Pigeon Summer

by Ann Turnbull

  Now Speedwell struggled against Mary’s enclosing hand. Mary put the bird down. Speedwell stepped delicately into her nest box. Mary watched, admiring the line of her: the strong deep chest curve swooping up to the slim neck and intelligent head.

  “We’ll show them, won’t we, Speedwell?” she said.

  Just before five thirty Mary was waiting at the railway station, carrying her empty pigeon basket. Her three birds had been taken to the Rose and Crown and put into one of the big club baskets which now stood stacked on the platform. The baskets were surrounded by pigeon fanciers, all men or boys. Mostly they were miners or people from the china works or the iron foundry; but the doctor was there, too, a young man standing a little apart from the others who jostled and called to each other, “All right, Joe?” “All right, Len,” and talked animatedly of form and eye-sign and training methods.

  Like the doctor, Mary felt an outsider. Uncle Charley hadn’t been able to come; his cough was bad. A few of the men, friends of her father, came up and spoke to her and asked her about her birds. But she still felt strange, the only female and one of the youngest people there.

  She was relieved when she heard the train coming and looked along the track to see steam rising in clouds above the tree-tops.

  She looked across at the baskets; saw flickerings of eyes and feathers through the gaps. There was no telling which birds were hers.

  The train pulled into the station and halted with a hissing sigh.

  Everyone began moving towards the guard’s van. One by one the baskets were lifted and loaded in. Silently Mary wished the racers luck: “Fly well, Speedwell. Fly well, all of you.”

  The door was slammed shut, the stationmaster blew his whistle, and the train gathered steam and began moving slowly away.

  They were gone. Gone to the coast, then across the sea to France. Mary had found Le Mans on the map of Europe that Dad kept in the drawer of the dresser. Le Mans was over four hundred miles away. The birds would not be released before Saturday morning, and only then if the weather was right; she could not hope to see Speedwell again before Sunday. Not unless she flew like the wind – or like Lady Marseilles. Mary remembered how excited Dad had been three years ago when they had all heard about Lady Marseilles. She had been released in Marseilles at ten thirty in the morning and returned to her loft in Yorkshire at six o’clock on the evening of the next day. “Incredible,” Dad had said. And, because he was a man who liked to keep notes of things, he’d written down the details on the edge of the map of Europe: “Seven hundred and eighty-eight miles at a velocity of nine hundred and thirty-nine yards per minute.”

  Mary dreamed of Speedwell becoming famous and gaining a new name: Lady Le Mans, or Lady Bordeaux. She saw certificates, silver cups on the mantelpiece, pictures in The Racing Pigeon. “Miss Dyer, owner of Lady Bordeaux.” Only Speedwell wasn’t hers, of course, she was Dad’s. But one day, thought Mary, I’ll have pigeons of my own.

  The station was emptying. Mary turned away. It was all over now. The pigeons were gone, and she must wait till Sunday or even Monday to see them again. She’d go home now and Mum would have a stack of chores lined up for her. Washing the step. Ironing. Cutting squares of newspaper for the toilet.

  She had reached the top of the station approach. Lion Street lay to the left. To the right the road twisted and dwindled to a lane. At the end of the lane lay Sid Revell’s smallholding and scrap-yard.

  Mary looked down the lane. She remembered what Arnold had said about having something to show her.

  Whatever it was, it had to be more interesting than going straight home.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  As she approached the Revells’ home, Mary slowed down. She was beginning to regret her decision. The house was a dilapidated wooden bungalow surrounded by sheds and outhouses with corrugated iron roofs and peeling paintwork. Heaps of scrap-iron and rusty machinery lay about everywhere, and weeds grew waist-high between the buildings. Two dogs, a ginger one and a black one, lay sleeping, chained to their kennels. A white nanny-goat was tied to a post.

  A line of greyish washing, inexpertly pegged, hung near the house. There was no sign of Arnold.

  Mary was about to turn away when the ginger dog woke. It leapt to its feet and began an outburst of frenzied barking, straining at the chain. Another volley of barking resounded from across the yard as the black dog woke.

  It was too late to go now. A child’s voice yelled, “Shut up, you lot!” and Molly Revell – “snotty Molly” as she was known at school on account of her constantly running nose – came out of the bungalow and stared at Mary with her mouth open.

