Pigeons In Cages
Experimental nonfiction by Harry Sinclair
We celebrated in The Alma, our local drip. Jack got first round - reluctantly - dropping the pints in the center of the table with a demanding “next one’s on you”. We come here for the cheap beer, what with our mate serving unchecked discounts. That didn’t change much though, we just got used to the new prices, still watching our bank balance drop with our dignity in the hungover mornings that followed.
We hadn’t even met her yet. The Duchess of Windsor. That’s the title we’d assigned to her - when we felt like annoying Charlie. Now that he’d got on one knee an’ all it felt a bit insensitive, a bit impersonal, even if we all heard it the same.
“It’s Cecily, for Christ’s sake,” Charlie corrected, again.
“The prince is upset,” Joe teased. He never gave a break, to anyone.
We drank enough that night to forget there was a wedding altogether. Most nights we drank to forget something, individually. Usually, to forget how much we’d spent, or how little we’d made back at our shitty jobs. They were going nowhere, and neither were we. We knew we were earning just enough to keep coming back here at the end of the week. Charlie probably had the best bet out of here now.
This time we just got carried away, though. Charlie told the story of his proposal, with ample interruptions from the crowd. We all joked about what we might do, say, and/or ruin at his wedding. Most of us were joking, I think. Charlie was probably already regretting inviting us lot, in fear of what The Duchess’ family might think of us, and subsequently him. What’s a celebration at the local for, though?
A few beers in, not too many to have forgotten, I asked Charlie about it all; The wedding, his wife, the family soon-to-be-a-part of. He seemed happy, good for him. Cecily was a beauty from the photos he’d shown us. Short brown hair, almost always in a dress down to her shins with a hat big enough to shade a village but never hiding her easy smile.
He’d met her at the races a little less than a year ago. I remember when it happened. We weren’t there, Charlie was just working. The lucky bastard somehow played himself off as a deep pocket, there for the fun and thoroughbreds. I don’t know how he pulled it off, but I imagine it played some part in his anxiety about the missus meeting his mates.
“I want you to come to her place with me,” Charlie asked me away from the group, somewhat trepidatiously.
“The Windsor Castle?”
“Shut up. Her family’s place, the Manor”.
It was easy to wind him up, but I could tell this was serious.
“She’s asked me ‘round, she wants to meet you. I want you to meet her.”
I was hesitant. Very hesitant. I don’t find much comfort standing on clean-cut grass with white gloves serving champagne. But Charlie asked, and I’ve asked him to do worse for me over the 15 years.
“Sure, fuck it”. I necked my pint, patted Charlie on the back, and accepted my fate. Maybe it’ll be fun, I thought, brushing shoulders with the one-percenters.
Charlie met me for breakfast at Spoons. They had a deal — full English and a pint for six quid. Hair of the dog kept me going while Charlie explained what we were getting ourselves into. He was dressed all spiffy for the Duchess, I was dressed the part too, hoping not to stand out too much.
We had a bus to catch to Windsor, then Charlie said a black cab would pick us up.
“All already arranged,” he said, whatever that meant. I was just along for the ride.
I was nervous. Charlie was definitely nervous. I’d not met her before, and I think more concerningly for Charlie, they’d not met me. I had no plans of tampering the day for anyone, I’m not as bad as the others, but I was still a window into Charlie’s life. A glimpse into his immediate history, with little filter to hide the differences. A pair of chinos and a borrowed shirt might not cut it, he thought. I’d probably let slip his shortcomings, I’m sure he thought.
We got off the bus and as prophesied a black chariot awaited, no taxi I’d ever seen though. Charlie knew the driver’s name, the driver knew where we were going and off we went. The streets got progressively more cobbled, passing pubs far fancier than the Alma, giving me more than enough opportunities to ask to stop for a quick pint, which pissed Charlie off to no end. The nerves were still there, I guess.
It was the backroads that shut me up. Long, winding roads with few houses, each harboring more land than our middle school. Driveways with enough distance to add moats. I wondered why they hadn’t. If you’re ‘gonna go excess, you may as well have a moat, right?
