A Kestrel for a Knave

  ‘Here Casper, get them on!’

  He wanged them across the room, and Billy caught them flying over his head, then held them up for inspection as though he was contemplating buying. The class roared. They would have made Billy two suits and an overcoat.

  ‘They’ll not fit me, Sir.’

  The class roared again and even Billy had to smile. There was only Mr Sugden not amused.

  ‘What are you talking about, lad? You can get them on, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Well they fit you then! Now get changed, QUICK.’

  Billy found an empty peg and hung his jacket on it. He was immediately enclosed in a tight square as two lines of boys formed up, one on each side of him between the parallel curtains of clothing. He sat down on the long bench covering the shoe racks, and worked his jeans over his pumps. Mr Sugden broke one side of the square and stood over him.

  ‘And you want your underpants and vest off.’

  ‘I don’t wear ’em, Sir.’

  As he reached up to hang his trousers on the peg, his shirt lap lifted, revealing his bare cheeks, which looked as smooth and boney as two white billiard balls. He stepped into the shorts and pulled them up to his waist. The legs reached halfway down his shins. He pulled the waist up to his neck and his knees just slid into view. Boys pointed at them, shouting and laughing into each other’s faces, and other boys who were still changing rushed to the scene, jumping up on the benches or parting the curtains to see through. And at the centre of it all, Billy, like a brave little clown, was busy trying to make them fit, and Sugden was looking at him as though it was his fault for being too small for them.

  ‘Roll them down and don’t be so foolish. You’re too daft to laugh at, Casper.’

  No one else thought so. Billy started to roll them down from his chest, each tuck shortening the legs and gathering the material round his waist in a floppy blue tyre.

  ‘That’ll do. Let’s have you all out now.’

  He opened the door and led them down the corridor and out into the yard. Some boys waited until he had gone, then they took a run and had a good slide up to the door, rotating slowly as they slid, and finishing up facing the way they had come. Those with rubber studs left long black streaks on the tiles. The plastic and nailed leather studs cut through the veneer and scored deep scratches in the vinyl. When they reached the yard, the pad of the rubber studs on the concrete hardly differed from that in the changing room or the corridor, but the clatter produced by the nailed and plastic studs had a hollow, more metallic ring.

  The cold caught Billy’s breath as he stepped outside. He stopped dead, glanced round as though looking to escape, then set off full belt, shouting, across the concrete on to the field. Mr Sugden set off after him.

  ‘Casper! Shut up, lad! What are you trying to do, disrupt the whole school?’

  He gained on Billy, and as he drew near swiped at him with his flat hand. Billy, watching the blows, zig-zagged out of reach, just ahead of them.

  ‘I’m frozen, Sir! I’m shoutin’ to keep warm!’

  ‘Well don’t shout at me then! I’m not a mile away!’

  They were shouting at each other as though they were aboard ship in a gale. Mr Sugden tried to swat him again. Billy sidestepped, and threw him off balance. So he slowed to a walk and turned round, blowing his whistle and beckoning the others to hurry up.

  ‘Come on, you lot! Hurry up!’

  They started to run at speeds ranging from jogging to sprinting, and arrived within a few seconds of each other on the Senior football pitch.

  ‘Line up on the halfway line and let’s get two sides picked!’

  They lined up, jumping and running on the spot, those with long sleeves clutching the cuffs in their hands, those without massaging their goosey arms.

  ‘Tibbut, come out here and be the other captain.’

  Tibbut walked out and stood facing the line, away from Mr Sugden.

  ‘I’ll have first pick, Tibbut.’

  ‘That’s not right, Sir.’

  ‘Why isn’t it?’

  ‘’Cos you’ll get all the best players.’

  ‘Rubbish, lad.’

  ‘Course you will, Sir. It’s not fair.’

  ‘Tibbut. Do you want to play football? Or do you want to get dressed and go and do some maths?’

  ‘Play football, Sir.’

  ‘Right then, stop moaning and start picking. I’ll have Anderson.’

  He turned away from Tibbut and pointed to a boy who was standing on one of the intersections of the centre circle and the halfway line. Anderson walked off this cross and stood behind him. Tibbut scanned the line, considering his choice.

