13 hours ago
2
The plane pushed through wall after wall of sleet on its descent into Manchester. I’d had a sinking feeling during the flight that only deepened as I shuffled through the terminal. I resented having to be back in the city where I had grown up, after living on the other side of the world for what had felt like a lifetime.
After a few days, I headed out to get a haircut. My mind was miles away, back across an ocean, when I heard something hit the pavement. I looked down to see a pigeon on its back, spatchcocked, and twitching.
The crash happened just as kids were filing out of the local primary school and so within minutes a small chorus of little ones had formed, flanked by their mums and dads. This circle of bemused faces stared down at the bird, unsure what to say or do. The kids were more definitive: “Daddy, she needs hospital, can we call an ambulance?” I took off my anorak, bent down and scooped the pigeon up into it. “Don’t worry, sweet, the nice man will look after her!” said one mum with a sigh of relief. I had become the ambulance for this pigeon that had just landed abruptly, against its will, as I had a few days before.
I trudged home, arms ramrod straight, with the bird nestled inside the coat. Little did I know that my impromptu decision to medivac Belinda (the name I gave my patient) would lead me to a network of Mancunians sacrificing significant amounts of time to provide not only ambulances for feral pigeons but X-rays, respite care, and even “pigeon physio”.
I found a shoebox for Belinda, lined it with an old T-shirt, and put her inside with an old T-shirt lining the bottom. Every 20 minutes or so, I’d lift the lid just long enough for us to awkwardly lock eyes.
Those moments of mutual bewilderment punctuated my frantic search for what to do next. I called friends for advice and one suggested trying Facebook, where, to my surprise, I discovered the Manchester Pigeon Rehab group, and submitted a request to join.
Over 3,000-strong, the group has an anarchic model: someone in Manchester stumbles across an injured pigeon, a pleading post is made, then a comment section “triage” ensues. If the bird is deemed in need of an X-ray, someone with a vet link can get it one; if it needs physio, a “rehabber” will volunteer to foster the bird. Rehabbers each have their own finely honed specialities, whether it’s setting broken wings or dressing wounds. Their momentous, collective effort for the pigeons of the city runs entirely on goodwill.
Belinda was quickly diagnosed with neurological problems, likely a head injury, and assigned to a rehabber who would administer pain relief and a course of gentle physio. We never found out exactly what caused her to fall from the sky. I took up the role of pigeon ambulance once more, taking the tram across the city with Belinda in a shoebox on my lap so she could get the care she needed.
After stumbling across this underground pigeon “NHS”, I began to feel much better about being back in my home town. I doubt any of the places I had lived in while away could boast anything remotely similar. It also dawned on me that this was not the first time I’d been involved in a pigeon rescue: almost 20 years earlier I’d seen one fall from the sky into the playground of my high school. Again, children circled the bird, but only one – my best friend at the time – had the gall to scoop it up and take it to safety.
The friend in question has since died – one of four friends to lose their lives in the years before my departure from Manchester. I realised that this had been a big part of what had made returning home so hard.
Pigeons have a history as “emotional support” animals, especially in the north of England. Miners started to keep the birds because they gave them comfort and an excuse to gaze up at the heavens between long shifts of subterranean gloom. During the Depression, workers on the dole also found comfort in pigeons, but keeping them was considered a sign of “social malaise”.
Nowadays, pigeons are often written off as stupid, diseased or a general nuisance. Before finding the rehab group, I had called a vet, who told me: “if you bring it here, leave it in the car park and we’ll euthanise it.”
It? Not our Belinda. Although unlikely to ever fly again, she has taken to her newly grounded life with aplomb in a volunteer’s spare bedroom. Each contented coo, often elicited by her favourite treat, frozen peas, feels like a lesson in adaptability and resilience – and I am forever grateful to her for showing me another side to the city I thought I knew.
Caliban Shrieks by Jack Hilton, with an introduction by Jack Chadwick, is available now (Vintage Publishing, £16.99). To support the Guardian, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
