Pigeon Summer (4 page)

Mary sniffed back her tears and steadied her chin. She didn’t want to cry in front of Arnold Revell. Had it been Olive, or, better still, Phyl, she would have burst into tears again and enjoyed their sympathy. But not a boy, especially this boy.

“I heard shooting,” said Arnold. He looked at the pigeon basket. “Someone shoot your birds?”

“Yes,” said Mary. She picked up the basket, but it seemed rude to turn her back on him and go, so she explained about the peas and how angry the farmer had been.

“I heard the shooting and dived into the hedge,” said Arnold. “Best keep out the way, I thought. Don’t get on with farmers, see. Course, if I’d known it was you,” he added gallantly, “I’d have come out and had a go at the bugger.”

Mary thought it was just as well he hadn’t.

She began climbing over the stile, hampered by the basket. Arnold took it from her, then swung himself over with practised ease. Mary thought how much better he fitted into the countryside than he did into the classroom. There, he looked stupid and clumsy; here, he seemed to belong.

“Going home?” asked Arnold.

“Yes.” Mary didn’t want him walking along beside her, but the footpath was bordered by hedges and there was nowhere else to go.

“What were you doing back there?” she asked.

Arnold shrugged. “Nothing much. Looking around, like. Get a few rabbits sometimes.”

The thought of meat made Mary aware of how hungry she was.

“How many of your pigeons got shot?” asked Arnold.

“One at least. Maybe two.”

“Pity he stopped you getting them. Makes a good meal, a couple of pigeons. Nice with a bit of gravy.”

Mary wondered how many racing pigeons Arnold had shot in his time; she doubted whether he would make much distinction between ringed ones and wild ones.

“Mum might have forgiven me if I’d brought them back,” she agreed. She explained to Arnold what she had done. Arnold did not seem shocked about the Sunday flying, or about not going to chapel; the Revells rarely attended, and when they did nobody sat near them.

“I’m scared to go home,” confessed Mary.

“Come to our place, then. Got some stew. Chicken.”

“Wouldn’t your mum mind?”

“Mum? She’s took off again. There’s only Dad and the little ’uns.”

Mary thought of chicken stew and was tempted. After all, Arnold seemed all right. But the Revells had such a bad reputation in the town; she wasn’t sure she ought to go there. And if Mum found out… I’m in enough trouble already, Mary thought. Besides, there were the pigeons; she had to see if they had got home.

“I’d better not,” she said.

It took them over an hour to walk back to Culverton, but the time passed quickly. Arnold told Mary about scrapes he and his brothers had got into. They mostly involved air rifles, trespass or thieving. Mary was mildly shocked, but the stories made her laugh; she suspected that her laughter was making Arnold exaggerate them.

Then they entered the fringe of the town, and Mary stopped laughing and chatting and began to worry. First, she worried about the time. Mum and the little ones should have gone up to Aunty Elsie’s by now, but they might be waiting for her at home. Then she worried about being seen with Arnold. It was bad enough being seen with any boy – the girls always teased one another – but Arnold Revell: she’d never live it down if anyone saw her with
him
.

They came to the parting of the ways: Lion Street for Mary and Station Road for Arnold. Mary paused.

“I’ve got to go now.”

Arnold was still carrying the pigeon basket. She reached for it.

“Heavy, after a few miles, that is,” said Arnold, handing it back.

“You didn’t have to carry it,” said Mary ungraciously.

“I meant for you. With pigeons in. You need a bike.”

Mary laughed. “Some chance!”

“See you, then. Tomorrow.”

“See you.”

Mary turned away and ran up Lion Street. Tomorrow! She hoped he wouldn’t speak to her tomorrow at school. She’d die.

She went along the alley and in through the back garden gate. Now her thoughts were all for the pigeons. She wanted to fling open the door of the loft and rush inside, but she restrained herself and approached it calmly so as not to disturb the birds.

Three of them were back. Three out of six. Two had probably been shot. One was lost; it might find its way back, but it was young and the outside world was full of dangers. The beautiful dark chequer cock was missing. Had he been shot? She’d never know which one it was she saw fall. She imagined him stiffening in the field of peas, his bloom gone, his bold red eye dulled.

Sorry, Dad, she thought.

Indoors, the house was empty. They hadn’t waited. Aunty Elsie would be laying the table now, with the pretty plates painted with birds and flowers – seconds that Uncle Arthur used to bring home from the china works. There would be sandwiches, and currant cake, and a small bag of sweets for Lennie. Mary felt almost sick with hunger. If she went up there now she’d be in time for tea. But it meant walking in, feeling everyone staring at her, confronting the anger of both women… She couldn’t face it.

