But I did think. I was already running across the grass.
‘Is that yours?’ I heard a steward ask Dad. ‘It’s pied, I think. Didn’t you have a pied?’
It was a pied bird. And I knew it was Cherokee, well before I was close enough to see for sure. I closed in urgently, desperate to catch her, terrified she might flutter off after all, only to come down two miles away, lost and confused, gone for ever. I called her name. The sound made her jump and she did flutter off, but only as far as the man with the easel. He blinked in surprise and put down his brush. Then he stood up calmly and walked right to her. With one confident swoop he scooped her up off the ground.
I was at his side in a matter of seconds.
‘She yours?’ he said, examining her ring.
‘Yes,’ I said with a lump in my throat. ‘She can fly really well. She’s hurt her wing, that’s all.’ I felt angry having to give an excuse. I just didn’t want anyone laughing at her. But the artist wasn’t laughing at her. He had a thoughtful look in his dark blue eyes. He turned it on me as he ran his fingers over her wing, feeling the swelling at the shoulder carefully. ‘Hmm,’ he murmured, ‘nasty break.
If you want my advice you won’t go trying this much more.’ He nodded once at the pigeon transporter. Then he held Cherokee out and I took her from him.
‘Thanks,’ I said in a wimpy voice.
The stranger smiled, barely moving his lips. ‘You’ve done well with her,’ he said. ‘Most birds don’t survive a break like that.’
I stroked her neck and gave a modest shrug.
He smiled again. ‘You’re Alf’s boy, aren’t you?’
Suddenly, my whole world seemed to freeze. My brain, already muzzy with disappointment, heaped confusion in on top. ‘How? How did you know that?’ I stuttered.
The stranger flipped a cigarette out of a packet and knocked both ends of it against the box. ‘I’m from Barrowmoor,’ he said. ‘The name’s Lenny Spigott. I was wondering when I might bump into you.’
Chapter Eighteen
For a moment, it was all I could do to stop from falling over. My legs felt thinner than two blades of grass. There was a buzzing in my ears that was making me dizzy. Lenny Spigott calmly lit up his cigarette and frowned.
‘I…I…I didn’t steal her,’ I blabbered, stumbling backwards, holding Cherokee tight to my chest. ‘Mr Duckins said…you didn’t want her. He said you were going to wring her neck. He said if I took her it would be all right. I only—’
‘Calm down,’ Lenny cut in, blowing a column of smoke. ‘Nobody’s accusing you of stealing her. If I was I’d hardly give her back to you, would I? You can keep the bird. I’ve a loft full at home.’
‘I – what?’
‘You keep her, lad. You deserve to have her. I couldn’t have attended to her in that state, anyway. I mean it. She’s yours. You want her, don’t you?’
I nodded, keeping my face well down. I was shaking with fear and couldn’t seem to get my thoughts in focus. Was it true? Did Lenny really mean it? Was he genuinely giving Cherokee to me? Or was it all just a horrible joke? A Warren-type torture? I needed to know.
‘How did you…? I mean…? Who told you…? WHO TOLD YOU I’D KEPT HER?’ I spat out harshly.
‘Steady on,’ frowned Lenny, pulling back. ‘What’s eating you now? Duckins told me.’
‘Alf?’ I queried.
‘Aye,’ he grizzled. ‘Wheezy Alf. Who else knew you’d got the bird?’
Your son, I thought. Warren knew. My mind went through a frantic hoop-la. But if it really wasn’t Warren who’d told his dad…and Lenny Spigott didn’t mind anyway, then… I started to pant with nervous excitement. Please, I was thinking. Don’t let it be a trick. Please. Not now. Please let her be mine.
‘Honestly?’ I blurted, crossing my fingers. ‘Was it honestly Alf who told you I’d got her?’
Lenny took a puzzled drag on his cigarette. ‘Aye, shall I write it on the grass or what? Alf rang me, middle of last week. He told me you’d nursed the hen back to health and were knocking his door down to get her in a race. I thought it was a barmy idea, but he asked if I’d sort it as a favour to him. He told me you were a good lad, helped him over one of his attacks. He’s not a well man, you know, is Alf.’
I nodded, but I was still confused. ‘You mean…? You knew I was going to race her?’
