‘Grit?’ said Donna Barker, pulling a face. ‘They eat bread in town.’
‘My sister eats soil,’ Graham Sweeton said.
‘My sister eats coal,’ Melanie Warner contested.
‘You’ll all be chewing the end of a pen if you don’t be quiet,’ Mr Tompkins warned. ‘The next person to interrupt gets detention and an essay – all about birds. Now, tell us why pigeons eat grit, Garry.’
‘They use it to mash up their food,’ he answered. One or two people wrinkled their noses. Garry continued. ‘They have lots of different types of feathers as well.’ He pointed to the diagram. ‘In the autumn, they all fall out and grow back again. This is called the moult.
‘In conclusion…’ (we all had to say that at the end of our speech) ‘pigeons are interesting birds to keep. They are loyal to their owners and racing them can be a rewarding hobby. They live about fourteen years if they are looked after properly. That is what Darryl is going to talk about now.’
Garry blew a deep breath and stepped back from the desk.
‘Excellent,’ said Mr Tompkins. ‘Short and sweet but very informative. Let’s show our appreciation, class.’ We all gave Garry a round of applause.
Then it was my turn. I stepped up to the front.
Like Garry, I’d written down in my workbook what I was supposed to be saying, but I soon discovered I didn’t need it. I started off by telling everyone how we’d found Cherokee, and even how we’d come to name her. After that it all just seemed to tumble out naturally. When I got to the ‘in conclusion’ bit and finally finished off there was absolute silence. I looked at Mr Tompkins. He folded his arms and stared rigidly at me. I thought I’d done something wrong at first, but then he started to nod very slowly and said, ‘Goodness, that was a passionate speech. Do you know you’ve been talking for fifteen minutes? And look at them, Darryl…’ He swept out a hand. ‘…Your audience is gripped.’
‘Gobsmacked, more like,’ I heard Garry mutter. I flushed with pride and couldn’t resist a smile. It was the first time I’d done really well in English.
When my thunderous round of applause had died down, hands began to pop up all over the room.
‘One quick question each,’ said Mr Tompkins. ‘Or we’ll all be here till this time next week. Over to you, Darryl.’
‘Thanks, sir,’ I said, and beckoned Garry back.
The first question came from Jennifer Quigley. ‘You know when you said you have to pay for Cherokee’s food yourself? How much does it cost?’
‘Pigeon mix from the pet shop is 27p a pound,’ I said.
‘She eats about an ounce a day,’ Garry added.
‘And there are sixteen ounces in a pound,’ I continued.
‘So it costs?’ said Mr Tompkins. We fumbled with the sum.
‘About 2p a day,’ I offered rather quietly.
‘That’s right,’ said Mr Tompkins. ‘Next question. Ryan?’
I beamed at Ryan Harvey. This was brilliant. I wished Mum and Dad could be here to see it.
‘When she could fly and you let her out of the shed the first time,’ Ryan asked, ‘weren’t you afraid she might fly away?’
I got a lump in my throat when I thought about that. My mind pitched back to the night we’d come home and found Cherokee sitting up in the rafters. It had taken me ages to gather the courage to let her go in the open air. Please don’t fly to Lenny Spigott, I’d begged her. This is your home. Please come back. Before releasing her I’d looked towards the house. Mum, Dad, Natalie and Garry were all there, watching from the upstairs windows. I lifted Cherokee up to the sky. She cocked her head at the passing clouds, her dark-blue neck-feathers ruffling in the breeze. I could feel the beat of her heart in my hands and her warm toes scratching against my skin. I waited for an upward gust of wind and then, slowly, I parted my hands. Fly, I whispered. Cherokee! Fly! And she was gone, wings hammering like helicopter blades as she dipped across the garden in a low-flying arc that ended in a stumble on top of the dustbin. For a moment, I thought that was all she would do. And I wanted to pound across the garden and grab her, afraid the exertion had been too much. But she was tough, like Mr Duckins had said. As I turned, she put her head back and stretched, and suddenly she was clattering upwards, vertically upwards, straight to the roof. She landed briefly on the smooth grey slates, then fluttered higher still – to the TV aerial. It shook and wobbled under the impact. I ran into the shed to fetch my tin. By the time I’d come out again, Cherokee was gone.
‘Darryl?’ Mr Tompkins’ steady voice prompted.
