prisoners of time

We are all prisoners of time, the elusive physical dimension from which no one can escape. In my tenth decade I'm finding that I nod off rather often, dreaming of my lost youth, the delights and sorrows, joys and occasional sad moments in my long, eventful, happy and thoroughly worthwhile life. I have many regrets, as we all do. The towering regret that overshadows all others is, of course, the absence of my beloved Wendy. When she died in November 2010, I was glad for her sake that I'd behaved as a gentleman should and let her go first.  I'd spared her all the anguish and distress that comes the surviving spouse's way when a long, loving marriage is amputated by the death of one of the partners. We were lovers for 55 years, marriage partners for 54 and a half. But that period of bereavement has gone on longer than I expected or would have wished, if I'd ever paused and thought about it. Fortunately I'm a loner, and I can find enough to keep my mind active. I never feel lonely or sorry for myself. There are much loved books to reread, and worth while new books being published more often than I can keep up with. I have half a dozen on my bedside table. This year too I've written and published a story for children. This story is based on one I made up in 1962 as I've already described in earlier posts on this blog; but almost all the details of the plot, and my attempts to flesh out the characters, background details, etc, are recent creations. What's more, the plots for two sequels have taken shape in my head. I'll sink into senescence and oblivion before I run out of things to say and do. It's a great comfort that I am a willing prisoner of time. I am thankful for all the time I have had, and I'll be pleased to accept however much more I am granted. 

Sales pitch

In 2017 I published a story for children, "Gloriana and the Twins hunt for Pirate Treasure." This story has a long incubation time: it evolved from a story I made up to tell two toddlers on a long sea voyage back to Australia in 1962 after a year in London. Long John Silver, the villain of "Treasure Island," Robert Louis Stevenson's wonderful adventure story, had a parrot. I gave that parrot a name, Gloriana, conferred by Good Queen Bess herself at an investiture in Windsor Palace in 1590. Parrots have long lives, and in 1931, Gloriana is purchased from a pawnshop in Port Adelaide by 9-year old twins, Jennifer and Christopher. Three villains chase Gloriana and the twins across inland Australia and out to an island -- Treasure Island -- near the top end of the Great Barrier Reef.

You can buy a copy from Amazon, or from me.

50th Anniversary Order of Canada

It was a perfect day for the 50th anniversary gathering of members, officers and companions of the Order of Canada. Rebecca came with me to Rideau Hall, both of us proud to see me wearing the regalia of an Officer of the "Snowflake Club" - a large medal that hangs on a red and white ribbon around my neck. Over 2000 Canadians have received this honour since its creation 50 years ago, and over 1300 attended this celebration. The photo shows Rebecca and me at Rideau Hall, Saturday August 26, 2017

failings of democracy

It's just as well that I'm not a serious blogger. If I were, I could write reams about the psychopath who currently holds the office of president of the United States. I did write a few comments on his unfitness for this office when rumours were rife that he might be a candidate, but after the electoral college declared him president, I switched off. It was obvious that he would drag the USA's reputation down. When I awaken long enough to observe events in the formerly great nation south of Canada, I glimpse briefly what is happening -- he is indeed  dragging the USA down. So long as he doesn't start a nuclear war I'll be content to stay on the sidelines, watching, shuddering at the growing evidence of his incompetence, grossly flawed judgement, ineptitude, unfitness for the office he holds. Like the Brexit vote in the UK, his election illustrates the fundamental failure of democracy: it can't protect an otherwise stable democracy from demagogues and plausible charlatans. 

Gloriana and the Twins hunt for Pirate Treasure Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Jennifer and Christopher were not identical twins.

They couldn’t be: Jennifer was a girl and Christopher

was a boy. Twins like them are called fraternal twins.

But in many ways they looked remarkably alike, both with

fair hair bleached blonde by all the sunshine, both with

bright blue eyes, freckled faces and arms, both the same

height and build. Until they were about 6 years old and

Christopher had his hair cut short, their appearance and

behavior were almost identical and sometimes strangers

had a hard time telling them apart. But by the time they

were almost 10, Jennifer was becoming more conscious

of her appearance than Christopher was of his. They

wore similar clothes, khaki, grey or navy blue shorts, red,

blue, green or yellow aertex open-neck shirts, a pullover

or cardigan if it was cool, sandals rather than shoes most

of the year. Another difference usually distinguished

them now they were nearly 10. Jennifer kept herself and

her clothes clean and neat, her hair brushed and plaited

at the back into two little pigtails. Christopher’s knees

were always grubby from kneeling to play marbles in the

school playground and his hands were invariably dirty for

the same reason. His hair looked as if it had never been

brushed, there was always dirt under his fingernails and as

often as not there was a smudge or two of dirt on his face.

His shirt and shorts never stayed clean for more than an

hour or two after he got dressed in the morning and his

sandals were scuffed and often had the strap twisted.

Apart from looking so much alike and being fellow

spirits with the same urge to be adventurous, to climb

trees, clamber over rocks and up cliffs, go exploring on

their bikes and in rock pools at the end of the beach where

the hills came down to the coast, Jennifer and Christopher

had an uncommon and precious gift. They had their own

special ways to communicate with each other.

Like occasional other sets of twins, about one twin

pair out of 100, according to some experts, they made

up their own private language when they first began to

talk, and they continued to use this private language to

chatter to each other until they started school. Then it

was replaced, most of the time, by the Australian English

spoken by their Mum and Dad, their teachers, the other

school kids and everybody else around them. They didn’t

forget their private language, however, and continued to

speak it when they had something important to say to each

other that they didn’t want other people to know about

or understand.

