A Kestrel for a Knave

  ‘And where were you, down it? I sent prefects to the toilets, they said you weren’t there.’

  ‘I went outside then, Sir. For a breath o’ fresh air.’

  ‘I’ll give you fresh air.’

  Billy manoeuvred a horseshoe course, to stay within striking distance of the door.

  ‘I’ve just come back in, Sir.’

  ‘And what about your interview? I’ve had the whole school out looking for you.’

  ‘I’m just goin’, Sir.’

  ‘Well get off then! And God help anyone who employs you.’

  Billy set off, then stopped in mid-stride and half turned.

  ‘Where to Sir?’

  ‘The medical room! If you’d stay awake in assembly you’d know where to!’

  He lunged across and made another swipe. But Billy had gone, and he overbalanced and staggered, like a tennis player failing to make a forehand return. The audience, observing through the doorway and the corridor windows, turned away and stared into space, not daring to meet each other’s eyes. Gryce parted them like a curtain and strode away up the corridor, massaging his shoulder. He stopped massaging to cuff a small boy on the back of the head and shove him to one side.

  ‘Get over, lad! Don’t you know to keep to the right hand side yet?’

  There were four chairs outside the medical room. A woman and a boy occupied the two nearest the door. Billy sat down, leaving an empty chair between them. The boy leaned forward and nodded at him across the front of the woman. The woman glanced round, then turned back to the boy.

  ‘And don’t be sat there like a dummy when you get in there.’

  The boy blushed and looked across at Billy again. Billy sat staring straight ahead, top teeth working across his bottom lip, squeezing it white.

  ‘Tell him that you’re after a good job, an office job, summat like that.’

  ‘Who’s after an office job?’

  ‘Well what are you after then? A job on t’bins?’

  ‘I wish you’d shut up.’

  ‘An’ straighten your tie.’

  The boy held the knot and pulled the back tag. The knot slid up and covered the top button of his clean white shirt. ‘I wish you’d stop nagging.’

  ‘Somebody’s to nag.’

  The door opened. The woman stood up and practised a smile down at herself. A boy emerged, followed by a woman smiling back into the room. The women smiled at each other. Their boys grinned. They crossed. The door closed, and the interviewed couple walked away, close in conversation. They stepped in accord, but the clip of high-heels predominated, and their echo preceded them down the corridor. Billy watched them go, then propped his face in his hands and stared down between his legs.

  The floor was covered with red and green vinyl tiles set in a check pattern. Their surfaces were mottled white, seeking a marble effect. On some tiles the mottling was severe, on others a mere fleck, and where a series of heavily mottled tiles had been laid together, the white dominated the basic colours as though something had been spilt there.

  Billy placed his feet parallel over two edges of the red tile directly between his legs. They just failed to span the tile’s length. He eased his heels back to the corner, increasing the space at his toes. Then he eased them forward, decreasing the toe space, but introducing a growing space at his heels. He wriggled his toes, trying to stretch his feet, his pumps rippling like caterpillars. But the space remained constant, so he lifted his feet and perched them out of sight on the stretcher under the chair.

  The white markings of the red tile, and the markings of the adjoining green ones never matched up; they all missed slightly, like a fault in a stratum of rock. The only strokes that did cross the dividing lines were skid marks made by rubber-soled shoes. These skid marks scarred all the tiles, and ranged from blunt scuffs to long sabres. They all pointed lengthways down the corridor, but were so different in form that they were never quite parallel to each other, or to the lanes formed by the edges of the tiles.

  Billy sat back and lifted his head. On the opposite wall, directly across from the Medical Room door, was a fire alarm. Underneath it, in red capitals, were the instructions, IN CASE OF FIRE BREAK GLASS. The case of the alarm was red painted metal. The glass was round, like a big watch face. Billy sat and stared at it. A woman laughed close by. He turned instinctively towards the sound, then stood up and walked across to the alarm. Behind the glass, almost touching it, was a knob. Billy ran a finger round the rim, gathering dust under the nail. He breathed on the glass, drew a Union Jack in the vapour, then rubbed it up with his cuff. The glass shone. He tinked it with his nails, tapped it with a knuckle, then rapped it with his knuckles. The noise made him step back and glance up and down the corridor. All quiet. Nobody there. Then the door opened. Billy swung round. Boy. Woman. Man at desk behind, between them. ‘Good afternoon.’ Left masking the alarm, looking across, in at the bald crust of a man writing. He looked up, out at Billy.

