You’re not my mother! they shouted. Leave us and Father alone! Go away!
Every girl who dared to share a bed, a loaf of bread and a folding sofa with Arthur Whitaker had heard those words. Little Poppy hissed venomously, flinging plush rabbits and, on occasion, hard shards of plastic whenever a hopeful stepmother crossed the threshold of their cramped council flat. You ought to take your hysterical child to a counsellor, she snarled, or else shell grow into another monster, spitting foam at everyone. The last of Arthurs girlfriends snarled when Poppy smashed a porcelain dove that a guest had brought as a gift.
Im sorry, for Gods sake, I didnt think shed throw it Arthur apologised, sweeping the trembling head and tail of the dove into a dustpan. I warned you she could never recover from her mothers death.
Ive lost a dog recently, but Im not screaming like a lunatic or hurling things!
A dog? You compare the loss of a mother to a dog?
I loved her. Now leave us, you lot of eccentrics.
Sniffing the air as if detecting something foul, Poppy twisted the lock twice, first one way then the other. When the door finally gave way, she slammed it so hard that the bulbs on the fourth floor flickered to life as if they were powered by the very sound.
Darling, why would you do that? Its been nearly four years; dont you see I cant cope alone? Arthur knelt before his daughter.
Dont worry, Ill help you. That aunt isnt neededshes bad, all of them are, Poppy whispered, clinging to his neck.
Each new day drew Arthur deeper into his own thoughts. The cold October wind seemed to blow yearround, until a woman named Emily warmed his heart. She did more than warm it; she drenched his trousers with coffee on the tube, stepped on his foot three times, and even jabbed an umbrella into his eye. All of this happened after countless apologies and a thousand apologies later.
Just in case, you never know if youll break your nose or end up painted, Emily said, pulling out a second pack of wet wipes to clean Arthurs trousers.
Does this sort of thing happen often with you?
Occasionally, she replied without hesitation.
After that first tube coffee, Arthur invited Emily for a second, then a third. She proved to be a walking magnet for mishaps: a bus door would pinch her, a neighbours cat would claw half her face, and she seemed to win every fine for jaywalking as if she were an Olympic champion. Emily, however, never minded. She never held a grudge, never grew angry, and that made Arthur fall for her head over heels, as a schoolboy might. The most dangerous stepmother one could imagine would be nothing compared to Emilys presence, for everything within five miles trembled under her sway.
Listen, Arthur said one evening, when we get home, ignore her jokes. Shes a good sort, I just dont know how to reach her. And all these women Im to blame, but
Calm down, breathe deeper, Emily soothed, patting his arm as they reached the lift. We dont have to go to yours. Lets meet here, on the street.
The street? Arthur wondered.
Yes, you said she gets nervous at home, so lets meet outside. And my boots smell of catsmy neighbour asked me to look after her Maine Coon, but he doesnt like me much, Emily said shyly, smiling.
Dont worry. Ill bring her in, Arthur replied, tapping his intercom key. The door buzzed open and he hurried inside.
Emily was browsing aimlessly when a voice behind her called, Is this your wallet?
Startled, Emily turned and saw a girl of about seven or eight clutching her bag, brimming with cash, cards and a prescription. Thank you, I almost lost it, the girl beamed.
You ought to be more careful, the girl chided, rubbing her nose.
Agreed. Why are you alone?
Im not. Im with Granddad and George, the girl pointed to an elderly man tinkering under the bonnet of a black foreign car nearby, while a boy of the same age held a toolbox.
A parcel flew from a post beside Emilys foot.
Oops, a flying rat pooped on you, the girl giggled.
Just a little everyday trouble, Emily smiled, pulling a pack of wipes from her purse. And no, theyre not rats, theyre pigeons.
My granddad says theyre rats.
Pigeons, not rats. Can rats deliver letters to angels?
The angels, the girl repeated, puzzled.
Emily explained, Pigeons used to be mail carriers. They still deliver messages to the heavens. Several pigeons above seemed to listen.
The girl, bewildered, asked, What if they deliver to ordinary folk instead of angels?
Why not? Just give the right postcode.
Before she could finish, the lift doors opened and Arthur stepped out.
There you are! You vanished and said nothing. I thought youd been kidnapped. He lifted the girl into his arms.
Granddad called you, but you didnt answer. Did you see the note?
Yes, I did. Meet Emily, this is her, Arthur introduced. And this is Poppy, he added, nodding toward the girl.
Poppys face hardened, her stare searing Emily. The next half hour dripped with an awkward silence; conversation fell flat and tension hung like a heavy curtain.
Sorry, Arthur said as he left, taking his daughter home.
Its all right, Emily whispered almost inaudibly.
A week later, Emily passed the building and saw Poppy hiding behind a bench.
Hello. What are you doing?
Catching pigeons, Poppy replied, eyes fixed on a grey bird pecking at mouldy bread. Oh, its you she muttered, turning toward Emily.
How do you plan to catch it? Emily asked, ignoring the hostile glare.
With my hands.
