Pigeon Summer

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by Ann Turnbull


  Mary glanced up at the picture on the wall at the top of the stairs. It was a newspaper photograph, yellowing now, but preserved in a glass-fronted frame. It showed a group of miners outside the pit. Several held banners. The biggest banner read, NOT A MINUTE ON THE DAY: NOT A PENNY OFF THE PAY. One of the men holding it up was Dad. Underneath was a date: 4TH MAY 1926.

  Four years ago, almost to the day. But now that pits were closing and work was scarce, the bosses hadn’t forgotten the General Strike, nor who the local leaders had been. Most of the men laid off in Culverton last year had found work in other pits, but not Dad.

  The voices became indistinct again. And then came the sound of someone making the fire up. That meant they were coming to bed. Mary tugged at Phyl’s arm. Phyl strained to hear more, but when the voices drew nearer the stairs she gave in to Mary and they scuttled back to bed.

  Neither could sleep. They whispered for a while, till Dad called out from across the landing, “Go to sleep, you girls.” Then each lay silent with her thoughts.

  Mary wondered what it would be like at home without Dad or Phyl, just Mum and the little ones. She was always in trouble with Mum over one thing or another, but Phyl would cover up for her and defend her. She’d miss Phyl. And Dad. She’d enjoyed the time he had been off work; they’d spent a lot of it in the loft, looking after the pigeons.

  Well, we’ve got a few more days all together, she thought.

  But Saturday soon came. Phyl was up early, too nervous to eat breakfast. She pulled back her hair into a knot on the nape of her neck, and put on a dress of dark blue cotton with a white collar and pin-tucked front. Aunty Elsie, Dad’s sister, had made her two dark blue dresses and two white aprons and had found her a hat with cherries on it and trimmed it with a blue ribbon.

  Mary sniffed the new cotton of the dress. She was jealous. She’d never had a dress that wasn’t an old one of Phyl’s with the waist let out, or one of Aunty Elsie’s cut down. And the hat! Phyl put it on, and was transformed into a grown-up.

  Mary said, “Oh, Phyl! Can I try it?”

  She took the hat and darted into her parents’ room to look at herself in the flecked mirror. Mary’s face was rounder than Phyl’s, and her hair was a lighter brown and sprang about in curls. The hat hovered on top of them.

  “It’s too small,” said Mary. But the ribbon was silky, and the cherries trembled as she turned her head. She felt beautiful.

  Phyl took it back and minced around the room. Mary put on a gentrified voice. “Phyllis! Bring in the tea things!” They both giggled. “Some chance!” said Phyl. “I’ll be scrubbing the passage, more like.”

  Mum called up the stairs, “Phyl! Do come and eat something, love. You’ll be an hour on that bus.”

  At ten o’clock they were all at the bus stop in the square: Dad, Mary holding Lennie’s hand, Mum carrying Doreen wrapped in a shawl, and Phyl holding a brown paper parcel of spare clothes and a purse with her bus fare in it.

  Her employers had sent the bus fare with a letter saying that someone would meet her off the bus at Wendon. Dad would have liked to go too, to make sure she arrived safely, but there was no money to spare for the journey.

  The bus was already quite full when it arrived. Dad took Phyl’s parcel and settled her in a seat, and then they all watched and waved as the bus pulled away and Phyl craned to look back.

  Mum was a bit weepy, and Mary felt tears coming too. She wouldn’t see Phyl for at least a month; Phyl would get every other Sunday off, but she wouldn’t want to squander her wages coming home every time.

  And tomorrow Dad was going, and no one knew for how long.

  That evening Dad went to the pigeon loft with Mary to say goodbye to his birds. A deep, soft, comfortable cooing came from within as they approached.

  “I’ll miss that sound,” said Dad.

  He went along the row, talking to all the birds. The Gaffer flew down and perched on his shoulder.

  Monday’s squeaker was growing big, and Lavender’s other egg had hatched.

  “Number Fifty-eight’s will be next,” said Dad, pointing out a sitting hen.

  “Queenie’s,” said Mary.

  “Queenie. That’s right.” Dad smiled.