‘I’ve just said so, haven’t I?’
‘I know. But…why? Why did he have to ask you about it?’
Lenny shrugged as if the answer was obvious. ‘Officially, the hen still belongs to me. You can’t race a bird unless she’s registered in your name. There was no time to get the paperwork changed. So I raced her for you. It was the easiest way. I’m a bit surprised to find you here, though. Shouldn’t you be at the other end, waiting?’
But I didn’t quite hear the last remark. My mind was drifting back to the night of Alf’s bowls match. So that’s why he’d tried to put me off. The registration. The proper procedures. If a steward had looked at Cherokee’s ring they would know she still belonged to Lenny. Slowly, the murk was beginning to clear.
‘You mean…if she’d won, you’d have got the money?’
Lenny roared with laughter and shook his head. ‘She was never going to win the race,’ he said. He clocked the hurt in my eyes and drew a bit closer, rubbing a knuckle down Cherokee’s neck. ‘Listen, lad. I’ll be straight with you. I agreed to this business because Alf’s a good friend…but we both knew she might pull a stunt like this. These birds have got more cokum than most folks give them credit for. She knew what she was here for and she wasn’t prepared to go through with the effort. I didn’t think she’d pack in quite so early, though; I imagined she’d end up on some Town Hall square, scrapping for chip ends and bits of bread.’
‘You mean—?’
‘I mean, I didn’t expect you’d see her again.’ He quickly raised a hand. ‘And before you start giving me the evil eye, we did it in the best interests of you and the bird.’
He blew a final pother of smoke into the sky and flicked the cigarette butt on to the grass. ‘You can’t keep a solitary pigeon, son. These birds like to flock; they need the company of others. Sooner or later she’d have left your roost and flapped off in search of a cock to mate with. That’s their way. Better you lost her in the middle of a race than be heartbroken, searching the rooftops of Barrowmoor. Do you see what I’m saying?’
I nodded sadly and stroked her back.
‘So,’ said Lenny, ‘there it is. If you want to do what’s right for her, take her to the country and let her go. Unless…’
I looked up.
‘Unless you intend to start a loft, of course.’
‘Alf said I could join his club,’ I muttered.
‘Fair enough,’ Lenny smiled. ‘That’s your answer. If you need some advice about starting up, come and see me sometime. I’ll show you what’s needed.’
My mouth fell open in shock. Me? Go to Warren Spigott’s house?
‘I’m serious,’ said Lenny. ‘I’ll always help anyone who wants to keep birds. Pigeons and painting—they’re my life.’
I swallowed hard and gave him a grateful nod. Then I remembered something Alf had once said and began to feel all sheepish again. ‘Mr Spigott?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Mr Duckins said you don’t like kids very much. So…?’
Lenny clamped his teeth and grimaced slightly. He glanced away across the open fields. ‘Aye, well. There are kids and there are kids. If you’d seen the animal I feed at home you might understand the reason why.’ He patted me on the shoulder. ‘Your dad’s here, I think.’
‘All right, Darryl?’ Dad asked, striding up. ‘Your mum and Natalie are getting a bit chilly. We ought to be heading back to Gran’s house soon. Is Cherokee OK?’
I blushed and went all soppy a moment. ‘That’s what I call her,’ I explained to Lenny.
He looked at Dad and smiled. ‘Len Spigott,’ he said, thrusting out a hand for Dad to
shake. ‘I’ve just been giving your boy some advice.’
‘Mr Spigott comes from Barrowmoor, Dad. He used to own Cherokee before we did.’
‘Really?’ Dad raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s a bit of an odd coincidence.’
‘Long story,’ said Lenny, winking at me.
‘And are you taking…?’ Dad gestured at Cherokee.
‘Oh no,’ said Lenny. ‘She belongs to Darryl, now. It’s all official – well, it would be if we did it properly. I don’t suppose you need it in writing, do you?’
I forced a strained smile onto my lips. I knew Lenny had said what he had in jest, but for me the words had a chilling significance. At the risk of breaking his trust, I said, ‘Please, Mr Spigott. Would it be all right? To have it in writing, I mean?’
‘Tch,’ Dad tutted. ‘We’re grooming him to be a solicitor, you know.’
