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'Of course,' Doc Spencer said. 'Every day'
'I knew a baby once who caught his fingers in the spokes of a pram wheel,' my father said. 'It cut them clean off'
The doctor smiled.
'Whatever it is,' my father said, 'I wish to heavens she'd stop running. It'll give the game away'
A long lorry loaded with bricks came up behind the pram and the driver slowed down and poked his head out of the window to stare. Mrs Clipstone ignored him and flew on. She was so close now I could see her big red face with the mouth wide open, panting for breath. I noticed she was wearing white gloves on her hands, very prim and dainty. And there was a funny little white hat to match perched right on the top of her head, like a mushroom.
Suddenly, out of the pram, straight up into the air, flew an enormous pheasant!
My father let out a cry of horror.
The fool in the lorry began roaring with laughter.
The pheasant flapped around drunkenly for a few seconds, then lost height and landed on the grass by the side of the road.
'Crikey!' Doc Spencer said. 'Look at that!'
A grocer's van came up behind the lorry and began hooting to get by. Mrs Clipstone kept on running.
Then WHOOSH! - a second pheasant flew up out of the pram.
Then a third and a fourth.
'Great Scott!' Doc Spencer said. 'I know what's happened! It's the sleeping pills! They're wearing off/'
My father didn't say a word.
Mrs Clipstone covered the last fifty yards at a tremendous pace. She came swinging into the filling-station with birds flying out of the pram in all directions.
'What on earth is happening?' she shrieked. She pulled up sharp against the first pump and seized the screaming infant in her arms and dragged him clear.
With the weight of the child suddenly lifted away, a great cloud of pheasants rose up out of the gigantic pram. There must have been well over a hundred of them, and the whole sky above us was filled with huge brown birds clapping their wings.
'A sleeping pill doesn't last for ever,' Doc Spencer said, shaking his head sadly. 'It always wears off by the next morning.'
The pheasants were too dopey to fly far. In a few seconds down they came again and settled themselves like a swarm of locusts all over the filling-station. The place was covered with them.
They sat wing to wing along the roof of the workshop and about a dozen were clinging to the sill of the office window. Some had flown down on to the rack that held the bottles of lubricating oil, and others were sliding about on the bonnet of Doc Spencer's car. One cock bird with a fine tail was perched superbly on top of a petrol pump, and quite a number, those that were too drunk to do anything else, simply squatted in the driveway at our feet, fluffing their feathers and blinking their small eyes.
My father stayed remarkably calm. But not poor Mrs Clipstone. 'They nearly pecked him to pieces!' she was crying, clasping the screaming baby to her bosom.
'Take him into the caravan, Mrs Clipstone,' my father said. 'All these birds are making him nervous. And Danny, push that pram into the workshop quick.'
Mrs Clipstone disappeared into our caravan with the baby. I pushed the pram into the workshop.
Across the road a line of cars had already started forming behind the brick-lorry and the grocery van. People were opening their doors and getting out and beginning to cross over to stare at the pheasants.
'Watch out, Dad!' I said. 'Look who's here!'
20
Goodbye, Mr Hazell
The big shiny silver Rolls-Royce had braked suddenly and come to a stop right alongside the filling-station. Behind the wheel I could see the enormous pink beery face of Mr Victor Hazell staring at the pheasants. I could see the mouth hanging open, the eyes bulging out of his head like toadstools and the skin of his face turning from pink to bright scarlet. The car door opened and out he came, resplendent in fawn-coloured riding-breeches and high polished boots. There was a yellow silk scarf with red dots on it round his neck, and he had a sort of bowler hat on his head. The great shooting party was about to begin and he was on his way to greet the guests.
He left the door of the Rolls open and came at us like a charging bull. My father, Doc Spencer and I stood close together in a little group, waiting for him. He started shouting at us the moment he got out of the car, and he went on shouting for a long time after that. I am sure you would like to know what he said, but I cannot possibly repeat it here. The language he used was so foul and filthy it scorched my earholes. Words came out of his mouth that I had never heard before and hope never to hear again. Little flecks of white foam began forming around his lips and running down his chin on to the yellow silk scarf.
