Sinnie and Callum and Doves

(Here's another PB piece, and I am fond of Sinnie as I am of Corinne, and Callum, too, even though some may have thought his looking through windows was a bit sinister at first... turns out he is as 'nice as ninepence'.)

DOVES ARE SO MUCH MORE RESPECTABLE THAN OWLS

‘I never know,’ said Sinnie, ‘about Sunday. I never can tell if it’s the start of the week or the end. On the seventh day He rested, it says, and so I think it should be the end. But from here we look forward so it feels like the start, too. Isn’t it so that the Jews treat Saturday as the day of rest? They call it the Sabbath and they do not do business on that day. And that being the case would make Sunday the first day of the new week. So you see how confusing it is?’

Callum wasn’t sure how they had got onto this subject. He’d dropped in with a granary loaf and had accepted Sinnie’s offer of a cup of tea. ‘The days fold into each other,’ he said. ‘My days do. That’s what I find. Especially at this time of the year, for I am up every morning the same in the summer, and the shop is open Sunday mornings just exactly as every other day. No rest for me. So the days, my days, fold one into another, like dough when it is kneaded, folded into itself.’

‘Precisely. And so it is that Sunday doesn’t feel like the end,’ said Sinnie. ‘Not to me and not to you. For me, today, it feels like a new start. Yes, that’s how it feels to me. And maybe that is all the explanation that is needed.’

It wasn’t quite what Callum had meant, but he said that he was glad that she felt that way and that he’d been worried, not seeing her in the shop.

Sinnie leaned forward in her chair, and she touched Callum’s arm. ‘You do a good job watching over us all, Callum. Yes, you do. None of us getting any younger and there’s the comfort of you watching over all of us in the street. That’s being a good neighbour.’

Callum drained his cup and set it back in its saucer on the table. Sinnie fetched her purse and offered to pay for the bread that he’d brought. He waved away the offer and said she could maybe treat herself to extra scones next time she was in the shop and that would be money in his till.

‘That’s funny,’ Sinnie said. ‘You saying that. For there has been an end to the dreams of owls and a new dream this morning. It is something of a relief, I can tell you. Do you see what I mean? How it feels like the start and not the end. And today I dreamed of doves, not flying like the owls, but strutting like old men in frock coats, only their coats were white, and they wore shoes with spats, and they were dipping their heads, like bowing, and pecking at breadcrumbs on the ground. And there was one flew to my gloved hand and I broke a scone into pieces for it to feed on. Do you see? So maybe I will treat myself, and the birds in my garden, too, and some extra scones added to my order, if you please. Callum, I can tell you this in confidence, but I am a lot happier with this new dream. Doves are so much more respectable than owls, don’t you think?’

Callum had not ever considered the ranking of birds according to respectability. But it was easier to agree, and so he nodded and said, 'Exactly so.' Then he got up to go. He thanked Sinnie for the tea and moved towards the door. He stopped, as if he was considering something. He wanted to say how he missed old Tom and how the old man's passing was like an end of sorts, and that being the case meant today felt like the start of something different. But in the end he said nothing, not wanting to dampen Sinnie's mood, said nothing except that he wished Sinnie a good afternoon, and left.