I should have gone to Arnold’s, she thought. Who cares what anyone thinks?

She searched the larder, found a crust of bread, and spread it with jam. Then she went up to her room to await her mother’s anger.

Mary’s mother was angry. What would the neighbours think, she asked? What would the minister think? How did she think Aunty Elsie felt? Mary became aware that her mother had been subjected to an afternoon-long lecture by Aunty Elsie on how to discipline her children. “And on top of all that, I was worried the whole time. Didn’t you realize I’d worry?”

Mary was sorry but she wouldn’t say so. “It’s the only time I get, Sundays,” she muttered, hanging her head.

“You won’t take those birds out on a Sunday again,” said her mother.

Mary decided not to mention Arnold Revell. However, she told her mother about the shooting. She was hoping for sympathy, but got none.

“You can’t blame the farmer. He’s got his crops to protect. He’s probably driven mad by pigeon fanciers. I know I am. And if you think I’m letting you off on Saturdays, you can think again. I won’t have a girl of your age running around the countryside when she ought to be helping at home.”

“Well, I’m sending three birds to Le Mans on Wednesday,” said Mary defiantly. “If they win us some money you’ll be pleased, won’t you?”

“If,” said Mum.

But next morning everything was changed. The postman came, bringing a letter from Dad. Mary and Lennie watched as Mum tore it open. Inside was a postal order for four pounds, a one shilling coin, and a letter.

“Four pounds!” Mum scanned the letter quickly. “That’s two weeks pay … he’s got a labouring job … temporary, but he’ll keep looking around, like … he’ll send more next week… He says, Mary, the shilling is for pigeon feed. He doesn’t say where he’s sleeping. I hope it’s somewhere decent.”

She stood holding the postal order and staring at it as if afraid it would disappear.

Suddenly she laughed and hugged both children to her. “We’ll have fish and chips tonight, shall we? Here, take your shilling, Mary, for the pigeons. Don’t lose it.”

Mary took the shilling and put it quickly in her pocket. She had half expected Mum to keep it, but the postal order had made her generous. That, and Phyl coming next weekend. It was her Sunday off, and she would bring her wages.

Mary went to school. To her relief, Arnold Revell ignored her, not even catching her eye. When she got home there was a warm, greasy fish and chip smell in the kitchen. What was more, Mum had bought an orange. She gave it to Lennie and Mary to share.

Mary broke her half into segments and ate it slowly, savouring the sharp, fresh taste. She pushed half the pieces to one side and said to her mother, “You have some.”

Mum shook her head.

“Go on,” insisted Mary.

“All right, just one.” Mum took one segment. Mary ate the others with a guilty feeling of relief.

Mum smiled. “I’ve finished that frock. You can try it on after tea.”

Mary had to admit, standing in her mother’s bedroom in front of the mirror, that the dress fitted her; and it was more comfortable under the arms than the old, tight one. But the old one had been blue flowered cotton and she had felt pretty in it. She hated this one: the dark plain colour, the crêpy material.

Mum stood up from where she had been adjusting the hem. She looked doubtful. “What do you think?”

“It’s sort of floppy,” said Mary, trying not to be too discouraging, since her mother had spent time altering it.

“It doesn’t flatter you,” Mum admitted. She sighed. “But it fits. It’ll have to do.”

The maroon frock was the first bad thing that happened that week. The second was Arnold Revell speaking to her at school.

It was during the last break time on Wednesday. Mary was leaning against the wall in the playground with Olive, watching a skipping game and sucking a sherbet lemon. She had just bitten through the crisp shell of the lemon when she felt Olive nudge her. Arnold Revell was coming across the playground, heading straight towards them.

He stopped in front of Mary.

“Come round our place tonight,” he said, “Got something to show you.”

Then he turned away.

Olive exploded with laughter, spraying the scent of lemon around. “Hey, Mary, was he talking to you?”

“I don’t know!” Mary exclaimed. She staggered against Olive, giggling, desperate to convince her friend that she had never spoken to Arnold before.

Arnold must have heard them, but he gave no sign. He just walked away.

Olive called to Doris Brown and Edna Johnson, who were standing nearby. “Did you hear that? Arnold Revell asked Mary out!”

