A Kestrel for a Knave

‘You keep it nice and clean in here.’

  ‘You have to. There’s less chance of her gettin’ sick then.’

  ‘You think a lot about that bird, don’t you?’

  Billy looked up at him, all the way up to his eyes.

  ‘Course I do. Wouldn’t you if it wa’ yours?’

  Mr Farthing laughed quietly, once.

  ‘Yes I suppose I would. You like wild life, don’t you, Billy?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Have you ever kept any more birds before this one?’

  ‘Stacks. Animals an’ all. I had a young fox cub once, reared it an’ let it go. It wa’ a little blinder.’

  ‘What birds have you kept?’

  ‘All sorts, maggies, jackdaws; I had a young jay once; that wa’ murder though, they’re right hard to feed, an’ it nearly died. I wouldn’t have one again, they’re best left to their mothers.’

  ‘And which has been your favourite?’

  Billy looked at Mr Farthing as though his mentality had suddenly deteriorated to that of an idiot.

  ‘You what, Sir?’

  ‘You mean the hawk?’

  ‘T’others weren’t in t’same street.’

  ‘Why not? What’s so special about this one?’

  Billy bent down and scooped up a fistful of sand.

  ‘I don’t know right. It just is that’s all.’

  ‘What about magpies? They’re handsome birds. And jays, they’ve got beautiful colours.’

  ‘It’s not only t’colours though, that’s nowt.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  Billy allowed a trickle of sand out of his fist on to his left pump. The grains bounced off the rubber toe cap like a column of tap water exploding in the sink. He shook his head and shrugged his shoulder. Mr Farthing stepped forward and raised one hand.

  ‘What I like about it is its shape; it’s so beautifully proportioned. The neat head, the way the wings fold over on its back. Its tail, just the right length, and that down on the thighs, just like a pair of plus-fours.’

  He modelled the hawk in the air, emphasising each point of description with corresponding sweeps and curves of his hands.

  ‘It’s the sort of thing you want to paint, or model in clay. Painting would be best I should think, you’d be able to get all those lovely brown markings in then.’

  ‘It’s when it’s flying though, Sir, that’s when it’s got it over other birds, that’s when it’s at its best.’

  ‘Yes I agree with you. Do you know, you can tell it’s a good flyer just by looking at it sitting there.’

  ‘It’s ’cos it looks streamlined.’

  ‘It’s what I was saying about proportion, I think that’s got something to do with it. There’s a saying about racehorses that if they look good, they probably are good. I think the same applies here.’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘And yet there’s something weird about it when it’s flying.’

  ‘You what, Sir? Hawks are t’best flyers there are.’

  ‘I don’t mean…’

  ‘I’m not sayin’ there isn’t other good uns; look at swallows and swifts, an’ peewits when they’re tumblin’ about in t’air. An’ there’s gulls an’ all. I used to watch ’em for hours when we used to go away. It wa’ t’best at Scarborough, where you could get on t’cliff top an’ watch ’em. They’re still not t’same though. Not to me any-road.’

  ‘I don’t mean anything to do with the beauty of its flight, that’s marvellous. I mean… well, when it flies there’s something about it that makes you feel strange.’

  ‘I think I know what you mean, Sir, you mean everything seems to go dead quiet.’

  ‘That’s it!’

  His exclamation made the hawk jerk up and tense.

  ‘Steady on, Sir, you’ll frighten her to death.’

  Mr Farthing pointed two fingers at his temple and triggered his thumb.

  ‘Sorry, I forgot.’

  The hawk roused and settled again.

  ‘It was just that you got it so right about the silence.’

  ‘Other folks have noticed that an’ all. I know a farmer, an’ he says it’s the same wi’ owls. He says that he’s seen ’em catchin’ mice in his yard at night, an’ that when they swoop down, you feel like poking your ears to make ’em pop because it goes that quiet.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. That’s how I felt, it’s as though it was flying in a,… in a,… in a pocket of silence, that’s it, a pocket of silence. That’s strange, isn’t it?’

  ‘They’re strange birds.’

