THE BOY AND THE INCREDIBLE PIGEON POSTMAN

THE BOY AND THE INCREDIBLE PIGEON POSTMAN:
a Stickleback Crescent story
by Lulah Ellender

Stickleback Crescent is a small road with nine ordinary-looking houses and a green with a large old oak tree in the middle. It is a place where things aren’t always as they seem, a place where magic happens…

Jem Brook-Rogers had lived with this mum and stepdad at Number 2 Stickleback Crescent since he was two years old and still believed the moon was a giant marshmallow. He had lots of friends and loved fishing, football and collecting pebbles. He was mostly a happy boy, but in his heart he had a feeling that something was missing. Until one magical morning when he discovered a pigeon in his breakfast cereal.

On this particular morning, Jem’s mum was rushing about getting ready for work, giving out instructions about cauliflower cheese and what time Jem had to be in from the green to do his homework. There was a lot of clattering and flustering. Jem was the only one to notice a faint cooing sound coming from the cereal packet in front of him. He slowly pulled the packet nearer and peeked inside. A small purpley-grey blob was poking out of the cereal, clutching something in its beak. Amazed, Jem dropped his spoon. It rattled loudly into his bowl, making his stepdad frown over the top of his newspaper and the blob in the box jump out onto the table. Mrs Rogers screamed and hid under the table. Mr Rogers frantically flapped his newspaper at the blob -which was actually a pigeon.
The bird darted out of the kitchen door and into Jem’s room, crashing into his prized football team photo, and falling to the floor. Jem shut his door and opened the window to let the bird out, but it didn’t seem interested in escaping. Instead, it sprung to its feet, shook some cereal flakes off its back and patted its body with its wing to check for broken bits. When none were found, the pigeon winked at Jem and then dropped the envelope it had been carrying in its beak at Jem’s feet.
“What’s happening Jem?” shrieked Mrs Rogers, “Has it gone?”
“Umm...yes Mum, it’s OK” called Jem.
He thought this wasn’t exactly a lie, and anyway he had a feeling there was something special about this pigeon. He was used to strange things happening in Stickleback Crescent (like the time his slippers turned into fried eggs, or the day in the middle of summer when the Crescent was covered with a thick icing of snow). Moving slowly so as not to frighten the pigeon, Jem picked up the envelope. Inside was something that would change his life.
A letter. From his dad.

Jem hadn’t heard from his dad since he had gone back to Jamaica when Jem was a baby. He had pieced together enough bits of information to work out that his dad had felt homesick and unhappy, and that it had been very difficult for him to leave. Mrs Rogers never said bad things about his dad-
in fact she never really talked about him. She had remarried quickly and moved to Stickleback Crescent to start a new life.
So Jem had had to imagine what his dad was like. He wondered if the eyes that stared back at him from the mirror were the same as his dad’s. Did he have the same annoying curly bit of hair which sprung like a squiggle from Jem’s forehead? Did he tear out the soft middle from a slice of bread and squash it into a ball before eating it too? Was one of his feet slightly longer than the other? Did his laugh sound like a snort or a honk? Why hadn’t he got in touch with Jem?
And now, in his trembling hands, was something which might answer those questions. This is what the letter said:

Dear Jem
It has been too long and I am sorry I haven’t written before. I didn’t know what to say. Please don’t hate me for going away. I felt you would be better off without me. I didn’t want to upset things so never got in touch, but not one day has passed without me thinking about you.
Then I met this pigeon. It followed me everywhere, carrying a pen in its beak. So I wrote this letter and gave it to the pigeon because I felt it knew you somehow.
Please write back so I know you are OK.
I love you,
Dad xxx

Jem was bursting with excitement. The pigeon seemed to be waiting for something, and began pointing at the clock with its silvery wing. Jem scrabbled in his desk and found an old drawing of a spaceship. On the back, in his best handwriting, he wrote this:

Dear Dad
Thanks for your letter. I am fine. I am 10 and I play for the Under-11s football team. Do you like football? I will give this to the pigeon. There is so much I want to write but I think the pigeon needs to go.
Please please please write back.
Love, Jem xxxx

He folded it carefully and put it next to the pigeon, which pecked the letter up in its beak and flew out of the window.
“Oi! Come back you impish bird! Bert! Where have you been? Bert!” spluttered a croaky voice from the garden as the pigeon did a loop-the-loop and disappeared into the sky. The voice belonged to Mr Broda, the strange old man who lived in the flat downstairs at Number 2. Mr Broda had wild white hair like a dandelion clock, a fluffy white beard which looked like someone had thrown candy floss at him, and he always wore a long brown coat with stripy socks tucked into a pair of old sandals. He kept thirty pigeons in a tumble-down shed in the back garden, and every morning at sunrise would open the coop to release the birds. Jem liked to watch the grey feathery bird-cloud burst into the sky, and then listen as Mr Broda called the straggly flappers home every evening, cooing softly, “Coooome on, cooome on my lovelies”.
And now one of his pigeons was delivering letters to Jamaica!