“He didn’t!” insisted Mary, as Doris shrieked with laughter. The girls began exclaiming about the cheek of boys in general and of Arnold Revell in particular. Mary joined in.

Afterwards, sitting in the classroom, she glanced at Arnold and felt ashamed. But he shouldn’t have spoken to her, she thought, defending her betrayal; especially not in front of the other girls. And it was only then that she wondered: what does he want to show me, anyway?

Mary didn’t go to the Revells after school. She went home, had her tea, then hurried to the loft to get Blériot, Thunder and Speedwell ready for the race. First, she would take them to Uncle Charley’s. He had promised to take them to the club to have the race rings put on and the clock set, ready for Mary to meet the train at half past five.

Mary thought Uncle Charley would approve of her choices. The birds were as bright and buoyant as she’d ever seen them. The two cocks both had squeakers to fly home to. Speedwell didn’t, but Mary felt sure she would do well; she remembered how certain Dad had been about her. “I’ve just got a feeling about that bird, Mary. I reckon she’ll turn out to be the best long-distance bird I’ve had.”

Mary stood still in the loft, watching the pigeons. The Gaffer was on the floor. He tugged at her shoe lace. Mary picked up Speedwell. The hen sat calmly in her palm, rounded and warm. Her deep red eye was unafraid. Soon Speedwell would be flying back from Le Mans, over four hundred miles. How would she do it? How would she know the way?

“It’s a mystery,” Dad had said. “Some sort of sixth sense. Something we humans lost, or never had. See, they’re creatures of the air, Mary. The air isn’t just a blank space to them. It’s as full of messages to them as Culverton High Street is to you.”

“Do you ever think of them, when you’re down the pit?” Mary had asked. “Do you think of them up above you in the air?”

Dad had laughed. “No time down there for day-dreaming about pigeons. But when I come up, and see the sky again, yes, I think about them then. I can’t wait to go and let them out – see them fly. Sometimes I wish I was one. We’ve had our wings clipped, us working folk… But not you, Mary. Not yet. Get yourself an education. Get some learning. You could still fly.”

Mary hadn’t been sure what he was talking about. But the mention of education had suggested a lecture coming on, so she’d sidled away and begun refilling the water containers.

Now Speedwell struggled against Mary’s enclosing hand. Mary put the bird down. Speedwell stepped delicately into her nest box. Mary watched, admiring the line of her: the strong deep chest curve swooping up to the slim neck and intelligent head.

“We’ll show them, won’t we, Speedwell?” she said.

Just before five thirty Mary was waiting at the railway station, carrying her empty pigeon basket. Her three birds had been taken to the Rose and Crown and put into one of the big club baskets which now stood stacked on the platform. The baskets were surrounded by pigeon fanciers, all men or boys. Mostly they were miners or people from the china works or the iron foundry; but the doctor was there, too, a young man standing a little apart from the others who jostled and called to each other, “All right, Joe?” “All right, Len,” and talked animatedly of form and eye-sign and training methods.

Like the doctor, Mary felt an outsider. Uncle Charley hadn’t been able to come; his cough was bad. A few of the men, friends of her father, came up and spoke to her and asked her about her birds. But she still felt strange, the only female and one of the youngest people there.

She was relieved when she heard the train coming and looked along the track to see steam rising in clouds above the tree-tops.

She looked across at the baskets; saw flickerings of eyes and feathers through the gaps. There was no telling which birds were hers.

The train pulled into the station and halted with a hissing sigh.

Everyone began moving towards the guard’s van. One by one the baskets were lifted and loaded in. Silently Mary wished the racers luck: “Fly well, Speedwell. Fly well, all of you.”

The door was slammed shut, the stationmaster blew his whistle, and the train gathered steam and began moving slowly away.

They were gone. Gone to the coast, then across the sea to France. Mary had found Le Mans on the map of Europe that Dad kept in the drawer of the dresser. Le Mans was over four hundred miles away. The birds would not be released before Saturday morning, and only then if the weather was right; she could not hope to see Speedwell again before Sunday. Not unless she flew like the wind – or like Lady Marseilles. Mary remembered how excited Dad had been three years ago when they had all heard about Lady Marseilles. She had been released in Marseilles at ten thirty in the morning and returned to her loft in Yorkshire at six o’clock on the evening of the next day. “Incredible,” Dad had said. And, because he was a man who liked to keep notes of things, he’d written down the details on the edge of the map of Europe: “Seven hundred and eighty-eight miles at a velocity of nine hundred and thirty-nine yards per minute.”