No Way But Gentlenesse
No Way But Gentlenesse
A memoir of how Kes, my kestrel,
changed my life
Richard Hines
For Jackie, John and Katie
There is no way but gentlenesse to redeeme a Hawke
– Edmund Bert, An Approved Treatise of Hawkes and Hawking, 1619
CONTENTS
Prologue
PART ONE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
PART TWO
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
PART THREE
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
A Note on the Author
PROLOGUE
In February 2012 I walked to the ruins of Tankersley Old Hall, a sixteenth-century mansion set in farmland close to my home in South Yorkshire. It was a cold overcast afternoon with drizzle in the air, and as I stood there my eyes went up to the high, crumbling ledge in the wall before me. The stones which had once surrounded the nest had fallen away, but in 1965 that was where my first kestrel had spent the first month of her life.
I’d kept the kestrel, which I’d called Kes, in a Second World War air raid shelter in my older brother Barry’s garden. One evening, Barry told me he had come up with an idea for his second novel, a story about a lad named Billy Casper who trains a kestrel called Kes. The book, A Kestrel for a Knave, became a Penguin Twentieth-Century Classic and was made into the film Kes, directed by Ken Loach. In one scene Billy calls his kestrel to the glove in the very field in our mining village where, forty-seven years ago, I trained and flew my own kestrel, Kes.
Two other kestrels that I trained also came from that high ledge, hatching from their reddish-brown blotched eggs. I could remember how, once, my excitement had turned to despair when I reached into the nest hole. Empty, I had thought, cursing the fact I was too late, that all the young kestrels must have fledged. Yet when I reached in further, burying my arm shoulder-deep in the stonework, a gasping young hawk had lashed at my hand with its talons.
Today, almost half a century later, a kestrel called: ‘kikiki . . . kikiki . . .’ I could see his blue head and tail, as with fast, shallow wingbeats the male kestrel flew out of the ruins of Tankersley Old Hall and landed on a telegraph pole. Moments later, he launched into flight again and then hovered over a verge of tall grasses beside the cart track opposite the ruined Hall. His long wings flickering, his tail fanned, and his head looking down, he hovered in the air, dropped a few feet, hovered again, then, closing his wings, plunged into the tall vegetation with his yellow legs outstretched. A minute or two later he flew up and over a hedge in the direction of the pit village where I’d been brought up, half a mile away across the fields and meadows.
Turning back to gaze at the nest ledge I wondered how my life might have turned out if kestrels hadn’t nested there and I hadn’t trained Kes. Back then, in the mid-1960s, I could never have guessed my experiences would spark an obsession for hawks that would transform my life.
PART ONE
ONE
. . . you must by kindness make [the hawk] gentle and familiar with you . . .
– Nicholas Cox, The Gentleman’s Recreation, 1674
I was born in 1945, and brought up in Hoyland Common, five miles south of the town of Barnsley in South Yorkshire. Rockingham Colliery was the reason for the existence of the village. Had things turned out differently in 1875 the site of the village might still be farmland today. In March of that year, as the pit shaft of Rockingham Colliery was being sunk, gas ignited by the blasting set a seam of coal on fire and sent flames leaping into the sky. If relays of men hadn’t rhythmically pumped water into the shaft and quenched the flames, the colliery would have been destroyed and the village of Hoyland Common wouldn’t have existed.
From our small rented terraced stone cottage with its low ceilings and deep windowsills I could see Rockingham Colliery’s winding gear, half a mile away across the fields. Silhouetted against the sky, the winding gear consisted of two large black wheels that turned as the cables holding the ‘cage’, a lift, sent clean-faced miners or empty pit tubs – the small trucks which carried coal – plunging to the depths. Later they hauled the cage back up again, the miners’ faces now black with coal dust and the pit tubs full of coal. For a place so embedded with coal dust the irony is that no part of the pit village, with its streets of stone and brick Victorian terraced houses, was more than a few hundred yards away from the fields of crops, grazing cows or flower meadows which surrounded it. The floor of the ‘Little Wood’, which was a stone’s throw away from the colliery slag heap, was covered with bluebells in spring. Sometimes as I lay in bed I could hear lapwings calling ‘peewit . . . peewit’ in the night, and on spring mornings I would wake to the song of skylarks.
