Arnold Revell, slouching in last from the yard as usual; she was beginning to know how he felt about school.
By the end of the day Mary was dreaming about food. She’d eaten her bread and dripping at lunchtime but it had seemed to go nowhere. If Speedwell wins, she thought, we’ll have meat tomorrow. The thought sustained her as she ran home.
She met Uncle Charley coming out of the passage. He looked odd, she thought; ruffled. “Speedwell?” she gasped.
“No, love. Not yet. Mary –” he caught her arm as she turned into the passageway – “Mary, go easy on your mother. This is a hard time for her.”
Mary looked at him, puzzled. “Aren’t you staying, then? I thought you’d be watching with me.”
“No.” He coughed, leaning on the railings. “No. I’d best get home. Let you talk to your mother.”
He shuffled off, and Mary turned in to the passageway with a feeling of unease. Something was wrong; the conversation had felt strange.
A smell assailed her halfway down the passage: strong, rich, savoury. Something she hadn’t smelt for weeks and weeks. Meat.
She ran indoors.
Meat! How had Mum managed to afford it? Mary stepped into the kitchen. Her stomach was begging for food. The whole kitchen was full of that glorious smell.
And then she saw her mother’s face, and understood. She felt cold.
“Mum! Mum – you didn’t…”
Her mother turned away and brought a dish out of the oven. Meat. Brown, glistening, coated in dark gravy. Three mounded shapes. Unmistakably pigeons.
The hunger drained from Mary. Fury took its place.
“My pigeons! You’ve cooked my pigeons!”
“Your father’s pigeons,” her mother corrected her. She was prepared, ready for battle. Mary, taken unawares, choked on her anger and couldn’t speak.
“We’ve had pigeon before,” said Mum calmly. “Your dad doesn’t give them an old age pension, does he, when they’re past it? They go in the pot.”
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
By the end of the day Mary was dreaming about food. She’d eaten her bread and dripping at lunchtime but it had seemed to go nowhere. If Speedwell wins, she thought, we’ll have meat tomorrow. The thought sustained her as she ran home.
She met Uncle Charley coming out of the passage. He looked odd, she thought; ruffled. “Speedwell?” she gasped.
“No, love. Not yet. Mary –” he caught her arm as she turned into the passageway – “Mary, go easy on your mother. This is a hard time for her.”
Mary looked at him, puzzled. “Aren’t you staying, then? I thought you’d be watching with me.”
“No.” He coughed, leaning on the railings. “No. I’d best get home. Let you talk to your mother.”
He shuffled off, and Mary turned in to the passageway with a feeling of unease. Something was wrong; the conversation had felt strange.
A smell assailed her halfway down the passage: strong, rich, savoury. Something she hadn’t smelt for weeks and weeks. Meat.
She ran indoors.
Meat! How had Mum managed to afford it? Mary stepped into the kitchen. Her stomach was begging for food. The whole kitchen was full of that glorious smell.
And then she saw her mother’s face, and understood. She felt cold.
“Mum! Mum – you didn’t…”
Her mother turned away and brought a dish out of the oven. Meat. Brown, glistening, coated in dark gravy. Three mounded shapes. Unmistakably pigeons.
The hunger drained from Mary. Fury took its place.
“My pigeons! You’ve cooked my pigeons!”
“Your father’s pigeons,” her mother corrected her. She was prepared, ready for battle. Mary, taken unawares, choked on her anger and couldn’t speak.
“We’ve had pigeon before,” said Mum calmly. “Your dad doesn’t give them an old age pension, does he, when they’re past it? They go in the pot.”
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
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