Ep 5: Stool Pigeon

25 MINS

‘Why didn’t you warn him?’  Iago takes the pigeons to Trafalgar Square to search for members of the Great Pigeon Council but an unexpected incident causes suspicion amongst the birds. Later, the friends discover a boarded up record shop in Hoxton where pigeons gather.

Iridesco: A Homer’s Odyssey is an almost fictional story about a flock of feral pigeons in lockdown. Set in Brighton, London and the countryside in between, it follows the lives of Iridesco, Lulu, Dolly and Dove as they embark on a journey that teaches them about the dangers and delights of life as a bird and the relationship between humans, pigeons and homing pigeons.

Part adventure story, part rom-com, the series features raucous crows that speak in iambic pentameter, a trip along the Regent’s Canal and a mysterious code of honour that all birds must follow.

Writer/narrator: Kitty Fisher  Music : The Big Push   https://www.thebigpushband.com/  Producer : Dominic North  Artwork: Lotte North  Sound effects: Freesound   https://freesound.org/  Original story idea: Ed Hill.

Transcript

Episode 5: Stool Pigeon

When they awoke it was still chilly. A few individual joggers circled the park and water birds glided across the mirrored surface of the Serpentine, their chicks following behind like fluffy bumper cars. Cherry blossom floated down from the tree and gathered on the paths, piling up like pink snow drifts. 

The pigeons shook their feathers and fluffed out their wings. They were going to Trafalgar Square, the ancient site of the Grand Pigeon Council. At Speakers’ Corner a lone man stood on an upturned box. He held a sign attached to a piece of timber and shouted out to the early morning joggers and cyclists:

 “The end is nigh. Repent your sins for God will smite you down. The apocalypse is upon us.” 

The pigeons flapped their wings to gain height and flew east along Oxford Street . The shop fronts at ground level competed for attention: mannequins with horses’ heads draped in jewels and drinking tea from china cups; winged books suspended in the air like a flock of birds and giant images of bored groundlings staring at nothing. The pigeons flew higher. Above the shops, crumbling signs and carved stonework suggested a long vanished world of afternoon teas, Ovaltine and gentlemen’s clubs. A pigeon’s eye view was certainly more interesting than a street view. Roof gardens, attic windows and artist’s studios revealed an array of curiosities. Flapping curtains wafted the scent of perfume and cigarette smoke out into the air; in the junctures of chimney pots and rooftops mossy nests held bluish eggs or a clutch of yellow beaks open towards the sky, squawking desperately.

They turned south and stopped at a circular clearing. The buildings here were clad with enormous pixelated screens that pulsated with lights. On one side, a fountain offered a comfortable place to perch. A few other birds had gathered here, most were dipping their beaks into the water or gazing up at the flashing screens, transfixed by the lights.

Above them a bronze statue stood poised with a bow and arrow. It was a curious sight: the body of a groundling with a pigeon’s wings. Iridesco stared at it, feeling a strange affinity. His father’s blood connected him to the world of the groundlings yet he would always be a pigeon. As he rested with the other birds he pondered the significance of this sign.

After a few minutes they cut across Chinatown, weaving through red and gold silk lanterns and pausing for breath on the green ceramic tiles of the gate. The air was still scented with ginger and dried fish, despite the empty streets. Turning left, they flew down Wardour Street and round the side of the National Gallery. They made for a tall fluted column with a statue perched on top. The monument stood in an open square on a plinth guarded by four lions. 

Dove glanced up at the statue, taking in the skinny legs and stick. Her eyes moved down the column to the bronze lions and her face lit up in recognition. “Joe Exotic!”  

This time it was Iago who was confused. “The statue has been here for as long as any pigeon can remember. It was given to us by the groundlings as a mark of their respect. I believe the intention was to create a sort of... bird table in the centre of London where offerings could be made. Of course that was before Ken Livingstone declared war on us.”

The square was almost empty of pigeons. Roger had described Trafalgar Square as a meeting place for birds of all backgrounds; they had hoped that in coming here they could gain some information about how to survive the plague, yet they had come too late.

 Just then a baby pigeon walked across the desolate square. Iago looked at it and then his eyes darted up to the roof of the National Gallery.

He adjusted his position on the head of one of the lions and stretched out his wings, fluttering them in the early morning breeze.

