A Cuckoo In The Nest

Patricia was unwell, that was patently obvious. Since the miscarriage of our child she had stayed in our flat in a state of utter despondence, staring with her back to the windows at the bare walls. I tried as best I could to raise her empty spirits but it was of little use. The child we had for so long yearned for, had alluded us once again, with all its concomitant emotional devastation.

Patricia and I had tried for a child on several occasions, but her pregnancies had never lasted. As far as the doctors could see, there was no medical reason for this, and their only weak advice was that if at first we didn’t succeed, to try and try again. I suppose it was all they could say, but for Patricia each miscarriage, each terminated hope carried her further down the river of despair and I became concerned that one day she might attempt to harm herself.
Before I continue with this story let me tell you something of Patricia. She was a beautiful, gentle creature and as fine a wife as a man could ask for. Her delicate features still inspired awe in me each time I set eyes upon her, and the distress she suffered as a result of our inability to produce a child filled me with the deepest misery. Her eyes were of the subtlest blue, although of late an overcast greyness had invaded their azure splendour. Her hair, once lustrous and blond, hung limply as if the bitter disappointment that dwelt within her had transmitted itself through the very follicles of her scalp.
We had married in our late twenties and had settled into a small but comfortable upper story flat in a block close to Paddington Station. Here we had spent many enjoyable years, entertaining a myriad of friends from all social backgrounds. Of course as happens in later life, our circle of friends receded and dwindled, as each couple drifted into family life and the responsibilities this involved, until Patricia and I were the only childless couple among our old friends, and inevitably we became isolated. We didn’t blame anybody for deserting us; that as they say, is life, but having so little to do in the evenings gave myself, and Patricia in particular, more time to brood. However much a couple burdened with children might protest against the loss of free time and the complete overhaul it brings to their lives, let me tell you that having none and wishing you had is many times worse.

As luck would have it, my manager at the firm was a very sympathetic fellow – Mr Jennings was his name. Perhaps sensing some domestic anguish, he summoned me to his office one Wednesday afternoon and informed me of an elderly and valid client in The Isle Of Man who had some important documents to sign. I was to take them to him, leaving on the Thursday evening, and I would not be required back in the office until the following Tuesday morning. He let it be known that he would not look too closely at my expenses, within reason, and that if I wanted to make a romantic weekend of it and take a partner along, no one would be any the wiser.
Although October was in full swing, I was sure that Patricia would enjoy the excursion. The Isle Of Man has always exerted a mild fascination in me, being a part of the British Isles, but with its own parliament and customs. What the weather lacked in warmth and sunshine we would more than make up for with cycling and sightseeing; and the opportunity of leaving London for a few days could do Patricia and I nothing but good.

It was harder than I’d expected to coax my wife from her torpor – the prospect of Manx kippers did not have the effect on her that I’d imagined, but after some delicate manoeuvring in which I suggested that Mr Jennings might take offence at having his generosity rebuffed, and that with her no longer employed, we certainly needed my income and could not afford to risk biting the hand that fed us, she agreed.

And so it was that on Thursday 13th October, we took off from the London City Airport aboard the seven O’clock flight to Ronaldsway, and by nine forty-five were sitting down for late supper in the little dining room of our excellent hotel, although
Patricia had very little appetite. She was not a good flyer, and the turbulence encountered while crossing the Irish sea had drained every hint of colour from her face, until she was ghostly pale.

Our hotel stood on the seafront and was much to our liking. The beds, when pushed together, made a perfectly acceptable double, and the morning view out to sea through its rain lashed windows was almost breathtaking.

I concluded my business early on Friday morning and returned to our suite with breakfast on a tray for my beloved. Once she’d eaten and abluted, we put on our waterproofs and headed out on our hired bicycles to explore the island.
Now I don’t know if you are familiar with the Isle Of Man, but it is not best suited for bicycles. It is extremely hilly and wild, and is better explored by mountain railway or motorcycle. Still we persevered against the gradients and the weather for as long as our legs and our spirits were able. Finally when we could pedal no more, we padlocked our bikes to the railings of an old house, which the kindly owner told us we were most welcome to do, then set off with the aid of a tourist map and a bus timetable, which he had had handy. Of course the weather did not abate and the buses were far less frequent than in London, but eventually one came along, and we spent a decent afternoon passing through rugged scenery and making a mental note to return one day in the summertime.

