A Kestrel for a Knave

She went back in and banged the door. Billy turned away and looked down the garden, over the fence into the fields. A skylark few up, trilling as it climbed. Higher and higher until it was just a song in the sky. He opened his jacket and dipped into the pocket. The egg carton was dented. He opened it. Two of the compartments were filled with yellow slime and shell. He eased out the sound eggs and placed them together on the path. Their shells were sticky, so he carefully wiped each one in turn and regrouped them like a four egger, crouching over them and looking down. Then he picked one up, weighed it in his palm, and threw it high in the direction of the house. The egg described a parabola in the air and fell on to the slates. He threw the others in rapid succession […]

The farmer glanced down at him and smiled.

‘I know it is. It’s nested here for donkey’s years now.’

‘Just think, an’ I never knew.’

‘There’s not many does.’

‘Have you ever been up to it?’

‘No, I’ve never fancied goin’ that high on an extender.’

‘I’ve been watching ’em from across in t’wood. You ought to have seen ’em. One of ’em was sat on that telegraph pole for ages.’

He spun round and pointed to it.

‘I was right underneath it, then I saw its mate, it came from miles away and started to hover, just over there.’

Billy started to hover, arms out, fluttering his hands.

‘Then it dived down behind that wall and came up wi’ somat in its claws. You ought to have seen it, mister, it wa’ smashing.’

‘Thismorning’sreadingistakenfromMattheweighteenverses…’

‘Louder, boy. And stop mumbling into your beard.’

‘Never despise one of these little ones I tell you they have their guardian angels in heaven who look continually on the face of my heavenly Father. What do you think suppose a man has a hundred sheep if one of them strays does he not leave the other ninety-nine on the hillside and go in search of the one that strayed. And if he should find it I tell you this he is more delighted over that sheep than over the ninety-nine that never strayed. In the same way it is your heavenly Father’s will that one of these little ones should be lost here ends this morning’s reading.’

He closed the bible and backed away, his relief pathetic to see.

‘You start inside first, makin’ her ump on to your glove for her meat. Only a little jump at first, then a bit further and so on; and every time she comes you’ve to give her a scrap o’ meat. A reward like. When she’ll come about a leash length straight away, you can try her outside, off a fence post or summat like that. You put her down, hold on to t’end of your leash wi’ your right hand, and hold your glove out for her to fly to. This way you can get a double leash length. After she’s done this, you can take her leash off an’ attach a creance in its place.’

‘Creance?’

[…]

‘C-R-E-A-N-C-E—it’s a long line, I used a long nylon fishing line wi’ a clasp off a dog lead, tied to one end. […]’

There was a whizzing of pages to localise F, followed by a more deliberate turning of odd pages, and a final pointing of forefingers.

‘Sir!’

‘Right, Whitbread. Read it out.’

‘Fiction. Inven-ted state-ment or narra-tive, novels, stories, collectiv, collectiv-ely collectively; Blimey.’ ‘Go on, have a go at it, lad.’ ‘Convent, convent-ion-ally, I know, conventionally accepted false-hoods. Fic-tit-ious fictitious, not genuine, imagin-ary, assumed.’

‘Good. Have you all found it now?’

They had all found it while Whitbread was reading the definition and there was silence while they confirmed it mentally.

‘Have you all got that? Fiction; invented statement, novels, stories, falsehood, not genuine, imaginary, assumed. All right?’

There was no response so he assumed that they were.

One day I wolke up and my muther said to me heer Billy theres your brecfast in bed for you there was backen and egg and bred and butter and a big pot of tea […] we lived in a big hous up moor edge and we add carpits on the stairs and in the all and sentrall eeting. When I got down I said wers are Jud his going the army my muther saide and hees not coming back. But your dades coming back in sted. […] I haven’t seen him for a long time but he was just he sam as he went away […] when I got to school all the teacher were good to me they said allow Billy awo you gowing on and they all pated me on the hed and smiled and we did interesting things all day.

‘You daren’t say that to t’teachers though, they’d say, “Don’t be insolent boy,” smack!’

Billy stood up straight and waggled his head about, looking stern. Then he smacked the space between Mr Farthing and himself. Mr Farthing laughed at his impersonation.