‘Sir?’
‘Are you with us? Ryan wants to know if you were frightened you’d lose Cherokee Wonder on her maiden flight?’
I stared at Ryan. He had his chin on his palms and was giving me the knitted eyebrows look. ‘Yes,’ I confessed. ‘Dead frightened.’
‘So was I,’ said Garry, looking serious. ‘I thought she’d gone to Barrowmoor.’
‘Why Barrowmoor?’ Mr Tompkins asked.
I gave Garry a kick on the back of his ankle. We’d made a deal that we wouldn’t mention where Cherokee had come from, and so far nobody had bothered to ask.
‘Er…dunno,’ Garry shrugged. ‘She just went that way. She came back, though,’ he added, with a toothy grin. ‘She only flew round and round the sky. Darryl got her in by shaking the food tin.’
Mr Tompkins smiled. ‘I expect that was a special moment, Darryl?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I muttered. I didn’t dare say I’d cried. But I had. I’d sat in the shed for ages afterwards and wept so much there was a puddle on the boards.
‘Anyway,’ Mr Tompkins said, craning his neck and glancing at the clock, ‘time is slipping away from us fast. We’ve only ten minutes before the bell. I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Darryl and Garry the rest of your questions out of school.’
‘Aw, sir!’ everyone groaned at once. ‘We can do loads of questions in ten minutes, sir!’
‘True,’ said Mr Tompkins, ‘but I’ve saved this time for something rather special. You won’t complain when you know what it is.’
The room buzzed with muttered words. Mr Tompkins winked at me. I went into the cupboard behind his desk and came out carrying a cardboard box. It was a box my Auntie Julie had used for taking her cat to the vet in once. But there wasn’t a cat inside today.
The gasp when I lifted Cherokee out was almost loud enough to rattle the windows.
‘Nobody move!’ Mr Tompkins bellowed as twenty-four kids pressed forward in their seats. ‘Darryl will carry her round the room. If you’re gentle, he says you may stroke her.’
And everybody did.
It didn’t stop when class had finished either. The whole school seemed to know we had a pigeon and loads of people wanted to see her. Garry said we should have charged 10p a look. We made our way to the gates that night like rock stars going through a crowd of fans. And it was outside the gates that something happened. I was waiting for Garry to stop showing off to Christine Thompson and come back with the cat-box so I could put Cherokee in it, when a finger tapped my shoulder and a squirmy voice said, ‘Pleeze, Darryl, can I see your birdie?’
I knew that voice. And it wasn’t really squirmy. I turned in fear. It was Warren Spigott.
‘Let’s have it, then,’ he said harshly. He was with two others: the girl we’d seen before, and a ginger-haired boy in blue sunglasses.
I shook my head and held Cherokee close. She struggled as if she realised something was wrong. ‘She’s tired,’ I said.
‘Don’t get smart with me,’ said Warren, hooking two fingers inside my collar. I tried to pull away but he tightened his grip.
‘Come on,’ said the girl. ‘This is boring.’
Warren ignored her. ‘Let me hold her,’ he demanded. He flicked one finger under my chin. It didn’t hurt much but it made me grimace. The boy in the sunglasses snorted a laugh.
‘It’s all right,’ said Warren, dead close to my face. ‘I know about birds. She’ll be safe with me.’
‘No,’ I said sharply, looking round for Garry. Where was he when I needed him most?
Just then I felt a searing pain in my ear. The boy in the glasses had grabbed my lobe and was starting to pinch it between his fingers.
‘Get off!’ I yelled.
‘I’m only doing your blackheads,’ he sniffed – and pinched a bit harder.
That was all I could take. I screamed again and let Cherokee go. I thought if I could throw her into the sky she would home to the shed and it would all be over. She would be safer in the sky than in the hands of Warren Spigott.
But she didn’t make it into the sky.
As I moved to let her go Warren guessed what I was doing. It was just like a nightmare relay race. She flapped her wings twice and went out of my hands, fluttering madly, straight into his.
‘Got you,’ he said.
‘NO!’ I shouted. I flailed a leg and tried to kick him. The boy in the glasses got me in a bear hug.
‘Hmm,’ went Warren, ‘what do you reckon, Paula?’ He pushed Cherokee close to Paula’s face.
‘Please,’ she complained, turning up her nose. ‘Come on, let’s go. Let the squirt have his stupid bird.’