The next day Jem waited for the pigeon. He looked in the cereal box but found only a few feathers amongst the flakes. He didn’t mention the letter to his mum in case it made her sad. That evening, under the old oak tree, he told his friends about the pigeon.
“You’ll never guess what happened yesterday,” he said, grinning at Amina and Cody.
“What? Did your slippers turn into sausages this time? Or maybe you’ve discovered you have a superpower. Can you turn invisible?” Cody asked.
“No, this is much more exciting. Though being invisible would be cool,” Jem leaned in and whispered, “Yesterday morning one of Mr Broda’s pigeons delivered a letter from my dad! From Jamaica! I wrote back but the pigeon hasn’t come back again.”
“Jamaica is a really long way you know Jem,” said Amina. “It will probably take ages for the bird to get there. And then he has to fly all the way back again, over the, um, Asthmatic Ocean I think it’s called.”
“Atlantic. Atlantic Ocean” coughed Cody, tactfully.
“Yes, Atlantic that’s what I said,” Amina blushed. “Anyway, there’s no way he’ll be back for weeks”.
Jem was disappointed. “Oh” he said, “I suppose I’ll just have to wait then.”

But Bert was no ordinary pigeon. Only two days later Jem was at school, gazing dreamily at the whiteboard, when he heard a familiar noise. This time the cooing was coming from his pencil case. Jem quickly ducked down under the desk and peered inside the bulging pencil case. Sure enough, there was Bert. He winked and dropped a small envelope into Jem’s hand, then fluttered onto the teacher’s desk, pacing up and down with his small head bobbing jerkily. The children went wild, shouting and cheering while the teacher, Mr Lewis, leapt about trying to catch Bert. Mr Lewis tripped over and somehow got his foot stuck in the bin, causing more laughter and hysterical shrieking from Jem’s classmates. Finally, Bert flew to the window and stopped on the ledge to wink at Jem before flying off.
“Right, settle down. Show’s over!” blustered a crimson Mr Lewis. He hadn’t noticed the large streak of bird poo Bert had left on his shoulder.

For the next few weeks, Jem and his dad wrote letters telling each other about their lives. Jem’s dad sent photographs of his house and his fishing boat, and Jem was overjoyed to see that he did look a lot like his dad. The photographs were a bit blurry but Jem could make out a wide smile, like an upside-down rainbow, and the same twinkly eyes. His dad’s house was a big wooden ranch-style building nestling into a lush green hill. There was a hammock on the porch and lots of plants in pots. Jem tried to see if there were any toys lying around, in case he had any half-brothers or sisters, but he couldn’t see any evidence of children living there too. His favourite photo was of his dad’s pet crocodile called Mush, a huge stumpy creature with a look of lazy slyness in its eyes.
Jem and his dad shared stories of amazing goals they had scored and of fishes that got away. Special treasures and secrets they had never told anyone were carefully tucked into small envelopes and delivered by an increasingly cheeky Bert. He began appearing in all sorts of places: a mole hill on the Green, a sock on the washing line, even inside Mrs Rogers’ foot-spa. None of the grown-ups ever saw him.

But this happy time did not last long. Each night since Bert had begun delivering the letters Mr Broda had stood staring up at the sky long after his other birds were tucked up in bed. He really loved his birds and was very worried about Bert, whom he had only seen once in the last two months. Since Mrs Broda died the pigeons had become Mr Broda’s family. Whenever he felt lonely he would step into the pigeon coop and feel his troubles melting away with every stroke of a soft wing. He could tell each bird apart, recognising their odd white feathers or wonky beaks, and they all had names. Sometimes he would enter them in pigeon races, but he really kept them for company. So, when he finally spotted Bert returning from one of his epic journeys Mr Broda was determined not to lose him again. He caught the pigeon and locked him in a separate box, with extra food, a hot-water bottle and every pigeon’s favourite – a slice of Banoffee pie to keep him happy.
“Now then Bert, my precious thing!” he exclaimed, stroking Bert’s beak through the holes in the box. ”I don’t know where you’ve been flitting off to, but it’s got to stop. It’s only three months until your big race and I don’t want you getting all tired out from your gallivanting. You’re going to have to stay in here for a bit. No more flying expeditions for you, my lovely!”
He shut the door of the coop with a firm clump and walked happily into his kitchen. He had no idea what all this would mean for the anxious boy who lived above him.