At that moment a falcon plummeted out of the sky. It blocked out the sun, and shot towards the squab, grabbing it with its talons. It was a falcon. As it hunched over the tiny grey mass of feathers Iridesco noticed something that made his blood run cold: a metal ring around the falcon’s claw. At that moment a groundling in camo gear strolled towards them and whistled. The falcon looked up and, catching sight of the man, flew away to be rewarded with a piece of meat from a plastic bag.

Lulu and Dove stared in horror. The scene was reminiscent of the time Dolly had been shot down over the fields. Lulu’s face frowned with incomprehension. Groundlings using birds to kill pigeons? It made no sense. 

Iago stepped forward. “We should leave here; it’s not safe.” He glanced down at Iridesco’s leg band and opened his beak to speak but seemed to think better of it.

The pigeons flew north to Regent’s Park. It was quiet but rhododendrons and camellias bloomed theatrically and a choir of birds chirped from the bushes and trees. They passed London Zoo, now empty but for the parrots and monkeys that watched them enviously as they flew between the cages.

Further west the canal basin opened out and a cluster of barges were tethered along the tow path. Iridesco  looked about nervously. After his encounter with the cats he was reluctant to stay in this complicated jumble of objects, where every flower pot or open window seemed to conceal a thousand watchful eyes.  A willow tree hung over the water from a garden whose lawn sloped down to the canal. The pigeons found a gap in the trailing branches and rested, safely hidden from above and below.

The willow hung in pale green curtains that dipped into the water. Standing on the branch, they felt as though they were behind a waterfall. From their hiding place they could see glimpses of the house boats and empty restaurants. Swans cruised contentedly through the silent water and a moorhen wove twigs into a nest while its partner sat supervising the operation. The nestbuilder spied a useful twig and snatched it up, pulling it round to the other side and poking it through the wall of the nest. The pigeons watched as one side grew higher and the other unravelled. Swimming round to the back of the nest, he pulled at another twig and dragged it to the other side. Dove sniggered.

The pigeons were still in shock from the events of the morning. Since they had left the safe and sometimes dull life of their childhood in Brighton they had experienced both wonder and terror. Beautiful countryside and clean air had been eclipsed by death and vicious attacks. Now it seemed that no groundlings were to be trusted. Maybe even Big Daddy and his daughter had turned against them?  

Iridesco looked down at the band around his leg and wondered. Iago seemed to read his thoughts. “I’d keep that hidden if I were you. Not everyone is sympathetic to collaborators.”

Iridesco felt angry. He wanted to explain that his father would never have collaborated with the enemy, but after the earlier events in Trafalgar Square it seemed wrong to defend him. He pushed the metal ring further up his leg until it was hidden by his feathers. He wished that he could tear it off and throw it into the canal, but that would have to wait.

Just then a silvery feathered female entered the enclosure.  Despite her age she was a sprightly bird with a lively expression and beady eyes. “Visitors! What a lovely surprise. “ she hopped excitedly over to the newcomers, extending her long elegant neck to look at them more closely.

“I’m Violet.”

The pigeons introduced themselves and Violet invited them to her home. She lived on a barge which had been a bookshop moored on the canal. They entered through a chimney that led to a wood burning stove. The door of the stove opened out into a cosy room where shelves of books lined the walls, and Persian rugs and cushions were scattered haphazardly around the floor.

“Usually we have an arts club here but many of the pigeons have been too preoccupied looking for food. It’s been a very difficult time but it has brought us together. Are you staying in London for long?”

Iridesco paused, “We had hoped to find some answers here and help our families in Brighton but it seems nowhere is safe.”

“Well life is certainly difficult now but there have always been challenges. Sometimes that’s what makes us stronger and helps us to appreciate the good times. Is life very difficult in Brighton?” she enquired.

Lulu answered. “When we left there was a shortage of food. Fights were breaking out. The gulls and starlings were feeling it too. Starling territory was outside McDonalds at the marina and the gulls controlled the chip shops around the pier, pigeons mainly stuck to the clock tower but it wasn’t a strict rule. Then everything closed down and it was every bird for himself. If we can find some answers we’ll return to our families. We want to help them if we can.”

Violet sat quietly listening.  

“There’s a place over in Hoxton Street that you should visit. A lot of pigeons congregate there now. It reminds me of Trafaglar Square in the good old days...pigeons meeting up and talking late into the night. We used to sit outside the National Gallery discussing politics or arguing over nest-building materials. Once we planned to dive-bomb politicians as a protest outside the Houses of Parliament. Those were the days.” Her eyes glinted with excitement, and for a second she was the idealistic young pigeon she had been in her prime.

