Youre not my mother! I shouted, Leave us alone, you and your dad! Get out! Every girl who ever tried to share the bed, the bread and the battered sofa with me had said it. Little Lucy snarled, hurling plush rabbits, cheap plastic toys and, on occasion, a sharp piece of cardboard whenever a hopeful stepmother crossed the threshold of our cramped council tower. You should take your hysterical child to a therapist, the last would snap, as Lucy smashed a porcelain dove that a neighbour had given us against the wall. Sorry, for Gods sake, I didnt think shed throw it I muttered, sweeping up the broken pieces with trembling hands. I warned you she never recovered from her mothers death.
Ive just lost my dog too, but Im not screaming like a lunatic and Im not throwing things! she retorted.
My dog? You compare losing a mother to a dog?
I loved her. Enough, you lot of freaks.
Sniffing as if shed caught a whiff of something foul, Lucy twisted the lock with all her might, turned it the other way and slammed the door so hard the hallway lights on the whole fourth floor flickered on.
Darling, why are you like this? Its been almost four years, cant you see I cant cope on my own? I knelt before my daughter.
Dont worry, Ill help you. That aunt of yours isnt needed shes bad, all of them are, Lucy whispered, clinging to my neck.
Each day I sank deeper into myself. The October wind felt like a yearround chill until one day a woman named Emily warmed my heart. She didnt just warm it; she spilled half her coffee on me on the tube. Then she stepped on my foot three times and, to top it off, flicked an umbrella at my eye. All of that happened after wed already exchanged a thousand apologies.
Just in case, Emily said, pulling out a second pack of wet wipes, you never know when youll need to clean a nose or a bloody shirt.
Does this happen to you often? I asked.
Every now and then, she replied without thinking.
After that first tube coffee, I invited Emily for a second, then a third. She turned out to be a magnet for mishaps: a bus door would pinch her, a neighbours cat would claw half her face, and she seemed to win gold medals for jaywalking penalties. Yet Emily never minded; she took everything in stride and never held a grudge. Thats why I was headoverheels for her, like a seventhgrader with his first crush.
Listen, I told Lucy later, when we get home, ignore her teasing. Shes good, really. I just dont know how to reach her. And all these women Im to blame, but
Calm down, breathe, Emily soothed, patting my hand as we reached the lift. We dont have to go to your flat. How about we meet out here, on the street?
The street? I asked, surprised.
Yes, you said she gets nervous at home, so lets meet outside. By the way, my boots smell of cats, she admitted shyly. The neighbour asked me to watch her Maine Coon, but hes not a fan of me, she added with a grin.
Dont worry. Ill bring her along, I said, tapping my intercom badge and pushing the door open with a buzz.
Emily was scrolling aimlessly online when a voice behind her called, Is that your wallet?
Startled, she turned to see a girl of about seven or eight holding her leather wallet, stuffed with cash, cards and a prescription.
Thanks, I almost lost it, Emily smiled.
Be more careful, the girl said, rubbing her nose.
Where are you alone? I asked.
Not alone Im with my granddad and Oliver, she replied, pointing to an elderly man tinkering under the bonnet of a black foreign car, while a boy of the same age held a wrench.
A paper packet flew off a nearby postbox onto Emilys shoulder.
Ah, a flying rat left a droppings on you, the girl giggled.
Its just lifes little quirks, Emily laughed, pulling a fresh wipe from her bag. And its not a rat, its a pigeon.
My granddad says its a rat.
Pigeons are the oldtime postmen, delivering letters to the heavens, Emily explained, convincing enough that a few pigeons overhead turned to listen.
The girl, puzzled, asked, What if they deliver to ordinary people instead of angels?
Just need the right postcode, she answered.
Before she could finish, the lift doors whooshed open and I stepped out.
There you are! I thought youd been kidnapped, I said, scooping the girl into my arms.
Granddad called, you didnt answer. Did you see the note?
Yes, I did. Meet Emily, this is our new friend, I introduced. And thats Lucy.
Lucys expression hardened, fixing Emily with a cold stare.
The next half hour was an awkward tumble of strained conversation and palpable tension.
Sorry, I said as we left, see you tomorrow.
Everythings fine, Emily whispered, barely audible.
A week later I passed the block and saw Lucy perched behind a bench.
Hey, what are you up to? I called.
Catching pigeons, she replied, eyes glued to a grey bird pecking at mouldy bread. Oh, youre here she muttered, turning toward me.
How do you plan to catch it? I asked, ignoring her icy glare.
With my hands.
Im sure youll catch very little that way. You need a net.
Where will I get one? she asked, looking at me as if I were foolish.
I can bring one.