  ‘I’ll have Purdey.’

  ‘Come on then, Ellis.’

  Each selection altered the structure of the line. When Tibbut had been removed from the centre, all the boys sidestepped to fill the gap. The same happened when Anderson went from near one end. But when Purdey and Ellis, who had been standing side by side, were removed, the boys at their shoulders stood still, therefore dividing the original line into two. These new lines were swiftly segmented as more boys were chosen, leaving no trace of the first major division, just half a dozen boys looking across spaces at each other; reading from left to right: a fat boy; an arm’s length away, two friends, one tall with glasses, the other short with a hare-lip; then a space of two yards and Billy; a boy space away from him, a thin boy with a crew cut and a spotty face; and right away from these, at the far end of the line, another fat boy. Spotty crew cut was halfway between the two fat boys, therefore half of the length of the line was occupied by five of the boys. The far fat boy was the next to go, which halved the length of the line and left spotty crew cut as one of the end markers.

  Tibbut then selected the tall friend with glasses. Mr Sugden immediately selected his partner. They separated gradually as they walked away from the line, parting finally to enter their respective teams. And then there were three: Fatty, Billy, and spotty crew cut, blushing across at each other while the captains considered. Tibbut picked crew cut. He dashed forward into the anonymity of his team. Fatty stood grinning. Billy stared down at the earth. After long deliberation Mr Sugden chose Billy, leaving Tibbut with Hobson’s choice; but before either Billy or Fatty could move towards their teams, Mr Sugden was already turning away and shouting instructions.

  ‘Right! We’ll play down hill!’

  The team broke for their appropriate halves, and while they were arguing their claims for positions, Mr Sugden jogged to the sideline, dropped the ball, and took off his tracksuit. Underneath he was wearing a crisp red football shirt with white cuffs and a white band round the neck. A big white 9 filled most of the back, whiter than his white nylon shorts, which showed a slight fleshy tint through the material. He pulled his socks up, straightened the ribs, then took a fresh roll of half inch bandage from his tracksuit and ripped off two lengths. The torn bandage packet, the cup of its structure still intact, blew away over the turf like the damaged shell of a dark blue egg. Mr Sugden used the lengths of bandage to secure his stockings just below the knees, then he folded his tracksuit neatly on the ground, looked down at himself, and walked on to the pitch carrying the ball like a plum pudding on the tray of his hand. Tibbut, standing on the centre circle, with his hands down his shorts, winked at his Left Winger and waited for Mr Sugden to approach.

  ‘Who are you today, Sir, Liverpool?’

  ‘Rubbish, lad! Don’t you know your club colours yet?’

  ‘Liverpool are red, aren’t they, Sir?’

  ‘Yes, but they’re all red, shirts, shorts and stockings. These are Manchester United’s colours.’

  ‘Course they are, Sir, I forgot. What position are you playing?’

  Mr Sugden turned his back on him to show him the number 9.

  ‘Bobby Charlton. I thought you were usually Denis Law when you were Manchester United.’

  ‘It’s too cold to play as a striker today. I’m scheming this m
orning, all over the field like Charlton.’

  ‘Law plays all over, Sir. He’s not only a striker.’

  ‘He doesn’t link like Charlton.’

  ‘Better player though, Sir.’

  Sugden shook his head. ‘No, he’s been badly off form recently.’

  ‘Makes no odds, he’s still a better player. He can settle a game in two minutes.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me about football, Tibbut?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Well shut up then. Anyway Law’s in the wash this week.’

  He placed the ball on the centre spot and looked round at his team. There was only Billy out of position. He was standing between the full backs, the three of them forming a domino : : : pattern with the half backs. The goal was empty. Mr Sugden pointed at it.

  ‘There’s no one in goal!’

  His team looked round to confirm this observation, but Tibbut’s team had beaten them to it by just looking straight ahead.

  ‘Casper! What position are you supposed to be playing?’

  Billy looked to the Right Back, the Left Back, the Right Back again. Neither of them supplied the answer, so he answered the question himself.

  ‘I don’t know, Sir. Inside Right?’

  This answer made 1: Mr Sugden angry. 2: the boys laugh.