That’s when we pulled off to the right, approaching these gates like I’d just driven across purgatory and my afterlife decided. Nothing was said, no buttons pressed, or buzzers buzzed. They just opened. We were accepted. Hallelujah. My eyes were permanently up, everything was tall and grandiose. Charlie’s eyes were peeled back, glued forward at the Manor with an incessant tapping on his knee. I quit the quips, they didn’t seem that funny anymore.
The cobbled pathway led up to the pebbled front porch. I stayed in the car, just mesmerized by how many windows the place had. There must have been a hundred rooms. What could each one be filled with? Will I see even half?
“Come on” Charlie insisted, as he got out.
“Charles! I’ve missed you!” Cecily came running over, her frock flowing back pointing towards the rest of her family. They stood at the top of the stairs leading to the main entrance.
Charles? I muttered. He hugged her tight, then greeted the family, introducing me one by one. It was brief and very understated. The mother shared Cecily’s beauty and the father didn’t share much with me, or maybe anyone, except a look up and down as I shook his hand. I decided to stay at the back as we walked in.
The rooms were too big to even tell their primary purpose. There were books in every room, yet I was told there was also a library. I was trying my hardest to hide how alien it all was, finding it easier to just stay silent. It was a hot, sunny day, so they had everything set up outside, Cecily explained. She was ecstatic to have Charlie here — Charles here — and listed off all the amenities on offer.
“The chef is cooking our lunch as we speak, but we have cocktails and bubbles just outside here.”
I perked up. something to lighten the load. We crossed the main room and through to the back doors. Two men in waistcoats opened the stately doors, revealing the family's vast land of green leading down to a pond. They owned it. The whole pond, and all the grass around it. Charlie had warned me of this already, so I wouldn’t make a scene I bet, but not much could have prepared me for the profusion.
There were staff scattered around everywhere, it seemed. One stood by a white linen-cloth-covered table serving thin stemmed glasses cold to the touch. Cecily’s mother had one in her hand without a mere glance of who handed it to her, like it was rehearsed choreography. Charlie got two and passed one to me, nodding some secret code, most likely “This is going well, don’t fuck it up”. Something along those lines.
We sipped and socialized. I spoke as little as possible, Charlie spoke as eloquent as possible. Cecily and her family focused in on him, of course. They seemed to like him, whoever he was here. Her father kept mocking Charlie, specifically some round of golf they must’ve had recently. I’d never even seen a club in his hands, let alone Charlie completing a whole round. Then again, I guess that may have been evident to them, too.
“Stop it, Daddy!” Cecily pleaded.
“Yes, Mark, leave the poor boy alone. It’s time for dinner, anyways”
We sat down at a dinner table bigger than my living room. Cecily and her mother took their apparent assigned seats; right next to the father at the head. Charlie sat opposite Cecily and I… stood gauche.
“You can take James’ seat” Cecily said, relieving me of tension.
“Well, I suppose he’ll hardly be joining us, will he Mark?” The mother interjected, side-eyeing Cecily’s father in an obvious, but successful attempt to get a rise.
“I’m suffocating him, he says” Mark scoffed. “You give someone too much and they get complacent”
A sudden emergence of servants exited the kitchen towards us. All the help you could imagine carrying steel plates and placing a feast in front of us. The family squabbles were hardly interrupted, merely a continuation of drinking and chuckling inattentively while I was in awe of the inordinate amount of everything. There was a different option for every person. An array of meats, vegetables, side dishes, dressings, alcohol and even someone to pour it right before you’d finished your last. I hardly knew what any of the dishes were, I’m sure I hadn’t seen or even heard of half of them, which I was making more obvious than I had hoped.
“That’s squab, dear” the mother revealed to me, not revealing much.
“Daddy raises pigeons” Cecily added. “Races them, too”
“He is a pigeon fancier, darling” the mother corrected.
I’m not sure how much of any of that I understood, but it seemed an important topic to them. The father, Mark, lit up to divulge further his avocation.
“I own pigeons, yes. Some I raise to race, some I sell on for others to race, some I raise for the Chef to turn into this delicious squab.”
