A Kestrel for a Knave (17 page)

‘Hey up young un, that’s a grand place to be parked isn’t it?’

He rotated Billy like a dancing partner and walked away, his shoes tapping the bricks and crunching the coke, followed by a muffled interlude as he crossed the earth to the pavement, where his footsteps, because of this interlude, seemed louder and sharper than a few seconds before, when he had walked over brick.

Billy turned the knob and opened the door. At the far end, stretching the width of the room was a counter, mounted by a wire guard. Benches were situated round the walls and on one wall was a green felt board plastered with racing papers. Only a few strips of green showed between the pages, and from the fireplace directly opposite it looked as though felt scraps had been pinned haphazardly to the sheets. A fire was burning quietly in the grate, and over the mantelpiece, on a calendar, a jockey sat quietly on a quiet grey. In the centre of the room an old kitchen table was littered with more papers, and boxes of clean betting slips, and pencils tied to strings. A man was bending over the table writing, his pencil vertical, its string at full stretch. Another man was seated by the fire studying
form, head down, elbows in his thighs, and at the board two men were pointing at the same spot on a page, murmuring and nodding together in consultation. All the men wore caps. Behind the counter a woman was pouring tea from a flask. When she lifted the cup she projected her lips towards it, and the steam made her narrow her eyes.

When Billy opened the door they all looked at him, then immediately lost interest. He took the folded slip from his pocket and smoothed it out onto the table.

‘I say, mister, what price are these two?’

He showed them to the man with the tight stringed pencil, who put it down and took the slip.

‘What are they?’

He began to run his forefinger swiftly down the list of runners, stopped suddenly at Crackpot, then continued slowly to the S.P. at the bottom of the race.

‘Crackpot, 100–6. And Tell Him He’s Dead, that’s… where is it? I’ve just been looking at that missen…. Tell – Him – He’s – Dead…. 4–1, second favourite.’

He gave the slip back to Billy.

‘100–6 and 4–1.’

‘Have they got a chance?’

The man chuckled in his throat and shook his head.

‘Nay, lad, how do I know?’

‘Would you back ’em?’

The man became serious again and picked a sheet up from the table. Billy watched his face as though his calculations were being transmitted there.

‘That Tell – Him – He’s – dead’s got a good chance. It’s top weight, but it’s t’best horse in t’race. It must be, else it wouldn’t be top weight would it? I don’t fancy t’other though. No form. It hasn’t even a jockey on it in here. It’ll
finish up wi’ a lad on it tha can bet. No. I wouldn’t bother wi’ that one.’

‘You don’t think they’ll win then?’

‘How’s tha got ’em, doubled?’

He lifted Billy’s wrist for another look at the slip.

‘They’re not mine, they’re our Jud’s.’

‘He’ll be all right if they do. I can’t see it missen though.’ He shook his head and went back to his own selections. Billy screwed the slip up and threw it dart-style into the fire. It bounced off the crust into the hearth without catching fire. Billy went out.

The fish and chip shop was one of a parade of shops at the end of the street. It stood next to the Co-op, which curved round the corner, and bore the first number of the next road, 2 Co-operative Road.
FISH F HARTLEY CHIPS
. A letter a tile stretching the length of the premises: a link of green letters between the shop and the upstairs flat.

F. Hartley was reading the top sheet of a pile of wrapping papers which were stacked neatly on the shelf behind the counter. Mrs Hartley was rasping flat bags off a wad and flicking her fingers inside them, opening them like carnival hats and transferring them to a baggy heap at her left side. They were both wearing white smocks, with F.H. embroidered in green on the breast pocket. There was no one else in the shop. Billy jumped up at the counter and remained hanging there by folding his arms and taking his weight on them. His toes drummed the wooden panels nearly a foot from the ground.

‘A bob’s worth o’ chips an’ a fish.’

He looked down at the upside-down page that F.H. was perusing. Still perusing it, F.H. picked it up in slow motion and placed it carefully to one side. Then he looked up at Billy’s face looking over the counter close to his.

‘Get down. There’ll be no wood left when tha’s finished banging thi feet on it.’

Billy slid down, then climbed up the queue barrier to see over the counter again.

‘Serve him, Mary.’

Mary stopped opening bags and turned to the pans. She slid the lids back and shovelled a load of chips. Billy watched the scoop lifting and loading like a midget dumper. Mary reached for a fish, then paused and spoke into the mirror.

‘We might as well get rid of these chips, Floyd, it’s getting late now.’