Youll catch very little that way. You need a net.
Where will I get one? Poppy asked, looking at Emily as if she were foolish.
I can bring one.
Really?
Yes, wait here, feed it, Ill be back from the Childrens World and return.
Before Poppy could answer, Emily was already off to the bus stop. Forty minutes later she returned with a massive net and a sack of sunflower seeds.
Better to scatter a lot of bait at once, improves the odds, Emily said, dumping half the sack onto the pavement. Poppy nodded silently.
Within five minutes, the sky darkened with a cloud of cooing pigeons, descending on the asphalt in a noisy swarm.
Your turn, Emily offered, handing over the net.
Poppy sprang from behind the bench, flinging the net over the flock, which scattered in all directions.
Got it! Got it!
Great, now the letter! Emily pulled a pigeon from the net.
I havent even written it yet
What now? What shall we do with it? Emily asked, staring at the bewildered bird, its view spanning three hundred and forty degrees.
Why are you stirring this up? The pavements now a mess of droppings, a gruff caretaker shouted, sounding like a kettle about to boil.
Lets go home, Emily suggested, nudging the girl toward the entrance. Dad at home? she asked as they climbed the stairs.
Yes. Should we tell him we came?
No need, Emily replied, noticing the sadness in the childs eyes. Were here for other business. Go write your letter, Ill wait on the landing.
Poppy smiled and slipped inside. Five minutes later she emerged with a bundle of thread in her hand.
Shh Emily placed a finger to her lips, pointing at a pigeon perched on the window. Poppys eyes glittered with excitement.
Emily offered seeds to the bird, which pecked cautiously one by one. When the pigeon finally let its guard down, Emily tried to grasp it, but the bird was quickerthough not smarter. Instead of flying out, it swooped straight at Emily, screeching. Its wings struck her eyes, its claws raked her face. She darted around the landing, trying to shake it off while neighbours peered out, laughing and shouting.
For the next ten minutes Emily wiped herself and the stairwell with moist wipes. The pigeon eventually fled through the window, never again trusting humans. Poppy disappeared behind a flat door, reappearing with a bucket of water and a mop.
Itll be faster, she said, slapping the mop on the floor. The air filled with the scent of damp stone.
What are you doing, Poppy? Arthurs voice came from the doorway, puzzled by the sight of his daughter and Emily scrubbing the hallway. And why are you here?
Dont ask unnecessary questions, Emily winked.
Dad, its nothing to worry about, Poppy muttered.
Fine, I get it, Arthur muttered, closing the door.
I was thinking, why are we catching these birds? There are proper dovecotes with professional carrier pigeons, not freelance rogues, Emily said once the cleaning was done.
Seriously? Why didnt you say so earlier?
I just forgot. Its been ages since I sent letters to the sky.
Can we visit them? Please! Poppy begged, bouncing with excitement.
We can, but only tomorrow. Ill pick you up after work, alright?
Yay! she squealed.
That evening Emily called Arthur and recounted everything.
Do you think its a good idea? When she grows up and understands, she might harbour resentment for the deception.
If Id been told the truth from childhood, I might have gone mad, Arthur admitted.
Youre right. Will you be without me tomorrow?
Well manage. Shes clever, Id love to chat with her.
Thanks.
The next day Emily collected Poppy, and they took a cab to the dovecote.
Wow, theyre so white and beautiful, Poppy cooed, eyeing the birds. Can I pick any? Will it deliver the letter to the right person? Wont it get lost? Do they have GPS? I need the letter to reach my mum, please.
The essential thing is the correct postcode, Emily reminded.
I wrote our home address, its duplicated, right? And I added whos writing so the angels dont mix it up, Poppy said solemnly.
Emily handed the keeper money as they attached the note to a pigeons leg and released it into the sky.
The man wiped his eyes with his sleeve, taking the money and closing the cage, Emily recalled.
Thank you, Emily, Poppy hugged her. Emily simply patted the girls head.
Two days later Arthur called.
Poppy says a reply came from the sky, it mentions you. Want to read it?
Of course, Ill be there soon.
The news shook Emily so much she left work early, unintentionally deleting the project shed spent the whole day on when she shut down her computer.
She raced up the stairs, rang the doorbell, and Arthur greeted her.
Poppy and the neighbours boy are out in the courtyard. She left a letter on the table, probably too shy to hand it over herself.
Emily entered the room, unfolded the crumpled paper, and read the childs shaky handwriting:
Thank you, dear, for the letter. I miss you and love you. I think of you and Father every day. I saw Emily; shes nice. Shes not my mother, but you could be friends. Id like that. Your mum.
A lump rose in Emilys throat; the ink smeared as tears fell.
Seems she understood, Arthur said, embracing her from behind.
Emily could only nod, still unable to hold back sobs.
I always thought I needed to find a mother for her, but she just needed a friend, because she already has a mum.
I never wanted to overstep, Emily whispered, spotting a pigeon perched on the window, staring as if it were eavesdropping, ready to fly again to report the tale to the heavens.
