A Kestrel for a Knave

  He shook his head, and Billy confirmed his doubts.

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Right you can sit down now. That was very good, I enjoyed it, and I’m sure the class did.’

  Billy blushed then walked back to his place, looking down at his feet. His return to the ranks was greeted by a splatter of applause, which Mr Farthing allowed to run its natural course.

  ‘Right. We’ve just heard two excellent accounts, one from Anderson about his tadpoles, the other from Casper about his hawk. Both these accounts were true, they happened, so we call them…?’

  He looped a forefinger vaguely over the class, waiting for the correct answer to draw it, and halt its peregrinations.

  ‘Facts, Sir.’

  The finger zipped horizontally from the corridor side of the room to the window side, and stopped, pointing into the centre of the row.

  ‘Right, facts. Factual accounts. True stories. Now then 4C, what’s the opposite of fact? What do we call stories that are imaginary?’

  He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the board.

  Chorus: ‘Fiction, Sir!’

  ‘Right, fiction. Just look it up in your dictionaries to make sure. First one to find it gets a house point.’

  There was a whizzing of pages to localise F, followed by a more deliberate turning of odd pages, and a final pointing of forefingers.

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Right, Whitbread. Read it out.’

  ‘Fiction. Inven-ted state-ment or narra-tive, novels, stories collectiv, collectiv-ely collectively; Blimey.’ ‘Go on, have a go at it, lad.’ ‘Convent, convent-ion-ally, I know, conventionally accepted false-hood. Fic-tit-ious, fictitious, not genuine, imagin-ary, assumed.’

  ‘Good. Have you all found it now?’

  They had all found it while Whitbread was reading the definition, and there was silence while they confirmed it mentally.

  ‘Have you all got that? Fiction; invented statement, novels, stories, falsehood, not genuine, imaginary, assumed. All right?’

  There was no response so he assumed that they were.

  ‘Right, now close your dictionaries and listen carefully…. You’re now going to write me a piece of fiction. That is, any imaginary story, as opposed to Anderson’s and Casper’s stories, which were true or factual. I don’t care what you write about as long as it’s fictitious, and to make sure that it is, and so that you can really get your imaginations working and let yourself go at it, we’ll call it…’

  He stood up and turned to the board, and announced each word of the title as he printed it:

  ‘A TALL STORY’

  He placed the chalk back in its groove and blew some dust off his fingers.

  ‘You know what a tall story is, don’t you? Anybody doesn’t?’

  Everybody glanced round, but no hands went up.

  ‘Tell us then, Jordan.’

  ‘It’s summat that’s too far fetched to be true.’

  ‘Good. Something that is unbelievable, or far fetched as you call it. For example, if I said to Casper, “Why were you late this morning?”…’

  ‘I wasn’t late this morning, Sir.’

  Mr Farthing looked at the ceiling and laughed out. He startled some of the boys into laughing at him. Then, still smiling, he lowered his face and continued.

  ‘That would be the perfect tall story, Casper.’

  Billy just looked at him and nobody laughed.

  ‘Right, forget it. If I said to Casper, “Why were you late this morning?” and he replied, “Well when I got up this morning our house had been washed out to sea, so I caught the 8.30 whale to shore, and hitched a lift on an eagle’s back. But we were held up for twenty minutes in a bird-jam, and that’s why I was late.” Well if Casper came to me with that tale, I’d probably look at him and say, “That’s a bit of a tall story, isn’t it, lad?” ’

  ‘It would be an’ all, Sir.’

  ‘You’re right, Jordan, it would. Have you all got the idea now? Right then, you,’ pointing at them, ‘tell me,’ pointing at himself, ‘a tall story. BUT, and get this, I want no repeats of the story I’ve just told. That was just an example, so forget it, and let’s see what you can produce on your own.

  ‘Jordan, give the books out. Whitbread, pens. Tibbut, pencils. Mann, rulers.’

  While the books and pens and pencils and rulers were being distributed, Mr Farthing appended the date to the title on the board.

  ‘Underline your last piece of work and leave a line before you write the title. And don’t forget your margins.’

