MORNING SERIAL

WHEN Pigeon looked up at Him he was looking back at Pigeon, frowning.

Pigeon turned the TV up two points, looked at the man, looked away and smiled to himself. You didn’t let someone in through the front door, and then make them feel at home. And anyway Pigeon didn’t like the way the man was looking all round the house, and saying “Nice light room this. This one could do with a splash of paint, love.”

He called Pigeon’s mam ‘love’, but his voice sounded uncomfortable around the word. His hands were big, Pigeon had noticed that. They were the hands of a man who liked to limit things.

He started coming at weekends. He’d be sitting in the living room, on the sofa, when Pigeon came home. He’d be watching a programme He wanted to watch. He’d be getting Pigeon’s mam to make Him dinner. He’d be telling them all things about the world. He’d not be listening to Pigeon’s mam, nor leaving her space for an answer.

“Africa’s a lost cause,” He said, watching the black children with the empty eyes and round bellies. “It’s just a useless country.” He said.

“It’s not a country,” Pigeon said. “It’s a continent.” “Same difference.” “No. There’s lots of countries in it. Chad, Tanzania, South Africa.” He’d got that from Iola’s big geography book.

But He just looked at Pigeon, just looked at him.

What Pigeon didn’t like was how his mam went so quiet when He was around. She was nervous. He made her feel as if everything was wrong. You could see it. It wasn’t that He said so exactly. But He was always checking everything.

He checked the clothes she’d washed and ironed. Looking at each one for marks or creases. “Okaaaay. Okaaaaay,” He said, going through the pile. When she brought out dinner, He’d look at his plate and just say, “Oh. I see.”

“What’s wrong?” she’d ask in that voice like a kid’s.

“No, darling. Nothing.” Then He’d hesitate, then hold her hand, look into her eyes, as if she knew nothing. “You just don’t put parsnips with potatoes,” he’d say.

Or, “Too much gravy.”