They had something else, something that is rare but

not unknown among twins: in an emergency or under

special circumstances they could contact each other by

thinking about what was on their minds, transmit their

thoughts to each other without actually saying anything

out aloud. They didn’t understand how this worked, and

they didn’t have much, if any, any control over it. If one of

them had a tough problem in a class at school, usually it

was Christopher, he sometimes tried to “send” a thought

to Jennifer that he wanted help. This never worked.

But it worked with important and serious events like

emergencies, and once when their Mum and Dad had a

quarrel about something and were shouting angrily at each

other, something they’d never done before, at any rate

when the twins were there to see and hear it. One day not

long after their fourth birthday when they had just learnt

to swim, Jennifer got out of her depth and the current

was sweeping her farther out to sea. Christopher received

her alarm signal and alerted the lifesavers before anyone

else had noticed she was in trouble. Another time, when

they were about seven, Chris was set upon by a pair of

bullies, two big boys from a class a few years above theirs

at school, who thought Chris had made a rude face at

them. Jennifer picked up his unspoken distress signal. She

mobilized a troop of little girls from their class, they all

crowded around the two bullies, and began to poke them

with sticks until the bullies stopped thumping and kicking

Christopher and ran off.

Jennifer didn’t consciously try to pass on her

exciting thoughts and new knowledge about Gloriana to

Christopher but somehow he sensed her thoughts without

any effort from Jennifer, and she wasn’t surprised when he

knocked softly on her bedroom door and came in to join

her. He was wearing his Tarzan of the Apes pyjamas. Before

she could tell him that their parrot ‘s name wasn’t Cap’n

Flint, but Gloriana, he spoke, or rather whispered because

it was past their bedtime, and they were supposed to be

going to sleep. He didn’t want their Mum and Dad to know

they were still up and about. This is what he whispered:

“Hello, Gloriana. I’m sorry we’ve been using the wrong

name for you. We will call you by your real name from now

on. What’s all this about buried treasure?”

Gloriana looked at him long and hard, then looked back

at Jennifer in the same sort of penetrating, questioning way.

She seemed rather upset that Christopher already knew

her name, and knew about the treasure. Both children

realized that she was weighing them up, deciding how far

she could trust them.

“It’s all right, Gloriana,” said Jennifer, “You know Chris

and I are twins, and sometimes when one of us is thinking

about something important, the other one can somehow

‘hear’ those thoughts without us having to actually say

them out aloud. We don’t understand how it works and we

can’t always do it, but when it works it’s very useful. That’s

how Chris knows your name is Gloriana without me having

told him, and that’s how he knows about the treasure.”

“Ah, yes,” said Gloriana, sounding reassured. “I’ve

known a few other people who can get in touch with each

other like this. You are right. It is very useful and you are

lucky to be able to do this. It might be useful when we go

hunting buried treasure. I must say I prefer Gloriana to

Cap’n Flint, but for now, let’s just say you thought of the

name, not that I told you!”

There was a little silence for a moment, then Gloriana

went on. She spoke to them again, turning her head a little

so she looked straight at first one then the other of the

two children.

“This is important. Both of you must promise me,” said

Gloriana, “that you won’t talk to anybody about treasure,

or talk about me being able to have conversations, like we

are having now!”

“What about Mum and Dad?” Christopher asked.

Jennifer nodded her agreement that this was a good

question.

“Let’s wait a while,” said Gloriana. “I’ll tell them when

I think they are ready to be told or need to know. In the

meantime, only you two know my secret, and I want you

to promise on your honour not to tell anyone else.”

The twins agreed to this. They both made a solemn

promise to Gloriana, Scouts’ Honour for Christopher,

Girl Guides’ Honour for Jennifer. After another moment,

Gloriana went on:

“For many, many years I remembered everything,

every detail about everything, including the directions

to Flint’s treasure, until that rascal Lazarus Pew gave me

a really bad rum and vodka mixture one night last year. I

think he gave it to me hoping it would loosen my tongue so

I’d tell him all my secrets. But it acted like poison. It upset

my crop and my gizzard, and what’s worse, it wiped out

some important memories, made me forget the directions

to where the treasure is buried. My memory is starting to

come back. I’ve remembered that we have to line up a

headland on one side of the bay where the ship anchors,

and a big yellow rock at one end of a rocky outcrop on the

beach. We line up the headland on the other side of the

bay with something but I haven’t yet remembered what we

line it up with. Where the two lines cross is either where

the treasure is buried, or perhaps it’s just the first part of

more complicated directions to find the treasure.”

“Well, that’s a start,” said Jennifer.

“Not really,” Gloriana said. “The first, most important,

thing I have to remember is the longitude and latitude of

the island where the treasure is buried. Once we get to the

island, we use the other directions stored in my memory –

when I’ve fully recovered my memory – to find our way to

the treasure.”

Jennifer and Christopher had heard of longitude and

latitude but had only rather vague notions of what these

were. Gloriana explained that latitude is a measure of how

far a place is from the equator and the north or south pole.

Longitude measures how far east or west a place is from

an astronomical observatory at Greenwich on the River

Thames, a little way down river from the city of London in

England. If you know the latitude and longitude of a place

like a very small island you know exactly where it is on a

map, and you can find your way to it.

“How can we help you get all your memory back?”

Christopher asked.

Gloriana thought about this for a moment and said,

”To start with, a few good nights’ sleep would help all of

us. I’m much older than you two, and it’s past my bedtime.

I’m sure your Mum and Dad would be cross if they knew

you are still up and wide awake at this time of night. So

you both must go to bed and sleep now, and I’ll go to sleep

too. Perhaps tomorrow I will remember more, after a good

night’s sleep.”