“I seem to remember there were some birds from Brighton that were staying there. They might be of help to you.”

She hopped about on the shelves until she found a map book and jumped up onto the spine, tilting it off of the shelf and onto the cushioned bench.

Flicking through the pages she found what she had been looking for and stabbed her beak at the map. “It’s just here. Follow the canal north east and head south towards Liverpool Street Station.”

Iridesco flew over to the map and studied the route.

“Ah, you’re a racing pigeon. “ Violet said, opening her eyes with interest. “How did you escape?”

Iridesco felt nervous. He had let the ring slip down his leg.

“It’s not mine. My father died and I inherited it. He didn’t tell me much about it.”

“Well it‘s a very different life to that of a wild bird. It can be filled with great luxury. The best of everything but you are never really free. A racing pigeon is owned by a groundling. It must fly where it is told; marriage is arranged and chicks can be sold by the groundlings. A racing pigeon has many comforts but is essentially a slave, like a Roman gladiator. I can understand why he chose freedom.”

Iridesco was intrigued. Violet seemed to know more about his father than George had ever shared with him.

Violet continued to talk, enjoying having an audience. “My mother was a racing pigeon. She had an arranged marriage and although she wasn’t sure about her chosen partner he was keen on her and she made an effort to like him. The groundling introduced them and then her partner was taken off to race. He never returned. She wasn’t interested in remarrying so she was abandoned by her owner. After almost starving in the wild she came to London and met my father. Pigeons are less popular with the groundlings these days but I think us wild birds are lucky, we can choose how we want to live.” 

Iridesco hoped Violet could tell him more about his parents. “Maybe my father abandoned my mum. She died before I was born, He told me he had let her down.”

“Well I don’t know about that. Racing pigeons are never completely free to choose. Maybe it’s enough to know that he was sorry for whatever happened.” She looked out of the window at the reddish-orange sky that glowed between the buildings lining the canal. “if you want to find help you should head over to Hoxton Street. It’s not safe flying at night.”

Play The Smiths ‘How Soon is Now?’ as they fly through the tunnels

The pigeons had become quite used to navigating via the canal. They had already flown over a good deal of London, picking up the waterway as it snaked through the capital, disappearing under roads and re-emerging on the other side. Although the city was quiet now, the canal had a rhythm of its own. Lilacs sprouted from cracks on the walls and butterflies were beginning to emerge now that the cold weather was over. 

They retraced their route around Regent’s Park and the now silent streets of Camden where the market stalls were boarded up. A lone groundling sporting a pink mohican sipped thoughtfully from a plastic bottle of cider and watched a family of newly hatched ducks as they swam along the canal.

This time Iago showed them a new aspect of the city. Long, low tunnels took them under the flyovers and roads. The cool bricks arched over them, and they flew in darkness towards the white crescent of light that guided them to the exit. The sound of their flapping wings echoed against the bricks and the smell of the cool water had a calming effect on the pigeons.

As they neared the exit, water rats scurried along the narrow paths inside the tunnels, carrying left over sandwiches and food stolen from bins.

After flying for almost an hour they spotted the tower blocks of the De Beauvoir Estate and flew south, away from the water. Amongst the shut up shops and cafes of Hoxton Street a few mini marts were still open. Temporary walls of beer and toilet rolls formed a protective barrier from the world outside. Like sandbags in a siege, they cocooned the shopkeepers. Some groundlings scurried rat-like into the shops, relishing the small social interactions available to them; they lingered over racks of Bombay Mix and Haribos before retreating back to their lonely nests.

The place that Violet had recommended was a record store and cafe with a wooden bench outside. Posters for gigs that had been cancelled plastered the inside of the front door and cake stands stood empty in the window. Iago tapped on the door and a pigeon looked down from the roof, gesturing for them to follow. They flew up to join him and walked over the roof tiles to a light well at the back. From here they descended into the cool, musty rectangle of air vents and drainpipes. On the ground floor a window was slightly open and the pigeons squeezed though the opening into the back room of the shop.

