Furnace (16 page)

We should try to find its owner, Rana suggested on the second weekend. It can’t still be resting, and it’s going lame. We could try to read the number on its leg.

You try, said Ahmed. It knows that you fill up the feeder. It’s used to you.

He watched from the window as she stalked it, slowly and patiently, crouching low, her back to him. Like a big, shy bird herself, she cocked her head, poised and still, close enough now to reach
out and touch it if she chose. Instead she backed away, still crouched, then straightened and wrote on the back of her hand. She stood watching the bird for a while longer until, impatient, Ahmed
tapped the glass.

Who will you call? he asked when she came back in.

There’s a royal society for birds. I’ll get their number.

A royal society?

They might want to come and rescue it, she said, ignoring the derision in his voice. She watched for his response.

He shrugged.

She turned to the window again. I think the band on his leg is too tight. I think it’s cutting off the blood. I don’t think I could catch it, though, to take it off.

No, he agreed.

She went through to the living room and soon Ahmed could hear her voice, formal and halting but, as far as he could tell, very correct. Whatever she was arranging seemed to involve more than one
call. He lit a cigarette and opened the door into the garden. Their pigeon was still feeding alone on the ground though above it quick relays of sparrows were flitting to and from the feeder. A
crow had perched on the ivy-strewn back wall of the garden. It watched him as he smoked with something like intelligence, or at least curiosity, Ahmed thought.

After a while he sensed Rana behind him and half turned his head.

They gave me the number of the pigeon club it came from, she said. I had to phone the secretary and he gave me the owner’s number, so I called and spoke to him. He sounded nice. An old
man, I think. She was speaking rapidly, still flustered. Ahmed knew it was a great strain for her to speak and listen over the phone. It tested her English to the limit. He wondered if he should
have offered to do the phoning for her, but instantly decided he would have felt too absurd. Besides, the garden and the birds were her interest, her domain. And using the phone to speak to
strangers was exhausting for him too.

He said he’ll come through from Inverness on Monday evening.

Inverness? All that way?

She shrugged.

Does he expect us to catch it?

No. The man says he can do that if it hasn’t got too wild yet.

It’s not wild yet.

It’s getting more shy, though. Every day.

But it’s not wild yet. Look at it.

They stared as it limped amidst the husks and seeds, remaining calm even when the other birds scattered at sudden shadows or shifts in the spring breeze.

The man says it’s a young bird and they can turn wild quickly.

We’ll see, he said doubtfully.

The next day, very early, Ahmed watched it feeding as usual but by the middle of the morning it had disappeared and he saw nothing more of it through the afternoon and short
evening. Rana too was clearly looking out for it more attentively than usual, and as it grew dark he saw her scatter a handful of seed over the middle of the lawn before collecting the washing from
the clothesline.

On the Monday it was back but hopping, awkwardly – perhaps with exhaustion – rather than limping.

Don’t watch it all day, Rana said when she came downstairs to find him. You have to get some work done.

I know, he said, stung, but when she left for her classes he carried his books through to the narrow breakfast bar in the kitchen and settled to work there in sight of the garden.

When he stopped for lunch he decided to sit a while outside with his cigarette and coffee. It was a cool but bright, windless day and the bird, when it wasn’t feeding, seemed content to
sun itself on the low roof of the garden shed. Ahmed carried out one of the tall bar stools, returned for his cup and cigarette and then perched himself on his high seat, enjoying the sun on his
hands and face. He thought about the arrival of the bird’s owner later that day. It was a long drive from Inverness, much of it through the highlands, he supposed. They had never travelled
any way other than south from Aberdeen in their eight month stay but he imagined vaguely the north and west as a sunless, grim landscape this early in the year, its narrow roads hemmed in by giant,
naked flanks of rock and scree. He pondered what method the old man might use to capture the bird. The closest he had seen Rana get was on the day she had noted the number on its leg-band. It would
be less trusting now, he suspected. He let his thoughts run on for a time as he finished his coffee and cigarette, then took his empty cup indoors. The pigeon was still settled on the shed roof,
awake but basking. He would test how wild the bird had become, he decided. He would see whether its lameness, surely critical now, made it more wary or more resigned.

