Pigeon Summer (9 page)

Now all she could do was wait. She limped about, drinking dew and finding a few clover flowers to munch. Her ankle felt big and painful. Soon she was forced to sit down. She chose a sun-warmed rock, and felt the sunshine steaming the damp out of her clothes and separating and warming the strands of her hair. But she was hungry. And lonely. She missed the Gaffer. She wished he was still there to talk to and hold.

Slowly the sun left her rock and moved to another. By the time it was overhead, filling all the quarry with its warmth, she knew it must be midday. Surely they’d found the Gaffer by now? But perhaps not. If they were looking for her, they might not even think about the birds; they might not have been to the loft…

No one came. The sun moved across the sky, towards the further rim of the quarry. The place where she had sat in the morning lay in shadow. Mary was hungry. Her ankle hurt.

And no one came.

The shadows lengthened. In her morning sitting-place, the daisies were closing, revealing their pink undersides. Suddenly, in panic, Mary decided that she must get out, on her own if she had to.

She returned to the cliff. She must reach the top before night came again. She tucked up her dress, braced herself for the pain, and began to climb, trying not to put weight on her bad leg.

She got a few yards up the steep rock wall and then stopped, gasping, unable to move. She needed to push up with her right leg, and couldn’t. She tried to cross over and use the left, but it was no use; the rock was so steep, the footholds so precarious, she couldn’t possibly do it with only one good leg.

And now she couldn’t get down. To get down would mean jumping the last few yards – unbearable to think of – or risking a slithering fall. The pain in her swollen ankle stopped her from doing either. She leaned against the rock wall, tufts of grass clutched in her hands, all her weight on her left leg, too scared to go up or down.

“Mum!” she shouted, through choking tears. “Mum! I’m down here! Help me! Someone help me!”

No answer. The wind rustled in the grass on the edge. Far, far up, skylarks called.

Mary thought again of dying. Only this time it seemed real, and the satisfaction had gone out of it.

“Help!” she shouted. “Help! I can’t get out!”

And then: an answer!

Voices, people coming. A man’s voice shouting. “Mary? Is that you?”

And the next moment a figure appeared at the top of the quarry: Sid Revell. Glancing back over his shoulder, he shouted, “It’s all right, missis! She’s down here. Stuck.”

Mary sat in her father’s chair by the kitchen fire. She was wearing a clean dress, her hair was combed smooth, and her right leg, propped up on a stool, had been expertly if too-tightly bandaged by Aunty Elsie, working with angry hands.

Mary’s mother’s hands had been angry, too. On her cheek Mary still felt the slap her mother had given her as Sid Revell hoisted her out of the quarry and on to firm ground. And then, before the shock of the slap had died away, her mother had hugged her hard enough to crack her ribs.

Everyone had been angry with her: her mother, Olive’s mother, Mrs Lloyd next door, Uncle Charley, Aunty Elsie. Especially Aunty Elsie. Uncle Charley had seen the Gaffer come home and found the sprig of speedwell on his leg, but nobody had known what it meant. Mum had put off going to the Revells. She had been to Elsie’s, Charley’s, Olive Jennings’, even Doris Brown’s. She’d had a feeling that Mary might be at Arnold’s, and in the end she had confessed this suspicion to a surprised Mr Jennings, who had gone to the smallholding – “Poking around like he thought we’d murdered you,” Arnold told Mary.

Arnold had gone back with Mr Jennings to the Dyers’, just as nosy Mrs Mullen arrived to say that she had seen Mary yesterday afternoon cycling off in the direction of Wendon.

“Phyl!” Mum exclaimed. “I should have guessed.”

Then Uncle Charley had shown Arnold the speedwell, and Arnold had said, “I think I know where she is.”

“When we saw your bike by the stile I knew I was right,” he told Mary proudly.

He
wasn’t angry, of course, and neither was his father. But all the other grown-ups felt it was their duty to lecture Mary on how thoughtless, wicked and inconsiderate she had been. The house seemed to be full of them, scolding and nagging.

“And all you could say, instead of ‘sorry’, was ‘Where’s Speedwell? Has she come home?’” protested her mother, when they had all gone away.

“Well, I wanted to know. And Aunty Elsie wouldn’t let me go and look. She said I had to put my leg up. Mum, this bandage is too tight.”