Floyd didn’t answer. Mary waited, watching him through the painted information,
OPEN WED. DINNER,
her eyes spectacled
O P
in the mirror.

‘Can I have some scraps missus?’

Mary shovelled another dollop of chips into the bag, and topped it up, spilling them into the newspaper. Half a scoop of scraps, a tail end, and she had to use both hands to pass the big shuttlecock over the counter. Billy exchanged his half-crown, his eyes as grateful as the five thousand. A shake of salt, a shower of vinegar, and with his change in his pocket, he walked out with his portable feast.

Round the corner past the Co-op, to
GEORGE BEAL FAMILY BUTCHER
.

‘A quarter o’ beef.’

‘By, them smell good.’

‘Want one?’

Billy offered the packet over the counter. The Family Butcher squeezed a couple between his bloody fingers and gobbed them.

‘Lovely.’

He turned to a side block, and with one stroke of the knife sliced a strip of beef clean off a joint.

‘You’ve still got that bird then?’

He flopped the beef on to the scales and sucked his teeth while the pointer steadied. Billy felt for his money. George Beal wrapped the meat up and handed it over.

‘Here, tha can have that.’

‘For nowt?’

‘It’s only a scrap.’

‘Do you want another chip?’

‘No, I’ll be going for my dinner in a minute.’

‘Ta-ra.’

‘So long.’

Billy dropped the meat into his inside pocket and walked along the shop fronts, looking into the windows: the fruiterers, apples wrapped in purple papers: the hairdressers, cardboard smilers newly permed; the
HIGH CLASS GROCER
at the end. He went in, ten Embassy and a box o’ matches, then strolled back to school, eating his dinner.

He finished it just before he reached the gates.

Afternoon quiet. Darkening sky. Cloud skittering low in thickening hues.

The rooms along the front of the school were lighted: rooms 1 to 6, two bright blocks divided by foyer and offices. From the road, looking through the railings across the grass, silent pictures from room to room; same story, different players: the teacher at the front, the profiles of the window row. Rooms 6 and 5, teachers seated. 4, standing at the board. The Deputy’s office, the Deputy at his desk. Foyer dim, deserted, like the Headmaster’s room next to it. The secretary in her office, straight-backed, fingers dancing on the keys. Room 3, empty, lights left on.
Room 2, Billy half-way down the row. Windows closed, top panes misting over.

The class was quiet, working; the teacher reading, looking up each time he turned a page. The atmosphere was heavy. The air stunk of sour milk and sweat. Billy eased himself down in his chair and stretched his legs under the desk. He lay his left arm along the radiator and closed his eyes.

The scuffle of a turning page. A shifting chair. A whisper. A giggle. And a cough. All isolated, exaggerated sounds.

‘Casper.’

A voice from the gods.

‘Casper!’

Billy sat up white-faced, staring like somebody laid too long. He stretched, fingers linked, joints going off like jumping crackers.

‘Get on with your work lad.’ Then back to his book.

Billy dipped his pen and leaned over his book, shading his eyes with his left hand.

Divide 42174 by 781.

Pen poised, nib pointing at the page. The ink skin in the nib-hole burst, scattering spots between the turquoise lines. Billy’s eyelids began to droop. His elbow began to slide along the desk, his body after it, until the lip of the desk lid stopped his chest and made him open his eyes. He changed elbows, snuggled his shins up to the radiator and settled again, his glazed eyes fixed on the window. Clouding window. He raised his hand and drew his nib down through the cloud, scratching a course as clear as water. His hand stayed limp on the sill. The nib rusted, and the inkspots on his exercise book dried.

Jud walked slowly past the school, looking through the
railings at the flickering rooms. He completed the length of the building, then turned round and came back. When he reached the main gates he turned in and walked up the drive.

Billy opened his eyes and stared at the window as though listening to it. The whole pane was obscure. He wiped a hole in the mist and peered through it. Nobody there. Just a passing car, the smudged glass blurring its outline and spangling its lamps like tears.

‘Any-thing to report, Casper?’

Billy turned to the front.

‘Never mind what’s going off out there, get on with your work, lad.’

Divide 42174 by 781.

Billy looked at it, then nudged the boy beside him.

‘Hey up, did tha see somebody just come up t’drive?’

He was too busy working. He shook his head. Billy prodded the boy in front.

‘What?’

‘Has tha seen anybody just come up t’drive?’

‘I don’t know, I wasn’t looking.’

The boy behind. No.

