After wrapping Mr Biscuits lovingly in a silk scarf, Ms Featherington-Smythe placed him in an old shoe box; in doing which, she managed to snap his left wing into a rather obtuse angle but she didn’t notice. She put on her lint-covered black velvet coat and placed her smelly old hat on her head, picked up her crocodile handbag (full of melted, hairy Werthers and other such horrors) and, Mr Biscuits in hand and Hermes around neck, opened her front door and left her musty lair. She failed to notice a lone envelope lying on her doormat, but then again she failed to notice a lot of things. Such as the fact that it was a glorious June day and her coat was utterly redundant.
‘Hullo, Ms Featherington-Smythe!’ called her neighbour, Mrs Jenkins. ‘Good day, Mrs Jellycandle!’ replied Ms Featherington-Smythe, tottering off before she could see her Mrs Jenkin’s bemused expression. What a strange old woman, she said to herself, watching Ms Featherington-Smythe’s hunched figure turn the corner. And what a ghastly scarf she was wearing!
The walk was only a short one. Ms Featherington-Smythe had soon reached her destination: G.B.FISHWICK’S TAXIDERMY, a dingy old shop with a dark green façade and peeling lettering on the windowpane. WE ARE OPEN. As she entered, a bell tinkled above the door, presumably to make the proprietor aware of her presence. It had no such effect; she was alone in the dim shop, watched by 47 pairs of glass eyes, unblinking, gleaming ever so slightly under a thin layer of dust. A horrible menagerie surrounded her; animals of all species and sizes, heads mounted on walls, feet nailed to mahogany or glued to branches, fur and feathers dulled by years of stuffy afterlife. The shop front was shaded by a chestnut tree, through whose leaves the sunlight was strained to an eerie green. This dim light gave one the impression that the whole room was submerged under brackish water; a sunken Noah’s ark full of drowned creatures. Suddenly, from behind a zebra, emerged Noah himself. A portly gentleman in his late sixties with grizzly white hair, longer on his sideburns than anywhere else. His general appearance could be placed roughly in the centre of a Venn diagram whose circles are comprised of the following fields: Magician, Antiques Dealer and Paedophile. A waistcoat of the most tasteless variety, spinach-green corduroys, a yellowed old shirt with strange stains on it. Signet rings shone on fingers grown too large for them. Spectacles, of course, though thankfully those of an antiques dealer rather than a paedophile. Mr Gideon Bartholomew Fishwick, taxidermist extraordinaire.
‘Why he-llooo Ms Featherington-Smythe!’ he simpered. ‘My most prized customer. What can I do for you? Have you come to buy? I have a de-lightful marine iguana I believe you’ll be MOST interested in!’
‘Hello Mr. Fishwick,’ sighed the poor old coot. ‘I’ve not come to buy, not today.’ She proffered the shoe box gingerly; meanwhile, Hermes had slithered from her shoulders and was gnawing on a snow leopard’s tail. ‘It’s Mr. Biscuits,’ she said in a hushed voice, ‘he’s passed away.’
Mr Fishwick opened the box and layed the frail, feathery carcass on the countertop and began to inspect it with great tenderness and professionalism, and although he frowned a little at the broken wing, he gave her his most sympathetic smile. ‘A fine specimen. Any preferences?’
‘N-no,’ she whimpered, ‘just make him look… dignified.’ The tattered old bird, of course, had never been dignified in his life; few parrots ever were, being such ridiculous mimics. But Mr Fishwick prided himself in his work, and vowed that his dignity would be restored to its ‘former glory.’ They did not discuss prices, as he knew well that this particular customer would pay whatever he asked – after all, there has never been a mad old coot who didn’t line her nest, and Ms Featherington-Smythe was no exception (her mattress was stuffed with dosh). ‘Hermes! Get down from that rhinoceros my boy! There’s a good chap.’ And with that, Ms. Featherington-Smythe thanked Mr. Fishwick and left.
When she got home, the first thing she noticed was that her front door was a funny shade of pistachio green. Had it always been that colour? (It had.) But the second thing she noticed was a small brown envelope on her door mat. ‘Hermes! What have we here!’
(To be continued)
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