  He sat down to direct the scene; and gradually, after new nibs had been fitted, pencils sharpened, rubbers borrowed and returned, margins ruled, inkwells filled, blotters blotted, enquiries answered, arguments settled, boys admonished, monitors seated, pens, pencils, rulers, blotters, books dropped and retrieved, the class settled to work.

  Billy dipped his nib right up to the metal holder, then, balancing on the front legs of his chair, book and head askew, he began his story:

  A tall story

  One day I wolke up and my muther said to me heer Billy theres your brecfast in bed for you there was backen and egg and bred and butter and a big pot of tea when I had my brekfast the sun was shining out side and I got drest and whent down stairs we lived in a big hous up moor edge and we add carpits on the stairs and in the all and sentrall eeting. When I got down I said wers are Jud his goind the army my muther saide and hees not coming back. but your dades coming back in sted. there was a big fire in the room and my dad came in caring his cas that he tulke a way with him I havent seen him for a long time but he was just the sam as he went away I was glad hed come back and are Jud had gon away when I got to school all the teacherr were good to me they said allow Billy awo you gowing on and they all pated me on the head and smilled and we did interesting things all day. when I got home my muther saide I not gowing to work eny more and we all had chips beans for awur tea then we got redy and we all went to the picturs we went up stairs and had Ice cream at the intervells and then we all went home and had fish and chips for awur super and then we went to bed.

  At break Billy went out into the yard. The wind, cutting straight across from the playing fields, made him turn his back and raise a shoulder while he looked round for a sheltered place. All the corners were occupied. Boys lounged along the walls and window ledges, singly, in pairs, and in groups. Their conversation was mostly quiet, their movements spasmodic; a shift of stance, a warming burst, or the sudden milling of a group, as one of its members moved and tried to use another as a windbreak. But these boys were spectators. Most of the noise and movement came from the expanses of the yard where hundreds of boys were in action. Walking and talking, chasing and dodging, making thoroughfares of football matches and other ball games. Wrestling and riding, and in the smaller pockets of space playing less strenuous games of concentration, using smaller objects. All intermingling, the patterns of play in a state of flux round occasional boys standing stock still amongst it all. Beneath their feet, their reflections flashed as dark patches in the wet concrete, which reflected the shifting grey and black of the low sky.

  And above them all the noise: combinations of object and voice, depending on chance, and on the emotions of each child involved in each activity at a given time. Sometimes heightening, sometimes faltering, but the incidents causing these fluctuations in volume and pitch impossible to locate within the general activity.

  The noise: spreading from the yard across the estate, but leaving the bulk of its volume behind, so that people all over the estate, on the streets and in their gardens, on hearing it looked up towards its source, as though expecting it to be visible above the rooftops like a cloud, or the rising sun.

  Billy walked round to the back of the school and crossed the strip of asphalt to the cycle shed. Look-outs were posted at either end of the shed, and in one corner a gang of boys was assembled; some smoking, some hanging around in the hope of a smoke. The three smokers were hanging around. So was MacDowa
ll.

  ‘Got owt, Casper?’

  Billy shook his head.

  ‘Tha never has, thee. Tha just cadges all thine. Casper the cadger, that’s what they ought to call thee.’

  ‘I wouldn’t gi’ thee owt if I had, MacDowall.’

  ‘I’ll gi’ thee summat in a minute.’

  Billy crossed in front of the row of bicycles parked with their front wheels slotted into concrete blocks. One machine was mounted, the rider backpedalling vacantly, as though waiting to be snapped by a seaside photographer. Billy leaned on the corrugated tin wall at the other end of the shed and looked out across the asphalt. Directly opposite was the door of the boiler house. At one side of the door were eight dustbins in a line, and at the other side, a heap of coke. The door was painted green.

  ‘What’s tha gone over there for, Casper, frightened?’

  Billy ignored him and continued to stare out. MacDowall, pinching a tab between his middle finger and thumb nails, twitched his head in Billy’s direction.

  ‘Come on, lads, let’s go and keep him company.’

  Grinning, he led the line of smokers across the shed, and they took up position in the corner, behind Billy. Billy half turned, so that his back was against the tin, and the gang were down one side of him.

