The Coo of Warning - a free Chronicles of St Mary's short story
by Jodi Taylor
I did enjoy this one – I think we’re all agreed it’s about time Leon had a little fun. Being married to Max probably isn’t anything like the joy she imagines it to be. I just took the by now very old story of St Mary’s taking out the batteries in the alarms and smoke detectors and ran with it. This is the result.
Enjoy …
love Jodi x
The Coo of Warning
An all-staff briefing from Dr Bairstow.
‘And finally,’ he said, and it was possible there was just the very faintest sigh of relief around the Great Hall because lunch hour approached. ‘Chief Technical Officer Farrell wishes to address the meeting.’
Oh. OK. No idea what this could be about but Leon’s always brief. Lunch was not threatened in any way.
Leon stood up. ‘Following last week’s unfortunate incident when the total destruction of R&D was only narrowly averted because only one (1) single smoke alarm still possessed a working battery, I am, with Dr Bairstow’s full support, instigating a new and more stringent procedure to ensure each smoke detector is equipped, at all times, with a working battery.
‘From this time tomorrow and until further notice, a number of specially trained assistance pigeons will take up residence at St Mary’s, specifically to ensure that from now on every smoke detector will not only be fitted with an appropriate battery but will remain fitted with an appropriate battery. Such battery being installed, you will be astonished to hear, for the sole purpose of preventing the destruction of this building by fire. And while the consensus among senior officers is that the immolation of St Mary’s personnel is of secondary importance, nevertheless your safety should – apparently – be our main concern.’
The was a small amount of uneasy shifting in seats. My conscience was clear – I’m too short to reach the ceiling even if I stand on a chair which in turn is standing on a table – but the same could not be said for the majority of St Mary’s personnel. On the other hand, the alarms do tend to go off quite frequently and it is extremely irritating. As is the forced evacuation that follows. Especially if it’s raining. But Leon was continuing …
‘The pigeon’s main function will be to prevent said battery theft by mounting guard over said detectors. Every pigeon has been trained to recognise certain patterns of behaviour and react appropriately. Please be aware of the following:
‘Standing on tables and reaching up towards the ceiling will warrant a coo of warning.
‘Persistence will warrant a cautionary wing flap.
‘Anyone foolish enough to ignore mounting pigeon disapproval and go on to remove the battery cover will find themselves subject to an aerial attack culminating in a near miss. If they are lucky. No guarantees can be given.
‘Actual removal of the battery will result not only in a prolonged and severe beaking, but the culprit will subsequently discover that the pigeon is trained to take a targeted approach to bowel evacuation. Should any member of St Mary’s be misguided enough to make any attempt at … reciprocal … evacuation it is confidently predicted that the pigeons’ approach will suddenly become considerably less targeted. Any and all subsequent cleanups will be the potential battery thief’s sole responsibility.’
He shut down his scratchpad with a snap. ‘No further warning will be issued,’ and strode from the Hall.
Well, I could have told him that was never going to work. St Mary’s collectively rose to the challenge. Fortunately for me, being married to the person responsible for this harsh new regime exempted me from the plots – for which I was very grateful – so I could sit back and enjoy both sides’ attempts to outwit the other.
I didn’t see the pigeons arrive – no one did. Leon is sneaky like that – but over the next few days it became quite common to see Dieter and Lindstrom staring up into the high beamed ceiling of the Great Hall and ticking things off on their clipboards.
Various technical conversations drifted through my open office door.
‘Which one is that up there?’
‘Which one do you mean?’
‘The one that looks like a hawk waiting to swoop.’
‘Oh, that’s the head of the flock – Flossie.’
‘How can you tell which one is Flossie?’
‘She’s the one with blood on her beak and claws.’
‘Pigeons have claws?’
‘They certainly do. Their feet are the equivalent of specially bred razor blades. Nothing can withstand them when they really get going. Finally, we have defeated the dark forces of the History Department and our batteries will be safe forever. Onward to a brighter dawn, Mr Lindstrom.’
Well, obviously no self-respecting historian would fail to rise to this challenge. Bashford – you will not be surprised to hear – was first up, trying something technical with expanding tongs. That went even worse than everyone expected.
Someone else – no idea who – because they kept their visor down – donned armour, lost their sense of direction, and fell off the table, buckling the armour and finding themselves trapped inside. Offers from R&D to do something imaginative with their oxyacetylene torch were not very politely declined. And, finally and very reluctantly, Dr Bairstow called in the fire brigade – always suspiciously enthusiastic about a visit to St Mary’s – to cut him free.
The pigeons – obviously more intelligent than their prey – watched all this with bright-eyed interest.
Hostilities kicked up a gear. The next clue that it was on with a capital ON was the soundtrack to Mission Impossible. I was forever catching snatches of it as I walked around the building. People hummed it as they stood in the queue for lunch. I kept looking up expecting to see that bloke dropping down from the ceiling. Was that what they were up to? Was St Mary’s attempting to outwit the pigeons by approaching from above? If so – nice out of the box thinking. Although I had less faith in their ability not to plunge to their deaths. There would be no dramatic screeching to a halt barely six inches above the floor if St Mary’s was involved. There would be a scream – the unpleasant sound of impact – and then it would be mop and bucket time.
Fortunately – probably – St Mary’s had no intention of hurling itself, lemming-like from the rafters. The plan, believe it or not, was even more bizarre than anyone could possibly have imagined. Under the leadership of Mr Bashford and Miss Sykes – with whom I had more than a word later on – St Mary’s was experimenting with … wait for it … trained squirrels.
The aim, as Bashford explained to me as Sykes cut the squirrel shit out of his hair, was to train the squirrels to scamper up walls, book cases, shelves, etc, and across the ceilings – using beams, light fittings, coving, whatever they could get their little paws on – to access the alarms, press the release, pull out the battery and return to base. I’d like to place on record that despite my best threats, he wouldn’t give up the secret location of this base and I had to pretend I didn’t know it was R&D.
