Pigeons

I am sitting on a bench in the park, watching the weak rays of the mid-morning sun as they struggle through the clouds in an attempt to spread life and warmth. I am feeling neither lively nor warm.

The wind tugs at me; I pull my collar up and shiver for good measure. I think it’s expected of me.

I need to be happy. I should be happy, all things considered. I am not happy. My mood, the clouds, the cold wind – it’s like a bad cliché.

There’s a flock of pigeons milling around on the grass verge. Every few seconds there’s a new arrival or departure; it’s like an airport, only without the Tie Rack and Costa Coffee franchises.

Each aspect of pigeon life is being played out in detail. Little grey heads bob up and down as the birds scratch around in the grass for morsels. There’s a couple of birds flapping and fighting over there. Here, a mother pigeon seems to be castigating her youngsters. It would seem that you can indeed be accused of Treating This Place Like a Hotel, even if This Place is Pype Hayes Park and you have feathers.

I watch the activity and think about what I’m supposed to be doing later today. That sick feeling in my stomach hasn’t gone away. I weigh up my options. There are always options. Doing nothing is, after all, an option. I reflect on that and shiver once more.

My attention returns to the pre-packaged sandwich in my lap. The label says ‘Lovingly handmade’. I suspect there wasn’t room on the pack to put ‘Slapped together casually by someone on minimum wage in a depressing catering facility on a business park.’ But that’s what it looks like to me.

In fairness, the sandwich was bought in haste at the BP garage. But now I’m repenting in leisure. I think about throwing it to the pigeons, but consider that doing so might be thought of as an act of animal cruelty.

“Are you going to eat that?”

Christ, my heart nearly jumps out through my chest. I hadn’t noticed the man sitting next to me on the bench, his eyebrow raised quizzically. When did he show up? Either I’ve been completely engrossed in my own thoughts or he’s some form of ninja. A grubby ninja, one that smells rather strongly of onions, but stealthy nevertheless. I turn to face him.

He’s got a strange face, instantly forgettable. It’s got the usual complement of eyes, nose, mouth, etc, and they’re all in roughly the right places. But if I was to turn away for a second I know I’d never be able to recall a single feature. Stealthy and easily forgettable. He’d make a great bank robber.

“Um. No,” I say. “I’m not hungry, or so it seems.” I hand the package over, with a mixture of nausea and awkwardness.

“Thanking you,” the man says cheerfully. “Ooh, egg mayonnaise. Lovely.”

The next couple of minutes are punctuated by the sounds of gleeful consumption. To my left, my new best friend, ahead of me the massed squadrons of feather, claw and beak. There’s a tussle as my companion tosses a soggy crust into the milling throng of shiny backs.

“So then,” he says, still looking at the birds but clearly addressing me. “What is it then?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Hatching, matching or despatching?” He has now turned and is indicating my suit, the shined shoes, freshly-pressed shirt. “Is it a christening, wedding or funeral? You’re all gussied up, young man. On a Saturday morning, too. I’m guessing it’s a wedding. There would have to be a woman in the mix for this level of involvement.” He pauses before that last word and says it in a rather pointed manner.

It’s none of his business, of course. I’ve a good mind to tell him so, too. I think: look, strange oniony-ninja bloke, you’ve had a dodgy sandwich from me, that doesn’t give you the right to peer into my own personal torment. But that’s not what I actually say. Not when I see his eyes properly for the first time.

In an otherwise forgettable face, they’re like black holes. I’m not one for people who bang on about that ‘windows to the soul’ malarkey, but in his case they might have a point. They’re like truth magnets, those eyes, drawing the facts out of me like iron filings buried in sawdust.

And so I tell him. I tell him that I’m expected in church in two hours’ time. How I’m supposed to stand up in front of my family and friends. How I’m going to be expected to make some pretty hefty long-term pledges.

“What if I’m wrong?” I ask him. “What if she’s not the one? What if I’ve just waited until roughly the right moment and asked the right question to whoever was passing at the time?”

I’ve been fretting about this for weeks, in amongst the invitations, the suit fittings, menu tastings and interminable arguments about you-can’t-invite-auntie-Doris-not-after-what-she-said-about-our-Sharon. And here I am, sitting in the park with second, third and fourth thoughts.

Because, when it boils down to it, is this really what it’s meant to be like? Aren’t there meant to be fireworks and chemical reactions? What about the fizz-bang of unbridled passion? Or have I simply found myself at the checkout of life, just before the end of the sale, grabbing the nearest bag of bones and saying, ‘Oh sod it, you’ll do’?

He looks back out at the grass verge, the clouds hurrying over the horizon to better places, and breathes out slowly. “Simple question,” he says. “Do you love her?”

Of course, I tell him. If I didn’t love Jess, all this would be so much easier. But it’s not the love they sing about in songs. It’s not the sort you see in movies. It’s not that Hallmark card, Disney-style love. It seems to be something more...mundane. It’s the love that comes from familiarity. Doing the same things, day in, day out. It’s well-worn carpet slippers and hot chocolate. But isn’t it meant to be patent leather dancing shoes and champagne?

He smiles broadly. “I’m not going to offer you advice, young man. But I will say this. Marriage is like a long, sometimes boring meal. Only with quite a nice dessert right at the very beginning.”

With that, he heaves himself up to a standing position and makes to walk away. Just before he does so, he turns back to me, and with a wink of his eye – his weird, truth-seeking eye – says one more thing.

“You know, pigeons pair for life. Quite extraordinary, isn’t it?”