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
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
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