Jem waited worriedly for Bert to return. He wonderedwhy his dad hadn’t written back, and began thinking horrible thoughts like: what if he had asked too many questions, or maybe his dad was bored with writing, or perhaps the pigeon had got lost and was stranded on an iceberg somewhere? He felt like his heart was all squashed. Outside on the green he just sat and watched while his friends played ‘Spit the Cherry Pips’, and his mum noticed he had become much quieter around the house. On the way to football practice on Saturday Mr Rogers put his arm around Jem.
“What’s up Jembo? You don’t seem yourself these days. Is there anything you want to talk about?” he asked.
Mr Rogers was a kind man and Jem very nearly spilt out all the details of what had been happening, but he just felt it would break the magic and then his dad would never write again.
“Oh, nothing really. I’m just worried about the tournament that’s all. Don’t seem to be scoring the goals. It’s always Marcus, and he never passes.” Jem shrugged and ran off to warm-up.

The next evening Jem was gazing out of his window, watching half-heartedly as Mr Broda called in his pigeons. Suddenly he noticed one pigeon perched on the old man’s arm, tied by a ring around its leg to a long piece of rope. Could it be Bert? Jem sprang off his windowsill and raced downstairs, leaping two steps at a time. He flung open the back door and hurtled into the garden spluttering, “Mr Broda! Mr Broda! What’s that pigeon doing? Is it Bert? Please, Mr Broda! Which pigeon is it?”
Mr Broda turned round, startled, and exclaimed “Oh, it’s you, Jem. Yes, this scrawny thing is my old Bert. He’s been who-knows-where and I’ve had to keep him in for a while so he stays healthy. He’s my best hope for winning the Plinkton Derby. Come and say hello if you like.”
Jem had stopped dead, staring at Bert to make sure it really was the Incredible Pigeon Postman. When Bert winked at Jem it was as if a wave of sunshine washed over the boy, leaving him splattered with a fuzzy happiness.
“How long have you had him kept in Mr Broda?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
“Must be three weeks now, my lad. Bert’s been acting very strange lately. Disappearing for ages. No idea what he’s been up to. Thought he was lost...Anyway, he’s back now and I’m not letting him out of this garden until he’s won me that trophy.” Mr Broda scooped Bert into his box and trudged down the path to the pigeon coop. Bert stuck a foot out of a hole and seemed to be beckoning to Jem to follow.
“But Mr Broda, you can’t!” called Jem, running after the old man. “I mean, it’s not fair, keeping him locked up like that. You’ve got to let him go. You’ve GOT TO!”
Mr Broda poked his head around the shed door, looking annoyed.
“Now then Jem, don’t get your bloomers in a bundle! He’s just fine. Look – he’s living in luxury!”
Jem peered into the gloomy shed. It smelt of pigeon poo, grass clippings and, weirdly, Banoffee pie. Sure enough, Bert’s little box did look
very cosy. But Bert seemed anxious. He was pecking at the box with his beak, as if tapping out a code.
Jem felt the wave of happiness suddenly retreat, and his stomach fell into his feet. “What if he never gets out? How will I hear from Dad?” he thought, despairingly.
“I’m begging you, please let Bert fly, Just one more time. Then you can keep him safe until the race. Please!” Jem pleaded.
Mr Broda studied Jem’s face, then said, very quietly,
“Why are you so interested in my pigeons? Do you know something about where Bert has been going?” His eyes narrowed and he almost growled, “You’re not a spy are you? For that twerp Ken MacFlippet? Trying to sabotage my pigeons?”
Jem wasn’t sure what sabotage meant, or even who Ken MacFlippet was, but he did know that he had to persuade Mr Broda to let Bert deliver one last letter.
“Mr Broda, I have to tell you something which might sound a bit strange, but I swear it’s all true. I never lie.”
The old man nodded slowly. “We’d better go inside then”, he said.

The downstairs flat was small and dark. Jem felt a bit frightened. Mr Broda took down a tin from a grubby shelf and made some tea. The teapot was bright pink and smattered with yellow flowers.
“My wife bought that in Wales on our last holiday”, the old man said. “Tea?”
“Um, no thanks” replied Jem, cautiously sitting down on the edge of a wobbly stool and wondered how to explain what had been going on. He decided it was best to just tell Mr Broda everything about the letters to and from his dad.
When he had finished the old man rubbed his fluffy beard thoughtfully and reached under the table. He picked up a small, battered old leather suitcase. He brushed the dust off two initials, ‘M.B’, in the middle of the case, and flicked open the clasp. He reached in as if picking up a sleeping kitten and took out a handful of letters.
“These were from my Margaret when we were courting. You young’uns wouldn’t have anything like this, what with your mobile phones and inklynet thing” he muttered, opening a faded envelope and studying the spidery words.
“Internet” corrected Jem, but Mr Broda wasn’t listening. In fact, he didn’t say anything for what felt like hours. Jem sat awkwardly, then had an idea.
“Would you like to see my dad’s letters? I could go and get them, to show you that Bert really did deliver things from Jamaica?”
Mr Broda nodded and smiled
“I’d like that Jem. But maybe tomorrow, eh? Your mum will be getting worried.”
Jem rushed upstairs, just as his mum was heading out to the green to find him, wearing her dressing-gown and a less-than-happy face.