Lenny grunted with laughter and felt his pockets. We all felt our pockets. No-one had a pen.
‘Tell you what,’ Lenny chuckled. ‘I’ll paint it for you. In nice big letters. Very official. I take it paint’ll be all right? You don’t want it in blood, I hope?’
No, I was thinking. I didn’t want blood.
I wanted revenge.
And genuine proof that Cherokee was mine.
Chapter Nineteen
Since the night we’d escaped through the spinney for the bus, I’d managed to avoid Warren Spigott and his gang. I hadn’t heard his whistle all the next day, or the next. And I was half-praying, half-hoping that he’d finished school or something and wouldn’t bully me or make me be his slave again. Then one afternoon during football practice I heard Connor Dorley moaning like mad about the fourth years going on a Geography trip and how we never got to do things like that. And I knew it was only a matter of time before Warren and his whistle and his threats came back.
But when he did, I was going to be ready for him.
Back at school, on Monday, after our visit to Gran’s, I heard his whistle twice at dinner.
‘He’s gonna be so-oooo mad,’ said Garry as we hid in the mats cupboard in the junior gym. ‘He’s gonna mash you into…mashed potato.’
I felt really comforted by that, of course. ‘After school,’ I trembled. ‘We’ll go to him then.’
‘We?’ Garry queried, turning pale.
‘I need a witness,’ I said. ‘Four o’clock. OK?’
‘OK,’ he whimpered with a bit of a gulp. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, though…’
I did. I had a plan. But as usual, it didn’t quite run to schedule…
‘ON YOUR WAY OUT,’ Mr Tompkins bellowed over the sound of the final bell, ‘DON’T FORGET TO LEAVE LAST WEEK’S HOMEWORK ON MY DESK!’
‘Oh no!’ I gasped. I clamped my hands across my face and lowered my head with a thunk! on the desk. Homework. I’d forgotten to do my English homework! Five hundred words about…what was it again?
‘Something the matter, Darryl?’
Mr Tompkins had spotted my reaction straight away. And from the look on his face he’d guessed the reason for it.
‘What you gonna do?’ Garry hissed at me urgently, taking his workbook out of his bag. ‘He’ll make you stay behind for sure.’
‘Darryl?’ Mr Tompkins enquired sternly, casting his eyes towards the growing pile of workbooks on his desk.
‘I’ll see you at your place,’ Garry whispered nervously.
‘No!’ I grabbed his arm and tugged. ‘Wait for me outside.’
Garry screwed his face into a pained expression. ‘You’re mad,’ he muttered.
But I knew he’d wait.
‘Well, Darryl?’ Mr Tompkins said again as Garry handed in his homework and backed out of the room. I hadn’t even bothered to get up from my desk.
‘Sorry, sir. I forgot.’
‘Forgot.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I see. Despite our little chat this time last week you couldn’t even remember your homework – let alone do it?’
I squirmed and hung my head in shame.
‘Look at me,’ Mr Tompkins snapped. I brought my head up. ‘Do you have an excuse?’ I shook my head. Mr Tompkins scowled. ‘Well, would you like to tell me what you have been doing all this week?’
I shrugged awkwardly, trying to remember. All I could think of was the visit to Gran’s.
‘Pigeons.’ Mr Tompkins sighed in defeat. ‘Well, Darryl, you leave me no choice.’ He paused to let my discomfort sink in. Please, I was thinking, please don’t say you’ll tell my mum. He didn’t. He shook his head in despair. Then he stood up and rolled the blackboard round. The list of words was still written on it. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘If you can’t find the time to do your homework, I will simply have to find it for you. There is your list. Take out your workbook and get on with it – now. Five hundred words. That’s about two sides. And I don’t want to hear a SOUND until you’ve finished.’ He snatched Garry’s workbook off the top of the pile, shook it meaningfully, and was just about to sit down and mark it when…
Phreeep!
Warren’s whistle sounded. I jumped so hard my knees hit the desk.
‘Right,’ snapped Mr Tompkins, whacking Garry’s workbook down on his desk. He peered angrily through the window then turned on his heels and in four long strides was at the classroom door. ‘I am going to find that foolish boy and bring him and his whistle in here!’
‘What?’ I squeaked.
