For now, O.B. is preoccupied, waiting for the Pigeon Service to come calling. We have all heard her father’s stories of the pigeon heroes of the Great War and know what good those birds have done and will do. I daresay she’d be better off drawing inspiration from those birds as she struggles to find her way through these harrowing times.
V.A.E. Husselbee
Chapter 5
Thursday, 1st May
Hearing the latch behind her, Olive spun around to stare, slack-jawed, at the narrow frame silhouetted in the loft’s doorway. “Jonathon!” Her outburst startled a few of the birds, prompting them to take up new positions amid the loud flapping of wings. She waved him in. “Hurry and shut the door. Remus is lurking.” He did as instructed and turned shyly back, eyeing the visitors with open curiosity. “How long have you been standing there?” she demanded.
“Long enough to hear that the NPS isn’t coming.”
“And Brickendonbury?” Olive suggested.
“Yes, that too.” As Aldridge swore, Jonathon added, “If it helps, I’m still bally confused.”
“It doesn’t,” Aldridge said brusquely. Catching Tierney’s eye, he gestured for the paper Olive had signed earlier and the requisite pen. Both were handed over, and he approached Jonathon as he unfolded the document. Olive moved to stand by the boy’s side. “You’ve heard enough that I’ll need your signature, certifying you won’t speak of any of this to anyone.”
Jonathon peered down at the page he’d been handed. As he realised the importance of the document in front of him, his eyes flashed up and bobbed between the two men. Unable to conceal the awe in his voice he said, “Are you here on official war business?”
“The less you know, the better,” Aldridge said sternly.
Jonathon looked crestfallen, but he took a moment to scan the page and then bent to carefully sign his name beneath hers.
“I disagree,” Olive said consideringly.
His jaw rigid, Aldridge silently plucked the document from Jonathon’s hands, clearly wondering what he’d done to deserve being involved with this circus. Judging by his contemplative expression, Tierney seemed to be blessed with an open mind.
“If I agree to a liaison,” Olive began, “then all of it—the odd comings and goings, the pigeons gone missing, not to mention the sudden, miraculous appearance of feed—will either need to be explained or kept secret. My father will be a particular challenge. He is quite keen on the pigeons and liable to look in on them at any moment of the day.” Her mind boggled even as she considered the intricacies of the deception.
“You’re a resourceful girl—I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
She narrowed her eyes, not at all certain he’d intended the statement as a compliment.
“It would be one thing if I lived alone. It’s quite another to deceive two curious people living under the same roof, not counting the one coming in daily to cook and clean, who happens to be as tenacious as a badger. It would be nearly impossible to carry off without an accomplice.”
“An accomplice?” The disbelief was back in the captain’s eyes.
“A sidekick,” Olive clarified. “A right-hand man, so to speak.”
“Sure, and she’s right, Aldridge. She cannot do it alone.”
The captain rubbed a hand roughly over his jaw, exasperation writ large in every line of his body.
Jonathon mustered his courage and spoke up. “I know all about war pigeons, how they can get through, flying hundreds of miles home, when a wireless breaks down. I’ve been hoping this lot get their chance to be heroes, and I’d like to help if I can.” He stopped just short of saluting, and Olive smiled fondly at him.
Before Captain Aldridge could reply, a distant voice sounded from the drive.
“Ho, ho, I do believe she’s back.”
With a sick sense of déjà vu, Olive realised it was only a matter of seconds before her father joined them in the dovecote. Jonathon still stood in the doorway, his face a mask of uncertainty. A glance at their visitors showed that Tierney had thrust his hands in his trouser pockets and Aldridge had donned his soiled cap and was pulling it low over his eyes, both of them having instinctively shifted toward the wall.
The door swung wide once more, amid some muttered grumbling, and her father appeared and fussily shooed Jonathon out of the way. “If I’m not mistaken”—his gaze landed excitedly on his daughter—“our girl’s come home! I saw her approach, so she should be heading in at any moment.”