  Mary didn’t dare come closer because of the dogs. She shouted, “Is Arnold there?”

  Molly yelled again at the dogs. “Shut up, will you?” To Mary she shouted, “They won’t hurt you.”

  Mary noticed then that a man was strolling across from behind one of the heaps of scrap-iron. Sid Revell. Mary half expected him to order her to clear off, but instead he stared at her briefly, then said, “Looking for Arnold?”

  “Yes,” said Mary.

  Sid jerked his head.

  “He’s down the field – behind those sheds. Don’t mind Buster.”

  Mary looked at Buster, the ginger dog. His kennel was blocking her way.

  “He won’t hurt you,” said Sid.

  Mary edged past the kennel. Buster had found a well-gnawed bone. He sniffed at her skirt as she passed, then went back to cracking the bone with his back teeth.

  Mary followed the path around behind the sheds and saw Arnold. He was in a field, riding a horse.

  Mary leaned on the fence and watched. She was astonished. This boy, who seemed so clumsy and useless in school, was riding easily, gracefully.

  Arnold saw her and dismounted. He came across the field, leading the horse, which shook its mane and blew soft breath into Mary’s face.

  “Reckoned you wouldn’t come,” said Arnold.

  Mary shrugged and patted the horse’s nose.

  “Want to see?” Arnold vaulted over the fence to Mary’s side.

  “All right,” she said, trying not to sound too interested. “I was just passing,” she added. “I had to put some pigeons on the train.”

  “Where are they going?”

  “Le Mans.”

  “Is that France?”

  “Yes. It’s more than four hundred miles back.”

  Arnold looked interested, unlike Mum or Phyl, and she found herself telling him about Speedwell and her hopes of winning.

  They walked back to the clutter of corrugated iron sheds.

  “See, I got something for you,” Arnold said.

  Leaning against a wall, deep amongst the nettles, was a bicycle. It was rusty and bent. The saddle was split and the chain was missing. The handlebars were twisted at an awkward angle.

  Arnold pulled the bicycle away from the wall.

  “It’s a woman’s bike, see? About the right size for you. And this frame on the front –” he grabbed the pigeon basket which Mary was still carrying – “this’ll take your basket.”

  The basket dropped obediently into position.

  Mary understood. She felt hot with embarrassment. “We – we haven’t got any money,” she explained. “Dad’s been out of work. I can’t buy a bike – not even…”

  She looked doubtfully at the rusty machine.

  “It’s all right,” said Arnold. “You can have it. I’ll fix it up and you can have it. Never paid nothing for it, any road. Found it in a ditch.”

  Best place for it, Mary thought. She didn’t like to appear ungrateful, but it didn’t look much good. And even if Arnold could “fix it”, as he said, should she accept it? She had a feeling her mother wouldn’t approve. You didn’t let people give you things, unless they were family. Or perhaps neighbours. Not people like the Revells. She was sure her mother would not approve of the Revells giving her things.

  “I ought to pay for it,” she said.

  “Well…” Arnold sa
id, “there was something…”

  “What?”

  “A couple of pigeons?”

  Mary was shocked and hurt. “I thought you shot your own,” she said coldly.

  “No!” he exclaimed. “Not that! I mean a pair – one of each, like –” he blushed under the dirt – “to breed from. I’d like to race them, see. The old man’s not interested, but I like them. I like all animals.”

  “The thing is, they’re not mine,” said Mary. “And Dad’s away.”

  “When he comes back, then?”

  “I’ll ask him.”

  “I’ll do the bike any road,” said Arnold, turning to it as if he couldn’t wait to get started. “Needs a new saddle and chain. Bit of polishing up. The wheels are buckled but I can fix those. It’ll be all right.”

  Mary thought of cycling out to a toss with the pigeons on the front. She could go twice – three times – as far. And then she thought of those delivery boys on their bikes, hogging all the best jobs. She’d be in with a chance now.

  She smiled at Arnold.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  Mary didn’t tell her mother about the bicycle, but she told Phyl. Phyl came home for the day on Sunday, startling them all with her new short haircut.

