Olive Bright, Pigeoneer

by Stephanie Graves

  “This week’s sermon is to be on cultivating a giving heart,” he said with a wink. “The writing process will ensure that particular virtue is at the forefront of my mind.” He gave her shoulder a friendly squeeze before slipping back out of the hall.

  Olive had only a moment to consider the implications of Margaret’s absence.

  “That man is not what he seems.”

  Startled, she swung around to find Miss Husselbee standing behind her with pursed lips and raised brows.

  “I disagree. He seems kind, understanding, knowledgeable, and hard-working. And all evidence confirms it,” Olive said tartly.

  “That’s exactly what he wants you to think,” came the ready response. “He’s entirely too approachable. We could all do with a bit of fire and brimstone to get the blood flowing and put the fear up our backs.”

  Met with no reply, Miss Husselbee huffed and stalked out of the hall, hot on the vicar’s heels. Poor man. Utterly exasperated, Olive stuck out her tongue at the retreating figure.

  The rest of the ladies gathered their bags and baskets, preparing to depart now that the hall was perfectly turned out for the dance, but Miss Rose had returned to the breakfront. She had carefully tucked away the sheets of tissue that had separated the tablecloths and was pulling out the punchbowl. Cups and plates had been arranged on the refreshment table, and tomorrow afternoon, ladies would parade in with cakes and sandwiches arrayed on their best serving dishes, but Miss Rose was always in charge of the punch.

  Olive crossed the room to speak to her. “Well, it looks as if Miss Husselbee has got her way again,” she said, gazing down the length of the hall, newly draped with the usual bunting.

  Miss Rose followed her glance. “And not a one of us surprised.”

  “I don’t mind it,” Olive admitted, suddenly imagining what it would be like to leave this all behind—the bickerings and the sameness—to begin war work away from home.

  “If Violet was here, she’d be ripping down Verity’s bunting and putting up the yellow just for spite.” Miss Rose gripped the punchbowl so tightly that Olive could see the whites of her knuckles. “Never tell her I said so, but Violet is not so very different than Verity, their ages notwithstanding. Both of them full to bursting with sheer bloody-mindedness.” She seemed almost to be talking to herself, but the moment was quickly gone with a half-hearted curve of her lips.

  “We’re all fortunate to have your steadying influence and sensible outlook,” Olive said.

  “Yes, well,” she said distractedly, twitching the hem of the tablecloth in front of her. “Violet has a long shadow, and she’s always needed a minder. I slipped rather naturally into that role, and when she left, I found myself rather hemmed in by expectations. I used to wonder if anyone would ever see past them,” she said quietly, blushing quite prettily—and rather curiously.

  Olive felt the truth of those words on her own account. With any luck, that would all change very soon. “So, show them,” she urged, lightly squeezing the librarian’s arm. “The world is in an uproar as it is—I suspect there’s not one of us who will emerge from this war unchanged—so you may as well take advantage. Let them see who you really are and what you’re capable of.”

  It could have been Olive’s imagination, but she thought Miss Rose stood a bit taller. “There is someone . . . ,” she started, raising a hand to the hair tucked up at the base of her neck. But seeing Olive’s brows raised in curiosity, she balked. “Perhaps I will. But right now, I’d best get back. Duty calls.” She turned and made to hurry back through the kitchen, leaving Olive to stare after her.

  Miss Rose could do as she pleased, but Olive had already resolved to take her own advice.

  Chapter 4

  Thursday, 1st May

  Her afternoon unexpectedly free, Olive set off home, using the solitary walk to plan her argument for enlisting in the ATS. In the distance, she could make out the faint explosions sounding from the grounds of Brickendonbury Manor. Some days, they popped like firecrackers; others, they more closely resembled the low rumble of rolling thunder. And afterwards, dark smoke curled stealthily into the clouds, like secrets slipping into obscurity. She’d been close enough a few times to see everything first-hand—and the craters left behind—but it was all meant to be kept secret. Signs were posted, and the grounds patrolled, so she’d had to sneak past and keep to the trees, no longer welcome to roam the property. Just another change wrought by the war.