The towns of Peel and Ramsay, even on a bleak wild day are well worth visiting, especially if you a fan of the comedian Norman Wisdom – to whom much of the Island seems to be dedicated. I purchased Kippers and arranged for them to be posted back to our London address, secure in the knowledge that we would return in plenty of time for their arrival, and I took the liberty of sending some to Mr Jennings at the office as a thank you for his immense kindness.

We were the only passengers aboard the last bus to Douglas, which left from Ramsay at a quarter past four. We had expected, it being a Friday, that many islanders would be heading into the capital for a night’s entertainment, a thought which I expressed to the driver. He explained that there wasn’t any, at least nothing better than might be found locally. Douglas out of season, was for bankers and high-flyers like us he said, and most of them just wanted a quiet life counting their money.

As we approached a village called Jerby, the bus braked hard then shuddered to a halt. The driver got out to inspect it, then informed us that there would be a delay to the journey as we had hit a cat, which was done for, and would need to be cleaned off, and that there was also the matter of a flat tyre to deal with. He declined my offer of assistance and made a rather unpleasant remark when I enquired if the cat had been of the tailless Manx variety. He replied that it might have been, but now it didn’t have a head either. He told us that he would need half an hour and that if we wanted something to do to pass the time, we should have a look in the village junk shop, which he informed us, was full of every kind of rubbish imaginable.
Having received assurances from him that he would not leave without us, Patricia and I alighted the bus, being careful to avoid seeing what remained of the cat, and proceeded in the direction he had indicated.
The junkshop, far from being a Dickensian style Old Curiosity shop with a bell above the door and a dusty old shopkeeper, turned out to be a world war two aircraft hangar, made from corrugated iron, completely at odds with its rustic surroundings, yet somehow blending in. A crudely hand-painted sign leaning against the side of the building was the only indication of its purpose. What such a vast junkshop was doing in this out of the way place, and how it was managing to trade heaven only knows.
What we encountered on entering this emporium however was nothing short of astonishing. Rows of shelving made from industrial scaffolding, stacked from floor to ceiling – the highest rows accessible only by long ladder, heaved with, quite possibly, everything that had thrown away for the past fifty years. Ancient gramophone records, military uniforms, stuffed animals, Amateur Photographer magazines, cigarette cards, postcards, Charles and Diana dinner services, all manner of knick-knacks, leftovers, gaudy ornaments, job-lots, bankrupt stock; in short, a cornucopia of ephemera, all laid out in no particular order, or so it seemed, and containing no doubt, one or two items of buried treasure – had you had a spare ten years to find them.
While I distracted myself thumbing through some Russ Conway 45’s, an entire box of them actually, with the middles removed, Patricia seemed genuinely galvanized, moving from shelf to shelf, delving through trinkets, trying not to miss a thing, and by the looks of it, hoping for something magical to catch her eye.
The proprietor of the establishment was a plumpish woman of indeterminate middle age, wearing a substantial amount of crimson lipstick and dark mascara, with hair rather like a lavender bird’s nest. Incongruously, I noticed that she was reading the Financial Times, while toasting marshmallows on a fork with a calour gas heater. She paid us no attention at all until Patricia quite uncharacteristically approached her.

“ Looking for something in particular? ”

What Patricia said next came as a great surprise to me.

“ Have you any Cuckoo Clocks?” she asked.
The proprietor thought for several moments, pursing her lips as she did so.

“ Isle J top shelf. It’s in bits but it’s all there. Nice little project to get it working again. Careful on the ladder won’t you?” she said.

How, amongst this plethora of junk, this woman purely from memory was able to pinpoint such a specific item quite alarmed me, and before I could do it myself, Patricia had bounded over to the requisite shelf and scaled the long ladder.

“ Found it.” She cried excitedly.

But as she reached out for her quarry, her twisting motion sent the ladder crashing to the ground, leaving her hanging in mid-air, clinging on for dear life, and the heavy shelf tottering dangerously towards disaster. I, with a sickening knot in my stomach realized that she was going to fall, bringing many tonnes of rubbish down on top of her.
With great presence of mind, the proprietor sprung to her feet and kicked a pile of military great coats directly beneath to break her fall, then threw her weight against the shelving to counterbalance my precariously dangling wife. Before I could get the ladder back in place to rescue her, Patricia’s strength deserted her and she dropped to the ground.
The coats cushioned her fall, and although shaken, she was not hurt. Her only concern was for the clock.

