For as long as Mara could remember, Miss Pearl fed the pigeons on the green at eleven o’clock. Every day, rain or shine. A paper bag of crusts, a folding stool, a flask. People joked about it. The pigeons knew the time better than the bus did.
On the Wednesday, Mara noticed the pigeons standing around the empty patch of grass at quarter past eleven, looking confused.
On the Thursday, same.
By Friday, Mara had a feeling in her chest she’d learnt not to ignore.
She knocked on the door on the second floor. It took a long time to open.
“Oh — Mara.” Miss Pearl was in her dressing gown, her right wrist in a grubby bandage. “I’m fine, love. Just a little fall. Nothing to fuss about.”
Mara looked at the bandage. Looked past her into the flat, at the washing-up piled by the sink, the curtains still closed at midday.
“How long ago?”
“Oh… Sunday.”
Five days. Five days on her own, with one hand, telling nobody because she didn’t want a fuss.
Mara didn’t make a fuss. She put the kettle on. She did the washing-up while Miss Pearl protested. She rang the surgery and got her an appointment. And before she left, she tore a bag of crusts into small pieces, took Miss Pearl’s folding stool down to the green, and fed the pigeons at eleven o’clock the next morning, while Miss Pearl watched from her window and waved with her good hand.
The pigeons didn’t know the difference. Miss Pearl did.