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Pigeon Gas - I will come >>>> Page 153-159
I WILL COME HOME AGAIN
I SUPPOSE in retrospect that we should have expected something odd to happen. Toms Father was always reckoned to have been a bit queer - pyschic like - and his mother had the gift without a doubt. Took it from her old lady no less, and a right Witch she were reckoned to be. Perhaps if shed been born a few years earlier shed have been burned for it, but then perhaps not, cause she never did anyone wrong that I recall. Anyway, long before he was a grown man, folks used to nod at young Tom and betimes opine that he were a bit strange - not markedly so you understand - but.... just a bit odd if you know what I mean?
Anyway, to get on wi the tale. Tom took to keeping pigeons when he was about 14 years or so, and some right scrapes he used to get into with them. Old Drury went spare one day when he found the bot stuck high up on the side of his granary wall, no ladder or nothin you understand, just climed that danged wall like some girt fly. However, he got stuck that time, and Old Drury had to leg it all the way round the yard to find the long ladder, and as it had been borrowed for stacking or summat, he had a long look afore he found it. Got the lad down alright, but left a few broken nails and bits oskin up there in passing like. Said he was trying to take a pair o they young barnyard pigeons out of the nest, so course like the danged old fool that he is, old Drury went and got him a pair. Never even belted him around the earole like I would a done either. Summers came and went, and young Tom flew his pigeons far and wide, all o twenty mile they birds used to come home. I recall hearing that Missus Pearts lad took one away wi im one time, and let it loose when he got home, and he lived tother side o Great Durlinam so you know they flew a tidy distance. My Father took me there once when I was a lad, right little town that is, got a cinema and eighteen shops - and theym on the bus route too so youll know its a tidy place.
Talkin about Missus Peart brings me back to Tom again, cause twats her lad that introduced Tom to the hell on two wheels he called his motor-bike. Noisy blamed thing that bike were, bangin away like a machine gun or summat, anyway Tom started borrowin it when young Peart came to see Toms sister, and in no time at all the lad was tearing off miles with a basket of pigeons - and he used to let them off some place or other and race em all home. Most times hed win you understand, but now and again one or another used to pip him and hed be right pleased about it. Cant for the life of me understand why, cause you think hed like to be there to see em come home wouldnt you? One thing led to another, and it wasnt long before Tom went all the way back to Duelinam wi young Peart - and met his sweetheart for the very first time. Elizabeth Russell her name was, curly glossy hair like newly combed tow, an eyes that was neither green, nor yellow, nor blue or nothing. They were all colours, and even though Im an old man I daresay Ive never seen a wench more comely that Liz. She was something like 5 1/2 foot tall, good lookin and had freckles all over her nose. Anyway, Tom fell for her like a shot pheasant, head over tip, and after theyd met it seemed that hed forgotten his pigeons even. Didnt though, they took second place for a long while I must say, and all they got was corn and water and scant else - but he didnt part wi em like most lovestruck lads would a done. And do you know, the lass began to take an interest in the birds too, come all the way over on the bus she would, take her over an hour to travel, and she sit wi Tom and let him natter on for hours about the birds like some loon. I declare I never see such a pair afore, just sittin holdin hands and betimes talkin betimes not, just sittin looking at each other. I reckon old Master Cupid must of shot an arrow in both the pair o they two, stead o just one for the both of em.
Tom was nigh on eighteen years old when he fell for Liz, and twerent that many many months later that the pair got married. Lovely little old house they had, old Missus Barratt what got took ill sudden like used to own the place, but she went away to visit her daughter in America, her that married that Yank feller in the first war, and the old lady died there poor ol dear. Nice place it was, and just at the back of Toms own home so he never had any trouble breaking his pigeons at all. Just moved his loft over the hedge with the help o a couple of the local lads, and away he went as before. Hed been married about a couple o years when he heard about this racing antic they get up to, and damned if he didnt start trying to win races wi his old farm yarders. One o they city fellers came by one day, and when he set his jug down in the bar o the Blackbirds, he left a pigeon paper called Pigeon Racing Gazette behind on the counter. Course we gave it to Tom natural enough, as there wasnt nobody else round here what flew pigeons, and like we always say round these parts, time spent learnin aint time wasted - an you can always learn somethin from papers I reckon.
