The Opened Cage

by S. C. Howe

  The man took the money quickly. His clothes were threadbare and his arm jutting out from the frayed cuffs of his jacket was painfully thin. ‘Her’s good at catching things,’ he confided, and looked at Tom.

  ‘Poaching?’

  The man hesitated and seeing the plain, honest look on Tom’s face, nodded. Then he considered something and beckoned him to sit down.

  Sometime later Tom stopped by Sykes’ cave. It was only a short distance from the path to a halt, which would pick up the train for Heathend. He could see Sykes and the outline of Whistle sitting in the entrance of the cave. Sykes saw him and raised a hand in acknowledgement. Tom waved back.

  Sykes disappeared to the back of the cave. By the time Tom reached him, a kettle was steaming over the simple fire inside.

  ‘All right, mate?’ Sykes asked. ‘Fancy a brew?’

  Tom nodded eagerly. Within a minute, a chipped enamel mug was being held towards him. ‘Wet your whistle with that,’ Sykes said. The greyhound was entranced with Muffin who was grinning at him and going down on her front paws. The next minute they were tearing around the meadow below – one streak of gleaming smooth black, another a tatty bundle of fur.

  ‘Is that a new dog?’ Sykes asked squinting after the dogs.

  ‘Yes, and that’s one of the reasons I’m here. I bought her from some people down by the Bull Ring bridge. Apparently, councillors have been really clamping down on poachers and I’m here to warn you again. You must get out.’

  ‘Thanks mate.’ Sykes gave a bitter laugh. ‘Marvellous isn’t it! We slogged our guts out in the war, came back to a land unfit for heroes, and now the bastards want to take what little we have left.’

  ‘Joss and I were talking about it. How about you have one of our fields for your use, and you can park whatever caravan or hut you want on it?’

  Sykes looked at him with unusual seriousness. ‘You mean, rent it?’

  ‘No. To use it as your own. We’re reducing our farming venture. It became too big and I...Well, you picked up the pieces, literally.’

  Sykes gave a mirthless laugh. The indolent, slightly smirking look had gone from his expression, replaced by a surprising levity; he suddenly looked much older.

  ‘Well, that’s good of you and I had thought of getting one of those horse-drawn caravan things and do a bit of odd-jobbing around and abouts, but to ‘ave somewhere where I can come back to and stay awhile, well, that does mean something.’ Sykes nodded his head, more to himself. ‘Look, how about if I could pitch up now and then and I’ll help out at busy times, like with lambing or harvesting?’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘I’d prefer it.’

  ‘All right... But do something soon, Sykes, don’t leave it.’

  ‘I will, mate. Thanks.’

  Beyond the meadow, a person watched the horizontal cave in the sandstone where two characters sat with two dogs racing around in the meadow below. He handed the field glasses to another man who looked and nodded at the other.

  Tom returned with Joss a few days later. Joss had walked stiffly along the track by the canal and then over the arable and pastures to Honeybrook. Tom realised he had barely been out of the radius of the farm all winter and insisted he accompany him. Joss had been glad he did as there was something a little other-worldly about the Honeybrook area: narrow lanes between sandstone walls with old beeches and sycamores overhanging, and then, between the natural sandstone, small cliffs themselves coloured with ivy and algae as they went further into the countryside. They walked further down the quiet, sandy tracks and into the bowl of land with its shivering birch trees and ancient oaks and the steep cliff of sandstone in which Sykes lived. From across the meadow Tom knew something was wrong as brash white planks stood out against the muted sandy-pinks and greyish-greens. Joss was stumping along. Tom was fidgeting to go quicker.

  ‘I’ll catch you up,’ Joss said. ‘You go on. I can see you’re worried.’

  Tom ran over the field, his breath coming painfully as he pushed himself to the limit. Scrambling up the bank, he reached the cave and stared. It had been covered up completely, and KEEP OUT – TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED IMMEDIATELY had been daubed in bright blood-red paint across the boarding. Tom looked through the chinks, saw the reflection of two eyes at the back. A fox? A cat even?

  ‘Who’s there?’ Tom said in a friendly tone. A large shape sprang up and Tom came face to face with Whistle.