  Dad would never have bothered with names if it hadn’t been for Mary. Mary insisted that the birds should all have names as well as numbers. When she asked Dad to choose names his mind went to politics, as usual – to his favourite political figures, his heroes. So they had Bevin and Lenin and Ramsay Mac and Mrs Pankhurst. Mary thought Dad’s names were silly; she liked to choose a name that suited each bird. She was especially pleased with Speedwell, the blue chequer hen, whose name had a double meaning: the blue of the speedwell flowers that grew wild in the garden, and the hope that the bird would fly fast.

  Dad was handling Speedwell now, stretching out her wing with its long dark-tipped feathers.

  “She’s a lovely bird,” he said. “Lovely condition. I wish I could be here to race her this summer.”

  “I can race her,” said Mary.

  “No. We’ll just have to miss a year.”

  “We won’t!” exclaimed Mary, startling the Gaffer, who flew up on to a high perch. “I can race her, Dad! I know how. And Uncle Charley would help me.”

  “Oh, he would,” agreed Dad. “But it’s a big job, Mary, studying the birds, working out which ones are on form, and which one to send where, and when. It’ll be enough for me if you just take good care of them – keep them exercised.”

  Mary felt hurt. Why didn’t he believe she could do it?

  “It’ll be a waste,” she said, “if she doesn’t race this summer.”

  “There’s always another race, another year,” said Dad.

  Another year. That sounded like eternity to Mary. They said no more about it, but Mary had made up her mind: she was going to look after the birds and race them. Dad would be proud of her. Even Mum would, if she got some winnings. She visualized the coming summer as a pale blue line growing bluer through May and June till it reached a deep sapphire colour in late July. And in the midst of that deep blue was a place she knew only from maps and her imagination: the south of France.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “You’re bursting out of that frock already,” said Mum. “I’m sure I was never so big at eleven.”

  “I’m nearly twelve,” said Mary.

  “Pity you’re not nearer.”

  Mum was thinking of money. At twelve Mary would be able to get a part-time job – an hour after school helping in a shop. Phyl had helped at the draper’s. She had sold elastic, ribbons and pins, but she hadn’t been allowed to cut lengths of cloth.

  “Don’t you want to?” Mary had asked, picturing Mrs Coleman’s scissors shearing through the width of the material; rayon was the best: a swift, swishing cut. “I’d want to cut cloth.”

  Phyl had shrugged, not understanding the question. She wasn’t allowed to, and that was that.

  Mary thought she’d like to do a delivery round: milk or groceries. But it was always the boys who got those jobs. The bicycles they used were designed for boys, with a straight crossbar that was awkward if you wore a skirt.

  Dad had a bike like that, with a basket on the front like a delivery boy’s. He used it for taking the pigeons on training tosses, and when Mary was smaller she had often gone with him, sitting in front on the crossbar, bumping along the lanes, past pits and quarries and spoil-heaps, out to the countryside.

  I’ll get the birds out there somehow, thought Mary, if I have to walk. You could send them by train, but that wasn’t the same. When you took them yourself you had a sense of how far they had flown. She remembered the bright air, the big sky, the fields stretching out, the quiet; and then the rush of wings as the pigeons took off, circled a few times, and made for home.

  Dad had gone on his bike to Stafford. He had taken True Blue with him in a basket and released the bird when he arrived; he had no money for postage stamps, and True Blue was quicker. So they knew Dad had arrive
d safely, but they had heard nothing since – not for nearly three weeks.

  “Mind you,” said Mum, “he’d have to find a job, then work a week before getting paid, and then it’d be a day or two, wouldn’t it, getting the postal order and sending it off? I wonder if that maroon one Aunty Elsie gave us would do for you?”

  Mary was used to her mother’s thought processes. They were back to Mary and the too-small frock. Mary remembered the maroon frock and winced. It was dark and droopy with an old-ladyish look about it.

  Mum had whipped out a tape-measure. “Hold out your arm. Stand still… You know, it might do. Cut down.” She tut-tutted. “You’ve got your Aunty Elsie’s figure, and no mistake.”

  Mary visualized Aunty Elsie. Her figure was not much in evidence since she usually wore shapeless cardigans over skirts that had not yet risen to the fashionable shorter lengths. But there was an impression of solid bosom, thick waist and sturdy legs. Very different from Mum.

