Olive Bright, Pigeoneer

by Stephanie Graves

  And then he blinked. A second later he turned away, and her lungs flooded with relief. Olive eyed the open doorway, as if by staring hard enough at the periwinkle sky beyond, she could make Poppins appear. It wouldn’t be any use talking of other birds at this point, many of which had placed in numerous races. He knew he’d caught her at some deceit, and it was clear he had his own agenda.

  While she’d been distracted with worry, Aldridge had approached one of the nesting boxes, eyeing the preening blue cock poised in the opening. Reaching for the bird, Aldridge seemed to hesitate, but as with everything else where this man was concerned, she couldn’t be sure. Listing slightly to the side, lifting herself on the toes of her boots, she attempted to see around his broad shoulder as he examined the bird. When he turned, she rocked back on her heels, feigning composure.

  “That’s Fritz,” she informed him.

  “Oldest lad of the Swiss Family Robinson,” Tierney guessed, beaming with approval.

  She smiled distractedly, staring at the long fingers splayed over Fritz’s folded wings, lacing under his chest. Aldridge was literally keeping him at arm’s length. Her gaze shifted quizzically between the pigeon and the man before settling objectively on the bird.

  His eyes were bright and clear of discharge; his chest was thick; his back broad. His wings, tucked tight against him, were layered with smooth, silky feathers, and his feet were clean. She nodded, pleased with Fritz’s smart showing coming on the heels of Badger’s bad manners.

  Aldridge brushed his finger against the aluminium ring circling Fritz’s left foot.

  She opened her mouth to explain that it was used for identification, embossed with letters and numbers signifying the bird’s number, year of birth, and loft, but quickly shut it again. He already knew all that.

  “It seems you have quite a mix of breeds,” he said, setting the bird back in its nesting box. “Are they all homing pigeons?”

  A wrinkle formed between her brows. “This is a racing loft, Mr Aldridge. These birds are bred and trained to find their way home when released in an unfamiliar place, hundreds of miles away. This makes them ideal for war work. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  He flicked a glance at her, and she had the impression he was keeping something from her. “How many have experience flying long distances?”

  “All but the young birds and those in their second season. We don’t send them farther than seventy miles in their first season and two hundred and fifty in their second.”

  He abruptly changed tack. “The paperwork submitted to the NPS indicated a Rupert Bright as the owner of the loft.”

  The question was implied, and Olive was acutely aware of its importance. Her father had a reputation for being an expert on racing pigeons, but that reputation came with qualifying adjectives, including brash and bullheaded. It was up to her to downplay those bits and convince Mr Aldridge of her father’s absolute willingness to do whatever was necessary to support the war effort. Even if it meant relinquishing control of his precious birds into the hands of the military. If push came to shove, there’d be no other choice.

  “Rupert Bright is my father,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “But as I mentioned, he’s out at the moment. He’s a veterinary surgeon and away from home much of the time.”

  “Is he the one responsible for training the birds?” Aldridge said.

  “Not anymore.” He’d propped his shoulder against a clean spot on the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, watching her closely. Her gaze flicked to Tierney, who was peering into nesting boxes and attempting awkward birdcalls. Olive bit her lip. “I’ve done the bulk of it, going on seven years.”

  His face didn’t register surprise at this information. And more curiously still, not a flicker of disapproval, either. “And the breeding?” he queried.

  “I’ve handled much of that, as well.” Olive crossed her own arms and glanced down at the tips of her boots. “I was at the Royal Veterinary College before the war”—her chin went up—“and I’ve taken full responsibility for the pigeons since I’ve been home.”

  He eyed her for an uncomfortable moment, making her itchy with uncertainty. “Are you working for the war effort in any official capacity? WVS, Land Army?”

  “Not currently, but I have plans,” she said, poised to launch into a giddy explanation.

  “They’ll keep,” he said abruptly. She clamped her jaw shut, stunned at the utter gall of the man. Oblivious, he shrugged off the wall. “For now I think it’s time we were honest with each other.”