  ‘And this feeling, this silence, it must carry over. Have you noticed how quietly we’re speaking? And how strange it sounded when I raised my voice. It was almost like shouting in a church.’

  ‘It’s ’cos they’re nervous, Sir. You have to keep your voice down.’

  ‘No, it’s more than that. It’s instinctive. It’s a kind of respect.’

  ‘I know, Sir. That’s why it makes me mad when I take her out and I’ll hear somebody say, “Look there’s Billy Casper there wi’ his pet hawk.” I could shout at ’em; it’s not a pet, Sir, hawks are not pets. Or when folks stop me and say, “Is it tame?” Is it heck tame, it’s trained that’s all. It’s fierce, an’ it’s wild, an’ it’s not bothered about anybody, not even about me right. And that’s why it’s great.’

  ‘A lot of people wouldn’t understand that sentiment though, they like pets they can make friends with; make a fuss of, cuddle a bit, boss a bit; don’t you agree?’

  ‘Ye’, I suppose so. I’m not bothered about that though. I’d sooner have her, just to look at her, an’ fly her. That’s enough for me. They can keep their rabbits an’ their cats an’ their talkin’ budgies, they’re rubbish compared wi’ her.’

  Mr Farthing glanced down at Billy, who was staring at the hawk, breathing rapidly.

  ‘Yes, I think you’re right; they probably are.’

  ‘Do you know, Sir, I feel as though she’s doin’ me a favour just lettin’ me stand here.’

  ‘Yes I know what you mean. It’s funny though, when you try to analyse it, exactly what it is about it. For example, it’s not its size is it?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘And it doesn’t look terribly fearsome; in fact there are moments when it looks positively babyish. So what is it then?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Mr Farthing moulded a fender of sand with the toe of one shoe, then slowly looked up at the hawk.

  ‘I think it’s a kind of pride, and as you say independence. It’s like an awareness, a satisfaction with its own beauty and prowess. It seems to look you straight in the eye and say, “Who the hell are you anyway?” It reminds me of that poem by Lawrence, “If men were as much men as lizards are lizards they’d be worth looking at.” It just seems proud to be itself.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  They stood silent for a minute, then Mr Farthing pushed his overcoat and jacket sleeves up to look at the time. The watch face was concealed under his shirt cuff. He revealed the face by lifting the cuff and sliding the strap down his wrist.

  ‘Good lord! Look at the time, it’s twenty past one. We’d better be off.’

  He fumbled for the door fastener and backed out of the shed.

  ‘I’ll give you a lift if you like. I’m in the car.’

  Billy blushed and shook his head. Mr Farthing smiled in at him through the bars.

  ‘What’s the matter, wouldn’t it do your reputation any good to be seen travelling with a teacher?’

  ‘It’s not that, Sir…. I’ve one or two things to do first.’

  ‘Please yourself then. But you’re going to have to look sharp, or you’ll be late.’

  ‘I know. I’ll not be long.’

  ‘Right. I’ll be off then.’

  His face disappeared from the bars, and reappeared a few seconds later.

  ‘And thanks for the display, I really enjoyed it. You’re an expert, lad.’

  His face disappear
ed again, and for a few moments his barred charcoal back blocked the whole square. Then light, and other shapes like jigsaw pieces, grew round his receding silhouette, the house, the garage, the garden.

  A car engine bleated. Bleated again and caught, BRUM-BRUMMED to a climax, then hummed away on a rising pitch.

  Billy looked down and began to guide an oblong furry pellet through the sand with one toe. There was a kink in the fading car sound, a pause like a missed heartbeat as it changed up to a softer tone, and the final fade.

  Billy picked the pellet up and inspected it in his palm. It was the size of a blackbird’s egg, charcoal coloured, and shining faintly as though lacquered. He rolled it around his hand awhile, sniffed it, then carefully crumbled it with his finger tips. Inside the lacquered crust the fur was a lighter shade of grey, snuff dry, and wrapped inside the fur were tiny bones, and a tiny skull, with sets of dot-size teeth dotted to its tiny jaws. Billy rubbed the fur to ash, and gently blew it away like chaff from grain, leaving only the bones and the skull in his palm. He placed the skull on the shelf behind the door, then began to push the bones around with his forefinger; aimlessly at first, then linking them into a triangle, which he immediately destroyed, and reformed as an angular C. He studied this letter, then tried to remould it, but he could only make a D, so he shuffled the bones until their formation was meaningless.

