Fantasy in the City

Magpie

Kneeling on a gardener's stool, Margaret Keegan pottered about her husband's grave. Whilst she swept damp, autumnal leaves into a Tesco's carrier bag, a magpie hopped onto the top of her husband's stone.

The bird peered at the photo etched into the surface of the glossy granite, a photo depicting a jolly-looking, moon-faced fifty year old.  It was a cheerful note that was wholly at odds with the sombre, grey surroundings of the city's municipal cemetary.  So many graves.  So many forgotten stories.

"That's my Len," Margaret chuntered as she started to pick up some loose wrappers caught like silvery fish in a net of the last, withered poppies. "I do miss him, the silly beggar. He always made me giggle, you know." She looked up at the bird, caressing the long grass of the plot with one hand.  "When I was sad, like, though I suppose that doesn't bother you."

Cocking its head, the magpie stared at Margaret as she continued to tidy and generally fussed in that way ladies over sixty often did. With a shiver, it fluffed up its black and white plumage and began to preen, pausing every now and again to stare in Margaret's direction. You were saying, it seemed to say before ducking under wings the colour of blued gunmetal.

"I'm not sure I should be talking to you, Mr Magpie. I can't see your mate." Last thing she needed was more bad luck with her hip needing a replacement, according to that nice Doctor Singh. "What is that rhyme? One for sorrow, two for joy?" She straightened up with a wince and returned the bird's gaze. "Oh, I can tell you about sorrow all right."

The magpie stopped preening and looked at the pensioner intently, hopping a little closer along the top of the gravestone. Cheeky looking so-and so, Margaret thought. It had a very knowing look - very unsettling - with jet eyes peering up at her along that cruel, black beak.

"I don't want no more sorrow, Mr Magpie. What was it my old mum used to say if she came across one of you lot on your own? You know, to stave off bad luck."

Margaret thought hard and the little phrase seemed to pop into her head as if her mother had only said it yesterday, and not twenty years ago. It surprised her how easy it was since her mother had tended to burble out bewildering aphorisms and adages twenty to the dozen.

"Good morning, Mr Magpie, how's your wife?"  She smiled as if greeting an old friend.

"She's looking good, Maggie," said the bird.