  A prickle of unease grew in her stomach, and she began to fear that her decision to send Poppins off on a mission of her own might have undermined any chance for the rest of the birds to make a real difference. One look at Tierney confirmed that he could offer nothing more than a sympathetic smile. Aldridge was the man in charge.

  Silence quivered between them, punctuated only by the occasional cooing or flapping of wings from the spectating birds, a regular theatre-in-the-round. After an insufferable several moments, in which the prickle grew into a thorny thicket of dread, she opened her mouth on an admission of guilt.

  “The National Pigeon Service isn’t coming,” he said dryly. Her mouth popped shut. “I’m not here to offer you accreditation.”

  Olive stared at him, conscious of a subtle weakening in her knees. He’d yanked the rug out from under her, and her world was rocking uncomfortably. Her gaze shifted between them—Tierney looked guilty, and Aldridge, grim—and shock settled heavy on her heart. She should have realised—and would have if she hadn’t been so over the moon at their arrival—the NPS was unlikely to have young, able-bodied men at their disposal. They were surely staffed by men her father’s age or older. She’d made a snap assumption, and they hadn’t corrected her.

  “Who are you, then?” she asked, her voice level. Void of the anger coursing through her.

  “I’ve read the paperwork on the Bright loft,” Aldridge said. “Your father has evidently made quite an impression on those in leadership positions at the NPS. I believe the words inflexible and insubordinate were used with some vehemence with regard to Mr Bright.”

  Her cheeks flushed, but he barrelled on, once again staving off any response she might have made.

  “It doesn’t matter in the slightest what they think,” he said, dismissing her umbrage as distractedly as he might wave away a second cup of tea, “if you are willing to consider an alternate opportunity.” He paused a moment to let the words sink in. “Our organization has an immediate need for pigeons, and we’ve got approval to vet your birds and loft on our own, outside the purview of the NPS and their committee.”

  Her eyes shifted to the door and narrowed with exasperation. “Oh no you don’t, you ill-mannered brute.” In the moment before she moved, she noticed the startled look on Aldridge’s face and silently praised Remus’s impeccable timing. He’d skulked through the doorway without bothering to glance in her direction and was now poised to prowl behind the men, who were likely wondering why she was advancing on them in a half crouch. “Pardon me”—she lunged between them—“while I get rid of him.” She held the hissing tabby up for their inspection, and Aldridge shirked violently away. Tierney grinned knowingly at his partner.

  “He’s actually a very nice fellow—if you’re not a pigeon,” she told them, dumping the cat out the door and pulling it closed behind him. Turning back, she smiled blandly. “You were saying?”

  Aldridge seemed to have recovered himself. “I can guarantee that our offer is the only chance your birds will have to assist with the war effort.”

  She crossed her arms as her stomach flip-flopped with impinging dread. “You clearly hold all the cards, Mr Aldridge,” she said tightly, “but you’re going to have to let me see your hand. You can’t possibly expect my father and me to make a decision with no information.”

  “Can I trust that you won’t reveal the nature of this conversation to anyone, even if we cannot come to an arrangement?”
<
br />   Olive bristled. “Of course.”

  Aldridge nodded to Tierney, who stepped toward her and pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. “We’d like you to sign to that effect,” he said, handing her the paper, along with a pen.

  As her eyes scanned the words, a familiar urgency gripped her. She’d felt so helpless with the war so far beyond her reach, but suddenly, here it was, in her own dovecote. She flattened the copy of the Official Secrets Act against the nearest wall, scribbled her signature on the appropriate line, and handed pen and paper back to Tierney.

  He smiled, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “We work for Baker Street, Miss Bright—”

  Olive interrupted before he could go on. “Don’t tell me. You’re Sherlock,” she said, looking pointedly at Aldridge before swinging her gaze back to Tierney. “And you’re the all-suffering John Watson.”