Her mother knelt to adjust it. She sighed. “Uncle Charley says not to give up. He says there’s only one come home so far out of the whole lot from Culverton. But they’ll come back slowly, over the days and weeks, he says.”

Mary knew that was partly true. Some would come home. But not all. In a storm like that, most of them would be lost, beaten down, driven into power cables, wings broken – or just fall, exhausted, to die.

She sniffed back tears. “You really love them, don’t you?” said her mother.

Mary nodded. “I want some of my own – when I’m grown up. I want my own loft.”

“It’s a man’s hobby, that.”

“I don’t care.”

“Things will get in the way,” said her mother. “Marriage, babies… Do you know, when I was young, I wanted to go on the stage, to be a singer. I was good, too. Always in the plays at school and chapel. I used to imagine my name up in lights in the West End: Miss Adeline Hill…”

“Why didn’t you do it? You can sing. You sing lovely.”

“I didn’t know how to go about it.”

“You could have found out.”

“Yes, I could have. But somehow … well, the family wouldn’t have approved – I knew that. And I went to work in the paper shop, and then I met your dad…”

“You should have done it – gone on the stage.”

“Then I might not have had you.”

That was a strange thought: not being.

Her mother said, “I’m sorry I killed your pigeons, Mary. I should have asked.”

“I’m sorry I ran away.”

“Scared the life out of me, you did. What would I have done if we hadn’t found you?” She smiled. “You drive me up the wall sometimes. But I reckon we’ll rub along together a bit better now than we used to.”

They heard footsteps in the passage. Mum pulled a face. “If that’s Elsie again –” and then she stopped, and listened. She darted to the door.

Mary, too, recognized the footsteps. She was struggling to her feet when the door opened and her father walked in.

“Don’t ever marry a miner, Mary,” her father said.

He was sitting in his usual chair, sipping tea, while Mary’s mother sliced bread and fried up an end of bacon.

“I won’t,” said Mary. “I might marry a poacher – they’re never out of work.”

Dad laughed, the laugh turning to a cough. He had lost weight, and his face was greyish.

“I’ll send to Elsie for some of her cough mix,” said Mum. “Mary, can you manage to get upstairs and fetch Doreen? I can hear her fretting.”

Mary climbed awkwardly up the stairs, enjoying her injury in spite of its inconvenience. Doreen was red-faced and grizzly. Mary picked her up. At once she stopped crying. She put a pink fist to her mouth and made sucking noises.

Mary guessed her mother wanted to tell Dad about the pigeons and how Mary had come by her sprained ankle; she took Doreen to the window and pointed out trees, birds, a cat balancing along the fence, nappies flapping on the line. Doreen chuckled.

When Mary came back into the kitchen with Doreen in her arms, her father was talking about how he had fallen ill and lost his job. He’d found another labouring job, struggled with it, still poorly, for a week, then collected his wages and headed for home.

“I’d had about enough of being away,” he said. “I met Bob Lloyd in town on the way back. He reckons they’re taking on more men over at Staveley Pit. I’ll try there.”

“Not till you’re properly well, you won’t,” said Mum.

“And what’ll we live on, girl?”

“You’ve brought a week’s wages, haven’t you? And when that runs out –” she winked at Mary – “I’ll sing in the streets. Put my Sunday hat down for pennies.”

“Seriously, though,” said Mary, “it’s my birthday Sunday after next, and I’ve got a job starting the day after at Greenings.”

“And Phyl’s home that Sunday,” said Mum. “She’ll bring her wages.”

“Everyone safe home,” said Dad.

“Everyone except Speedwell,” said Mary.

Everywhere there was talk about pigeons lost in the smash: talk in the shops, in school, in the pigeon club. Birds came home in dribs and drabs, some so badly injured that they would never fly again, some so exhausted they died. But Speedwell didn’t come home.

Every day Mary scanned the sky; every day her father let the birds out for exercise, and looked, when they came in, for an extra bird. But Speedwell didn’t come.

“We’ve lost her,” he said. “Don’t fret, Mary. It’s not your fault. You’ve got to risk them to have a chance of winning.”

But Mary was not comforted. She thought of Speedwell, beating across the Channel, every instinct driving her on, all her heart and spirit bent on surviving, on reaching her home, her loft, her mate. Mary couldn’t bear to think that somewhere on that journey Speedwell had given up, fallen or been driven down.

