Except that George was gone.
Gripping the paper bag against the handlebars, she climbed onto her bicycle and was poised to push off when Henrietta Gibbons came around the corner, pulling a weathered blue trek cart whose wheels looked like they were holding on by sheer force of will. There was a pillowcase tucked into a corner of the cart, its folds tenting and shifting as if by invisible hands.
“You’re out early, Hen,” Olive said. “Doing your good deed for the day?”
Henrietta Gibbons, Girl Guide—as she’d taken to introducing herself to everyone she met—was an auburn-haired eleven-year-old with the manner of royalty, despite her homely nickname. She paused her progress.
“You could say that,” she allowed.
Exasperated, Olive pressed, “Truthfully?”
The girl considered. “Is it still a good deed if you’re getting paid?”
“Not as good.”
She shrugged accommodatingly. “I’ve hours left to fit in a bona fide.”
Olive’s gaze flicked to the pillowcase. “Who’s paying you, and for what?”
“Dr Ware wanted mice.”
Olive frowned. “Why?”
“He didn’t say. I didn’t ask. But at two for a shilling, how could I refuse?” She glanced back over her shoulder. “I caught four.” Her smile was one of delighted triumph.
Not feeling equal to the task of questioning her further, Olive said, “Well done, then,” and walked on as Hen swept past to rap on the chemist’s door. She wondered if the Sergeant Major knew about the mice.
She resumed her bicycle and coasted through the village. Her eyes strayed unerringly toward the noticeboard, which was crowded with a calendar of events, various adverts, and the colourful placard that took pride of place. The Daffodil Dance was only two days away. The mere thought of it prompted Olive to start pedalling in earnest.
As she rode home, admiring the glorious spring green, she thought of her mother, who had been an ambulance driver in France during the Great War and had later died of tuberculosis. Olive couldn’t imagine a life more tragically cut short. Her mother had been so vitally, fervently alive, flitting like a butterfly between projects and causes. She’d left her daughter to nurture her own independence, and Olive relished the chance to follow in her mother’s marvellous wake. Serena Bright was a shining star, tireless and charming, but those very qualities often overwhelmed her. Then she would retreat to the dim privacy of her bedroom to face the merciless headaches that stole over her, and Olive would be dispatched to the chemist for her tablets. She’d spent countless hours lingering outside the door to her mother’s room, hoping to be let in, but her mother was never anxious for her company. When Olive did see her, she was skittish and irritable, shirking the sunlight and drawn into herself. And as the months passed, and her mother began to slip away more and more, now quite dependent on her tablets, Olive took refuge in her memories. The sickness, when it came, seemed almost inevitable.
Olive was certain her mother would have appreciated her desire for a more active role in the war. A volunteer position that would put her on the front lines and engage her efforts in the defence of Britain. Or at least as close as was possible for a woman. She would have understood that Olive wasn’t scared to go, but rather was afraid not to. Most of all, she’d know instinctively how best to convince Rupert Bright that this was what his daughter needed to do, despite his predictable misgivings. But Serena Bright had been gone a long time, and Olive’s stepmother was a different sort of woman entirely.
When her mother had been in the final, painful throes of her illness, the hospital had dispatched Harriet Vickers. Her brisk, efficient manner, cheery disposition, and indomitable spirit had been precisely what was needed, and by the time Serena Bright had slipped away, Olive and her father had become quite irrevocably attached. It had been only a matter of months before her father decided to marry again, and free of the long shadow cast by her mother, Olive had guiltily basked in the lustre of Harriet’s warm accessibility. Resentments had flickered over the years—when Olive’s memories would shift in favour of those long-ago crystal-bright days when the world had seemed to spin giddily around her mother—but they had quickly faded, like a cinema reel played out.
Harriet worked tirelessly for the war effort, but she had no aspirations, for herself or her stepdaughter, beyond the WI, and she likely wouldn’t condone anything inherently risky. With the best of intentions, she might even tender a comparison between mother and daughter, prompting Olive’s father to come stodgily down on the side of caution. As far as the ATS was concerned, Olive was very much on her own.
