I could tell by her eyes that she was simply not well. She was tall and very thin. Her cheekbones were pronounced, her deep set eyes peered down her pointy nose with a strange mix of concern and intensity only seen in the eyes of someone who is quite simply insane.
There was no sign in her mannerism that she was aware of any of the 8 or so other passengers waiting with her on the platform. At her feet, 30cm away, was the pigeon. Her head tilted inquisitively to the side, as the bird pecked at some invisible crumb. She began to crouch ever so slightly, eyes still softly transfixed, mad.
Then suddenly, she crouched fully with an outstretched arm which descended with expert accuracy directly onto the unsuspecting bird. Its wings splayed and then it froze with fear as she manoeuvred around her firmly planted arm to gather it up with two hands…. and put it in her bag.
More than two of us waiting passengers stopped and stared with in absolute incredulity and disbelief. She calmly sat sideways on the bench doing something to the bird in her bag. Still with no sign of awareness of any body else, and with an air of complete normality, she got up. With even, calculated moves and with head held high she entered the waiting train carriage, holding in front of her a crumpled brown paper sandwich bag.
Had she wrung its neck? Was she going to take it home and eat it? Was the crumpled paper bag brought specifically for this purpose? Her technique for capturing the bird was coldly, expertly calculated. She had clearly done this before.
A shifty looking lad in a red shirt stamped out his cigarette as we exchanged glances of disbelief. A few moments later, as I stood in the doorway to get fresh air, he came level with me.
“Is that mad woman on the train with that bird?”
I hushed him with my lowered voice.
“Yes. She’s just there, a few seats up”
“She’s mad she is. Who goes around picking up filthy pigeons.”
“Perhaps she’s hungry” I said, as if that would explain everything.
He shuddered theatrically but with contemptuous disgust and jumped on the next carriage as the guard signalled it was time to depart.
As we moved off she paid no further attention to her captive. She slid down in her seat slightly, rested her head back and closed her eyes. I thought I saw the mildly arrogant triumph of a serial killer akin to the portrayal of Hannibal Lecter’s grotesque peacefulness after some horrific gruesome crime.
I wanted to speak to her, to tentatively say hello and enquire about the bird. Her countenance forbade it. How can you ask “Are you going to make pigeon pie?” without sounding at least a little judgemental? I might as well say “Are you going to put that in your cauldron?” and go straight for the jugular except I was afraid she might go for mine with some fearsomely cold and calculated technique like she used on the bird.
If I was watching a movie, I would have been marvelling at the formidable acting performance. Sadly, this woman was just going about her daily business in a world where pigeon collecting is normal.
Two stops into the journey, the ticket collector approached her.
“Excuse me madam, do you have pigeon in your bag?”
The shifty lad had obviously grassed her up.
She matter-of-factly stated that she had. “Is there a problem?”
The conductor explained that there was.
She very calmly opened the bag and offered him a view, explaining that she had seen it on the ground and, look, there is something tied round both its feet, and she had nail scissors, and was going to cut it free, was going to take it to the vet.
Her response had the tone and detail of a well rehearsed delusion, an elaborate obfuscation of some darker motive. He had no choice but to relent, not because she had tugged on his heart strings with the story, but that her eyes told him she would tug on his heart strings if he didn’t leave her alone.
Okay, so I may be reading too much in. But how many people do you know who would expertly catch a street pigeon in broad daylight, in full view of the public and the float eerily onto public transport carrying said bird in a paper bag brought specifically for the purpose, and act as if absolutely nothing is out of the ordinary, and manage to give off vibes which say ‘Don’t talk to me or I will eat your liver with a nice chianti.’
This was at 11.35am on a Thursday morning. Makes me think platform 3 of Wellington station would turn into a scene from Michael Jackson’s thriller if it was 11.35pm on a Saturday night.
Anyway, enough from me. I am off to pick up a couple of seagulls...
Quad bike trip. Ninety-mile Beach, Northland.
A quad bike trip round the headland below Ninety Mile Beach.