  ‘Are you next?’

  Billy looked in, not moving.

  ‘Well come in, lad, if you’re coming, I haven’t got all day.’

  Billy walked in, closed the door and crossed the room.

  ‘Sit down, Walker.’

  ‘I’m not Walker.’

  ‘Well who are you then? According to my list it should be Gerald Walker next.’

  He checked his name list.

  ‘Oliver, Stenton, then Walker.’

  ‘I’m Casper.’

  ‘Casper. O yes. I should have seen you earlier, shouldn’t I?’ He flicked through the record cards. ‘Casper…. Casper…. Here we are,’ placed it on top, then replaced the stack on the blotting square.

  ‘Mmm.’

  While he studied Billy’s card, Billy studied his scalp. The crown was clean and pink. Hair, cut short and neat, grew round the back and sides, and a few greased strands had been carefully combed across the front to disguise the baldness. But they failed, like a trap covered with inadequate foliage.

  ‘Now then, Casper, what kind of job had you in mind?’

  He shunted the record cards to one side, and replaced them with a blank form, lined and sectioned for the relevant information, CASPER, WILLIAM, in red on the top line. He copied age, address and other details from the record card, then changed pens and looked up.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I don’t know, I haven’t thought about it right.’

  ‘Well you should be thinking about it. You want to start off on the right foot don’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You haven’t looked round for anything yet then?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Well what would you like to do? What are you good at?’

  He consulted Billy’s record card again.

  ‘Offices held…. Aptitudes and Abilities… right then… would you like to work in an office? Or would you prefer manual work?’

  ‘What’s that, manual work?’

  ‘It means working with your hands, for example, building, farming, engineering. Jobs like that, as opposed to pen pushing jobs.’

  ‘I’d be all right working in an office, wouldn’t I? I’ve a job to read and write.’

  The Employment Officer printed MANUAL on the form, then raised his pen hand as though he was going to print it again on the top of his head. He scratched it instead, and the nails left white scratches on the skin. He smoothed his fingers carefully across the plot of hair, then looked up. Billy was staring straight past him out of the window.

  ‘Have you thought about entering a trade as an apprentice? You know, as an electrician, or a bricklayer or something like that. Of course the money isn’t too good while you’re serving your apprenticeship. You may find that lads of your own age who take dead end jobs will be earning far more than you; but in those jobs there’s no satisfaction or security, and if you do stick it out you’ll find it well worth your while. And whatever happens, at least you’ll always have a trade at your finger tips won’t you?…

&nbs
p; ‘Well, what do you think about it? And as you’ve already said you feel better working with your hands, perhaps this would be your best bet. Of course this would mean attending Technical College and studying for various examinations, but nowadays most employers encourage their lads to take advantage of these facilities, and allow them time off to attend, usually one day a week. On the other hand, if your firm wouldn’t allow you time off in the day, and you were still keen to study, then you’d have to attend classes in your own time. Some lads do it. Some do it for years, two and three nights a week from leaving school, right up to their middle twenties, when some of them take their Higher National, and even degrees.

  ‘But you’ve got to if you want to get on in life. And they’ll all tell you that it’s worth it in the end…. Had you considered continuing your education in any form after leaving?… I say, are you listening, lad?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t look as though you are to me. I haven’t got all day you know, I’ve other lads to see before four o’clock.’

  He looked down at Billy’s form again.

  ‘Now then, where were we? O, yes. Well if nothing I’ve mentioned already appeals to you, and if you can stand a hard day’s graft, and you don’t mind getting dirty, then there are good opportunities in mining….’

