It was about half an hour later that Dad came up to tell me the news. I guessed they’d kept me waiting so long to make me sweat for mouthing off at Mum. But what they’d really been doing was working out a plan – a set of conditions I had to stick to. I only found out when I went downstairs to say thanks to Mum. I gave her a massive kiss on the cheek and she just went, ‘Hmm, someone’s in a good mood. I hope your father’s discussed this with you.’ At that point, Dad slipped into the lounge.
‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘We’ll do this together.’
There was loads of stuff. First, they explained, the bird was my responsibility and mine alone. I had to feed her and keep her clean and healthy. If they ever suspected she was being neglected she went straight to Mr Duckins, no questions asked. I had to buy her food from my pocket-money as well. I winced a bit at that because I didn’t know how much pigeon food cost. I get five pounds pocket-money every week and I’m always broke when Saturday comes around. Mr Duckins had given me a small bag of mixed grain to start me off. He’d told me she needed enough to fill an egg-cup, twice a day. I guessed I had about a week’s supply. I made a note to go to the pet shop later.
The worst bit was all the stuff about school. They didn’t say anything too direct. They went ‘round the houses’ as my gran likes to say. Things like, ‘We don’t want this hobby to interfere with your homework, Darryl’ and ‘Education is important, we hope you understand that’. I knew what they wanted to hear, of course: ‘I promise I’ll try double-extra hard at school from now on’. It made me squirm. School is hard enough as it is. Especially English with Mr Tompkins. It’s so-oo boring. Anyway, Mum looked pleased enough. And that was that. I was told not to get so uppity in future – and then I was excused.
I rang Garry straight away.
He came round next morning as we were finishing breakfast.
‘Excuse me, but did you actually leave?’ Mum asked as he stepped into the kitchen and wiped his feet.
Garry gave her a peculiar look.
‘I swear that boy sleeps in our garage,’ Mum muttered, plonking dishes on to the drainer. Dad just smiled and went on picking horses from the paper.
Natalie said, ‘I want to sleep in the garage as well.’
‘Eat,’ was all Mum said in reply. Natalie stuck out her lip and stirred her cornflakes.
‘We’re going to see the pigeon,’ I announced to the kitchen. I picked my baseball cap off the worktop and motioned Garry to follow me to the garden.
‘I want to see the pigeon,’ Natalie piped up.
‘Soon,’ said Dad. ‘Darryl and Garry have to clean the shed first.’
‘What?’ said Garry.
‘Come on,’ I said. I grabbed a handful of his sweatshirt and hauled him outside.
‘It’s one of the conditions,’ I began to explain as we walked down the garden and stopped by the shed. I rubbed the window and peered inside. Cherokee’s box was exactly where I’d left it, slap bang in the middle of the floor. I’d covered the top with a loose piece of cardboard and punched a few air holes in with a pencil. Mr Duckins had said we should keep her quiet for the first few days, try not to let her flap too much. It didn’t look as if she’d done any flapping whatsoever. And suddenly, I had this horrible feeling. What if I lifted the cardboard this morning and she was cold and stiff and rolled on her side, one eye staring, claws turned up?
‘What conditions?’
Garry’s question brought me back to my senses. ‘Things we have to do if we want to keep her.’
‘You’re the one who’s keeping her,’ he said, confused.‘Why do I have to clean your shed?’
‘Because you’re my friend and I’ll be going on holiday some time, won’t I?’
Garry still looked confused. ‘You’re going to take her to the seaside? Won’t she get lost among all those gulls?’
‘Never mind,’ I sighed. ‘Just wait there.’
I unlatched the shed door and brought Cherokee’s box out on to the lawn. My hands were shaking as I lifted the lid. She was sitting in a corner, all huddled up. There was a messy streak of poo on the bottom of the box and a few rolled oats that she hadn’t pecked up.
‘Hello, bird,’ said Garry, leaning over my shoulder. He ‘cooed’ a few times and clicked his tongue. ‘What you gonna call her, then?’ he asked.
‘Dunno,’ I answered, lowering the lid. I’d been thinking about that ever since we’d left Mr Duckins’ house. Why didn’t fanciers give their birds names? Perhaps it was because they had so many they wouldn’t be able to remember them all. It seemed a bit mean, though, just giving them a number. A bit like being in the army or something. I’d decided my bird would definitely have a name. I just didn’t know what it was going to be, then.
