A Kestrel for a Knave

  He roared out this last question and stood up straight, dragging MacDowall up by the lapels to keep their faces level. MacDowall was now blubbering freely.

  ‘Well, what’s it like to be bullied? You don’t like it much, do you?’

  He dropped MacDowall and pushed him hard against the tin.

  ‘And you’ll like it even less if I ever catch you at it again.’

  He enunciated this warning slowly and carefully, as though MacDowall was a foreigner, having difficulty with the language.

  ‘UNDERSTAND?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Good. Now get into school, get cleaned up and… wait a minute, I’ve got your form next, haven’t I?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Right then, you can spend it shovelling that lot back into shape.’

  He pivoted on his left foot and toe-ended a lump of coke back across the asphalt. It cannoned into other lumps, then took its place amongst the spread. A glance away and it was lost.

  ‘And when I come out at twelve o’clock I want every lump back in its place. Right?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Right. Get cracking.’

  MacDowall walked away, rubbing his eyes and his cheeks with his knuckles and the backs of his hands. He stopped rubbing them to glance at Billy as he passed. Mr Farthing followed him slowly out of the shed, timing his confrontation with Billy to coincide with the disappearance of MacDowall round the corner of the building.

  ‘Now then, Casper, what’s it all about?’

  Billy shook his head.

  ‘What do you mean?’… Mr Farthing mimicked him. ‘It must have been something.’

  ‘O… I can’t tell you right, Sir.’

  ‘Why can’t you?’

  ‘’Cos I can’t. I can’t, Sir!’

  The skin on his face tightened, pulling at his mouth and his eyes, and he began to cry again.

  ‘He started calling me names an’ sayin’ things about my dad an’ my mother an’ our Jud, an’ everybody wa’ laughin’, an’…’

  His sobs became so violent that they impaired his breathing and interrupted his speech. Mr Farthing held up one hand, nodding.

  ‘All right, lad, calm down. It’s finished with now.’

  He waited for him to calm down, then shook his head slowly.

  ‘I don’t know, you always seem to cop it, don’t you, Casper?’

  Billy stood with his head bowed, sniffing quietly to himself.

  ‘I wonder why? Why do you think it is?’

  ‘What, Sir?’

  ‘That you’re always in trouble?’

  ‘’Cos everybody picks on me, that’s why.’

  He looked up with such intensity that his eyes and the tears webbed in the lower lashes seemed to fuse and shine like lumps of crystal. Mr Farthing looked away to hide a smile.

  ‘Yes I know they do, but why?’

  ‘I don’t know, they just do, that’s all.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s because you’re a bad lad.’

  ‘P’raps I am, sometimes. But I’m not that bad, I’m no worse than stacks o’ kids, but they just seem to get away with it.’

  ‘You think you’re just unlucky, then?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sir. I seem to get into bother for nowt. You know, for daft things, like this morning in t’hall. I wasn’t doin’ owt, I just dozed off that’s all. I wa’ dog tired, I’d been up since six, then I’d had to run round wi’ t’papers, then run home to have a look at t’hawk, then run to school. We’, I mean, you’d be tired wouldn’t you, Sir?’

  Mr Farthing chuckled.

  ‘I’d be exhausted.’

  ‘That’s nowt to get t’stick for, is it Sir, being tired? You can’t tell Gryce… Mr Gryce though, he’d kill you! Do you know, Sir, there wa’ a kid this morning stood outside his room wi’ us, he’d only brought a message from another teacher, and Mr Gryce gave him t’stick!’

  Mr Farthing’s face broadened into a grin, and his mouth broke open, laughing. Billy watched these changes in expression seriously.

  ‘It’s all right for you, Sir. What about that kid though, he was as sick as a dog after.’

  Mr Farthing immediately became serious again.

  ‘You’re right, lad, it’s not funny. It was just the way you told it, that’s all.’

  ‘An’ this morning in English, when I wasn’t listening. It wasn’t that I wasn’t bothered, it wa’ my hands, they were killin’ me! You can’t concentrate when your hands are stingin’ like mad!’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you can.’

  ‘I still got into trouble for it though, didn’t I?’