Warren just smirked. He folded Cherokee into his hands and held her the way Mr Duckins had taught me. ‘Which club you in?’ he said, looking at her closely.
‘Let her go,’ I said. ‘Just let her go.’
‘She’s a racer,’ said Warren. ‘Where’d you get her?’ He turned her up and examined her ring.
‘She’s mine,’ I said bitterly. ‘Leave her alone.’ I struggled with the arms around my chest, wincing as a knee drove into my back.
‘I’ve seen this bird before,’ said Warren.
‘Let her go!’ I cried, tears welling in my eyes. ‘Let her go. I saved her! She’s mine! Let her go!’
There was a movement of feathers. ‘Hold up,’ said Warren. He had Cherokee’s wing extended now. I knew he was looking at the code underneath.
Suddenly Paula tapped her foot on the ground. ‘Tompkins,’ she hissed. ‘Sean, let him go.’
The arms around my chest whisked away like snakes. I stumbled almost breathless to the ground. Warren and his mates went into a huddle.
‘Right, what’s going on here?’ said Mr Tompkins, approaching at a brisk, accelerated march. Garry was tucked in close behind. So that’s where he’d been – to fetch Mr Tompkins.
‘Just looking at the bird, Mr Tompkins,’ said Warren. He was holding Cherokee properly now, innocently stroking her neck with his thumb.
Mr Tompkins flashed a glance at me. I tried not to let him see my face. ‘Give it back, Spigott, and get on your way.’
‘I know about birds,’ Warren Spigott sniffed. ‘Shall I tell you about their markings, Mr Tompkins?’
Mr Tompkins opened the front of his jacket and put his hands very firmly on his hips. His voice dropped to a dangerous growl. ‘I won’t tell you again, Spigott. Give the bird back.’
‘To its rightful owner, you mean, sir?’
‘GIVE IT!’ Mr Tompkins thundered. He thrust an angry finger in my direction.
Warren Spigott responded with a spiteful grin. He held Cherokee out and I took her from him. Garry opened the box and I put her inside.
‘Now go,’ Mr Tompkins ordered them. ‘Before I put you in detention for the rest of the month.’
Warren flicked his unwashed hair off his shoulder. He stuffed his hands really deep in his pockets and backed off slowly, whistling as he went. He didn’t say a word but I could read his eyes. I’ll see you, he was saying.
I’ll sort you out – thief.
Chapter Eleven
‘Barbed wire,’ said Garry. ‘That’s what we need. Barbed wire round the shed and a line of broken glass in front of it. Like they do on the industrial estate. He wouldn’t be able to get near her then. Or one of those infra-red detector sort of gadgets that bleep like mad if you walk through the beam. No, I know! We could dig a big hole right near the shed door and cover it with branches like they do when they’re catching tigers in the jungle! It’d be ace. When he steps on the branches…poom! He falls into a pit and gets eaten alive by Spigott-eating…spiders! Or snakes! Or snails! Or…’
‘Gazza?’
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ I sighed. I flopped back on my bed and stared at the luminescent shapes on the ceiling: rockets, moons, planets, stars. I wished I could be lost in space right then.
I’d been a little lost ever since we’d got home. After the quietest tea in living memory (according to Mum) we’d gone to my room to listen to some music. Well, that was the theory; the stereo was on, but we weren’t really listening. Garry had his nose in a football book and I’d found a tennis ball to bounce off the wall. After twenty-seven minutes of hitting Alan Shearer in the belly-button, I’d finally cracked and lobbed the ball into a pile of dirty washing.
‘I hate Warren Spigott,’ I muttered beneath my breath. It wasn’t supposed to be loud enough for anyone to hear, but Garry was on edge and could have heard a flea sneeze. No sooner had the words come through my lips than he’d started on his methods of defending Cherokee from surprise attacks by the Spigott gang.
‘Geese!’ he cried, eyes aglow. ‘Guard geese’d be brilliant! Connor Dorley said he got chased by some once when he was metal-detecting on Goodmud’s farm.’
‘Don’t be pathetic. We can’t get geese.’
‘Hmm, s’pose not,’ Garry conceded. ‘They wouldn’t be much use if he came in a fork-lift truck and tried to steal the whole shed with Cherokee in it, anyway.’
