Five lads and a Pigeon in the Park

Five Lads and a Pigeon in the Park

by Alyson Faye

“’Ere, Missus, do you want to sponsor this pigeon? Champion racer, she is. Name’s Sunflower. Won first place in the Bradford Pigeon Racing Competition this year. No one can beat her.”

The teenager beams at me, surrounded by his posse, all fresh-faced, standing near the Cenotaph; a line of blue jeans and hoodies. Today’s uniform.

The lad is cuddling a pigeon in his arms, not your ordinary standard blue and grey bird but a handsome snowy-feathered specimen speckled with splashes of black. On the scale of good looking pigeons this one is a supermodel.

The lads pipes up again. “This ‘ere’s Sunflower. Best racer in Bingley. Ain’t she lovely?” His mates nod and laugh. He strokes the remarkably placid pigeon, nestling in his arms.

“Um . . . lads,” I venture, “you’ve not kidnapped a random pigeon, have you?”

Protestations pour forth. The lads speak fast, overlapping each others’ voices, finishing each others’ sentences. They are a comedy quintet in training.

The grey, drizzly afternoon grows lighter, the air warmer. Laughter bubbles in my chest.

“Nah, honest, we haven’t,” says their leader. “She just flew down to us. Landed on me hand. Like this.” He sticks his spare arm out.

It is true. Sunflower seems tame, comfortable and cosy double wrapped in the lad’s fleece then a blue mac.

“See, she don’t want to fly away.” He holds her out for me to inspect.

Me and Sunflower eye each other. She is much more confident than I. In truth I’ve never been a fan of birds – the fluttering wings, sharp claws and beady eyes repel me. I cannot bring myself to stroke Sunflower. I explain this to the lad and, to my surprise, he nods, even sympathises.

“Yeah, know what you mean. Is it the way they jolt and twitch?”

“Yes, and …” I don’t add that birds are creepy prehistoric remnants with unknown historic powers.

The lad covers Sunflower’s snowy head with the hood of the mac. His touch . . . gentle. Sunflower accepts it as her due. “Gotta keep her warm.”

“That hoody’s going to get pretty messy,” I say.

The lads laugh. As one. They all get my point. Grasp the basic nature of the toilet humour.

“It’s all right, it’s not my hoody. It’s his.” Sunflower’s foster dad thumbs at his mate, who shrugs, looking resigned.

We part ways.

Leggy, still bantering, they wander off toward the bandstand.

And for the rest of the day I wonder about Sunflower. Racing Pigeon or pet? Is she flying free or sleeping warm and cosy, safe in that blue hoody in a bedroom somewhere in town.