From an open bag in one of the kitchen cupboards he took a fistful of birdseed and carried it out into the garden, moving slowly across the lawn towards the shed. He held the seeds up to the
bird, catching its attention, then furled his palm to a funnel and poured them in a thin trickle as he backed away, laying a short trail in the grass. Then, squatting on the balls of his feet, he
waited, a few seeds still sticking to the moisture on his open, upturned palm.

Soon, the long muscles of his thighs began to burn. The bird, after stirring a little at first, now seemed sleepily indifferent again. Ahmed rose, his knees cracking. Here, he said,
self-conscious at the sound of his voice in the empty garden. He moved forward, arm outstretched and with a sudden, soft clatter of wings the crippled bird launched itself and flapped swiftly out
of sight over the roof of the house. For a moment Ahmed froze, then slapped the last of the seeds off his palm and went back indoors.

At four, when Rana returned home, Ahmed said nothing about scaring the bird. It still hadn’t returned, he knew, but when she came through to the study to tell him so he widened his eyes,
as if surprised.

That poor old man, she said. I’ll put out more seed.

There’s still time, he said.

She hurried back to the kitchen.

Soon after six he answered the doorbell to a heavy, crop-headed elderly man and, half hidden behind his bulk, a much younger boy of sixteen or so. The youth was pale and skinny
and a flat fall of long brown hair narrowed his face even more. Ahmed offered his hand and the older man, after a moment’s pause, took hold of it, grasped firmly and released.

You’re here for the bird? Ahmed said.

Aye. The loon here’s my grandson, ken? He helps me out with them. The old man seemed to be focusing on a point just beyond Ahmed, as if distracted or unwilling to meet his eyes. It
unnerved him until he guessed that Rana must be at his shoulder.

Hello, he heard her say, shyly.

Ahmed made room for them to enter the hall, backing into Rana. He turned his head to follow the man’s gaze and realised he was staring at his wife’s head covering.

Eh, the man said to her, from your accent you sounded French on the phone, ken? I thought you must be French.

Oh, she said, her mouth still smiling, yes we can speak French. She darted a glance at Ahmed.

The man grunted, his own big-featured, square face relaxing a little. Aye, well.

Come in, anyway, Ahmed interrupted, and ushered them through the hall and living room to the kitchen.

The youngster, Ahmed noticed, was carrying a small cardboard box in one hand and a dirty white plastic tub in the other. He wore a loose black T-shirt and on its back was a timetable of dates
and places.
Slipknot European Tour 2003
. The numbers were drawn as if they were frayed lengths of rope.

At the back door Ahmed slipped past them both and unlocked it to let them through into the garden.

Would you like tea? Rana asked, hanging back on the threshold.

Aye, said the man. Just a droppie milk. Thanks.

Aye, thanks, said the boy, blushing faintly when she turned her eyes to him. Milk and two sugars, please.

The early evening air was cooling rapidly after the fine weather of the afternoon and there was no sight or sound of bird life. Even the sparrows had abandoned the feeder. Ahmed looked up at the
sky and saw that just a narrow band of tired blue remained in the west above the roof of the house. The sun had already dipped behind the tiles. From the east a cold colourless emulsion was
spilling slowly across the city skies. The air was oppressively still.

It’s not here for once, he said. He made a show of scanning the nearby rooftops. It’s normally here until dark.

The man grunted. I can see fine why she settled down here, right enough. He gestured at the bird feeder. Fond of the birds, aye?

My wife, said Ahmed. She has an interest in them.

Aye, well well. He followed Ahmed in surveying the sky and the roofs all about them.

The young boy wandered towards the centre of the lawn. She might be roosting nearby, like, he said and shook the tub a few times. It was full of seed.

