Olive Bright, Pigeoneer

by Stephanie Graves

  It seemed Violet Darling had finally come home.

  A prick of curious interest pierced the numbness that was rapidly settling over her, but Olive couldn’t be bothered to give it her attention. She was too busy wheeling her bicycle back toward the village, trying not to consider that her best friend had just boarded a train that would shortly be steaming out of the station in the other direction. As her steps carried her down the lane, her vision blurred with tears. She could feel a great gaping void cracking open in her chest, and it was quite clear that if she was going to make it through this war, she was going to need to fill the gap quickly. Luckily, she had a plan.

  Olive heard the news stories on the wireless every evening. If the Allies were going to come out on the other side of this war victorious, everyone had to do their bit. For her stepmother, that meant the Women’s Institute and its ceaseless schemes and fundraisers. For her father, she could only hope it meant a relaxed perspective on his beloved pigeons, work as usual as a veterinary surgeon, and the relative safety of the Home Guard. And for Jonathon, their resident evacuee, who had arrived unexpectedly and rooted himself so thoroughly in their lives that they’d be loathe to see him go, it entailed a thriving victory garden, an enviable salvage collection, and ever-changing plans to thwart a German invasion. As for Olive, she held on to a rather desperate hope that her part in the war would defy expectation.

  She’d been halfway through her studies at the Royal Veterinary College in London when the school had been evacuated to Berkshire. News from home hadn’t been encouraging: her stepmother Harriet was bravely, if rather distressingly, waging a worsening battle with multiple sclerosis, and her father was struggling to keep up with the demands of his busy animal surgery. So, she’d decided to come home.

  As it turned out, he’d been in particular need of someone to rout the steady stream of villagers who’d been spooked into thinking their pets could not weather the war and therefore must be humanely dispatched. She had cajoled, badgered, and bullied as necessary and was relieved to have been mostly successful. There were now two extra cats prowling about the lodge, much to the irritation of the pigeons, but the sight of them never failed to lift Olive’s spirits.

  It was these little victories, more than anything else, that had brought the war into sharp and jarring focus and sparked in her a sense of urgency for something just out of reach. She’d been fidgety for months, knitting imperfect grey socks, baking grey bread, and assisting with all manner of tasks under mostly grey skies. All of it had left her feeling helpless, resentful, and vaguely guilty. It hadn’t endeared her to the ladies of the WI, either. She expected they’d be much relieved to see her focusing her efforts elsewhere, particularly as she intended to follow the lead of Winston Churchill’s youngest daughter.

  Mary Spencer-Churchill had been interviewed on the wireless the previous evening, talking of her work for the Auxiliary Territorial Service, in which she served on a mixed-gender battery in Hyde Park. When the prime minister had authorised women to help operate the anti-aircraft guns, his daughter had signed up to serve in the ATS that very day. As Olive sat, rapt with attention, curled up on a leather wingback in her father’s study, Miss Churchill had outlined the opportunities for women as spotters, rangefinders, and predictors. They could do absolutely everything, it seemed, except fire the guns. Thoroughly exasperated by such rampant unfairness, Olive was nonetheless willing to overlook it, and she had promptly imagined herself amid the noise and commotion of a gun emplacement in London or farther afield.

  Caught up with excitement and patriotic fervour, she’d found she had no one to confide in. Harriet had gone up to bed shortly after dinner; her father had fallen asleep in the chair across from her; and Jonathon had been engrossed in the latest Bigglesworth story, lying on his stomach before their sad little evening fire. Probably for the best: her father would surely have objected to such a spontaneous decision. If she were to convince him, she’d need to plan her argument, being careful to downplay the risks involved while emphasising her aptitude and the need to do her bit. So, she’d switched off the wireless, planted a distracted kiss on her father’s downy head, rumpled Jonathon’s tousled locks, and climbed the stairs, her thoughts fractured and fizzing with the enormity of change on the horizon.

  She’d had to bite back the words a moment ago with George—there had been more important things to say, and nothing was settled yet. But it would be; she was determined that it would be.