  ‘What’s up, Casper, don’t tha like company?’

  He winked at the boys around him.

  ‘They say thi mother does.’

  The gang began to snigger and snuggle into each other. Billy turned his back on them again.

  ‘I’ve heard tha’s got more uncles than any kid in this City.’

  The shout of laughter seemed to jerk Billy round as though it had pulled him by the shoulder.

  ‘Shut thi mouth! Shut it can’t tha!’

  ‘Come and make me.’

  ‘Tha can only pick on little kids. Tha daren’t pick on anybody thi own size!’

  ‘Who daren’t?’

  ‘Thee! Tha wouldn’t say what tha’s just said to our Jud. He’d murder thi.’

  ‘I’m not frightened of him.’

  ‘Tha would be if he wa’ here.’

  ‘Would I heck, he’s nowt, your Jud.’

  ‘Tha what! He’s t’cock o’ t’estate, that’s all.’

  ‘Who says? I bet I know somebody who can fight him.’

  ‘Who?… thi father?’

  The gang laughed and began to fan out behind MacDowall.

  MacDowall was furious.

  ‘Your Jud wouldn’t stick up for thee, anyroad. He isn’t even thi brother.’

  ‘What is he then, my sister?’

  ‘He’s not thi right brother, my mother says. They don’t even call him Casper for a start.’

  ‘Course he’s my brother! We live in t’same house, don’t we?’

  ‘An’ he don’t look a bit like thee, he’s twice as big for a start. You’re nowt like brothers.’

  ‘I’m tellin’ him! I’m tellin’ him what tha says, MacDowall!’

  Billy ran at him. The gang scattered. MacDowall took a step back, lifted one knee, and pushed Billy off with his foot. Billy came back at him. MacDowall delivered a straight right, which caught Billy smack in the chest and bounced him back on to his arse.

  ‘Get away, you little squirt, before I spit on thi’ an’ drown thi.’

  Billy got up, coughing and crying and rubbing his chest. He stood at a distance glancing round, his fingers clenching and unclenching. Then -he turned and ran out of the shed, across the asphalt to the pile of coke. He scooped up two handfuls, then, cupping this stock to his chest with his left hand, he began to throw it lump by lump into the shed. MacDowall turned his back and hunched his shoulders. The others scattered, knocking bicycles off balance and sending them toppling against other bicycles, which leaned over and swayed under the weight. The coke clattered against the tin with such rapidity that the vibrations produced by each clatter were linked together into a continual ring. One lump hit MacDowall in the back, another on the leg. He cursed Billy and began to back out, peeping over his raised left arm. Then, as Billy stooped for fresh ammunition, panting and pausing for a moment’s rest, MacDowall straightened up and ran at him. Billy turned at the footsteps, threw and missed, then tried to escape up the coke, his pumps sinking out of sight at every step. MacDowall reached the bottom of the heap at full speed, and with his feet pushing off firm ground, dived and landed full length on Billy’s back. The coke scrunched, and the lumps were ground together and moulded into shifting waves under the weight.

  ‘Fight! Fight!’

  The news was relayed round to the yard, and within seconds the swirling pattern of activity changed to a linear form as boys abandoned their games and raced round to the back of the school. Billy and MacDowall had rolled the peak of the coalheap into a plateau, and gradually, as more and more spectators arrived, the first arrivals were forced up the heap, and the coke was trampled backwards and levelled out across the asphalt. Latecomers climbed on to the dustbins, three and four to a lid, encircling each other’s bodies with their arms to maintain balance. Sometimes they overbalanced and toppled off into a shouting heap, grabbing and banging the occupants of the next bin, so that periodically whole bunches of boys were knocked over like a row of dominoes. To be replaced by fresh spectators; who in turn were pulled down by the legs, by the first fallen.

  MacDowall was now astride Billy, pinning his biceps under his knees. The encircling crowd was directly over them, their heads outlining a rough spotlight, their bodies and legs the beam, as they strained outwards against the pressure from behind. Individual cries of encouragement were distinguishable amongst the medley and the perpetual grinding of coke, and round the outskirts other skirmishes were developing, forming sideshows to the main attraction.

