A Kestrel for a Knave (8 page)

He brought the stick round from behind his back for the boys to have a look at.

‘It’s fantastic isn’t it, that in this day and age, in this super-scientific, all-things-bright-and-splendiferous age, that the only way of running this school efficiently is by the rule of the cane. But why? There should be no need for it now. You lot have got it on a plate.

‘I can understand why we had to use it back in the ’twenties and ’thirties. Those were hard times; they bred hard people, and it needed hard measures to deal with them. But those times bred people with qualities totally lacking in you people today. They bred people with respect for a start. We knew where we stood in those days, and even today a man will often stop me in the street and say “Hello Mr Gryce, remember me?” And we’ll pass the time of day and chat, and he’ll laugh about the thrashings I gave him.

‘But what do I get from you lot? A honk from a greasy youth behind the wheel of some big second-hand car. Or an obscene remark from a gang – after they’ve passed me.

‘They took it then, but not now, not in this day of the common man, when every boy quotes his rights, and shoots off home for his father as soon as I look at him…. No guts…. No backbone… you’ve nothing to commend you whatsoever. You’re just fodder for the mass media!’

He slashed the stick in front of their chests, making the air swish in its wake, then he turned round and leaned straight-armed on the mantelshelf, shaking his head. The boys winked at each other.

‘I don’t know. I just don’t know.’

He turned round slowly. The boys met him with serious expressions, frowning and compressing their lips as though they were trying their hardest to solve his problems.

‘So for want of a better solution I continue using the cane, knowing full well that you’ll be back time and time again for some more. Knowing that when you smokers leave this room wringing your hands, you’ll carry on smoking just the same. Yes, you can smirk, lad. I’ll bet your pockets are ladened up at this very moment in readiness for break; aren’t they? Aren’t they? Well just empty them. Come on, all of you, empty your pockets!’

The three smokers, Billy and MacDowall began to reveal their collected paraphernalia. The messenger watched them in panic, the colour rising in his face like the warming bar of an electric fire. He stepped forward again.

‘Please, Sir…’

‘Quiet, lad! And get your pockets emptied!’

The lad’s face cooled to the colour of dripping as he began to empty his pockets. Gryce moved along the line, broddling in their palms; turning and inspecting the grubby contents with obvious distaste.

‘This can’t be true. I don’t believe it.’

He placed his stick on his desk.

‘Keep your hands out.’

And started down the line again, frisking their clothing quickly and expertly. When he reached the messenger he beamed at him.

‘Ah! Ah!’

‘Please, Sir…’

The smokers leaned forward and looked at him, half turning and angling across each other like a prioll of Jacks. They squared their jaws and showed him their teeth. Tears
came into the messenger’s eyes and he began to snuffle.

‘You’re a regular cigarette factory aren’t you, lad?’

From various pockets Gryce collected two ten-packets, which rattled when he shook them, a handful of tabs, three lighters and a box of matches.

‘You deceitful boy. You didn’t think you could get away with a weak trick like that, did you?’

He strode over to the basket at the side of his desk and dropped the lot into it.

‘Now get that other junk back into your pockets, and get your hands out.’

He picked his stick up from his desk and tested it on the air. The first smoker stepped out and raised his right hand. He proffered it slightly cupped, thumb tucked into the side, the flesh of the palm ruttled up into soft cushions.

Gryce measured the distance with the tip of his stick, settled his feet, then slowly flexed his elbow. When his fist was level with his ear, the hinge flashed open swish down across the boy’s palm. The boy blinked and held up his left hand. The stick touched it, curved up and away out of Gryce’s peripheral vision, then blurred back into it and snapped down across the fingers.

‘Right, now get out.’

White-faced, he turned away from Gryce, and winked at the others as he passed in front of them to the door.

‘Next.’

They stepped forward in turn, all adopting the same relaxed hand position as the first boy. Except for the messenger. He presented his hands stiff, fingers splayed, thumbs up. The full force of both strokes caught him thumbs first, cracking across the side of the knuckle bone. The first stroke made him cry. The second made him sick.

* * *

They all turned their heads when the door opened and Billy walked into the room. Mr Farthing, perched side saddle on the edge of the desk, stopped talking and waited for him to approach.

‘I’ve been to see Mr Gryce, Sir.’