‘Polly,’ said Garry.
‘Dumb,’ I said.
‘It’s what they call parrots.’
‘She’s not a parrot.’
‘Polly pigeon. Sounds all right. Pretty Polly pigeon. Here, Polly pigeon. Who’s a pretty boy, then?’
‘Not you,’ I said. ‘Let’s do the shed.’
There wasn’t very much to tidy at all. We started by taking everything out and piling it into a heap on the lawn. Garry nearly split the seat of his jeans when he tried to lift an old bag of building sand. We moved that and a bag of cement out together, then we took it in turns to get the lawnmower, some garden tools, Natalie’s old pram (that Mum was going to grow flowers in one day), a reel of wire mesh, some music magazines, some weedkiller, a box of old wood bits, some rolled-up carpet, a big stack of plant pots and finally, a shelf-load of paint cans and brushes.
The only thing left was Dad’s old workbench. ‘That as well?’ Garry said with a gulp. The workbench looked a pretty solid fixture.
To his relief I shook my head. ‘I’m going to put her box on top of that. When my birthday comes round I’m going to ask Mum for a proper nesting box, just like the ones in Mr Duckins’ loft.’
‘I’m getting the Man United away strip for mine.’
‘Boring,’ I sniffed, trying not to sound envious. I grabbed the yard brush and thrust it at him.
While Garry was sweeping the floor of the shed, I got on and cleaned the window. The glass was covered in a film of dust that smudged and smeared as I rubbed it with a tissue. I thought about writing ‘Darryl’s Loft’ in big arched letters, but I didn’t think Mum would be pleased if she saw it. The frame of the window was worse than the glass. Little clumps of moss were growing in the corners and it seemed to be a graveyard for hundreds of flies. When Garry wasn’t looking I brushed them to the floor. Then I forced the window open and left it on the latch.
As we were putting the stuff back in, Dad and Natalie came down the garden. Mum was just behind them with a basket of washing. She stopped to peg some out on the line.
‘Not bad,’ Dad said, admiring our handiwork. ‘Neat and tidy, like a workshop should be. Where’s the pigeon box going?’
‘On the workbench,’ I said.
‘Oh yes?’ said Dad. ‘And suppose I want to do some D.I.Y.?’
‘Fff,’ went Mum. ‘That’ll be the day.’
‘What’s D.I.Y., Daddy?’ Natalie piped up.
‘It’s no good asking him,’ said Mum.
‘She has to be off the ground,’ I explained, bringing the conversation back to pigeons.
‘So the vermin don’t get her,’ Garry pointed out.
‘VERMIN!’ Mum squealed, dropping her pegs. ‘We’re not having vermin in our shed, Darryl.’
‘What’s vermins?’ said Natalie.
‘Mice,’ I said. I saw Mum shudder.
‘I like them,’ said Natalie. ‘I wonder if we’ve got any vermins in our shed?’
‘She’s weird,’ Garry muttered. I couldn’t disagree.
‘It’s only a precaution,’ I explained to Dad. ‘It’s really to keep her away from damp.’
‘It had better be,’ said Dad. ‘What’s the window doing open?’
‘Pigeons need lots of a
ir,’ said Garry.
I nodded and qualified the statement some more. ‘Mr Duckins said to give her plenty of air but not to let her sit in a draught.’
Dad looked a bit perplexed. ‘How’s she going to manage that with the window on the latch? Anyway, what’s to stop a cat getting in?’
I shuffled my feet and looked at the ground. ‘We have to put mesh across the window,’ I murmured.
‘Oh, do we?’ Dad said, putting his hands on his hips. ‘Nobody said anything about that yesterday.’
‘I forgot, sorry.’ It was true, I had. But since the subject was raised, I reminded Dad we had some mesh in the shed.
‘All right,’ he sighed, ‘bring it out here, then. And the hammer, and the cutters, and a handful of nails.’
‘Shall we open a paint can, too?’ asked Garry. He flapped an irritated hand at Natalie. She had picked up a peg and was going for his sleeve.
‘Punnt?’ went Mum, biting on a sock.
‘Mr Duckins’ loft is painted in black and white stripes. So the pigeons can see it from a long way off.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Dad.
‘I know so,’ said Mum, removing the sock and shaking it out. ‘I’m not having a humbug in the garden, thank you.
