A Desert Owl

I

MISS GREY-ASHBY had three things — money, a taste in dress, and a passion for processions. It was never too cold, too wet, or too early to go to a procession, which was an inclusive term and meant weddings at St. Margaret’s, funerals at the Abbey, and, of course, the Opening of Parliament. It also included meeting foreign potentates at Victoria, as well as cabinet ministers and others on their return from the Continent. It was beyond counting, the number of times she had gone to meet the Prime Minister, Liberal or Conservative as it happened, and had stood in the crowd at the station, just to give him the welcome she was sure he deserved. As for the King and Queen, she had an engagement with them nearly every day, somewhere, when they were in London, and they took her to all sorts of distances and to all kinds of low neighborhoods, but she never faltered in her allegiance. Sometimes, of course, they went shopping in Bond Street, or held Court, or gave garden parties, which made it easier for her, but she never hesitated to follow them to the East End, to all kinds of queer places near the docks, or in Mile End Road, or wherever their duties took them.

Having money made these pleasures possible. Without independent means she could never have afforded all the bus fares and tube fares required. But of course there were many ceremonies that did not take a penny, being near at hand, just round the corner, so to speak, which is one advantage of living in Westminster, with Parliament and the Abbey a stone’s throw away.

And most certainly she had a taste in dress. Because all these different spectacles required different sorts of clothes. Not that anyone in the crowds noticed her clothes especially — an elderly lady, well over sixty and painfully shabby, hardly attracts attention. But dress was due to the occasion, due to herself as spectator. Just as one is always honest about paying one’s fare in the bus when the conductor has overlooked it — not that it matters to the omnibus company, but it matters very much indeed to one’s self. So Miss Grey-Ashby had a variety of clothes suitable to different occasions, and each morning at breakfast she scanned the ‘To-day’s Arrangements’ column in the Times — being able to take in the Times argues money in itself— to see what was demanded of her that day. Naturally one made a distinction between weddings and funerals, and prime ministers, and those funny little emirs and sultans who were perpetually coming over from Africa or Arabia to lay their troubles before the Minister for Foreign Affairs, to say nothing of the King and Queen. If one views a procession from a sand box, which is certainly the best vantage point for an elderly lady but five foot high, one is in a conspicuous position and must dress accordingly. Miss Grey-Ashby had an amazing knowledge of the location of every sand box in London — those great iron boxes painted silver or green, which hold gravel to be scattered over the roads on slippery days.

Now this wardrobe of hers, while fairly extensive and suited to a nicety to every occasion, especially when varied by hats and gloves, was surprisingly shabby. Archaic, to say the least. Cut in a style reminiscent of the early days of the late Queen, but of excellent quality. Which shows the advantage of buying good quality in the first place, for, however styles may change, quality remains. And it is quality, after all, that counts. Miss Grey-Ashby took intense pride in the wearing value of these clothes of hers — none of your modern materials would have stood up so well under so many years of rain and strain. And what modern skirt would have allowed one to scramble to the top of a sand box so modestly?

For her Sovereigns a distinct, final touch was reserved. An elegance, a homage for them alone. This was a tortoise-shell comb, of the kind known as Spanish, some inches high and of corresponding breadth. When worn, it could be well covered by a hat, high in the crown and capacious, and capable of hiding this elegance from the public gaze. Thus protected while pushing her way through the crowds, squirming in and out, ducking below elbows, and elbowing herself when necessary, there was no fear that the precious comb would be broken. Or worse, stolen. Such a temptation to have whisked it off, valuable as it was. But the hat made all safe. And once on a sand box, as the royal carriage drew near, the hat itself came off. A sheer mark of respect — one can’t well curtsy from a sand box. And flaring from the highest rung of the comb, tied with a cunning that forced it to spring forth like a jack-in-the-box when released, was a glorious vast bow of cerise satin. No less. It had been acknowledged, time and again, by Their Majesties — once even from the great glass coach itself.