They all had a good night’s sleep, then several weeks

more of good nights, but these didn’t help Gloriana

remember the longitude and latitude of the treasure island,

or restore any other lost memories.

One morning about two months later the family were

at the breakfast table and Gloriana was on her perch on

the veranda, chewing with pleasure a fresh crisp lettuce

leaf, having first rolled it up like the delivery boy rolled

the morning newspaper; she held the end in one claw, and

nibbled neatly at the other end with her powerful beak.

The rolled-up lettuce leaf shrank remarkably quickly to a

little green stub.

Over their breakfast Jennifer and Christopher were

playing one of their favorite breakfast table games, using

Vegemite to paint their initials on pieces of toast before

spreading it and eating their slices of toast. Sometimes,

and today was one of those times, they painted each

other’s initials instead of their own. Having picked up

a generous serving of Vegemite on her knife, Jennifer

painted a “C” and Christopher painted a “J” in cursive

capitals, the most difficult variation with the tasty black

paste. A few months earlier they had discovered that it was

easier to make artistic shapes with Vegemite if they let the

toast get cold before spreading a layer of butter on it. They

had become experts in spreading a smooth layer of butter

as a foundation on which a ribbon of Vegemite could be

steered wherever they wanted. If the toast was hot the

butter melted and soaked into the toast, and not only was

the Vegemite more difficult to shape they way they wanted,

it was also harder to see exactly where it was, especially

if the toast was a little bit burnt. After many unsuccessful

attempts to discourage this game, their parents had given

up and decided to tolerate it. Life was easier and happier

this way.

Partly so he wouldn’t have to watch the twins playing

the Vegemite game, Alec McLeod, was reading the morning

newspaper, even though Brenda said it was bad manners

and setting the twins a bad example. He exclaimed as

he read, “Goodness me, here’s a terrible story! That

pawnbroker who sold us the parrot has come to a bad end!”

He read a little of the story to his wife Brenda, and

the twins:

“Police made a gruesome discovery yesterday

when they forced open the door of the pawnshop on

Harbourside Road. They were responding to complaints

that the pawnshop had not been open as usual for several

days. Inside, they found the body of the proprietor, Mr.

Lazarus Pew. His body was tied to a chair and showed

signs of a severe beating. Police are investigating, but have

few clues.”

Jennifer and Christopher looked at each other with

alarm. Whispering softly, Jennifer asked Christopher

in their private language, “Do you think the way Mr.

Pew died might have had anything to do with Gloriana

knowing how to find the pirates’ treasure?”

Chris replied in the same private language, “I don’t

know. We’d best talk to Gloriana about it as soon as we

finish breakfast!”

After breakfast their Mum wanted the twins to run

an errand, to get flour, cocoa, sugar, vanilla and eggs, so

she could bake their favorite chocolate cake. They were

off school, which had been closed a week early, before

the spring school holidays, because of an outbreak of

meningitis, so they were just beginning three weeks of

holidays. After they had cleaned their teeth, made their

beds and tidied their rooms, they set off. Jennifer took

Gloriana on her shoulder so she could tell her the worrying

news about the pawnbroker’s grisly death.

When she heard their story, Gloriana said: “Of course

it might be nothing to do with me and the treasure, but

I’m worried: if it is me that someone wants to find, we

must be on the lookout. Lazarus Pew was a bad man. He

often disposed of stolen property and some of his ‘friends’

are scoundrels. I wouldn’t want you to come anywhere

near them!”

The twins always enjoyed running errands to the corner

store. The owners, Mr. and Mrs. Ruggles, knew them well,

let them have a free look at the comics, which they often

bought (for a penny – better spent on something to read

than on tooth-rotting toffee) and gave them a rainbow ball

for Jennifer and a licorice strap for Christopher to keep

their strength up during the 15 minute walk home. It was

the first time Mrs. Ruggles had met Gloriana so they had

to be introduced to each other, and Mrs. Ruggles had to

call Mr. Ruggles into the shop so he could be introduced

too, and could admire Gloriana. All this took time, so they

were in the corner store for more than 20 minutes before

completing their purchases and heading home.

Gloriana was feeling contented with her life for almost

the first time in over 200 years. She really liked the McLeod

family, especially Jennifer. Riding on Jennifer’s shoulder

felt almost as grand, and was at least as comfortable, as

riding in Good Queen Bess’s rather smelly old coach – and

Jennifer’s breath was sweeter than the old queen’s had

been. She was as upset as the twins when they got home

to find Brenda McLeod looking worried and frightened.

The twins and Gloriana all listened, concerned, as

Brenda spoke.

“Oh, children,” she said in a rather shaky voice, “I’m

so glad you are home safely! While you were at Mr. and

Mrs. Ruggles corner store I had a visit from three very

unpleasant men. They said the pawnbroker, Mr. Pew, had

no right to sell Cap’n Flint to us, and they demanded him

back. They threatened me! They said it would be the worse

for all of us if we didn’t give Cap’n Flint back to them!”

“Odds bodkins and shiver my timbers!” Cried Gloriana,

“It’s just as I feared! Those scoundrels are after me!”

Brenda McLeod looked in amazement at Gloriana, and

said, “Good gracious me! Are my ears playing tricks? Did

you hear what Cap’n Flint just said? How did Cap’n Flint

do that? He spoke like a human person would!” Before she

could ask more questions or Gloriana could say any more,

both twins spoke together:

“Mum, she’s a lady parrot. Her name is Gloriana,

not Cap’n Flint. She knows where the pirates’ treasure is

buried, but last year Mr. Pew gave her some rum mixed

with vodka, trying to relax her so she’ll tell him how to find

the treasure. Instead, the mixture damaged her memory.

