‘And I’ll tell you summat else . . .’
He stopped.
‘Push off, Pigeon! This is private!’
We all turned round and saw him standing there, staring at us through his thick glasses. I wondered how long he’d been listening.
‘Go on, push off, you little squirt! This is nowt to do with you.’
He didn’t push off. He took a step closer. He went right up to Boocock.
‘For your information, Boocock, my parents aren’t German, they’re from Austria. But I don’t suppose you’ve heard of Austria, have you, Boocock? I could show it to you on a map if you like . . .’
We all stood there gawping. You don’t talk to Arthur like that. Nobody talks to Arthur like that, not even Gordon Barraclough.
‘And my father was in the British army as it happens. He fought against the Germans. And another thing, I was born in London. I’m English, Boocock, just like you.’
Boocock took a step in towards him. Oh no! If they have a fight Boocock’ll pulverise him.
‘You might be English, Pigeon, but you’re not like me. You’re not like any of us, are yer?’
We all looked at each other. What was he talking about? Norbert asked him.
‘How do you mean he’s not like any of us, Arthur? ’Cos he was born in London and talks different?’
Boocock looked at the Pigeon for a couple of seconds and sort of smiled. It was more of a sneer really.
‘He knows what I mean . . .’
I didn’t. What did he mean?
‘It was his lot that killed Jesus . . .!’
What was he on about now? Who are ‘his lot’?
‘That’s why he doesn’t come to morning assembly. He’s a Jew! And the Jews killed Jesus!’
We’d all wondered why every morning while we have assembly in the main hall, the Pigeon goes into a classroom at the back and always comes out after ‘Our Father, who art in Heaven’. The first morning Reverend Dutton had taken him there David Holdsworth and me had heard him telling him when to come out.
‘You sit in here, Rothman, and after the Lord’s Prayer when you hear the Headmaster making the announcements, you can come out and join us . . .’
Boocock was still going on at him. I’d never seen a Jew before. He didn’t look any different to me.
‘That’s why he brings his own dinner every day, in’t it, Rothman? Our food’s not good enough for you!’
The Pigeon’s a lot smaller than Boocock and he was looking up at him through his thick glasses. He wasn’t scared though. He didn’t look it anyway. He just stood up to him, giving as good as he was getting.
‘You’re pathetic, Boocock.’
We were all waiting for Arthur to belt him one. But he didn’t. I couldn’t understand it. I don’t think he was used to anybody standing up to him like that. He might have thumped him but he left it too late, the Pigeon just walked off. We all stood there, nobody knowing what to say . . . We could hear the bell going for dinner-time . . . Lads were starting to line up and I could hear Melrose telling them to stop talking . . . It was stupid, this, you couldn’t blame the Pigeon for Jesus getting killed . . . It wasn’t fair . . .
‘Arthur, you can’t blame the Pigeon for Jesus getting killed. It wasn’t his fault, was it?’
The next thing Boocock had grabbed me by my shirt and had his face right close to mine. He nearly choked me.
‘Listen you, you’d better make up your mind whose side you’re on – the Jews or the Christians!’
He pushed me away and I grabbed this pillar to stop myself from falling. I grazed my hand and ended up on my bum with everybody looking down at me. They all followed Boocock to the dinner queue. Except Barraclough. He stood over me, a leg on either side.
‘Yeah, you’d better make up your mind whose side you’re on!’
And he kicked me.
From then on nobody spoke to the Pigeon. We all ignored him. Everybody. Me as well. He was always on his own. Every break. Every dinner-time. On the school bus to football. In the changing room. On the way to school. On the way home from school. Nobody talked to him. I knew it was wrong but I was a coward, I just did what all the others did. I was too scared of Boocock and Barraclough to do any different. I’d tried sticking up for him once and look what happened. It was all of us against him, the whole class. It must have been terrible for him. If it had been me I don’t think I’d have gone to school. Or I’d have got my mum to talk to the headmaster or something. But the funny thing was, the Pigeon didn’t seem that bothered. He didn’t take any notice. He just carried on as if it wasn’t happening. It was like he was ignoring us. And when anybody teased him he’d just smile. You’d have thought the teachers would have said something but they didn’t seem to notice what was going on. Melrose made it worse. One Friday the Pigeon brought in a letter for him.
‘Ah, for me, Rothman – it’s not often I get a letter by pigeon post.’
