Fly, Cherokee, Fly

by Chris D'Lacey

  There, tacked up on to the glass, was a huge and slightly faded poster. ‘The Anatomy of a Racing Pigeon’ was its title. It showed a picture of a typical racing bird with annotations pointing out all its body parts. There were some brilliant diagrams of the pigeon skeleton and all sorts of insets about where pigeons came from and what breeds there were. I checked the price: 95p.

  ‘I’m having that for the project,’ said Garry, slipping his sports bag off his shoulder and digging about in his pockets for the cash.

  ‘I saw it first,’ I said, put out.

  ‘Tough.’ He flashed a pound coin at me. Before I could catch him, he’d dashed into the shop.

  While he was gone I looked at the rest of the window display. There were loads of books about wild birds, all carefully arranged on little stands. There was nothing else about racing pigeons, nothing in a book at any rate. But on a board just behind the furthest row of books were three small watercolour paintings – all of pigeons. I was squinting at them, trying to read the name of the artist, when Garry came out and bopped me on the head with the rolled-up poster.

  ‘These pictures are good.’ I pointed at the paintings.

  ‘Boring,’ Garry sniffed and bopped me again.

  I could see what he meant. The pictures were colourful and very lifelike, but they were portraits, really, like photographs of someone’s favourite birds. I let myself imagine a painting of Cherokee on my bedroom wall, but I couldn’t imagine paying the price. Twenty-nine pounds for a picture of a bird? At even half my pocket-money, that would take at least…

  I jumped back in shock. As I’d turned away from the window of Spines, trying to do twenty-nine pounds divided by two pounds fifty in my head, I’d collided with a group of older boys. They were wearing the grey and yellow ties of our uniform, but I didn’t recognise any of them. I guessed they were fourth-formers. One of them was linking arms with a girl. Another one stubbed out a cigarette.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled to the one I’d bumped into.

  ‘You will be,’ he said, ‘if you try that again.’ He had long black hair flowing over his collar and eyes like the points of a powerful magnet. I moved backwards a little, nearer to Garry.

  ‘What’s he carrying?’ the girl piped up. All five faces turned to Garry. Garry, stupidly, tried to hide the poster behind his back.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It’s a poster,’ said the boy with the cigarette packet. ‘He’s got a poster. I bet it’s his favourite pop star, aah.’

  ‘Let’s have a look, then,’ the girl said to Garry.

  Garry started to tremble.

  ‘You heard her. Unroll it,’ said the boy I’d bumped into. There was ice in his voice. Garry shook his head, scared.

  ‘Unroll it,’ sneered the boy, lunging forward. His hand gripped Garry under the chin.

  ‘Cuff him, Warren,’ one of them laughed.

  ‘Get off him!’ I shouted, tugging Warren’s arm. ‘It’s only a picture of a bird. Get off!’

  Warren flung out his arm and bundled me aside. ‘Bird?’ he snarled, grabbing my tie. He trod on my toes and I squealed with pain.

  ‘A pigeon,’ I blurted, covering my head, sure he was going to thump me at any second. ‘We have to do it for a project at school.’

  Warren lifted his foot. I felt the flat of his hand press into my chest. The next thing I knew I was flying backwards. Wham! I hit the bookshop wall with a thump and crumpled to the ground in a sorry heap.

  Suddenly, the bookshop door flew open and a frail old man with a goatee beard and a satin waistcoat appeared at my side. He didn’t look any stronger than a blade of grass, but he wasn’t afraid to speak his mind. ‘Clear away, you lot! Go on! Hoppit!’

  ‘Get lost, grandad,’ somebody muttered.

  ‘You watch your lip,’ the old man threatened. ‘Another ten seconds and I ring the law.’

  But Warren and his gang didn’t care about the law. They gestured rudely with fingers and hands and sidled off up Great Elms Road, flapping their arms and doing impressions of pigeons cooing. As they crossed the road I heard Warren howl. ‘Useless!’ he cried. ‘Not even close.’ Before anyone could try again a bus pulled up and they sprinted for it.

  ‘Good riddance,’ the man from the bookshop muttered. Together, he and Garry helped me back to my feet. ‘You all right, son?’ he said, dusting my shoulders. I nodded. The old man looked relieved. ‘You should try and steer clear of thugs like that. He’s a nasty bit of work that one with the hair.’