It’s only just starting to come back. She has to remember

the latitude and longitude of the island where the treasure

is buried, and has to remember more about where to dig

for it.”

“What an extraordinary story! How do you know all

this?” Mum asked.

The twins looked at each other. Both were thinking,

“How much should we tell Mum?” Looking at them, Gloriana

could almost read their thoughts too. Before they could

say anything, Gloriana spoke:

“I told them,” she said. “I’m more than 300 years

old. I’ve learnt how to have real conversations, not just

memorize a few phrases like young parrots do. On the

first cold night after I came to live with you, Jennifer

wondered out loud if I was warm enough on the veranda,

and before I could stop myself, I said I was warm enough,

thank you very much, because feathers are very good

insulation. While I was about it, I told Jennifer I am a

lady parrot and my name isn’t Cap’n Flint. My name is

Gloriana, after Queen Elizabeth, Good Queen Bess, God

bless her, known to the poets as Gloriana. I was hatched

in Windsor Palace in January 1599, more than three years

before Queen Elizabeth died. I was presented to the

Queen at the court in January of the year of Our Lord 1600

and Queen Elizabeth herself named me Gloriana. What a

grand occasion that was! All the courtiers were there in

their finery, and everybody clapped and cheered each of us

as we were presented to Queen Elizabeth. I got the loudest

cheer of all! Good Queen Bess kept me in a golden cage in

her private chambers from that day onward until she died.

On special occasions she let me ride on her shoulder. Alas,

the special occasions were few and far between by then,

because Good Queen Bess was getting old and rather

crotchety – but she was always good to me.”

Gloriana paused to preen herself, carefully smoothing

the feathers on her wings and tail with her partly open

beak, then held herself erect, her head straight on her neck,

fluffed out her feathers and looking proudly forward. She

always wanted to look and behave at her best when talking

about royalty. She went on:

“I learnt the directions to find the treasure while I

was Flint’s prisoner. The pirates didn’t often talk about

their treasure and where they kept it, and they never

wrote anything down. Most of them can’t read and write.

But I was always there when they spoke of it. When Flint

told Long John Silver, I was sitting on Silver’s shoulder

quietly minding my own business, listening carefully, and

remembering it all. I went to the island once, on Silver’s

shoulder, the time Jim Hawkins was there too, and there

were gun fights between Squire Trelawney and his men,

and the pirates led by Long John Silver. All the details of

latitude and longitude were there in my head until Lazarus

Pew gave me that poisonous tot of rum spiked with vodka

that damaged my memory.”

Gloriana expressed all her disgust in her tone of

voice when she told the twins and their Mum about the

spiked rum that had damaged her memory. She made it

emphatically clear that although she loved her little tot of

rum, she disapproved of drinking alcohol to excess.

She went on talking, now with a rather urgent tone in

her voice.

“We should all leave here as soon as we can. Those

three bad men will be back, perhaps with others like them.

They all want the pirates’ treasure, and they think I’m

the only one who knows the directions to find it. When I

remember the rest of the details I probably will be the only

one who knows. They will probably try to harm you all as

a way to persuade me to tell them my secrets. We must all

get away to a place where they can’t find us!”

Brenda McLeod had the same adventurous spirit as

her twin children. To be truthful, they had inherited their

adventurous spirit from her. She believed what Gloriana

said, although many grown-ups might not. She made up

her mind quickly and told the twins what they had to do.

She said: “Jen, and Chris, pack your haversacks

with three changes of clothes, pajamas, socks, cardigan,

waterproof, towel, face cloth, toothbrush. I’ll telephone

your father, ask him to come home and pick us up. We can

all go to the shack. I’ve just got time to bake a chocolate

cake. It would be a shame not to use all the cake-making

supplies you got from Mrs. Ruggles!”

It took only a few minutes for her to mix the ingredients

for a chocolate

cake. As soon as it was in the oven she phoned her

husband and asked him to come home at once. By the

time the cake was cooked, she had packed rucksacks for

her husband and herself. She inspected and approved Jen’s

and Chris’s haversacks. She just had time to put a thick

layer of icing on the chocolate cake before Alec McLeod’s

car pulled into the lane beside the house. Alec was worried

and curious about the impression of urgency he had

detected in Brenda McLeod’s voice during her phone call.

Brenda didn’t tell Alec about the parrot’s unusual ability,

just that some unpleasant men were threatening her unless

she gave them the parrot. The whole family had become

very fond of the parrot and they were all determined not to

let Gloriana fall into the hands of men who were obviously

unpleasant, and probably violent and wicked.

Fortunately Alec McLeod was in his office at the

insurance company when she called and it was a quiet day

– because of the financial slump, the insurance business

had been very slow lately. He had decided to take overdue

holidays while the twins were off school, so it was just as

easy for him to start his holidays a day or two early.

31

Radio talk

I have the radio on almost all the time as I sit in front of my keyboard and screen. It's tuned to CBC Radio One, and throughout the day a succession of mostly thoughtful, thought-provoking programs keep me in touch with the world and all that's going on in it. 

With trifling exceptions, CBC Radio One offers a series of programs from early morning until late in the evening, aimed at listeners with an IQ of 100 or more. Even the few exceptions, rather feeble attempts at humour that tends to be heavy-handed or just unfunny, sometimes stray by accident into stratospheric hilarity. Stuart McLean's Vinyl Cafe stories will be sadly missed. His untimely death has left all of Canada and much beyond, a poorer, sadder place. Most of the programs intended to stimulate the mind are successful, sometimes quite outstanding. None of them reach the heights of intellectual excellence of Lister Sinclair, but one or two come close and I get the feeling that they are improving rather than complacently resting on their laurels.   

