Pigeon Summer (8 page)

Mrs Coulter, in an expanse of white apron, her hair in a formidable bun, appeared in the doorway and looked Mary over.

“I’m her sister,” said Mary.

“I see.”

Mrs Coulter turned to the girl with the pail. “Get off with those scraps, Annie. Don’t stand gawping.”

Back inside, she called, “Phyllis! Your sister’s here.”

The next moment Phyl was on the doorstep. She looked tiny against the bulk of Mrs Coulter, wrapped around in an over-large apron, her hands wet from washing-up. After Mary’s long journey and the strangeness of the great house, the sight of Phyl was so familiar and reassuring that she threw her arms around her and burst into tears.

Mrs Coulter went back inside, leaving the sisters alone.

“Oh, Lord,” said Phyl. She had turned pale. “What is it, Mary?”

The whole story came out: about the birds and Dad and the Assistance and Arnold and the bike and the row with Mum.

“So I came to you,” Mary finished. “I need you to help me.”

“But – what can I do? Oh, Mary, I thought there’d been a death or something, not this. What can I do, Mary?”

And Mary realized then that Phyl couldn’t do anything. She had always thought of Phyl as being the one to sort out problems, smooth things over, get her out of trouble. Phyl had been her big sister, confident and capable. But Phyl wasn’t big here. She wasn’t even a grown-up. She was just a little girl straight from school, a kitchen maid, the smallest and youngest of a houseful of servants. Phyl couldn’t decide to put her up for the night, or give her food – probably couldn’t even give her any money.

“You’ll have to go home,” Phyl said.

“I can’t! I want to find Dad.”

“Don’t be silly, Mary. You don’t know where he is. You can’t just run away. You must go home right now, before it rains and before it starts to get dark. What were you thinking of doing when it got dark?”

Mary realized that she hadn’t thought at all. Phyl was right. She hadn’t thought sensibly about anything.

“They’ll have the police out looking for you if you don’t get home,” said Phyl.

Mary felt herself about to cry again. “Phyl,” she said, “I’m so thirsty. And I’ve had nothing to eat.”

Phyl looked at the half-open scullery door, bit her lip, and said, “You’ll get me shot.”

She went inside, and Mary heard her talking to Mrs Coulter. A few minutes later she came out with a glass of water and a slice of meat pie on a plate. Mary drank the water almost in one gulp and gave the glass to her sister, who went back in to refill it. The pie was heaven. Mary was halfway through it when Mrs Coulter came out.

“You finish that, and be off,” she said firmly. “Go straight home. We can’t take in waifs and strays.”

Mary nodded, her mouth full of pie. “Thank you,” she mumbled.

“How long did it take you to get here?” Phyl asked, after Mrs Coulter had gone back inside. “It’s getting on towards sunset now. You must get back before dark.”

“I’ll be all right,” said Mary. She had no idea how long it had taken her to get there, but she sensed that there was time enough to get back as long as she kept going. “I’d better go now.”

“And you’ll go straight home, mind? None of this Stafford nonsense?”

Mary nodded, defeated.

The big girl, Annie, who had been loitering outside to hear what was going on, suddenly brought from her apron pocket something wrapped in a damask cloth.

“Here,” she said. “There’s three jam tarts in there. I pinched them for me and the other two to eat in bed later, but you look like you need them more.”

Mary took the bundle, hiding it under her cardigan.

“But the napkin?” she said.

“Oh, Phyllis can smuggle that back. You can give it to her next time she comes home.” She gave a yelp of laughter at the sight of Phyl’s frightened stare. “She doesn’t know she’s born, your sister. Me and Ethel are working on her.”

The door opened and Mrs Coulter snapped, “Annie! Inside, miss! There’s work to do.”

Mary sprang away, hiding her gift, and scuttled around the corner of the building. The last glimpse she had of Phyl was her sister’s quick wave as she darted back inside.

The gardener was bending over his radishes. Mary slipped the damask-wrapped bundle into the front basket on her bicycle, wedging it next to the Gaffer’s basket, and wheeled the bicycle briskly out of the garden and into the lane.