“ I want the clock, I must have that clock.” was all she could say as I tried to calm her.

And so it was that I gingerly ascended the ladder – this time, with the thoughtful proprietor holding it at the bottom, and retrieved the curious timepiece from its perch.

Perhaps out of some sense of responsibility for the potential disaster that had almost taken place, she would take no money for it. Patricia clutched the casing, and the bag of cogs, chains, weights and other workings, and we bade her goodbye and hurried back to the bus, which rather annoyingly, was just about to depart. The driver admitted that he had completely forgotten about us and that in another half a minute would have been gone.

During the remainder of our weekend break, I detected a palpable change in Patricia. Once back in our hotel room she had immediately cleared the small vanity table of our clutter, then methodically spread out the pieces of the clock and set about its reconstruction. The weather remained terrible, so there was precious little else to do, but she became so absorbed in the restoration of her unexpected purchase that I hardly got a look in. The only time she left the room was to accompany me on a small expedition to a hardware shop to purchase a set of small screw drivers, pliers and a tin of three in one oil, all of which would have to be abandoned prior to our return flight to London or risk a charge of air terrorism.

Having acquired the necessary accoutrements we made our way back across the public beaches, pausing briefly to look at rock pools and stare out to sea into the driving rain, at the passing tankers and cargo ships. The wind blew so fiercely that the waves appeared to be going sideways, forgetting to break on the shore altogether.
I told Patricia how much I loved her, although my voice hardly carried the few inches between our anorakked faces. We kissed, but not passionately, and the salt sea air stung my cracked lips. Having savoured the moment – albeit rather too briefly for my liking, we trudged back to our comfy little hotel and got out of our wet things. Patricia got right down to work on the clock, rebuffing my advances, and I judged it best not to press it, but to let her get on with the matter in hand. Not wanting to disturb her too much, I entertained myself as best I could, reading in the lounge, watching the mainland passenger ferries embarking and disembarking, and generally keeping myself to myself. At meal times I forced my company upon her, bringing up plates on a tray and attempting to engage her in trivial conversation, but she was not to be distracted.

Now I have practically no mechanical skills to speak of and I’d assumed Patricia to be the same. I was therefore much surprised by the progress she was making. With no formal training, she seemed to have grasped the concept of horology and was slowly but surely putting the clock back together. Having initially harboured reservations about her mechanical quest, I began to become quite enthusiastic myself. Not being a job for two people, I did not try to interfere or make a nuisance of myself, but offered encouragement and praise where I saw fit, and none too secretly marvelled at her ingenuity. The care and precision of her movements was a wonder to behold, and it did occur to me that perhaps in a past life she had been a clock maker, or that in some strange way, this was some sort of benevolent occult manifestation, perhaps brought about by her fall. The determination in her expression at times caused me a spark of jealousy, but I soon doused these with feelings of admiration and pride, that my beautiful wife, who had of late suffered so much with her own internal workings, was performing nothing short of a small miracle.

When at last she had done all that she could do; oiled every cog, un-jammed the workings, hung the weights and set the pendulum, she removed the reproduction oil painting from the wall – an unremarkable nineteenth century study of Douglas at twilight, and hung on the nail in its place, her precious time keeping machine. With baited breath I waited as she pulled the chains, bringing the weights upwards, set its hands at a minute to twelve then set the pendulum in motion. At first it swung back and forth for a few seconds then halted and I feared that perhaps Patricia’s efforts had been in vain and that another terrible disappointment awaited her. She was not to be so easily defeated however and made some very minor adjustments, altering its weight slightly, before once again setting it in motion. This time seemed more promising but again it stalled. I saw at this moment, a light go out in my wife’s face; her newly recovered self-belief transforming to despair before my very eyes, and I went to her. Then, as I embraced her with all the tender love and consolation a husband can bestow on a disappointed wife, the funniest thing happened – the clock started going by itself. We watched with barely suppressed joy as the pendulum – hesitant at first found its rhythm and fell into a regular motion. My wife – so cheated of the joys of womanhood, at once rejuvenated. I could feel the anxiety lift from her delicate frame as surely as if it had been vapour visible to the naked eye. Her back arched and her breast heaved with anticipation as the minute hand ticked down…and then it happened. The audible slide of the spring mechanism, the opening of the little wooden hatch above the clock’s handsome face, and then in full voice, the cuckoo, this marvel of wood-carving and Swiss precision engineering, for so long silenced, greeted us twelve times.
“ Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo” …and on it went
Patricia groaned, a primal womanly growl, deep from within, and then moaned in ecstasies, cooing and yelping in a most astonishing manner. The force she exerted in her grip upon my hand was enough to tell me that something exceptional and unexpected had occurred, and I held her with all my strength until her tiny body relaxed, and at last, the cuckoo returned to whence it came. We lay without speaking for several minutes, still in one another’s arms, listening to the gentle to-ing and fro-ing of the pendulum, and feeling lighter and more carefree than we had done for many years.

