Fly, Cherokee, Fly

  ‘Taxi…’ Alf mumbled. ‘Tell him to wait.’

  I nodded at Garry. Garry scrambled out the door.

  ‘Please, Mr Duckins, get well,’ I said.

  Alf gripped my arm and sank back on the sofa. ‘Be all right in a minute,’ he nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, biting my lip. ‘I didn’t mean to get you upset or anything.’

  Alf smiled weakly and shook his head. ‘Not your fault. You’re a good lad,’ he said. His gaze rolled freely across the room.

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Notepad,’ he croaked. ‘Probably by the phone.’

  I dashed to the phone, found the pad and hurried back.

  ‘Telephone number,’ Alf instructed.

  ‘Whose?’ I said.

  ‘Yours, you banana.’ His breaths were coming easier now and the gruffness was already back in his voice. I scribbled my number down on the pad.

  ‘No promises,’ said Alf, ‘but I’ll see about your bird. I’ll ring the club secretary. See what might be done.’

  ‘Aw, thanks, Mr Duckins.’ I was almost in tears.

  ‘No promises,’ he said. But I knew he was going to try really hard.

  At that point Garry burst in through the door. ‘I’ve told him to wait,’ he panted loudly. ‘He wants to know if you’re going to die?’

  I slapped a hand across my face.

  Alf stood up gingerly and picked up his bag. ‘No, I’m just going to play bowls,’ he said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘AW, MU-UM! I’M NOT GOING! NO! NO! NO! I’M NOT GOING! I’M NOT! NOT THIS WEEKEND! NO!’

  Mum folded her arms and looked at me sternly. ‘Darryl, I am going to count to ten. By the time I’ve reached eight you are going to have stopped this silly tantrum and you and I are going to have a little chat.’

  ‘I’M NOT GOING!’ I shouted, ‘I DON’T WANT TO CHAT!’

  ‘One…’ Mum started.

  ‘Two!’ said Natalie.

  ‘Natalie, be quiet,’ Mum said brusquely.

  ‘I want to count as well,’ said Natalie.

  ‘I’m not GOING,’ I snapped.

  ‘Three…’ counted Mum.

  ‘I wonder why Darryl doesn’t want to go to Grandma’s?’

  ‘Oh, SHUT UP!’ I shouted.

  ‘Four…’ said Mum.

  Just then Dad walked into the lounge. ‘What on earth’s going on?’ he demanded. ‘I can hear him through the sound of my razor.’

  ‘Darryl has got a little problem,’ said Mum.

  ‘No I haven’t,’ I snapped.

  ‘Watch your tongue,’ Dad warned. ‘What problem?’

  ‘It’s not a problem for ME!’ I hit back.

  Dad pointed a finger. ‘One more line like that, my lad, and you’ll have two problems. One of them with me.’

  I flopped down in a chair and turned my back on them all.

  ‘He’s entered Cherokee into a race,’ Mum said.

  ‘I want to be in a race!’ said Natalie.

  ‘And?’ said Dad.

  Mum tidied some newspapers on the coffee table. ‘The race is this weekend, when we’re supposed to be going to my mother’s.’

  ‘I’m not going,’ I muttered through a tear-stained cushion.

  ‘See?’ said Mum.

  I heard Dad sigh. ‘Don’t you think you should have shared this information with us, Darryl? EXCUSE ME, YOUNG MAN, I’M SPEAKING TO YOU!’

  ‘I didn’t know till yesterday,’ I argued back. ‘Mr Duckins rang up and said if I take Cherokee to his house on Friday he’ll put her in a race on Saturday morning and give me a proper timing clock and show me what I have to do and that if she comes home it’ll only take her two hours and I have to BE HERE TO GET HER IN. I HATE YOU. I DON’T WANT TO GO TO GRANDMA’S. I WANT TO RACE MY RACING PIGEON!’

  Dad sighed again and plonked his hands on his hips.

  ‘Quite the little professional, isn’t he?’ said Mum.

  ‘I want to go to Grandma’s,’ said Natalie.

  ‘We are all going to Grandma’s,’ Dad said firmly.

  ‘NO!’ I cried and beat the cushion.

  ‘You can moan as much as you like,’ Dad said. ‘You do not make arrangements like this without consulting me or your mother first.’

  ‘I hate you,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Too bad,’ said Dad. ‘You’ll just have to ask Garry to see Cherokee home.’