Long before coasting through the gate, she could hear the raucous chattering of the little birds in the hedgerows that bordered the lane. Her father had renamed the ancient hunting seat Blackcap Lodge, and Olive thought the new title suited the sprawling Tudor-style dwelling perfectly. It hinted at long-ago hunting parties, warm fires, adventurous rogues, and cosy bunk rooms. The reality, that it had been named for the little dark-headed warblers that came in situ, was irrelevant.
As if she’d conjured him, her father appeared right in front of her, a tall, barrel-chested man, his once blond hair silvering with the same grey that had lately begun to overrun the bushy tangle of his eyebrows. He stood beneath the blossoming cherry tree in the side yard, scuffing mud off his boots while his Welsh corgi, Kíli, nosed in the hydrangea bushes. Hearing the crunch and pop of her wheels on gravel, the dog backed out of the shrubbery to trot in her direction.
“Coming or going?” she called to her father, sliding off the bike before it came to a full stop. She leaned down to rub behind the dog’s ears as its little nub of a tail twitched eagerly.
“Going, I’m sorry to say. A swollen fetlock takes precedence over a leisurely breakfast. As it should,” he added with a nod. “So, I’m off to the Donnelly farm. But Harriet would love some company, I’m sure.” He winked at her and squatted to rummage about in his surgeon’s bag, making certain he had everything he required.
Her stepmother would no doubt try to press her into spending the morning knitting, and she couldn’t bear it. Not today.
After a moment, he said distractedly, “George get off all right?”
Propping her bike against the side of the old barn he’d outfitted as a surgery, Olive pressed her lips together, nodding, relieved that the rawness of her emotions had scarred over a bit. She could blame only her distracted state of mind for the words that tumbled out on the next breath. “I sent Poppins with him.”
Her father straightened, his brow furrowed in confusion. “You’re not serious . . . ?”
She squirmed, wishing she hadn’t said anything. He probably wouldn’t have noticed, anyway. Poppins was one of her pigeons, and with racing postponed for the duration of the war, she’d taken full charge of the loft.
“I didn’t want him to have to go off alone . . .” Her voice sounded irritatingly sullen.
He rubbed a rough hand over his face before pinning her with a glare. “Are you out of your bloomin’ mind?” His face began to redden as exasperation fired his blood. With a muttered curse, he began to pace, prompting Kíli to respond with a choreographed crouch-and-bounce ballet, which was generally ignored. “What if the Pigeon Service picks today to visit? How do you imagine they’ll take to the news that you’ve sent one of our best racers out on a lark?” Before Olive could respond, he roared, “Quit that, you ill-mannered brute!” The dog had apparently nipped his fingertip, hoping for a bit of attention. Even now, the squat little thing wasn’t cowed, well aware that Rupert Bright’s bark was much worse than his bite.
The Pigeon Service was no doubt well aware of the same; they simply couldn’t be bothered to tolerate either. But she couldn’t very well say that.
“None of this is a game, Olive,” her father said, shooting a disapproving glance in her direction. His eyes were tired, and his face had thinned over the past year, the skin having slackened at his cheekbones and jaw, which was current
ly roughly shaven and grim.
“I know that!” She nearly shouted the words, unable to stop herself. “How can you think I don’t know that? He went off this morning, one step closer to taking his turn against those hateful Nazis, and there’s every chance that one day soon he’ll be shot right out of the sky . . .” The last word crumpled out of her. She clipped her mouth shut, fighting down the lump that had returned, noticeably bigger than before, to the base of her throat.
His manner changing abruptly from ferocious disapproval to brusque understanding, her father stepped toward her, placed his hands on her rigid shoulders. “You mustn’t think like that, Olive. George wouldn’t want you to think like that.” Reaching up to run the pad of his thumb over her cheek, he added, “What on earth’s happened to your fighting spirit, my dear?”
“I suppose the knitting and gardening aren’t keeping it particularly sharp.” She sounded mulish, even to her own ears. “I’m sure it’ll be back on track soon enough,” she added cryptically, determined to speak to him that very evening.