  Olive quickened her steps at the thought that Poppins might have already returned home, eager to have a message from George, no matter how silly. As she turned to walk through the open gate, her gaze strayed to the birds that loitered atop the dovecote, but they were indistinguishable at such a distance. The pop of gravel had her twisting around in surprise to see an official-looking black Austin coasting to a stop just behind her, its engine abruptly cut. Olive could see two men behind the windshield, and as she watched, they exchanged a few words before folding open the doors and stepping into view.

  They both looked to be in their late twenties, dressed in rumpled trousers, scuffed shoes, and jumpers fraying at the cuffs. But where the driver was dark haired, his face shadowed by a plaid flat cap and impending stubble, his cohort had shiny copper-coloured hair, bright eyes, a snub nose, and a friendly, open countenance.

  “If you’ve come to see my father, he’s not at home,” she said with a smile, but the driver seemed to pay her words little attention. His gaze had flicked toward the dovecote, same as hers, before settling silently on her.

  Her face, she knew, was still winter pale, particularly against the raw red bloom of her lips. She had a habit of tucking them roughly between her teeth whenever something was worrying her, and lately her whole world was a worry. She watched his gaze range over her muddied boots and trousers, the chapped hands settled on her forearms, and her wild curls. She’d replaced the scarf she’d worn earlier with a pair of tortoiseshell combs, but they weren’t managing the task any better. She looked away first, shifting her attention to the other visitor, who was currently tracing lines in the gravel with his boot, as if he could happily while away the afternoon that way.

  “We’d like to have a look at your pigeons,” the driver finally said, his voice a low hum that skimmed over her skin.

  She blinked at them, momentarily stunned. The Pigeon Service had finally sent someone—two someones—to assess their birds and officially add the Bright loft to the list of pigeoneers committed to the war effort.

  It’s about bloody time.

  “Of course, you can see the pigeons,” she said, stepping toward them. “You’ve certainly taken your time in getting here—we’ve been expecting your visit for months. I’m Olive Bright, by the way.” A surge of relief burst through her. Things were going to be tickety-boo.

  With a startled look at his cohort, the copper top stepped forward. “Danny Tierney,” he said, giving her hand a warm, hearty shake.

  Olive noted the Irish lilt to his voice and blurted, “Has the Irish Homing Union joined with the NPS in supplying pigeons for the war effort?” Ireland remained staunchly neutral, but Olive was optimistic that their fanciers would side with the Allies.

  His gaze slid guiltily sideways, but before he could answer, the darker man moved forward and gripped her hand, his shrewd gaze suddenly sharpening as his fingers tightened on hers. “You’ve been expecting us?”

  “Not you particularly, of course,” she said, tugging her fingers from his. She smiled blandly. “Seeing as I don’t yet know your name.”

  “This is Jameson Aldridge,” Mr Tierney said. “Don’t mind him. He tends to get right down to business, pleasantries be damned.”

  Here, she thought, were the perfect Darcy and Bingley. Ruthlessly tamping down her frivolous thoughts, she hurried to welcome them.

  “No worries. You’re here now. I’ll show you around.” She turned to lead them toward the dovecote, giddy with excitement. The timing was brilliant. Were he home, her father might throw a w
rench in things, making demands and lording the Bright reputation over the committee members, but with him away, she could convince them to certify the loft—even grovel if she had to. The War Office needed the Bright pigeons, and she needed to know, before going off to join the ATS, that they’d be all right.

  “We completed the paperwork months ago,” she said, just a hint of reprimand in her voice. “It’s high time you showed up. Our birds have been yearning to get their assignments and get to work.” She was laying it on rather thick, but Mr Aldridge’s deadpan demeanour was throwing her a bit. She was eager to get the matter taken care of and have him rumbling away again down the drive.

  But first she’d show off her birds, every one of them a testament to her considerable experience breeding and training racing pigeons. She’d pull out the trophies only if she thought it might make a difference, and she wouldn’t worry at all about deciphering Jameson Aldridge’s inscrutable behaviour unless he seemed skittish with regard to their certification. “I admit I haven’t heard your names before, which surprises me. The racing world is relatively tight-knit, and my father knows everyone.”