  An unexpected gust had her clapping her free hand over her hat, lest it go tumbling along the river. At the same moment, the train’s whistle sounded as its engine churned into motion, on its determined way to London. Rather than turn around, Olive walked on, resolved to get on with things.

  Well aware that war was a study in distraction, she stopped to peer in the window of H. Ware, Chemist, at the much-diminished display of cosmetics, perfume, and other ladies’ toiletry items. She heard the snick of the door opening just beside her. Before she could turn, she was unceremoniously thrust forward and nearly tumbled over her bicycle.

  “This is a shop,” a clipped voice informed her, “not a museum, Miss Bright. Kindly move yourself out of the way.”

  Olive rallied and turned to find Miss Verity Husselbee glaring daggers. Her silver-chestnut hair was neatly rolled and tucked beneath a forest-green felt hat, her wide-set hazel eyes were slightly squinty beneath downturned brows, and her nostrils were flared with affront. She was outfitted in camel-coloured trousers, a belted tweed jacket, and well-worn boots, a pair of binoculars hanging from her neck, as if she was off to hike the Inner Hebrides instead of simply planning to terrorise a village.

  Olive was in no mood for a verbal lashing, particularly an unwarranted one. She glanced pointedly at the CLOSED sign on the door in question before answering glibly, “Given that the shop doesn’t open for another hour, I thought I was safely out of the way. Then again, I hadn’t expected to confound a burglar before breakfast.”

  Miss Husselbee snorted her displeasure, looking and sounding rather like her father’s fusty old piebald. “The door,” she said haughtily, “was unlocked. Naturally, I stepped in. I was thinking only of efficiency, a quality, it seems, Dr Ware does not value particularly highly.” She glanced irritably back at the windowed door through which she had sailed a moment ago, then speared Olive with a pointed look. “I wouldn’t trust him if I were you.”

  Content to be distracted, Olive promptly propped her bicycle against the building’s inky blue exterior. Miss Husselbee’s nerve was the stuff of legend, and villagers were often to be found whiling away an evening at the pub telling tales—real and imagined—of the woman’s inarguable cheek. Olive’s favourite involved a facetious encounter with Herr Hitler, in which she denounced his moustache as an impotent caterpillar with delusions of grandeur. While the beastly little German’s reach may not yet have extended to Pipley, the village had been waging a quiet war with its very own tweedy autocrat for quite some time.

  The only daughter of a long-dead local magistrate and his hawkish wife, Verity Husselbee lived alone at Peregrine Hall on the outskirts of the village, along the banks of the River Lea. She had a strong sense of the proper way to do things and a compulsion to impose her will on others in the interest of the greater good. Naturally, this tendency was not generally well received.

  Her habit of wearing binoculars didn’t help the situation. Miss Husselbee claimed she kept them on hand for birdwatching, but the villagers suspected a more nefarious intent. Her seemingly innocent umbrella was resented in equal measure, as she had a habit of tapping its ferrule on the pavement whenever someone’s comment or behaviour prompted even a whiff of disapproval. The rat-a-tat of her approach was as effective as an air-raid siren, causing villagers to whip around corners and dodge into shops in a desperate attempt to steer clear of notice.

  Olive had long suspected the bluster was prompted by loneliness. Certain a loft full of avian friends was the answer, she’d taken to accosting the old
er woman whenever she had a pigeon in tow. Unfortunately, the busybodying had carried on, but Olive liked to think Miss Husselbee took secret pleasure in the camaraderie.

  Olive’s mother hadn’t got along with the older woman, but Harriet had forged a special bond with Miss Husselbee. Her stepmother had been walking home from the village on an autumn afternoon and had collapsed some distance from the lodge. Frightened by her suddenly worsened condition, she’d begun to panic. And then she’d heard the approach of a familiar umbrella. As Harriet told the story, Miss Husselbee had promptly taken charge, conscripting a trio of Girl Guides with an empty trek cart to assist. Within moments, Harriet had been tucked carefully into the cart and was being pushed along the lane, accompanied by a retinue of followers, all of them singing cheery songs—Miss Husselbee, evidently, the loudest of them all. Since the rescue, the two women had become fast friends, and Miss Husselbee would often pop in to check on Harriet’s condition, the pigeons, and, to his utter exasperation, the state of Olive’s father’s surgery. Olive had taken to calling her the Sergeant Major, but never to her face.