“You always did want to be smack in the centre of things,” he said softly. “Just like your mother. Sometimes, my dear, it’s more courageous to be the one left behind.”
Olive searched his face, wondering if there was more to that quiet certitude than was prompted by this particular moment.
“Now, don’t go telling the pigeons I said that.” His ruddy cheeks rounded in amusement at his little joke, and she turned to glance wistfully towards the dovecote, which was standing sentry a little ways from the house, like a turret displaced from the top of a castle wall. Hexagonal in shape, ringed with leaded-glass windows, and crowned with a cupola, it was ridiculously fanciful. But it was equipped with everything the birds could want. Even now, three of the creatures were sunning on perches high above the ground, their quizzical, intelligent eyes scanning the spring-softened countryside. She wondered ruefully if they spied any errant NPS officials.
“They’re not coming,” she said, her tone flat. She hadn’t voiced her suspicions even to George, but the reality had been worrying her for some time. “Too much time has passed.”
Her father immediately understood, making her wonder if he’d come to the same conclusion on his own. “I’ve offered,” he huffed, dropping his hands. “I can’t very well help it if the National Pigeon Service doesn’t appreciate the sort of standard we adhere to. It’s why we’re champions, by God.” His voice built to a crescendo but quickly calmed as his gaze skimmed her face. “I suspect the War Office will put a bit of pressure on the NPS before too long. The situation is too critical.” He wrung his hands distractedly. “The Bright loft is known for fast, smart birds with good instincts and fighting spirit.”
“I know,” she said, the tightness in her chest loosening slightly. She was suddenly desperate for a cup of tea. “So, you can understand why I couldn’t help but send one with George. He’ll be sending her home soon enough, but it makes my mind easier, knowing she’s with him.”
He was silent for a moment before absently patting her on the arm. “Yes, well. Don’t lose hope, Olive. They’ll come. You’ll see.” He glanced sternly down at Kíli and hoisted his surgeon’s bag before adding, “I’d best get on with things. You go in and eat your breakfast. See if you can bring yourself to knit a sock or two.” He winked at her and walked down the drive, whistling for the dog, who went hurtling after him, churning up a low trail of dust.
With a deep sigh, Olive skirted the barn and slipped under the lacy pink overhang of the cherry tree, shortcutting the path to the dovecote. After retrieving the key from its uninspired hiding place beneath a large moss-covered stone, she unlocked the door and stepped into the dim interior, with its familiar earthy tang.
As she tipped her head back to admire the pale sunbeams filtering in through the pigeonholes far up in the cupola, a little flicker of warmth kindled in her chest. “Good morning, Bright young things.” Corny it might be, but it always made her smile. She lifted the heavy lid on the bin of pigeon feed and stared down at the ever-dwindling supply. With the bulk of crops reserved for human consumption, there was little available maize, peas, wheat, or barley left for pigeons. What there was had been reserved for lofts that had been vetted by the Pigeon Service to provide birds for the war effort.
Scooping some feed into the long, shallow trough on the floor near the far wall, she glanced up at the numbered nesting boxes tucked into the lime-washed walls, wondering if the birds had any sense of how dire their situation was becoming. A svelte white hen with red-rimmed eyes scrutinised her from a box at eye level. “You needn’t look at me like that, Queenie. I’m doing everything I can.” The hen was clearly reserving judgment, and Olive wished she could offer something more definitive, but this was war, and certainty was as common as citrus—which was to say there was none to be had. She hadn’t tasted—or even glimpsed—an orange in months.
“Rest up,” she said, encouragingly, replacing the scoop and sealing the bin of food. As her gaze ranged over the dovecote’s inhabitants, her thoughts flashed back to the fairy tales she’d devoured as a girl. Here they all were, locked away in a tower, waiting to be saved. Well, in truth, they were waiting for a chance to do their bit in this war. She snorted, startling a young grey that had wafted closer, likely ready to eat. “We don’t need a hero, ladies and gents,” she said briskly. “Because we are going to save ourselves.”