As he suddenly caught sight of their visitors, his brow beetled in confusion. “Who are you?” he demanded of Aldridge, who was nearer the door.
Nervous urgency whipped through Olive. She hadn’t formally agreed to an arrangement, but if her father had reason to be suspicious, it would be over before it had even begun. Needing desperately to fill the silence, Olive parted her lips, her mind blank; then, in a rush, the lie came to her, perfectly formed. “This is Jamie Aldridge.” She flicked an admiring glance in his direction. “He’s asked me to the Daffodil Dance.”
A sound closely resembling a snort emanated from Mr Tierney’s vicinity, and he promptly bent forward, raising a fist to his mouth.
“I see.” Her father glanced between his daughter and her date for the dance, eyes narrowed. “And are you planning to go with him?”
Olive blinked, soundly caught in her own trap. Her throat felt thick and uncooperative, but the answer finally came. “Yes, of course.”
Her stomach roiled with conflicting emotions. As if everything else weren’t enough, now she’d embroiled herself in an imaginary entanglement with Captain Aldridge. What had possessed her to call him Jamie? In fairness, he had encouraged resourcefulness. She wondered if he was second-guessing that decision now.
“Who’s this he’s brought along, then?” her father demanded.
“Danny Tierney, sir,” came the ready reply. “I already have a date for the dance.”
“Right,” her father said, eyeing him quizzically. “Rupert Bright.” He shook each of their hands in turn. “These are my birds.” His gaze swept proudly around the dovecote. “Although my daughter,” he added wryly, “has come to view them as very much her own.” He winked at her then. “And I suppose they are.”
As Olive watched, her father tipped his chin down and clasped his hands behind his back, stepping farther into the loft. She was well acquainted with her father’s lord-of-the-manor moods. “Know anything about pigeons, lads?”
“A very little,” Tierney said cautiously.
“They’ve already been instrumental to the war effort, did you know that?” His chest was puffed out proudly in the tweed hunting jacket he wore out on calls.
Tierney, she’d quickly learned, tended to defer to Aldridge on all matters, and it was the latter who answered, albeit somewhat unwillingly. “I’d heard they’ve had some success.”
Her father’s lips curved ever so slightly at the corners. It was a look Olive recognised well: he was prepared to school these two young strangers on the noble pigeon, and he planned on enjoying it immensely. He sidled closer. “The King himself keeps a loft at Sandringham,” Rupert Bright informed them. “Pigeon racing is a hobby of his, as it was for his father and grandfather before him, and now the young princesses have caught the bug, as well. The royal line started with a pair of pigeons, gifted by King Leopold II of Belgium.” He brought his chin up, pausing to let the prestige sink in. “They’ve won their share of races, and in a true demonstration of patriotism and solidarity, a few of those royal birds have been offered in service in the Great War as well as this latest debacle. I’ll have you know—”
They were saved a continued lecture by the arrival of Mary Poppins, who chose that moment to slip in through the dovecote’s cupola and lower herself gracefully among them, as if drifting down beneath an open umbrella. Olive smiled, a flutter rising from her stomach to her chest until it feathered out on a sigh of relief.
Her father hopped spryly forward, lifted Poppins from her per
ch and, with quick fingers, deftly slipped the tiny canister from her leg. Holding it up for Tierney and Aldridge to see before handing it over to Olive, he said proudly, “See that? She was released heaven knows where but returned unerringly to her home loft, message intact.” He set her beside a tray of water on the floor and beamed down at her. “Did you know pigeons are the only birds that don’t need to tip their heads back to drink?”
Poppins knew they were watching her and took the attention as her due. She was, inarguably, a pretty bird, with her pearly white chest, heart shaped like a dove’s; her wings marked with distinctive grey-blue bars; and the iridescent colour at her throat. But more importantly, she was a champion. Olive was glad to have her back and had just extracted the message she’d carried when her father’s thundering voice startled her into dropping it.