Everybody laughed. I laughed even though I didn’t understand the joke, and the Pigeon just took off his glasses, wiped them on his hanky and gave one of his little smiles. Boocock sits in the front row and while Melrose was looking at the letter he turned round and whispered, loud enough for the Pigeon to hear.
‘I bet it’s from his mum asking us to be a bit nicer to her little pigeon . . .’
We all sniggered. The Pigeon just carried on wiping his glasses, he didn’t seem to notice. Melrose finished reading the letter.
‘So, Jewish festival is it on Monday? You won’t be here? It’s all right for some, eh Rothman?’
He put the letter in the envelope and gave it back to him.
‘All right, lad, but you’d better give this to Mr Bleasdale, he’s your form master.’
So it wasn’t about us. I wish it had been. I’d have been glad if we’d all been told to stop it. Picking on him, ignoring him, treating him the way we were. Even if we’d got into trouble. Boocock couldn’t do anything to us then, could he? Not if we’d been told by Melrose or the headmaster. I couldn’t understand why the Pigeon didn’t get his mum and dad to write. I would have.
Next morning I did my grocery round. I do it every Saturday. Ronnie Knapton used to do it and when his dad got a job in Leeds and they’d had to move I’d asked Mr Killerby if I could do it.
‘How old are you, lad?’
‘Eleven.’
Mr Killerby had sucked in his breath and shaken his head.
‘I’m nearly twelve – I’m older than Ronnie Knapton!’
‘Aye, but he’s a big lad for his age. Can you ride a two-wheeler?’
What did he think I was, a little kid? Did he think I still rode round on a tricycle? I was one of the first in our street to ride a two-wheeler.
‘’Course I can, I’ve got a Raleigh three-speed.’
‘Aye lad, but can you ride one of them with a full load?’
He’d pointed to the delivery bike standing in the back of the shop. It was a big black thing with old-fashioned handlebars and a basket at the front where the box of groceries went. The space between the crossbar and the pedals was closed in and on it was written KILLERBY’S – GROCERIES & PROVISIONS – FREE DELIVERY. If Ronnie Knapton could ride it I blooming well could. He wasn’t that much bigger than me.
‘’Course I can.’
‘Have you got your mum’s permission?’
‘’Course I have.’
I hadn’t. I’d thought I’d see if I got the job first.
‘All right then lad, start Saturday. Half past nine. You should be finished by about half one. And you get three and six.’
Ronnie Knapton had got four shillings.
‘Ronnie got four shillings . . .’
‘Aye, but he started on three and six. We’ll see how you get on.’
I’d asked my mum as soon as I’d got back from seeing Mr Killerby and of course she’d said no.
‘Absolutely not, you’re far too young!’
‘I’m older than Ronnie Knapton.’
&
nbsp; ‘You might be, but he’s bigger than you.’
Blimey, you’d think Ronnie Knapton was a giant the way people go on. If it hadn’t been for my Auntie Doreen she wouldn’t have changed her mind. My Auntie Doreen thought it was a good idea.
‘I think it’s very commendable, Freda. Let him earn a bit of pocket money. It’s not as if he’s delivering papers, wandering round in the dark like a lot of them do. He’ll be riding a bike. That’s what he does on a Saturday morning anyway . . .’
I’ve been doing it for about six weeks now. Whenever I ask Mr Killerby how I’m getting on he says all right but he still only gives me three and six. Some of the people I deliver to give me money though. There’s one old lady, Miss Boothroyd, she always gives me threepence, every week. Even if she’s not there and I have to leave the box on the back step there’s always an envelope that says Killerby’s Delivery Boy with a threepenny piece inside. She’s nice. At another house they always give me a glass of orange squash. The worst delivery is to a house at the top of Thornton Hill – it’s so steep – but it’s great on the way back.
That Saturday, after I’d got back from Thornton Hill, I parked the bike and went through to the back of the shop to get my next box. When a delivery’s ready to take, Mr Killerby writes the name on a scrap of paper and puts it on top of the groceries, so I started sorting through my boxes. That’s when I saw it – Rothman, 12 Oak Park Crescent. He only puts the address when it’s a new customer. I was looking at it when Mr Killerby came in from serving in the shop.
‘No lad, leave that till last. They’re a Jewish family. They have their Sabbath on a Saturday, so they’ve gone to church. They said they’ll be back after one.’
I did the rest of my deliveries, got my threepence from Miss Boothroyd, and at ten past one I was turning into Oak Park Crescent and looking for number twelve. I was hoping there’d be nobody in and I could leave the stuff on the back doorstep. I didn’t want to see the Pigeon. I wouldn’t have known what to say to him.