  ‘Don’t talk ridiculous, lad! How can you be playing Inside Right back there?’

  He looked up at the sky.

  ‘God help us; fifteen years old and still doesn’t know the positions of a football team!’

  He levelled one arm at Billy.

  ‘Get in goal lad!’

  ‘O, Sir! I can’t goal. I’m no good.’

  ‘Now’s your chance to learn then, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m fed up o’ goin’ in goal. I go in every week.’

  Billy turned round and looked at the goal as though it was the portal leading into the gladiatorial arena.

  ‘Don’t stand looking lad. Get in there!’

  ‘Well don’t blame me then, when I let ’em all through.’

  ‘Of course I’ll blame you, lad! Who do you expect me to blame?’

  Billy cursed him quietly all the way back to the nets.

  Sugden (commentator): ‘And both teams are lined up for the kick off in this vital fifth round cup tie, Manchester United versus…?’ Sugden (teacher): ‘Who are we playing, Tibbut?’

  ‘Er… we’ll be Liverpool, Sir.’

  ‘You can’t be Liverpool.’

  ‘Why not, Sir?’

  ‘I’ve told you once, they’re too close to Manchester United’s colours aren’t they?’

  Tibbut massaged his brow with his fingertips, and under this guise of thinking, glanced round at his team: Goalkeeper, green polo. Right Back, blue and white stripes. Left Back, green and white quarters. Right Half, white cricket. Centre Half, all blue. Left Half, all yellow. Right Wing, orange and green rugby. Inside Right, black T. Centre Forward, blue denim tab collar. Tibbut, red body white sleeves. Left Wing, all blue.

  ‘We’ll be Spurs then, Sir. They’ll be no clash of colours then.’

  ‘… And it’s Manchester United υ. Spurs in this vital fifth round cuptie.’

  Mr Sugden (referee) sucked his whistle and stared at his watch, waiting for the second finger to twitch back up to twelve. 5 4 3 2. He dropped his wrist and blew. Anderson received the ball from him, sidestepped a tackle from Tibbut then cut it diagonally between two opponents into a space to his left. Sugden (player) running into this space, raised his left foot to trap it, but the ball rolled under his studs. He veered left, caught it, and started to cudgel it upfield in a travesty of a dribble, sending it too far ahead each time he touched it, so that by the time he had progressed twenty yards, he had crash-tackled it back from three Spurs defenders. His left winger, unmarked and lonely out on the touchline, called for the ball, Sugden heard him, looked at him, then kicked the ball hard along the ground towards him. But even though the wingman started to sprint as soon as he read its line, it still shot out of play a good ten yards in front of him. He slithered to a stop and whipped round.

  ‘Hey up, Sir! What do you think I am?’

  ‘You should have been moving, lad. You’d have caught it then.’

  ‘What do you think I wa’ doin’, standing still?’

  ‘It was a perfectly good ball!’

  ‘Ar, for a whippet perhaps!’

  ‘Don’t argue with me, lad! And get that ball fetched!’

  The ball had rolled and stopped on the roped-off cricket square. The left winger left the pitch and walked towards it. He scissor-jumped the rope, picked the ball up off the lush lawn, then volleyed it straight back on to the pitch without bouncing it once on the intervening stretch of field.

  Back in the goal, Billy was giant-striding along the goal line, counting the number of strides from post to post: five and a bit. He turned, propelled himself off the post and jump-strode across to the other side: five. After three more attempts he reduced this record to four and a half, then he returned along the line, heel-toe, heel-toeing it: thirty pump lengths.

  After fourteen minutes’ play he touched the ball for the first time. Tibbut, dribbling in fast, pushed the ball between Mr Sugden’s legs, ran round him and delivered the ball out to his right winger, who took it in his stride, beat his Full Back and centred for Tibbut, who had continued his run, to outjump Mr Sugden and head the ball firmly into the top right-hand corner of the goal. Billy watched it fly in, way up on his left, then he turned round and picked it up from under the netting.

  ‘Come on Casper! Make an effort, lad!’

  ‘I couldn’t save that, Sir.’

  ‘You could have tried.’

  ‘What for, Sir, when I knew I couldn’t save it?’