  “Why shouldn’t I trust him?” Olive whispered sotto voce, linking her arm with Miss Husselbee’s, as if the pair of them was thick as thieves.

  “All sorts of reasons,” said the older woman, extracting her arm from Olive’s grasp. “And I couldn’t possibly discuss them with you. Loose lips sink ships, Miss Bright, or haven’t you been paying attention?”

  “Clearly, Dr Ware is keeping everything shipshape,” Olive said, continuing with the nautical theme, “otherwise he wouldn’t be so tediously secretive.” She offered an exaggerated wink for good measure.

  “Don’t be impertinent, young lady,” Miss Husselbee demanded, her frown lines settling in comfortably. “I’m certain Harriet would want you to heed my warning.”

  Olive relished her response. “I rather doubt it, given that she’s the reason I’m darkening Dr Ware’s doorstep.”

  The umbrella came down with a violent thump. “Sometimes I do believe you’re intentionally dense, Miss Bright.” Her brow folded in on itself, a great big wrinkle of disapproval. Her gaze flicked to Olive’s bicycle. “Pigeons are resting today, hmm?” she said, managing to infuse the question with disapproval.

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve just seen Poppins off on the train with George.” Olive didn’t bother to hide her satisfaction, her smile daring the Sergeant Major to question the decision.

  A grouchy sound elicited from behind tight lips. “I suppose she’s the best of all of them.” There was the barest hint of curiosity in the words, but it wasn’t truly a question.

  “She’s my favourite,” Olive said stoutly.

  “If she’s anything like her namesake, she’ll manage.” With a decisive thump of her umbrella, she turned away, adding over her shoulder, “Carry on, Miss Bright. And do let me know when she’s back.”

  With Olive’s gaze trailing behind her, the older woman charged off down the lane. Feeling punchy, Olive saluted her retreating form. Such was the nature of her conversations with the Sergeant Major: maddening, with a twist. After a moment, she spun on her heel and rapped smartly at the door before nudging it open a crack. If Dr Ware was already in the shop, recovering from Miss Husselbee’s intrusion, perhaps Olive could engage him in a commiserating chat and casually hint her way around to picking up Harriet’s order early to save herself another trip.

  “Hullo, Dr Ware,” she called sunnily.

  “Yes, yes. Come in.” His tone was only mildly exasperated.

  Not needing any further encouragement, Olive stepped into the neatly compartmentalised shop. As always, her eyes ranged rather giddily over the rows of carefully labelled bottles, jars, and canisters lining the back wall in a colourful assortment of blues and greens, then swept along the glass display cases and paused at the enormous mortar and pestle of Carrera marble and the tall druggist scales, both of which took pride of place on the wooden countertop. A quiet shuffle drew her eye farther back, into the corner of the shop. Dr Ware was sitting at the little desk behind the counter, his spectacles only slightly askew, as he eyed her with weary patience. The table lamp gave his skin a sun-warmed, slightly jaundiced appearance and his eyes an artificial twinkle. In truth, he looked resigned and a trifle dishevelled, his papers gathered haphazardly into unwieldy stacks. She felt a twinge of guilt for interrupting him. He’d worked in the Department of Biochemistry at Oxford years ago, but to her, he was simply the village purveyor of throat lozenges, rose-petal lotion, and chocolate bars, even if they were in short supply these days. By the looks of things, he hadn’t given up his research entirely.

  “Good morning, Olive. I see you’ve survived the skirmish.”

  Meeting his sardonic gaze, she realised he was referring to her run-in with the Sergeant Major. “And lived to fight another day.”

  He rose and came around the desk and along the counter to stand across from her; he was only inches taller, but his broad shoulders seemed to fill the space. She smiled, noting the silk handkerchief in his shirt pocket and the gravy-coloured stain on his collar. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow, exposing forearms covered with pale curly hair; and his hands, propped on the counter, were capped by nails bitten to the quick. “When she stormed out of here, I wondered who’d end up on the receiving end of her ire. I should apologise.” With a sharp shake of his head, he pulled off his spectacles. He spared a moment to rub ruthlessly at his eyes before finally pulling his hand away to offer her a bleary smile.

