‘You leave him!’ I screamed, flapping wildly at Ginger. ‘It’s true! She belongs to me properly now! I saw Warren’s dad at a pigeon race and he said I could have her – have her for keeps!’
‘You…’ Ginger started, capturing my arms. He danced me round and flung me at Warren.
‘Liar,’ Warren sniffed and slapped me on the head. He bundled me back to Ginger again. He kicked me in the knee and sent me sprawling on the grass.
‘Look at them,’ Warren sneered from above. ‘Pathetic little slaves. You’re gonna pay double for this, you twerps.’
‘No we’re not,’ I said and scrambled angrily to my feet. I dived into my jacket and they both reeled back as if I might have a gun. But I had something much more powerful than that: a signed statement from Warren’s father. ‘There!’ I yelled, and showed it to them:
I, Leonard Spigott,
of Stafton Road, Barrowmoor
give this pigeon GB96Z54978
to Darryl Otterwell
26th May 1998
This time, Warren looked visibly shaken. His eyes swept scathingly over the document. His thin lips mouthed its contents, twice.
‘Gimme that!’ He snatched the paper off me.
‘No!’ I squealed, jumping to retrieve it. That was the only evidence I’d got. Warren examined the writing closely, holding me at bay with one powerful hand.
‘We’ve got a photograph of it,’ Garry lied from the ground. ‘So we don’t even care if you rip it up.’
Ginger flashed Warren a worried glance. Warren snorted and handed the paper to him. ‘Well,’ he said, shoving me away. ‘Looks like they’ve got us in a corner, Ginge. Clever slaves, huh? We didn’t count on that. Unless…’ He snapped his fingers and smirked at his mate. ‘Unless…’ He swivelled on his heel and swaggered towards me. I backed away, frightened. Somehow, I knew he was really going to blow. ‘Unless the cocky little slave has seen my dad’s paintings in the window of Spines and decided to try to forge his signature…?’
‘It’s real,’ I quivered. ‘I did see your dad. You ask him. He said I could go and see his pigeons if I—’
‘Shut it!’ Warren yelled. His hand shot forward and gagged my throat. ‘You made it up to try and get out of our little arrangement. Well, I tell you what, slave. It’s gonna be twice as bad from now on. You’re gonna buy me anything and everything I want. You’re gonna be my slave till the end of your days!’
‘I don’t think so,’ said a voice. ‘Now put him down.’
The vice-like hand relaxed its grip. I bent double. A dribble of saliva hit my shoes.
‘Just a game, sir,’ said Ginger.
‘He hit me!’ Garry bawled.
‘Shut up,’ growled Warren.
‘No,’ said Mr Tompkins, striding forward, ‘you’re the one who’s going to shut up, Spigott.’ He held out his hand. ‘Come on, hand it over.’ Warren thought for a moment, then realised what Mr Tompkins wanted. Grudgingly, he put his hand in his pocket.
Mr Tompkins took the whistle and dropped it on the ground, then stamped it into splinters with the heel of his shoe.
‘Head’s office. NOW!’ he roared at them both.
Warren and Ginger melted away.
Garry looked at me with tears in his eyes.
‘We did it,’ I said, and pulled him to his feet.
Chapter Twenty
Garry’s ear came up like a strawberry patch, all red and blotchy and very wounded. It looked brilliant. So did the bruise on my knee. We couldn’t wait to tell Connor and the rest of our mates how we’d stood up to Warren and lived to show the scars. We knew they were going to be dead impressed – unlike Mum, who definitely wasn’t impressed.
‘How on EARTH did you get that?’ she cried, dragging Garry over to the medicine cabinet and fiddling for a bottle of antiseptic.
‘Erm…I was chasing Darryl and he erm…’
‘I don’t want to know,’ Mum said sharply, pressing a dampened cloth to his ear.
‘Ow! But you just asked,’ he complained.
‘Hold still,’ she fussed, clucking like a hen. ‘Honestly, Garry Taylor, the amount of patching up I do to you. I sometimes wonder if I shouldn’t ring your mother and ask for a swap.’
‘Mum,’ I interrupted, changing the subject, ‘will you give us a lift to Mr Duckins’ after tea? We’ve got to return his timing clock.’
‘I suppose so,’ she muttered, reaching for a plaster.
‘Thanks. See you in the garden, Gazza.’
‘Ow!’ he moaned again.
