The pigeon loft that Maud, a devoted pigeoneer, constructed over many years is beautiful and luxurious – nothing being too good for her beloved carrier pigeons. The double occupancy bird boxes are impeccable and not much smaller than the rooms in a show-house on a Taylor-Wimpey estate. 

As she moved through childhood, puberty and adult life, she found increasing difficulty in forming lasting relationships with either sex; her pigeons always came back and were incapable of deceit. Now, in her eighties and frail, Maud lives alone; her spirit not dulled by ill-health.

Entering the loft, a wave of sadness overtakes her; once there had been forty birds; now, one bird remains: old, handsome and housed in a single occupancy box of some grandeur. The bird coos as Maud approaches, puts her hand inside the box, strokes the pigeon, and sits on a nearby stool gasping for breath, cursing the pain in her chest.

Do you ever wonder why I named you Caractacus? she asks.
The bird coos. 
It’s daft. Caractacus was a first century British warrior chieftain who fought the Romans. When I first got you, I was impressed. I was right, you kept the loft in order, often with a sharp peck of rebuke. Romantic old fool, aren’t I? 
The bird coos.
I need to talk to you, get something off my chest. I have no one else.
The bird coos, and struggles onto her lap.
I’m a mess. Old. I get things wrong on my computer; I hate the bloody thing. Anyway, I have a dicky heart that constantly gives me grief. Maud waits until the pain subsides. My GP refers me to a hospital. Turns out there are two hospitals in the same trust, each with a cardiology department. I receive a letter from one hospital giving me an appointment, followed by an email from the second hospital telling me that this appointment is a mistake. I don’t go to the appointment. Next, I get a letter from the first hospital telling me I have a new appointment and warns me that if I don’t attend, I will be denied treatment. I’m frightened. 

Maud weeps, carefully holding the bird. The pigeon coos.

Struggling for breath and with her pain soaring, Maud haltingly, continues. Two days later there’s an email: I don’t have an appointment. I telephone both hospitals and ask what’s going on. No one knows. I lose my temper. I’m accused of abusing staff and censured. Two weeks later another letter arrives from the first hospital offering me a further appointment and it’s my very last chance. Nothing else arrives. I give up. I don’t go to the appointment. I’m too ill. A final letter arrives – I’m wasting their time and will be denied care. Too late now, bureaucracy, she gasps.

Maud and the pigeon fall from the stool. 
I love you, old friend, she whispers.
The bird is silent; too infirm to fly. 

No one comes. The loft falls into ruin.

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I hope you enjoyed this story. Please feel free to pass it on to others who may be interested. You can read my previous 500 word stories on my website www.philcoskerwriter.com under ‘Writing’.>>>More
© Phil Cosker 2024
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