When things fall apart

The North Koreans are getting stroppy again, test-firing an ICBM that they claim can reach Alaska and the west coast of USA, and can carry a nuclear bomb. Donald Trump is making predictable bellicose remarks. Few People doubt that he has a short fuse and an itchy trigger finger.

Somehow I find the situation much less ominous, much less threatening than the Cuban missile crisis. We were insulated from the Cuban missile crisis by distance -- it was going on a long way off on the other side of the world from where we were then, in Australia.  Even so, it was worrying, even frightening. The escalating tension between North Korea and the USA seems somehow unreal by comparison, but as events unfold in the next few days i might have to revise this view.

Trump is clearly unsuitable for his position as so-called leader of the so-called free world. He is shallow, ill-informed, volatile, often displays evidence of paranoid conduct (for instance his obsession with a mythical widespread voter fraud to explain the odd fact that some 3 million more votes were cast for Hillary Clinton than for him. The true explanation of course is gerrymandering at the electoral college lever in the bizarre US presidential  process. It's too much to hope that Trump's  obsession might lead to abolition of the electoral college, but it's nice to dream about the possibility... 

As for North Korea's bellicose behaviour, I can't help wondering whether the weird regime that runs North Korea is a puppet whose strings are being twitched by the Chinese. It's an interesting speculation.

Gloriana and the Twins hunt for Pirate Treasure - Chapter 1

Let's see if this works -- Yes, it does, sort of. I've pasted here Chapter 1 of my story for children, with a few glitches. And the technicolor cover didn't come through.

Gloriana and the Twins

Hunt for Pirate Treasure

John Last

Introduction

This story is based on one I made up in 1962 to

tell two toddlers who were bored after many

re-readings of Winnie the Pooh, Wind in the

Willows, Charlotte’s Web and The Magic Pudding. We were

on a cargo ship carrying 12 passengers, in the Indian Ocean

about halfway between the Red Sea and the Western

Australian coast. I couldn’t pop out to a book shop to

replenish the supply of suitable books for small children.

They asked me to make up a story and tell it to them.

Remembering Treasure Island by Robert Louis

Stephenson and the villainous ship’s cook Long John

Silver, I recalled the parrot on Silver’s shoulder. I made up

a story about that parrot, about 9-year-old twins Jennifer

and Christopher who got this parrot hundreds of years later

at a pawnshop in an Australian seaport. The twins and the

parrot were the heroes of my story, and were chased across

inland Australia and out to an island – Treasure Island –

off the coast beyond the top end of the Great Barrier Reef,

by three villains who were after the parrot and planned to

extract the location of the pirates’ treasure by getting the

parrot drunk.

I thank those two toddlers, Rebecca and David Last, for

provoking me into making up the precursor to this story,

and I thank my beloved late wife Wendy for recording

details of that sea voyage in her diary for 1962. When I read

her diary for the first time in 2014, several years after she

died, I was reminded of the story I made up and I began to

write it down for the first time. The characters came to life

in my head and took over their story. Gloriana is the result.

The story is set in Australia in the early 1930s and is

based partly on my memories of the country and its people

at that time. The human and avian characters in the story,

however, do not resemble any real people or parrots, living

or dead. I have taken some liberties with the facts. Rosella

parrots can live a long time, but not several hundred years

and I never heard of one with Gloriana’s conversational

abilities. Bon-Bon station was on the edge of the Nullarbor

Plain in South Australia, not in Northern New South

Wales. Seasons in Australia and seasonal activities in the

fruit-growing irrigation districts along the River Murray

and on sheep stations, don’t follow the sequence implied

in this story.

John Last

Ottawa 2016

Acknowledgements

Several people have given me useful reactions to

incomplete drafts, and other help and advice as this story

took shape. They include Janet Byron Anderson, Theresa

Jamone, Susan Jennings, Karen Trollope Kumar, Ian

McDowell, Nerys Parry, and Ian Prattis. I thank them all

Also, I thank friends who have children or

grandchildren in the target age range, approximately 8-12

years of age; and have given the story to these children to

read. These include Jennifer Chew, Maria Cristina Harris,

Margaret Jaekl (her grand-daughter Erika Iwasaki Jaekl,

was especially helpful), Susan Jennings, Guy Thatcher, and

Leslie Wake.

Finally I thank my children Rebecca, David and

Jonathan Last, all middle-aged now but still able to accept

make-believe; and my beloved Wendy, for jogging my

memory even after her death.

John Last

Ottawa, Canada, 2016

Chapter 1

Sunbeams flowed through gaps between all the stuff

in the crowded pawnshop window and the dusty

air inside until they struck something that glowed

green, blue, yellow and red against its drab surroundings.

Gazing at it after she noticed it beyond the clutter in the

window, Jennifer McLeod at first couldn’t make out what

this strange thing could be. Whatever it was, it moved

sideways and turned first one way then the other. As she

kept looking at it, she made out a head and beak at one

end, beady black eyes that seemed to be looking straight at

her and two grey claws grasping a perch. It was a brilliantly

colored parrot.

She gasped with surprise and delight and clutched her

twin brother’s arm.

“Look, Chris! Look at that beautiful parrot!”

Christopher McLeod turned rather reluctantly from

the flintlock musket he was inspecting in another part of

the pawnshop window and looked where she was pointing.

Jen wondered if their father would get the parrot for

them for their birthday. Chris grinned. “Yeah! Let’s ask

him.” He hadn’t heard her unspoken thought, although

he did occasionally at times of crisis; he knew his twin

sister as well as he knew himself, and he knew what was

on her mind.

In a few weeks the twins would have their 10th birthday

and were already thinking about it. They were far-sighted

children who believed in planning ahead. Entering double

figures, they believed, would make them quite mature and

grown up.