  ‘You made up for it though, didn’t you?’

  ‘I know, but it’s allus like that though.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Teachers. They never think it might be their fault an’ all.’

  ‘No, I don’t think many do, lad.’

  ‘They think they’re right every time. But there’s sometimes when you can’t help it, like this morning; an’ like when you get thumped for not listenin’ when it’s dead boring. We’, I mean, you can’t help not listenin’ when it’s not interestin’, can you, Sir?’

  ‘No you can’t, Casper.’

  ‘You daren’t say that to t’teachers though, they’d say, “Don’t be insolent boy,” smack!’

  Billy stood up straight and waggled his head about, looking stern. Then he smacked the space between Mr Farthing and himself. Mr Farthing laughed out at his impersonation.

  ‘That’s what they’d say though, Sir.’

  ‘I’m not saying it and I’m a teacher, aren’t I?’

  ‘Ar, well…’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘You do at least try to learn us summat, most o’ t’others don’t. They’re not bothered about us, just because we’re in 4C, you can tell, they talk to us like muck. They’re allus callin’ us idiots, an’ numbskulls, an’ cretins, an’ looking at their watches to see how long it is to t’end o’ t’lesson. They’re fed up wi’ us. We’re fed up wi’ them, then when there’s any trouble, they pick on me ’cos I’m t’littlest.’

  ‘They’re not all like that, surely?’

  ‘Most of ’em, Sir. An’, anyway… I can talk to you better than most folks.’

  He looked down, blushing. Mr Farthing looked down at the top of his head.

  ‘How are things at home these days?’

  ‘All right, Sir. Same as usual I suppose.’

  ‘What about the police? Have you been in trouble with them lately?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Because you’ve reformed? Or because you haven’t been caught?’

  ‘I’ve reformed, Sir.’

  Mr Farthing smiled at him. But Billy was serious.

  ‘It’s right, Sir, I haven’t done owt for ages now! That’s one o’ t’reasons why MacDowall’s allus pickin’ on me, ’cos I don’t knock about wi’ their gang anymore. An’ it’s since I stopped goin’ wi’ them that I stopped gettin’ into trouble.’

  ‘What happened, did you have an argument or something?’

  ‘No, Sir, it wa’ when I got my hawk. I got that interested in it that it seemed to take all my time up. It wa’ summer then, you see, and I used to take it down our fields at nights. Then when t’dark nights came back, I never got back in wi’ ’em. I wasn’t bothered anymore.

  ‘I try to get hold of falconry books an’ read up about ’em now. I make new jesses an’ things an’ all, an’ sometimes I go down to t’shed an’ sit wi’ a candle lit. It’s all right in there. I’ve got a little paraffin stove that I found, an’ it gets right warm, an’ we just sit there. It makes you feel right cosy an’ snug sat there wi’ t’wind blowin’ outside.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll bet it does.’

  ‘It’s stacks better than roamin’ t’streets doin’ nowt. ’Cos that’s all we used to do. Just roam about t’estate muckin’ about, fed up to t’teeth an’ frozen. I reckon that’s why I wa’ allus in trouble, we used to break into p
laces an’ nick things an’ that just for a bit o’ excitement. It wa’ summat to do, that’s all.’

  ‘What about youth clubs? There’s one open in this school three evenings a week.’

  ‘I don’t like youth clubs. I don’t like games. We used to go into t’City, to t’pictures, or to a coffee bar sometimes. But anyroad, they can please their sens what they do. I’m not bothered now.’

  ‘You’re a lone wolf now then?’

  ‘I’d like to be if only folks’d leave me alone. There’s allus somebody after me though. Like this playtime. I only came round to this shed to get out o’ t’cold; next thing I know, I’m in a fight. It’s same in class. I’m just sittin’ there, next news is, I’m on my feet gettin’ t’stick or summat. They’re allus sayin’ I’m a pest or a nuisance, they talk as though I like gettin’ into trouble; but I don’t, Sir.

  ‘An ’at home, if owt goes wrong on t’estate, police allus come to our house, even though I’ve done nowt for ages now. An’ they don’t believe a word I say! I feel like goin’ out an’ doin’ summat just to spite ’em sometimes.’