As she cycled up towards the main road, breathing heavily with the exertion, she felt the rain starting: not isolated spots now, but a steady patter. The air was colder, and all around was that weird yellowish light and the feeling of stillness before a storm.

The storm broke as she was cycling back up the tree-lined hill towards Cheveley. The sky turned dark and unleashed lashing rain, forcing her to jump off her bicycle and run to the shelter of the trees. She stood there while rain blackened the road and beat on the leaves.

The trees gave shelter, but drops still penetrated. The Gaffer shifted in his basket, and next to him the cloth with the jam tarts in it was spotted with rain. Mary unwrapped it and ate the tarts while she waited.

When the downpour eased, she wheeled the bicycle out again and cycled up out of the valley and on to the main road.

It should have been lighter here, but the sky was so dark that it was almost as dark as the valley.

Mary cycled on, reaching the field path and stile where she and Arnold had turned off that day to release the pigeons in the meadow. At that moment the sky was split by lightning, and seconds later she heard the thunder, a sharp crack overhead, followed by the hiss of rain.

Mary knew she had to get under cover fast. She saw rain falling in the distance over the hillside and sweeping towards her in sheets. There was another flash, followed almost at once by its thunder. The storm was overhead. She daren’t go back to the valley; she knew better than to shelter under trees. But here, on the crest of the hill, she felt exposed to the lightning.

She looked around. Where could she hide? And then she remembered: that place in the meadow where a broken fence marked the drop into an abandoned quarry, and Arnold saying, “There’s a little hollow space down the bottom; a cave, almost.”

A cave. That would be a safe place to shelter. She hauled the bicycle off the road and took the Gaffer’s basket out. She left the bicycle propped against the hedge beside the stile. Once over the stile, she raced across the soaking meadow, feeling her shoes fill up with water. The rain beat on her head and shoulders. When she reached the quarry the sky was darker than ever and she could feel the electricity in the air.

The Gaffer’s basket was going to make the descent difficult. Mary tucked her dress into her knickers, lowered herself over the edge, and began to climb down.

The rock was wet and slippery, the rain blinded her, and the basket banged against her chest. She felt the sky flicker. Another crack of thunder resounded overhead. Mary groped for footholds and handholds. Slowly she made her way down; she was almost there. She shifted her grip on the basket, easing her cramped fingers. The Gaffer was a nuisance, but she couldn’t have left him alone up there in the storm, nor let him loose in it. It was only then, as she thought of the Gaffer trying to fly home, that she remembered Speedwell.

Speedwell would be flying across southern England now, caught in this storm. There’s going to be a smash, Mary thought. She pictured the pigeons, lost, disorientated, scattered by the weather. She’d lose Speedwell; they’d all lose their birds. The race would be a disaster. And as that thought came to her, the piece of rock she was holding on to came away in her hand.

Mary fell backwards. She saw the ground only a few feet away, and jumped down, landing off balance on the stony ground. Her right ankle twisted under her and she felt a sharp pain. She dropped the basket and rolled over, clutching her ankle.

She looked up. The quarry wall towered above her. It was difficult to imagine how she had got down, and impossible to imagine getting up again now.

High above, the grass at the rim of the quarry glinted as the lightening flashed again, and when the thunder banged, it seemed to shatter the sky and release a torrent of rain.

Mary looked round for Arnold’s cave. It was nearby – a hollow space under an overhang of rock. She picked up the basket, limped towards it and crawled in.

The space was just big enough to sit in, and on another day Mary knew she would have enjoyed it: a secret place to sit and watch and think. But now she twisted about, trying to make her injured ankle comfortable. There was nothing to watch but the rain falling, nothing to think about but Speedwell battling home in the storm.

A summer storm. Unpredictable. Especially from France, nearly three days ago. That was always the risk with the long distance races. They’d have held the birds back, of course, kept them in the baskets, if a storm had been predicted in France on Saturday. But bad weather so near the end of the race… She knew there would be people all over the country now, looking out at the storm, fearing a smash. There had been times when out of a thousand birds caught in a storm, only twenty-odd had come home.

Mary began to shiver. She crouched back into the hollow and sat with her arms crossed and shoulders hunched. The storm flickered overhead and the rain hissed down, steady, unrelenting. She saw that the sun had set; darkness was gathering in the circle of the quarry. Not just the yellow-purple storm darkness, but the true darkness of night. She was trapped here; she would have to stay here all night.