‘Yes, I know. How many this time?’

‘Two.’

‘Sting?’

‘Not bad.’

‘Right, sit down then.’

He watched Billy to his place and waited for the class to settle before he continued.

‘Right 4C. To continue. Fact.’

He swung one arm and indicated the board behind him. On it was printed:

‘What did we say fact was, Armitage?’

‘Something that’s happened, Sir.’

‘Right. Something that has happened. Something that we know is real. The things that we read about in newspapers, or hear on the news. Events, accidents, meetings; the things that we see with our own eyes, the things all about us; all these are facts. Have you got that? Is that clear?’

Chorus: ‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Right then. Now if I asked Anderson for some facts about himself, what could he tell us?’

‘Sir! Sir!’

‘All right! All right! Just put your hands up. There’s no need to jump down my throat. Jordan?’

‘He’s wearing jeans.’

‘Good. Mitchell?’

‘He’s got black hair.’

‘Yes. Fisher?’

‘He lives down Shallowbank Crescent.’

‘Do you, Anderson?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Right then. Now all these are facts about Anderson, but they’re not particularly interesting facts. Perhaps Anderson can tell us something about himself that
is
interesting. A really interesting fact.’

There was a massive ‘Woooo!’ from the rest of the class. Mr Farthing grinned and rode it; then he raised his hands to control it.

‘Quietly now. Quietly.’

The class quietened, still grinning. Anderson stared at his desk, blushing.

‘I don’t know owt, Sir.’

‘Anything at all Anderson, anything that’s happened to you, or that you’ve seen which sticks in your mind.’

‘I can’t think of owt, Sir.’

‘What about when you were little? Everybody remembers something about when they were little. It doesn’t have to be fantastic, just something that you’ve remembered.’

Anderson began to smile and looked up.

‘There’s summat. It’s nowt though.’

‘It must be if you remember it.’

‘It’s daft really.’

‘Well tell us then, and let’s all have a laugh.’

‘Well it was once when I was a kid. I was at Junior school, I think, or somewhere like that, and went down to Fowlers Pond, me and this other kid. Reggie Clay they called him, he didn’t come to this school; he flitted and went away somewhere. Anyway it was Spring, tadpole time, and it’s swarming with tadpoles down there in Spring. Edges of t’pond are all black with ’em, and me and this
other kid started to catch ’em. It was easy, all you did, you just put your hands together and scooped a handful of water up and you’d got a handful of tadpoles. Anyway we were mucking about with ’em, picking ’em up and chucking ’em back and things, and we were on about taking some home, but we’d no jam jars. So this kid, Reggie, says, “Take thi Wellingtons off and put some in there, they’ll be all right ’til tha gets home.” So I took ’em off and we put some water in ’em and then we started to put taddies in ’em. We kept ladling ’em in and I says to this kid, “Let’s have a competition, thee have one welli’ and I’ll have t’other, and we’ll see who can get most in!” So he started to fill one welli’ and I started to fill t’other. We must have been at it hours, and they got thicker and thicker, until at t’end there was no water left in ’em, they were just jam packed wi’ taddies.

‘You ought to have seen ’em, all black and shiny, right up to t’top. When we’d finished we kept dipping us fingers into ’em and whipping ’em up at each other, all shouting and excited like. Then this kid says to me, “I bet tha daren’t put one on.” And K says, “I bet tha daren’t.” So we said that we’d put one on each. We wouldn’t though, we kept reckoning to, then running away, so we tossed up and him who lost had to do it first. And I lost, oh, and you’d to take your socks off an’ all. So I took my socks off, and I kept looking at this welli’ full of taddies, and this kid kept saying, “Go on then, tha frightened, tha frightened.” I was an’ all. Anyway I shut my eyes and started to put my foot in. Oooo. It was just like putting your feet into live jelly. They were frozen. And when my foot went down, they all came over t’top of my Wellington, and when I got my foot to t’bottom, I could feel ’em all squashing about between my toes.