  “Annie, that I share a room with, she did it for me,” said Phyl. “Annie says it’s the latest thing.”

  “Well…” said Mum.

  Phyl looked so different, rounder in the face, her eyes bigger. Lennie hung back, shy of this new Phyl.

  Phyl put her basket on the table. She had brought gifts. First, there was her wages, placed proudly in Mum’s hand. Then, some fresh peas from the kitchen garden at Wendon Hall, wrapped in a brown paper bag. Finally, but best of all, four custard tarts from a batch baked in the Hall kitchen. They’d been slipped into Phyl’s basket by the cook.

  Glad as she was to have Phyl home, Mary felt jealous. Mum was fussing round Phyl and asking her over and over again, “You are happy there, aren’t you, love? They are kind to you? You’re not being overworked? You do get enough to eat?”

  Mary thought of her pigeons, crossing the Channel by now, if they hadn’t crossed yesterday. I’ll show her, she thought; I can bring in money, too.

  After dinner, Phyl and Mary went up to their room and talked. The strangeness wore off, and Phyl was her old self again. She told Mary all the little details about her life at Wendon that she wouldn’t tell to a grown-up; about the room she shared with Ethel and Annie; the gossip in the kitchen; the strange habits of the gentry.

  “But don’t you hate it?” said Mary. “Being told what to do all the time?” Phyl had just related how Annie had been scolded for chatting to a delivery boy.

  Phyl didn’t mind, but Mary knew she would. She’d be in trouble all the time in a place like that.

  She told Phyl about Arnold Revell and the bicycle.

  “Arnold Revell!” Phyl pulled a face. “He’s dopy.”

  “He’s not,” said Mary. “Well, he is at school, but he’s clever outside. I quite like him, really – but don’t tell any of your friends, will you? I don’t want Olive and Doris and them finding out and making fun of me…”

  On Sunday afternoon, after Phyl had gone, Mary went to the loft. She thought that if the pigeons had crossed the Channel there was a chance that one of them might get home tonight. She waited outside till dusk, but they didn’t come. Tomorrow, then. Early, with any luck. If only she didn’t have to go to school! The minute a pigeon landed it must be caught, basketed, and taken straight to the club to have its race ring taken off and put in the clock. But if Mary was at school, and Mum wasn’t watching – well, it wouldn’t be the first bird that had lost a race through not being caught quickly.

  “Oh, stop fretting,” said Mum. “Lennie’s here. He’ll watch. And Uncle Charley said he’d come over first thing.”

  Mary thought of Uncle Charley with his grey complexion and wheezy breath.

  “But he can’t run,” she said. “He’ll need to run, to get her to the club.” She said “her”, because she was sure that Speedwell would be her first bird home.

  Mum laughed. “I’ll run, if I have to. I’d run anywhere for a few bob.”

  And Mary had to be content with that. At least Mum was in a good mood. That was having Phyl home and being given her wages. But Mum was so changeable. The least thing might upset her, and then she’d be back to cursing “those damn pigeons”. Well, maybe Uncle Charley would keep her cheerful; she had a soft spot for him.

  Mary was up and outside early on Monday morning. It was a fine day. The sky dazzled, making her squint with its bright emptiness.

  “Come on, girl, get your breakfast,” said Mum.

  Hungry as she was, Mary went in unwillingly, ate watching the window, and dashed out again.

  She heard Uncle Charley making his slow way up the passage.

  “Nothing yet,” she said, as he came into the yard.

  The sky was blank. Mary stared. Uncle Charley stared. Lennie stared and chattered and thought every passing sparrow was a pigeon.

  “Now don’t let Lennie jump up and down if she comes in,” warned Uncle Charley. “Keep still. Don’t scare her off.”

  They stared. The minutes passed. It was nearly time for school.

  Mum, standing in the doorway, jigging Doreen on her hip, said, “A watched pot never boils.”

  “True enough,” said Uncle Charley. He got out his pipe, stuffed tobacco into the bowl. Mary smelt the familiar pungent smell of the tobacco as he lit up and took a few puffs.

  And then she was there! Speedwell – it had to be her! One moment the sky was empty; the next there was a whirring overhead and down came a pigeon, folding its wings to land neatly on the alighting board and step inside.

