She didn’t answer immediately. Whoops. However, it was she who had raised the subject. She picked up her tea and stared into the cup.
‘Yes. Yes, I do. I miss him very much.’
I watched her, sitting quietly in the shadow of the forest, staring into her cup, remembering …
‘Sometimes, it’s not easy,’ she said, not looking at me. ‘I try to remember people are a renewable resource, but sometimes … sometimes there is someone special. Sometimes, it nearly breaks my heart.’
There was a scream, a noise of tearing branches, and Team Technical dropped suddenly from above. To give her time, I strode over and said in tones of enormous restraint, ‘What are you doing?’
‘We thought we’d look for a nest.’
‘They’re flightless, you imbeciles! Have you never heard the word research?’
Sheepishly, they took themselves off and I threw myself into my seat. ‘I’m worn out. Can I have another scone, please?’
‘Of course.’
It was as she was leaning forward for the plate that I saw them over her shoulder.
‘Mrs Partridge, please could you keep very still?’
‘What is it?’
‘Dodos. Over there. Just at the edge of the clearing.’
She leaned back slowly in her chair and turned her head. There they were. We’d found them.
Well, they’d found us.
The first thing that struck me was that they were absolutely enormous. If I stood up, they would reach well past my waist. The second thing was that they were really bloody ugly. One of their names had been Dodaar – knot arse, probably because of the knot of plumage on their backsides. At the other end, their heads were completely naked. Being dodos, they’d probably been facing the wrong way when feathers were being allocated. They weren’t even a pretty colour. On an island filled with jewel-like bird life, they were a kind of grey-brown. Some were a kind of brown-grey. Their most colourful feature was their great nine-inch green, yellow, and black beaks. They looked like a cross between a turkey and a compost heap. And they were fat. I may be unjust; it was possible they stocked up on fruit in the wet season to get them through the dry season. But all the same, these puppies were fat.
Nobody had moved. It dawned on me that it wasn’t us they were eyeing – it was our afternoon tea. The same thought had obviously occurred to Mrs Partridge. She picked up a slice of Victoria Sponge, broke it into large pieces and tossed them in their direction. I hadn’t had any yet, and could not suppress a small whimper.
‘It’s for science, Director,’ she said. ‘We must all make sacrifices.’
Two or three of them bundled over and inspected the cake, heads on one side. One nibbled with its beak, let out a cry of ‘Grockle,’ and made a grab for another. Immediately there was a free for all as they milled around, hoovering up Victoria Sponge as fast as they could go.
‘Quick,’ I said, struck with inspiration. ‘Lay a trail.’
We began to break up the remaining sandwiches, cake and scones and backed towards the pod. The phalanx of dodos watched us silently – just like that scene from The Birds. Suddenly, with no signal given that I could see, the whole flock attacked, stubby wings and necks outstretched, grockling away for dear life. We turned and fled.
‘Never mind the cages,’ I said, ‘I’ll lure them inside and you get the door. We’ll sort out the cages later.’
God, they were dim. They raced around in excited circles, gobbling up afternoon tea. None of them looked where they were going. The collided with each other. They tripped over roots and brought down their neighbours, and those behind fell over them. If I had a gun then the world would already be down twenty or so dodos. Short of pulling the trigger themselves, they couldn’t have had less sense of self-preservation. They squabbled over the food, tried to clamber over the table for more, knocked over the teapot, grockled indignantly at each other, spotted more food nearer the pod, and launched another airborne attack. Of course, they all tried to stand at the same end of the table, which at once tipped over. They landed slightly less gracefully than the dancing hippos in Fantasia.
If ever a species was marked for extinction by suicide … I felt quite sorry for them. It’s not as if they were beautiful or intelligent and opinions varied greatly as to whether they were good eating. The only recipe I’d found had not been helpful.