The remainder of our stay in that magical Isle was amongst the pleasantest times I have ever spent. We deemed it wisest to stop the clock for the time being, especially after the hotel owner made a point of mentioning the elderly guests, and referring me to the ‘no pets in the room’ sign, without saying anything more, but coughing rather pointedly.
For the sake of expediency – in the light of the present very sensible in my opinion, terror threats regulations, I parcelled up the clock and arranged for it to be sent to us in London by registered post. It was against Patricia’s wishes that it be out of her sight, but once I pointed out the likelihood of it being confiscated by some over-zealous airline official, fearing it might go off in mid-air – we both laughed at this, she saw sense and relented.

Although it is said to be unwise not to wait until at least three months have elapsed, I could hardly wait to tell my friends and colleagues back at the office that Patricia was expecting our child. Absurd as this sounds it was as if the clock was bringing us luck. I took it upon myself to give the flat a bright new lick of paint, and we hung the miraculous timepiece in pride of place in the wall. Although not to the taste of everybody, having the hours marked by the bright cheerful call of a cuckoo, it brought a gaiety to our previously drab existences. Work became pleasant, knowing that at the end of each day, I would be returning to my darling wife, the baby growing insde her, and our delightful clock, which – with some fear of ridicule, had become almost like a pet to us.
Christmas was a joyous affair, although we stayed put, knowing that quiet Christmases in future would be few and far between. It is fair to say that I doted on my wife during these times, happy was I at the prospect of becoming a father, and of our lives at last, being complete.

The first sign that things were not all they should be occurred late in February. Patricia awoke with severe abdominal pains and bade me call for a doctor at once. Having held her hand while silently praying to God, and everything else I could think of, help finally arrived.
Dr Bird was an almost comical looking man, and rarely can a name have fitted its subject so perfectly. Short and plump, with a nose that would not have looked out of place in an aviary, and a pronounced waddle to his gate. As he attended my wife, stooping over her to do whatever it is that doctors do, I could swear that a feather floated out from the back of his trousers – How it had come to be there I couldn’t begin to speculate, but it was certainly not in our room before his arrival, and it was far too large and coarse to have come from our soft downy bedding.
Dr Bird explained that he rarely made house calls but in this instance, given my wife’s medical history, he had deemed it safer to come at once rather than have her admitted to hospital.
The news was not bad, but rather worrying none the less. Although the baby was still extremely small, he felt that there was a strong possibility of a premature delivery. This he said was not particularly uncommon – especially in women of my wife’s age, and that it should have no adverse long-term effects on our child.

“ Nice to get it out early I should think” he said to me with a conspiratorial wink, which seemed rather an odd thing to say.

At that precise moment, our cuckoo clock sounded from the living room, which was also unusual as it was neither o’clock or half past the hour.

“ Ah yes” said Dr Bird, “ Soon be spring.” And with that, he departed.

Over the coming days it has to be said, the blissful tranquillity of recent times departed and was replaced by something altogether darker. An air of foreboding descended on our little nest, making us feel fractious and ill at ease. Patricia and I argued over trivial matters or sat in the corrosive silence of old, keeping our own counsel, and much troubled by our thoughts. To make matters worse, the clock seemed to be going haywire, cuckooing at the least expected times, as if deliberately mocking us, and causing my wife and I on several occasions to almost jump out of our skins
With neither the time, nor the inclination to repair the thing, we let it disrupt our lives until we could bear it no longer. Patricia became almost hysterical at times, claiming that it was watching her, as though the mechanical bird inside was some malevolent living being, perched high above us, observing our every movement and amusing itself by choosing the most frightening moments to spring out at us.