Our terraced cottage had no bathroom and I can remember having my baths in a tin bath in front of a blazing coal fire when I was little. My mother, who had shoulder-length dark, wavy hair and strikingly blue eyes, seemed to be moved by my vulnerability as I sat with my eyes shut tight, while waiting for her to rinse the soap from my hair. She would dip my fingers into the large pan of clean warm water, before saying, ‘Don’t ever let anyone pour water on your head, without you first checking it isn’t too hot’, and only rinsed my hair after I’d confirmed the water was the right temperature. Bath time was the only time my mother was openly affectionate, although I know she must have occasionally felt affection towards me when I was asleep, because some mornings I’d wake and find lipstick on my cheek. Showing affection seemed to embarrass my mother, but my dad, with his brushed-back dark wavy hair, dark eyebrows and gentle blue eyes, was the opposite and openly showed his emotions. The first two or three days of my life, before Mother returned home, had been spent in a maternity home in a nearby village. The rules didn’t allow Dad to visit his newly born son. Instead, Mother held me up to a window, and as Dad stood outside in the grounds, his eyes filled with tears. When I was at infant and junior school I loved it when Dad returned home from the night shift at the colliery. After he’d greeted me with a smile and ‘All right, son?’ he’d cook my breakfast while I sat in my pyjamas reading the Dandy or Beano. Our rented cottage not only lacked a bathroom, there was no lavatory either. So we had to walk about thirty yards to use a shared lavatory in someone else’s backyard. That was our life until 1955, when one momentous day, along with Barry, who was six years my senior, I helped our parents carry all our furniture out of the terraced cottage, then further up Tinker Lane. Our new semi-detached and stone-fronted house had been built in the 1880s. My parents bought it for three hundred and fifty pounds and added a bathroom and indoor lavatory.
I can recall an awful occasion from around this time, when Dad had been working the morning shift and I’d returned home from school to find a neighbour sitting in our house waiting for me. She told me Dad had had an accident at the colliery and Mother was at the
hospital with him. Mother eventually returned home white-faced from visiting the hospital, and later I overheard her telling the neighbour that my dad had been shovelling coal on his hands and knees when a lump of ‘muck’ – a large piece of coal or rock – had fallen on him, pinning my dad’s chest to the floor and breaking his back. Luckily the doctors’ diagnosis was wrong. It turned out that Dad’s back wasn’t broken after all, and he was transferred from hospital to a miners’ rehabilitation home in Firbeck, a village on the Yorkshire/Nottinghamshire border. Those weeks without Dad were awful and I recall running up to greet him on the day he came in through the door, smiling and carrying a suitcase and a wooden lampstand he’d made in the miners’ rehabilitation home. Soon he was back working on the coalface deep underground. The pit would continue to take its toll of lives.
I loved my kind, gentle dad. One day I’d taken his best trilby out of the wardrobe, pulled it low over my brow, then, sitting on a rusty sheet of corrugated iron, I’d repeatedly slid down the colliery slag heap, coal dust billowing up behind me. Later cloud after cloud of coal dust filled the backyard as my mother beat my dad’s hat against a wall to clean it, ranting in anger at me as she did so. It was no good. The hat was ruined and she threw it in the dustbin. Later when Dad returned home from work and she told him what had happened, he shook his head solemnly but couldn’t conceal the smile flickering across his lips.
