Mungo had been drawing in the grass for two days and now, on the third, the doocot door was finally flung open.
There was a young man, he was hauling his belongings out into the shy sunlight, as if to air them. He went through his routine with ease as Mungo watched him over the top of his sketchbook. The boy must have had a strong back to carry the large cages out of the doocot as easily as he did. Then he scuffed his toes, and stumbled with his long arms knocking at his side. From a distance, between his gangly arms and his skillful hands, there was conflict about him. He could be either a boy or a man, depending on how he turned, or how the light caught him.
He was wearing a heathered grey tracksuit of thick cotton fleece. On his head was a knitted fisherman’s cap of deep navy-blue. His ears stuck out like two pale cabbage leaves and he wore the cap above them, hanging loose as if he couldn’t force it down over them. He had a shock of dirty-blond hair and there was a look of the outdoors about him; a rosy colour flushed high on his cheeks from days spent in wind and rain. He reminded Mungo of a farmer: purposeful, solitary looking. He went about his routine with a semblance of deep contentment to be outside.
The boy had not seen Mungo, or had seen him and didn’t care. His face was turned to the sky, watching pigeons glide above the tenements. Something in the clouds caught his eye and he disappeared inside his tower. There were heavy footsteps on a ladder as the skylight slid open and he poked out of the roof like the captain of a wooden submarine. He was cradling something in his large hands. Mungo watched him caress it, whisper gently to it, and bring it to his lips for a kiss. He threw it into the sky and a pale pigeon fluttered away over the slate roofs of the housing scheme.
“Whroup, whroooup, whrooup.” He was cooing after the bird.
His little bird whirled over the sandstone. It followed the other birds and they dipped for a moment out of sight. When Mungo looked back towards the doocot the boy was still hanging out of the skylight but now he was glowering down at him. The boy dropped back inside. He came out of the low door and started striding towards Mungo.
“How long are ye gonnae sit there?” he asked abruptly. Mungo could see the strength of his face now; he had muscles that ran from under his broad cheekbones down to his jaw, and while he waited for Mungo to reply, they moved and pulsed with life.
“What’s it to you?” It was brave, and maybe a little stupid. His nose was still tender from Hamish and this boy was a good head taller than him.
What had looked northern and hale now puckered in uncertainty, and the boy looked his age again. His mouth was shaped like a wide bow, his teeth were large and white, but spread at intervals. “It’s just if ma hen sees you sitting there,” he motioned to the missing pigeon, “you might scare her off and she willnae come back.”
“How can a bird be frightened of me?”
The boy worried the sky. He seemed conflicted. It would be mean-spirited to ask a stranger to leave and that didn’t seem in his nature. “Listen, could you haud still? Put that book away, the flap of the pages might frighten it.”
Mungo nodded and closed his book. The boy beamed down at him with relief. He was funny looking: gappy teeth, sticky-out ears, and a bent, Roman nose. But when he smiled he was disarming. There was something uncomplicated about him. As his eyes returned to the sky the smile never left his lips, and Mungo found himself staring. It seemed like this boy could not have spent a day on the same streets that Mungo knew, never needed any of its callous posturing, the self-protective swagger, the dirty promise of hitting first. There was nothing guarded or fearful about him. Mungo couldn’t help but smile back up at him. “I’m Mungo.”
“I know fine well who you are,” said the boy. “Your Ha-Ha used to kick the shite out of me for a laugh.” The boy was still watching the sky, but he thrust a hand towards Mungo and hoisted him to his feet. He yanked so hard that for a moment Mungo was airborne. He could smell the fresh air on him as the boy clapped him on the back. “I’m James Jamieson. I live on the street ahind yours. I can see your Jodie dancing around her bedroom.”
Mungo closed one eye and scratched at the back of his head. “Sorry. She had three weeks of highland dancing when she was eight. She cannae help herself.”
“I don’t mind,” said James. “She’s no very graceful. But she was always dead nice to us when I saw her in the street.”
Everyone hated Hamish, but everyone loved Jodie. It spoke to her great-heartedness that people who could not stomach Hamish or Mo-Maw still held her in such high regard. Mungo didn’t know where he fell in all of this. Sometimes he felt strangers looked at him like just another blemish on the life of this unstintingly good girl.
James led Mungo towards his doocot. About twenty feet away from the tower they lay down on their stomachs. James took a coil of white washing line into his hands. Mungo could see the rope snake through the grass back towards the tower. They were waiting for something to happen. James was purring lightly, mimicking the throaty, contented warble of a pigeon. “Whroup, whroooup, whrooup.” With each coo he bobbed his head like he was catching a sneeze. His eyes were scanning the skyline for a glimpse of his blonde bird. A few times Mungo opened his mouth to speak but James put his finger over his own lips and Mungo sank back into the damp grass.
Eventually the blonde pigeon circled back over the tenement roofs. Relief flushed over James’s whole body. “Whroup, whroooup, whrooup.” He was kneeling now and bowing with each coo.