And we’re not having a star on the roof of it, either.’
I glanced at Dad. He gave me a ‘that settles that’ sort of look. I just nodded and went to get the mesh.
While we were cutting the mesh to size, Mum said, ‘Have you thought of a name for this poor bird yet? I can’t keep calling it “the pigeon” for ever.’
‘I wonder what your name is?’ Natalie said, lifting the cardboard and peering in the box. I grabbed her before she could peg a wing.
‘How about Feathers?’ Mum suggested.
‘That’s naff,’ Garry muttered, hoping Mum wouldn’t hear. But Mum’s got ears like satellite dishes – and a scowl as black as space to match. ‘And what’s your bright suggestion, Gareth?’
That made Gazza squirm. He hates it if anyone calls him Gareth. ‘Dunno,’ he said, and stuffed his hands in his pockets.
‘I want to play at Indimans,’ Natalie said suddenly. I looked her way. She had a feather in her hand and was waving it about like a fireworks sparkler.
‘Nat-tt!’ I started, thinking she must have pinched it from the box.
‘All right,’ Dad said, putting a hand on my arm. ‘She found it on the grass. Let her play if she wants to.’
‘I’m an Indiman!’ Natalie announced to Garry. ‘I wonder if you’re a…boy cow!’
‘Push off,’ he muttered as she pegged his jeans.
‘What about an Indian name?’ said Dad. ‘You could call her Flies like the Wind or something.’
‘She can’t fly,’ I said.
Dad scratched his head. ‘Well, you know what I mean.’
‘I wonder why the pigeon can’t fly,’ said Natalie, flapping her arms and running in figures of eight on the lawn.
‘I wonder if you’ll ever stop saying “I wonder”,’ Mum huffed. ‘And don’t do that, you’ll make yourself sick.’
‘Urrrgghh!’ went Natalie.
‘Charming,’ said Dad.
‘Wonderbirds…’ said Garry, suddenly inspired. ‘Call her Wonderbird One! You know like Thunderb—’
‘No chance,’ I said, cutting him off.
‘I know.’ Everybody looked at Mum. ‘Name her after an Indian tribe.’
Dad nodded. ‘That’s a good idea. Lots to choose from: Hopi, Navajo, Blackfoot…’
‘She’s got pink feet,’ said Garry.
‘Whee!’ went Natalie.
‘…Sioux,’ said Dad.
‘Yes, Sue,’ said Mum. ‘That’s a nice name. We very nearly called Natalie that. Natalie, will you STOP doing twirls.’
‘I’m a wonderbirds,’ said Natalie. ‘I wonder, I wonder…’
Then I remembered a name from History. ‘Cherokee,’ I said. ‘Isn’t that the name of an Indian tribe?’
‘Yes,’ said Dad. ‘Cherokee. That’s good.’
‘Wonderbirds!’ said Natalie, spinning into Dad.
‘Cherokee the Wonderbird!’ Dad said loudly, catching Natalie and swinging her round. He lowered her with a bump then patted a hand across his mouth and started to whoop. He did a hopping dance up the garden path.
‘Don’t you make it rain,’ said Mum, jerking a thumb at the line of washing.
‘As if,’ scoffed Garry. He glanced my way. ‘I still like Wonderbird One the best.’
‘It’s Cherokee.’ I said, kneeling by the box.
‘Wonder,’ Mum added. ‘Cherokee Wonder.’
‘Cherokee Wonder?’ Garry turned up his nose. ‘Stupid,’ he said.
But I liked it – and it stuck.
Chapter Seven
About three weeks after we’d named Cherokee I got the chance to keep my promise about trying harder at school.
One morning, in English, Mr Tompkins boomed, ‘Public speaking. That is going to be our topic today.’ He wrote it on the board in capital letters and underlined it twice in yellow chalk. ‘What do I mean by public speaking?’
Melanie Warner shoved up her hand. ‘It means doing talks, sir.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Tompkins. ‘Doing talks. That’s exactly what it means. Giving a lecture or speech of some kind. Who can you think of who gives a speech?’