  Selecting the longest bone, he pincered it, pin thin, between his forefinger and thumb. The pressure drained two small patches of his skin white; then the points punctured, and a spot of blood formed on his finger tip; followed by a second on his thumb. He frowned and squeezed. This made him close one eye and bite his lips. The bone remained intact. Billy opened the pincers, and it stuck up out of the skin of his thumb like a little standard. He turned his thumb over, nail upwards. The bone still stuck, so he pulled it out and snapped it. The crack made the hawk open its eyes. Billy dropped the bones and carefully ground them into the sand with his pumps. Only the skull remained. He turned it to face the bars, then quietly left the hut, locked up, and with a final glance at the hawk, walked away up the path.

  The betting shop was situated on a square of waste ground between two blocks of houses. At the back, the waste ground was separated from the back gardens of the houses in the next street by a wire fence. At each house a hole had been pulled in this fence, and short cuts led across the waste ground to the pavement.

  At various times a path from the door of the betting shop had been contemplated, but never completed. Starting at the door, a double row of housebricks had been set lengthways into the soil, ten bricks long leading into a strip of ashes, which in turn petered out to a final stretch of black earth, which was as worn and shiny as a snotty sleeve. The cokes of the ashy section had been trampled to crumbs, but bedded amongst them were flat shales, whose chalky surfaces gave this centre stretch a piebald appearance. There was no sharp division between the three sections, the ashes having been scuffed by feet at both ends.

  All round the betting shop craters had been dug in the earth, and at their brims the mounds of displaced muck were patched with scraggy turf, like skins of moulting animals. The whole area was patched with scruffy grass, knotted with dead dock and sorrel, and spiked with old rose-bay spears. The skeleton of an elderberry bush had been bombarded and broken with half bricks, and all round it lay papers and cans, a saucepan, a bike frame, and a wheel-less pram.

  As Billy walked up the pavement towards the betting shop he flexed his nostrils at the smell of fish and chips blowing straight down the street. He reached the waste ground and cut diagonally across it through the rough, then paused on a mound and raised his nose. He ground the two halfcrowns together in his pocket, and looked down at his black reflection in the puddle in the crater directly below him. He spat and shattered it, then took the coins out of his pocket and placed them edge to edge, rolling them into each other like two cog wheels.

  ‘Right then, heads I take it, tails I don’t.’

  He pocketed one coin and tossed the other. When it fell he caught it on his right palm, slapped it into his left, and lifted the lid. The Queen.

  ‘Shit.’

  He revolved the profile slowly, getting up, upright, falling backwards, on her back, head-stand. Three quarters of a revolution.

  ‘Right then, best o’ three.’

  He tossed again. Then looked between his fingers at the coin. Tails.

  ‘One each, this is it then.’

  Up it spun, ringing off the nail, a silver egg. Down. Clap. Heads.

  ‘The bugger.’

  He ran down the mound and walked across to the betting shop; a large brick shed converted from a lock-up shop. The big front window had been greened in, and on the fanlight was printed:

  F. ROSE.

  LICENSED BETTING OFFICE.

  The door was closed; a green door with a wooden knob. The knob was polished with use and the graining on the rich wood curved closely round its surface like mountain contours on a map. Billy ran his fingers round it, then stepped down and began to scuff at a ridge of grass, wedged like cartilage between two bricks on the path. The door opened and a man came out, looking back over his shoulder and shouting back inside as he swung outwards, pulling the door shut behind him and stepping down straight into Billy. He grabbed him to stop them both falling.

  ‘Hey up young un, that’s a grand place to be parked isn’t it?’

  He rotated Billy like a dancing partner and walked away, his shoes tapping the bricks and crunching the coke, followed by a muffled interlude as he crossed the earth to the pavement, where his footsteps, because of this interlude, seemed louder and sharper than a few seconds before, when he had walked over brick.

