by Ann Turnbull
Mary found her voice. “But Dad chooses. Dad decides.”
“And Dad’s not here.”
“But you don’t know them! Which ones – which ones have you taken? Did Uncle Charley choose them? Is he in on this?”
“No!” Her mother’s voice was sharp. “Don’t you blame Charley. He didn’t know. Not till it was done.”
Mary darted towards the door.
Her mother called out, defensive now, “Well, it won’t be your best one, will it? That’s in Bordeaux.”
But Mary, running down the path, shouted, “She’s not the only one. There’s Ruby and True Blue, and Bevin, and – and the Gaffer.”
The thought of the Gaffer with his neck wrung and gravy on him was worst of all. The Gaffer, who was so tame, who’d come to you as soon as you went into the loft…
She flung open the door, forgetting to be calm. Birds fluttered upwards, startled; feathers floated down.
“Blériot … Bevin … Lavender… Mary’s glance darted around.
A whirr of wings, and the Gaffer landed on her shoulder. Mary picked him up and began to cry. “I’d have killed her,” she sobbed, “if it’d been you.”
The Gaffer struggled. Mary let him go. She was calmer now. She looked over the birds, checking.
Ruby was gone. Beautiful Ruby, with her dark plumage and deep red eyes. Mum had snatched Ruby from her nest-bowl and wrung her neck. Mary began to shake. The others were still there: Lenin, Trotsky, True Blue, Queenie… Two of the young birds, hatched in March, were gone; two that didn’t have names yet, that hadn’t proved themselves – and never would now.
“If she’d asked,” Mary sobbed, talking to the Gaffer, who sat watching from his perch with his head on one side. “If she’d asked, I’d have chosen her some.” At that moment she believed this was true. “It wasn’t for her to decide, coming in, grab, grab. I hate her!”
She closed up the loft and went indoors. She was still hungry, but the smell of the pigeons made her feel sick.
Her mother had dished up. There was a plate for her: potatoes, slices of pigeon. Slices of Ruby?
Mary gagged. “I can’t eat that.”
“You’ll go hungry, then.”
“You killed Ruby.” Mary’s voice rose. “Ruby!”
“I just took the nearest.”
“You don’t care, do you? Ruby had a squeaker, a baby. And you killed her.”
“I’ve got a baby, too. Your sister. Doreen. Isn’t she more important than a pigeon?” She turned to Lennie. “Eat your dinner, Lennie; don’t cry. What does it matter, any road? One pigeon or another? They’re just birds.”
Her logic infuriated Mary. “I hate you!” she shouted.
Her mother’s face darkened. “Don’t you dare say that!”
“You’d no right!” Mary went on. “No right to take them!”
Her mother turned on her. “I had every right, my girl! It’s my job to feed this family; my job to find food. Lennie has the right to eat. And so do I, because if I starve, Doreen starves. If you don’t want to eat, that’s up to you. You can get out. Go up to your bed. Go on! Out! Upstairs!”
Mary fled. She ran upstairs, into her room, and slammed the door with a crash that shook the house. She sank down on the floor behind it and sobbed noisily.
When her tears subsided she stayed sitting with her back against the door, hugging her anger. The smell of roast pigeon still hung on the air, tormenting her. Her stomach yearned for food; there was a pain in it. And there was pain in her chest caused by crying and anger.
I hate her, she thought. I’ll leave home. I’ll never speak to her again. But she didn’t move. She hugged her knees against her chest and brooded as the sounds of washing-up and voices came from below.
After a while she heard light footsteps on the stairs. Lennie. He scrabbled at her door and pushed. Mary’s back resisted him. “Go away, Lennie,” she said.
He didn’t go. She could hear him breathing. He always breathed noisily through his mouth.
“I want to come in,” he said.
“No.”
“It makes me cry when you cry.”
Mary said cruelly, “But you ate them, didn’t you? You ate my pigeons.”
There was a pause. Then, “They were nice,” said Lennie regretfully.
Mary heard her mother’s step on the stairs, and stiffened.
“Mary! Open that door!”
Mary rose unwillingly to her feet. She flung the door open, confronting her mother with a rebellious stare.