  ‘Never mind lad; it’ll be all right.’

  ‘Ar, it will that.’

  ‘Just think, you’ll be leaving school in a few weeks, starting your first job, meeting fresh people. That’s something to look forward to isn’t it?’

  Billy looked past him without replying.

  ‘Have you got a job yet?’

  ‘No Sir. I’ve to see t’youth employment bloke this afternoon.’

  ‘What kind of job are you after?’

  ‘I’m not bothered. Owt’ll do me.’

  ‘You’ll try to get something that interests you though?’

  ‘I shan’t have much choice shall I? I shall have to take what they’ve got.’

  ‘I thought you’d have been looking forward to leaving.’

  ‘I’m not bothered.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like school.’

  ‘I don’t, but that don’t mean that I’ll like work, does it? Still, I’ll get paid for not liking it, that’s one thing.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.’

  Mr Farthing shook his head slightly and looked at his watch.

  ‘I might be able to save up an’ buy a goshawk then, I’ve just been readin’ about ’em.’

  ‘Well, I shall have to go and blow the whistle, they’ve had five minutes extra already.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s games next, that means five minutes less.’

  ‘Well you’d better be off then and get cleaned up, or you’re going to have no lesson left.’

  ‘That’d be nice. It’ll be an hour o’purgatory on that field.’

  He walked away, past Mr Farthing towards the corner of the building. Mr Farthing followed him slowly, then as Billy reached the corner he called his name. Billy turned round.

  ‘What, Sir?’

  ‘This hawk of yours, I’d like to see it sometime.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘When do you fly it?’

  ‘Dinner times. It gets dark too early at nights.’

  ‘Do you fly it at home?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. In t’fields at t’back of our house.’

  ‘That’s Woods Avenue isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Sir, 124.’

  ‘Right then, I’ll be down. That is if I may?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Good. You’ve got me really interested in this bird of yours.’

  He began to twirl his whistle, which was suspended from one forefinger on a yellow band. The metal quickly blurred into a silver circle, the band shading in the area. Billy watched the yellow disc for a few seconds, then disappeared round the corner of the building. The shrill of the whistle immediately obliterated every other sound in the vicinity.

  The toilets were empty. Every square inch of the floor was wet. All the doors of the cubicles had been thrown open, and in one of the cubicles a cistern whined as it refilled. On the opposite wall, the copper pipe across the top of the urinals began to dribble, then WHOOSH sheets of water hissed down to the porcelain into the channel and flowed away parallel to the pipe above.

  Between the cubicles and the urinals, a double row of sinks ran down the centre of the room, and at the end of the row was a wastebin overflowing with a few loosely crumpled paper towels. Like a bag of cream puffs, the amount of space they occupied was out of all proportion to their volume, and if they had been screwed up tightly they would have barely filled the bottom of the bin, leaving plenty of room for the towels littered around the floor and stuck to the tiles like transfers.

  A tap had been left running, and its flow was powerful enough to maintain a whirlpool in the bottom of the sink. Billy plugged the next sink and ran the hot water, tempering it with cold water and testing it, until the bowl was well filled. He pushed his sleeves up to his elbows and immersed both hands. The level in the bowl rose and the displaced water escaped down the overflow. Billy leaned on his arms, his hands moulded to the shape of the bowl, and as the steam drifted up about his face he closed his eyes and smiled like the Bisto Kid. He bent over the bowl and slowly dipped his face, held it, and made the water boil by blowing into it. He stood up, shaking his face and wiping the water from his eyes, then he lathered his hands from a bottle of liquid soap, and fouled the water by rinsing them. He lathered them again, made an O with the forefinger and thumb of his right hand, and blew gently on the membrane gathered there. It blossomed to a bubble, the spectrum curving in its skin as it left his hand and floated quietly towards the floor. He reached out to take it back. Touched it. Gone. He blew some more, but they came out small, so he let them drift and time their own oblivion. Then out it came, a jewel, hanging heavy in the air He reached out to catch it. It bounced off the buff of air, then wavered in the suction as he withdrew his hand. He followed it, and as it fell, he placed his hand below it, allowing his hand to fall more slowly than the bubble, so that slowly, very slowly, the bubble fell closer to his hand. Falling, bubble over hand, both falling, until finally the bubble landed gently on the falling palm. Billy eased them to a halt, and stood up, smiling. He tilted his hand and shifted his head to catch the colours from different angles and in different lights, and while he was looking it vanished, leaving him looking at a lathered palm.