  Billy turned the knob and opened the door. At the far end, stretching the width of the room was a counter, mounted by a wire guard. Benches were situated round the walls and on one wall was a green felt board plastered with racing papers. Only a few strips of green showed between the pages, and from the fireplace directly opposite it looked as though felt scraps had been pinned haphazardly to the sheets. A fire was burning quietly in the grate, and over the mantelpiece, on a calendar, a jockey sat quietly on a quiet grey. In the centre of the room an old kitchen table was littered with more papers, and boxes of clean betting slips, and pencils tied to strings. A man was bending over the table writing, his pencil vertical, its string at full stretch. Another man was seated by the fire studying form, head down, elbows in his thighs, and at the board two men were pointing at the same spot on a page, murmuring and nodding together in consultation. All the men wore caps. Behind the counter a woman was pouring tea from a flask. When she lifted the cup she projected her lips towards it, and the steam made her narrow her eyes.

  When Billy opened the door they all looked at him, then immediately lost interest. He took the folded slip from his pocket and smoothed it out onto the table.

  ‘I say, mister, what price are these two?’

  He showed them to the man with the tight stringed pencil, who put it down and took the slip.

  ‘What are they?’

  He began to run his forefinger swiftly down the list of runners, stopped suddenly at Crackpot, then continued slowly to the S.P. at the bottom of the race.

  ‘Crackpot, 100–6. And Tell Him He’s Dead, that’s… where is it? I’ve just been looking at that missen…. Tell – Him – He’s – Dead…. 4–1, second favourite.’

  He gave the slip back to Billy.

  ‘100–6 and 4–1.’

  ‘Have they got a chance?’

  The man chuckled in his throat and shook his head.

  ‘Nay, lad, how do I know?’

  ‘Would you back ’em?’

  The man became serious again and picked a sheet up from the table. Billy watched his face as though his calculations were being transmitted there.

  ‘That Tell – Him – He’s – dead’s got a good chance. It’s top weight, but it’s t’best horse in t’race. It must be, else it wouldn’t be top weight would
it? I don’t fancy t’other though. No form. It hasn’t even a jockey on it in here. It’ll finish up wi’ a lad on it tha can bet. No. I wouldn’t bother wi’ that one.’

  ‘You don’t think they’ll win then?’

  ‘How’s tha got ’em, doubled?’

  He lifted Billy’s wrist for another look at the slip.

  ‘They’re not mine, they’re our Jud’s.’

  ‘He’ll be all right if they do. I can’t see it missen though.’ He shook his head and went back to his own selections. Billy screwed the slip up and threw it dart-style into the fire. It bounced off the crust into the hearth without catching fire. Billy went out.

  The fish and chip shop was one of a parade of shops at the end of the street. It stood next to the Co-op, which curved round the corner, and bore the first number of the next road, 2 Co-operative Road. FISH F HARTLEY CHIPS. A letter a tile stretching the length of the premises: a link of green letters between the shop and the upstairs flat.

  F. Hartley was reading the top sheet of a pile of wrapping papers which were stacked neatly on the shelf behind the counter. Mrs Hartley was rasping flat bags off a wad and flicking her fingers inside them, opening them like carnival hats and transferring them to a baggy heap at her left side. They were both wearing white smocks, with F.H. embroidered in green on the breast pocket. There was no one else in the shop. Billy jumped up at the counter and remained hanging there by folding his arms and taking his weight on them. His toes drummed the wooden panels nearly a foot from the ground.

  ‘A bob’s worth o’ chips an’ a fish.’

  He looked down at the upside-down page that F.H. was perusing. Still perusing it, F.H. picked it up in slow motion and placed it carefully to one side. Then he looked up at Billy’s face looking over the counter close to his.

  ‘Get down. There’ll be no wood left when tha’s finished banging thi feet on it.’

  Billy slid down, then climbed up the queue barrier to see over the counter again.

  ‘Serve him, Mary.’

  Mary stopped opening bags and turned to the pans. She slid the lids back and shovelled a load of chips. Billy watched the scoop lifting and loading like a midget dumper. Mary reached for a fish, then paused and spoke into the mirror.