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house going up from the gate, only steeper still. The steps were carved out of a brambly waste that never had had much chance to be a garden. The grain bucket banged against Ricky’s knees every time he took a step up. He was following Rosheen, who was carrying a jug of water with a long spout.
    And at the top of the steps was a long low shed. This was where the pigeons lived. They were supposed to be Tomo’s pigeons, Rosheen had explained. He used to race pigeons at one stage, but now they were just pets, and Rosheen was in charge of feeding them.
    It was darkish inside the shed, because the windowswere small and grimy, and it smelt warm and bitter at the same time. The pigeons made soft throaty sounds to each other and rustled their wings and fussed when the door opened. Flap-flap, they fussed, who’s this, now, friend or foe? Only Rosheen, but oh-oh-oh, boh-boh-botheration, she has a boy with her, su-uu-ure to be trouble, flap-flap. They turned their heads away and looked over their shoulders as if there was someone behind them, but there wasn’t.
    ‘You feed them,’ whispered Rosheen to Ricky. ‘That way they’ll know you’re a friend.’
    Ricky looked around, blinking in the grey light of the pigeon shed. Rosheen nudged him in the direction of the feeding troughs, pointing them out to him. The ground was soft and soundless beneath his feet, all sawdust and feathers. He lifted the bucket and gently spilt the grain into the containers with a soughing sound like dry rain, moving the bucket along as each container filled.
    The pigeons watched him, burbling questioningly to each other as he worked, but they kept to their perches until he had finished. Then one came fluttering down to investigate. Then another, and another, and soon the whole flock had descended and was flustering and flittering about the feeding dishes, making little dashes with their beaks and nabbing grains.
    ‘Watch this,’ said Rosheen softly, and she dug into the almost empty bucket. She gathered the remaining few grains from the bottom and then held out her hand,slightly cupped, with the grains in the shallow dent she had made of her palm. One of the smallest birds, a creamy white pigeon with brownish-streaked wings, who had been flapping anxiously about the edge of the flock trying to get a beak in, saw what she was doing and took off with a flurry from the feeding-frenzied crowd. It landed perkily on Rosheen’s wrist. It stopped for a moment to get a good grip with its longest claw and then bent its head into Rosheen’s hand and picked a grain. It swallowed quickly and took a beady-eyed look around, before dipping its head once again and taking another grain. When it had finished dipping and swallowing, it turned to look Rosheen in the eye, and then flew back up to its perch and sat there watching its companions and occasionally investigating its feathery chest.
    ‘His name is Fudge,’ Rosheen whispered. ‘You can do that next time. You just have to learn to keep still, even when it tickles.’
    Ricky nodded vigorously, his eyes shining. He had never experienced anything like those birds – the soft, sudden whickering of their wings as they took off on short, impetuous, feathery flights and the querying warbling of their voices as they jostled and nudged each other on their perches, all in the warm and muffled air of their low, dry, padded house.
    ‘I have to go now,’ said Rosheen. ‘Homework to finish. Will you just fill up their water dishes, and make sure you bolt the door after you.’
    Ricky started to fill the water dishes from the long-spouted jug. He hardly noticed Rosheen leaving the pigeon shed. Then he stood still for a long time and just watched the birds, listening to their murmelings. He didn’t know how long he stayed there in the warm, pigeony gloom. Presently he heard a sound outside. Perhaps it was Rosheen coming back, to call him in for his tea maybe. He thought he’d been about ten minutes with the birds, but