  ‘We’re playing this game to win you know, lad.’

  ‘I know, Sir.’

  ‘Well, try then!’

  He held his hands out to receive the ball. Billy obliged, but as it left his hand the wet leather skidded off his skin and it dropped short in the mud, between them. He ran out to retrieve it, but Sugden had already started towards it, and when Billy saw the stare of his eyes and the set of his jaw as he ran at the ball, he stopped and dropped down, and the ball missed him and went over him, back into the net. He knelt up, his left arm, left side and left leg striped with mud.

  ‘What wa’ that for, Sir?’

  ‘Slack work, lad. Slack work.’

  He retrieved the ball himself, and carried it quickly back to the centre for the restart. Billy stood up, a mud pack stuck to each knee. He pulled his shirt sleeve round and started to furrow the mud with his finger nails.

  ‘Look at this lot. I’ve to keep this shirt on an’ all after.’

  The Right Back was drawn by this lament, but was immediately distracted by a chorus of warning shouts, and when he turned round he saw the ball running loose in his direction. He ran at it head down, and toed it far up field, showing no interest in its flight or destination, but turning to commiserate with Billy almost as soon as it had left his boot. It soared over the halfway line, and Sugden started to chase. It bounced, once, twice, then rolled out towards the touchline. He must catch it, and the rest of his forward line moved up in anticipation of the centre. But the ball, decelerating rapidly as though it wanted to be caught, still crossed the line before he could reach it. His disappointed Forwards muttered amongst themselves as they trooped back out of the penalty area.

  ‘He should have caught that, easy.’

  ‘He’s like a chuffing carthorse.’

  ‘Look at him, he’s knackered.’

  ‘Hopeless tha means.’

  Tibbut picked the ball up for the throw in.

  ‘Hard luck, Sir.’

  Sugden, hands on hips, chest heaving, had his Right Back in focus a good thirty seconds before he had sufficient control over his respiration to remonstrate with him.

  ‘Come on, lad! Find a man with this ball! Don’t just kick it anywhere!’

&
nbsp; The Right Back, his back turned, continued his conversation with Billy.

  ‘SPARROW!’

  ‘What, Sir?’

  ‘I’m talking to you, lad!’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Well pay attention then and get a grip of your game. We’re losing, lad.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Manchester United equalised soon after when the referee awarded them a penalty. Sugden scored.

  At the other end of the pitch, Billy was busy with the netting. He was standing with his back to the play, clawing the fibres and growling like a little lion. He stuck a paw through a square and pawed at a visitor, withdrew it and stalked across his cage. The only other exhibit was the herd of multi-coloured cross-breeds gambolling around the ball behind him. The rest of the grounds were deserted. The main body of the collection was housed in the buildings across the fields, and all round the fields a high wire fence had been constructed. Round the top of the fence strands of barbed wire were affixed to inward-leaning angle-irons. Round the bottom, a ridge of shaggy grass grew where the mower had missed, and underneath the wire the grass had been cut in a severe fringe by the concrete flags of the pavement. The road curved round the field in a crescent, and across the road the row of council houses mirrored this exact curve. Field Crescent.

  Billy gripped a post between both hands, inserted one raised foot into a square in the side netting, then, using this as a stirrup, heaved himself up and grabbed hold of the cross-bar. He hand-over-handed it to the middle and rested, swinging loosely backwards and forwards with his legs together. Then he let go with one hand and started to scratch his arm pits, kicking his legs and imitating chimp sounds. The bar shook, and the rattling of the bolts turned several heads, and soon all the boys were watching him, the game forgotten.

  ‘Casper! Casper, get down lad! What do you think you are, an ape?’

  ‘No, Sir, I’m just keeping warm.’

  ‘Well get down then, before I come and make you red hot!’

  Billy grasped the bar again with both hands, adjusted his grip, and began to swing: forward and back, forward and back, increasing momentum with thrusts of his legs. Forward and back, upwards and back, legs horizontal as he swung upwards and back. Horizontal and back, horizontal both ways, hands leaving bar at the top of each swing. Forward and back, just one more time; then a rainbow flight down, and a landing knees bent.