The six-year difference in age meant that Barry had his own friends, and I had mine, but I can remember him vividly when he was seventeen and I was eleven. I was proud of Barry because he was a Teddy boy of sorts, albeit a polite, sixth-form grammar school version. Real Teddy boys were usually ex-secondary modern school youths who worked in manual jobs and had a reputation for gang violence. Barry wore a fingertip-length jacket and narrow-legged trousers, and I thought he looked great dressed up in his suits, with his striking pale blue eyes and brushed-back fair hair. At a local dance I flushed with pride when he jived to a rock ’n’ roll number with his girlfriend.
Barry and I shared a bedroom and some nights we would talk and laugh until late. If Dad was on the day shift at the colliery and had to get up early, the noise we made would keep him awake. When he first came into the bedroom he would ask us to be quiet. If we ignored him, as we often did, he would march back into the bedroom and warn us that if we didn’t shut up we wouldn’t be laughing in the morning when he woke us up at half past four and made us get up with him. Of course he never carried out his threat, and the next morning, when he got up in the dark to go to work, he would tiptoe downstairs so as not to disturb us.
One of my best friends at junior school was called Budgie. A small stocky lad with sandy hair, he lived around the corner in Queen Street in a row of prefabs, which had been built after the end of the Second World War to replace a row of grim terraced houses. The kind couple who lived next door to Budgie were one of the first families in the village to have a television, and they invited kids in to watch children’s programmes. I first got to know Budgie, when, along with a line of five or six other kids, we queued outside waiting to see The Adventures of Kit Carson, a western about a frontier scout. On one day of the week, I think it was Friday, the traders opened their stalls in the village market place to sell their wares – freshly baked bread, cakes and bilberry pies; fish; curtains, pots and pans. The toy stall had two shutters which were secured by a padlock when the market was closed. One evening I pulled hard on the bottom shutter, while Budgie reached into the gap between the bottom and top shutter and took out a few toy cars, which we played with in his grandad’s allotment shed. A few days later, on my way to call for Budgie, I turned into Queen Street and stopped dead, my heart pounding. Looking tiny between them, Budgie was walking down the street between two policemen. I was terrified, thinking they were on their way to arrest me. To my great relief they walked past, Budgie looking straight ahead as if he didn’t know me. Later he had to attend court in Barnsley, where he was fined five shillings and had to apologise to the magistrate. Throughout his ordeal he never let on that he’d had an accomplice in the market toy stall robbery. I was moved and grateful and we became even closer friends.
Something else which bound Budgie and me was our love of nature. In the summer of 1956, the year we left junior school at the age of eleven, we spent our time wandering the meadows, crop fields and woods which surrounded Hoyland Common. Whenever I met up with Budgie, he would shout, beating me to it, ‘Bags the first animal or bird we find’, ensuring the first creature we came across would be his to take home, once he had caught it. His quick thinking paid off. On one occasion when we came across an escaped budgerigar, he chased it up and down the colliery slag heap until it landed, too tired to fly any longer. Budgie picked it up and carefully carried it home – that’s why I called him Budgie. Another time he took home and successfully reared a young song thrush we had found in the fields. One day I managed to get in my claim for the first animal or bird we found, and I thought I was going to be lucky. We were at a pond which fascinated us because it contained newts, when we saw a grass snake, head held high, its greenish body zigzagging through the water. But by the time we had raced around to the other bank to try and catch it, the snake had vanished into the grass.
We weren’t only interested in things we could take home and rear. On one occasion in a field, when the white may blossom on the hawthorn had gone to seed but the hedgerows were still coloured by creamy white elder flowers, delicate white bramble flowers and pink dog roses, we walked through tall grass covered in cuckoo spit, which looks like bubbly saliva. Crouching down and running our first finger and thumb carefully up a grass stem, we both marvelled at the tiny green frog hopper nymphs with their tiny black eyes that had produced the frothy grass sap on our fingers.