  He walked into the changing room as clean and shining as a boy down for breakfast on his seaside holidays. The other boys were packed into the aisles between the rows of pegs, their hanging clothes partitioning the room into corridors. Mr Sugden was passing slowly across one end of the room, looking down the corridors and counting the boys as they changed. He was wearing a violet tracksuit. The top was embellished with cloth badges depicting numerous crests and qualifications, and on the breast a white athlete carried the Olympic torch. The legs were tucked into new white football socks, neatly folded at his ankles, and his football boots were polished as black and shiny as the bombs used by assassins in comic strips. The laces binding them had been scrubbed white, and both boots had been fastened identically: two loops of the foot and one of the ankle, and tied in a neat bow under the tab at the back.

  He finished counting and rolled a football off the window sill into his hand. The leather was rich with dubbin, and the new orange lace nipped the slit as firmly as a row of surgical stitches. He tossed it up and caught it on the ends of his fingers, then turned round to Billy.

  ‘Skyving again, Casper?’

  ‘No, Sir, Mr Farthing wanted me; he’s been talking to me.’

  ‘I bet that was stimulating for him, wasn’t it?’

  ‘What does that mean, Sir?’

  ‘The conversation, lad, what do you think it means?’

  ‘No, Sir, that word, stimult… stimult-ting.’

  ‘Stimulating you fool, S-T-I-M-I-L-A-T-I-N-G, stimulating! ’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Well get changed lad, you’re two weeks late already!’

  He lifted the e
lastic webbing of one cuff and rotated his fist to look at his watch on the underside of his wrist.

  ‘Some of us want a game even if you don’t.’

  ‘I’ve no kit, Sir.’

  Mr Sugden stepped back and slowly looked Billy up and down, his top lip curling.

  ‘Casper, you make me SICK.’

  ‘SICK’ penetrated the hub-bub, which immediately decreased as the boys stopped their own conversations and turned their attention to Mr Sugden and Billy.

  ‘Every lesson it’s the same old story, “Please, Sir, I’ve no kit.”’

  The boys tittered at his whipped-dog whining impersonation.

  ‘Every lesson for four years! And in all that time you’ve made no attempt whatsoever to get any kit, you’ve skyved and scrounged and borrowed and…’

  He tried this lot on one breath, and his ruddy complexion heightened and glowed like a red balloon as he held his breath and fought for another verb.

  ‘… and… BEG…’ The balloon burst and the pronunciation of the verb disintegrated.

  ‘Why is it that everyone else can get some but you can’t?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sir. My mother won’t buy me any. She says it’s a waste of money, especially now that I’m leaving.’

  ‘You haven’t been leaving for four years, have you?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘You could have bought some out of your spending money, couldn’t you?’

  ‘I don’t like football, Sir.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sir. Anyway I don’t get enough.’

  ‘Get a job then. I don’t…’

  ‘I’ve got one, Sir.’

  ‘Well then! You get paid, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. But I have to gi’ it to my mam. I’m still payin’ her for my fines, like instalments every week.’

  Mr Sugden bounced the ball on Billy’s head, compressing his neck into his shoulders.

  ‘Well you should keep out of trouble then, lad, and then…’

  ‘I haven’t been in trouble, Sir, not…’

  ‘Shut up, lad! Shut up, before you drive me crackers!’

  He hit Billy twice with the ball, holding it between both hands as though he was murdering him with a boulder. The rest of the class grinned behind each other’s backs, or placed their fingers over their mouths to suppress the laughter gathering there. They watched Mr Sugden rush into his changing room, and began to giggle, stopping immediately he reappeared waving a pair of giant blue drawers.