“Funny you should say that. When Lord M asked me, all I felt was frustration. I’ve become too comfortable and let my motivation slip away. If he sacks me and I am forced to leave this comfortable position, it will push me to find my ambition again.”
“Are you being fired?” He looked worried.
“No, I hope not. But like those people Hedge talked about who gave away all their stored food—” She stopped, realising she was doing something she hadn’t done in a long time, jumping from one idea to the next like a game of hopscotch. “You know Shrove Day, what we now call Pancake Day, at the start of Lent?”
He nodded.
“The Christians think it’s about emptying your larder in preparation for Lent.” She continued. “But originally, I believe, it’s about showing faith that you don’t need last year’s stored foods because the new year will bring more.”
“And if the new year didn’t?”
“It had to. There is in fact historical evidence that those who participated in such rituals had a better harvest the following year.”
He looked sceptical, so she explained.
“Not because of some paranormal spirit thing. It’s simple human psychology: if you have no stored food, you have to work very hard, or your family starves. Like that Moor who conquered Gibraltar by burning his ships, so his soldiers had to fight.”
Gabriel was thoughtful for a while, his fingers tracing patterns on the old wooden table. Age and many hands had softened and polished a shallow dip along the rim.
“Last year,” he finally said, “a pigeon nested on my window ledge. My sister was horrified about pigeon plop and dirt, but the eggs had already hatched, and I couldn’t remove their nest with its tiny living squabs. My nephews were fascinated, so I told Eve I’d deal with the cleaning.”
Even not knowing where the story fit their earlier conversation, Pierre liked listening to him; his voice had a nice deep cadence.
“So, for a few weeks the boys and I watched the nest. I looked up information on the internet and showed my nephews how the parents fed their young, how they took it in turn to sit with them to keep them warm. We even named the squabs. Bobby and Teddy.”
She laughed. “The Kennedy Brothers?”
“I suppose,” he said. “Anyway, one morning, I woke up to find Bobby and Teddy alone, no sign of the parents. After a few hours, I worried they might have been killed. My nephews were very upset, and we started searching online for pigeon rescue information. Fortunately, the parents returned. It turned out they were just weaning them, going away for longer and longer intervals. Each parent would visit once a day. The Kennedys” — He smiled at her — “would rush squawking up a storm, begging for food, but after a couple of minutes, the parent would stop feeding and walk to the edge of the wall and a little later, fly away. It dawned on me they were showing them that if they wanted food they had to fly too.”
He took a pull on his pint. “Do you know how birds learn to fly?” He waited for her to guess.
“I have to tell you I’m not a bird watcher, so you’re wasting your time asking me.”
“They fall,” he told her. “Literally, they jump into nothing, plummet for a bit, then start flapping their wings until they manage to fly.”
“Just like the Shrove Day thing.” Pierre could feel her excitement building. “If you get rid of your safety net, it forces you to make a success of the next season’s farming.”
He sat back in his chair, drinking the rest of his Guinness, and watching her over the rim of his glass. His body language may have been relaxed but his eyes were alive with an unspoken challenge.
“Okay, in the spirit of leaping off the edge, and to prove I’m not less daring than baby pigeons, how do you feel about going to this Plough Festival tonight?”
His smile widened into a bright grin.
She checked her watch. “We have time. Just. It means cycling back in the rain. Are you going to be okay on the” — She smirked at him — “the girl’s bike?”
He scrunched the empty crisp packet and threw it at her. “Are you going to be okay finding a piece of pure silk?”
An idea occurred to her. If anyone had new unused unwashed silk, it’d be Laura. “I know someone who can help.”
He was on his feet. “Come on then, your girly bicycles might not go very fast.”
Outside, the rain didn’t show any sign of stopping; they hurried to their bikes.
“If we go through Mill Lane, we can use the trees for shelter.” She threw the words over her shoulder as she pedalled fast out of the exposed village square.
“What trees?” he called from behind her. “It’s still winter.”
“Evergreens,” she panted. The lane was slightly uphill, and the wind was in her face. She concentrated on riding fast. The warmth from the pub was fast draining out of her, if she could just make it—
