Flying Tips for Flightless Birds

by Kelly McCaughrain

  “Hi, Sinead.” I meet her in the lane and we walk back towards the house together.

  “Well, don’t look so thrilled to see me.”

  “Sorry, I am, really. It’s just, I was expecting Hector. Sort of.”

  Actually, seeing Sinead is making me feel better. I’d forgotten we’re friends now, and if I’m friends with her and she’s friends with Hector, then he and I can’t really avoid each other. Maybe she’ll come to the show tonight and we can all hang out after, and maybe he’ll be in such a good mood after the performance that maybe—

  “Yeah, about that,” Sinead says. She looks uncomfortable. “Hector sent me with this.” She hands me a stuffed rucksack. Hector’s rucksack.

  “What is it?”

  “Props,” she says. “Hector’s not coming tonight.”

  My stomach takes a ten-metre, net-less dive.

  “What? He’s bailing on me! On us! How could he do this!”

  “No, no!” Sinead flaps her hands at me. “He wants to come, he really does, but he can’t.”

  “Did he break both his legs! And his neck!”

  “Worse – he told his dad about the show. And about lying to him. About everything. He’s grounded, effective immediately.”

  I collapse on the garden wall, dazed. This is a disaster. This is The End.

  Sinead sits beside me. “What are you going to do?” she says.

  I stare blankly at her. What can I do? Cancel the whole thing? Refund the tickets? Lose Franconis’?

  There’s only one option. “I have to save the show,” I say helplessly, not even knowing what that means.

  “Are you going to do your trapeze act?”

  Hmm. I guess I always had this fantasy about me and Birdie swooping in (literally) to save the day, save Franconis’, with our trapeze act, but it’s not going to happen that way. Even if Birdie were here, it wouldn’t be enough. Hector was our only shot. He’s in half the acts, he ties the rest of them together with his skits between performances, kids love him – everyone loves him. The show just isn’t going to work without him.

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’m going to rescue Hector.”

  Hector’s still not answering his phone; it’s probably been confiscated. So I go over there, clinging to the hedgerows in case his dad sees me out of a window. I scale a neighbour’s wall and creep around the edges of the garden, not really knowing what I’m doing. But if I go to the door, his dad will send me away. My only hope is that Hector will see me and come outside.

  When I get to the back of the house, I try pinging his bedroom window with grit but there’s no response. I go back round the side via the bushes and then I spot him in the attic window. Of course.

  He’s at his desk and doesn’t look up. I don’t know if I can throw that high but I lift another handful of grit. Just then his mum appears at a window right in front of me. I dive into a bush. She sits down with a cup of tea and a book. Great.

  I creep round to the front, then right around the house, looking for open windows, open doors, like a burglar, but there’s nothing. I end up on the opposite side of the house to the attic window. There are no windows at all on this side, so at least his parents can’t see me, but it means Hector can’t see me either.

  This is hopeless. I slump against the trunk of a tree, let my head sink back against the bark and stare up through the branches arching high over the garden, the neighbour’s garden, the roofs of the houses.

  The roof.

  I’m kicking my shoes and socks off and shrugging out of my hoodie before I’m even aware of what I’m doing. Then I’m shinning the tree trunk, pulling myself up on sawn-off stumps and knots until I reach the proper branches further up. I stand on the lowest branch and peer upwards through the dense leaves, assessing my chances. The tree must be as old as Little Murragh. It towers over the house, and the branches are thick and sturdy, but they’re spaced out and it’s not going to be an easy climb.

  Unless you happen to be able to fly.

  I scale my way up as far as I can, and when I come to a gap that’s too big, I stand on the branch, balancing carefully, bend my knees and make a leap for the branch above, grabbing it with one hand, then the other, and dangling there like a Christmas ornament. I start swinging so I’ve got a bit of momentum, flip upside down, bring my legs between my arms, and hook my knees over the branch. Then I pull myself up to a sitting position. I wish Birdie were here to see this; I can almost hear her cheering from below (I can also hear Dad having an apoplectic fit).

  I stand on the branch, feeling it sway and bob beneath my weight as though it wants to throw me higher. The air feels different up here; there’s something so peaceful about height. I’ve missed it, and suddenly I’m itching to get back on the trapeze.

  But not right now. Right now is about Hector.

  I make another leap, then shin around the trunk to some denser branches on the other side, then back to the house side, searching out footholds, feeling more confident. I’m almost there. Another gap, another leap.

  This time I miss. I touch the bark but it comes away in my hand and I’m falling.

  The reason people fall out of trees is because they’re only thinking about two things: the branch they’re reaching for, and the ground below. But the trapeze is all about spatial awareness. I’m surrounded by options, and the ground is the only one I’m not thinking about. I know without looking that there’s a branch just below me, to my right, for example, and I’m hooking one arm for it even as the other still grapples for the one I missed. I hit hard, with my full body weight, my chest crashing against it as I grab hold. It’s not as sturdy as the other branches; it dips and creaks as I swing there, reinflating my flattened lungs, but it holds, and I swing myself up and start again.

  Shake it off, Finch. Keep going.