Towser, my other best friend, had black curly hair. We’d been in the same class throughout junior school but we became closer friends one day when we discovered a shared interest in guns. My parents had bought me a toy silver six-shooter pistol, the type cowboys used in shoot-outs in films. I told Towser about my gun, and he told me his dad had taken a gun from a dead German soldier in the Second World War, and invited me around to his house to see it. Towser lived four streets away from me in a stone terraced house, and one evening after school I sat on the edge of his bed in his attic room while he sneaked into his parents’ bedroom, took the gun from a drawer and brought it up for me to look at. My heart raced as he handed me the German Luger. It was so exciting holding it, its brown ribbed handle heavy and snug in my hand as I admired its black barrel with its gunsight at the end.
One Saturday morning, along with Budgie and a couple of other lads from the village, I stood on the pavement outside Towser’s house. Unable to contain our excitement, as Towser came out of the front door we all rushed forward and simultaneously asked: ‘Has tha got it?’
Grinning, he opened his jacket and showed us the Luger, then reached into his pocket and held up a single bullet between his finger and thumb. We all trailed through the fields to the slurry pond behind the slag heap, then watched fascinated as Towser fired the bullet into the black slurry. The terrific bang forced us to cover our ears and set dogs off barking in a row of cottages half a mile away.
There were two colliery slag heaps. The ‘Big Tip’ had a truck running up a single rail to its top which dumped slag there night and day. The ‘Little Tip’ was no longer used and behind it was a barren area made up of grey black slag and compacted coal dust which we called the Lost Valley. One afternoon in the Lost Valley we came across an old pit tub, a small narrow-gauge railway truck made of blackened planks of wood. Upturned, it now looked like a tiny flat-roofed shed with an old sack for a door and a pair of axles with small railway wheels lying across the flat roof.
The old sack covering the sawn-out doorway wouldn’t budge when I pulled at it. One of the other lads tried. Still the sack wouldn’t move. Then we heard laughter from inside as two kids who lived a couple of streets away from me loosened their grip on
the sack door, pulled it to one side and invited us into their den. As I crawled into the upturned pit tub I was amazed. The two lads had lined it inside with floral wallpaper and even fitted a carpet.
Thirty years earlier my dad had worked as a boy pit pony driver at the colliery, and it fascinated me that the very pit tub the two boys had commandeered for their den might have been pulled in a procession of pit tubs through underground tunnels by a pony led by my dad. Dad had told me about those days, and how, as well as leading the pony, he often sat on the first pit tub behind the pony holding its reins. In places where the mine’s tunnel was particularly narrow and the roof really low, and Dad couldn’t get out of range of the pony’s back legs, one crafty pony always stopped for a long rest. It knew Dad daren’t give it a whack to get it moving because if he did it would shoot out a back leg and kick him.
When he started work at the age of fourteen, he had been scared of the pit ponies. They could be surly and unpredictable animals, and some of the rebellious ones kicked and bit. Over time he grew to know and like them, but he never fully conquered his fear of being alone, sitting on the pit tub behind his pony holding its reins as they travelled the dark tunnels, the only source of light his miner’s lamp, throwing spooky shadows on the tunnel walls.
One pit pony, Dad had told me, had bolted from its underground stables and galloped down a tunnel where the roof descended lower than expected. As it careered along in the dark it had the top of its head cut off by a metal arch holding up the roof. My dad had a similar accident when working as a boy with the pit ponies deep underground. The location of his wound suggests he’d been distracted, maybe looking at a looming shadow, or ducking under a piece of old sacking hanging down from the low roof which, unknown to him, concealed a roof beam. Whatever the reason, as he sat holding the pony’s reins he wasn’t looking ahead, and, thud, the roof beam hit him at the side of the head, sending him crashing off the pit tub. The fall extinguished his miner’s lamp, and Dad, at the age of fourteen and alone, had become aware of warm blood pouring out of a gash on the side of his face as he crawled around in the pitch blackness frightened and crying. Coal dust had entered the wound and the scar, as deep blue as a tattoo, marked him for the rest of his life. When little, I would trace the scar from the front of his ear down to his lower jaw with my finger, marvelling at its blueness.
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