It was a big house with its own drive. It’s quite a posh road, Oak Park Crescent. All the houses are big but a lot of them have been turned into flats. On the front gate there was a sign, DR JULIUS ROTHMAN, with lots of letters after his name. Underneath it gave the surgery hours. I didn’t know the Pigeon’s dad was a doctor. But then I didn’t know anything about the Pigeon. Nobody did. We never talked to him.
I pushed the bike up the drive past a sign that said SURGERY with an arrow underneath pointing to the back of the house. I went to the front door and rang the bell. Nothing. I rang again. Still nothing. There was nobody in. Thank goodness. I took the box of groceries round the back, left it on the step and just as I was getting on the bike they came walking up the drive. The Pigeon was talking to his dad and didn’t see me at first. His mum smiled at me.
‘Ah, are you bringing my sings from Mr Killerby, za grocer?’
I nodded.
‘Yes, they’re round the back. Mr Killerby told me to leave it there if you weren’t in.’
‘Zat’s fine.’
She said something to the Pigeon’s dad.
‘Schatzi, gib den Kleinen ein paar Pennies.’
I couldn’t understand what she was saying but his dad started searching in his pockets.
‘Here you are, young man, a little somesing for your troubles.’
Boocock was right, his dad talked funny as well. He held out a shilling for me. A shilling!
‘No, it’s all right. Honestly.’
If it had been anybody else I’d have taken it like a shot but it wasn’t right. We were all being horrible to the Pigeon at school and here was his dad wanting to give me a shilling. It wasn’t right. But he kept on holding it out.
‘I can’t. P—’
I just stopped myself from calling him Pigeon.
‘William, tell him.’
His mum looked at the Pigeon, then at me.
‘You know each uzzer?’
The Pigeon smiled and told her my name.
‘We go to the same school, mummy. We’re in the same class.’
She asked me to come into the house and have something to eat with them.
‘No, no thank you. I can’t. I’ve got more deliveries to do . . .’
I couldn’t stand it. They were being so nice to me. I just wanted to get away.
‘I’ve got to go!’
I started to get on the bike but his mum came over and took hold of my hands.
‘I vant to sank you. All of you. You have been so kind to my Villiam. He tells me every day vot good friends you are. It’s not easy to join a new school and you have all made him feel so velcome . . .’
Then she smiled and squeezed my hands.
I felt sick. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to tell her the truth. We’re horrible to your William. We don’t talk to him ’cos Arthur Boocock says the Jews killed Jesus. ’Cos Arthur Boocock’s a bully and we’re all scared of him. ’Cos I’m a coward and I don’t want them all not talking to me like they don’t talk to him . . .
‘I’ve got to go, Mrs Rothman.’
I started cycling away. I heard the Pigeon calling and running after me. I had to stop at the end of the drive ’cos of the road. He caught me up and pressed the shilling into my hand.
‘Don’t worry. I won’t tell Boocock.’
We looked at each other for a minute and I hated him. How could he tell his mum how nice we all were, how friendly we all were, how welcome we all made him? I wanted him to tell her the truth.
‘Why don’t you tell her, Pigeon, why don’t you tell her?’
He looked at me through his thick glasses.
‘She worries about me.’
He went up the drive and when he got to the front door he smiled. It wasn’t one of his little smiles. It was a sad smile. I watched him go in.
I got on the bike and pedalled off as fast as I could. I went up Heaton Hill and when I reached the top I stopped and threw the shilling into Lilycroft reservoir. I threw it as far as I could. Then I cycled back to Mr Killerby’s. I couldn’t stop crying all the way . . .
THE PIGEON
PART TWO
On the Sunday morning we went to church, my mum, me and my Auntie Doreen. We go every week. It’s boring. Boring hymns, boring sermon. Standing up, sitting down, standing up, kneeling down, standing up, sitting down. I hate it. While I’m sitting, standing and kneeling I daydream. That’s the only way I can get through. I think about all sorts of things. Nice things. Going to the pictures or the fair. School holidays. Anything to make the time go quick. Sometimes I think about my Sunday dinner. I can spend the whole time in church thinking about lovely roast beef or roast lamb or roast pork. I don’t know what my mum or my Auntie Doreen would say if they knew that when the Vicar says ‘Let us pray’ and we all kneel on those cushion things and put our heads on our hands all I’m praying for is roast beef and Yorkshire pudding . . . with lovely crunchy potatoes, just the way my mum makes them.