A quirky assortment of sofas and armchairs nestled between piles of comic books, spider plants and records. Vintage posters decorated the walls, and jars of cookies and coffee-making paraphernalia stood behind the counter by the entrance. At the back of the shop three pigeons tapped their feet and cooed rhythmically, engrossed in making music. One stood on a guitar, plucking the strings with its beak and pressing its claws down to make chords. Lulu and the others watched them, entranced by the energy and skill of these pigeons. It was like watching some kind of musical ball game. The rhythm and tune would be picked up by one bird and caught by another who would then amplify or alter the sound subtly. The music continued to vary but grew in intensity. As the musicians played, the shop filled with more and more pigeons. The sound built to a crescendo, stopped, then continued with a satisfyingly exuberant thrash of guitar strings and percussion.

Pigeons of all shapes and sizes funnelled in through the narrow opening in the window, finding a spot on an empty shelf and flapping their wings appreciatively. Some joined in, cooing, twanging elastic bands with their beaks or tapping their feet on tambourines until the air was alive with sound. The birds were in pigeon heaven. They moved their heads from side to side and strutted along the shelves of knick knacks, perfectly synchronised. Soon they were dancing with wild abandon until exhausted, the band took a break. 

As the pigeons rested, a swarthy bird picked up the arm of a record player and placed it carefully onto a black vinyl disc. The stylus crackled and bounced before a soulful voice wound through the shop and each bird settled down to listen.                

The birds took sips of water from saucers under the plants or helped themselves to crumbs. Dove was soon chatting to one of the band and Iridesco and Lulu sat on a shelf above the counter.

There was an awkward silence. Normally Lulu was the confident one, always ready with a joke or a story but since they had left Brighton so much had changed.

“Dove seems happy.” pointed out Lulu. “I wonder how our families are getting on.”

Iridesco thought of Ma and wished she were here now to give them advice but this situation was unlike any other. Famine, and now war; birds fighting against other birds.

“Whatever happens we need to stick together. Maybe some of the groundlings can’t be trusted but they can’t all be against us.”

“Do you think we should go back to Brighton?” asked Lulu.

“I’m not sure.”

Iridesco  remembered how Dolly had been shot and realised that wherever they went there would always be danger. Maybe this war was something that would spread out from London until every groundling turned against pigeons. Would they be hunted down until none of them were left? Maybe there were no answers; just an endless struggle for survival against dwindling odds. If that was the case, Brighton was as good a place as any to end their days.

“We should at least get a message back to them,” said Lulu. 

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Just then a group of pigeons pushed in through the window and swooped onto the counter. They spread out, perching on the shelves around the coffee machine. A small grey bird pointed its claw over to Iridesco and Lulu. 

“He’s the one. The stool pigeon.  I recognise his leg band.”

A weary looking female stepped forward, her face twisted up with pain and anger. She stared at Iridesco, hatred in her eyes. “How dare you show your face here after what happened to my son. Did you lead them to him? You were there weren’t you? Why didn’t you warn him? He was just a kid!” she snarled.

Confused, he thought back to that morning and the encounter with the falcon in Trafalgar Square. It had all happened so quickly...the empty square...the tiny pigeon walking alone. He remembered the metal leg tag that the falcon had worn and shuddered; if only George were still alive. There was so much he wanted to ask him.

The angry female lunged forward and pecked viciously at him before collapsing into a heap and being helped away by the others. By now the other pigeons in the shop were aware of the commotion and stood watching accusingly. Muttering and whispering, they turned their backs on him and left the shop in disgust.

Iridesco turned to Lulu. “My father worked for the groundlings but he was no traitor. I just wish I had had a chance to find out more before he died.” He looked down at the band and pushed his beak between his leg and the metal, the way he had seen Seth do the night they left the countryside. Opening his beak with all his strength he managed to force it apart until it was wide enough to step out of. Kicking it onto the floor he turned away from Lulu and wiped his eyes. 

Iridesco and Lulu found Dove talking to Roma, one of the pigeons who had been playing guitar earlier. Iago was nowhere to be seen but returned in time to take them back to the Globe. Dove had decided to stay at the record shop where the musicians were still jamming using some old bongo drums that they had found in a store room.

Roma promised to bring Dove back to the theatre the next morning so they said goodbye and squeezed back through the window and out into the cold night air. 

They flew over the grey arched roofs of Liverpool Street Station and back down towards Southwark Bridge. The weather had changed and an icy wind cut into their faces, making their eyes water. By the time they reached the river the waves were slapping viciously up against the stone embankment. Vessels moored to the wooden piers crashed together and the streets were utterly deserted. Any pigeons that might have been about were huddled together in the relative safety of window ledges or under railway arches.