What happened after that was foreseeable. Tom started working as much overtime as he could, and when he scraped a few pounds together, he went off on the bus one fine Spring day to see one o these town fellers - hopin to buy himself some decent racing birds - cause it was obvious that his farmyards wernt no great shakes as racers. He came back with a couple o pairs, and a great sheaf o paper wi all the details o pedigree, plannin and all sorts of training advice. The bloke he bought em from must a been an honest man,cause they birds started winnin form the word go. Nothin wonderful you understand, but a regular mention in the weekly paper that Tom had won a prize in this or that race, and as the distance began to get longer and longer, so he got better and better at it. After about five years of this, we got quite used to seeing cars pull up and asking for Toms house, and - naturally enough - we had an interest in things cause he were one o our lads, born and raised on the premises so to speak, and any glory there was going reflected as much on us as it did on Tom.
Things went on in fine fashion for years, then came that blasted war in 1939 and a lot of our boys got themselves called up. I agree that all could have dodged the conscription if theyd just stayed on the farms, but there was one or two of them who wouldnt dodge anything - and Tom was one o them. Never feared any man or job, no matter how dirty it was, and he reckoned that if the war were to be won, it called for a few volunteers besides the poor blighters whod got to go whether they liked it or not. Away went Tom one fine Spring day in 1940, and the authorities let his Missus keep the pigeons as they were a good loft and the youngsters were available to the RAF every year. In fact, the powers-that-be even asked Tom if hed like to run the loft as his job, but he said No and went off to train as a gunner in a airyplane. They reckoned it was his countrymans sharp eyes, and Ive no doubt it might have been at that, but whatever the reason, he turned out the best gunner theyd had at the school for years. Tom flew on dozens of missions, and always used to dash home to see his little sweetheart whenever he could - and when he went back to his unit, he used to say Ill come home again, with a smile that took the sting out of his parting, or some of the sting anyway. There was one time when he never came home for six weeks, and when he did, he had a bandage around his head that stayed there for months. Finally it was removed, and the scare right across his nose, twisting it up with an ugly quirk, didnt seem to worry him in the least. The white streak that ran from front to back on his scalp likewise didnt worry him, though in all conscience it did look odd. Liz used to smile up at him with those great big eyes of hers, and though they were in their thirties by this time, they looked as much like teenagers as ever. They say that love keeps you young lookin ans Im inclined to believe theres summat in it.
When it dawned into 1943, we were firmly convinced that Tom was one of those lucky ones, one of those that always came home no matter what happened. His Ill come home again as he left the pub, always brought a smile in response, and we knew that hed come back again, come what may. Right up to the big push in the Far East in the summer that year, cause we had heard that Tom was off for a long trip - and most of us were wise enough to know what that meant despite the security blanket. Tom didnt give his usual parting greeting as he left that night, and we had to did it out of him. He furrowed his brow I remember, looked hard at his feet before answering, then with a shrug and a grin trotted out as usual. My daughter heard him as he kissed his Liz good-bye at the bus stop, and she reckons he says, I will come home again Liz - almost as if he were trying to convince both er and isself. My lass reckons he put so much emphasis on the word will that it struck her as distinctly odd. She also says they spent such a long time in their parting embrace that she began to feel uncomfortable - and when my daughter says something like that, you can reckon she meant it! Hers got a skin like an elephant, thick aint the word for it. She also reckons that he said something else before he left, something about not letting the RAF have Stripey, at any price, as he was It. As you can imagine that upset my lass no end, proper mystified she was, and it wasnt until she asked Liz outright when they met in the shop that she found out what Tom meant.