  I sat up smartly, betrayal written all over my face. ‘She’s MY BIRD!’

  Dad looked at me with great disappointment. ‘I thought,’ he said slowly, ‘that Garry was your friend? If you value his friendship you’ll be only too pleased to let him help.’

  ‘He doesn’t know what to do!’ I argued.

  ‘Then teach him,’ Dad snapped. ‘Now no more moaning.’

  ‘Oh, fff!’ I sniffed and hugged the cushion.

  ‘Don’t you dare say a swear word,’ Mum warned darkly.

  ‘I know a swear word,’ Natalie piped up. ‘SAUSAGES!’ she cried. ‘Sausages! Sausages!’

  ‘Shut up,’ I said.

  ‘Sausages,’ she said and stuck out her tongue.

  ‘That’ll do,’ said Mum. She turned to me. ‘How’s Cherokee getting to this race, anyway? How far is she flying?’

  ‘A hundred miles,’ I answered grumpily.

  ‘Where from?’ asked Dad. ‘North or south?’

  ‘Sausages!’ said Natalie.

  ‘Hush,’ said Mum.

  ‘Thirsk,’ I muttered. ‘I think it’s north.’

  ‘Thirsk?’ Mum said. She raised an eyebrow at Dad. Dad thought a moment, stroking his chin. ‘What time on Saturday are the birds released?’

  ‘Dunno,’ I shrugged.

  ‘Find out,’ said Dad, and turned to leave the room. At the door he stopped and spoke over his shoulder. ‘Your gran lives seventeen miles from Thirsk…’

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘Ooh, yes,’ cooed Grandma, not unlike a pigeon, ‘your Grandad Thornton was very fond of birds.’

  ‘The feathered variety, I hope,’ Mum muttered.

  ‘Mu-um,’ I groaned.

  Gran laughed it off. ‘It’s all right,’ she said as the car responded with a throaty vroom and we shot past a truck carrying farm machinery. ‘I was always your grandad’s favourite hen.’

  I smiled and she gave me a misty-eyed look. I could believe my gran would be anybody’s favourite. She was warm and kind – and funny, too. I wondered if she missed my grandad much. I’d never really known my Grandad Thornton. He’d died when I was four years old. It made me feel strangely warm inside to know he had been a pigeon man once. I was keeping up the family tradition and I felt that Gran was proud of me. I was glad she was here to see Cherokee fly. I only wished Grandad could be with us as well.

  ‘Were they just racing pigeons, Mum?’ Dad glanced at Gran in the rear-view mirror. He flicked the indicator switch on the steering column. A bright green arrow ticked and flashed. The car veered smoothly up a slip road to the left. A sign saying ‘Thirsk’ and another with a racehorse painted on it whizzed by. My heart began to pulse with anticipation. The racetrack at Thirsk was where Cherokee and the other birds would be released.

  ‘Mostly,’ Gran answered. ‘It’s so long ago, now. He kept racers – and fancy birds as well, if I remember. Tumblers, I think. Hmm, tumblers.’

  ‘What’s a tumbler?’ asked Mum, just pipping me to it.

  ‘I’ve got a tumbler!’ Natalie interjected, slapping her picture book down on her knees. ‘It’s got an elephant and a monkey and a giraffe on, Grandma.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Gran said. ‘I shall have to have some jungle juice out of that.’

  ‘All right,’ Natalie chirped and went back to her reading.

  ‘Thank you,’ Mum muttered. ‘Normal service will now be resumed.’

  Gran chuckled softly. ‘A tumbler is a bird that does somersaults in the air.’

  ‘Somersaults?’ I said.

  ‘So
mersaults?’ Mum repeated. ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘For show,’ Dad reasoned. ‘I’ve seen them on the telly. Has Mr Duckins got any show birds, Darryl?’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ I muttered, staring through the window at the rolling fields. In the distance I could see a number of people cantering horses. Any minute now we were going to be there.

  ‘Is Mr Duckins the chap who’s helping you out?’

  I turned to Gran and nodded. ‘He’s going to see if I can join his club. I had to take Cherokee to him on Friday night so she could be registered and brought up here on a pigeon transporter. He’s let me borrow a special timing clock, Gran.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Gran. ‘I remember those. Strange contraptions. They look a bit like podgy barometers. You have a little thimble that you put inside, don’t you? But…shouldn’t you be at the other end for that part, Darryl?’

