford Street with the driver bent over the wheel and his accelerator hard down.
It was the fastest taxi drive I have ever experienced. Every now and then the driver would look over his shoulder, possibly expecting me to turn into an owl at any moment. As I paid him off at Waterloo, I thought I saw drops of sweat on his brow but perhaps it was only my imagination!
I picked up the cage and held it at arm’s length so that I could just see over the top and walked up the steps towards the suburban lines. At the top I marched firmly forward, but hardly had I gone five paces when I saw something which made me stop dead in my tracks. Walking towards me, ten yards away, were the two most august dignitaries of Eton: Provost Elliot and Vice-Provost Lambard. My blood froze and I remained rooted to the spot. Perhaps they would recognise me and put a stop to my plans then and there. I looked around for a place to hide. Behind me I saw a flight of dirty steps, down which I scurried like an overloaded burglar escaping from the police. I found myself in one of those palatial marble halls of the Victorian era, usually described as Gentlemen’s Cloakrooms. In spite of the surroundings I put the owls on the floor and stood gasping for breath.
Five minutes later I emerged, rather cautiously, to find that the dignitaries were no longer in sight. I walked up to the timetable, put the owls on the ground again and started to look for my train. As I was doing so I heard various comments from behind, ‘Oh, aren’t they sweet!’ ‘The little darlings!’ ‘Oh, the poor things!’ ‘Are they chinchillas?’ Somewhat embarrassed, I walked past a sleepy-looking ticket-clipper so fast that he could not see what I was carrying, climbed into the nearest carriage and sank into a corner, thankful to be away from the public gaze at last. Fortunately there were only two other people in the carriage, one in the middle of each side.
My peace of mind was short-lived.
I noticed that both the other occupants seemed to be getting further away from me. Sure enough, there they were, slowly edging away until they had reached the furthest possible distance from my owls. There, in truly British fashion, they pulled out their evening papers and became immersed in them. I felt hot under the collar; surely they did not think I was mad?
This train was a rush-hour train, but nobody else came into our carriage. Occasionally, somebody would stop and look in, but they always passed on. When the whistle went, however, about six people rushed in all at once. I ignored them and looked at my owls properly for the first time.
Their eyes, now open, were big and a bluey dark brown, but there was still a red rim around the eyelids. The eyelids and eye cavities were covered with minute, very thin feathers. Their heads and bodies had thick grey-brown downy feathers becoming darker towards the roots with dark brown streaks, making a highly complicated pattern. The wings and tails were almost non-existent; the tail being smothered with downy feathers only half an inch long. The wings were feathery arms with a few primaries just peeping through on the last point. Their legs were beginning to put on the characteristic trouser feathers and had grown considerably, but still did not have enough strength to support the whole weight of their bodies for any length of time.
At first they lay placidly on their stomachs in the cage, but after a short time they began to show some signs of movement. Every so often one of them would rise manfully to its feet and walk slowly across the cage. This it did in a horizontal position with its eyes looking at the ground and legs working frantically behind. The inevitable was bound to happen. After three or four paces the owl would fall flat on its face, legs poking out behind. A violent struggle would ensue, in which legs and wings were thrown in all directions until it realised all was hopeless, whereupon it would close its eyes and try to sleep. Then, either from curiosity about its surroundings or enthusiasm to learn the art of walking, in a few minutes the eyes would open again and the head would rise, turn completely around through 180 degrees, and look at every object in turn. This manoeuvre was carried out with the rest of the body still flat on the ground and quite motionless. After this, the owl would decide to struggle on to his behind again, and the whole proceedings would begin all over again.
After a quarter of an hour I noticed that all the passengers had stopped reading; all eyes were riveted on the two fluffy objects, which now looked like proper owls and were very pretty. For the rest of the journey there were eight owl-worshippers, including myself, loving these charming and comical creatures.
My arrival back at my house was heralded with cheers and shouts of, ‘Hello, Owlman,’ and suchlike. Everybody rushed up to my room and began to maul my poor birds in such a manner that I was surprised they survived. They had gone down well with my friends, but my main anxiety was the opinion of my House Master, Mr Hill.
He heard about them on his goodnight rounds. ‘Oh, sir, have you seen Franklin’s owls?’
‘What?’ came the reply. ‘He hasn’t got those things, has he?’ and immediately he strode up the stairs to my room.
I heard his steps coming down the passage and prepared for the worst. My door burst open.
‘Where are your owls?’ he asked quickly. I pointed gingerly at the innocent and unsuspecting owls.
‘Oh! Aren’t they sweet!’ he exclaimed and kneeling down he began to scrutinise them. After a short time he stood up.
‘May I get my wife and daughter to come and see them?’
‘Of course, sir.’
A quarter of an hour later I was left assured that there would be no complaints from M’Tutor and his wife; their hearts were won. I have had only encouragement and great interest from M’Tutor, although there have been some troublesome moments.
That night I fed them on the food provided by Susan: hare’s ear, horsemeat and pigeon feathers and halibut oil. I put them to bed on a cardboard sheet in their cage with no cover over the top. I went to bed confident that the owls and I would sleep the sleep of the exhausted.
But the owls had different plans for that night and their newfound master. After an hour or so, at about eleven o’clock, they began to pace up and down, scratching the cardboard with their claws and creating a nerve-racking noise. Not content with this, one decided to peck the wire. Finding it gave out a pleasant noise, he immediately gave it violent tweaks. The other soon began merrily to accompany his brother. The noise was ear-shattering and sounded like an