  ‘I’m not goin’ down t’pit.’

  ‘Conditions have improved tremendously….’

  ‘I wouldn’t be seen dead down t’pit.’

  ‘Well what do you want to do then? There doesn’t seem to be a job in England to suit you.’

  He scrutinised Billy’s record card again as though there might be a hint of one there.

  ‘What about hobbies? What hobbies have you got? Do you like gardening, or constructing Meccano sets, or anything like that?’

  Billy shook his head slowly.

  ‘Don’t you have any hobbies at all?’

  Billy looked at him for a moment, then stood up quickly.

  ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘What’s the matter with you, lad? Sit down, I haven’t finished yet.’

  Billy remained standing. The Youth Employment Officer began to fill in the blanks on the form, quickly and noisily.

  ‘Well I’ve interviewed some lads in my time, but I’ve never met one like you. Half the time you’re like a cat on hot bricks, the other half you’re not even listening.’

  He turned the form face down on the blotter and ran the sides of his fist along it, continuing the stroke off the blotter and pinching a blue leaflet off a wad at the front of the desk.

  ‘Here, take this home and read it. It gives you all the relevant information concerned with school leaving and starting work. Things like sickness benefits, National Insurance, etcetera. At the back,’ he turned it over and pointed at it, ‘there’s a detachable form. When you want your cards, fill it in and send it in to the office. The address is given at the top. Have you got that?’

  Billy stared at the leaflet and nodded.

  ‘Well take it then…. And if you do have trouble getting fixed up, don’t forget, come in and see me. All right?’

  The pamphlet was entitled LEAVING SCHOOL. The text on the cover page was built around a sketch which showed a man in square glasses shaking hands across a desk with a strapping youth in blazer and flannels. Their mouths were all teeth. Through the window behind the man was a tree, and a flying V bird.

  ‘Right, Casper, that’s all. Tell the next boy to come in.’

  When he got out he started to run. He ran straight out of school and all the way home.

  The shed door was open. The hawk was gone. The hasp was still locked to the door jamb, but the four screws which had secured it to the door hung useless in the metal plate. On the door the plate had left a pale impression like a turned stone in a field, and where the screws had been prised from their sockets, the wood was splintered and bruised. Billy rushed into the shed, rushed out again, and rushed round the back up onto the fence.

  ‘Kes! Kes!’

  He jumped down and ran up the path, barged into the kitchen door, and bounced back when it wouldn’t open.

  ‘Jud!’

  He felt under the step for the key, fumbled it into the lock, and rushed in.

  The curtains were still closed in the living-room. Light filtered through the kitchen, through the doorway, and across the lino like a third-hand strip of carpet. He ran across the living-room and opened the door into the hall. It was lighter there, the top panel of the front door was frosted glass. He fell forward on to the bottom steps and shouted up the stairs.

  ‘Jud! Jud!’

  The echo was snubbed as he scrambled on all fours up the stairs. The back bedroom door was open. It was quiet and dark inside. Billy stepped into the room, holding onto the door jamb with one hand.

  ‘Jud.’

  He switched the light on. The bed was exactly as it had been left that morning; the pillows were buckled, the blankets rutted, and the thrown back sheet pointed at him like a thrust out tongue. He skiddled back down the stairs, back through the living-room into the kitchen; and paused a moment on the trestle to scan across the fields and the sky.

  The sky had hardened into one charcoal shell. Beyond the nearest field all distance was lost, and in the failing light no birds were visible. No birds called, and the only sound was the hum of the rain.

  Billy ran into the garage, fetched the lure from his bag, and began to unwind it and swing it as he hurried down the garden and climbed over the fence.

  ‘Kes! Kes! Come on then Kes!’

  He patrolled the field, calling continuously, working the lure and changing hands until he could work it no longer, and he had to let it drop out of sight in the grass. He stood looking round for a few seconds, then started to run, the lure bouncing behind him as he wound it in. He vaulted back into the garden, and ran up the side of the house to the front gate. A woman was approaching up the far pavement. Every time she walked behind a parked car, her head looked as though it was travelling along a conveyor belt. There was no one else in sight. Billy ran across the road and surprised her by bobbing out in front of a car.

