12October
I woke up to Harriets shrill scream echoing through the hallway of our little councilflat in Manchester. Youre not my mother! Leave Dad alone! she howled, flinging her stuffed rabbit and, on a few occasions, a sharp piece of plastic at me. Every girl who ever tried to share a bed, a loaf of bread and that sagging sofa with me seemed to have that same venom. I could hear Harriets angry hiss as she smashed a porcelain dove that a neighbour had given us against the wall. You shouldve taken her to a therapist, muttered the last girl who tried to step into the role of stepmum, or shell grow up spitting foam at everyone.
I tried to apologise, my hands trembling as I swept the broken birds head and tail into the dustpan. I never imagined shed throw it, I said. I warned you she could never recover from her mothers death.
Harriets voice rose again, I also lost my dog recently, but Im not screaming like a lunatic or hurling things! She pressed a finger to her lips, as if the very act might soften the air.
She turned the key in the lock with a nervous click, slammed the door so hard the lights on the fourth floor flickered on in unison. Love, why would you do that? Its been almost four years and Im still not coping on my own, I knelt before her, pleading. Dont worry, Ill help you. Auntie isnt needed; shes all bad. Harriet clung to my neck, her breath hot on my cheek.
The days have been getting darker. The October wind feels as though it blows through me all year round, until one morning a woman named Evelyn warmed my chest. Not only that, she spilled half her coffee on me on the Northern line. She then stepped on my foot three times and, in a bizarre flourish, jabbed me with her umbrella. After her thousand apologies, she offered a pack of wet wipes, remarking, Just in case you break your nose or end up with a painted face.
I invited her out for another coffee, then a third. Evelyn turned out to be a walking magnet for mishaps: a bus door caught her ankle, a neighbours cat scratched half her face, and she seemed to win every traffic fine for jaywalkinglike a seasoned Olympian. She never seemed to notice the chaos, nor did she ever stay angry. That made me fall for her, hard, like a teenager in his first crush. It was hard to imagine a stepmum anyone could love, let alone one as dangerous as Evelyn, whose presence seemed to shake everything within a fivemile radius.
Listen, I told Harriet later, when we get home, ignore her snide remarks. Shes good, I just dont know how to reach her. All these women Im at fault, but
Evelyn placed a gentle hand on my arm as we reached the lift, Take a deep breath. We dont have to go to yours. Maybe we meet here, on the street?
The street? I echoed, surprised.
Yes, she said shyly, my boots smell of cats. My neighbour asked me to look after her British Shorthair, but he doesnt like me.
I laughed, Alright, Ill bring her over. I fished the intercom key from my pocket, and the door buzzed open.
While Evelyn was scrolling aimlessly on her phone, a small voice called from behind, Is that your wallet?
I spun around to see a girl about seven, clutching my wallet, cards, and prescription slips. Thank you, I almost lost it, she said, wiping her nose.
She introduced herself as Lily, Im with my granddad and Ollie, she added, pointing to an elderly man tinkering under a black foreign car and a boy of the same age holding a wrench.
A parcel fell from a lamppost onto Evelyns shoulder. Oh dear, a flying rat pooped on you, Lily giggled.
Its just a pigeon, Evelyn replied, pulling out more wipes. Not a rat.
Lilys eyes widened. Pigeons are the postmen of the sky, delivering letters to angels. She gestured upward, as though the pigeons above might hear her.
Before Lily could finish, the lift doors hissed open and I appeared, There you are! I thought youd been kidnapped. I lifted Lily into my arms. Your grandfather called, you didnt answer. Did you see the note?
Seen it, seen it, Lily replied, pointing at me. This is Evelyn, and thats Harriet.
Harriets face hardened, a look of pure spite toward Evelyn. The next halfhour was a tense silence; none of us knew what to say.
A week later I passed the flat and saw Harriet perched on the back of a bench, Hey, what are you doing?
Catching pigeons, she muttered, eyes fixed on a grey bird pecking at mouldy bread.
How do you plan to catch it? I asked, trying to keep my voice light.
With my hands.
Maybe a net would help.
Where do I get one? she snapped.