  Enter Mr Farthing, running. The boys mooching around the fringes of the fight, like supporters locked out of a football ground, spread the word. The word spread amongst the back ranks of the crowd, and the knot slackened as boys hurried away before Mr Farthing could reach them. But at the core of the activity the attention was too fixed to be diverted, and when Mr Farthing forced his way through, dragging boys aside by their arms, their faces turned on him, flicking through the emotions of anger, shock, and finally amusement at the thought of their initial reaction. He lifted MacDowall off Billy and shook him like a terrier shakes a rat. The cokes were vacated and the spectators adjourned to a safer distance. Mr Farthing looked round at them, blazing.

  ‘I’m giving you lot ten seconds to get back round to the yard. If I see one face after that time I’ll give its owner the biggest belting he’s ever received.’

  He started to count. Four seconds later MacDowall’s and Billy’s faces were the only two in sight.

  ‘Now then what’s going off.’

  Billy began to cry. MacDowall wiped his nose along the back of one hand and looked down at it.

  ‘Well?… Casper?’

  ‘It wa’ him, Sir! He started it!’

  ‘I didn’t, Sir! It wa’ him, he started chucking cokes at me!’

  ‘Ar, what for though?’

  ‘Nowt!’

  ‘You liar!’

  Mr Farthing closed his eyes and cancelled all the explanations with a crossed sweep of his arms.

  ‘Shut up. Both of you. It’s the same old tale; it’s nobody’s fault, and nobody started it, you just happened to be fighting on top of a heap of coke for no reason at all. I ought to send you both to Mr Gryce! ’

  He tossed his head back at the school, and the words came out, ground from between his teeth.

  ‘Just look at the mess you’ve both made!’

  Two dustbins were lying on their sides, their contents spilling out, and three more bins were without their lids. The pile of coke had been trampled into a cokey beach, and odd lumps had been kicked across the asphalt, some into the cycle shed.

  ‘Just look at it! It’s disgusting! And just look at the state of you both!’

  One lap of MacDowall’s shirt curved out from bene
ath his sweater, and covered one thigh, like half an apron. Billy’s shirt buttons had burst open all down the front. One button was missing, the corresponding button-hole ripped open. Their hair looked as though they had been scratching their scalps solidly for a week, and their faces were the colour of colliers’.

  ‘And stop blubbering, Casper! You’re not dying, lad!’

  ‘He will be when I get hold of him.’

  Mr Farthing stepped up to MacDowall and bent his knees to bring their faces level.

  ‘You’re a brave boyo, aren’t you, MacDowall? He’s just about your size isn’t he, Casper? Well if you’re so keen on fighting, why don’t you pick on somebody your own size? Eh? Eh?’ simultaneously pushing MacDowall twice in the shoulder.

  ‘Because you’re scared, aren’t you? Aren’t you, MacDowall?’ Right jab, right again, stepping up each time MacDowall retreated.

  ‘You’re nothing but a bully boy. The classic example of a bully! If it isn’t Casper, then it’s someone else like him. Isn’t it, isn’t it, MacDowall?’ Jab. Jab.

  They left Billy behind, progressing into the shed with halting corresponding steps, like partners learning to dance.

  ‘What would you say if I pinned you to the floor and smacked you across the face?’ Jab. Jab.

  MacDowall began to sob.

  ‘You’d say I was a bully, wouldn’t you lad? And you’d be right, because I’m bigger and stronger, and I know that I could beat you to pulp before we started. Just like you know, MacDowall, with every boy you pick on!’ The next two jabs developed into thumps.

  ‘I’ll tell my dad!’

  ‘Of course you will, lad. Boys like you always tell their dads. And then do you know what I’ll do, MacDowall? I’ll tell mine. And then what will happen? Eh?’

  MacDowall banged the back of his head on the back of the shed, making the tin rattle. Mr Farthing completed his last step, closing the gap between them again.

  ‘And do you know, MacDowall, that my dad’s the heavyweight champion of the world? So what’s going to happen to your dad then. Eh? And what’s going to happen to you? Eh? Eh? MacDowall?’