Fly, Cherokee, Fly

by Chris D'Lacey

  ‘Her wing was broken!’ Garry piped up.

  ‘Shut it!’ snapped Warren. ‘I’m asking him.’ He shook me so hard my pen fell from my pocket. ‘Does she fly?’ he growled.

  I kept my mouth shut.

  ‘Well?’ roared Warren, winding up his grip. He stretched me on to tiptoes and I started to gag.

  ‘Yes!’ squealed Garry. ‘She flies! Let him go!’

  There was silence a for moment. Warren glared at my face then shoved me away. ‘You thieved her,’ he sneered.

  ‘Didn’t,’ I coughed.

  ‘Yeah, you did,’ he said. ‘Took her away under false pretences. My dad’s the rightful owner of that bird. And you know what I think?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘I think if he knew she could fly again, he’d want her back. I’m gonna tell him where she is…’

  ‘No!’ I shouted.

  ‘She’s ours!’ hailed Garry.

  ‘Butt out, you! I haven’t finished.’ Warren looked around and bit the side of his thumb. ‘I’m gonna tell him everything I know – unless…’

  ‘Unless what?’ I gulped.

  Warren’s dark eyes narrowed. He grabbed me again and our noses touched. ‘Unless…you become my slave,’ he whispered.

  ‘S-slave?’

  He nodded and made our foreheads clunk. ‘You do as I say. You get what I want, or the bird…’ He made a squawking noise. I closed my eyes and a tear ran out. ‘Understand me, squirt?’

  ‘Yes,’ I sobbed.

  ‘Good,’ said Warren, grinning at Ginger. He straightened his cuffs and pushed me away. ‘See you around then – slave.’

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Have you noticed anything strange about Darryl, lately?’

  I froze in my tracks. It was ten o’clock at night. I was sneaking downstairs for a chocolate biscuit when I heard Mum’s voice through the front-room door.

  ‘He was wearing odd socks yesterday,’ Dad said, almost drowned out by the TV news. I crept up and pressed my ear to the door.

  ‘That’s normal,’ Mum laughed. ‘I mean strange as in…distant. I’ve been noticing it now for the past couple of weeks. He seems a bit…I don’t know, lost in himself. As if there might be something he can’t work out. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something wrong. I know there is.’

  I squeezed my eyes shut and raised my fist to my mouth, biting hard on the side of my finger like cowboys bite bullets when they’re having an arrow pulled out of their chest. I had an arrow in my chest as well. It was called Warren Spigott, but I couldn’t pull it out.

  ‘Well it can’t be school,’ I heard Dad say, ‘if what Mr Tompkins told you is right.’

  I could almost see Mum’s eyebrows knitting. I listened hard, hoping I’d hear what Mr Tompkins had said.

  ‘Suppose not,’ Mum murmured. ‘He was gushing with praise about that pigeon project. I don’t know. Darryl…he’s just not responding properly. Do you know what I mean? He’s wandering around in a trance some days. And he spends such a lot of time in the garden at he moment. Come the winter, he’s going to freeze into a gnome.’

  Dad chuckled. The TV went dead with a gentle poom. The silence seemed to bring Dad closer to the door.

  ‘You can’t say he isn’t looking after the bird. He’s devoted to it. It’s changed his life.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mum agreed. ‘But how? That’s the problem.’ She let out a sigh. ‘I’m telling you, Tim. I know that boy. Something isn’t right with him.’

  Dad clicked his tongue. The settee creaked as he sank back into it. ‘Well, all we can do is keep an eye on things. If there is a problem, we’ll spot it soon enough. He’ll perk up when you’ve taken him to Weaver’s.’

  Weaver’s? I pulled away from the door. What was Weaver’s? It sounded horribly like a dentist or a doctor.

  ‘I hope so,’ Mum said. ‘It should be quite an experience. I’ve never been to a basket works before.’

  A basket works? What was going on? I felt uncomfortably like a cat that was being told it was off to the V-E-T’s for a snip.

  ‘By the way,’ Mum added, as I was about to tiptoe back to my room to look up ‘basket works’ in my school dictionary, ‘did you have five pounds from my bag this morning?’

  I froze dead on my toes.

  ‘Not guilty,’ said Dad in a tone of clear denial. ‘I had a couple of quid from the phone tin at the weekend. Nothing from your purse.’

  ‘Umm,’ Mum went. ‘I must be going dotty. I was sure I had three fivers in my change from Shopwise.’