Really?
Yes, wait here, feed them, Ill be back from the Childrens Centre.
I dashed to the bus stop, returned forty minutes later with a large net and a bag of sunflower seeds.
Better to use plenty of bait, I said, sprinkling half the bag on the pavement. Lucy nodded silently.
Within five minutes a grey cloud of pigeons descended, cooing and settling on the cobbles.
Your turn, I offered, handing her the net.
She lunged, the net flaring, and the flock scattered.
I got one! she shouted.
Great, now lets write the letter! I plucked a bird from the net.
Hold on, I havent written it yet
What do you mean? What are we supposed to do with it? I asked, both of us staring at the bewildered pigeon, which seemed to see us from every angle.
A sharptongued resident caretaker stomped over, What a mess youve made of the pavement!
Lets go home, I suggested, nudging Lucy toward the lift.
Dad at home? Lucy asked as we rose to her floor.
Yes.
Should we tell him were here?
No need, Emily smiled, seeing the doubt in Lucys eyes. Were here for other reasons. Write your letter, Ill wait for you on the landing.
Lucy slipped back into the flat, emerging five minutes later with a bundle of thread.
Shh I hushed her, pointing at the pigeon perched on the windowsill. She smiled, eyes sparkling with excitement.
I offered the bird a few seeds; it pecked timidly, then, when it let its guard down, I tried to grab it. It was quicker than me, flapped wildly, and crashed into my face, shrieking. Its wings beat at my eyes, claws raked, and I stumbled down the stairwell, trying desperately to shake it off. Neighbours peeked out, laughter and curses rose from the hallway.
For the next ten minutes I wiped myself and half the landing with wet wipes. The pigeon finally fluttered out the window and seemed to swear off humans forever. Lucy disappeared behind her flat door; when she returned she carried a bucket of water and a mop.
This will be faster, she declared, slapping the mop on the floor. The air filled with the scent of damp stone.
Whats that, Lucy? Marks voice called from the doorway, looking bewildered at the sight of his daughter and Emily scrubbing the communal stairs. What are you two doing?
Dont ask questions, Emily winked.
Dad, no need to know everything, Lucy muttered.
Alright, alright, I get it, Mark closed the door.
I was thinking, Emily said as the cleaning stopped, why are we catching pigeons? There are proper pigeon lofts with professional carriers, not freelance amateurs.
Seriously? Why didnt you say something before? I asked.
I just forgot. Havent sent any skymail in ages.
Can we visit them? Please! Lucy bounced.
We can, but only tomorrow. Ill pick you up after work, okay?
Yay! she squealed.
That evening Emily phoned me and laid out the plan.
Do you think its a good idea? When she grows up she might resent the deception.
If Id been told the truth from the start, Id have gone mad, I admitted.
Youre right. Will you be there tomorrow without me? she asked.
Yes, I think well manage. Shes clever; Id love to talk to her.
Thanks.
The next day Emily collected Lucy, and we jumped into a black cab heading for the pigeon loft outside Cambridge.
What a beautiful, white flock, Lucy cooed, eyes wide. Can I pick any? Will it deliver my letter straight to mum? Does it have GPS? I need it to reach Mom, please.
The key is the correct postcode, Emily reminded.
I wrote our home address; it repeats, right? I also added whos writing so the angels dont mix it up, Lucy said seriously.
Thank you, Emily handed the keeper a few pounds, watching as a pigeon was gently tied to a tiny scroll and released skyward.
Dont feel sorry for me, the keeper muttered, tucking the money away.
Thank you, Emily, Lucy hugged the girl, who simply patted her on the head.
Two days later Mark called.
Lucy says she got a reply from the sky, and it mentions you. Want to come over and read it?
Ill be there soon.
The news shook Emily; she left work early, accidentally deleting a project shed been working on for months.
She rushed to the flat, rang the doorbell. Mark opened it.
Lucys been playing with the neighbours boy in the courtyard. She left a note on the table, probably shy to hand it over herself.
Emily stepped into the room, unfolded the crumpled paper, and read in a childs uneven handwriting:
Thank you, dear, for the letter. I miss you a lot and love you. I think about you and dad every day. I saw Emily, shes nice. She isnt your mum, but you could be friends. I would like that. Love, Mum.
Emily swallowed hard, her throat tightening as the ink began to run.
It looks like she understood, Mark said, wrapping his arms around her from behind.
She nodded, tears still streaming.
I always thought she needed a mother, but she just needed a friend. She already has a mum.
I never wanted more than that, Emily sighed, glancing out the window at a pigeon perched on the sill, watching us. It seemed to be listening, ready to fly up and tell the angels everything that had happened.