But apart from these ceremonies of life and death, provided for the cheering of little lives like Miss Grey-Ashby’s, she had one more pleasure, equally keen — a love of animals. But none of your cats and dogs, mind. None of that. Her taste was for the exotic. But the exotic comes high — too high to gratify. Macaws, for example, run to guineas. One cannot pay a quarter’s rent for a macaw, but one can go and look at them. One can look at chimpanzees for seventy guineas, or meerkats, which are cheap at five pounds. And, if one has asked the price of too many animals and cannot seemingly decide between a gorilla and a mongoose, it is possible to get out of one’s embarrassment by buying a few pennies’ worth of bird seed. The purchase of bird seed provides a dignified escape from one’s predicament. These strategic retreats are always exciting — finesse is a game in itself. And fortunately there are many animal shops in London, so that one need not visit the same one too often. But because of her taste for the exotic, and because of independent means which were not independent enough, — except for bird seed, — it so happened that for many years Miss Grey-Ashby remained petless. Which was a pity, because her garret was so eminently adapted for pets. No black cat on the hearth was a distinct lack. But she wanted something tropical, not a cat. Perhaps it was as well, the high price of the tropical or exotic. It substituted perpetual planning and dreaming, and visits to remote parts of London, to Club Row on Sunday mornings, and to the great animal importers on London Docks. Once she had a nasty experience at that shop on the Docks, trying to choose between a small lion cub and a honey bear — deterred by the cost, yet trying not to give that impression. The man down there was very rude to her — the next time he saw a shabby little old lady asking for elephants he slammed the door in her face. But that was the sort of thing you might expect in the East End.

So, between processions and visits to animal shops, Miss Grey-Ashby led a very full life. Romance, and eternal hope — a good enough combination for anyone.

II

Like many of us in Westminster, Miss Grey-Ashby saved her threepenny bits. Like many people with a fixed income, she felt it possible to augment it by the discreet and occasional abstraction of certain small coins, which normally would have gone toward rent, or kindling wood, or some such necessity. But by bottling them in a clear glass bottle it was possible to make certain inroads on a fixed income without apparent loss. As weeks and months went, by, as the coins in the bottle increased, she felt that without undue extravagance she might well spend the accumulation for a pet. A proper pet. Out of the ordinary, the kind she had always longed for.

It was one of those November days when the daylight gave out completely at three in the afternoon. A long stretch before tea time, a still longer one before supper. The clear glass bottle on the mantelpiece glowed in the firelight, and glowed still further when she lit the lamp to dispel such gloom as the firelight could not conquer. One is at a frightfully loose end at three o’clock in the afternoon, with the curtains drawn and nothing special to do, and no one laying corner stones or arriving at Victoria — nothing but long hours ahead of one till it is time to go to bed. A waste of an afternoon, a waste of lamplight and firelight, and no little live thing about the hearth to afford a diversion. Miss Grey-Ashby shook the bottle, and the threepenny bits rattled delightfully. She poured them out and counted them. Twelve shillings, a large sum to have collected bit by bit without feeling it. Why not spend it now? Surely something could be had for twelve shillings. Surely it was useless to go on saving for something more sumptuous than twelve shillings would buy. Miss Grey-Ashby felt herself giving way. Here now were twelve shillings, and a foggy afternoon, and not many people would be abroad in such a fog — a bargain might happen after all.

She took her bottle, and put on a shabby blue raincoat, and creaked down the garret stairs. The garret, her own floor, was shut off from the rest of the house by a green paneled door, at the foot of the steps. After locking this door, she stood a moment to enjoy, as she always enjoyed, the beauty of the drawing-room floor. The wide hall and fine Adams stairway, one of the best in London. The paneling in the spacious hall was a perpetual joy. She might live in the garret, but it was the garret of a very magnificent old house. And the entrance, the wide stairway, the paneled walls, the noble proportions, were quite as much hers as the garret itself. The ground floor was equally distinguished. She stood her usual moment at the front door, looking up the great stairway of the handsomest house in Old Westminster. Then out into the murky atmosphere, hurrying along the narrow street made bright by the flares from the open stalls, and by the gleaming lights of the shop windows shining out upon the road.

