Cyril Kelly

Her most precious possession, a photo of Jolly John, as she called Pope John XXIII, was slipped under her pillow.

Margie had a blue budgie.

She named him the Count, after John McCormack, whom she had seen once in Stephen's Green.

The Count was chattering company for her.

First thing every morning, Margie tied back the door of his cage and allowed to count the freedom of the room the whole of the live-long day.

If ever I called when the bird was flying free, Margie would be slow to open the door.

Standing just inside, she'd wheeze a running commentary out to me of all the mischief he was up to.

I would bring the weekly ration of birdseed and sometimes an oval of cuttlefish and a sheet of coarse sandpaper for the floor of the cage.

That year, the Pope became gravely ill.

Margie kept her little portable radio on all day, anxiously listening for bulletins about the pontiff's health, gazing out the garage window as the sun sailed slowly across the skyline.

Margie kept up a constant reification.

God bless the Pope.

God bless the Pope.

And eventually, that became the Count's favourite aria.

Swinging on his perch, pecking the reflection in his mirror, he gave repeated, high-pitched renditions.

God bless the Pope!

God bless the Pope!

One Thursday evening, the landlord called, as usual.

Removing his hat, he placed it on the birdcage.

Immediately, the Count obliged with his favourite refrain.