The Crow Talker

“You invited him?” said Mr Strickham.

“I’ll go,” said Caw, turning.

Lydia grabbed him. “No, you won’t,” she said. “Will he, Dad?”

She glared at her father, whose eyes settled on Caw’s bare feet, before returning to his face.

“And your name is?” he said.

“He’s called Caw,” said Lydia. “Caw, this is my father.”

Lydia’s dad took another second before he nodded briskly and held out a hand. He seemed to be doing his best to smile. Caw took the hand, glad that he’d given his nails a thorough scrub in the pond.

At that moment, a woman entered the room, holding a steaming dish. She was slim, with softly curling red hair that she had pulled back into a loose bun, and she wore a pink apron over a pale dress. Caw recognised her at once. Lydia’s mother. Her eyes flashed wide in alarm when she saw him. “Who are you?” she said.

“It seems Lydia has brought a … er, this … friend for dinner,” said Mr Strickham.

“He’s our guest,” said Lydia. “He’s Caw. The boy who was there last night.”

“I see,” said Mrs Strickham, narrowing her gaze. Caw began to feel uncomfortable under her intense stare.

“We at least owe him dinner,” said Lydia. “I’ll get another plate.” She gestured to a chair. “Caw, sit there.”

As Lydia left the room, Caw thought about turning and running away. They didn’t want him here, obviously. He should have listened to Glum and Screech. He tried to offer a smile, but he was pretty sure it came out more like a grimace. Mr Strickham nodded, as though he wasn’t sure how to respond. His wife just placed the dish gently on the table.

“Please, take a seat,” said Lydia’s father.

Caw did as he was told, leaving his hands at his sides as he sat down. Everything looked so clean! The walls, the floor, the tablecloth … He hardly dared move for fear of spreading dirt.

Lydia soon returned, and everyone took their places at the table. Mrs Strickham lifted the lid off a platter to reveal a joint of meat. The smell made Caw’s mouth fill up with saliva all over again. He swallowed nervously.

“So where do you live, Caw?” asked Mr Strickham, as he carved the meat with a huge knife.

“Nearby.”

“With your parents?” asked Mr Strickham.

“No,” said Caw. “I live alone.”

Mr Strickham’s expression suddenly turned severe. “You don’t look old enough,” he said.

Lydia’s eyes darted to her father. Caw’s heart thumped with a rush of panic, and he racked his brains. If they found out he was only thirteen, they’d call the authorities.

“He’s sixteen,” said Lydia.

“Really?” said Mr Strickham. “I only ask because …”

“I am,” lied Caw. “I’m sixteen.”

“Stop interrogating him, Dad,” said Lydia. She laid a plate in front of Caw, heaped with meat, potatoes and vegetables, all smothered in gravy. “Dig in,” she said.

Caw looked up and Mrs Strickham nodded. She seemed a little pale, Caw noticed. “I hope you like it,” she said.

Caw picked up a slice of meat and sank his teeth in. He almost groaned in pleasure. It was like nothing he’d ever tasted, soft in texture and almost sweet. He took another bite and the sauce dribbled over his hands. He bit into a potato and almost had to spit it out because it was so hot. He opened his mouth and sucked in breaths of cold air before chewing furiously and swallowing. Then he took a handful of something green and pushed it in as well. The flavours mingled wonderfully. Some fell out on to his plate, so he crammed it back in. He swallowed thickly again and licked the rich sauce off his fingers and his wrist.

It was quiet at the table, he realised, and when he looked up he saw all three members of the Strickham family staring at him, open-mouthed. They were holding knives and forks. Caw blushed to the roots of his hair.

“He’s not used to company,” said Lydia quickly.

“Sorry,” said Caw. “This is delicious.” He picked up the knife and fork, but they felt all wrong in his hands. Mrs Strickham watched him curiously, slowly slicing her food and placing a small morsel in her mouth.

The dinner proceeded in silence. Caw barely looked up, and though he tried to pace himself, he soon finished what was on his plate. Lydia gave him more without asking.

“You seem hungry, Caw,” said Mr Strickham. “When was the last time you ate?”

Caw thought back to the apples and chocolate Lydia had given him. “Earlier today,” he said.

“You know, I might be able to find you some … support,” said Mr Strickham, laying down his knife and fork.

Caw frowned.

“The city can look after children who haven’t—”

“I’m sixteen,” said Caw, a little too loudly.

“There’s no need to be aggressive,” said Mr Strickham. “I’m only trying to help you.”

“Leave him alone, Dad,” said Lydia.

Mr Strickham shot her a glare. “Don’t raise your voice at me, young lady. Not after your disobedience last night.”

“Without Caw and his crows, we’d be dead,” said Lydia. “I just think we should respect his privacy.”

Mr Strickham seemed about to say something, then laid down his knife and fork. “You’re right, Lydia.” He smiled at Caw. “I’m sorry.”

“Did you say crows, dear?” Mrs Strickham asked.

“Yes,” Lydia answered. “Caw has these three tame crows that hang around him. Two of them attacked the prisoner in the alley last night.”

“How very strange,” Mrs Strickham said. Her brow furrowed and she cleared her throat. “I’m going to the bathroom. If you’ll excuse me.” She stood up and dabbed the corner of her mouth with a crisp napkin, then left the room.

Caw noticed a movement at the window – a fluttering of wings. It was Screech, perched outside. His heart sank. That was the last thing he needed – just when he seemed to have won them over. Caw gave a jerk of his hand, to say “Go away!”