I shuddered. I didn’t know what to say. A tear was streaming down my face and that awful silence had descended again. I looked at the champion, Gregory Peck, then turned my bleary gaze on Mum. To my amazement, she was wiping a tear away, too. She and Dad went into a huddle. A few seconds later, Dad called me over.
‘You promise to look after both of them properly?’
I gave a sniffy nod.
‘Promise?’
‘Yes.’
Dad touched a hand to the old bird’s neck. ‘Gregory Peck. All right. He’s yours.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
It didn’t take Mum long to get back to normal. ‘That flippin’ Gregory Peck!’ she complained. ‘Did a big brown…doing on my clothes line last night. And why is he cooing at five in the mornings?’
‘He’s happy,’ I said. ‘He likes it in the shed.’
‘Hmph,’ Mum grunted. ‘Someone ought to put a clock in there and tell him to wake at a decent hour.’
‘We could put another nesting box in,’ I suggested.
‘Don’t push your luck,’ she growled back.
She cheered up a few days later, though, when I came home waving my school report. ‘Hmm,’ she murmured. ‘Hmm, not bad. I see there’s been some improvement in English.’ She passed it over for me to read. Mr Tompkins had written:
Needs to find a subject that interests him, but capable of exceptional ability once found.
I had good reports for Maths and Science, too. ‘I did promise to try a bit harder,’ I said, all meek and innocent, trying to milk all the praise I could get.
‘Yes,’ Mum said. ‘I’m very pleased. Your dad will be, too. Shows what you can do when you really try.’
‘Does this mean I get a reward?’ I grinned.
She scrunched up a tea-towel and threw it at me. ‘You’re a lot chirpier lately…’ she said.
That was because I owned two pigeons now – and I wasn’t anybody’s slave any more. I saw Warren plenty of times at school. But he never came near me, nor did Ginger. And as the summer holidays began to approach, the fear of seeing them melted away. Garry and I never talked about it.
I liked having two pigeons in the shed. By now, it wasn’t really a shed any more. Dad had moved his mower to the garage and carted the old pram off to the tip. Greg and Cherokee had the place to themselves – and I had my very own pigeon loft. It wasn’t as smart as Mr Duckins’, but he said I’d done well with what I’d got. He made a few suggestions about perches and drinkers and gave Cherokee a worming tablet as well.
Gregory Peck was a brilliant bird. And I finally found out why grown-ups repeated his name when they heard it. ‘Gregory Peck was a film star,’ said Mum. ‘He was famous and handsome – if you like that kind of thing.’
‘Was he Pigeon-Man or something, then?’ asked Garry.
‘I despair of you, Garry Taylor,’ Mum sighed. ‘No, it’s just his name, I suppose.’
We looked at her blankly.
‘Peck,’ she emphasised. ‘Pigeons peck, don’t they?’
‘So do chickens,’ muttered Garry. ‘I wouldn’t give a chicken a name like Gregory.’
‘Oh…peck off!’ Mum said curtly. I looked at Garry. He was totally shocked!
For the first few days after I’d got him, I had to leave Gregory in the shed all the time.
‘To let him make a roost for himself,’ Alf advised.
‘But when I do let him out, won’t he still fly back to your house anyway?’
‘Shouldn’t think so,’ Alf said. ‘He’s too lazy to flap much further than a roof top. Besides, he knows he’s on to a good thing here.’
He did, too. Every day when I came to feed them I sneaked up secretly to the shed window and had a little peek inside. Greg and Cherokee were always together, standing on top of the nesting box or following each other from one perch to another. He seemed to like to dance in front of her as well. Lots of times I saw him puffing out his chest and fanning his tail-feathers and strutting around. He was a real show-off. One night, when I’d let them out for their exercise, I even saw Gregory taking her presents. He was carrying little bits of twigs into the shed and flying up to the nest box with them.
‘Are they in love?’ Natalie asked me once.
‘Don’t be dumb,’ I said. But I wasn’t too sure.
Then, one night, something dreadful happened. I opened the shed door and called them out, but only Cherokee fluttered into the garden.
‘Greg?’ I said, looking round the shed. I couldn’t see him anywhere. My heart began an anxious thump. ‘Greg?’ I repeated, and stepped inside.
I found him sitting in the nesting box. He was all in a huddle, right in the corner. ‘Come on,’ I whispered, ‘it’s time for a flight.’ He didn’t budge. His glassy brown eyes stared rigidly at me. I put food down. He still didn’t move. After ten minutes, I ran to the phone.
‘Mr Duckins,’ I panted, ‘Gregory Peck’s not well!’
‘Not well?’ Alf repeated. ‘Why, what’s up?’
‘He’s sitting in the nest box and he won’t come out!’ Alf paused to think. ‘Have you brought him out?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘If I put my hand near him he flaps a wing and goes WOO! really gruffly. It’s just like he’s on guard or something.’
‘Oh, flipping heck…’ Alf muttered quietly.
‘Oh no,’ I wailed, hearing that. ‘He’s not going to die, is he, Mr Duckins?’
‘No,’ Alf drawled, ‘he’s not going to die. Go back to the box and drag him out.’
‘Then what do I do?’
‘Put your tin hat on.’
‘What?’ I said.
Alf rattled with laughter. ‘Just go back and drag him out.’
The phone clicked off. Confused, I hurtled back to the shed. Cherokee was pecking happily on the lawn. But Gregory Peck still hadn’t moved. ‘Come on,’ I told him, reaching in, ‘Mr Duckins said you’ve got to come out.’
Gregory Peck protested loudly. And when I managed to move him, I understood why. I gaped through the window at Cherokee Wonder, then into the nesting box again. Now I understood why they called them that. Mr Duckins was wrong: Gregory Peck still had some ‘go’ left in him. In the corner of the box was an untidy pile of twigs and feathers.
In the middle of the nest were two white eggs…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chris d’Lacey was born in Malta in 1954. This makes him a sort of Malteser, which probably explains why he eats so much chocolate. He began writing children’s books in 1993. Chris’s favourite subjects are animals, dragons, music and football – but not necessarily in that order. He also keeps pigeons.
One day, a long time ago, he found a pigeon with a broken wing. He took it home for ‘a few days’ to look after it – and ended up keeping it for fourteen years. He called the pigeon Gregory Peck, after the name of a famous actor. It seemed quite funny at the time.
Gregory Peck, the pigeon, died on Christmas Day, 1997. In their fourteen years together, Gregory and his mate Gigi managed to bring several young pigeons into the world, one of whom was known as Cherokee. This is not Cherokee’s story exactly, but the way Chris imagines it might have been if he’d found a pigeon when he was a boy…
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