Of course I had read up on pregnancy and knew all about women becoming a bit irrational, and so I tried to humour her by playing along. I did my best to reassure her that it was just a clock and was utterly benign – if slightly annoying for its deteriorating timekeeping.

“ If we don’t wind the wretched thing Darling it won’t bother us.” I told her, which seemed to do the trick.

Then one night in March I returned home to find Patricia in a frightful state. She lay on the floor trembling and sobbing and insisted that without any winding the thing had sprung out at her several times during the afternoon. It would be a fair description to say that she was terrified.
Well of course I did what any caring husband would have done under the circumstances. Although doubting the veracity of these attacks and dismissing them as nothing more than the over-active imagination of a woman with too much time on her hands, my wife’s emotional state was enough to drive me to immediate action, and I elected to have done with the thing once and for all. I lifted the abominable machine down from the wall and took it to the kitchen where I spread out some sheets of newspaper, then proceeded to smash it to pieces with a hammer, a rolling pin, and whatever other implements came to hand to bring about its complete and utter destruction. The wooden casing splintered beneath my blows, then I wrenched out the cuckoo and struck it again and again until it was unrecognizable. When I had satisfied myself that the thing was beyond any further use, I gathered the springs, cogs and pulverized fragments together, wrapped and sealed the mess, then to end the matter, took the parcel out to the dustbins and cast it out forever.

The next few weeks were pleasant enough; tranquillity returned – more of less, and the weather improved to the point where an early spring seemed likely. Patricia was still troubled occasionally by the cuckooing noise, but I pointed out – as tactfully as I could, that she was imagining it due to a chemical imbalance brought about by her fecundity and our impending wonderful event, which was usually enough to put her at her ease.

Then, on a warm April morning, just as Dr Bird had predicted, Patricia -quite suddenly, and extremely prematurely, began her labour.

“ My baby’s coming, my baby’s coming.” she yelled. “ Fetch Dr Bird”.

Her waters had already broken and she lay in the pool of warm frothing liquid that had formed from her nether regions, succumbing to the rhythmic power of her bodily contractions.
I telephoned him at once, and to my immense relief, got through to him right away, and explained the situation. His jovial manner reassured me, as did the news that he was nearby and would come almost immediately. He told me to prepare for a home birth, and to guard the nest until his arrival.
While I set about boiling water, arranging towels and making my wife as comfortable as possible, Dr Bird as good as his word, arrived almost at once, bringing with him a midwife. I did not hear them ring the bell or enter the flat, but with all that was happening around me, did not think to question how they’d got in.

“ Good job for you we were in the area” was all he said, as I thanked him for being so prompt.

I kissed Patricia and mopped her brow, and we prepared for our new arrival.

“ Now you stay at this end old boy” said Dr Bird. “ We’ve got some business to attend to down there.”

Patricia’s contractions were strong and regular, and she gripped my arm with enormous strength. The midwife poked around inside her, then announced that the dilation was complete and that it was now time to push.
As the Dr and I yelled encouragement, Patricia began to push, summoning superhuman strength to deliver our heaven-sent child.

“Push” we shouted, and my dear beloved pushed. “ Push” we repeated, and again my darling wife obeyed.

“ It’s coming” squawked the midwife, “ It’s coming now.”

My wife and I clung to each other as the final effort began. I called out words of love and encouragement as she heaved and hoed, mad with the excitement of seeing our firstborn arrive…mad. With. The. Excitement. Of. Seeing. Our. Firstborn. arrive…

What erupted from Patricia was repulsive, obscene, and of the devil. Somewhere between a foetus and a bird, with razor sharp talons, and the blackest eyes this side of hell.

“ Cuckoo, cuckoo” it screeched. It shot out at enormous velocity on the spring of its umbilical chord, repeating its diabolical greeting, splashing blood and viscera, and spraying glutinous milky liquid from its beak – for that it what it was. It then shot back inside my wife, then out again to repeat the whole foul process.

What dying agonies Patricia must have experienced in those last terrible seconds, I can only begin to imagine. To my eternal shame the horror of the spectacle over-whelmed me, and I fell into a dead faint. When I came to, the doctor, his unspeakable accomplice, and my poor dear wife were gone. That is my story, and this is the end of it. Whether you believe me or not is of little purpose. My life ended with the first cuckoo of spring.