  “It’s a fitting comparison in more ways than you might think,” said Tierney. “But in truth, we call it Baker Street because it’s even more top secret than everything else these days. Only those of us on the inside know the organization’s true name—and we’re not meant to use it.”

  “I suppose the pigeons will be Irregulars?”

  “Oh, I think we all fill that role to a certain extent,” Tierney said with amusement.

  Aldridge took over. “It’s been determined that pigeons might be of some benefit to our various operations. In communications with the NPS, your name came up. Given that none of us can boast any”—here he paused awkwardly—“pigeon experience, any arrangement would need to involve your continued care and maintenance of the birds.” He raised his brows pointedly. “And all of this is naturally contingent on your birds being as impressive as you would have us believe,” he added, qualifying the statement.

  She had a sudden flash of insight, and a spark of irritation fired in her blood. “This visit hasn’t been about the pigeons at all, has it? You’ve been assessing me since the moment you drove up.”

  “Don’t take it personally,” he urged. “If you’re to work for Baker Street, you’ll need to get used to all manner of these little tests.”

  She glared at Aldridge. “I should have known you weren’t NPS,” she muttered. “Your knowledge of pigeons is laughable.”

  The pair of them looked at each other, no doubt believing they’d played their parts with aplomb.

  Olive’s lips twisted wryly. “You don’t know the first thing about these birds or their abilities. And you were clearly worried Fritz might pee on you.”

  Tierney barked out a laugh, but Aldridge twisted his head sharply to the side, obviously disappointed in himself.

  She narrowed her eyes as a thought suddenly occurred to her. “Your secret operations are based out of Brickendonbury, aren’t they?”

  That caught their attention, and Tierney quickly sobered.

  “What do you know about Brickendonbury?” Aldridge demanded.

  Thrilled to momentarily have the upper hand, Olive answered casually, “The entire village knows it’s been requisitioned for the war effort, and they’ve all heard the explosions. Not everyone has seen them up close, though.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially and flashed them an impish grin. “The ones that go off in the moat are my particular favourites.”

  “Mine too,” Tierney agreed with a wink. He deflected a dark look from Aldridge with a dimpled grin, then added, “I’d say she seems round about perfect, all things considered.”

  Aldridge gazed at her calmly, but a muscle worked in his jaw. “Brickendonbury is three miles from here,” he said, “on a private road sheltered by a dense line of trees. You seem to know rather a lot about goings-on that have been intentionally kept secret from outsiders.”

  “You wouldn’t believe how often I get underestimated,” she said confidingly. Aldridge tipped his head back, as if marshalling his patience, and Olive took pity on him. “In order to train the pigeons to home properly, condition them for long races, and improve their flying times, I need to release them from various points at varying distances from the loft. Brickendonbury has always been a good starting point.”

  “Right.” He nodded, thoroughly exasperated. “To answer your question, yes, our operations are being run out of Brickendonbury, otherwise known as Station Seventeen.”

  “What sort of operations are they?” A little thrill zipped through her at the thought of being officially in on the secret.

  The question prompted a hitch of a smile from Mr Aldridge. “Secret ones.” Seeming to understand the exasperation such an answer was likely to inspire, he added, “The details of an operation are shared only with the personnel involved in its ultimate success or failure.” As she opened her mouth, he tacked on a final clarification. “As far as you’re concerned, they’re secret.”

  “Naturally,” she drawled, refusing to show her disappointment. “Are you the ranking officer? Or is that a secret, as well?”

  He smirked. “No. The man in charge has a better sense of humour, a diabolical imagination, and a flair for the dramatic.”

  What a pity he didn’t come instead.

  “Captain Aldridge is, however, the officer in charge of acquisitions,” Tierney said pointedly.

  Captain, is it?

  “Let me guess.” Olive was no longer under any illusions. “That would include my birds.”

  “Aye. And you, as well,” Tierney confirmed.

  When her eyes widened in unconcealed shock, Aldridge hurriedly clarified.