  I gave her a sort of cheesy grin. In two hours’ time Garry would be at ‘the other end’, ready and waiting in our garden at home, watching the skies for Cherokee’s arrival. I only hoped he’d do everything right. On Friday night when we’d taken Cherokee to St Wilfred’s Road, Mr Duckins had had to explain to him twice what needed doing with the timing clock:

  ‘When she comes in, get hold of her – sharpish. She’ll have a special rubber ring on this foot here.’ He pointed to her unringed leg. ‘All you have to do is pull it off gently – gently, mind – and pop it into this.’ He held up a little thimble-like container. ‘The details of the race are stamped on that ring, so don’t go playing conkers with it or dropping it down the nearest drain. When the ring’s in the thimble, put the thimble in the clock.’ He pointed to a slot in the large, round clock. ‘The clock’ll record your finishing time.’

  ‘What then?’ asked Garry.

  ‘That’s it, you’re done. Bring the clock to me and I’ll take it to the stewards.’

  ‘When do we get the money?’ said Garry, looking sheepishly at me as soon as he’d said it.

  Alf gave him a tortuous look. ‘I’ll let you know if you win…’ he growled.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Dad. My mind snapped instantly back to the present. The car had just turned off the main road and was travelling along a winding approach to the racecourse buildings. In the distance, the grandstand stood out against the sky, a bit like one quarter of an unfinished football ground. Beyond it I could pick out the actual rails of the course itself. Then suddenly, to my right, I saw something else.

  ‘There it is!’ I shouted, straining at my seat-belt. ‘Over there, Dad! Drive over there!’

  ‘Calm down,’ Mum tutted.

  ‘I see it,’ said Gran.

  ‘I want to see it!’ Natalie cried, not even knowing what ‘it’ was.

  We could all see it now – a huge transporter, parked on an area of open land about five hundred metres from the racecourse stables. It was stacked with rows of wicker baskets. Panniers, Mr Duckins called them. Inside one of those panniers was Cherokee Wonder.

  ‘Hold tight,’ said Dad as we turned off the road and bumped along the uneven, dew-laden grass.

  ‘What time is it?’ I barked.

  ‘Ten to eight,’ Dad answered.

  I bit my lip. Ten minutes. In ten minutes’ time, Cherokee Wonder would be in the air, racing. I dipped into my jacket for the scrap of paper with her ring number on it. I wanted to see her before they set her free. To show her I was there, supporting her. I wanted to wave bye-bye as well – just in case… ‘No,’ I said breathily, fogging up the window. ‘You will come back. I know you will.’

  The car wheeled round and stopped nose to nose with the giant transporter. ‘Right…’ Mum started in her ‘giving orders’ voice. But I was already out and running to the panniers. There was no time for lectures or ‘Here’s what we’re going to do’s. Mr Duckins had said the birds would be ‘up’ at eight o’clock sharp. If I wanted to see Cherokee, I didn’t have much time.

  I ran alongside the wall of baskets, looking frantically for a small pied hen with a slightly bumpy wing. The air rumbled with the sound of impatient pigeons. They wooed and cooed and shed feathers through the wicker. They strutted and turned and strutted again, beaks knocking at the catches that would soon set them free, eyes tilting at the pale blue sky.

  ‘Hello, what have we here?’ said a voice.

  An untidy-looking man with his shirt only half-tucked into his trousers limped up beside me. He was smoking a cigarette that drooped off his lip like a wet blade of grass. A badge saying ‘North of England Homing Union – Steward’ was pinned to his shirt.

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Dad, before I could answer. He came strolling up, having a look at the baskets. ‘What a commotion. Is it always like this?’

  ‘You a flying man?’ the steward asked Dad.

  ‘Uh-uh,’ Dad went. The steward’s gaze fell on me. My face turned redder than tomato sauce.

  ‘First time?’ coughed the steward.

  I nodded fiercely. ‘Do you know where –’ I read out Cherokee’s ring number ‘– is?’

  The steward took the piece of paper. ‘Which club?’ he asked.

  ‘Barrowmoor.’

  He nodded and beckoned me towards the baskets. By now, a second steward had appeared. A roly-poly sort of man with a tuft of hair above each of his ears that flapped like two grey wings in the breeze.

  ‘Barrowmoor, Bert?’ the first steward shouted.