  When I get level with the roof of the house, there’s another problem. The branches almost overhang the tiles but they’re much thinner out there and they’d snap under my weight. I can’t just walk along them and step onto the roof; I’ll have to go higher and then jump across. If I get high enough, I can swing and launch myself that bit further, but that also means further to fall.

  I climb to a branch about three metres above the roof and dangle there from my hands, starting to swing, pumping my legs to give me more momentum. I can see most of Little Murragh from here. I can see the road to my house and the road out of town. I could still back out of this. I could climb down and go home and try to salvage the show as best I can.

  Or I could do the crazy thing. Which is what Hector would do for me.

  I put all the forward I’ve got into one last push, and let go, hitting the roof tiles with a thump and centimetres to spare.

  The next bit is really Wren’s department: high wire. Usually, I wouldn’t attempt it without a balance pole and a safety net, but the slope of the roof on either side of the ridge is steep and slippery with moss, and I reckon my only chance of reaching Hector is to walk the ridge pole. I stand, shaky from the climb, on the very apex of the roof, arms out on either side, feeling the cold breeze on the back of my sweaty neck. I look out across the eight metres of narrow tile in front of me.

  Lou used to do this to freak out the neighbours. Well, she said it was to freak out the neighbours. Probably she was just homesick. She was a fearless wire walker in her day, and I wish now I’d asked her more about it. What would she tell me if she were standing here with me? The only thing that comes to mind, the only piece of advice she’s ever offered me, is: “You’re a Franconi, Finch.”

  I nod at the invisible Lou, and start putting one foot in front of the other.

  About a million miles, a chimney stack and a close encounter with a seagull later, I reach the other end of the house. The attic window is directly below me and it has a deep sill, but I’m going to need the window to be open when I lower myself down to it. Hoping Hector hasn’t gone back to his bedroom, I lie on my belly on the ro
of, dangle my head down over the edge as far as I dare, and knock politely on the glass.

  Hector falls off his chair.

  “What the…! And how the…!” Hector splutters as I pull myself through the window. “You are insane!” he hisses.

  “Nice to see you too.”

  I grin at him, but he doesn’t grin back. Instead he goes to the far corner of the attic and sits on the floor, his back to the wall, and says, “What are you doing here?”

  He thinks he’s hiding it, but the bin by his desk is full of tissues and he’s sitting at the dark end of the attic to hide his eyes. He’s been crying.

  I sit down in front of him. “Look, it’s OK, I’m going to get you out of here. I mean, I don’t know how, unless you know a way to sneak through the house, because there’s no way you’re walking the ridge pole and going down that tree. What if we—”

  “Finch, I can’t go anywhere.”

  “I know you’re grounded but we can sneak out. Unless … oh my God, he hasn’t locked you in here, has he? In the attic!”

  Hector rolls his eyes. “God, you’re such a drama queen. My dad’s not a fricking ogre! I just came up here to be alone for a while.”

  “So we can sneak out then.”

  “No! I’m not sneaking around any more. Look, you can’t be here, you’ll make it worse.”

  “How can it be worse? You’re going to miss the show. I can’t believe you’d do that!”

  “That’s all you’re worried about, isn’t it? The show. Franconis’. I’m sorry but I have bigger stuff going on. You don’t even need me.”

  “Of course we need you, you’re our clown.”

  “You have a clown. You’re a clown. You can fill in for me with the other performers and you’ll just have to cancel our double act. You never wanted to do it anyway.” He folds his arms around his knees and rests his head on them. He might be crying again.

  I put a hand out. I want to put an arm round him, squeeze his shoulder, something. There’s a whole bunch of stuff I wanted to apologize for, but now I can’t remember the words and I feel awkward. And anyway, this is about his dad, not me, and I don’t know what to do, so I just take my hand back and sit there feeling useless.

  I guess he’s right; we could do the show without him. I’ve watched his routines a million times, and if I was out there with the other performers, I could probably manage it. I could make that fantasy come true; I could be the hero and save the show, save Franconis’.

  But that’s not why I’m here. That’s not why I climbed that tree and walked that slippery ridge pole. Suddenly I don’t care about the show half as much as I care that Hector is mad at me. And that he’s crying. And that he’s worked bloody hard for this and he’ll be gutted if he misses it.

  And suddenly I know that Hector’s not half as mad at me as I am at his dad.

  “I’m going to talk to him.”

  “What? What are you doing?”

  I’m opening the attic door, that’s what I’m doing. I’m walking down the stairs and I’m shouting, “Mr Hazzard? Are you there?”

  “Finch! Don’t!” Hector tries to hold me back, but the noise of us arguing just brings Mr H into the downstairs hall anyway.

  He frowns as we come down the stairs. “Finchley?” As if I might be a mirage. “Hector, you’re supposed to be grounded – that means no friends round.”

  “I sneaked in, Mr Hazzard. I mean Reverend Hazzard. Father Hazzard?” I haven’t been inside a church since … actually, ever. We’re just not that kind of family. “It’s not Hector’s fault.”

  “He’s just leaving,” Hector says.

  “Yeah, but I need to talk to your dad first,” I hiss at him.

  “How did you get in, Finchley? I didn’t hear the door. Are your hands bleeding?”

