The Ramsbottom Pigeon

I opened a fresh packet
of sweet cigarettes and
stuck one to my lower lip.
She peek-a-booed me
from under a diamante
barrette, class right down
to her new Clarks sandals.

'It's about a bird' she breathed
the scent of Parma Violets
in my face. I wouldn't
have swapped a tube of
blue smarties for the feeling.
'What kind of bird?' hoping
she'd do that thing again.

'Me dad's pigeon, it's gone.
Margaret Eckersthorpe says
you found her St Christopher
last half-term.' I shrugged,
traced a figure-8 in the
dust beside the Irwell, with
the toe of a sand-shoe.

I thought about my twelfth
birthday and watching Bogey
and Astor, with my dad on the
sofa - hiding the blue bag - and
pinching all the crisps for himself.
'I guess I could, see,' I lisped.
She popped another purple sweet.

Fatty Gutman said he didn't know
a thing about it and Donny
Lawrie wiped his sweaty hands
on his shorts, then snapped his
snake-belt with his thumbs.
But the bell went and we
all had to go to Geography.

I didn't know it was such
a fancy-bird: My dad only liked
horse-racing or the dogs at Belle Vue.
I saved my money up and bought
a white one in the pet-shop for
seventeen shillings and sixpence,
but Bridget and her dad had moved away.