  ‘Bloody bastards!’ he whispered, struggling to lever a plank off with a thin shale rock. Joss came up behind them and with much levering managed to prize one plank away, then another, which split where it was still attached. They managed to get Whistle out. Tom pulled his belt off and looped it around the dog’s collar.

  ‘I can’t believe anyone could do this to an animal,’ he spat. ‘Follow me down – I need to get him to the stream over there for a drink.’ With that, Tom jogged with the dog that was beside himself with the new freedom. Joss managed to get halfway down the steep bank, then sat down. Each step down was like a knife through his nerves, the sort of pain like a fork touching an exposed nerve in a tooth. It was up and down with the back, and this was one of the down days.

  Whistle drank great gulps from the thankfully clear, cool stream. It was only when Tom looked back that he realised Joss was stuck. Running back to the cliff, he tied Whistle to a sapling and climbed up to get Joss down, helping him with infinite patience and love. They sat in the meadow on a couple of old ant mounds.

  ‘It’s at times like this when I realise how crippled I am,’ said Joss wearily. And without him saying any more, Tom suddenly knew why Joss sought only the safety of the farm and its immediate surroundings: he could not stand the idea of getting stuck, of being unable to get help, perhaps even knowing he would not want to ask for help. They sat in silence for a short while.

  ‘We need to find out where Sykes is,’ Joss said at last. ‘We also need to report the fact someone boarded up the cave with the dog still inside. I want to believe it was a mistake, but, knowing how friendly Whistle is, I don’t believe it. How did they manage to get him to stay in there?’

  Tom looked at his collar and noticed the chewed piece of rope still attached. ‘It’s probably better not to know. I think the best thing to do is for me to go back into Kidderminster.’ Tom continued: ‘You take Whistle back to Heathend and I’ll alert Barratt and find out at the police station if they know anything.’

  They made slow progress, as Joss’s back was now really painful; several times he urged Tom to go on but Tom refused, and, at last, they reached the main road and caught a tram to the railway station. It was one of those wonderfully clear late afternoons in May when every colour is distinct and every shadow precise and inky, and Tom shuddered at the thought of Sykes cooped up in some sunless, dreary cell. It was only as he saw Joss with Whistle onto the train, that he walked quickly out of the station and over its wide cobbled entrance and caught a tram directly to the police station by the town hall.

  The sergeant at the desk was unhelpful and enjoying it.

  ‘So there is someone in custody called Sykes?’

  ‘Yes’

  ‘What’s he been arrested for?’

  ‘Poaching.’

  ‘I want to make a formal complaint that his dog was knowingly boarded up by the people who arrested him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sykes’ dog had been boarded up in a cave without any way of getting out.’

  ‘What, Sykes did that?’ There was a rise of incredulity in his voice.

  ‘No! Whoever arrested Sykes and boarded up the cave must have knowingly trapped the dog inside.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said the sergeant and his expression darkened. ‘Major Deerman or one of his henchmen was responsible for arresting Sykes.’

  Tom hesitated, wished he spoken to Joss before he had said anything. ‘This was Deerman’s doing?’

  The sergeant rolled his eyes. ‘Very keen on getting the “riff-raff”, as he calls
them, under his thumb. Only just started this poaching crackdown.’

  ‘Can I see Sykes?’

  The sergeant looked at Tom and shook his head. ‘Sorry, he’s not having any visitors until he’s seen a solicitor. Rules, I’m afraid.’ His tone sounded genuinely remorseful.

  Tom looked at his watch. ‘Has he got a solicitor yet?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  Tom thanked him and walked out. Found the offices where Barratt was working his last week of notice and explained what was happening.

  Barratt’s face lost the end of term relaxation, and his features tightened as Tom told him what had happened and who was involved.

  ‘Leave it to me, Fielder,’ he said, the old CO firmness coming into his voice. ‘I’ll get things rolling on this. Sykes is not going under; that man saved my life.’

  ‘And mine,’ said Tom.

  ‘The best thing you can do Fielder, is to get back to the farm and I’ll tell them Sykes can be bailed there if they’ll let him out. He’ll need an address. I’m only in lodgings for the moment.’

