The Pigeon

The Love Embrace of the Universe, Frida Kahlo
The Tate Gallery website
Click to enlarge

I dislike being late intensely so am generally far too early for everything. It perpetuates the illusion that I can retain some vestige of control over the unpredictability of life. Over the years I have sat in innumerable cafes drinking innumerable cups of coffee to pass the time while waiting for companions to arrive or offices to open. My father was the same and, apparently, his father before him.

But last Tuesday for reasons too uninteresting to mention I was on the verge of being late for a dental appointment. So I really wasn't in the mood to stop and talk when, one street away from the surgery, the old lady emerged from the doorway of her flat as I hurried past.

“You can’t see a pigeon in there can you dear?” she asked.

She pointed at a strip of scrubby communal garden where a few dispirited laurel bushes formed a barrier between her front door and the main road. I guessed she was in her eighties. Frail and slight, her skin had a yellowish tinge but her voice had remained clear and strong and I detected an Irish accent. She was obviously worried.

“There's been an injured pigeon hiding in those bushes for two days. I think it’s broken its leg. I can't see it now though”.

I peered into the shrubbery. No pigeon, just an empty crisp packet or two. A panicky voice in my head was telling me that I was definitely going to be late now.

“I put some food and water out for it. My neighbours don’t like it when I feed the pigeons because they say they’re dirty. But how would they like to be hungry?”

“It doesn't seem to be there,” I told her. “Did you phone the RSPCA?”

“I called them yesterday afternoon. Maybe they came last night and took it away to look after it?”

I said that yes, this was probably what had happened. But I thought of different possibilities as well. Urban fox. Cat. Other unpleasant scenarios. I suspected she was thinking along the same lines. We talked for several minutes, her eyes scanning the bushes periodically.

“I’ve got a bad leg myself, and I wouldn’t want to be left alone and in pain," she said, suddenly.

My heart lurched. She could doubtless imagine only too vividly what this would be like. I attempted again to reassure her that the bird was probably in good hands. I wasn't sure whether I believed it or not but that didn't matter.

“I always look after the animals ”, she went on as she turned to go back indoors. “They can't ask for help can they?”.

I went on my way. It occurred to me that the panicky voice had been silenced.

The end of the story is a cliche. I was late for my appointment but it didn't matter, the dentist was behind schedule anyway. It really wasn't that important. And neither are a lot of the things that I worry about.