I can bring one.
Really?
Just wait here, feed the bird, Ill be back.
I sprinted to the bus stop, returned forty minutes later with a large net and a sack of sunflower seeds. Better to use more bait, I said, scattering half the sack on the pavement. Harriet nodded, silent.
Soon the sky darkened with a flock of grey pigeons descending. I handed her the net. She lunged, the birds scattered, and one plump pigeon fell into the mesh. Got it! Now the letter! I lifted the bird, but she admitted she hadnt yet written anything.
A sharptongued caretaker appeared, The whole pavement is now a mess of droppings!
Evelyn nudged Harriet toward the lift, Lets go home.
Is Dad in? I asked as we rode up.
Yes, she replied, smiling despite the gloom in Harriets eyes. Were here for other reasons. Go write your letter, Ill wait on the landing.
Harriet disappeared into the flat, returning moments later with a rolledup piece of paper and a length of thread. I placed a finger to my lips, urging the pigeon to stay quiet. Its eyes glittered with a mischievous spark. I offered it a seed; it pecked cautiously, then, as if daring, lunged at me. Its wings flapped wildly, striking my face, and I stumbled down the stairwell, clutching at the railing. Neighbours peeked out, laughter and curses rose from the hallway.
For ten minutes I wiped myself and the halffloor with wet wipes. The pigeon finally escaped through the window, never to trust humans again. Harriet vanished behind a door, emerging with a bucket of water and a mop.
Quickly, she said, slapping the floor, the scent of damp stone rising.
Andrews voice appeared in the doorway, What are you both doing washing the hallway? He looked bewildered.
Dont ask, Evelyn winked.
Dad, its nothing, Harriet muttered.
I get it, I said, closing the door.
Evelyn suggested, Why are we catching pigeons? There are proper dovecotes with professional messengers, not freelance birds.
Why didnt you say so earlier? I asked.
She shrugged, I forgot. Its been ages since I sent a letter to the sky.
Can we visit one? Please! Harriet pleaded, bouncing with excitement.
We can, but tomorrow. Ill pick you up after work.
Yay! she squealed.
That evening I called Andrew, explained everything. He warned, When she grows up and learns the truth, she might hold a grudge for this deception.
I replied, If Id been told the whole truth as a child, Id have gone mad.
He agreed, Youre right. Will you be able to handle it without me?
Sure, well manage. Shes clever, Id love to talk to her.
The next day Evelyn drove Harriet to a pigeonboarding centre in Leeds. Theyre so white and beautiful, Harriet cooed, Can I choose any? Will it deliver my letter to the right person? Does it have a GPS?
Evelyn reminded her, Just write the correct postcode.
Harriet, eyes wide, added, Ive written our home address; its repeated, right? And I mentioned who the letter is from so the angels dont mix it up.
Evelyn handed the keeper a few pounds, and they attached the tiny scroll to a pigeons leg before releasing it into the sky. The keeper sighed, wiping a tear from his sleeve, Good luck.
Two days later Andrew called. Harriet says she got a reply from the sky, it mentions you.
Evelyn was so shaken she left work early, accidentally deleting the project shed spent the whole day on. She rushed to the flat, rang the doorbell. Andrew opened it, Harriet and the neighbours boy were out in the garden. She left a note on the table, probably too shy to hand it to you.
Evelyn slipped into the bedroom, unfolded the crumpled paper. In a childish, shaky hand she read:
Thank you, dear, for the letter. I miss you a lot and love you. I think of you and Dad every day. I saw Evelyn, shes nice. She isnt your mum, but you can be friends. I would like that. Your mum.
A lump rose in Evelyns throat, the ink smearing as tears fell. Andrew stood behind her, arms around her shoulders. I always thought I needed to find a mother for her, but she just needed a friend. She already has a mum.
I never wanted more than that, Evelyn whispered, her eyes catching a pigeon perched on the windowsill, watching us as if it were about to relay our story to the heavens.
I close this entry feeling the weight of all the tangled lives in my flat, the hum of the city outside, and the faint coo of a pigeon that still carries hope on its wings.