There was a delightful zoo in a certain West End shop. A cozy room, well heated for the sake of the monkeys, and quite a good place to come to on a raw, dark November afternoon. Miss Grey-Ashby wandered about before the various cages, scrutinizing the price tickets more carefully than the animals themselves. Finally a small owl caught her attention, a brown ball of fluff somewhat larger than a tennis ball, but not much. It stared at her unwinkingly, and the ticket mentioned that its price was ten and six. Well within her limit.

The shop assistant was polite. He said it was a desert owl, from Egypt. And exceedingly hardy — for a desert owl. Not many people cared for owls, which was why the price was so low — it was worth much more. Miss GreyAshby took it in her hands. It felt warm and amenable, and did not stir, liking, apparently, to be held. She placed it inside her coat — it remained immovable, very content. A perfect pet. All the earmarks of a perfect pet, including total resignation. So unusual for a bird. Miss Grey-Ashby decided upon it at once.

Now, as in most West End shops, you get a ticket and go off somewhere to the cash desk to pay. In this case the cash desk was removed some distance from the animal department, in an adjoining one, and Miss Grey-Ashby hastened off with her bottle of threepenny bits, the counting of which occasioned some delay. Finally, receipt in hand, she returned for the owl, but decided that she would first have a prolonged and satisfactory look round. She was entitled to it because of her purchase, and there would be no importunate salesman at her elbow to bother her. And her look round was more than satisfying — the sight of the other animals and birds confirmed her opinion that none of them, whatever their price, was quite so delightful as the little object she had just bought. In due time, well pleased with herself, well pleased with the inferiority of all the other pets compared with hers, she went to the counter with her receipt, and picked up the large, brown-papered box in which the owl was comfortably packed. They were generous in these West End shops—kind to their animals. No stuffing them into miserably inadequate boxes, to be stifled and cramped. She made her way from the shop and boarded a bus. Delightful little creature she had got! She tilted the box slightly on end, just to feel it shuffling gently to the other — nice, roomy box. Plenty of air space, to say nothing of the little airholes punched in the brown paper. How delightful it would be to take the little creature out and sit with it under her coat, before the fire. She had never had an owl. Nor had she known anyone who had.

III

The wide entrance hall was heavy with fog when she opened the front door. She felt her way up the stairs, the rail in one hand, the owl box in the other. Soon she was in her garret, dim with fog, except for the flickering fire. She mended the fire before opening the box — the room should be as warm as possible for the little bird just come from the Egyptian deserts. What a contrast, London, to the hot deserts! She would make the place as warm as possible, to welcome the little guest.

She untied the string with care, though it took some time. The knots were well tied, and she could hear a shuffling within, which added to her anticipation. Then, the paper removed, she gingerly raised one end of the lid, and instantly a large winged creature dashed forth and took to the air and the rafters, with whirls and screams. The next, moment a second large bird flew out — they seemed rather smaller than peacocks — and instantly the room was in a turmoil. No meek owl, but two gigantic birds, of unknown species, were dashing and wheeling about the low-ceilinged room with wild, shrill screams of rage.

‘He’s given me the wrong box!’ cried Miss Grey-Ashby, making a lunge at a frightened thing the size of a vulture. It eluded her, all but a handful of feathers. The second whirred past her head. She ducked, but reached gamely up and seized its tail. The tail came out, but the flight continued. Miss GreyAsh by seized the fender and screened in the fire. ‘They shan’t go up the chimney,’ she murmured, ‘and they shan’t break my windows, either,’ she cried to herself, snatching at another tail, which likewise pulled out. In a few moments the place was a pandemonium. Eagles, at least. Both whirling madly about, steering erratically without tails, parting with handfuls of feathers at each swoop. In the flickering firelight, between the fog and the feathers, Miss Grey-Ashby dashed after the huge objects that circled this way and that, stumbling and clutching wildly, without avail.