Aye, well, give us that then, the old man said and went over to him to take the tub. He walked to the back of the garden where, beyond the ivied wall, a cluster of hawthorns, nameless shrubs and
crab apple trees had been allowed to run tangled and wild. Coom on, he urged, up at the empty branches. Coom on. He rattled the tub slowly and rhythmically,
shuck – shuck –
shuck
. After a while he crossed the length of the garden and faced the near gable of the house, staring up as if the bird might be hidden behind the chimney pots. Coom on then, he called, and
again jolted the tub.

If she’s close enough to hear that she’ll come down, the boy explained.

Ahmed nodded, watching the old man’s heavy, deliberate movements, his big steel-toed boots, soiled cardigan and slack workman’s denims. Already he was impatient, jogging the tub more
sharply, clearly wishing it could all be over and done with. The boy was still peering hopefully at the tops of the scruffy trees beyond the wall or turning on his heels to scrutinize the wide,
blank skies and deserted rooftops surrounding them.

Rana came out with the teas and the old man gave up shaking the feed while he sipped at his mug.

No sign yet? she asked, pained.

The grandfather shook his head. She’s been here every day, though, aye?

Oh yes. Every day. For about two weeks. She glanced at Ahmed for support and he nodded.

Aye. Well well. He squinted up at the last streak of blue in the sky then lowered his face to the steaming mug again. They go wild, see? he said. Feral, ken?

There was quiet for a while. A lone gull swept into view and took up station on the high roof of the Catholic school at the head of the street. They all watched it settle. As if following its
lead a scatter of pigeons hove into sight before circling away back towards the heart of the city.

Your bird’s a fine looking pigeon, said Ahmed. Quite different to the wild ones.

It was the boy who responded. Aye, he said with feeling. Most racers are just blues like the wildies. Nothing to rest your eye on.

Ahmed smiled at the youngster. Yes, he said. Nothing to rest your eye on. He relished the phrase for a moment. Are your birds valuable? he asked, turning his face to the grandfather.

Oh aye, he answered quickly. They were my brother’s birds to start with, ken? He had a triple bypass and wisnae allowed to keep them for a long whiley after that.

Too sensitive to infections, the boy added.

Yes, said Ahmed.

But he didn’t want to just get rid of them, ken? the old man finished.

We’ve lost quite a few this year, eh granda?

The man grunted.

Lost fifteen to start with on the Alloa race, eh granda? Only three of them ever got back, like.

Fifteen? Ahmed repeated, shocked.

Aye, well maist of them young birds, ken? the grandfather cut in. Like this one now. Inexperienced. Disnae take much weather to bring them doon, ken? And the weather that week was gey
fierce.

What happens to them? Rana asked.

Both grandfather and grandson shrugged. Some rest up and get home days later, like, the boy said. Some of them get killed off or go wild and some of them join up with other flocks of racers out
getting trained. Then they get taken in by the owners, like.

Valuable birds, ken? Mind, some fanciers’ll get in touch and see you get your bird back.

Aye, the
decent
ones, the boy intoned in an oddly sombre voice.

Again there was silence while the callers sipped at their tea.

If it doesn’t show this evening I’ll try to catch it tomorrow, offered Ahmed, unsettled by the turn the conversation had taken. There was something depressing about the old
man’s detachment in the face of his losses. It was confusing, too. Why had he bothered coming all this way for one lame bird when the next month he might lose another dozen and react to it
with nothing more than this fatalism? At least the boy had some feeling for the things. Some enthusiasm. The exchange had left Ahmed feeling rebuffed, and somehow exposed. He cleared his throat,
wishing he knew of a courteous way to bring the whole futile episode to an end. His offer to catch the bird seemed to have met with silence but then the grandfather spoke up.

Aye, well, I’ll leave you the feed here and the box. If you can get close enough you might be able to grab her.

To grab her?

Aye. Be quick. You won’t hurt her, ken? He signalled to the boy who handed over the small box they’d brought with them. It was branded Fed-Ex and the lid folded somehow into a basic
cardboard carrying handle. There were air-holes in each side and a printed warning that shipping should not exceed forty eight hours. She’ll be fine in there for a whiley, the old man said.
It’s designed for pigeons, ken?

I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey, said Rana. It must take hours. She stared pensively into the sky. The high cloud cover had thickened and darkened already.