  Bert, the roly-poly man, climbed the transporter. ‘This lot,’ he shouted, indicating a line of baskets about four rows up. ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘A pied hen!’ I shouted.

  The roly-poly man inspected the baskets. ‘This one,’ he said – and suddenly I saw her. She came to the front and looked down at me with her brilliant copper eye. In that moment everything we’d done together flooded through my mind: the park; Alf washing her; her flight in the shed; me taking her to school and now…now this. My eyes welled with tears.

  ‘Fly,’ I whispered. ‘Fly, Cherokee. Fly.’ I bent my fingers in a single wave then let them roll into a tightly clenched fist.

  ‘Time to free them, lad,’ the steward said.

  Dad came up and put an arm around my shoulder. ‘Come on,’ he said, in a comforting voice, ‘let’s watch from over here.’

  He hugged me all the way back to the car where Mum and Gran and Natalie were waiting. Everyone seemed to be beating their arms or stamping their feet. Natalie had a bonnet and ear muffs on. I hadn’t noticed till then how cold it was.

  ‘I wish they’d get on with the race,’ Mum chattered, her words hidden behind clouds of breath.

  ‘Thirty seconds to lift off,’ said Dad, rubbing his hands as he checked his watch.

  ‘I bet that chap must be feeling it,’ said Gran. ‘Imagine painting pictures on a morning like this.’

  We all looked across the open field. Some way to the side of the pigeon transporter sat a thin-faced man behind a large white easel. He was wearing an anorak and wellington boots. The anorak had plenty of paint splashes on it. He was dabbing at the canvas with confident strokes, constantly angling his head to one side to look at the subject then again at his picture. I wondered if he was the same man who did the paintings in Spines. He was an awful long way from home if he was.

  ‘Ready?’ a loud voice shouted to us.

  Dad stuck up a thumb. We all shuffled round to get a slightly better look, just as the roly-poly steward pulled a cord and the whole bottom row of baskets opened.

  ‘Help!’ Mum screamed laying her hands across her ears. The clatter of wings was like a cannon going off. I jumped so much I almost fell over backwards. Birds exploded into the sky: grey, white, blue, brown, shading the sun in a weaving cloud of interlocking wingbeats. Dust and grass bits whirled off the ground, sucked up like a sandstorm into our faces. The air was ripped apart with noise. First the deafening crash of release, then a slow, whirring, helicopter hum as the birds gained pace and climbed into the sky.

  ‘Wow!’ Dad cried. ??
?That’s FANTASTIC!’ Natalie yelped and danced with delight. Even Mum managed to smile through the shock and the turbulence. But it was Gran who described it best of all:

  ‘Better than Bonfire Night!’ she shouted. ‘Wheee!’ She waved her gloves in the air.

  Bang! The second row of panniers opened. This time I didn’t jump so much and watched which way the birds were going. They staggered upwards like a swarm of bees, gradually thinning out into a narrow spiral as they joined the first wave circling in the sky.

  ‘Isn’t this cheating?’ Mum shouted out, still with her hands laid flat to her ears. ‘Those birds have got a head start on ours!’

  The thin steward heard her and walked across. ‘If you let them all go at once,’ he said, ‘there’d be accidents in the lower tiers – birds hitting the ground, wings bashing together—’ Bang! The third tier of birds went up, layer upon layer, stirring up the clouds. The steward waited for the noise to subside. ‘—They’ll circle up there for several minutes, get their bearings, then all go off together. That’s when the race starts proper.’

  ‘Get ready!’ Dad shouted. ‘She’s towards the far end!’ He gripped my shoulder and pointed at the baskets. It was time for Cherokee’s row to be released.

  ‘Fly!’ I screamed as the clatter came again and they all swept out. ‘Fly, Cherokee! Cherokee, fly!’

  ‘Come on–nn!’ Mum whooped, flailing her arms.

  ‘Come back safely!’ I heard Dad yell through the cup of his hands.

  ‘Can you see her?’ Gran asked. ‘Can anybody see her?’ I shook my head. I’d tried to focus on her basket alone but she was lost as soon as the wave broke out. But I was sure she was up there racing for her life, winging her way back home to Garry – and who knows, winning us a prize as well.

  But I was wrong.

  As the fifth and final row went up, one bird fluttered back to earth. There was silence as everybody followed its descent. It landed with a slightly ungracious bounce, stood for a moment, then started to potter around the field.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Dad, ‘you don’t think…?’