  ‘Do you know him?’ asked Garry.

  ‘Oh yes,’ replied the man, gritting his teeth. ‘Spigott, his name is. Warren Spigott.’

  ‘Spigott!’ Garry’s mouth fell open in shock. He looked more scared than he had before.

  The old bookseller hummed to himself. ‘The shame of it is, if you knew his father you’d never believe he could spawn such a lout.’

  But we could. We knew all about Lenny Spigott. The unkind, unthoughtful, uncaring man who liked to wring the necks of helpless birds. Lenny and Warren: like father, like son. I clenched my fists and turned my face towards Great Elms Road. Warren’s gang had boarded the single-decker bus and were shuffling along it like bubbles through a pipe. It pulled away as they found their seats – and disappeared up the Barrowmoor Road.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘I thought he was going to kill you,’ said Garry as we stepped into the kitchen and banged the door shut.

  I glanced up the hall. The door to the lounge was slightly open, the sound of the television leaking through it. ‘Don’t say anything to Mum,’ I whispered. ‘If she finds out we got picked on by Warren Spigott she’ll be down to Mr Blundell and then we’ll be for it because everyone at school will think we’re cissies.’

  ‘Don’t care, he’s bigger than us,’ Garry shuddered. ‘What we gonna do if he comes looking for us in the playground?’

  I grabbed two beakers off the drainer and made us each a drink of orange squash. It was just my luck to have Warren flipping Spigott going to our school. Double bad luck to get bullied by him. ‘You’d better not tell about Cherokee, Gazza. If he finds out, he’ll probably kill her himself.’

  Garry sagged on a stool and sipped his squash. ‘He can’t get her now. She’s yours. He’d be stealing.’

  ‘Who’d be stealing?’ Mum appeared from the shadows of the hall.

  ‘No one,’ I said, trying not to sound too awkward. I turned to the cupboard to get a straw. I could feel Mum’s gaze boring holes in my back.

  ‘I should hope not,’ she said, in a solemn sort of voice. ‘If I thought either of you were involved in—’

  ‘We’re not stealing!’ I shouted, turning quickly and slopping juice across the kitchen table.

  Mum stared at me hard. ‘All right,’ she said, barely moving her lips. ‘Now get a cloth, please, and clean up that mess.’ She pointed at the juice. I sighed and grabbed a cloth.

  ‘What’s that?’ she said as I moved the poster to wipe up the spill.

  ‘We didn’t steal it if that’s what you think.’

  Mum banged a hand down hard on the worktop. ‘Don’t you get sarky with me, young man. I asked a simple question, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s a poster,’ Garry said, drawing the heat. Mum obligingly turned his way. He picked the poster up and slid the rubber band off. Then he rolled it out like a tablecloth.

  Mum blinked in surprise. ‘Oh,’ she said. She seemed disappointed that she hadn’t uncovered some master plan.

  ‘We have to do a project for English,’ I explained, still in a rather sullen voice.

  ‘About pigeons,’ Garry added.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mum. ‘Did you borrow this from the library, then?’

  ‘We bought it,’ said Garry. ‘It’s research, Mrs Otterwell.’

  Even I blinked in surprise at that. I didn’t know Garry knew words like ‘research’.

  ‘I see.’ Mum ran a hand through her hair. ‘Well…good,’ she said approvingly. ‘That’s very…encour
aging.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I muttered, just for something to say.

  Mum cleared her throat and opened the freezer. ‘We’re having chicken drumsticks for tea tonight. They’ll be ready in half an hour, OK?’

  ‘Brilliant,’ chirped Garry.

  Mum immediately frowned. ‘Don’t your parents feed you at home?’

  ‘’Course,’ he said ‘We always have oven chips as well with drumsticks.’ He drained his glass and jumped off the stool.

  ‘We’re going to feed Cherokee now,’ I said.

  ‘Fine,’ Mum muttered into the recesses of the freezer. ‘I suppose she’ll be wanting oven chips as well…’

  When we were safely out of earshot, Garry commented, ‘She’s weird, your mum.’

  ‘She’s all right,’ I said. ‘Except when she starts going on about school.’

  Garry nodded sagely, as if he knew that situation only too well. Then his face brightened up and he changed the subject. ‘Are we going to bring Cherokee out again tonight?’