I still wasn’t one hundred per cent sure of the word they were using there, but I went along with it. I’d had a few bubblies by this point so was a tad more comfortable to converse with the family, against Charlie’s better judgement. I questioned this hobby of his and wanted to know more.
“It’s something I started doing not too long ago, right after I sold the firm. This estate is just perfect for it, you see” Mark spoke to me like a native of his world, so it took a little longer before I quite knew what we were talking about.
“I keep their cages just near the kennels. It keeps the hunters hungry and the racers quick” he said with a smirk. He joked so easily of their status.
“Want to see?”
I was unsure at first, but he was up already, patting Charlie on his shoulder in command for him to stand up. I followed suit.
“Us ladies will stay here and drink,” the mother said as they laughed unabashedly.
I’m not entirely sure what I expected, but the barking of the dogs gave quite the unnerving entrance. They were off to the side in their kennels, only smelling our arrival but making sure we knew of it. The cages were above, just big enough to let the wings bash the bars. Their incessant cooing fought for the space with the barking. A few feathers had been picked and fallen in front of the kennels.
Mark thumped the nearest cage, exclaiming it was his next prodigy. “This one has good muscles and a good throat” whatever that meant. His trainer had just taken this one out of the loft to begin training. The loft was around back, apparently, and they stayed there for weeks. Mark said he hardly bothered going in there, only the best came out here ready for him to admire.
“Look at the feathers, nice and oily. My loft manager ensures I’ll get a very generous price for this one”
“Not keeping this one?” Charlie asked. He hadn’t said much since we got up from the table.
Mark knew he was selling this one already. He told us of the potential buyers that would be at the auction in a few weeks. This pigeon had been raised from birth, like most of the others, in the estate’s coop. It had been born and bred for this, kept exactly where the family wanted it, when they wanted it, moulded and made ready for what they wanted; sport or wealth or both.
“You should come to the auction Charles, and bring your friend” he vaguely gestured to me.
“Or better yet, a race! I will arrange one for sometime soon. Very soon.”
I could hardly keep up. I was still staring at the pigeon, now very quiet on its perch. it moved with much less confidence and position than the ones back home. It seemed hopeless in its breath and cautious in its motions.
“There will be drinks, nibbles, good banter and betting. Lots of that.” Mark listed the event’s activities with a gluttonous smile.
“Wear something smart. Both of you”. He ordered. This was most definitely his domain, and he knew it. Or he was hinting at my borrowed shirt. Either way, I was small.
The cage swung a little left and right as Mark left his prodigy with one last tap. Some attempt to intimidate or just remind everyone of the hierarchy.
“I look forward to selling you”.
We returned to the table. The ladies were richly tipsy. Cecily more over Charlie than ever. Mark and the mother still modest in their affection, if at all. I felt less in my place than ever before. More drinks were swiftly drunk until the night was finally called. The table was cleared before we had even stood up, and we were ushered to the grand entrance doors once again.
“Thank you for having us, sir,” Charlie said in hope of approval.
“Yes, thank you” I echoed.
We turned and saw the same black car waiting for us that took us here. I wondered if the driver had waited there all evening. Just for us? We stumbled in, I hardly looked out the window. Too much movement after the drinks. He only took us as far as the bus stop we met him at, clearly as instructed.
Our bus ride back was far more comfortable. Charlie spoke up again, Charles seemed to be gone. We laughed about the whole ordeal, the cages keeping the poor pigeons from freedom. Charlie pondered just how much Mark might make from that one we saw.
“More than our monthly pay, I can bet you that!” I joked, half-jokingly.
We decided to meet the rest of the boys in the Alma again, heading straight there from our bus back, still in our attire, slightly scruffier than when we once left. I saw the pub up ahead, the door hanging loosely on its hinges. Our mate running the bar came out with a rubbish bag full, chucking it just far enough to the roadside bins. With a wave to him, I peered up to ‘The Alma’ sign protruding from the pub’s wall.
“There’s pigeon shit on the sign” I pointed out to Charlie, for the first time.
“So there is.”