After giving them all a jaunty nod, she walked through the door, pulled it closed behind her, and relocked it with the key. As she dropped the key back into its hiding place, she murmured quietly to herself, “I just need to figure out how exactly we’re going to do that.”
Chapter 2
Thursday, 1st May
“You’re not the sort of girl who lets herself feel helpless, Olive. And certainly not hopeless.”
Olive started, her gaze flicking to the lemon-yellow chaise in the corner and the piecrust table beside it, against which leaned a polished cherrywood cane. The room had been empty when she’d slipped inside, not quite ready for breakfast or company. As she’d stared blindly out through the parlour’s French doors, into the back garden, gently raking her nails over a neatly embroidered pillow and thinking hard, her stepmother had made her cumbersome way to the chaise, arranged herself comfortably, and turned on the wireless. Olive now realised it had been droning on about what to eat and how to prepare it for some time. It felt as if she’d managed to squeeze an entire day’s worth of emotions into the two hours since she’d crawled out of bed.
“George is doing his duty, and you can do no less,” Harriet said, clasping her fingers over the pearl affixed to her earlobe. Her stepmother, Olive knew, spoke from experience. She’d long managed the Bright household with high spirits and brisk efficiency, but lately her condition had demanded she carry on from a windowed corner of the parlour with her favoured ruby-red afghan draped over her legs. Her tiresome battle with multiple sclerosis, long manageable and unchanging, seemed as if it might now be beginning in earnest.
“It’s not at all fair that women are always the ones left behind,” she continued, dropping her pen into the cradle of the book open on her lap, “but I like to think it’s because we are more steadfast, willing to carry out all the little jobs that are entirely necessary but quite beneath the notice of most men.”
Harriet’s sable hair was styled in an impeccable chignon, the shock of white near her right temple giving the style a rakish, modern flair. Paired with the clever glint lurking amid her calm grey eyes, and the wry twist of rose-coloured lips, her entire demeanour exuded self-sufficiency, giving not the slightest indication of her ever-expanding need for assistance. Olive’s decision to step into the fray was not without its pitfalls. How would Harriet manage without her? And what of the pigeons? She’d be going against her father’s wishes, and Jonathon would once again be left behind.
As the wireless marched on in its programme schedule to Take Your Choice, a medley of music from records pulled seemingl
y at random, Olive couldn’t help the sigh that escaped her.
Harriet suddenly reached out, and her hand fumbled with the catch of the jade enamelled box on the little piecrust table. Inside, Olive knew, was a neat little phalanx of cigarettes. Mostly they remained untouched—in reserve—until her stepmother’s defences were down, her nerves particularly frayed, or her symptoms depressingly debilitating. The paper bag from the chemist sat where Olive had left it, crinkled and ignored on the table, beside the little box.
“The best thing you can do now is carry on, keep busy, and have faith that every effort, no matter how small, is helping the cause. And to that end,” she began, her lips curving into a mischievous smile that didn’t quite match the harried look in her eyes, “I’ve put your name in for the WI’s latest undertaking. It was unanimously agreed that your veterinary expertise made you an ideal candidate to chair this particular scheme.” As Olive digested this news, Harriet selected a cigarette and flicked her elegant gold lighter to flame.
Olive opened her mouth to protest her suitability, given that she had every intention of going off to join the ATS, then popped it closed again. No one knew her plans. Now, more than ever, it had become imperative that she speak to her father the moment he got home. She’d simply have to stave off her stepmother’s expectations until then.
Oblivious to the warring thoughts tumbling about in Olive’s head, Harriet had closed her eyes to enjoy the first few puffs of her cigarette. As they fluttered open again, she said, “Having refused a part in the play, I decided you’d have plenty of time to be in charge of the Pipley pig club we’re starting.”
Olive nearly scoffed. Harriet had basically volunteered her to raise an indeterminate number of piglets for the sole purpose of supplementing the village ration. It would be a grim job of mud, manure, and pig slop that eventually led to butchering. “Marvellous,” she agreed, wondering if Harriet was paying close enough attention to register the ringing tones of sarcasm.
Olive Bright, Pigeoneer Page 3