‘Mr Blundell,’ Graham Wheeler groaned from the back. A few people sniggered. Mr Blundell is our Head. He gives a boring speech about something called ‘morals’ at quarter past nine every morning in assembly.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Tompkins, ignoring the laughter. He threw his chalk into the air and caught it again. ‘Mr Blundell is a very able speaker. Who else? Come on, let’s have some famous ones…’
So we had to reel off a great long list. Claire Parker said ‘The Queen’ and I said ‘The Prime Minister’. Mr Tompkins said they were both very good. Garry said ‘Ryan Giggs’ and everybody laughed. Sean Forrester called him a total wally. Garry chucked a ruler but it hit Donna Glass. Donna threw it back and it hit Emma Green. Mr Tompkins threatened them all with detention.
‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘if we’ve all stopped lobbing missiles round the room the point is this: where did these people learn to make speeches?’
I knew what was coming. ‘School,’ he was going to say, any second now.
‘School,’ he said. I made a snoring noise and slipped down in my seat. ‘They learned it in school. In their English lessons, to be precise…’
By now, everyone was doodling on their pads. Mr Tompkins was gliding between the desks, just like a lion stalking its prey. He tossed his chalk into the air again and snatched it back about an inch above my head.
‘So.’ The sharpness of the word made me squeeze my eyes shut. I opened them again when Mr Tompkins patted his hand on my shoulder and told me to sit up straight in my seat. ‘How is it done, Darryl? How do we learn this remarkable gift?’
‘What gift?’ said Connor Dorley.
‘Oration, Connor. The gift of oration.’
‘Or what?’ said Garry.
‘Or…ration,’ Mr Tompkins repeated, drawing his hand away from his mouth like a magician pulling out a stream of hankies. ‘Well, Darryl?’
I swallowed hard and knitted my fingers together. ‘Don’t know, sir,’ I mumbled. ‘You just do it, I s’pose. You just stand up and…talk about something.’
‘Anything?’ Mr Tompkins pressed, drifting quietly back towards the front. He picked a Space Wars figure out of Billy Dunkley’s grasp and dropped it on his tray of confiscated items. ‘If I asked you to talk about baking a cake, you could come up here and do it, could you?’
‘I could,’ I heard Annie Gardiner whisper. She poked me in the back. I just wanted to curl up and roll down a drain.
‘No, sir.’
‘Hmm,’ Mr Tompkins murmured. He glanced through the window and tutted at something. It wasn’t enough to stop him talking. ‘So what could you give a publ
ic speech about, Darryl? What single thing do you know most about?’
For a second, I seemed to be lost in a dream. That foggy sort of state I get in sometimes when we have to do a test and my mind goes blank. Then, without thinking, a word popped out…
‘Pigeons.’
‘Pigeons?’ Mr Tompkins set his shoulders back. He gave me one of his questioning looks as if I might be trying to wind him up. The rest of the class were too stunned to respond. I could tell they thought I was making it up. Everyone except Garry Taylor, of course.
‘It’s true,’ he said proudly, folding his arms and smirking at all the questioning faces. He grinned at me and then at Mr Tompkins. ‘Me and Darryl know loads about pigeons, sir.’
And that’s how we came to be doing our project. The point Mr Tompkins was making was this: the easiest way to learn public speaking was by giving a talk about something you were good at, or something you enjoyed, or a hobby you had.
‘In Darryl’s case, pigeon fancying apparently.’
‘Coo-oo,’ someone trilled from the back.
Mr Tompkins sighed. ‘See me afterwards, Connor Dorley.’
Normally, I hate doing projects. But at least this time we could do it in pairs. Garry and I teamed up straight away. I didn’t know at first how we were going to work it. Mr Tompkins said both members of a pair had to talk on their subject for at least five minutes, but they must present a different aspect of it.
On the way home I explained to Garry what I thought he meant. ‘If I give a talk about looking after pigeons, you have to talk about racing them or something.’
‘That’s not fair,’ Gazza protested. ‘I don’t know anything about racing pigeons.’
‘We could always go and ask Mr Duckins,’ I said.
Garry scuffed the toe of his shoe in the gutter. There was a pause while we turned down Great Elms Road. Then he came back meekly, ‘Can’t we do a project on football instead?’
I was just about ready to punch his arm when suddenly something caught my eye. It was in the window of a shop called Spines, a second-hand bookshop that we passed every day but that neither of us had ever bothered to look in before.
Garry scuffed to a halt and followed my gaze. ‘Wow,’ he gasped.
Fly, Cherokee, Fly Page 3