Fear flickered across Lennie’s face. Mary felt sorry for him, but wouldn’t soften because her mother was there, still angry and unforgiving. She pushed past her mother and ran downstairs.
“And where do you think you’re going, madam?”
“Out!”
“Out where?”
“Anywhere!”
She went out, slamming the back door, and ran down the path to the loft.
She took the Gaffer, putting him in the little basket. She didn’t know why she was taking him. It was not any great fear that her mother would kill him, more a feeling that she needed a pigeon with her, for comfort, and the Gaffer was the friendliest.
Her bicycle was kept in the shed now, where Dad’s had been before he went away. She was hauling it out when her mother appeared in the doorway, hands on hips.
“When you come back in and apologize,” she said, “I’ll get you something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry,” Mary lied.
She wheeled the bicycle out of the back gate, and noted with satisfaction that Mrs Lloyd’s net curtains were twitching.
“You’ll not get far,” her mother said.
“I will!” retorted Mary. Ideas filled her head. Go to Stafford, find Dad. Live wild in the woods. Go to the seaside. Go and see Phyl, tell her everything. Yes. Phyl would see her side of it. She’d sort things out. Mary felt a rush of longing for Phyl.
She pushed the bicycle out and mounted it. Her mother still stood with arms folded by the back door. Mary pushed down hard on the right-hand pedal and cycled away. She hadn’t gone the length of Lion Street before hunger threatened to overwhelm her, but she couldn’t bring herself to turn back.
CHAPTER TEN
She turned out of Lion Street towards the centre of town. It had been a hot day, and the air was still heavy, but now she saw clouds darkening in the west and remembered Uncle Charley’s warning about thunder. She should have taken a coat, she realized, as well as food. But she wouldn’t turn back now. Nothing would make her go back and apologize to her mother. She turned on to the road she had taken that first day out on the bicycle with Arnold and Lennie – the road that led to Wendon, and Phyl.
She cycled fast for the first few miles, breathing heavily, her anger giving her strength; but soon she began to flag. She stopped to pick half-ripe blackberries from a hedge, and to snatch apples from an overhanging branch. Gradually she lost heart. It hadn’t seemed far that day in June. But now, alone and hungry, with the temperature dropping and evening coming on, she felt as if the road would go on for ever.
There were few other people about. Occasionally she passed a countrywoman trudging along from one village to another. Twice a pony and trap came clattering up behind her; once a car went by – a doctor, perhaps.
She knew she had to climb Foss Bank before she reached Cheveley. Every time she rounded a bend in the road she expected to see it ahead: the steep climb where they’d had to get off and push the bikes. But every turn of the road revealed another dull, unfamiliar stretch, bordered by endless hedges, endless green verges full of flowers that didn’t interest her now. Ahead, in the west, dark clouds were massing. There was an ominous yellow tinge to their undersides. It was going to rain soon – rain hard. She felt the expectant quiver of wind in the kerbside grass.
The apples and blackberries hadn’t filled her. She had to get food. And she was stuck here in the middle of nowhere. What could she do? Go home? Her pride wouldn’t let her. Go to Olive
’s, or Uncle Charley’s? No. They’d only tell her she must go and make peace with her mother.
Arnold’s? She thought of the Revells’ home: the dirty, casual kitchen where people wandered in and out and there was always plenty of food: rabbit stew, big pies from the butcher’s, hunks of bread. The Revells didn’t waste money on shoes or shirts or soap, but they always had plenty to eat.
And they wouldn’t ask questions. They wouldn’t express shock or surprise or concern if she turned up there. Sid Revell wouldn’t tell her mother where she was, or lecture her to apologize. She could go there, be fed and looked after, stay the night.
It was the thought of staying the night that checked her. She’d once glimpsed through an open doorway the room where Molly and the little ones slept. Mattresses on the floor, grey blankets, dust. And Molly, who always had nits, and probably fleas as well. She didn’t fancy dossing down with Molly. Besides, her mother knew she was friendly with Arnold; she might come looking for her there, and make a scene.