  Olive rummaged beneath the yew hedge beside the door to the dovecote, unearthed the key from its hiding spot, and slid it into the securing padlock. “Necessary reinforcements against snakes and rats,” she said, nudging her boot against the iron plating at the base of the door until it swung wide. “And poachers,” she added, holding up the key.

  “Welcome to the Bright loft.” Pride was ringing in her voice. But there was a hint of desperation there, as well, which she hoped they couldn’t hear. “I recommend you take cover.”

  There was a built-in wooden bench just inside the door, with storage under the seat. She propped it open now and pulled out a brimmed hat, which she settled neatly on her head as she did a quick scan for Mary Poppins. Her shoulders dropped slightly as she realised the bird hadn’t yet returned.

  As the men moved past her, Mr Tierney readily accepted a hat. Mr Aldridge was evidently unconcerned with the threat posed to his own cap. Both men had tipped their heads back, and their gazes were spiralling around the interior of the little building. Olive tried to imagine seeing it through their eyes: the intricate lattice of wooden rafters that rose to a cupola on the roof, the numbered nesting boxes tucked into one wall, the inverted V forms, on which curious pigeons were perched and staring, the tidy arrangement of breeding pens, and the serviceable gravel floor, on which sat troughs for food and water.

  “The nesting boxes are all lime washed to prevent the spread of germs and disease, and we’re scrupulous about cleaning the loft twice a week.”

  Neither of them exhibited the slightest hint that they’d even heard her little spiel, so shrugging, she tipped the bench seat closed again and settled in to wait. No doubt this vetting process would take a bit of time.

  “Bright birds . . . ,” Tierney said with a little smirk. “You have to admit, Aldridge, they sound quite clever.”

  Aldridge clearly didn’t feel compelled to admit any such thing; he didn’t even respond, so intent was he in his perusal of the loft. Olive wasn’t used to dealing with anyone of Mr Aldridge’s particular intensity, and the effort was beginning to wear.

  “Of course they’re clever,” Olive insisted. “And all named for characters from children’s literature.”

  A white tiger-grizzle pigeon chose that moment to slip through a hole in the cupola and, with a magnificent fanning of wings and tail feathers, glided gracefully down, stretching its legs to land on the top rung of a wooden ladder propped against the far wall.

  With her visitors momentarily distracted by the dramatic entrance, Olive took the opportunity to sweep her eyes over Mr Aldridge’s surly profile. His jawline was angular, almost hard, and his cheekbones were prominent. His dark hair curled around his ear, hiding one end of a faded white scar that snaked dangerously down towards his chin.

  “That’s Hook,” she said abruptly, wondering about that scar. “Captain Hook. So named for the black grizzling near his eye.” She circled her finger before her corresponding eye until she realised no one was looking her way.

  “A pirate pigeon,” Tierney said, with a flash of teeth. “Just the sort of bird we’re looking for.”

  Perhaps spooked by the exuberant tone, Badger—another grizzled white—launched from his box. As he reached the rafters, he was directly above Mr Aldridge. Quite possibly in tune with Olive’s mood, he chose that moment to relieve himself. The good news was that the pellets were demonstrably healthy: firm and army khaki in colour; the bad news was that each of them struck his head before bouncing off to join the scattering on the floor.

  The man stilled, and Olive bit her lip to keep the corners of her mouth respectably restrained. From the corner of her eye, she could see Tierney trying, and failing, to stifle a snicker.

  “I did offer you an alternate hat,” she said prettily as he turned to look at her, pulling his cap from his head.

  The glimpses she’d had of dark hair, tucked away, had been just the tip of the iceberg. In the soft shafts of sunlight spearing through the dovecote, his wavy mop of hair seemed the colour of devil’s food cake, and his eyes, previously shadowed by his cap, were a clear grey blue, sheltered by hooded lids and long, curled dark lashes. Classic Irish colouring made him striking, but there was too much geometry in his face. It was all sharp planes and angles, including a curious kink at the bridge of his nose. He reminded her of a ghost from her past, a man who’d been both a thorn in her side and a short-lived romantic interlude before he’d joined up and effectively disappeared from her life. As he levelled his gaze on her face, she couldn’t help but feel relieved that his physical appeal was effectively counterbalanced by his stony reserve and disgruntled disapproval. Flirting with an NPS committee member charged with vetting their loft would have been entirely inappropriate; luckily, he’d efficiently dispatched all temptation. As if to corroborate that decision, he turned abruptly away from her and wiped his cap against a clean spot on the wall before settling it back on his head.