Unless they came looking for her. The police, or whoever her mother might have told. But no one knew where she had gone. And, besides, her mother might not have told anyone yet. She’d think Mary had gone to Olive’s or Uncle Charley’s or even to Arnold Revell’s. There was no reason why anyone should be worrying about her. Except Phyl, of course. But Phyl couldn’t do anything.

I might never get home, Mary thought. I can’t climb out. I’ve got no water and no food. She wondered how long you could live without food. She remembered hearing that you could last a while – but not without
water
. She imagined the police searching for days, eventually finding her bicycle by the stile, climbing down to discover her corpse and bringing it home to her mother. She saw her mother weeping at the graveside, saying, “Poor Mary – if only I’d been kinder to her.” The picture gave Mary a certain satisfaction. But it didn’t warm her, facing the prospect of a night alone in a quarry without a coat and with a sprained ankle.

Well, not quite alone. She took the Gaffer out of his basket and held him. She loved his sleek neck and his bright brown eyes and darting glance; his tameness. He pecked at a snagged end of wool on her cardigan and unravelled several stitches.

I could send you with a message, Mary thought. Not now, but when the storm is over. You’d be home in no time.

It was a shame to lose the vision of her mother weeping over her coffin, but all the same Mary felt cheered at the thought of rescue. Briefly, she even felt warmer. But it was quite dark now, and the storm was still rumbling. She’d have to wait till morning. She put the Gaffer back in his basket and leaned against the rock wall and tried to sleep.

The night seemed endless. She got cramp, and woke frequently to shift position. She was cold – miserably cold. Her ankle swelled. She kept feeling it in the darkness, comparing it with the other one. It throbbed with pain.

The lightning gradually ceased; the thunder rolled away; the rain lessened. But still Mary couldn’t sleep properly.

And at last the sky grew lighter. She heard birds singing. The rain had stopped.

She stood up. The throbbing in her injured ankle was worse. She moved slowly, putting her weight on her good leg. Her mouth felt dry. She went out and wet her hands on the dewy grass and sucked them.

The sun rose above the lip of the quarry and shone on the opposite wall. Mary picked up the Gaffer’s basket and limped across to find a patch of gold.

The feel of the sunlight was like a shawl around her shoulders.

The Gaffer was restless. Mary picked chickweed with dew on it for him to eat.

“You can fly home now,” she said. “You can take a message for me.”

And it was only then, as she said it, that she realized she had no pencil, no paper, nothing to write a message with.

She could write on her hanky, she thought. But what with? She found a piece of chalky stone and wrote “Mary” on a rock; but the stone wouldn’t write on cloth. There was nothing here that would do. She couldn’t write, she decided; she’d have to send something – something that would tell whoever found it where she was. Something light and small. A plant? Suddenly she remembered finding the speedwell in the meadow at the top – a speedwell she’d told Arnold was different from the one in her garden. If she could send some speedwell, and if Mum or Lennie found it, and if they thought of asking Arnold what it might mean, Arnold might remember… There were so many “ifs”, but it seemed her only chance.

She had to search a while before she found what she was looking for: a nondescript plant with tiny mauve flowers. She unravelled a bit more of the wool that the Gaffer had pulled from her cardigan, and broke it off. Then she took the Gaffer out of his basket and used it to tie a flowering stem of speedwell to his leg, tucking the end securely under his ring. She held him, reluctant, now, to let him go.

“You’re the only company I’ve got,” she said.

The Gaffer cooed. He darted his head forward and tweaked at her cardigan again.

Mary laughed. “You’re making a hole. Silly old thing. I’ll have to let you go. You’ll fly fast, won’t you? Bring me help soon?”

She put him down beside the basket, and was almost relieved when he didn’t fly off. Then she began to worry. The Gaffer was an old bird; usually he never did much more than circle the loft. Perhaps he wouldn’t go home.

But at last he took off. Mary squinted, watching him fly up into the brightness. For a moment he circled around, a dark shape in the saucer of light. Then he was away, over the lip of the quarry and out of sight. He’d be home in no time.