After school the following day, Jem dug out his Absolutely Top Secret Treasure Box from under the squeaky floorboard in his bedroom. He hurried anxiously down to Mr Broda’s flat, calling out to his mum,
“I’m just going down to Mr Broda’s to help feed the pigeons. Be back for tea”.
He knocked on the door of the flat and waited, his heart doing back-flips and his brain pulling wheelies. He waited and waited, but there was no answer. What if Mr Broda had died or something? He might be lying there on the floor, face down in the cat’s bowl... Just as Jem began to panic, Mr Broda appeared at the window. Smiling, he unbolted the door and let Jem in.
“Sorry about that lad. My hearing-aid has been playing up – keeps picking up the local radio station. Damn football scores all day yesterday. Anyway, I’ve made some flapjacks” he said, offering Jem a plate of green-looking squares.
“But they’re green, Mr Broda. Are you sure they’re flapjacks?” Jem asked nervously.
“Of course! They’re my speciality! Go on, try one” Mr Broda laughed, sitting down.
Jem hesitated then took the smallest flapjack he could see. He held it in front of him as if it were a stinking old sock, and joined Mr Broda at the table. The old man was staring at him, smiling, waiting for Jem to try his homemade treat. Jem opened his mouth slowly and then nibbled a tiny corner off the edge. It was... delicious! It tasted of mint ice-cream and toffee apples and summer mornings. Jem gobbled up the rest and exclaimed,
“Wow Mr Broda! That was unreal! Where did you learn to cook like that?”
“Never you mind, my lad. Now then. Those letters. From Jamaica you say? Are you claiming young Bert has been flying thousands of miles back and forth with letters?” Mr Broda sat back, crossing his arms.
“I know it’s hard to believe but it’s true!” Jem knew he just had to persuade Mr Broda to let Bert go back. “Look, here’s all the letters, and there’s one where Dad says this pigeon kept following him around...just please look. You’ll see why Bert has to go back”.
Mr Broda took the box. It was covered with pictures of Jem’s favourite things: football players, starfish, computer games, bears, all lovingly stuck down. The box was sealed with a red piece of string tied in a special sailor’s knot. The old man took a deep breath, looked up at Jem as if staring right into his head and out the other side, then took out the letters.
For a few minutes the only sounds in the room were a dripping tap and Mr Broda’s wheezy breathing, which sounded like the sea in a shell. Then Mr
Broda folded the letters back up, carefully putting the treasures and photos back into the box. He took a deep breath and said,
“Well, well, well. Who’d have thought it? Bert! My Bert! All that way, across the ocean, and so many times! He’s a real wizard. I knew it the minute he plucked a gold coin out of my beard. That bird is magic!” He paused, “You do know that if I let him deliver one last letter he probably won’t ever race again? It might finish him off. Hmm... Perhaps we should let him decide.” With that, the old man flung open the door and marched down the path to the pigeon coop. Jem was terrified – it seemed like his whole future lay in the hands (or rather, wings) of a pigeon! The birds greeted their visitors with a few muttered coos and went back to strutting importantly round the cages. Except Bert. He was standing with his head on one side, eyes peering out of the holes like a tourist in a submarine. Mr Broda picked him up and stroked him, saying,
“Right, Bert. You’ve got a very important decision to make here. Do you want to fly a crazy distance to deliver one more letter for this young man here, or do you want to stay tucked up with your pie and blanket and win me a race?”
Bert winked at Jem and fluttered onto the boy’s head, digging his claws firmly into Jem’s wiry hair.

“Ok, then” chuckled Mr Broda, “Can’t say I mind actually. When I think of the joy my dear wife’s letters brought me...anyway Jem, get writing. We’ll launch the last Incredible Pigeon Post tomorrow.”

Jem slept well that night, dreaming of a circus with a strange ringmaster and a lion made entirely of green flapjacks. He was woken by a soft tapping on his window, and opened the curtains to see Bert standing on the ledge. Mr Broda had made a small leather bag and fastened it around Bert’s neck. Jem put his last letter inside, picked up Bert and gave him a huge kiss on the head, then threw the bird up and out into the world. The bright sky was being tickled by the sun’s honey-dipped fingers. He knew that the ever-shrinking grey dot carried not just his address and phone number, but many more questions than there were answers. It might not be easy, getting to know his dad, but Jem was never afraid of taking a chance. That carefully folded letter held the best present his dad could have hoped for: a second chance.

(3970 words)