A True Love Story.

Back in the late forties, boarders at Middleton Hall Boys’ School would escape on summer evenings to birds-nest in the local woods.  During one excursion, a junior boy called Timmy Bates raided a jackdaw’s nest and among the blue speckled eggs, discovered a newly hatched fledgling yelling his head off. Tim, lonely and missing his pets at home, decided to rescue the fledgling. Calling him Henry, he carried him carefully back to school in a paper bag and using a fountain pen filler, fed him milk round the clock.

Henry speedily progressed to beaten egg, chopped fruit, slugs and developed into a cocky, handsome little bird with shiny dark eyes and a purple sheen to his glossy coat. Soon he was fluttering round Tim’s study, riding on his shoulder, keeping up a stream of prattle: Ky-wak, Ky-wak, accompanying Tim to lessons, advising him on homework.

Previously painfully shy, Tim now found himself making friends with other boys amused by Henry’s exploits. These included bombing the school cat and stealing beer out of the prefect’s mugs. The housemaster’s cufflinks were later found in the bottom of Henry’s cage.

As June moved into July, Henry flew out of Tim’s study window on increasingly long flights, but he always came back.  He was the best friend Tim had ever had.

Alas the inseparable companion of true love is anxiety.  For the first time Tim dreaded the end of term and going home to Guernsey.  Who would look after Henry? How would he cope in the wild?

On the last Tuesday of term, Tim and one of his new friends, Martin, carried a caged, outraged Henry deep into the woods. Leaving him with Martin, Tim fled. Thirteen-year-old boys don’t blub in public and Tim had only just brushed away the last tear before Martin emerged alone.  Henry had flapped around searching in noisy dismay, then retreated dejectedly into the wood.  The unhappiest days of Tim’s life followed as he waited in dread and longing for the imperious tap of a beak on his study window, but none came.

The last Saturday of term at Middleton Hall was celebrated by six cricket matches, which involved more than 130 boys identically clad in white flannels, spread out over six vast pitches. Fielding on the boundary of Pitch Six, listlessly inhaling the sweet scent of white clover and lime blossom, Tim couldn’t concentrate so was dropping catches and letting balls through, as he constantly searched the indigo shadows of the dark green woods for his dear, lost friend.

Suddenly he froze – for high up in the cloudless blue, like a speckle on a jackdaw’s egg, a tiny black dot was floating nearer and nearer until it sprouted wings and fluttering round pitch one, was carefully examining each identically clad player. Slowly, systematically, the dot checked every pitch until it reached Pitch Six and Tim could hear a cheerful volley of ky-waks.  He tried to call out but the words stuck in his throat.  Surely Henry could hear the crashing of his heart?

Henry, however, was busy checking batsmen and wicket-keeper, hovering over Point and Cover before swinging right.  Then squawking joyously, swifter than a driven four, he reached the boundary, crash landing on Tim’s shoulder, chattering in delight and complacency: Aren’t I clever to find you?

As jackdaw stopped play, Tim’s team mates gathered round, cheering a hero’s return.

Eyes shining, plumage even glossier, clearly thriving in the wild, Henry had returned to bid his young master Godspeed.

“Oh Henry, you are super,” sighed Tim.
“Ky-wak,” agreed Henry.

© JILLY COOPER.