  I looked at the sky. It was slightly overcast but there wasn’t even a hint of rain. For the last three nights I’d been bringing Cherokee out into the garden, encouraging her to settle in my lap and feeding her corn from the palm of my hand. She had grown a lot stronger since those first few days. There was a sparkle in her eye when she looked at her surroundings, and she could stand and walk like a normal bird, too. Once, daringly, I’d actually set her down on the lawn. She’d pottered around for nearly a minute until Mr Simmons next door had made a noise. Then she had squatted and spread her wings as if she was ready to spring into the sky. I’d panicked and snatched her up right away. I hadn’t taken any more risks after that.

  I unlatched the shed and went inside. Garry followed me in and stood in the doorway. He was muttering on about the poster and the project when I silenced him with a shocked gasp. Cherokee’s box was not on the workbench. It had somehow tumbled off to one side and was lying wedged between the corner of the bench and the panelled wall of the shed itself. The flaps of the box were pointing downwards. I knew without looking she wasn’t inside.

  ‘Shut the door!’ I shouted. ‘And be careful where you’re standing!’

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘Gazza, shut the door!’

  I pointed to the box. Garry recognised the danger and did as instructed.

  Slowly I crouched down into the shadows. ‘She’s on the floor somewhere. She might be hurt. You check behind the mower; I’ll look behind the workbench.’

  For several minutes we searched in vain, crawling about on our hands and knees and poking our fingers into all the little places a pigeon might squeeze its hollow-boned body. We found nothing. Not a single feather.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ said Garry after the second sweep. ‘If she’s not on the floor, where can she be?’

  And then, suddenly, he did get it – though not in the way either of us expected. Something hit his arm with a moist splat. Instinctively, he put his hand out to feel it. ‘Ugh,’ he said, ‘she’s poohed on me!’

  My heart nearly burst from the centre of my chest. I raised my eyes and the mystery was solved. We’d been looking for Cherokee in entirely the wrong place. She wasn’t on the floor.

  She was perched in the rafters.

  Chapter Nine

  I went tearing up the garden like a human comet, Garry trailing just behind.

  ‘Steady on!’ Dad complained as we burst into the kitchen. He was having his home-from-work clinch with Mum and looked a bit embarrassed, not to say annoyed, at the sudden explosion of noise.

  ‘She can FLY!’ I panted.

  ‘Who can?’ said Dad.

  ‘Cherokee!’ I clamoured. ‘Cherokee can fly.’

  Garry explained and displayed the evidence.

  ‘Oh, that’s going to please your mother,’ Mum wittered, and dragged him sleeve-first straight to the tap.

  ‘I want to see Cherokee fly!’ begged Natalie, trying to tug lumps out of Dad’s best shirt.

  ‘In a minute,’ said Dad, patting her hand. ‘How did she get from the box by herself?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ I puffed. ‘She just knocked it over. Unless…Nat! Have you been playing games in the shed?’

  ‘I never,’ she squealed, clutching Dad’s leg.

  Dad hugged her to him and frowned at me as if I ought to know better. ‘Where’s Cherokee now?’

  ‘Still in the shed.’

  ‘She didn’t try to get away,’ Garry piped up. ‘She could easily have flown out over my head.’

  ‘Stand still,’ said Mum, yanking his arm.

  ‘I never, I never, I never,’ stamped Natalie.

  ‘Hush,’ Dad soothed her. ‘Go watch the cartoons.’ Natalie nodded and, pausing momentarily to stick her tongue out at me, skipped up the hall. Dad slipped off his jacket and hung it on the door. ‘Well, she’s obviously been feeling a bit confined. If she’s flapped around enough to knock a fair-sized cardboard box off the workbench, she must be getting pretty frustrated in there.’

  ‘Can’t we get a proper box for her, Dad?’ I bit my nails and glanced at Mum. She looked at Dad with her eyebrows raised.

  Dad said, ‘It’s not the answer, Darryl. The bird is used to the open sky.’

  ‘I’m not going to let her go!’

  ‘Darryl,’ Mum growled.

  ‘You promised!’ I shouted.

  ‘Calm down,’ said Dad, having a drink of water.