‘Don’t be such a baby,’ Mum scolded him.
In the garden, I told Cherokee Wonder everything we’d done. I told her she was mine for ever now and that no one could possibly take her from me.
‘You won’t be lonely,’ I promised her, kissing her head. ‘I’ll come and see you three times a day. Even when it snows. Honest, I will.’ I kissed her again and let her go. Away she fluttered, up to the chimney-pot, and sat there like a cock on a weather vane.
‘You won’t be lonely,’ I promised her again.
But I couldn’t rid the nagging doubt from my mind.
Mum dropped us off at Alf’s as the light was fading. ‘I’m popping up the road to Shopwise,’ she said. ‘Twenty minutes. Will that be enough?’
‘Yep,’ I said and climbed out of the car.
‘And don’t go tearing off that dressing, Garry Taylor.’
Garry grimaced by way of reply. He tore the dressing off as soon as the car was out of sight.
On the way up the patchwork drive he said, ‘Will you tell Alf everything? You know, about Warren?’
‘Not Warren,’ I said. ‘He might tell Lenny.’
‘Hmm,’ he nodded. ‘What about the race?’
‘Dunno,’ I shrugged, and rang the bell.
After a minute or so the door swung open. But this time, it wasn’t Alf on the step. My jaw dropped open. Garry’s eyes nearly popped. Standing in the doorway was a sulky-looking girl.
She was tall and slim with a pouty mouth and hair that curled neatly under her chin. She was in a uniform I didn’t recognise at first: black socks, black skirt and a red v-necked sweater. She even had a school tie undone at her neck. I guessed she was a third year, perhaps a bit older. She was looking down on us like a senior anyway.
‘Who are you?’ said Garry, blunt as ever.
‘Who are you?’ she snapped back, looking at his ear and clicking her tongue in huffy disgust.
‘We’ve come to see Mr Duckins,’ I explained, noticing the initials SHSG stitched on her sweater. Spenner Hill School for Girls. That was where Mum wanted to send Natalie when she was old enough. Only really clever girls went to Spenner Hill.
The girl swept her hair aside with what Mum would call ‘a petulant flick’. She turned and gave me a sour sort of look. She had a piercing glint in her dark brown eyes and a stance as fierce as a Jack Russell terrier. I could feel the back of my neck turning cold. She was almost as frightening as Warren Spigott.
‘We’ve come to bring him this.’ I showed her the clock. ‘Can we talk to him, please?’
‘Who is it, Susan?’ a woman’s voice butted in.
‘Two boys, Mum.’
A head popped into view above Susan’s shoulder. ‘Oh.’
‘They want to see Grandad.’
‘Oh dear,’ said the woman. ‘Have you explained?’
The girl shook her head. ‘I’m going to give Gregory his worming pill,’ she said. And with a moody sniff, she drifted down the hall.
‘Don’t mind Susan, she’s upset,’ said the woman.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. ‘Is Alf all right?’
I looked at Garry. He was biting his lip.
‘He’s in hospital,’ Susan’s mother explained. ‘His heart, I’m afraid—’
‘Hhh…’ Garry shot a hand to his mouth. I thought for a moment he was going to be sick.
‘No, don’t worry,’ the woman assured him, ‘he’s going to be fine. Do you mi
nd if I ask how you know Mr Duckins?’
I told her briefly and gave her the clock. ‘Oh,’ she nodded. ‘That’s very nice. He’s very keen on anyone with birds. Susan and I are just helping out until he gets home. I say “I”, she’s the expert, really. Certainly takes after her grandad, there.’
I forced my lips into a cheesy smile, but I was actually feeling strangely jealous of Susan.
‘You could come and give her a hand if you like? She seems to be worming them all tonight.’
I gave a little shrug. ‘Mum’s picking us up in a minute.’
‘Another time, then?’
We nodded and smiled. But I could sense Garry thinking he’d like to keep a safe-ish distance from Susan.
‘Excuse me, Mrs Duck—?’
‘—ins,’ she finished. ‘Yes, I am a Duckins.’
‘Who’s Gregory?’
Mrs Duckins smiled. ‘A red chequer,’ she replied. ‘The oldest bird Mr Duckins has got. Gregory Peck is his all-time favourite.’
‘Gregory Peck?’ Garry snorted.
Mrs Duckins chuckled. ‘It’s an old joke,’ she said.