  “Occupational hazard,” he said brusquely, still glancing around him, perhaps newly curious about the healthiness of the birds and the suitability of the loft. It was unfortunate that this surprise visit hadn’t fallen on a day she’d scraped down the walls and cleared the floor of the inevitable droppings, but she couldn’t very well be expected to keep the dovecote pristine for months in anticipation of an impending visit. Mr Tierney, she noticed, was checking the bottom of his shoes.

  “Once upon a time, their diet was a mix of beans, peas, winter corn, and barley or rice, but with the shortages, we’ve had to improvise. We’re running rather low on feed in general, so your visit comes as a great relief.” Don’t sound desperate! She was quick to remind herself that it hardly mattered. Mr Aldridge certainly knew that if he denied them approval, they were going to be in dire straits.

  “What’s the maximum distance your birds have covered in a single flight?” he asked abruptly.

  She straightened. “Around five hundred miles.”

  “Average speed?”

  “Poppins is our fastest bird and has been clocked at eighty-five miles per hour, although average speed is closer to fifty.”

  Tierney let loose a long, slow whistle. Aldridge quietly lifted a single brow, and something flickered in his eyes. She suspected it was disbelief, and it set her hackles up.

  “The difference factors in weather conditions, wind speed, and the pigeon’s efficiency in getting its bearings.”

  Aldridge let that pass. “Which one is Poppins?”

  Her self-righteous indignation promptly shrivelled, cringing in on itself as worry crowded forward. It took her a moment to rally, but she lifted her chin, not quite meeting his eyes. “Not here at the moment, I’m afraid.” She offered no further explanation, hoping he’d leave it at that.

  For only the third time in the ten minutes they’d spent together, she had his full attention. Mr Tierney’s was similarly pique
d, and she found herself facing down two very different pairs of eyes.

  “Where is he?” Aldridge asked.

  Murder. “As it happens, Poppins is a hen,” she croaked, stalling for time.

  “Mary Poppins,” Tierney asserted, looking askance at his companion, his tone mildly reproachful.

  “Is that relevant to her current location?” Aldridge said dryly.

  Olive ignored his tone as the pulse fluttered worriedly at her throat. She swallowed with difficulty. “As Hook and Badger have just demonstrated, the birds are free to come and go as they please to a certain extent.”

  “So, you’re saying she’s out on her own reconnaissance?” he pressed.

  Olive couldn’t decide whether he was testing her or simply teasing, and the not knowing was entirely exasperating.

  Olive considered her options, her heart urged into reckless beating by nerves and uncertainty. There was some measure of truth to his interpretation of the situation. “In a way.” She lifted her gaze to his and determined not to blink, no matter what his reply.

  “So, if I were to wait,” Aldridge said carefully, “with the intent of examining the loft’s fastest bird, how long do you estimate it would take?”

  Tierney’s gaze volleyed curiously between the pair of them.

  Crackers! She had no idea when Poppins would make her way back to the loft. It all depended on when George decided to let her go—it could be two minutes from now or two days.

  “It’s rather difficult to predict and dependent on all sorts of things. As I’m sure you’re aware.” She tried smiling and felt her attempt bounce right off him.

  “Right.” His gaze held hers; his was heavy, calm, and implacable. Hers merely felt hunted. She suspected he could carry on for hours, perhaps days, but a telltale twitchiness was beginning to overtake her. Judging by the scrutiny in his gaze, he suspected some version of the truth and was even now trying to break her, and while that should have been the only incentive necessary to hold the line, she could feel herself beginning to crack. This visit was immensely important, and with Poppins absent, it was beginning to feel precarious.