It appears that one of toms best pairs had been breeding good youngsters for donkeys years, and this pair had been bred down from the original four birds that he had bought long before the war. The chap he had bought them from, said that if he ever bred himself a pied young un, he was to hang on to it like gold dust, as birds like this threw right back to a National winner of years before. Tom had bred only two birds with white markings in over 10 years, and both had been smashers. It appeared that as he went over the nestbowls before he had left, he had noticed the tiny wisp of white on the head and wings of a sqk in the nest, and he earmarked this one for himself, for - he said - the war would not last much longer and he wanted to start of with a winner. Anyway. Stripey as the bird was named, was not sent to the RAF but was kept back for future stock. He wore a ring of pre-war years so the RAF couldnt claim him, amd he grew and thrived strongly on corn mixture that wasnt fit for chickens, much less racing pigeons. He had his scrapes, including falling into a pig-sty on his first time on the wing, and missed being eaten by the girt old sow that lived there - by the merest whisker! He just made it up on the sty top before the old girls jaws snapped shut on the spot where hed been seconds before. He was carried off in a screaming gale when e fell - a sorry, scruffy and tired looking baby indeed - into the lorft again. As a YB full of the joys of Spring, he hit a telephone wire right on the snout, and turned a somersault every ten yards for the next minute with the pain so Im told. If ever a pigeon had a charmed life, this one did. Liz doted on it and would cal it out of the sky whenever she liked - and the bird seemed to dote on her too, as if appreciating the attention she gave it.
The Japanese waged a terrible war in the Far East, but it was one of Mother Natures wicked moods that cost Tom his life so we were told. He flew as rear gunner as usual on a bombing mission, and all seemed set fair for a routine trip out and back. Until the forces of nature twisted themselves into a fury of wind, that gouged and tore its way across the watery wastes of the Pacific Ocean, laying in ruins the islands it passed in route. The aircraft that tom flew in was caught in this maelstrom, and with its wings torn off like some hapless mayfly, it fell into the boiling dephs of the sea, miles below. None was ever recovered. this happened late in 1944, and though we read of the fate of Tom and his crewmates, it seemed that elizabeth refused to believe the terrible truth. We regarded he as a widow for her man was dead, but she talked to her neighbours of When my tom comes home as if he were still alive.
Came the day when all fightin was over and done with, and peace fell again on a stricken world. Back across the thousands of miles went the survivors, each to their respective homes where they had a home to go to that is, and of the five men from our village who had gone to war - two returned to take up the threads of living again that had been missing for half a decade. One of the things that was noticeable in this return to sanity, was Lizs behaviour with the pigeons. She started training them for racin in 1945, just as if Tom were coming home again and would like to take his birds back ready for the fray once more. Wead another couple couple of fanciers start up in the locality I recall, and they used to call in betimes to ask if they could train a few of their birds along with Lizs. 1945 turned into 46 almost overnight it seemed, then 47 was with us in a trice and by this time all had shut the war away behind us as bad memory. All except Liz that is, she never failed to talk of Tom When he comes home - though she was as rational as anyone else in every other subject.
We finally discovered what she meant - or at least I did, I think, when they held that great marathon race from Spain or Italy or wherever it was, in the summer of 47 Liz sent one bird, Stripey, now a well trained, well raced bird of four years old. Tom says hes sort to win this Classic was what Liz said about it when she was asked what chancese she thought she had, and we accepted her confidence and strange way of expressing her late husbands opinion as usual, for we knew what she meant. Well, its history now; how the winds blew, the gales raged and how all the many hundreds of birds from all west Europe were lost in that terrible teagedy, that charade of a race. All bar one o course, the one that came home, tirred, battered, with broken feathers in wings and tail, with splashes of oil on his glossy plumage. the great hearted little Blue pied cock bird, the one with the thin pencil line of white, running back across his head from his nose, the one with the will to come home through everythin.
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