they had got home.
“I’d better not,” she said.
It took them over an hour to walk back to Culverton, but the time passed quickly. Arnold told Mary about scrapes he and his brothers had got into. They mostly involved air rifles, trespass or thieving. Mary was mildly shocked, but the stories made her laugh; she suspected that her laughter was making Arnold exaggerate them.
Then they entered the fringe of the town, and Mary stopped laughing and chatting and began to worry. First, she worried about the time. Mum and the little ones should have gone up to Aunty Elsie’s by now, but they might be waiting for her at home. Then she worried about being seen with Arnold. It was bad enough being seen with any boy – the girls always teased one another – but Arnold Revell: she’d never live it down if anyone saw her with
him
.
They came to the parting of the ways: Lion Street for Mary and Station Road for Arnold. Mary paused.
“I’ve got to go now.”
Arnold was still carrying the pigeon basket. She reached for it.
“Heavy, after a few miles, that is,” said Arnold, handing it back.
“You didn’t have to carry it,” said Mary ungraciously.
“I meant for you. With pigeons in. You need a bike.”
Mary laughed. “Some chance!”
“See you, then. Tomorrow.”
“See you.”
Mary turned away and ran up Lion Street. Tomorrow! She hoped he wouldn’t speak to her tomorrow at school. She’d die.
She went along the alley and in through the back garden gate. Now her thoughts were all for the pigeons. She wanted to fling open the door of the loft and rush inside, but she restrained herself and approached it calmly so as not to disturb the birds.
Three of them were back. Three out of six. Two had probably been shot. One was lost; it might find its way back, but it was young and the outside world was full of dangers. The beautiful dark chequer cock was missing. Had he been shot? She’d never know which one it was she saw fall. She imagined him stiffening in the field of peas, his bloom gone, his bold red eye dulled.
Sorry, Dad, she thought.
Indoors, the house was empty. They hadn’t waited. Aunty Elsie would be laying the table now, with the pretty plates painted with birds and flowers – seconds that Uncle Arthur used to bring home from the china works. There would be sandwiches, and currant cake, and a small bag of sweets for Lennie. Mary felt almost sick with hunger. If she went up there now she’d be in time for tea. But it meant walking in, feeling everyone staring at her, confronting the anger of both women… She couldn’t face it.
I should have gone to Arnold’s, she thought. Who cares what anyone thinks?
She searched the larder, found a crust of bread, and spread it with jam. Then she went up to her room to await her mother’s anger.
CHAPTER SIX
Mary’s mother was angry. What would the neighbours think, she asked? What would the minister think? How did she think Aunty Elsie felt? Mary became aware that her mother had been subjected to an afternoon-long lecture by Aunty Elsie on how to discipline her children. “And on top of all that, I was worried the whole time. Didn’t you realize I’d worry?”
Mary was sorry but she wouldn’t say so. “It’s the only time I get, Sundays,” she muttered, hanging her head.
“You won’t take those birds out on a Sunday again,” said her mother.
Mary decided not to mention Arnold Revell. However, she told her mother about the shooting. She was hoping for sympathy, but got none.
“You can’t blame the farmer. He’s got his crops to protect. He’s probably driven mad by pigeon fanciers. I know I am. And if you think I’m letting you off on Saturdays, you can think again. I won’t have a girl of your age running around the countryside when she ought to be helping at home.”
“Well, I’m sending three birds to Le Mans on Wednesday,” said Mary defiantly. “If they win us some money you’ll be pleased, won’t you?”
“If,” said
“I’d better not,” she said.
It took them over an hour to walk back to Culverton, but the time passed quickly. Arnold told Mary about scrapes he and his brothers had got into. They mostly involved air rifles, trespass or thieving. Mary was mildly shocked, but the stories made her laugh; she suspected that her laughter was making Arnold exaggerate them.
Then they entered the fringe of the town, and Mary stopped laughing and chatting and began to worry. First, she worried about the time. Mum and the little ones should have gone up to Aunty Elsie’s by now, but they might be waiting for her at home. Then she worried about being seen with Arnold. It was bad enough being seen with any boy – the girls always teased one another – but Arnold Revell: she’d never live it down if anyone saw her with
him
.
They came to the parting of the ways: Lion Street for Mary and Station Road for Arnold. Mary paused.
“I’ve got to go now.”
Arnold was still carrying the pigeon basket. She reached for it.
“Heavy, after a few miles, that is,” said Arnold, handing it back.
“You didn’t have to carry it,” said Mary ungraciously.
“I meant for you. With pigeons in. You need a bike.”
Mary laughed. “Some chance!”
“See you, then. Tomorrow.”
“See you.”
Mary turned away and ran up Lion Street. Tomorrow! She hoped he wouldn’t speak to her tomorrow at school. She’d die.
She went along the alley and in through the back garden gate. Now her thoughts were all for the pigeons. She wanted to fling open the door of the loft and rush inside, but she restrained herself and approached it calmly so as not to disturb the birds.
Three of them were back. Three out of six. Two had probably been shot. One was lost; it might find its way back, but it was young and the outside world was full of dangers. The beautiful dark chequer cock was missing. Had he been shot? She’d never know which one it was she saw fall. She imagined him stiffening in the field of peas, his bloom gone, his bold red eye dulled.
Sorry, Dad, she thought.
Indoors, the house was empty. They hadn’t waited. Aunty Elsie would be laying the table now, with the pretty plates painted with birds and flowers – seconds that Uncle Arthur used to bring home from the china works. There would be sandwiches, and currant cake, and a small bag of sweets for Lennie. Mary felt almost sick with hunger. If she went up there now she’d be in time for tea. But it meant walking in, feeling everyone staring at her, confronting the anger of both women… She couldn’t face it.
I should have gone to Arnold’s, she thought. Who cares what anyone thinks?
She searched the larder, found a crust of bread, and spread it with jam. Then she went up to her room to await her mother’s anger.
CHAPTER SIX
Mary’s mother was angry. What would the neighbours think, she asked? What would the minister think? How did she think Aunty Elsie felt? Mary became aware that her mother had been subjected to an afternoon-long lecture by Aunty Elsie on how to discipline her children. “And on top of all that, I was worried the whole time. Didn’t you realize I’d worry?”
Mary was sorry but she wouldn’t say so. “It’s the only time I get, Sundays,” she muttered, hanging her head.
“You won’t take those birds out on a Sunday again,” said her mother.
Mary decided not to mention Arnold Revell. However, she told her mother about the shooting. She was hoping for sympathy, but got none.
“You can’t blame the farmer. He’s got his crops to protect. He’s probably driven mad by pigeon fanciers. I know I am. And if you think I’m letting you off on Saturdays, you can think again. I won’t have a girl of your age running around the countryside when she ought to be helping at home.”
“Well, I’m sending three birds to Le Mans on Wednesday,” said Mary defiantly. “If they win us some money you’ll be pleased, won’t you?”
“If,” said