‘You mean, he gave a bird a name?’ I asked. That wasn’t what he’d told us when we’d first met him.
Mrs Duckins leaned forward and crossed her arms. ‘He’s a sentimental old duffer at heart,’ she said, checking herself slightly at the mention of ‘heart’. ‘Listen,’ she continued brightly, ‘if you really want to see him, why don’t you both go and pay him a visit?’
‘In hospital?’ shuddered Garry.
‘The Royal,’ she nodded. ‘Ward Eighteen. You could get someone to look at that ear while you’re there…’
Chapter Twenty-One
‘Mr Duckins, please,’ the nurse said irritably, waving a finger from the bottom of the bed. ‘What have I told you about laughing like that? You’re supposed to be resting. So please, REST. Don’t go getting him excited, you boys.’
‘Sorry,’ we said.
The nurse frowned and walked away. We both aimed a spiky tongue at her back.
‘Wouldn’t race,’ Alf tittered. ‘I like that. I’ve heard some pigeon stories in my time but that one just about takes the crust. It’s a wonder she bothered to leave the pannier! You’ve got yourself a character there, all right.’
I smiled and wrung my hands in embarrassment. ‘It was worth a try though, wasn’t it?’ I said.
Alf coughed loudly and struggled with his pillows. Garry leapt up and adjusted them for him. ‘Aye, it was worth a try. I suppose I’d have done it when I was your age. We all do daft things sometimes, lad.’
‘Mr Duckins,’ I said, after a pause, ‘can I ask you something about my loft?’
‘Aye, fire away.’
‘Mr Spigott said it wasn’t good to keep a single hen. He said she might fly off and go looking for a mate. Is that right? Will she, y’know…get lonely?’
Alf stuck his tongue in the side of his cheek. ‘Maybe,’ he sniffed. ‘Maybe not. All birds are different. Hens are a mystery at the best of times.’
It wasn’t a very satisfying answer – and Alf seemed to know it himself right away. Before Garry or I could speak again he patted his blankets and said, ‘Look, tell you what, when I get right again p’r’aps I should come round and see this loft? It’d be easier to tell you what I think about it then.’
‘Would you?’ I said, sitting up smartly.
‘Ace,’ said Garry.
‘That’s brilliant!’ I added. ‘Thanks, Mr Duckins!’
Alf shook his head and burst out laughing again.
‘Mis-ter Duckins…’ sighed a voice down the ward.
It was one Sunday morning about three weeks later that Alf rang up and arranged to visit. I called Garry over and between us we made sure Cherokee was spotless. First we dipped her and dried her like we’d done before, then we cleaned out her box with disinfectant and scraped all the droppings off the floor of the shed. We even scrubbed the window and the path outside.
‘Flipping heck,’ Dad whistled, coming to inspect. ‘Any volunteers to give the car a wash next?’
‘No,’ we said with combined voices.
‘Thought not,’ he sighed. ‘Come on, he’s here…’
‘One sugar or two?’ Mum was asking as Garry and I walked into the kitchen.
‘Hello, Mr Duckins.’
‘Hello, Mr Duckins.’
‘How do,’ he grunted. ‘One sugar, please.’ Mum nodded and put a biscuit on his saucer, too.
‘How are you feeling?’ I asked politely. He looked an awful lot better than the last time we’d seen him. His cheeks weren’t pale and grey for a start, and he didn’t seem to be wheezing much. He was wearing what Mum would call his ‘Sunday best’ – a pair of flannels and a crisp black blazer with a brightly-coloured scarf tied neatly round his neck.
‘Not bad,’ he boomed. ‘Glad to be back on my feet again.’
Just then, Natalie scooted in. She skidded to a stop in front of Alf, looked curiously at his face, then at something on the floor beside him.
‘What have you got in that box?’ she asked.
‘Box?’ muttered Garry. We both leaned over the table to see.
Just beside Alf’s chair was a cardboard carrier, a bit like the cat-box we’d used once for Cherokee. For one heart-stopping moment I thought Lenny Spigott had changed his mind and Alf had come to take Cherokee away. Then Natalie crouched to investigate further. Almost immediately she stood up and said, ‘You’ve got a bird.’
‘Aye,’ said Alf. ‘You’re right. I have.’
‘What?’ said Mum, exchanging glances with Dad.
‘We’ve got a bird,’ Natalie told Alf.