‘Get on with your essay!’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said, shaking like a leaf. I unzipped my pencil case and took out a pen.
I wrote like I only had minutes to live, so fast my pen was almost ripping up the paper. I thought if I could fill two sides of my workbook before Mr Tompkins returned with Warren, I could leave the essay safely on his desk and slip out before either of them saw me. I scrawled the word COURAGE on the top of a page and underlined it twice in bright red ink. I didn’t even bother to check the other words. I already knew a good example of courage. I wanted to write how Cherokee Wonder had battled against the pain of a broken wing and conquered her injuries to fly again. But as I started to write, things boiled up inside me. All the hurt and frustration of the last few weeks, the worry, the stealing, the fears about losing my wonderbird. It all frothed up and spilled out onto the paper. Sometimes, I wrote, people think it is good and clever to try and take away something precious from you. They do it because it makes them look big, in front of their friends. But they are not big, really. They are not brave, either. They are mean and spiteful and nasty and unimportant. They do not understand what courage really is. Courage is flying with a broken wing, even when you know you will fall to the ground. Courage is standing up to people, even when you know they can knock you down…
Wham!
The classroom door nearly rocked off its hinges. Mr Tompkins swept in chuntering to himself. ‘Been all the way round the flaming school and he’s still managed to give me the blasted slip.’ He glanced at me as if I was to blame. ‘Get on with your work,’ he commanded and sat down.
‘But I’ve finished, sir,’ I said. I’d done…two and a half sides. I couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t even my biggest writing.
‘What?’ Mr Tompkins checked his watch. ‘Up here, let me see it,’ he said suspiciously.
I walked to the front and handed it over. He waved blindly at a desk and started to read. I tutted impatiently and flopped into a chair.
About three minutes later he sat back drumming his fingers on the desk. He gave me his horrible searchlight look, the one that digs about in all your murkiest corners. ‘This essay,’ he purred, ‘it’s very good.’
I blushed with surprise. I’d only scrambled it down.
‘Are you aware what it is you’ve been writing about?’
‘Courage, sir,’ I said, confused.
He shook his head. ‘You use the word a lot but this is really a piece about cowardice, Darryl. And it’s not really about Cherokee Wonder, is it?’
I shrugged, but my shoulders
felt very tight.
‘Do you want to tell me who it is about?’
There was a pause. All the silence in the world seemed to be ganging up at once, until suddenly it was shattered…by a blast from that whistle.
‘Hhh!’ I froze in an open-mouthed position. I was shaking so hard my knuckles were rapping Morse code on the desk. ‘C-can I go now, sir?’
Mr Tompkins observed me over steepled fingers. Then he turned his head slowly and glanced through the window. ‘Hmm,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Go on. Scarper.’
He still hadn’t moved when I whizzed through the door.
It didn’t take me long to find Warren Spigott. As I scooted down the path between the Arts and Science blocks, Garry stepped out of the shadows of the bike sheds. We headed for the hedges that ran behind the playing fields. Warren and Ginger were waiting for us.
‘About time,’ snarled Warren, flicking away a fag. He whipped his hair off his forehead with an angry swipe. ‘Where’ve you been, you miserable tyke?’ He blew his whistle really loud and dug a finger at the patch of ground in front of him. He looked as if lightning would flash from his arms. He was mad enough to burn, that was for sure.
But I took my time. I walked up slowly, never once taking my eyes off his face.
‘Come on-nn,’ he shouted. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something? What is it you’re supposed to say to me, slave?’
I took a nervous gulp and stopped short of where he wanted me. I could feel Garry’s breath on the back of my neck. ‘I’m not going to be your slave any more.’
Warren’s dark eyes narrowed. I could see now how much he resembled his father. But there wasn’t an ounce of caring in his face – only hatred and vague surprise. ‘You what?’ he growled. ‘What did you say?’
Suddenly, the pressure got to Garry and he cracked. ‘Your dad knows we’ve got his pigeon! And he doesn’t care, either! And we can prove it!’
‘Who rattled your cage?’ Ginger said stepping forward. He lashed out and whacked Garry hard across the head.
‘Agh! That hurt!’ Garry sank down, blubbing, clutching his ear. Ginger spat out some gum and sneered in triumph.
Fly, Cherokee, Fly Page 9