A spot of rain touched her face. Better get on, get to Wendon before it came down harder. She rounded the next bend, and there was Foss Bank. Wendon wasn’t far now.
She climbed up the Bank, free-wheeled down the far side, passed the turning to Cheveley, and went on towards that area of trees where Arnold had pointed out to her the chimneys of Wendon Hall.
The Hall lay in the shelter of the valley. For the first time Mary felt nervous at the thought of approaching the place. It was so huge, so totally removed from the world she knew. How would she ever find Phyl there?
Two immense black wrought-iron gates marked the entrance to a tree-lined drive. Mary didn’t dare go in that way. She followed the wall round – miles, it seemed – until she came to a smaller, wooden gate. Tentatively she pushed it. It opened, and she found herself in a kitchen garden. A man in work clothes was hoeing between the rows of carrots and beet.
Mary’s voice was small. “Please, I’ve come to find my sister. She’s a maid here. Phyllis Dyer.”
“You want the scullery door,” the man said, pointing along a path. “Leave your bike. What’s that you’ve got there – a pigeon?”
“Yes.” Mary hesitated, her hand on the basket.
The man smiled. “He’ll be safe here with me.”
Mary propped the bicycle up against the wall, and followed the path. She found the scullery door, but it was closed. Loud voices, laughter, and a clatter of pans came from behind it. Mary hesitated. If she knocked, would they hear her?
Then the door was flung open, and a big red-faced girl bounced out, carrying a pail of vegetable peelings. She stared at Mary.
“I’m looking for my sister,” said Mary. “Phyllis Dyer.”
The girl put the pail down and stuck her head around the door.
“Mrs Coulter,” she shouted, “there’s a girl here asking for Phyllis.”
Mrs Coulter, in an expanse of white apron, her hair in a formidable bun, appeared in the doorway and looked Mary over.
“I’m her sister,” said Mary.
“I see.”
Mrs Coulter turned to the girl with the pail. “Get off with those scraps, Annie. Don’t stand gawping.”
Back inside, she called, “Phyllis! Your sister’s here.”
The next moment Phyl was on the doorstep. She looked tiny against the bulk of Mrs Coulter, wrapped around in an over-large apron, her hands wet from washing-up. After Mary’s long journey and the strangeness of the great house, the sight of Phyl was so familiar and reassuring that she threw her arms around her and burst into tears.
Mrs Coulter went back inside, leaving the sisters alone.
“Oh, Lord,” said Phyl. She had turned pale. “What is it, Mary?”
The whole story came out: about the birds and Dad and the Assistance and Arnold and the bike and the row with Mum.
“So I came to you,” Mary finished. “I need you to help me.”
“But – what can I do? Oh, Mary, I thought there’d been a death or something, not this. What can I do, Mary?”
And Mary realized then that Phyl couldn’t do anything. She had always thought of Phyl as being the one to sort out problems, smooth things over, get her out of trouble. Phyl had been her big sister, confident and capable. But Phyl wasn’t big here. She wasn’t even a grown-up. She was just a little girl straight from school, a kitchen maid, the smallest and youngest of a houseful of servants. Phyl couldn’t decide to put her up for the night, or give her food – probably couldn’t even give her any money.
“You’ll have to go home,” Phyl said.
“I can’t! I want to find Dad.”
“Don’t be silly, Mary. You don’t know where he is. You can’t just run away. You must go home right now, before it rains and before it starts to get dark. What were you thinking of doing when it got dark?”
Mary realized that she hadn’t thought at all. Phyl was right. She hadn’t thought sensibly about anything.
“They’ll have the police out looking for you if you don’t get home,” said Phyl.
Mary felt herself about to cry again. “Phyl,” she said, “I’m so thirsty. And I’ve had nothing to eat.”
Phyl looked at the half-open scullery door, bit her lip, and said, “You’ll get me shot.”
She went inside, and Mary heard her talking to Mrs Coulter. A few minutes later she came out with a glass of water and a slice of meat pie on a plate. Mary drank the water almost in one gulp and gave the glass to her sister, who went back in to refill it. The pie was heaven. Mary was halfway through it when Mrs Coulter came out.