  Tom was back at Heathend by early evening. On the way back, as the train plunged through the sunlit landscape, he wondered how he was going to tell Joss that his own brother had done this, if, indeed, he should say anything.

  Joss met him at the door, his face was drawn.

  ‘I heard what happened and that my disgusting brother initiated it,’ Joss said. ‘Several people were discussing it on the train. It’s common knowledge that he’s cracking down on poachers.’

  Tom sat on the stone seat next to Joss, lost for anything helpful to say. ‘Is Whistle fitting in all right?’

  Joss pointed into the kitchen where four white-tipped black paws were sticking up from the sofa. ‘Conked-out, after a good meal and a chase about with Muffin.’

  Tom smiled. ‘Shall we keep him if Sykes can’t?’

  ‘Of course we will. In fact I think he’s decided to move in.’

  The next morning a telegram arrived: Have engaged solicitor for Sykes. Stay put. You’re the address for bail if we can get it. Barratt.

  In the courtyard, Tom and Joss sat at a table that Tom had dragged outside for them to eat at in fine weather. They were preoccupied and worried. Joss looked tired, was slow in his actions.

  ‘Buck up,’ Tom said. ‘Everyone knows you’re the reverse of your brother.’

  ‘Only those who know me,’ Joss said quietly, and stared over the courtyard to the burgeoning countryside. ‘I’ve felt self-conscious enough with the limp, now I don’t think I’ll be able to face people in town. What is wrong with that man? Why can’t he just bugger off and stop causing so much bloody trouble?’

  ‘Some people still think poaching is wrong,’ Tom said.

  ‘What, poaching the odd rabbit or game just to stay alive!’

  ‘They don’t think of it like that. The people trying to stop it have probably got no idea how desperate some people get.’

  ‘Well, they need to know. What were those leaflets about that Alice was giving out in Kidderminster?’ Joss asked.

  ‘Supporting social justice, things like welfare and so on.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to stand out there to help distribute them. In fact, I’m going to have a pitch right outside the town council so my revolting bloody brother sees it.’

  And that Saturday Joss did just that. Tom walked back into the town centre. They had been standing separately delivering leaflets since the morning and were regrouping to see how they had done. As Tom had passed a pet shop, he saw a small birdcage with a bird sitting on a solitary perch. He went in and bought it. For some reason it seemed of paramount importance to give it to Alice. As he rounded the corner, he saw Joss outside the Town Hall standing tall with a determined expression. They had been politely fobbed-off when they had asked about Sykes at the police station, but the same sergeant agreed to tell Sykes that the dog was safe with them, and they would look after him for however long was needed. When Roger Deerman had wafted out of the town hall doors at midday, Joss walked towards him, expressionless, holding out a leaflet.

  Deerman had snatched it. ‘What’s this all about?’ he snapped. Things had not gone to Deerman’s plan. The henchmen he had hired had drifted into obscurity and couldn’t be found to give evidence, and he sensed a contemptuous dislike from the police staff. He had expected them to jump at his command like soldiers, but they took orders with almost taciturn disregard. ‘I said, what is this?’

  ‘It’s called social justice.’

  Deerman looked at it with contempt and strode off, shoving it into the nearest bin.

  An older man, who had followed Deerman out, snatched one of the leaflets from Joss’s hand. His eyes fell on the paragraph discussing the need for social welfare reforms.

  ‘Were you out there?’ he demanded. Joss noticed he was safely over fighting age.

  Alice was walking down towards them, still handing out leaflets, or trying to. The next she was jostled by a group of men.

  ‘You should be ashamed of yerself, delivering this filth!’ shouted the older man. ‘Stopping babies – it ain’t natural.’

  Clearly the man had read the page about voluntarily limiting family size, thought Joss as he clumped over.

  ‘You ain’t normal!’ jeered another of the men as they pressed in tighter around Alice.

  ‘Perhaps her can’t get a man!’ another shouted.

  ‘Give her me, I’ll show the bitch!’

  They started pushing Alice from one to the other. Her face darkened, her eyes narrowed. The man nearest to her caught her look and stepped back. In the next moment, she swiped the next one hard across the face with the pamphlets. He backed off, too surprised for words. Joss waded in but Alice held onto his arm, restraining him. The next, several youths grabbed hold of her papers and, tossing them in the air, ran off, kicking the pamphlets around and laughing. Then, as the doors of The Swan opened, they disappeared inside, shrieking and fighting.