But on that Sunday I didn’t think about any of those things. All I could think about was the Pigeon. I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
‘Let us pray . . .’
Everybody knelt down and closed their eyes.
‘Our Father, which art in heaven . . .’
I looked at my mum on one side and my Auntie Doreen on the other. They had their eyes closed.
‘Hallowed be thy name . . .’
I closed my eyes. I didn’t pray for roast beef and Yorkshire pudding this time, I prayed properly.
‘Please God, make Arthur Boocock leave William alone. I know he’s a Jew and the Jews killed Jesus, but it’s not his fault. William had nothing to do with it . . .’
I didn’t call him Pigeon – it didn’t seem right, not when you’re praying.
‘Please make Boocock stop picking on him . . . Let him be like everybody else in our class even if he is a Jew.’
That’s when I heard it, a little voice inside my head.
‘You don’t have to be l
ike all the others. You don’t have to ignore him . . .’
It was like God was talking back to me.
‘Be his friend. Talk to him. There’s nothing stopping you.’
No, there’s nothing stopping me – except that I’m a coward. If only I wasn’t such a coward.
‘Please God, make me not be a coward so that I can be William’s friend even if the others aren’t . . .’
‘Don’t be such a big Jessie . . .!’
He sounded more like my mum now.
‘Look at William. He goes home every night and tells his mum how friendly you all are and how welcome you’ve made him.’
I know, God, I know. You don’t have to tell me.
‘You wouldn’t do that. You’d go home crying. And you’d stay off school, wouldn’t you? You’re soft, you are.’
I know, I know. I told you, I’m a coward. I am soft. I don’t know how the Pigeon does it – sorry, William. He’s a titch. Tons smaller than me but he’s not scared of Boocock. Look at the way he stood up to him the other day. What was it he said? ‘You’re pathetic, Boocock!’ Yeah, that was it. ‘You’re pathetic, Boocock!’ Just like that . . . And the way he’d looked at Arthur, stared at him, daring him to hit him. Boocock would have thumped me. He did thump me and all I’d said was you couldn’t blame the Pigeon for Jesus getting killed. Why didn’t he thump the Pigeon? Why did he just let him walk away . . .? ’Cos he can tell . . . He knows the Pigeon isn’t scared of him. Not like me . . .
‘Please God, make something happen to Arthur Boocock so that it all stops.’
I didn’t mean anything bad like getting run over or getting ill or . . . well I wouldn’t have minded – I hate Arthur Boocock – but if he got run over I wouldn’t want it to happen ’cos I’d prayed for it. No, I just wanted someone to pick on him like he picks on everyone else. Let him be the one who gets bullied for a change, then he’d know what it’s like.
‘Please God, make Arthur Boocock get bullied. Let him have a taste of his own medicine for once – please . . .!’
I dreamt about the Pigeon that night. It was horrible. I was delivering a box of groceries on Mr Killerby’s bike, pedalling as fast as I could. The whole class was chasing me and shouting and throwing stones. Arthur Boocock was leading them and I pedalled faster and faster. But it was like there was no chain on the bike. The pedals went round but I wasn’t getting anywhere. I looked back and saw Boocock being run over by this big truck. Then Boocock’s mum and dad were chasing me, and Melrose. And they were all shouting ‘Traitor, traitor’ and they came closer and closer. And I pedalled faster and faster. Suddenly I was at the top of a hill, I think it was Thornton Hill but it was twice as steep, no, much more than that, ten times as steep, it was a sheer drop and I started going down faster and faster. Then I saw, it wasn’t groceries in the cardboard box – it was the Pigeon! He was tiny, about a foot high, sitting in the box at the front of the bike and he was smiling at me. We were going to crash and I was trying to scream but no sound came out and the Pigeon just kept on smiling. We were up in the air now, the bike was gone and the cardboard box and we were falling to the ground and the Pigeon was still smiling. He wasn’t scared, not like me. He wasn’t scared ’cos he had wings on his feet. He could fly. He flew off smiling while I was falling . . . falling . . . falling . . . Then I woke up. It was horrible. I didn’t know where I was. I stared at the ceiling and at the wallpaper for what seemed like ages. Then I heard my mum calling me to get up and I realised that it was my wallpaper I was staring at.
The Fib, The Swap, The Trick and Other Stories Page 14