  ‘You could have dropped one?’ Dad suggested. ‘It’s easily done.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Mum muttered. But I could tell she wasn’t sure. I knew my mum. She was like a detective. There would be all sorts of things going through her mind. I just hoped she didn’t come to the right conclusion – and make me turn out my pockets in the morning…

  I’d never stolen anything from Mum and Dad before. But I had to have the money – to pay Warren Spigott. As I crept back up to my room that night, half of me kept wanting to turn right around and bolt into the lounge and throw myself into Mum’s arms and cry, It was me, Mum. It was me. I’m sorry. It’s because…It’s because…

  But that was it. How could I tell her it was because of Warren Spigott? If I did, he’d win and Cherokee would have to go back to Barrowmoor. I couldn’t lose her now. I just couldn’t. I loved her. She was my bird. She was – and I’d been forced to steal from my parents to prove it.

  At first it hadn’t been so bad with Warren. He’d made me run errands, just stupid things like: Go and unlock Paula’s bike and wheel it to the front gates. Take this book back to the school library. Polish my shoes. Hold this mirror while I comb my hair, slave.

  Then one day, it changed. I was playing football with Garry at break-time when Warren whistled. He had what he called his ‘slave’ whistle. It was so loud you could hear it all over the school. When I heard that whistle I was supposed to run to him. I got a Chinese burn if I wasn’t at his side within a minute.

  That day, the day he turned me into a thief, I made it in time to the back of the bike sheds.

  ‘Close,’ he sneered. I put my head down and frowned. I was easily twenty seconds inside the minute. I walked up to him and bowed.

  ‘You called, sir.’ I got a punch if I didn’t do that.

  ‘See this,’ he sniffed. I raised my eyes. He squashed a Coke can flat in one hand. ‘Put it in the bin and get me another.’

  ‘Another squashed one?’ I said.

  ‘Cheeky sod,’ said Ginger, blowing smoke into the air.

  Warren’s face turned dark. ‘Don’t get smart or you’ll regret it, squirt. Get me a full one.’

  ‘Crisps, too,’ Ginger added.

  ‘Yeah, crisps,’ Warren nodded. ‘Well, go on. What you waiting for?’

  I hardly dared say it. But I had to. I was broke. ‘Money,’ I whispered, and opened my palm.

  Warren filled it with pain, slapping his clenched fist hard across my fingers. Then he went for my head, but I ducked that one. ‘You know what, squirt? My dad was only saying about that bird last night. ”I wish I still had that pied hen,” he said. I was almost tempted. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I knew what he meant. And I knew he was lying, but I couldn’t afford to take any risks.

  I couldn’t afford the pop or the crisps or the magazines or the sweets or the bus fares or the cigarettes he’d made me buy for several weeks either.

  So I’d borrowed from Garry.

  Or the phone.

  Or Mum’s purse.

  And Mum was right: I did feel lost – and sick, and ashamed. I didn’t know where it was going to end. Every morning when I woke I thought about it. I felt like I was going barmy.

  Garry sort of agreed when I rang him secretly on the Saturday morning that Mum was taking me to the basket works.

  ‘Perhaps it’s where they take basket cases,’ he hissed. ‘You know, nutters – loony people.
’

  ‘Thanks a bunch,’ I said and slammed down the phone.

  In the car, on the way, Mum was surprisingly bright. ‘Cheer up,’ she said. ‘You’ll like this, it’s a treat.’ She took her hand off the wheel and ruffled my hair.

  Some treat. I was going to a child psychiatrist or something. I folded my arms and stuck my head in my chest. ‘Where are Dad and Natalie, then?’

  Mum sighed and shook her head. ‘Honestly,’ she griped, ‘you’re so suspicious. This is my way of treating you for trying so hard at school just lately.’

  I blinked, confused.

  Mum went on, ‘Your Grandma Thornton won forty pounds on the lottery last week. She’s given twenty to you and twenty to Natalie.’

  I jumped in my seat. Twenty pounds! It was the lifeline I needed to pay off my debts. ‘Can I have it now, Mum?’

  ‘Not so fast.’ The car rolled up to a set of traffic lights. Mum glanced at me and smiled. ‘Your grandma was very interested to hear about Cherokee Wonder. I didn’t know before but your Grandad Thornton kept pigeons once. Grandma thought it would be appropriate if this twenty pounds was to go towards Cherokee—’

  ‘But—?’