“With the proper oversight, these birds would be pivotal to the war effort, but the Pigeon Service wants only to snatch them away and shuttle them into service without anyone knowledgeable enough to manage them.”
Olive crouched to retrieve the paper, gritting her teeth as the tirade rolled on.
Here was the stubbornness Captain Aldridge had spoken of. Her father knew full well that the army had conscripted experienced fanciers to train airmen and soldiers how to handle and care for the birds; his determination to stay involved was simply a matter of pride. “I’ve half a mind to write to Churchill himself and see what we can do about this infernal situation. It’s damned irresponsible to let these pigeons waste away in the country when they could be saving the lives of His Majesty’s forces, to say nothing of our Allies on the Continent.” He glanced up sharply. “What do you think, Aldridge?” Olive recognised the light in her father’s eye—he was ready to pounce on an answer he didn’t like.
“You make a good point, sir.” Aldridge’s steady voice and agreeable reply diffused the fraught feeling that had settled over her.
“Of course I do,” her father grumbled, peering around at the birds huddled in nesting boxes and perched like spectators on any available ledge. “Carefully bred racers like these, trained for distance and speed, can make a world of difference. These are champions, son.”
As if suddenly remembering, he turned to Olive and said brusquely, “Well? Come on, then. Read it out. Not something private, is it?” His gaze swivelled quizzically to Captain Aldridge.
“No, of course not,” she protested. She felt her cheeks flame in front of all those staring male eyes and busied herself unfurling the scrap of paper between the thumbs of both hands.
1st May, 15:00
RAF Brize Norton
Dear Olive,
Once again, it seems you have me dancing to your tune. Poppins gave me no trouble on the journey, and several of the chaps on the train were keen to offer her bits of biscuit and rub the rainbow at her throat for luck.
Olive couldn’t help but smile at this.
I’m sure you’re wondering why she’s so late in coming back. I had to stash her for a bit when I reported for duty, and then rumour got around that I’d brought a stowaway, and of course everyone wanted to come and have a look. Plenty of chaps were ready to underestimate her, being small and rather reserved, but I talked her up a good bit—and you, as well. When it came around to the business at hand, she did what needed to be done, clearly determined to demonstrate how wrong they’d all been to doubt her. You would have been proud of the cheer that went up for her when she got her bearings and set off for home.
Naturally, you’ll be curious about her flying speed, so you’ll be glad to know I asked the conductor at Hanborough Station for the distance back to London: it’s right at sixty miles. Add another ten or so for the bus ride to the airfield, and the twenty-five from Pipley up to Paddington, and you’re at ninety-five miles. But Poppins will have shortcutted some of that distance, so you’ll need to rely on your maths to figure the final number.
It’s a bit gusty here, and rain is likely imminent. I feel sorry for the old girl, but she’s in training, right? Soon she’ll be flying tougher missions than this. We both will, once everything gets organised. Seems the commanding officers are still working out where to send us all. The Luftwaffe have been using green pilots for target practice, so there’s talk of sending us on to airfields out of reach.
Olive felt the grip of worry clutch her heart and throat. How much farther out of reach? Realizing this wasn’t the time to worry over it, she pressed on.
I’ll write when I’m able, and you do the same. Let me know that Poppins made it and when the NPS comes calling. I’ll keep all her latest fans updated with the news.
Yours ever,
George
For a fleeting moment, Olive stared at the neat little lines on the curling page, wondering if it had occurred to her best friend that being stationed beyond the enemy’s reach put him squarely out of hers, as well. She shook her head, clearing it of those thoughts. Uncertainty, risk, privation—all were part of their lives for the foreseeable future. Self-consciously aware of her abrupt silence, she glanced up before checking her watch.
“It’s just past four now, and if we round down a bit to account for a more direct route, the maths are actually quite straightforward. Somewhere between eighty and eighty-five miles in an hour, in less than favourable conditions. Well done, Mary Poppins,” she concluded, beaming at the new arrival.