‘Squirrels,’ he said, wincing as quite a large hank of squirrel shit-riddled hair plopped on to his lap, ‘are more than a match for Chief Farrell’s pigeons. Discreet testing has proved they ignore the pigeons, do the job, and return home to claim their nut. Their reward,’ he explained, earnestly.
‘Keep still,’ said Sykes in exasperation.
I didn’t believe it. Nothing St Mary’s does is discreet.
Escalation was inevitable, I suppose. Leon countered squirrels with Vortigern, Mrs Mack’s beloved cat who, for reasons never made clear, loathed all squirrels with a passion.
Given a glimpse of a bushy haired reprobate – and his squirrel – slinking across the Hall one day Vortigern flew into action. The squirrel went one way and Bashford another. Fortunately for him, Vortigern chose to follow the squirrel. The ensuing chase brought down every pile of files in the hall, knocked a mug of tea onto a keyboard, and sent several whiteboards flying which frightened pigeon and squirrel alike and, hostilities temporarily forgotten, they fled in panic.
The only person unaffected by the ensuing carnage was Dr Bairstow whose door remained firmly closed – because he’s not stupid.
St Mary’s went to Defcon 1.
Dogs. From somewhere and by means unknown but certainly illegal, St Mary’s acquired three dogs. One Jack Russel. One of mixed parentage. And the third was Mrs Huntley-Palmer’s Pekinese. Empress Aphrodite Twinkletoes. And Empress Aphrodite Twinkletoes turned out to be a born killer,
As Sykes and Roberts said afterwards – Bashford was in Sick Bay and unavailable for comment – really, it should have worked.
Spoiler – it didn’t. For the plain and simple reason none of the three dogs had ever met and they didn’t like each other. Not one bit.
Anyway, as might have been foreseen, there was a massive dog fight. Chaos ensued. Carnage, even. The Romans took Carthage with less damage. Until one of them saw a squirrel and remembered why she was here. Empress Aphrodite Twinkletoes set off after the squirrel. The Jack Russell, erroneously thinking he’d won, set off after her. Tables and chairs went over as a mocking squirrel effortlessly evaded the two of them and danced, forever just out of reach. The pigeons lined up to watch the entertainment. Vortigern panicked utterly – you could see him regretting this foray into the outside world. His efforts to return to the safety of Mrs Mack’s office caused him to come face to face with the mongrel who made the fatal error of underestimating the overfed underthinking feline in front of him. He soon came to regret that mistake. Vortigern was a blur of hissing spitting clawing death to all dogs. The mongrel fled, yelping.
The pigeons, responding to their training, I suppose, lifted their tails and subjected all unwise enough to stand directly beneath them to fifteen seconds of synchronised shitting. The area covered was impressive.
The remaining squirrels disappeared. We discovered later they’d taken refuge in the walls. People were screaming and running. Furniture was overturned. I was leaning over the balustrade looking down into the Great Hall and wondering how long it would take to sort this out. Or even whether that was possible. Our best course of action might be just to close the front doors behind us, get into our cars and drive away. And never look back. Set up somewhere else.
The true climax came when Bashford had what seemed a brilliant idea, climbed up on a table and held a cigarette lighter to one of the detectors. His thinking, he said much later when the power of speech had been restored, had been to activate the sprinklers which would break up the dog fight, which would allow Vortigern to return to the kitchen, which would allow the squirrels to make their way quietly out of the building, which would allow the pigeons to fly home, which would allow St Mary’s to sit down with a cup of tea and take stock of the damage.
A good plan. Sadly …
Nothing happened because there was no battery in the detector.
The pigeons launched themselves en masse.
Bashford fell of the table.
The pigeons executed a victory roll worthy of the Red Arrows and flew out of the front door.
Mrs Mack – realising there was no help to be got from the professional staff, appeared with a bucket of water which she hurled at the dogs, unfortunately hitting Bashford as well thus adding half drowning to all the other issues he would eventually present to an unbelieving Dr Salt.
The Jack Russell, realising he’d outstayed his welcome, headed for the door. Empress Aphrodite, soaking wet, blood splattered and furious and determined to kill something that afternoon, pursued him every inch of the way.
Vortigern, surveyed the squirrel free environment with some satisfaction and headed for Mrs Mack’s desk and his afternoon snooze on the thick pile of paperwork relating to the Flour Handling Regulations.
The squirrels, as previously stated, had taken refuge inside the walls. We had to get some special people in. It took them weeks and even then, I don’t think they got them all. Every now and then there is a strange scrabbling sound from behind a wall. Roberts occasionally frightens the trainees with stories of whole colonies of vampire squirrels emerging at night when everyone is asleep to eat their eyeballs.
Dr Bairstow addressed St Mary’s – at length – the gist being that since we’d collectively chosen a fiery death, he washed his hands of the entire business and, in the very likely event of building combustion, could someone kindly knock on his door and advise him of that fact.
‘The appropriate Deductions from Wages for Damages Incurred forms will be issued as soon as Mrs Partridge and her entire admin team have finished the no small task of preparing them. I shall name no names but certain members of staff should brace themselves for impact.’ He looked up. ‘Are there any questions.’
The silence indicated there was not.
‘In that case – thank you for attending. This meeting is concluded.’
Report completed.
Dr L Maxwell.
1 April Year redacted.
Have you discovered these other recent free short stories?
Just the outrageous shenanigans I need to brighten my day. Now off to restart the whole St Mary's Chronicles from the start for about the sixth time. We need this given today's world.
So funny it totally made my day. Thank you Jodi. The world needs you and St Mary’s.