  She looked across at a photograph on the mantelpiece. It showed Mary’s mother as a young woman: a studio portrait with a backdrop of painted trees. Her mother wore a high-necked lacy blouse and a long narrow skirt and she carried a parasol. A hat with roses on it was balanced on top of her piled dark hair. At the bottom of the photograph was her name, neatly printed: MISS ADELINE HILL.

  Mary had always loved that photograph. Her mother was so slim and pretty, and Mary had dreamed of one day looking like her. Phyl would, of course – she’d seen that look in Phyl when she pulled back her hair and put on the hat with the cherries. But not me, she realized now. I’ll never look like Mum. I’ll look like Aunty Elsie.

  She turned to her mother. “You don’t like Aunty Elsie, do you?”

  “What?” Her mother blushed, startled. “Don’t be silly. You know how good she’s always been to us.”

  She put the tape-measure away.

  “Now, I want you to go to Greenings and get some groceries. I’ll write a list. And you can call in at the drapers and see if you can get some dark sewing cotton for that frock. Don’t bother matching it. Black or brown will do…”

  Resignation crept over Mary. Saturday was Mum’s cleaning day and that always meant extra chores for Mary: do the shopping, hang the washing out, peel the potatoes, mind Doreen, mind Lennie. She’d be lucky to find much time for the pigeons today. Still, shopping was better than helping with the cleaning.

  “And can you pop in and see Uncle Charley? He might need something.”

  Mary went to see Uncle Charley first. She liked him. He was her mother’s uncle, retired long ago from the pit with dust on the lungs. He couldn’t get about much, although he managed to creep the few yards to the Rose and Crown every night. Dad often met him there. The pub had a meeting room at the back where the pigeon club met. Dad and Uncle Charley both went to the meetings, although Charley didn’t race any more; he just kept a few old favourites.

  They were soon out in the garden, looking at the pigeons and the few chickens that were scratching around amongst the nettles. Uncle Charley found four eggs and gave them to Mary to take home.

  “All of them?” asked Mary.

  “One each.”

  “Doreen doesn’t eat proper food yet.”

  “Well, two for your mum, then.”

  “Mum wouldn’t eat two.”

  “She should. Tell her.”

  “But she won’t. And what about you?”

  Uncle Charley laughed. The laugh turned into a cough, and he coughed and coughed; his face was grey. When he got his breath back he said, “Don’t worry about me. A pot of tea and some bread and jam. That’ll do me fine. Now, tell me about your pigeons. Nice flying weather. Are you training them?”

  Mary pulled a face. “Trying to. I want to take them out on a toss. Not just a mile or two – I’ve done that – but a real one, five miles, or seven, out in the country. But there’s never any time. It’s school all week, and then after school and on Saturdays Mum says do this, do that, and I don’t get a minute.”

  “Well, you must help your mother.”

  “I know, but…”

  Mary paused. An idea was forming in her mind, but she daren’t tell Uncle Charley about it. He’d be shocked. She was a bit shocked herself. She changed the subject.

  “Dad thinks Speedwell’s a winner. Best long-distance bird he’s had. I want to put her in for Bordeaux in July.”

  “Bordeaux! That’s over seven hundred miles, girl.”

  “She could do it. She won last year from Nevers, didn’t she?”

  “That’s true. She did. She’s a lovely bird. Try her on four hundred-odd later this month. There’s Le Mans, or Nantes. I’ll put her in for you.”

  “Thank you.” Mary wished she could go to the club herself, but Mum had forbidden it. The pigeon club was a man’s place, she said; she wasn’t having Mary hanging around a public house; besides, there was enough for her to do at home.

  “But the races,” Mary had protested.

  “Your father asked you to look after them, not race them.”

  “But that is looking after them!” Mary exclaimed. “I might win some money,” she added.

  “And you might lose some. You’ll get no money for pools from me.”

  “Dad puts them in. He pools them,” said Mary.

  “Yes.” Her mother was tight-lipped. “More’s the pity. But I decide where the money goes now, and it doesn’t go on pigeons. If your Uncle Charley’s daft enough to put them in for you, that’s his affair.”