‘That’s what they’d say though, Sir.’

‘I’m not saying it and I’m a teacher, aren’t I?’

‘Ar, well…’

‘Well what?’

‘You do at least try to learn us summat, most o’ t’others don’t. They’re not bothered about us, just because we’re in 4C, you can tell, they talk to us like muck. They’re allus callin’ us idiots, an’ numbskulls, an’ cretins, an’ looking at their watches to see how long it is to t’end o’ t’lesson. They’re fed up wi’ us. We’re fed up wi’ them, then when there’s any trouble, they pick on me ’cos I’m t’littlest.’

‘An’ at home, if owt goes wrong on t’estate, police allus come to our house, even though I’ve done nowt for ages now. An’ they don’t believe a word I say! I feel like goin’ out an’ doin’ summat just to spite ’em sometimes.’

‘Never mind lad; it’ll be all right.’

‘Ar, it will that.’

‘Just think, you’ll be leaving school in a few weeks, starting your first job, meeting fresh people. That’s something to look forward to, isn’t it?’

Billy looked past him without replying.

‘Have you got a job yet?’

‘No Sir. I’ve to see t’youth employment bloke this afternoon.’

‘What kind of a job are you after?’

‘I’m not bothered. Owt’ll do me.’

‘You’ll try to get something that interests you, though?’

‘I shan’t have much choice, shall I? I shall have to take what they’ve got.’

It blossomed to a bubble […] and floated quietly toward the floor. He reached out to take it back. Touched it. Gone. He blew some more, but they came out small, so he let them drift and time their own oblivion. Then it came out, a jewel, hanging heavy in the air. He reached out to catch it. It bounced off the buff of air, then wavered in the suction as he withdrew his hand. He followed it, and as it fell, he placed his hand below it, allowing his hand to fall more slowly than the bubble, so that slowly, very slowly, the bubble fell closer to his hand […] until finally the bubble landed gently on the falling palm. Billy […] tilted his hand and shifted his head to catch the colours from different angles and in different lights, and while he was looking it vanished […]

Billy plucked the stick from the ground and began to swing the lure. The hawk turned and stooped at it. Billy watched her as she descended, waiting for the right moment as she accelerated rapidly toward him. Now. He straightened his arm and lengthened the line, throwing the lure into her path and sweeping it before her in a downward arc, then twitching it up too steep for her attack, making her throw up, her impetus carrying her high into the air. She turned and stooped again. Billy presented the lure again. And again. Each time smoothly before her, an inch before her so that the next wing beat might catch it, or the next. Working the lure like a top matador his cape. Encouraging the hawk, making her stoop faster and harder, making Mr Farthing hold his breath at each stoop and near miss.

Scrunch. The shell crumpled, and the whole crown was torn away and swallowed at one gulp. Another bite and the head was gone; even the beak was swallowed, being first finely crushed into fragments. Billy eased the sparrow up between his fingers, revealing most of its body. The hawk lowered her head and began to pluck the breast and wings. The breast fluff puffed away like fairy clocks; the wing quills twirled to the ground like ash keys. Occasionally the hawk shook her head, trying to dislodge feathers which had stuck to the blood on her beak. If this failed she scratched at them with her claws, the flickering points passing within fractions of her eyes, wincing as though half in enjoyment, half in pain, like someone having a good scratch at a nettle rash.

‘No, it’s more than that. It’s instinctive. It’s a kind of respect.’

‘I know, Sir. That’s why it makes me mad when I take her out and I’ll hear somebody say, “Look, there’s Billy Casper there wi’ his pet hawk.” I could should at ’em; it’s not a pet, Sir, hawks are not pets. Or when folks spot me and say, “Is it tame?” Is it heck tame, it’s trained that’s wall. It’s fierce an’ it’s wild, an’ it’s not bothered about anybody, not even about me right. And that’s why it’s great.’

‘A lot of people wouldn’t understand that sentiment though, they like pets they can make friends with; make a fuss of, cuddle a bit, boss a bit; don’t you agree?’

‘Ye’, I suppose so. I’m not bothered about that thought. I’d sooner have her, just to look at her an’ fly her. That’s enough for me.’