  ‘Nobody said you have to let her go. But the situation’s changed. We didn’t anticipate this. I think you ought to give Mr Duckins a ring. Tell him what’s happened and ask his advice. In the meantime…’ he glanced at Garry’s wetted arm, ‘someone cover my mower with a sheet.’

  ‘Fly?’ said Alf as if he was surprised that any bird could be capable of it. ‘How far’s she gone?’

  ‘Not far,’ I mumbled and told him the story. A bellow of laughter rattled down the phone.

  ‘So, she’s a tough ’un after all,’ he chortled. ‘Spigott said she had plenty of grit.’

  I ground my teeth at the mention of the Spigotts and moved him away from the subject fast. ‘Is it wrong to keep her in a box, Mr Duckins – now that she can fly round properly, I mean?’

  ‘Well, she’ll be happier if she can come and go as she pleases,’Alf grunted. ‘How much room have you got in this shed?’

  ‘Loads.’

  ‘Well, then, get your dad to knock up a couple of perches and leave the box open during the day. You can give her a toss in the evenings for exercise.’

  ‘Do what?’ hissed Garry, contorting his head to try and get his ear a bit nearer the phone.

  ‘You mean…?’ But I knew what Alf meant. I just didn’t want to say it.

  ‘Aye, five or ten minutes. Nothing too lively. Throw her up and let her have a little look around, then rattle the food tin and call her back.’

  ‘But…?’ A twisting sensation of fear gripped my stomach. My fingers tightened around the phone.

  Alf seemed to guess what was in my mind. ‘She’s a homing pigeon. She’ll come back.’

  I thanked Alf and rested the phone on the hook.

  ‘Great!’ exclaimed Garry, as perky as a prairie dog. ‘Are you gonna do it? Are you gonna let her fly?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ I muttered, looking down into my lap.

  ‘Aw, come on-nn,’ he pressed, curling his lip. ‘It’ll be brilliant – like having a remote-controlled plane.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I murmured. I was just as excited as he was really. But terror was blanking the feeling out. I kept hearing Mr Duckins’ voice in my mind: she’s a homing pigeon. She’ll come back. That was the problem. I knew she’d come back. She was a Wonderbird. She had cheated death. But when I set her free, which home would she return to?

  Our garden shed?

  Or Lenny Spigott’s loft?

  Chapter Ten

  ‘There – are – lots – of – different – types – of – pigeons. There – are – fancy – pigeons �
�� and – racing – pigeons – and – feral – pigeons. The – one – that – Darryl – and – me – found – in – the – park – was – a – racing – pigeon…’

  ‘Just – a – second – Garry,’ Mr Tompkins mimicked. ‘You – don’t – have – to – do – it – in – such – a – robotic – voice.’ He swung his legs off the desk and paced up the classroom, waving his hands around like an actor. ‘Public speaking is a creative art. It’s all about captivating your audience and convincing them of your point of view. At the end of the speech we should all want to share your enthusiasm for the subject. So put a little bit of passion into it. Make it clear to the class just how much you love these birds.’

  ‘But I don’t,’ Garry said. ‘I love football, sir.’

  Everybody laughed.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ Mr Tompkins sighed.

  Garry nodded and went back to his notes. ‘Racing pigeons are very intelligent. They can find their way home from long distances, as far away as 500 miles, but nobody really knows how they do it. Some people think they have a magnet in their head. Some other people think they naver-naver…’

  ‘Navigate,’ Mr Tompkins prompted.

  ‘…finding a path by the sun or the stars. During the First World War, pigeons were used to carry messages. My grandad told me that.’

  Everybody laughed again. ‘Shush,’ said Mr Tompkins.

  Garry went on. ‘The pigeon is a very light bird. It only weighs a few hundred grams, but its wings are strong and capable of beating fast enough to carry it at speeds of up to 70 miles per hour.’

  ‘That’s faster than our car!’ Connor Dorley piped up.

  ‘Let him speak,’ Mr Tompkins tutted. ‘Go on, Garry. This is very interesting.’

  Garry walked to the blackboard where we’d taped up the poster we’d bought in Spines. ‘This is what a pigeon looks like inside.’ He used a stick to point to a drawing of the skeleton. ‘It has hollow bones which are very brittle. It has a big puffy bit at the front of its chest called a crop. This is a bit like a stomach. Pigeons eat hard food like maize and maple peas and wheat. They also eat grit.’