  Uncle Charley was daft enough.

  “I’ll find out the dates for you – tell you what’s best,” he promised.

  He put the four dirt-spattered, precious eggs into a paper bag. Mary took them straight home, for fear of breaking them.

  “Oh, bless him!” said Mum, and her face softened with relief and gratitude. “I couldn’t think what we were going to eat today. You know, Mary, if that postal order doesn’t come on Monday we’ll have to go to the Assistance and ask for help. Now off you go, and get those bits of shopping.”

  Mary went, her mind full of her audacious plan.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mary woke early on Sunday morning, as she had planned. She sat up, willing the bed springs not to squeak. The bed was an old double one with a lumpy mattress. Mary had slept on one side of it; she still could not get used to having all that space to herself.

  She slid her feet out on to the cool cracked lino and began putting on her clothes. From behind the screen which gave her the illusion of being in a room of her own, Lennie was snoring gently.

  The window was in Mary’s half of the room. She looked out. It was going to be a beautiful day – too good to spend in chapel. Behind the roofs of the houses opposite rose the headframe of the pit; the sunlight sparkled and she had to squint to see, over to the left, pit mounds and scarred earth giving way in the distance to green hills. That was where she was going: right out of Culverton, with its pits and brickworks and streets, out into the distant green countryside.

  With her shoes in her hand she crept past Lennie, flat on his back with mouth open and arms flung up, on to the landing, past the closed door of the room where Mum and Doreen slept, and downstairs.

  In the kitchen she got a drink of water. Then she cut two thick slices of bread and wrapped them in a paper bag. She found an empty vinegar bottle and filled it with water. Under the teapot she pushed the note she had written last night.

  Outside the back door, she looked up at Mum’s window. There was no sound, and the curtain was drawn. Mum wouldn’t wake easily; she liked a lie-in on a Sunday.

  The pigeons, on the other hand, were wide awake, all glossy feathers and gleaming eyes. There was one she noticed particularly as she handled the young birds: a dark chequer cock with a bold eye; he sat beautifully balanced in her hands.

  Mary gave the birds a drink and got out the basket. She put in six of the young birds, those hatched that spring. She wondered about taking some of the yearlings, too, to help keep the fl
ock together, but when she lifted the basket she knew that six was plenty. Besides, Uncle Charley had come round last night with the race dates, and had promised to put some birds on the train to Gloucester on Tuesday, to give them a longer run.

  Mary put her food and her vinegar bottle in the pockets of her dress, heaved up the basket, and went out through the back garden gate.

  It was not until she reached the end of Lion Street that she began to think about the consequences of what she was doing.

  No decent person flew their pigeons on a Sunday. Sunday racing was forbidden. Even Sunday visits to friends’ lofts were frowned upon; and Mary’s place on a Sunday was at chapel in the morning and at Aunty Elsie’s for tea in the afternoon. She’d be in trouble, for certain, when she got home.

  She should have asked, she thought; but then, justifying herself, if she had asked, Mum would have said no. There would be trouble, but it seemed to Mary something she could not avoid, since the young birds needed a toss and she was determined to be the one to take them. Anyway, at this early hour, the afternoon and its retribution seemed a long way off. She was more concerned now about the weight of the basket and the way it scraped and banged her leg. She stopped, and changed hands.

  The rows of terraced houses began to thin out and she found herself trudging along a lane of rutted earth with only an occasional cottage here and there. The headframe of Old Hall Pit came in sight to her left, and the spoil heaps rose all around, blocking the view.

  Mary stopped by a stile, put down the heavy basket, and ate one of the slices of bread. The pigeons shuffled in the basket and cooed softly. The mine was motionless in the Sunday silence, and from the cottages there was no sign of life except a cat which was eyeing her from the top of a wall. Perhaps its ears had caught the sounds from the pigeon basket.

  “You keep away, cat,” said Mary. She didn’t like cats; they were always prowling around the loft.

  She climbed over the stile and walked on. She was getting tired; the basket was too heavy. But gradually the pit mounds were giving way to fields and hedgerows. The air was clearer and there was a scent of flowers.

 

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