Free Pigeon Summer by Ann Turnbull

Dyer.”
    “You want the scullery door,” the man said, pointing along a path. “Leave your bike. What’s that you’ve got there – a pigeon?”
    “Yes.” Mary hesitated, her hand on the basket.
    The man smiled. “He’ll be safe here with me.”
    Mary propped the bicycle up against the wall, and followed the path. She found the scullery door, but it was closed. Loud voices, laughter, and a clatter of pans came from behind it. Mary hesitated. If she knocked, would they hear her?
    Then the door was flung open, and a big red-faced girl bounced out, carrying a pail of vegetable peelings. She stared at Mary.
    “I’m looking for my sister,” said Mary. “Phyllis Dyer.”
    The girl put the pail down and stuck her head around the door.
    “Mrs Coulter,” she shouted, “there’s a girl here asking for Phyllis.”
    Mrs Coulter, in an expanse of white apron, her hair in a formidable bun, appeared in the doorway and looked Mary over.
    “I’m her sister,” said Mary.
    “I see.”
    Mrs Coulter turned to the girl with the pail. “Get off with those scraps, Annie. Don’t stand gawping.”
    Back inside, she called, “Phyllis! Your sister’s here.”
    The next moment Phyl was on the doorstep. She looked tiny against the bulk of Mrs Coulter, wrapped around in an over-large apron, her hands wet from washing-up. After Mary’s long journey and the strangeness of the great house, the sight of Phyl was so familiar and reassuring that she threw her arms around her and burst into tears.
    Mrs Coulter went back inside, leaving the sisters alone.
    “Oh, Lord,” said Phyl. She had turned pale. “What is it, Mary?”
    The whole story came out: about the birds and Dad and the Assistance and Arnold and the bike and the row with Mum.
    “So I came to you,” Mary finished. “I need you to help me.”
    “But – what can I do? Oh, Mary, I thought there’d been a death or something, not this. What can I do, Mary?”
    And Mary realized then that Phyl couldn’t do anything. She had always thought of Phyl as being the one to sort out problems, smooth things over, get her out of trouble. Phyl had been her big sister, confident and capable. But Phyl wasn’t big here. She wasn’t even a grown-up. She was just a little girl straight from school, a kitchen maid, the smallest and youngest of a houseful of servants. Phyl couldn’t decide to put her up for the night, or give her food – probably couldn’t even give her any money.
    “You’ll have to go home,” Phyl said.
    “I can’t! I want to find Dad.”
    “Don’t be silly, Mary. You don’t know where he is. You can’t just run away. You must go home right now, before it rains and before it starts to get dark. What were you thinking of doing when it got dark?”
    Mary realized that she hadn’t thought at all. Phyl was right. She hadn’t thought sensibly about anything.
    “They’ll have the police out looking for you if you don’t get home,” said Phyl.
    Mary felt herself about to cry again. “Phyl,” she said, “I’m so thirsty. And I’ve had nothing to eat.”
    Phyl looked at the half-open scullery door, bit her lip, and said, “You’ll get me shot.”
    She went inside, and Mary heard her talking to Mrs Coulter. A few minutes later she came out with a glass of water and a slice of meat pie on a plate. Mary drank the water almost in one gulp and gave the glass to her sister, who went back in to refill it. The pie was heaven. Mary was halfway through it when Mrs Coulter came out.
    “You finish that, and be off,” she said firmly. “Go straight home. We can’t take in waifs and strays.”
    Mary nodded, her mouth full of pie. “Thank you,” she mumbled.
    “How long did it take you to get here?” Phyl asked, after Mrs Coulter had gone back inside. “It’s getting on towards sunset now. You must get back before dark.”
    “I’ll be all right,” said Mary. She had no idea how long it had taken her to get there, but she sensed that there was time enough to