Then, from the corridor side, a distant clicking, building slowly to the ringing of steel-tipped heels, making everyone look and turn in anticipation towards the sound.

Jud, looking in as he passed; out of sight, the sound dying down the corridor. The boys looked at Billy. The colour was draining from his face before their very eyes. Click Click Click Click, still audible, steady as a clock. Then stopping as suddenly; and returning. All eyes lifted to the corner by the door, watching as the sound came closer, closer, loud enough to justify an appearance many seconds before Jud’s upper body actually popped into view. Looking in the length of the room. A sitting duck along the top
of the cupboards. Gone.

‘Wasn’t that your illustrious brother, Casper?’

Billy was still staring at the corner where Jud had disappeared.

‘I wouldn’t have thought he was the type to pay his old school a visit.’

He started to lower his eyes to his book, then glanced up again at Billy.

‘Are you all right, lad?’ Pause. ‘Casper. What’s the matter with you? Do you feel sick?’

‘No, Sir.’

‘Are you sure? Do you want to go out for a drink of water or something?’

‘No, Sir.’

‘Open a window then, perhaps that’ll make you feel better.’

‘I’m all right, Sir.’

‘Please yourself.’

Billy shielded his face from the rest of the class and pretended to work. Tears mingled with the sweat bobbles on the sides of his nose and sped down his cheeks. He licked them away and wiped his hand down his face.

The bell rang.

‘Right, pass your books to the front. Front boy in each row bring them out.’

Billy sat back and looked round. On every desk there was an exercise book and a text-book: seventy-two books to be closed and handed in. Two seconds later they were all closed, and the relaying from the back to the front had begun. Billy’s contribution was carried out in slow motion, but in spite of this, within twenty seconds of the teacher’s order, all the books had been stacked into neat piles at the front of each row. They were then carried out and stacked
on the teacher’s desk in three piles of equal height: thirty-six exercise books in one pile, eighteen text-books in each of the other two. And the whole job completed in twenty-seven seconds.

‘Right, you can go.’

Chairs were scraped back, the aisles filled up, and the class straggled out. Billy stayed put, and when the teacher made no move, he slid off his chair and fumbled about on the floor, occasionally glancing over the desk lid. The teacher closed his novel, placed it on top of the exercise books, and picked the pile up as he stood up.

‘What’s the matter, Casper, lost something?’

He turned away and made for the door. Billy scrambled out of his place and cut across the rows, reaching him just as he entered the corridor. He turned right. Billy’s class had gone left. The last boy was twenty yards away. A few yards further on Tibbut was talking to Jud, who had his back to the notice board and one boot up against the wall. When Billy appeared Tibbut pointed to him. Jud pushed himself up and took his hands out of his pockets. Billy caught up with his teacher and tracked him closely, looking round every few steps. They turned the corner. Through the windows across the quadrangle Jud could be seen following them. While Billy was watching him, the teacher entered a classroom and closed the door. Jud turned the corner. Billy looked at him, then sprinted, dodging and banging his way the full length of the corridor, past classrooms, cloakroom, and into the toilets. He leaned back on the door. It hurried to, then slowed abruptly. He shoved it with his legs, but the air brake refused to be hurried and the door squeezed shut at its own set pace. Ear to the door, listening, eyes starting to panic. He ran straight across the toilets and out of the side door. The yard was
deserted. Across the field a crow flapped sideways into the air, flapped the length of the football pitch, and landed on the crossbar. Billy flattened himself to the wall.

Inner door opening. Footsteps. Silence. Door clicking shut. Footsteps approaching. He got ready to run, then
BANG, BANG, BANG,
as the cubicle doors were kicked back against the walls. He ducked down and raced little-man up the side of the school under the classroom windows. ‘Therefore AB must equal AC… five fives are twenty-five, six fives are thir-ty!… Like a wall of green glass topped with snow. The ship…’ In through the side door, pausing and peeping up and down the corridor. Empty. He walked down past the classrooms he had just passed on the outside. Mr Farthing, book before him, class intent…. The six times table muffled through the glass…. Mr Crossley at the board, pointing to a triangle inside a circle…. Billy dodged into the cloakroom and ran down a corridor of coats to the far end. He listened for a minute, then unhooked a collection of raincoats, overcoats and dufflecoats, and humped them on top of each other on adjoining end pegs, forming a bulk like a tree trunk, which he disappeared into and parted slightly to spy out into the main corridor. A boy passed, picking his nose, oblivious. Billy sat on his haunches, waiting.