O Caledonia

Twenty tiny fingers, twenty tiny toes

Two angel faces, each with a turned-up nose…

Janet was able to ignore her because she had discovered a beautiful new word in her Latin dictionary—stillicidium

, the dripping of rain water from roofs and gables. It had stopped raining now, and the gaunt, steeply pitched stone houses offered satisfying illustrations of the word’s unique fitness for its purpose. How she wished she could share her pleasure with Cynthia; as it was, she dared not even whisper the word aloud.

As they approached the War Memorial, Cynthia’s pace slackened. “Hang back,” she hissed at Janet. There was a small sweet shop open on Sundays and Cynthia planned to break the law. She would go in and she would buy a slab of Highland toffee. Janet was to keep watch; it would be worth it. The rest of the crocodile swung around the corner onto the cliff road. Cynthia sidled through the shop doorway. Janet stood with thumping heart, trying to look casual, certain that every distant figure was an oncoming member of staff. The penalties for breaking a school rule were severe; for going into a shop they could be suspended for weeks. They might be picking up germs which would spread through the school like wildfire. Most important, they might be picking up the polio germ and bringing death and disablement. Besides, men went into shops, and they must never, ever speak to men. The girls were given to understand that all men seethed with uncontrollable desire for them and the smallest encouragement would lead to murder. Or worse. Only their fathers might enter the sacred precincts of St. Uncumba’s. Uncles were out of the question. Janet wished Cynthia would hurry up. A group of people had gathered around the War Memorial. She watched them uneasily. They paid no attention to her; they were looking at something on the pavement. Janet edged nearer. They were laughing. A pigeon was walking in slow circles on the shining cobbles; it wore a little paper hat. How strange, thought Janet; perhaps it was a circus bird, a lawless Sunday entertainer. Then she saw that blood was dripping from its beak; its eye was dull, its gait unsteady. The top of its head had gone and what she had taken for a paper hat was the membrane which covered its brain. Someone picked up a stick and prodded it. It flounced sideways, toppled, and regained its balance. Janet looked at the grinning faces; she looked at the bird, so meek and dignified, accepting its ruined life without complaint, silent and harmless.

“Get out of my way,” she yelled. Panting, she shoved her way through the throng and grabbed the bird. It settled passively in her cupped hands. She ran back to the shop. Cynthia appeared. “Throw it away, Janet. It’s going to die anyway.” “There’s a vet around the corner, we can take it there; we can’t just leave it. Those people are hurting it.” “Look, it’s only a pigeon.” “Shut up, shut up,” shrieked Janet; tears of outrage blurred her eyes. “I’m going to the vet. Are you coming or not?” “Oh, for heaven’s sake, all right, then. But there’s no point.”

Janet rang the vet’s shiny brass doorbell. No one came. She beat on the door with the shiny brass knocker. She shouted through the letterbox, “Hurry up, please, please hurry up.”