Arnold’s pigeons didn’t take her mind off it, but they gave her and Dad something else to do. Mary had told her father about Arnold wanting a pair of birds. Dad went round to the smallholding with Mary and helped Arnold with ideas for building his own loft and promised him the pigeons when it was done. Arnold was soon happily at work.

“He’s quick, that lad,” Dad said. “Soon learn the tricks of the trade, he will.”

“Miss Lidiard thinks he’s stupid.”

“There’s different kinds of cleverness,” said Dad.

Word soon got around at school that Mary was friendly with Arnold Revell. She became aware of whispers and glances.

On the Thursday before the end of term she was in the school yard, sucking a mint humbug and gossiping with Olive, Edna and Doris. Arnold passed by, heading for the boys’ end of the yard. Mary made a decision.

“Arnold,” she said.

He stopped, a bit reluctant, eyeing the other girls suspiciously.

“Dad’s chosen you two young birds. They should be good ones, he says. One of Bevin and Ruby’s, and one of Trotsky and Speedwell’s.”

Arnold smiled. “I’ve about finished that loft. Want to see it?”

“Yes. I’ll come on Saturday, shall I? With Dad. We’ll bring the birds.”

Edna said loudly, “There’s a pong round here. You coming, Doris? Olive?”

Doris screwed up her face. She went with Edna. Mary saw Olive hesitate, and stay.

“Want a sweet?” Olive asked Arnold, holding out her paper bag.

The young pigeons went to Arnold’s, school ended, and still Speedwell hadn’t come home.

Sunday the twenty-eighth was Mary’s birthday. Phyl arrived mid-morning, bringing a present: a silky hair ribbon and a brooch from Woolworths in the shape of a bird.

“A pigeon!” exclaimed Mary.

“Well, I think it’s meant to be a dove,” said Phyl. “Best I could do, like.”

“It’s lovely,” said Mary.

There was a red purse from Dad with a threepenny bit in it, and a cardigan from Mum; she had been secretly knitting it with wool unravelled from two old jumpers. Even Lennie gave her a bag of aniseed balls, and stayed close to her until they were all shared out and sucked.

In the afternoon there was to be tea at Aunty Elsie’s as usual, but today Aunty Elsie had said they would have “a bit of a do”. Everyone was excited. A “do” at Elsie’s meant a tin of salmon opened specially, thin sandwiches, little cakes, all laid out on the white embroidered tablecloth and the painted plates with birds on. Later, there would be a bottle of home-made wine for the grown-ups and fizzy lemon for the young ones.

“I’ll play the piano,” Aunty Elsie said to Mum. “And you must sing, Lina. ‘The Lark in the Clear Air.’ I like that.”

“And Uncle Charley wants ‘Roses of Picardy’,” said Phyl.

“‘Plaisir d’Amour’,”
said Dad.

“I’ll be singing all night!” protested Mum, but a flush of pleasure came to her face.

Mum and Phyl scurried upstairs to get ready: Mum in her cream blouse with the brooch of china roses that Uncle Arthur had made; Phyl in a new dress she had bought with her wages.

“And there’s something for you, Mary,” said Phyl, handing her sister a parcel.

Eagerly Mary untied the string. She shook out a dress: cotton, printed with roses, with a pink collar and pink sash. It was faded and well worn, but Mary loved it.

“Annie sent it – the girl I work with. You’ll have to gather it in with the sash.” Phyl tossed the dress over Mary’s head. “Lord, it is long!”

“But I want to wear it,” insisted Mary. “Today.”

“We can tack the hem up for now,” said Mum. “I’ll do it, while you see to those pigeons.”

Mary twirled in the dress. It was pretty. And she’d have to take it in, not let it out.

“Tell Annie, thanks,” she said to Phyl.

Phyl was fixing a shiny slide in her bobbed hair.

“She’s all right, is Annie,” she said.

Mary put her old dress back on and went out with Dad to check the pigeons.

It was late afternoon, warm, with long shadows. The birds had had their exercise. They were all inside, and from the loft came a deep, soft cooing. Dad opened the door and went in. Mary, about to follow, heard a whirring of wings overhead.

She looked up.

A pigeon. Blue. A blue chequer. It was – it had to be…

Speedwell folded her wings and dropped down into the loft.

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