  Mary ran to the loft.

  “Careful, now, she’ll be flighty,” said Uncle Charley.

  “I know,” said Mary.

  She caught the bird and brought it out.

  “It’s her,” she said. “It’s Speedwell.”

  Uncle Charley had opened the small basket. Mary put the bird in. “You’re a darling,” she told her, as she fastened the straps.

  “Now run,” said Uncle Charley. “Let’s see you go, Mary.”

  Mary ran. Down the garden, through the echoing passageway, out along Lion Street. Everyone would know she’d got a pigeon back. She pelted down the High Street with her chest burning, past the post office, past Colemans, past Greenings, past the sweet-shop where Olive’s face appeared at a first-floor window; down the bottom of the High Street she ran, and arrived, rosy and breathless, at the back door of the Rose and Crown.

  Reg White, the club secretary, was there, and the other committee members. The clock was on the table, waiting. There was no other basket to be seen, no sign of another bird.

  “Here’s Speedwell,” gasped Mary.

  She handed in the basket.

  Reg smiled. “You’re the first one in, young Mary,” he said.

  He took the race ring off Speedwell’s leg and put it into the clock to record her time.

  “She’s probably won in Culverton, then, hasn’t she?” Mary said. “What about the region?”

  “Now, you know I can’t tell yet. They all fly to different lofts so we have to work out her actual speed in yards per minute. But she’s made good time. Keep your fingers crossed, eh?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Speedwell did win. First in Culverton and first in the region.

  It was Mary’s moment of triumph, handing over her winnings to Mum, hearing Uncle Charley tell Mum how good she was with the birds, what a keen eye for form she had.

  She took advantage of it soon enough.

  “Those young birds,” she said next Friday. “They want training. I could take them out tomorrow. Give them a toss.”

  Mum hesitated; Mary knew she was thinking of a list of chores. Then, “Take Lennie, will you?” she said. “He does get under my feet so.”

  Mary packed up some bread and jam and got
Lennie washed and dressed and out of the house early on Saturday morning. She kept him out all day and brought him back, tired and contented and chattering about pigeons, at tea-time.

  Mum was singing when they came in: a sure sign that she had had a good day. Doreen was upstairs, asleep.

  “I could take him out again, next Saturday, if you like,” Mary offered.

  “All right,” said Mum.

  On Monday Arnold Revell passed Mary in the school corridor and muttered, “Done that bike.”

  This time none of Mary’s friends heard him: she was grateful, then ashamed of herself. “I’ll come round tonight,” she said.

  The bicycle was unrecognizable as the rusty thing Mary had seen lying amongst the nettles. Arnold had straightened the wheels, fixed the chain and handlebars, given it a new saddle, and polished it all up.

  “Can I really have it, for nothing?” asked Mary.

  “Two pigeons,” said Arnold.

  Mary climbed awkwardly on to the bicycle. She couldn’t ride it. She wobbled around the Revells’ yard. Molly, Johnny, and several other small Revells stood watching.

  On Tuesday, Mary went to Arnold’s again. She told her mother she was going to Olive’s. Mum didn’t take much notice. She was worried because Dad’s postal order, which should have come the day before, still hadn’t arrived.

  Arnold chased the younger Revells away and watched Mary as she rode round and round the yard until she could do it without falling off.

  “Can I leave the bike here for now?” she asked. “Till I’ve told my mum about it?”

  She wasn’t sure how to tell her mother, so in the end she said nothing. The week was dominated by Mum’s increasing anxiety about Dad. Every day the postman passed by the house without stopping.

  “Something’s happened,” said Mum. “Oh, I wish he wasn’t so far away!”

  On Saturday Mary packed up the sandwiches and the pigeons and set off again with Lennie, this time to the Revells’.

  “I’ll come out with you,” said Arnold. “I’ve got a bike.”

  He sat Lennie on his crossbar, and Mary took the pigeons. They went down towards the river and then turned westwards. Mary saw a signpost for Wendon, and thought of Phyl. She cycled cautiously, a bit wobbly, mindful of her pigeons. Arnold had to keep stopping to wait for her. When he came to the top of a hill he sped away and went fast downwards with Lennie squealing on the crossbar.