I threw a T-shirt at him. ‘He’s not going to try and steal her, stupid. All he has to do is tell his dad we’re keeping her. Then Lenny Spigott will come round here and start a big argument and I’ll have to give Cherokee back and Mum’ll go mad and say I’m never to have a pigeon again – EVER. That’s what’s gonna happen. I hate Warren Spigott. I hate him! I hate him! I—’
‘Darryl?’ There was a rapid knocking on the door.
I blinked at Garry. He reached out and opened it.
‘Turn that down,’ Mum said sharply, jerking a thumb at the music system. Garry tweaked the remote. Mum looked across at me. ‘Don’t lie on your bed in your trainers, Darryl. Come on downstairs – there’s a phone call for you.’
‘Phone call?’ I propped myself up on my elbows.
‘That’s what I said. Trainers – off.’
I swung my feet off the end of the bed. Garry hadn’t moved. His eyes were like moons. ‘Who is it?’ he hissed.
‘How should I know?’ Mum shrugged. ‘Some boy from school. That’s all he said.’
‘School?’
‘Yes – school.’
‘Our school?’ I asked.
Mum shook her head in exasperation, ‘No, now I recall he said he was from Eton. Come on-nn.’
Garry bit his lip. ‘How old was he?’
‘I don’t know!’ Mum spluttered impatiently. ‘I expect he’s one of your barmy classmates, which would make him officially twelve years old with a mental age of three. Now will one of you come downstairs and answer this call. The poor boy’s bill must be astronomic.’
‘Did he sound…friendly?’ Garry persisted.
Mum glared at me. ‘I’m going,’ I said.
I felt like cutting the wires as I walked to the phone. Or yanking them from the socket like you see in films. I was certain the caller was Warren Spigott. Or Lenny Spigott. Or Mr Tompkins saying, ‘Darryl, I want to hear the truth about this pigeon…’ Or the police. My heart went wallop. What if it was the police? What if they came and drove me away in a panda car and locked me in a cell and would only feed me on bread and water until I confessed to thieving a prized racing pigeon?
I picked up the phone.
‘Is that Darryl?’ said a voice.
‘Might be,’ I mumbled.
The caller paused, confused. ‘Is it Garry, then?’
‘No.’
The caller paused agai
n. ‘Is it…541-2351?’
I glanced at our number. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘Ryan.’
‘Ryan who?’
‘Ryan Harvey – from school. Come on, Darryl. Stop messing about.’
I allowed myself a gulp. ‘Sorry, I thought you were someone else.’
‘Who?’
‘…Dunno.’
Ryan tutted hard.
‘What do you want?’ I asked.
‘Nothing,’ he grumbled. ‘It doesn’t matter. I just wondered if I could come and see your pigeon flying, that’s all…’ He put down the phone.
I was like that all weekend – a real bag of nerves. Every time the phone rang, I hid somewhere. When the doorbell buzzed, I bolted for the loo. It was terrible, waiting for the moment to arrive – the moment when Warren would come and sort me out. Or send his dad round. Or do something horrible. But it didn’t happen then. Not that weekend. Not Monday even. I’d almost forgotten about Warren Spigott by the time I did run into him again.
When I did, it was outside the papershop near Spines. I was reading Garry a useless joke off a lollipop stick when I realised he wasn’t listening to me. His face was ashen, his gaze lost somewhere over my shoulder. I knew before I turned what I was going to see.
‘You,’ said Warren Spigott. He beckoned me to him. It was just him and the ginger-haired boy this time.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Come here,’ he snarled.
I inched a bit closer, near enough to smell his breath.
‘I’ve been looking through my old man’s records,’ he said. ‘And guess what I found?’
I gave a silent shrug.
‘Guess,’ he growled.
‘Don’t know,’ I muttered. I hunched my shoulders and started to quiver.
‘Don’t know,’ he mimicked. The ginger boy laughed. Suddenly, Warren’s hand was under my chin. He tipped my face up so I had to see his eyes. ‘That bird,’ he spat, ‘was a winner once. Placed first in a hundred-mile sprint, she was. She’s valuable, that bird. She was one of Dad’s favourites.’
‘No she wasn’t!’ I blurted. ‘He was going to kill her!’
Warren grabbed my tie and wrapped it round his fist. ‘Why would he kill a bird like that?’
Fly, Cherokee, Fly Page 5