  “What Mr Tierney means is that I would be your liaison with Baker Street and Brickendonbury.”

  “I’m not entirely comfortable forming a liaison with you, Captain Aldridge.” A rough cough emanated from Tierney, but she went on, “It would be better for everyone if you spoke with my father.”

  “No,” Aldridge said abruptly. “Respectfully,” he continued, “we’d like to avoid the aforementioned inflexibility and insubordination.” He paused, scanning her face. “By your own admission, you’ve been running the loft for years—your racing record stands as recommendation enough. We’re willing to bring you in as our pigeoneer, in a mutually beneficial arrangement,” he said pointedly, “providing you can manage to keep it secret.” He slapped his cap against the leg of his trousers, the picture of nonchalance.

  “You may want that word with my father, after all,” she said. Her lips curled into a sour smile as she marvelled at his high-handedness. “I’m not nearly the paragon of virtue you might imagine.” His gaze said he could well believe it.

  “It is, of course, your decision, but if you reject our offer, it’s unlikely your loft will survive the war. As I said, the NPS is not coming, and our offer will not be extended to your father.” With an unexpected touch of empathy, his voice softened as he continued, “If you’d been officially vetted, the NPS would have collected your birds for deployment by the RAF or the army. You’d never have known where they were being sent or on what purpose.”

  “Yes, well, at least I’d be certain that wherever they were going, their importance to the war effort would be understood and appreciated.” She glared at him. “With you,” she continued harshly, “they’re liable to be involved in explosions set off by Irregulars who don’t fully grasp their potential.”

  Feeling much harangued, she sighed and reached up to rub her throbbing temple. She needed a moment to grasp the nature of the situation before her. Everything was topsy-turvy: the NPS wasn’t coming, and it seemed Baker Street was here instead. They wanted her, as well as the pigeons, which meant her plans for shooting down Jerries would fizzle and die before they’d ever had a fighting chance. And if she agreed, all of it would need to remain a secret, which meant she’d have to lie. How could she possibly engage in such a betrayal? This was her father’s loft. How could she conspire to send his pigeons off to war without his knowledge or permission?

  “If I agree, can you guarantee feed for the birds?” she asked, peering at him from beneath her hand. “Otherwise, it’s a deal-breaker, I’m a
fraid.”

  He nodded sharply.

  Olive’s teeth worried her lower lip. That assurance wouldn’t have been nearly enough for her father, but the fact that Captain Aldridge could offer it was a huge mark in his favour.

  “Can you provide a certificate of exemption?” Equally as important as the feed, that paper would ensure that in the event of an invasion, her loft would be saved from destruction. Without it, birds and loft would be destroyed to prevent them being used by the Germans.

  Once again, he nodded. “There does remain one small detail before we can determine if this arrangement has any chance of success,” Aldridge said, interrupting the clamour of thoughts vying for attention in her head.

  “That’s wildly optimistic,” she said acidly, “but do tell.”

  “You’ve not yet held up your end of the bargain.” She blinked in confusion, but after a frustrating pause, he clarified, “I’m going to need to know where exactly Poppins is and when she’ll be back.”

  Sunday, 24 September 1939

  Peregrine Hall, Pipley

  Hertfordshire

  Like countless of her pigeons before her, O.B. has flown back home again. The war has put a halt to her studies at the Royal Veterinary College in London, and now she is endeavouring to keep busy wherever help is needed. But it’s quite clear, at least to me, that she is biding her time. Before long, she’ll almost certainly volunteer for one of the women’s auxiliary services.

  Her father won’t like it, but he’ll bear up, as we all must. Surely, he’ll understand that after all the war stories her mother told, she will feel compelled, likely even obligated, to live up to that legacy. I’ve often wondered if I should have spoken up long ago. There are times when you stumble over the truth, quite by accident, and you must decide what’s to be done with it. In this case, I’m not entirely certain I made the right choice. There is still time, however. Perhaps I should reconsider the matter.