Rebuilding Coventry by Sue Townsend Read Free Book Online Page B

more crumbs from their table. To my surprise,
Trafalgar Square was at the bottom of the Charing Cross Road. The fountains
frothed and sparkled in the sunshine. The foreign schoolchildren ran about with
bags of birdseed, encouraging the pigeons to swoop down and feed, but when the
birds enveloped them in a flapping mass, they screamed and waved their arms and
sent the pigeons flying. A fat woman in a beige raincoat with a pixie hood was
standing at the base of a metal lion, throwing pieces of stale bread and cakes
onto the floor in front of her. Fragments of iced fancies, toasted teacakes,
scones and granary baps scattered around my feet. The woman crooned to the
birds. ‘Yes, my darlings, eat it all up, you’ll be big and strong. Now, now! No
squabbling! Stop it, you naughty boy!’
    She was
addressing her remarks to a scruffy brown bird that had landed on her shoulder.
I wanted to run into the feathery mass and snatch the crumbs off the floor; and
I was preparing to do just that when another large gang wheeled out of the sky
and obliterated the food. The woman stooped amongst them emptying the bag. The
pigeons covered her; their claws clung to her permed curls; she was laughing
and protesting. ‘Silly birds, get off at once, you’re hurting me.’
    But the
birds continued to sit smugly on their human monument. When they eventually
flew off the woman looked up and followed their flight path longingly. Then,
earthbound and clumsy, she picked up the carrier bag, took a tissue from it and
tried to wipe the pigeon excrement off her coat.
    I said,
‘They’ve ruined your coat.’
    ‘No,’
she said. ‘It goes in the machine on a hot wash cycle and comes out as fresh as
a new-minted sixpence. I come here every day so I must have a reliable
washing machine. A Zanussi. It’s the only one. I can fully recommend it. It’s
the only one that can cope with the pigeons’ little presents. Goodbye.’
    She
picked her way daintily through the birds with many apologies:
    ‘Sorry
to disturb you, dears. May I pass by, birdies?’
    I
watched her as she reached the pavement, then lost sight of her in the crowds.
I sat on the side of a fountain and tried to formulate a plan. I’ve always
planned my life in advance. I’m a great believer in lists.
    Yesterday’s
list was:
     
    Order smokeless fuel
    Clean chimney
    Flea powder for Softy
    Wash loose covers
    Buy teen bra (34A cup)
    Shave legs, pluck eyebrows
    Pick Derek’s tortoise book up from library
    Find odd socks
    Phone Mum about Sunday dinner
    Post Noreen’s birthday card
    Has Bella got my big whisk?
    Ask doctor if I’m going mad
    Light bulbs
    Christmas wrapping paper
    Cancel the Sun
    Find Derek’s bicycle clip
    Tackle Big Mouth about
rumour
    Today’s
list is:
    Give
myself up to the police?
    Suicide?
    Try to live in London?
     
    I attempted to wash the
soot away by using the water in the fountain but, even as I rubbed roughly at
my skin, I knew that only hot water and a soapy lather would do the job.
     
    I felt safe in Trafalgar
Square; there were plenty of people about and they provided distraction from
the cold and hunger and unhappiness I was feeling. In the afternoon a small
crowd of demonstrators gathered to protest about something to do with South
Africa. Somebody, Nelson Mandela, was in prison and the people in the square
thought it was time he was let out. They crossed over the road and I went with
them to the steps of a church. I stood in the most dense part of the crowd, to
get warm and hide from the many police in attendance. A microphone couldn’t be
made to work, so an ancient man wearing a green duffel-coat formed a megaphone
with his hands and shouted towards the people watching him. The wind and the noise
of the traffic blew his voice away. Only a few words reached us: ‘.           
. . oppression … imperialist past … shame … racists … Thatcher
… Reagan … God…’
    A youth
standing next to me said, ‘Stupid ol’ git, ‘stime ‘e wuz