  ‘—which is why we’re going to Weaver’s Basket Works.’

  I snorted rudely and flopped into my seat. ‘What’s a basket works?’ I snapped.

  ‘This,’ said Mum, taking a sharp left on to an industrial estate and then left again on to an open forecourt.

  I looked up. In front of us was a large open warehouse. Above it was a hand-painted sign with a daft cartoon of a pigeon’s head. A speech bubble was coming from the pigeon’s mouth.

  Coo, Weaver’s! Fancy that! it said.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘Well,’ asked Mum, ‘what do you think?’ She unclipped her seat-belt and let it slide across her shoulder.

  ‘Dunno,’ I shrugged.

  ‘Dunno,’ she clucked. ‘Is that the best you can do?’ She rubbed an area of the windscreen clean with a tissue. ‘You might try to show a bit more enthusiasm.’ She leaned over and spoke as if sharing a secret. ‘Apparently, you can get everything you’ve ever wanted for a pigeon in here.’

  I stared at her blankly.

  ‘Well, you keep on saying that you want to get Cherokee a roosting box.’

  ‘A nesting box.’

  ‘All right, you’re the expert – a nesting box.’ She folded her arms and shrugged in dismay. ‘Aren’t you excited? I thought you’d be mad keen to root around in there.’

  ‘I am,’ I said, trying not to sound ungrateful. ‘It’s just…well…’ I scratched a finger along the dashboard. ‘Can’t I get something else with the money?’

  Mum sighed loudly and studied me hard. ‘What is it with you at the moment, Darryl?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I mumbled, feeling uncomfortable under her glare.

  ‘Is there anything you want to tell me? Because—’ Suddenly, Mum was interrupted by a gentle tapping sound on her window. A red-faced man with wisps of grey hair clinging idly to his forehead was peering in. Mum wound her window down.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asked the man.

  ‘Mr Weaver?’ Mum prompted.

  The red face nodded. ‘What were you after?’

  Mum reached over and ruffled my hair. I tutted in embarrassment and squirmed away. ‘This is my son, Darryl,’ she said. ‘He’d like to buy a…nesting box if you have one.’

  ‘Oh I think we can manage that,’ said Mr Weaver. He stood up and dusted his hands on his overalls. ‘Come into the warehouse and I’ll show you the stock.’

  Mum smiled and wound the window up. ‘OK?’ she said.

  ‘Hmm,’ I nodded.

  ‘Cheer up,’ she whispered, touching the back of her hand against my cheek.

  ‘I’m all right,’ I said, and slid out of the car.

  As I closed the door Mr Weaver came to join me. He moved in bandy-legged, foot-swinging steps, all the while whistling and wringing his hands. ‘Don’t recall seeing you before,’ he said. ‘Which club you with, lad? Barrowmoor? Spenner Hill?’

  ‘I’m not in a club,’ I replied a bit nervously.

  ‘I think he’s a wee bit young,’ said Mum.

  Mr Weaver stretched his head back and scratched his chin. ‘I were thirteen when I joined my first club. The Nag’s Head at Summerwell. Some grand flyers there. Grand pub, too.’

  ‘He’s definitely too young for pubs,’ Mum added.

  Mr Weaver raised an eyebrow but didn’t reply.

  He turned and we followed him into the warehouse, past row upon row of wooden palettes stacked high with bags of different kinds of pigeon food. I was about to ask why there were so many varieties when, without looking around, Mr Weaver spoke again: ‘What size loft do you have, can I ask?’

  ‘About six feet by ten,’ Mum replied gaily. ‘Just an average garden shed, I suppose.’

  Mr Weaver shuffled to a halt. ‘I meant, how many birds do you house in it?’

  He turned to me for an answer. Mum nudged me to reply. My face burned hot. ‘One,’ I croaked.

  ‘One?’ Mr Weaver jerked in surprise. His brow resembled a freshly-ploughed field. ‘Is it a racing bird?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered.

  ‘Her name’s Cherokee,’ said Mum.

  I closed my eyes and took a short sharp breath. My muscles tightened to breaking point. If Mum had been Garry I’d have kicked her in the shins.

  Mr Weaver responded with a puzzled nod. ‘Right. You’ve got a racing hen…’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mum.

  ‘Is she laying?’

  ‘Is she what?’

  Mr Weaver beat his chest and cleared some phlegm. ‘I said, is she laying?’