  “Oh. Yeah. Well, the bark was rough.” My jeans are torn too and there are red scrapes down the lengths of my bare arms. I suck the blood off my fingers and say, “I climbed the tree and came over the roof.”

  “What!”

  “It’s OK, I’m a professional.”

  But he looks like he prefers Hector’s word. Insane.

  “I should call your parents.”

  Why do parents think parents should be involved in everything?

  “No, they’re busy, they’re at the warehouse. That’s why I’m here; the show is tonight and we need Hector.”

  “I’m sorry, but Hector lied to us and now he’s grounded.”

  “But the show is only for one night! Can’t you let him out for one night?”

  “If punishments were conditional, they wouldn’t be very effective, would they?”

  “But he’s worked so hard!”

  “Finch, just leave it,” Hector says. His mum is watching from the living-room doorway now too.

  “I won’t leave it! You have worked hard and you’re really good and you deserve this; it’s not fair!”

  “I’m sure Hector appreciates you trying to help, Finchley, but all that has nothing to do with the fact that he wasn’t honest with us. I’m sorry but I’ve made my decision.”

  My eyes narrow. I can’t make Mr Hazzard do anything, but I’m not about to let him punish Hector for lying and then stand there and lie to us himself.

  “You’re right, it doesn’t have anything to do with it,” I say. “And the fact that he lied has nothing to do with why he’s grounded, does it? It’s because you don’t like me. I don’t know why, but you don’t like Franconis’ and you don’t approve of me. That’s why he’s not allowed to do the show, isn’t it?”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Finch, please just leave it!” Hector is pulling me towards the door now. “You’ll just make it worse. It’s complicated.”

  “No, it’s not, it’s pretty simple.” Hector opens the front door, but I turn back to the Rev and say, “I mean, I get it. Sometimes you don’t like stuff that other people want to do, and you think you know what’s best for them and you want to protect them.” I guess I’m thinking about Birdie dating James now, and I can’t stop myself rambling. “But if you care about someone…” I look at Hector, because this is the best I can do for an apology and I hope he gets that when I say “If you care about someone” I mean “I care about you”. “If you care about someone, you just have to let them do what makes them happy.”

  I’m waiting for Mr H to chuck me out but he just stands there, and for a second I think he’s even going to change his mind. But then Hector takes my arm and pulls me to the front door.

  “You shouldn’t have come, Finch.”

  “I’m just trying to help!”

  “Well, I didn’t ask you to!”

  “But—”

  “Please. Just go.”

  On my way home to get cleaned up, I pass Lou and Jay pushing a rusty wheelbarrow full of bags of popcorn onto the bus.

  Maybe everyone’s right. Maybe my family are so completely freakish that I have no idea how normal families work. Maybe in normal families you don’t clamber over people’s roofs covered in blood and accuse their dads of being hypocritical dictators.

  Maybe I’ve just made everything worse. Hector’s still mad at me and now I’ve got him into even more trouble.

  As I walk to the warehouse later, I try to psych myself up for performing, running through Hector’s routines and cues in my head, but my rucksack of props feels like it weighs a ton, my body is stiff and my feet drag. This is not good. Clowns pretending to be sad can be funny. Clowns who are actually sad? So not.

  The worst thing is, this is a completely familiar feeling. I’ve done it again, haven’t I? Dared to like someone, dared to let them know it. And then had the door slammed in my face. At least I didn’t get beaten up this time.

  No, it feels worse than that.

  Wren and Janie have attached signs to every lamp post between the town centre and the warehouse saying:

  FRANCONIS’ CIRCUS THIS WAY!

  No, you’re not lost, it actually IS in an industrial esta
te!

  Jay has set up a laptop with Skype so Birdie can watch from the hospital, and he’s been posting “Circus tonight!” every fifteen minutes on every social media site in existence.

  I arrive half an hour before the doors are due to open. Everything is set up and there’s a hum of conversation, laughter and panic in the air. I sit alone in a dressing cubicle backstage, pulling on my clown gear, listening to snatches of conversation from the groups of performers as they do last-minute rehearsals, check their props, lose bits of their costumes.

  “No, no, it’s one, two, three, four. And when she does the somersault, catch her this time!”

  “Has anyone seen a pink feather boa? No, that’s peach, it won’t go with my baseball boots.”

  “Is that my beanbag?”

  “This is definitely not your beanbag, this is my beanbag.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s my beanbag.”

  “All beanbags are identical, dude.”

  “Then how can you be sure it’s your beanbag!”

  “Py! Set that down this minute, you are not pouring lighter fluid around the ring!”

  “But Mr S!”

  “And tell the Tots Acrobats to give those matches back right now!”

  At 7.30 sharp the doors open.

  And nothing happens.

  “Give it time, give it time,” Dad mutters, running back and forth with his lighting diagrams.

  I can’t take the strain. I climb the trapeze rigging and sit on the platform, watching the black curtain that separates the front doors from the performance space. It’s the first time I’ve been up here since Birdie’s accident. From down there the platform looked so far from the ground, but now I’m up here, it doesn’t feel far enough.

  And then someone walks through the curtain.