“You finish that, and be off,” she said firmly. “Go straight home. We can’t take in waifs and strays.”
Mary nodded, her mouth full of pie. “Thank you,” she mumbled.
“How long did it take you to get here?” Phyl asked, after Mrs Coulter had gone back inside. “It’s getting on towards sunset now. You must get back before dark.”
“I’ll be all right,” said Mary. She had no idea how long it had taken her to get there, but she sensed that there was time enough to get back as long as she kept going. “I’d better go now.”
“And you’ll go straight home, mind? None of this Stafford nonsense?”
Mary nodded, defeated.
The big girl, Annie, who had been loitering outside to hear what was going on, suddenly brought from her apron pocket something wrapped in a damask cloth.
“Here,” she said. “There’s three jam tarts in there. I pinched them for me and the other two to eat in bed later, but you look like you need them more.”
Mary took the bundle, hiding it under her cardigan.
“But the napkin?” she said.
“Oh, Phyllis can smuggle that back. You can give it to her next time she comes home.” She gave a yelp of laughter at the sight of Phyl’s frightened stare. “She doesn’t know she’s born, your sister. Me and Ethel are working on her.”
The door opened and Mrs Coulter snapped, “Annie! Inside, miss! There’s work to do.”
Mary sprang away, hiding her gift, and scuttled around the corner of the building. The last glimpse she had of Phyl was her sister’s quick wave as she darted back inside.
The gardener was bending over his radishes. Mary slipped the damask-wrapped bundle into the front basket on her bicycle, wedging it next to the Gaffer’s basket, and wheeled the bicycle briskly out of the garden and into the lane.
As she cycled up towards the main road, breathing heavily with the exertion, she felt the rain starting: not isolated spots now, but a steady patter. The air was colder, and all around was that weird yellowish light and the feeling of stillness before a storm.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The storm broke as she was cycling back up the tree-lined hill towards Cheveley. The sky turned dark and unleashed lashing rain, forcing her to jump off her bicycle and run to the shelter of the trees. She stood there while rain blackened the road and beat on the leaves.
The trees gave shelter, but drops still penetrated.
The Gaffer shifted in his basket, and next to him the cloth with the jam tarts in it was spotted with rain. Mary unwrapped it and ate the tarts while she waited.
When the downpour eased, she wheeled the bicycle out again and cycled up out of the valley and on to the main road.
It should have been lighter here, but the sky was so dark that it was almost as dark as the valley.
Mary cycled on, reaching the field path and stile where she and Arnold had turned off that day to release the pigeons in the meadow. At that moment the sky was split by lightning, and seconds later she heard the thunder, a sharp crack overhead, followed by the hiss of rain.
Mary knew she had to get under cover fast. She saw rain falling in the distance over the hillside and sweeping towards her in sheets. There was another flash, followed almost at once by its thunder. The storm was overhead. She daren’t go back to the valley; she knew better than to shelter under trees. But here, on the crest of the hill, she felt exposed to the lightning.
She looked around. Where could she hide? And then she remembered: that place in the meadow where a broken fence marked the drop into an abandoned quarry, and Arnold saying, “There’s a little hollow space down the bottom; a cave, almost.”
A cave. That would be a safe place to shelter. She hauled the bicycle off the road and took the Gaffer’s basket out. She left the bicycle propped against the hedge beside the stile. Once over the stile, she raced across the soaking meadow, feeling her shoes fill up with water. The rain beat on her head and shoulders. When she reached the quarry the sky was darker than ever and she could feel the electricity in the air.
The Gaffer’s basket was going to make the descent difficult. Mary tucked her dress into her knickers, lowered herself over the edge, and began to climb down.
The rock was wet and slippery, the rain blinded her, and the basket banged against her chest. She felt the sky flicker. Another crack of thunder resounded overhead. Mary groped for footholds and handholds. Slowly she made her way down; she was almost there. She shifted her grip on the basket, easing her cramped fingers. The Gaffer was a nuisance, but she couldn’t have left him alone up there in the storm, nor let him loose in it. It was only then, as she thought of the Gaffer trying to fly home, that she remembered Speedwell.