“Would we have to do much looking after it?”

Christopher asked cautiously, speaking aloud rather

than thinking silently, remembering the guinea pigs that

had been so much more work than either of them had

bargained for.

School had to be taken more seriously this year too.

Not only were the hours more demanding, the work was

more interesting and even good fun at times, there was

also homework for the first time in their lives, a rather

rude shock to the system. The twins enjoyed school, were

doing well and recognized their duty to get homework

done; but they rarely enjoyed doing it. They knew there

wouldn’t be as much spare time as there had been in

earlier school years.

“I dunno, Jen,” said Christopher. “It might be a lot of

work, like those guinea pigs…” But Jennifer was determined

at least to have a closer look. She turned to their father,

Alec McLeod, who had caught up with them and was

standing behind them, smiling.

“Daddy,” she said (she only called her father “Daddy”

when she really, really wanted something; at other times

he was just “Dad”), “Daddy! There’s a beautiful parrot in

there! Can we go in and have a look at it? It mightn’t be for

sale, but if it is and it’s not too expensive, could Chris and

me get it for our birthday?”

“Your birthdays are a long way off,” Alec McLeod

remarked quietly, but firmly. He was accustomed to his

persuasive daughter’s ways. She’d had a way of extracting

un-birthday presents for herself and for her twin brother

Chris for several years. Both parents tolerated this as part

of the price they had to pay for having happy children.

So in they went. The pawnshop was dimly lit, except

where rays of sunlight got through between all the stuff

displayed in the window. The parrot was bathed in

sunshine that make it seem almost to glow.

The cramped space between the entrance and the

counter had a fusty smell, mildew, disinfectant, mothballs,

stale cigarette smoke and other unattractive odors. The

parrot’s glowing colors made the smell seem unimportant.

The parrot looked them up and down with its bright beady

eyes, giving Jennifer the feeling that it was inspecting them

before deciding whether to approve of them.

Then, both Christopher and Jennifer were absolutely

certain, the parrot winked at them, first with its left eye,

looking straight at Jennifer, then turning its head a little,

it winked at Christopher with its right eye. Somehow, they

both thought, the parrot would have smiled too if a beak

could smile. But of course a beak can’t smile so that really

must have been just wishful thinking.

“Shop,” called the parrot in a high-pitched squawky

voice, “Customers!” They turned as they heard footsteps

shuffling along behind the counter, to see a stooped old

man, wisps of straggly white hair across a nearly bald head,

several days’ stubble on his chin. His shirt sleeves were

rolled up. The wrinkled skin of his forearms which looked

as if they had once been beefy and muscular, was covered

with tattoos. On his left arm there was a ship’s anchor, a

mermaid and a dagger; and on his right, a flintlock pistol

pointed at a man’s torso with the initials LJS ; below this,

forked lightning and more initials.

“Good morning sir,” Jennifer said politely, “We are

interested in this beautiful parrot. What’s its name? Is it

for sale?”

The old man’s shoulders shook as he coughed, and

growled in an angry-sounding sort of way, not a happy

sound. “Don’t call ‘im it,” he snapped, glaring at her with

watery red-rimmed eyes. “This ‘ere is Cap’n Flint, a wise

and wily old bird. ‘E’s ‘undreds of years old! You treat ‘im

with respect!”

“Um, I’m sorry, sir,” said Jennifer politely to the

pawnshop proprietor, but looking at the parrot, which

looked back at her and nodded his head as if he understood

what she had said and accepted her apology. She went on

speaking, now looking directly at the parrot. “We want you

to come home with us, Cap’n Flint. Would you like that?”

The parrot bobbed his head up and down vigorously, as if

he was saying “Yes! I’d like that!”

Alec McLeod took over from his daughter and picked

up the conversation with the rather unsavory looking

pawnshop proprietor. He named a price, í10 for the parrot

but seemed to be in two minds whether to sell or keep

the bird. Jennifer and Christopher listened to the back and

forth conversation. The old man was saying something

about giving up on his mate who’d left the parrot for him

to look after many years ago but had never come back; now

the old man was sick, probably not long for this world, and

wanted to pass on the parrot, Cap’n Flint, to somebody

who would give him a comfortable home and take good

care of him.

In 1931 í10 was a lot of money, several weeks’ wages,

and their Dad was reluctant to pay so much, even though

he reflected that this was a 10th birthday present for the

two of them and he was getting a good salary. He offered

í5, and eventually agreed to í7. He peeled a í5 note and

two singles from the small sheaf of notes in his wallet and

handed them over.

The old man, whose name was Pew according to a

faded sign above the door, wrote Alec McLeod’s name and

address in his sale book, “Just in case me mate turns up,

so ‘e can argue the toss with you about ownership.” He

held his wrist out for Cap’n Flint to step on, brought his

wrist close to Jennifer’s shoulder and the parrot stepped

daintily from his wrist to her shoulder. He reassured her

that once Cap’n Flint was settled on her shoulder, there

he’d stay, “Come ‘ell or ‘igh water – and, what’s more, ‘e’s

‘ouse trained, ‘e won’t make messes on your cardigan! And

‘e won’t fly away. But just to be on the safe side, I’ll clip this

chain to the ring around ‘is leg and you ‘old the other end

or loop it around your wrist.”

He took a light metal chain from a drawer under the

counter, snapped a clip at one end around a ring on the

parrot’s leg and gave the other end to Jennifer. “Mind you

take good care of ‘im now, lassie!”

Mr. Pew told them how to feed the parrot, “Bird seed,

yes, especially sunflower seeds, stale bread crusts, a lettuce

leaf or a bit of celery, also Cap’n Flint likes a little bit of

underdone steak now and then, and ‘e’s partial to a tot of

rum once or twice a week.”