Iago pushed on towards the bridge, glancing back as Iridesco and Lulu struggled to keep up. Without knowing the way, it was sometimes impossible to see where he was going. As the black outline of the bridge loomed to their right, Iago shot forward between a floating Chinese restaurant and a river cruiser. Lulu was just behind and Iridesco followed but at that moment a huge wave smacked against the cruiser, shunting it sideways towards him. Flying as quickly as he could, he blindly followed the others as the gap diminished. He sucked in his breath, feeling the sides of the vessels brushing against his feathers. It was still a long way to the open water and he had no chance of out-flying the moving sides of the boats. He could only hope the impact would be sudden. Closing his eyes, he tensed his body and waited. In front of him the gap disappeared and water shot towards him. Dodging it, he leapt over a fender and slid down the other side as the rubber ground against the hull of the boat.

 He was now flying over the river. The waters below were black and fast-flowing. The icy wind that had blasted them as they flew over the city seemed to funnel downstream so that they had to fly up river just to remain on course. Eventually they reached the other side but were much further east than they had intended. Scrambling to the shelter of a doorway they huddled in a grey shivering heap until dawn. 

The next day the stormy weather was replaced by a thick fog. The three birds flew low over the narrow streets of Southwark. It was almost impossible to see, and shapes appeared unexpectedly in front of them. The Golden Hinde hovered like a deserted pirate ship and the stone finials of Southwark Cathedral pointed dangerously skyward like the teeth of a long-dead sea monster. When they finally reached The Globe it was a relief to climb the thatched roof and swoop down into the sheltered theatre beneath. Expectant parents still sat contentedly on their eggs and Red dozed in a patch of weak sunlight whilst Biscuits nibbled on a stale lemon puff.  

Dove and Roma had still not arrived so Iridesco flew down to the riverbank to look for them. Lulu felt too exhausted to move but Iago disappeared behind a velvet curtain. As the fog evaporated and the sun reached higher over the thatch, two pigeons flew into the theatre and settled on the stage. It was Dove and Roma. Roma was a tall, thin bird with a pronounced beak and hooded eyes. His exotic appearance contrasted with a youthful innocence when he spoke. 

“How was your flight back last night? The weather was quite bad; we were worried about you.” he said.

“It was pretty scary.” admitted Lulu. 

Roma paused, unsure what to say. “We had a good time last night. Thanks for coming over. It’s great to have visitors.”

“We loved it too. It’s a great place.” 

“Yes, we were lucky to find it. We moved from Brighton last year and came with some friends There always seems to be a party, pigeons dropping in, helping each other out, it’s a nice atmosphere...”

Lulu looked at Roma with renewed interest. He probably knew many of the pigeons around the Clock Tower and the seafront. 

“Eddie the Eagle was the one who told us to leave Brighton,” said Lulu,   “Do you know him?”

“The crazy guy who hangs around the clock tower begging for grubs? Yeah, everyone knows Eddie. But he’s probably right about leaving Brighton. It’s a tourist town so it’s harder for pigeons now, especially when we have to fight with the seagulls for scraps. In London there are more parks and miles of suburbs in every direction. Take away food isn’t good for birds.”

Roma looked around as if checking that the coast was clear. “I hear you had some trouble last night.” he said, looking directly at Lulu.  “I think those birds that came in were tipped off.”

Lulu looked incredulous “Tipped off? What do you mean?”

“Iago was outside when you were sitting by the counter in the record shop. He told everyone that Iridesco gave a signal to the falcon; flapping his wings to attract attention... like a stool pigeon luring the other birds to their death.”

Lulu frowned. “If Iri did that he certainly hadn’t known that it would act as a signal to attack.”

 “Don’t worry about it. If anyone could have saved the squab it was Iago. He knew the falcon would be there at that time. He should have kept away. That bird is trouble.”

Lulu thought back to the events of the morning She couldn’t remember what had happened before the attack, although the yellow scaled claws and hooked bloody beak seemed to be permenantly seared into her mind.

As she tried to piece together the chain of events Iago emerged from behind the curtain. “Would anyone care for a morning swim?” he said, smiling pleasantly.

Lulu opened her beak to speak just as Iridesco returned Seeing that Dove and Roma had returned he greeted them and they agreed that a swim in the river would be the perfect way to start the day.

She decided she would try to speak to Iridesco alone when they were swimming.