4. The Budgie
...Being an Edgar Allen Poe inspired tale of terror, in which a fearsome bird pays a housecall.
Back when I was a kid, you were lucky to have one television in the house, ensconced in the corner of the living room, it was a huge piece of furniture, finished with a walnut veneer, standing on its own four legs, with some kind of ornamental container for the Radio Times kept close by.
The idea that a kid like me would someday have a television of his own his bedroom was the outlandish stuff of science fiction. What I did have was an old radio set, donated by my dad once the television had arrived. That set was itself a substantial item, also finished in walnut veneer. It was tuned by turning a heavy knob which moved a needle across a back lit glass panel which bore the names of old fashioned radio stations: ATHLONE, HILVERSUM, LUXEMBOURG, STAVANGER, all bristling with magical romance to my youthful imagination. The BBC was represented by the words LIGHT, THIRD, and HOME. These referred to the Light Programme, which had split to become Radio 1 and Radio 2 in 1967, the Third Network which had become Radio 3 and the Home Service, Radio 4.
Listening to that radio was a complete sensory experience. When you first switched it on, the valves inside glowed red, the light went on behind the glass panel lit up, and then you had to wait about 20 seconds or so for it to “warm up” before the rich, deep, velvety sound came, from the speakers. It also had a lovely warm smell, probably from the dust gently heating up inside, along with some sort of dry electrical radiance and the occasional crackle of static. I loved it.
It was on that radio, probably tuned to HOME, or possibly THIRD, that I first heard anything by Edgar Allen Poe. It was a broadcast of someone reading “The Raven” in a very serious, booming BBC drama production voice.
What a poem! Chilling, mysterious, and brilliant, particularly when listened to with that old radio providing the only light in a young boy’s room, a dangerously long period after his bedtime.
I can’t track down any recording of that particular performance (If you can, please get in touch). But there is a recording online of Vincent Price reading the poem in his own inimitable style.
Despite the fact that I had been thrilled by the Raven, and had once struggled through his short story “The Murders on the Rue Morgue” I knew very little about Edgar Allen Poe until a few years ago, when he was was the subject of a Mexborough Read to Write session by the poet John Beal. John told the story about how young Edgar Poe was just one year old when his father walked out, and was only a year older when his mother died of tuberculosis. He was then adopted by the wealthy Allen family, from who he gained his double barrelled surname. After a career in the military, he married his cousin, Virgina who at just 13 years old was less than half his age. This unlikely couple had only been together for six years when she fell ill with tuberculosis. She died five years after that.
Not long after her death, he wrote “The Raven” the poem which was to make him famous. It was said that grief for the loss of his young wife provided part of the storyline.
Poe didn’t really enjoy his fame. As his life progressed, he failed to forge a lasting relationship with another woman, his behaviour became more and more unpredictable, and he increasingly turned to drink. He outlived Virginia by just seven years, dying (possibly of alcoholism) in 1849 at only 40 years of age.
I found all this fascinating, but what captivated me most of all was the idea that he was adopted and Allen was an addition to his birth name of Poe. I pondered that there might have been other youngsters in that household, with different Allen names. Did John mention one such lad, who went by the name of Edward Key, or had I read it somewhere. Or had I merely dreamed of it. I seem to remember that after joining his new family, he became Edward Allen Key and as an adult he had found both fame and fortune by inventing a small hexagonal steel rod which was bent at a right angle and could be used to turn a screw which had been fashioned with a small hexagonal indentation in the head1
I feel sure that it was not a dream. I also feel sure that I went on to learn of how, in later life, Edward Allen Key had attempted to follow in his adoptive brother’s footsteps, writing his own gothic themed poetry. The only example of this that I could find was a piece called “The Budgie”. Unfortunately, as I was reading that poem, I was interrupted by a communication via Facebook Messenger from a person from Porlock, and after replying, I was unable to reload the web-page. Even worse, since that time I have been unable to locate either the poem or any mention of its author either online or off. Fortunately I had committed much of it to memory, and with the occasional self-penned addition, to cover the parts where my recollection seems to have failed me, I have been able to reproduce it for you here…
The Budgie
As I lay inebriated, drunken and humiliated
Hoping that I would not vomit, all over the bathroom floor
As I drooled and moaned and stuttered, self pitying words I muttered,
When something very near me fluttered as I lay there cold and sore
Suddenly I saw a budgie hopping to me through the door
Just a budgie, nothing more
It flew up to the white washbasin, The one I wash my hands and face in
Perched itself upon the cold tap, blue and green and freaky
Its beady little eyes were staring, I could swear that it was glaring
I was afraid, I was despairing, my voice went weak and squeaky
I cried “what do you want with me, oh creature bright and beaky”
Quoth the budgie “Hello Cheeky”
The words brought terror to my ear, my blood ran cold with awful fear
He cocked his head and blinked his eyes, I trembled as I thought he
Regarded me with ill intent, My drunken ways I must repent
Perhaps the creature had been sent as some memento morty
I cursed him but he looked at me, all dignified and haughty
Quoth the Budgie “Naughty Naughty”
It disregarded all my cries - by now hot tears had filled my eyes
It stared at me, I stared at it, my face drained of all joy,
The snot ran freely from my nose, I looked a mess in my repose,
With greasy hair and filthy clothes, encrusted corduroy
That wretched bird’s one skill was just a talent to annoy
Quoth Budgie “Who’s a pretty boy?”
And at that point, I must confess, I lapsed into unconsciousness
To come around some hours later, head throbbing and sore
I blinked, my vision was all blurred, my mouth was dry, my tongue was furred
Had I imagined that damned bird a hopping through the door?
I dreamt it up, I told myself, then shuddered when I saw
One bright blue feather on the floor
Only that and nothing more
I am also given to understand that a modern day descendant of Edward Allen Key, known as Ted Key, was a founder member of the 1980s chart topping popsters, the Housemartins, and is currently touring in an outfit known as Ted Key and the Kingstons. Obviously in the early 19th Century, such concepts as hexagonal screwdrivers and chart topping popsters were the outlandish stuff of science fiction.
Fantastic as always! I believe the original was going to be a parrot.