  ‘Oo! You dozy young devil. You scared me to death.’

  ‘Have you seen our Jud anywhere down there?’

  He nodded away down the avenue.

  ‘Your Jud? No, I haven’t seen him, why?’

  She watched Billy run away up the pavement, then took her hand away from her heart and walked after him, head bowed against the rain.

  ‘Ee, what a family that is.’

  The bookmaker’s wife was just locking up when Billy reached the edge of the waste ground.

  ‘Hey! Mrs Rose!’

  She glanced round, then turned the key and opened her handbag.

  ‘Have you seen our Jud?’

  She squeezed the clasps, CLICK, and started down the path, Billy following.

  ‘I can see you haven’t, else you wouldn’t be in one piece now.’

  ‘You’ve seen him then?’

  ‘Seen him? He nearly ripped t’place apart that’s all.’

  ‘Have you seen him since?’

  ‘Called me all t’names under t’sun. Called me a welcher, and said I was trying to rob his eyes out. Then he threatened Tommy Leach wi’ violence when he tried to put a word in. We had a right pantomime. I’d to send for Eric Clough and Eric Street in t’end to prove that you never placed that bet.’

  ‘Has he been back?’

  ‘They both won you know. Crackpot got a hundred to eight. Tell Him He’s Dead got fours. He’d have had over a tenner to draw.’

  ‘Do you know where he is now?’

  ‘Why didn’t you put it on?’

  ‘How do I know? I didn’t know they were goin’ to win did I?’

  He started to cry. Mrs Rose shook her head.

  ‘You won’t half cop it, lad, when he gets hold of you.’

  They had reached the Co-op at the end of the street. Billy stopped and Mrs Rose walked away from him. He turned and ran
back the way they had come, back past the betting shop. Back across the estate, down the avenue into the cul-de-sac, and through the snicket into the fields.

  A few yards along the path, and the houses had faded from dull red to dark shapes in the dusk. Only the silhouette of their roofs showed clearly against the sky. Billy pulled the lure from his inside pocket, and searched in his other pockets for his handkerchief. He found it, and flapped it open, then he tied it to the lure and began to swing it as he continued slowly along the path.

  ‘Kes! Kes! Come on then Kes!’

  He looked upwards all the time, meandering off the path into the grass, back on to the path, through puddles and sludge; wiping the sludge away as he meandered back into the grass.

  ‘Come on Kes! Come on then!’

  At first the handkerchief twirled and dipped behind the lure as crisp as a kite-tailing, but the rain and the wet grass quickly transformed it into a sodden grey rag flapping in the gloom.

  Round and round, so fast that the cord sang; slower, to rest and change hands. Then shortening the cord and whirring it so that the cord and the lure and the rag fused like a Catherine wheel, and unwound as a rocket as he released it, and it shot up into the sky, slowed, spent itself, and fell back to the ground. He ran to retrieve it, and immediately swung it back into action.

  ‘Kes! Kes! Kes!’

  His call was pitching up to a scream. He was panting and sobbing, but each time he shortened his grip on the cord to increase the momentum of the lure, he held his breath. He held it each time the lure travelled up; and there was silence until it fell back unattended, and he ran forward to pick it up, crying.

  At the end of the field a stile spanned the gap in the hedgerow. The two posts were cold and slimy to the touch. Billy climbed the two steps, then, holding on to the posts, climbed up on to the cross-piece, and slowly, very carefully, with the outsides of his feet pressed against the verticals, he straightened up, balancing like the top man of a pyramid of tumblers. Taller than the hedgerow, he stared round. On both sides and before him, fences and hedges were black borders for grey blankets. He stared hard into the distance to where the woods should be, then turned round, and the rotation of his trunk almost fetched him off backwards. He grabbed a post, steadied himself, then slowly began to swing the lure.