Pigeons

Pigeons

20 September 1965

H E ARRIVES TO

return the key.

‘Birdie,’ he says, tipping an imaginary hat.

‘I’m a pigeon today,’ she says, ‘I have decided.’

‘Pigeons are my favourite animal,’ he places the master key down on her desk, and even this act, of coming closer to her, the clean smell of his aftershave, feels oddly thrilling.

‘You’re just saying that,’ she tests.

‘On the contrary,’ Eddie says, warming to the task of defending pigeons to her. ‘They never give up! You see a pigeon hobbling around on a gnarled-up claw, or flapping about on a featherless wing, and they never once complain. Sometimes they just have a stump, and yet, on they go. Still walking. Even when it would be easier to fly.’

Bridie goes to the kettle and turns it on, upturns the slightly nicer mugs she brought from home this morning, just in case he came back for another cup. And Eddie takes a seat.

While she pours and stirs, Eddie, smiling at the collection of photographs on the windowsill, points to the photograph of Bridie and Alistair in Paris and says, ‘That is an excellent

hat,’ and she has to turn around and study his face to check that he isn’t mocking her.

‘I love a good hat,’ he explains, and he helps himself to a biscuit.