‘Anyway I’d done it, and I says to this kid, “Thee put thine on now.” But he wouldn’t, he was dead scared, so I put it on instead. I’d got used to it then, it was all right after a bit; it sent your legs all excited and tingling like. When I’d got ’em both on I started to walk up to this kid, waving my arms and making spook noises; and as I walked they all came squelching over t’tops again and ran down t’sides. This kid looked frightened to death, he kept looking down at my wellies so I tried to run at him and they all spurted up my legs. You ought to have seen him. He just screamed out and ran home roaring.

‘It was a funny feeling though when he’d gone; all quiet, with nobody there, and up to t’knees in tadpoles.’

Silence. The class up to their knees in tadpoles. Mr Farthing allowed them a pause for assimilation. Then, before their involvement could disintegrate into local gossip, he used it to try to inspire an emulator.

‘Very good, Anderson. Thank you. Now has anyone else anything interesting to tell us?’

No hands went up.

‘No? What about you, Casper?’

Billy was bending over, inspecting his hands under cover of the desk. Pink weals were stamped across his fingertips. When he opened his fingers the weals broke into segments; each segment resembling a bump of nettle-rash. He blew on them, and cooled them with his tongue.

‘Casper!’

Billy sat up and put his hands away.

‘What, Sir?’

‘What, Sir. You’d know what if you’d been listening. Have you been listening?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Tell me what we’ve been talking about then.’

‘Er… stories, Sir.’

‘What kind of stories?’

‘Er…’

‘You don’t know, do you?’

‘No, Sir.’

‘He’s been asleep again, Sir!’

Billy scraped his chair round and shouted above the laughter:

‘Thee shut thi mouth, Tibby!’

‘Casper! Tibbut! You’ll both be asleep in a minute. I’ll knock you to sleep! The rest of you –
QUIET
.’

He slid off the desk edge and took one step down the nearest aisle. The result – quiet.

‘You haven’t heard a word of what’s been said, have you, Casper?’

‘Yes, Sir – some of it.’

‘Some of it. I’ll bet you have. Stand up, lad.’

Billy sighed and pushed the chair away with the backs of his knees.

‘Right, now you can do some work for a change. You’re going to tell us any story about yourself, the same as Anderson did.’

‘I don’t know any, Sir.’

‘Well you can just stand there until you do.’

Mr Farthing began to pace across the space between the board and the desk.

‘There’s always somebody to spoil it. There’s always someone you can’t suit, who has to be awkward, who refuses to be interested in anything, someone like you, Casper.’

He pivoted round on one foot and thrust an arm out at Billy.

‘I’m giving you two minutes to think of something lad,
and if you haven’t started then, the whole class is coming back at four!’

There was a general stiffening of backs and looking round wide-eyed, accompanied by grumbling and interspersed with Eh’s and threatening encouragements.

‘Come on, Billy.’

‘’Else tha dies.’

‘Say owt.’

‘If I’ve to come back I’ll kill him.’

Billy tried to blink back the tears shining in his eyes.

‘I’m waiting, Casper.’

Mr Farthing sat down and nudged back his jacket sleeve to look at his watch.

‘We haven’t got all day, Casper.’

‘Tell him about thi hawk, Billy.’

‘If anyone else calls out, it will be the last call he’ll make!… What hawk, Casper?… Casper, I’m speaking to you.’

Billy continued to show Mr Farthing the top of his head.

‘Look this way boy when I’m speaking to you.’

Billy looked up slowly.

‘And stop sulking just because somebody says a few words to you!… Now then, what’s this about this hawk? What is it, a stuffed one?’

The shout of laughter from the class spilled the first tears on to Billy’s face, and left Mr Farthing looking about in surprise at these opposing reactions to his question.

‘What’s funny about that?’

Tibbut half stood up, placing the weight of his body on the desk top as he shot one arm up.

‘Well, Tibbut?’

‘He’s got a hawk, Sir. It’s a kestrel. He’s mad about it.
He never knocks about wi’ anybody else now, he just looks after this hawk all t’time. He’s crackers wi’ it!’

Billy turned on him, the movement releasing a fresh head of tears into wobbly halting motion down his cheeks.

‘It’s better than thee anyday, Tibby!’

‘I told you, Sir, he goes daft if you say owt about it.’

‘Right, Casper, sit down.’

Billy sat down and wiped his cheeks on the shoulders of his jacket. Mr Farthing rested his elbows on his desk and tapped his teeth with his thumb nails, waiting for Billy to collect himself.