A knocking came from below, at the door at the bottom of the stairs. ‘What’s up?’ cried a voice.

‘Everything!’ shouted Miss GreyAshby. ‘Wait a moment — I’ll let you in.’

The tenant of the floor below entered the room. Miss Grey-Ashby darted wildly to and fro, only catching more feathers. ‘Help me catch them!’ she cried. ‘ It’s an owl — ’

‘It’s not an owl,’ replied the tenant, ducking hastily.

‘ It’s my owl,’ cried Miss Grey-Ashby, ‘that I bought myself half an hour ago — and this is what they gave me instead!’ The lodger joined in the chase. Chairs were upset, pictures knocked off the walls, the clock fell from the mantelpiece with a crash.

‘One sweet little owl,’ panted Miss Grey-Ashby, ‘and look at these — vampires!’ she cried savagely.

‘I wonder what they are?’ exclaimed the lodger breathlessly, after a futile leap. ‘Wild geese, I should think.’

The birds seemed to get bigger and bigger, but they were also growing balder and balder. The room was a snowstorm of feathers, — long ones, small ones, tail feathers, down, — almost suffocating.

‘I’ve got one!’ cried Miss GreyAshby in triumph.

‘ So ’ve I! ’ cried the lodger. Each seized a panting, bald bird, almost totally devoid of plumage. ‘Can’t tell what they are, naked like this,’ said Miss Grey-Ashby, getting her breath. ‘Let’s put them back in the box.’

‘And that box!’ she continued indignantly. ‘I thought they were so humane in the shop, giving it a big box to itself like that — my sweet little owl.’

The great birds were shut up at last, and Miss Grey-Ashby and the lodger surveyed the wreck. Then Miss GreyAshby sprang up again.

‘I’ll have to hasten back with them,’ she exclaimed. ‘Someone’s got my owl — my precious owl. Besides, these things might get out again any minute. Though they can’t fly much now,’ she concluded, ‘having nothing to fly with.’

The lodger and Miss Grey-Ashby took the bus back to the shop in the West End.

‘You gave me the wrong box!’ began Miss Grey-Ashby, as she entered. ‘I bought a very charming little owl a short time ago, for ten and six —’

The manager of the animal department was agitated. He was almost forgetting his manners toward a customer. But another customer had evidently been giving him a bad time of it too.

‘And you took away, madam, by mistake,’ began the manager, ‘a pair of very valuable —’

‘Valuable!’ snorted Miss GreyAshby indignantly.

‘ — very rare — ' continued the manager.

‘Rare!’ retorted Miss Grey-Ashby. ‘Rare, indeed! A rare time I’ve had with them!’

‘—worth twenty-five pounds,’ went on the manager.

‘I don’t believe it!’ snapped Miss Grey-Ashby.

‘And the gentleman who had bought those valuable birds, madam,’ went on the manager, ‘got, instead, a desert owl, worth ten and six.’

‘My precious little owl!’ stormed Miss Grey-Ashby. ‘It’s a perfect outrage! Where is it now?’

The manager proffered a small box, about the size of a teacup. Miss GreyAshby seized it. ‘It’s an outrage, being so careless. Giving me, instead of an owl, those disgusting birds!’

’Those “disgusting birds,” as you call them, madam,’ continued the manager coldly, taking the large box, ‘are worth — and had just been sold for — twenty-five pounds.’

The lodger whispered something to Miss Grey-Ashby and pulled her hurriedly out of the animal department.

‘Quick!’ she whispered. ‘Quick! Run! Let’s get out of the shop and lost in the crowd before he opens that box! Before he sues us for damages! The demons may have been worth twentyfive pounds once — but they’re not now! There’s not a feather left on them — we’ve ruined them!’