Alec McLeod raised his eyebrows at that suggestion,

but Christopher, who was looking at Cap’n Flint as the old

man mentioned a tot of rum, was sure the bird perked up

and looked more cheerful when he heard the word ‘rum.’

Two happy children walked back to their shabby old

car with its torn and patched canvas top and yellowing

celluloid side curtains to keep the rain out on wet days.

Christopher was carrying the perch in one hand and a big

wire bird-cage in the other. Jennifer had Cap’n Flint on

her shoulder. The thin metal chain was clipped to the ring

around one of Cap’n Flint’s legs and she held the loop at

the other end of the chain firmly in her hand – not that the

bird seemed the least bit interested in flying away.

“What a marvelous shop!” Chris exclaimed as they got

into their car. “I’d love to have one of those old pistols!”

His Dad replied, “It’s not really a shop, Chris, it’s

a pawnshop, more like a bank. Did you notice the sign

outside it, the three golden balls? That’s the symbol for a

pawnshop, a place where you take something you value,

and use it as a pledge to borrow money against the value of

what you leave as your pledge. That symbol dates back to

the powerful Medici family in Florence, in Italy, hundreds

of years ago. They got rich lending money, and successful

pawnbrokers still do, because if the pledge isn’t claimed in

a timely way, the pawnbroker can sell it.”

Jennifer and Christopher – the tumultuous twins,

their parents, Brenda and Alec McLeod, called them

affectionately– always enjoyed going to the port with

their Dad. He had business there, something to do with

insurance on ships and their cargo. They had never before

been inside a shop there, and thanks to their new parrot,

this had been their best visit ever.

The port, especially the wharves, smelt different from

the well-kept gardens and eucalyptus gum trees of their

suburb on the other side of the little city of Adelaide.

The port smelt of the sea, of salt and drying seaweed, of

tarred ships’ decks, and wet canvas. It smelt of cargo being

unloaded, new cars, and wooden crates of farm machinery,

tractors and harvesters heavily coated with pungent grease

to protect them from rust. And it smelt of the cargo being

loaded, great bales of wool that smelt of lanoline, sacks of

wheat that smelt of dust and breakfast cereal, sometimes

frozen meat going into refrigerated holds to keep it fresh

and frozen solid all the way to London, or Hamburg,

or Liverpool or Rotterdam. Frozen meat didn’t have a

distinctive smell but everything else did. Wool and wheat,

the main exports especially at this time of the year, had very

distinctive smells. In the early 1930s, a world-wide slump

had slowed business but some trade went on, although

very sluggishly. Insurance of ships and their cargo was as

important as ever, so Alec McLeod’s profession was more

secure than many others in a time of high unemployment.

The sights and sounds too were different from where

they lived. Wharf laborers shouted in loud voices, seamen

sometimes spoke in languages they didn’t understand,

with different rhythms in their speech that made it hard to

know when a sentence began and ended, and wore clothes

unlike the customary jacket, tie and trousers of the locals.

In the background there were seagulls’ calls and squawks

as they squabbled over food scraps. Occasionally a goods

train rumbled along the tracks, its engine puffing, steam

hissing from its pistons, and for a while the distinctive tang

of coal smoke overwhelmed all the other interesting smells.

The ship’s winches were driven by motors that throbbed

like a motor-bike’s engine, and the derricks often squealed

their need for oil as they swung back and forth, over the

ship’s hold, then over the cargo stacked on the wharf.

A little way back from the waterfront was a street of

interesting shops that Jennifer and Christopher always

liked to dawdle over. There was a shop selling local

souvenirs that seafarers could take home to their families

in Britain or Europe: boomerangs, imitation doll-sized

koala bears and kangaroos made of rabbit fur, as well as

exotic nick-knacks from overseas. Several other shops sold

things used on ships: pulleys, ropes, sails, life jackets, red

and green lights in glass covers that ships used to indicate

starboard and port sides, signal flares and the heavylooking

pistol-shaped gadget to fire them, bright red antifouling

marine paint that supposedly stopped weeds and

barnacles from settling on ships’ hulls. Another shop sold

navigation instruments, compasses, telescopes, sextants,

barometers, and other brass instruments that swiveled and

balanced so they were always upright and level, gimbals

their Dad called them.

The pawnshop was the most interesting of all. It wasn’t

always open early on Saturday mornings when their Dad

usually took them to the port, but it was a never-ending

source of fascination to browse over the astonishing variety

of things in its windows. There were wrist watches, fob

pocket watches with gold chains to go through a buttonhole,

ivory carved into a coach and horses, a set of ivory

and ebony chessmen, cameras, radios, war medals, silver

and brass cigarette and cigar cases, telescopes, binoculars,

pocket knives and sheath knives, bags of golf clubs, tennis

racquets, lawn bowling balls, portable typewriters, a sword

in its scabbard with a coat of arms on the guard over the

handle, antique firearms, two muskets and a flintlock

pistol, a book of nautical signals, signal flags, pewter beer

mugs, a large picture frame with a portrait of a king and

queen – not King George V and Queen Mary who were on

the throne now, but the one who had died over 20 years

earlier, King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra in oldfashioned

clothing. The twins always found the pawnshop

windows fascinating. This was the first time they had been

inside it, and what a successful visit it had been!

The twins’ Mum, Brenda McLeod, was pleased to see

them all when they walked into the kitchen. The parrot

was on Jennifer’s

shoulder and Christopher was close behind her

carrying the perch and the bird cage. The parrot looked

their Mum up and down just as he’d looked the twins up

and down in the pawnshop and somehow, they weren’t

quite sure how, he seemed to be letting them all know he

approved of her too.