  For once, Mum stalled. I turned and read the label on a bag of grain.

  Mr Weaver flapped his hands. ‘Is she…y’know, with egg?’

  ‘I sincerely hope not,’ Mum said darkly. She flashed me a very suspicious look.

  ‘She’s not laying,’ I said. At least I didn’t think so. Mr Duckins hadn’t said anything about it.

  Mr Weaver cleared his throat and set his shoulders straight. A faraway look came into his eyes. ‘So, let me get this straight, you have a single hen that isn’t paired to a cock – and she definitely isn’t laying?’

  Mum nudged me again. ‘Yes,’ I said.

  Mr Weaver frowned. ‘Then why are you buying her a nesting box?’

  That was it for Mum. ‘Oh,’ she said, changing the subject entirely, ‘those paintings over there are very good. Do you mind if I have a look?’ And without another word, she glided towards them.

  They were hanging on a wall beside a brick-built office, twenty or thirty pictures of pigeons. They were just like the ones I’d seen in Spines. But these weren’t all of single pigeons. There were some of old men holding birds and another of pigeons feeding from a trough. The best was one of a bird in flight, coming back to a loft after being in a race.

  ‘Local artist,’ Mr Weaver said. ‘Very popular around these parts. Knows everything there is to know about pigeons. Does this in his spare time, I believe. If you wanted a portrait of this hen of yours, I can give you his number and you can arrange a sitting.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think we’re in the market for a portrait,’ said Mum. ‘But I’d like to have a browse, if that’s all right?’

  ‘Be my guest,’ Mr Weaver shrugged.

  Mum seemed relieved. ‘Perhaps you could show Darryl your range of boxes? It doesn’t have to be a box. A rabbit hutch will do.’

  ‘Mu-um,’ I groaned.

  Mum ignored me and opened her purse. She handed Mr Weaver two ten pound notes. ‘I’m afraid if they’re any dearer than that we’ll have to leave it till another day.’

  Mr Weaver parted his lips. ‘I think we can find a nice “hutch” for that.’

  We left Mum looking at the pigeon paintings and carried on towards the back of the warehouse. Mr Weaver led the way past a rack of metal shelves, laden with medicines and all kinds of
bits. There were bath salts for pigeons, vitamin pills, worming tablets, pot eggs (I hadn’t got a clue what they were for), cage fronts, drinkers, scrapers, something called loft powder, lots of disinfectants and loads of sprays for getting rid of lice. I was glad Mum wasn’t along to see them.

  As we reached the end of the row of shelves I suddenly got a whiff of freshly sawn wood. ‘Watch your head,’ said Mr Weaver, bending his. We stepped through a door and entered a workshop lit by a single unshaded bulb. On a bench in the centre was an unfinished nest box. Tools and screws and sandpaper bits lay scattered among piles of curly wood shavings. There was a sweet pong of resin in the air as well. It mingled with sawdust every time I took a breath.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Mr Weaver, showing me a huge stack of nesting boxes. ‘Solid ply with removable fronts.’ He knocked one with his knuckle. ‘Hand-made by yours truly. Last you a lifetime. Fourteen quid.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ I said. I meant it, too. It was right that Cherokee should have a proper box. Why should Warren Spigott deprive her of that? The only thing niggling at the back of my mind was what Mr Weaver had said about nesting, and pairing Cherokee up with a cock. As he lifted a box down, I asked him about it.

  Mr Weaver didn’t reply straight away. He slid the box on to the workbench and blew a layer of dust off the cage front. ‘You’ve not been at the flying game long, have you, lad?’ I shook my head. Mr Weaver smiled. ‘Sit down,’ he said and pointed to a stool. I cleared the stool of sawdust, and sat.

  ‘What you need to do is join a club. You’d learn everything there is to know about the birds, then. Good hobby for a bright young lad. Can be very rewarding, too. Lot of money to be won in pigeon racing…Oh yes,’ he continued, spotting my flicker of interest. ‘The best man can lift upwards of ten thousand pounds over a favourable season.’

  ‘Ten thousand pounds!’

  Mr Weaver sanded one edge of the box. ‘You’re not in that league yet, son. Not with one hen at any rate. Mind you, there’s nothing to stop you going for a couple of novice events. Most of the clubs fly a junior section. If your bird’s any good you might notch up a prize. I think Barrowmoor have one up this Saturday.’