‘I know,’ replied Alf. ‘And soon you’ll have another.’
Suddenly, the kitchen went deathly quiet and everyone seemed to be looking at me. ‘Another?’ I said in an uncertain voice.
‘If it’s all right with your mum and dad,’ said Alf.
Dad gaped like a goldfish. Mum looked a bit confused. ‘Well…’ she floundered, and then she was gaping like a fish as well.
‘It’s like this,’ said Alf, dunking his biscuit. ‘I did a lot of thinking while I was laid up in bed, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m far too old and a sight too weary to cope with pigeons at my time of life. And what with my ticker playing up – well, it seems sensible to let the birds go.’
‘But…won’t they come back again?’ Garry asked dimly.
‘I meant, move them on,’ Alf said sadly, clamping his hairy hands together. ‘I can’t complain. I’ve had a good run. And it won’t happen all at once, of course. I’ll see the young birds through another winter, then…’
‘But…where will you take them?’ I said a bit warily, aware that Mum and Dad were having a whispered discussion over my head.
‘The best’ll go to Spigott,’ Alf replied. ‘And the other fanciers can take their pick of the rest. I’ve brought you this old feller ’cos I thought he might keep your hen a bit of company.’
‘Feller?’ Mum jerked. ‘You mean it’s a male?’ She folded her arms and looked worriedly at Dad.
‘Erm, look, Mr Duckins…’ Dad began, rubbing his fingertips against his brow.
‘If you’re worried about…y’know,’ Alf cut in, pointing at a poster of baby chickens on the kitchen wall, ‘he hasn’t got a right lot of go left in him. He hasn’t paired up for some time now…’
‘Paired up?’ gabbled Mum.
Garry sniggered. I elbowed him hard. Alf just smiled and picked up the box.
‘Why don’t we go into the garden?’ he said.
We trooped, single-file, up the garden path. All sorts of thoughts were spinning through my head. But what was going through Mum and Dad’s minds? Some way behind me I could hear them arguing.
‘I thought he was just looking at the shed?’ Mum hissed.
‘Well, I didn’t know.’
‘Well, we don’t want another.’
Alf stopped by the shed and pee
ped in through the window.
‘Do you want to see inside?’ I said, catching up.
‘In a minute,’ Alf winked. He put down the box and bent to open it. A gruff woo-wooing came from inside. ‘Now then, now then. Don’t act up.’ He stood up stiffly with a bird in his hands. ‘This is Gregory Peck,’ he announced.
‘Hhh!’ I gasped.
‘Mummy!’ cried Natalie, pointing at the bird.
‘I can see,’ said Mum. ‘Gregory Peck?’
‘He’s beautiful,’ said Dad.
‘Wow,’ breathed Garry, stroking its back. ‘Isn’t that the one…?’
I nodded slowly. It was the one. The big old bird with brown and white feathers. The one that Garry had protected from Carrots. The one I’d talked to inside Alf’s loft.
‘But why?’ I said. ‘I thought he was your favourite?’
‘He is,’ said Alf. ‘He’s a grand old thing. Did I ever tell you why I kept him?’
Garry and I both shook our heads. Alf glanced at Mum. She raised her face to the sky.
‘Some years ago,’ said Alf, ‘must be fifteen now, I lost all my birds bar this one to a virus. He was only a young cock then, of course, but like the others he was very sick. Several times I tried to put him out of his misery, but each time I went to…’ he glanced at Natalie ‘…do the business, he kept showing me something – some fight, I suppose. So I let him alone, like I’d done with some of the others. Others died. This chap lived. Not only that, he went on to win me lots of races. A proper champion in his day, he was. Made me a very proud man indeed. And I swore—’
‘Hhh!’ went Natalie.
‘—promised,’ Alf explained, ‘that I would care for him through thick and thin and always provide him with a decent home. That’s why I want you to keep him, lad.’ He turned and handed him over like a prize. The bird struggled a moment, then was still in my hands. ‘No other flying man’ll take him on. And when the last of mine are gone and he’s left on his tod, I don’t want him fretting and withering away. He’ll be favourite here, in a loft of his own. No other cocks to bustle him about. Your hen’ll keep him tidy, you see. So, if you want him, there he is. My gift for everything you’ve done for me, and for all you’ve done for that hen.’
Fly, Cherokee, Fly Page 10