  Joss turned to her but Alice was already stooping to pick up the papers drifting off in the wind. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  Alice straightened up and smiled. ‘Oh you get used to it. It was my last outing today,’ she said. ‘I’ll be showing before too long... Rather ironic isn’t it? Anyway, that sort of behaviour only fires me up.

  Tom joined them, blissfully unaware of the ruckus. He carried the trapped bird in the cage. It was a native bird: a chaffinch, young and thin.

  ‘It’s for you,’ he said, holding it out to Alice, smiling, and he looked heartbreakingly young. She took the cage.

  ‘Well, thank you,’ she said, obviously perplexed.

  They walked down to Barratt who was standing by the Bull Ring. He was leaning up against a portable shelter, which looked like something off a seaside pier and in which off-duty cabbies brewed tea. He was staring vacantly into space and only seemed to come to a blinking recognition when Tom, Joss and Alice were a few yards away. A bottle bulged in the pocket of Barratt’s greatcoat. A stream of screwed up leaflets trailed away from him. They cleared them up and put them in the bin. As Joss stood next to him, he realised Barratt was having difficulty focussing on him.

  ‘They’ve been shunting Briggs from pillar to bloody post,’ Barratt said unevenly. ‘I went to the police station again. Could lock him up. “No idea when they’re going to let him out” one of them said. Strange, you get used to somebody quickly, even an irritating swine like him, and when they’re not around, it nearly floors you.’

  Joss helped him to stand up. In his eagerness to talk, Barratt had tottered forwards a few steps and landed unceremoniously in Joss’s arms. ‘But you understand, don’t you?’ he said. ‘It wasn’t my fault you know.’

  Joss frowned in question.

  ‘Briggs going like that. I couldn’t do anything else.’ Briggs had been on Barratt’s mind a lot in the last few days. And there had only seemed two possible alternatives: to blot the guilt out with drink, or face facts without any hope of atoneme
nt. It had been easier to choose drink. But even that had let him down, and now he was ashamed of Alice seeing him like that.

  Joss guided him into a cafe, suggested Barratt washed his face and he would have a cup of tea waiting for him at one of the tables at the back of the room. Barratt went through to the washroom without comment. Outside the cafe Joss could see Tom and Alice sitting on a low wall with the bird, which was throwing itself up and down the bars of the cage. Joss went out, explained that Barratt wasn’t feeling too well and they’d be out in a few minutes.

  Unable to go into the cafe because of the bird, Alice said they would sit on the wall in the sun. Joss knew she understood the situation.

  Barratt came out, looking more composed. Joss pushed the tea towards him.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Barratt said, not looking at him as he sat at the table. ‘I suppose this thing with Sykes stirred things up.’

  ‘You were the best CO we could have had,’ Joss said. ‘You made it bearable.’

  Barratt stopped scratching the back of his head and looked at Joss. ‘Did I?’

  ‘You certainly did,’ Joss replied. ‘If the brass-hats in the chateaux had had an ounce of the humanity you always had, the war would never have happened.’

  Barratt sat back in the chair, looked as if he was really taking this in.

  ‘It’s Briggs that really got to me,’ he said at last. ‘I was too short with him. That last bloody afternoon I’d snapped his head off about the post.’

  ‘We did the best we could at the time,’ Joss said quietly. ‘None of us were perfect, but I tell you, there was no-one else I would rather have had at the head of our company. No-one.’

  For a minute Barratt just stared at him, then he looked away quickly. Waved away Joss’s concern. The tension in Barratt’s neck and jaw gave away the battle.

  As he got up to go, Barratt turned back. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  They all made their way back to Heathend Farm. Out of the town, along the gritty, dirty towpath, past the moored coal barges and the carpet factories, past the forges, and out into the quiet of the marshes. They would pick up the train by the nearest halt to Heathend. Barratt’s step had become measured, and assured, and he put his arm around Alice’s waist and she smiled at him. The bird in the cage started to move around.