“Aha! Who have we here?” Brenda McLeod said,

“What’s the name of this new member of the family?”

Jennifer and Christopher answered together: “Mum,

this is a birthday present from Dad! May we introduce you

to Cap’n Flint,” they said, while Cap’n Flint looked from

one to another of them, bobbing his head up and down

and looking very cheerful.

Smiling at her husband and clasping his hand, Brenda

McLeod said: “As head of this household, it is my pleasure

to officially welcome you to our home, Cap’n Flint. I hope

you will be happy here!”

The parrot looked happy, and bobbed his head up

and down several times as if acknowledging their Mum’s

welcoming words.

They decided to set up the perch and the cage on the

veranda outside Jennifer’s bedroom window. They weren’t

sure if or when they might need the bird cage. In that mild

climate Cap’n Flint would be quite comfy on his perch

outside in the open air on the veranda. On the rare cold

nights, they could put him in the cage with a rug over it to

keep out the draught.

Cap’n Flint was very well behaved, and he seemed to

understand almost everything they said. When there was

a conversation going on, his head was cocked slightly to

one side, and as each of them spoke, his beady little black

eyes looking straight at the speaker, occasionally nodding

his head as if he understood it all and was agreeing

with what had just been said. Clearly he agreed with the

family’s decision to put his perch on the veranda outside

Jennifer’s window.

That first night after he came home with them, as

Jennifer lay in bed before drifting off to sleep, she was very

excited about their new pet – their new family member, she

corrected herself. Cap’n Flint really felt to her more like a

member of the family than a pet – she was too excited to

go straight to sleep. She heard Cap’n Flint muttering away

to himself, although that night and for a goodly number of

nights and days after that she couldn’t make out what he

was muttering.

Finally after several weeks she got accustomed to

Cap’n Flint’s voice and began to pick up some of the words

he was muttering. She heard him say “Buried treasure,”

“Pieces of eight” and “Spanish doubloons,” and “Rubies

and diamonds,” but it was all rather disjointed. Another

thing he muttered had something to do with his name, and

yet another bit of muttering sounded like directions to get

somewhere, or perhaps it was to find something.

Some of what the bird said was a sort of song, part of

a song anyway.

The song went like this:

“Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest;

Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.

Drink and the devil had done for the rest

Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum! ”

Christopher could have told her that this was the song

the pirates sang in a book called Treasure Island, but that

was a boy’s book and Jennifer hadn’t read it. She would

read it before long, however, when Christopher told her

where the song came from.

As the days began to get shorter and cooler in April

and increasingly frequent rain squalls lashed the roof,

she wondered whether she should bring Cap’n Flint

inside where it was warmer and no wind or rain would

discomfort him.

One night late in May as autumn was giving way to the

beginning of winter there was heavy rain and a penetrating

cold south wind at bed time. For the first time that year,

Jennifer felt the need to switch from cotton to warmer

flannel pajamas as her Mum had suggested, and wondered

about closing her window part way. She looked at the

parrot, who had been sleeping as he usually did with his

head tucked under one wing, until her movement at the

window woke him up and he looked at her. She was quite

sure that, as usual, he winked at her cheerfully.

More to herself than to the parrot, she murmured, “I

hope you are warm enough out there, Cap’n Flint.”

To her astonishment, Cap’n Flint answered her: “Of

course I’m warm enough, you silly girl! My feathers keep me

warm; feathers are very good insulation; and this veranda

is warmer, and steadier, than the deck of the Hispaniola!”

The parrot went on: “And another thing Jennifer, now

that I’ve got your attention. My name is not Cap’n Flint.

That was the name of the leader of those wicked pirates

who captured me. After Flint came to a bad end – he had

a very gory death, I won’t talk about it – Long John Silver

became their leader, and had me on his shoulder for a

while. Then Jim Hawkins looked after me, looked after me

very well too, until Silver stole me back.”

The parrot paused briefly, puffed its feathers out so it

looked larger, and went on speaking.

“My name is Gloriana, the poets’ name for Queen

Elizabeth, Good Queen Bess, God bless her. Queen

Elizabeth gave me my name herself! I’m a lady parrot!

And don’t you forget it! I must say it’s good to be back

with decent, respectable folk like your family, after all

these years!”

Jennifer was usually a talkative girl, but she was struck

speechless listening to all this, her jaw dropped, her mouth

fell open and stayed open. Fancy the parrot speaking to

her by name! And knowing Queen Elizabeth! After this

conversation she was at a loss for words for almost the

first time in her life.

There were a few moments of silence while Jennifer

digested this exciting new information. Then she took

the parrot’s claw in her hand and shook it as if she was

shaking hands.

“You’ve made me very happy, Gloriana,” she said. “I

love your name. It suits your beautiful colors. I’m very glad

you’re a girl, too!”

“Mhff,” said Gloriana. “That’s all very well. But I’m

hardly a girl. I’m more than 300 years old. And my memory

isn’t as sharp as it was. Flint, and Silver and the others were

wicked pirates. They attacked merchant ships and stole

all the valuables. Sometimes they even killed the people

on the ships. When they’d gathered enough valuables to

fill their ship’s hold, they made for an island in the South

Pacific and buried their treasure on it. I’ve been trying to

remember all the directions to the buried treasure, Flint’s

treasure, that is, and what Long John Silver added. It’s

coming back to me slowly, little bits at a time, but it’s not

all there yet. When it’s all come back, I’ll tell you all, you

and your brother Chris and your Mum and Dad. We can all

go to the island where the treasure is buried. We can dig it

up and we’ll all be rich.”