“Yes, indeed,” her father agreed, gazing at the bird, who was now rooting around for food. “Good to have her back and ready for when the Service finally gets around to us,” he said, with a wink for his daughter. “Only think what she could do for the war effort.” With a blustery grunt, he turned, his gaze touching on each of the men in turn. “What about you two?” he asked.
“Sir?” This from Aldridge, with Tierney looking on expectantly.
“You’re not a couple of conchies, are you?” His brows were already beetling with judgmental curiosity.
Olive stilled, wondering how they might answer such a question.
Aldridge went on. “The official word is that I’m medically unfit for active service, so I’ve been consigned to desk work,” he said. Olive wondered if she’d imagined the little flicker of shame in his gaze. She couldn’t help but be curious as to the truth of that statement, not to mention whether he was even a captain.
“Ah,” her father said grimly, scuffing his boots in the gravel.
“Tierney here has been called in as an instructor,” Aldridge said, his gaze now settled deliberately on Olive.
“Is that so? I suppose the specifics are hush-hush.” Rupert Bright looked almost giddy.
“Exactly, sir.” Tierney was obviously content to have Aldridge field all questions on the matter.
Olive’s eyes widened as she tried to reconcile this information with the mischievous, flame-haired man, who promptly shot her a raffish wink. She supposed it was entirely possible that all of it was a whopper of a lie.
“Of course,” her father muttered, with a final, curious glance at Tierney. “I have a son stationed in Greece. Last we heard, he was in the mountains, somewhere around Delphi, but that was months ago.” His voice was matter of fact, but Olive could hear the strain running beneath the surface. Before any of them could comment, he said briskly, “Well, then, carry on.” Sparing a final glance for Poppins, he dropped his hand on Jonathon’s shoulder before walking swiftly out of the dovecote.
When the crunch of footsteps had faded up the drive, Aldridge broke the silence, his lowered voice threaded with exasperation. “The village dance? That’s your cover story?”
Having expected this reaction, Olive had prepared her reply. “That little fib neatly deflected any and all suspicion that the pair of you might be here about the pigeons, which, I believe, was the whole point. Besides, I thought you encouraged resourcefulness?” She propped her hands on her hips and waited.
Mildly cowed, he muttered, “When is the dance?”
“Tomorrow,” she informed him, relishing the startled expression that tumbl
ed over his face.
“How do you plan to justify our connection after that?”
“Assuming I’m willing to put myself and my pigeons at your disposal?” she asked archly.
“Obviously,” he said dryly. It was ridiculously easy to imagine him in knee breeches and cravat, arrogantly informing her that her pigeons were not handsome enough to tempt him, and she almost smiled.
“I’ll think of something, Captain Aldridge. Don’t you worry.” After a moment’s consideration, she added, “I should probably call you Jamie, so you’re used to it. Dad is liable to have told Harriet and Mrs Battlesby by now, and by this time tomorrow, the entire village will know you as Jamie. You don’t mind, do you?”
“If you’d fancy it, I could—” Tierney was cut off sharply by a dark look from Aldridge.
“When will I have your decision?” he asked, refusing to answer either of them.
“Tomorrow. You can pick me up at seven,” she said sweetly.
“How soon can you have birds ready to fly out?” he asked, determinedly formal.
The question took her by surprise—everything was happening so fast, and very nearly beyond her control. “It would be easier if I knew—” she began.
He sighed wearily. “There’s nothing I can tell you, Miss Bright. Consider yourself flying blind.”
Olive wondered if she’d misheard. Was it possible he was making a joke, albeit a bad one? It seemed unlikely, as that would indicate he possessed a sense of humour, which hadn’t been in evidence before now.
Gritting her teeth, she answered. “I assume you’re planning to send them to France or beyond.” His expression gave away nothing, so she soldiered on. “For such a distance, I’d like at least a week.” She refused to elaborate on principle. “Not to mention the feed you’ve promised.”
“Fair enough. In exchange, I’d like to take the letter with me to double-check the distance and conditions.”
Olive Bright, Pigeoneer Page 9