  “Of course you shouldn’t,” Olive insisted, feeling freshly guilty. He looked entirely spent, and the day had barely begun. “You’re not even open yet, and we’ve pushed our way in. You’ve every right to be in a temper. I’m leaving right now so you can get back to your work.” She glanced curiously toward the corner that was glowing in the lamplight.

  He glanced backwards. “No need. My concentration is shot in any case.” Distractedly, he plucked the handkerchief from his pocket with the flair of a magician and rubbed its pink silk over the lenses of the spectacles he still held in his hand. He looked much younger without the owlish lenses, his grey eyes sharper, less distracted. It was as if a mole had nudged its way from the ground to stare blinking into the light of day. His age was a mystery, and Olive wondered suddenly whether he was old enough to avoid being called up. Perhaps the Sergeant Major had suspected he might be dodging his responsibility and had tried to press him for answers. Momentarily caught up in a nebulous conspiracy theory of her own making, she didn’t see him slip his glasses back on or tuck away the handkerchief. “She was irritated with me. That’s why she was behaving like a harridan.”

  Blinking herself back to reality, Olive ran her fingers over the polished wood trim of the display case, not wanting to be off just yet. “She can be quite insistent on getting her way, and seeing how difficult that is these days, I expect she’s inclined to be more testy than usual.” She flashed him a mischievous glance. “Don’t tell me you were out of wart cream?”

  “No, no. Fully stocked,” he said, too distracted to realise the suggestion had been in jest. “It was answers she wanted, not remedies.”

  Olive nodded in understanding. “It must be extremely difficult to diagnose suspicious symptoms accurately.” She suppressed a shudder at the very thought of Miss Husselbee’s medical maladies.

  He shook his head, somewhat flustered now. “No, no, nothing like that. And I couldn’t possibly discuss other customers.” He smiled awkwardly but took a step back from the counter, shoving his hands in his pockets. She heard the crinkle of paper, and he stilled, a hunted look in his eyes, as if he’d been caught out wearing a hairpiece. He promptly yanked his hands out again and busied himself straightening a box of combs on the counter. Curious now, Olive leaned confidingly closer.

  “She did say you were being entirely too secretive—” His elbow jerked violently and collided with a depressingly empty canister of humbugs. They both reached to steady it, and Olive said quickly, “But
don’t worry. You’re in good company. We’re all doing our bit.”

  Now he really looked harried and eager to get away, but before she could speak, he remembered. “I have Mrs Bright’s vitamins and anticoagulants right here.” He turned, pulled open a drawer in the cabinet behind him, sorted through various paper bags, and retrieved one, which he handed over.

  Sensing she was about to be shuffled out the door, she changed tack. “You look as if you could use a distraction, Dr Ware. Harriet tells me there’s a dearth of male participation in the village play.” She lifted her eyebrows, smiling encouragingly. “Perhaps you could . . .”

  “I’m afraid not,” he said, his tone now dismissive. “I’ve no time to spare. I wouldn’t be suitable in any case. Have a good day, Olive.” Before she could reply, he had moved to gather the stacks of paper that littered his desk, squeezed behind the little chair, and unlocked the door that stood just beyond it and led to the back room and his living quarters beyond. Without a backwards glance, he slipped through and tapped the door closed behind him.

  Olive stared, blinking, after him, wondering if he was coming back. He’d left the door to the shop unlocked, and anyone could barge in at any moment—that should have been only too obvious.

  “Thank you, Dr Ware,” she called. “I’m sorry to have bothered you so early. I’ll just let myself out.”

  No answer—not even a peep.

  Was he hiding back there? From her? Much as it pained her to agree with Miss Husselbee, he was being oddly mysterious. Curiosity surfaced and swirled, but she tamped it forcibly down and stepped out of the shop into the steadily warming air of early morning. It was nothing to worry over and no business of hers. He was tired and flustered and feeling a touch pernickety—quite rightly, too. The Sergeant Major had stuck her nose where it didn’t belong and been thwarted for her troubles. In other words, it was business as usual in the village.