A Kestrel for a Knave (12 page)

He walked into the changing room as clean and shining as a boy down for breakfast on his seaside holidays. The other boys were packed into the aisles between the rows of pegs, their hanging clothes partitioning the room into corridors. Mr Sugden was passing slowly across one end of the room, looking down the corridors and counting the boys as they changed. He was wearing a violet tracksuit. The top was embellished with cloth badges depicting numerous crests and qualifications, and on the breast a white athlete carried the Olympic torch. The legs were tucked into new white football socks, neatly folded at his ankles, and his football boots were polished as black and shiny as the bombs used by assassins in comic strips. The
laces binding them had been scrubbed white, and both boots had been fastened identically: two loops of the foot and one of the ankle, and tied in a neat bow under the tab at the back.

He finished counting and rolled a football off the window sill into his hand. The leather was rich with dubbin, and the new orange lace nipped the slit as firmly as a row of surgical stitches. He tossed it up and caught it on the ends of his fingers, then turned round to Billy.

‘Skyving again, Casper?’

‘No, Sir, Mr Farthing wanted me; he’s been talking to me.’

‘I bet that was stimulating for him, wasn’t it?’

‘What does that mean, Sir?’

‘The conversation, lad, what do you think it means?’

‘No, Sir, that word, stimult… stimult-ting.’

‘Stimulating you fool,
S-T-I-M-I-L-A-T-I-N-G,
stimulating! ’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Well get changed lad, you’re two weeks late already!’

He lifted the elastic webbing of one cuff and rotated his fist to look at his watch on the underside of his wrist.

‘Some of us want a game even if you don’t.’

‘I’ve no kit, Sir.’

Mr Sugden stepped back and slowly looked Billy up and down, his top lip curling.

‘Casper, you make me
SICK
.’

‘
SICK
’ penetrated the hub-bub, which immediately decreased as the boys stopped their own conversations and turned their attention to Mr Sugden and Billy.

‘Every lesson it’s the same old story, “Please, Sir, I’ve no kit.”’

The boys tittered at his whipped-dog whining impersonation.

‘Every lesson for four years! And in all that time you’ve made no attempt whatsoever to get any kit, you’ve skyved and scrounged and borrowed and…’

He tried this lot on one breath, and his ruddy complexion heightened and glowed like a red balloon as he held his breath and fought for another verb.

‘… and…
BEG
…’ The balloon burst and the pronunciation of the verb disintegrated.

‘Why is it that everyone else can get some but you can’t?’

‘I don’t know, Sir. My mother won’t buy me any. She says it’s a waste of money, especially now that I’m leaving.’

‘You haven’t been leaving for four years, have you?’

‘No, Sir.’

‘You could have bought some out of your spending money, couldn’t you?’

‘I don’t like football, Sir.’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘I don’t know, Sir. Anyway I don’t get enough.’

‘Get a job then. I don’t…’

‘I’ve got one, Sir.’

‘Well then! You get paid, don’t you?’

‘Yes, Sir. But I have to gi’ it to my mam. I’m still payin’ her for my fines, like instalments every week.’

Mr Sugden bounced the ball on Billy’s head, compressing his neck into his shoulders.

‘Well you should keep out of trouble then, lad, and then…’

‘I haven’t been in trouble, Sir, not…’

‘Shut up, lad! Shut up, before you drive me crackers!’

He hit Billy twice with the ball, holding it between both
hands as though he was murdering him with a boulder. The rest of the class grinned behind each other’s backs, or placed their fingers over their mouths to suppress the laughter gathering there. They watched Mr Sugden rush into his changing room, and began to giggle, stopping immediately he reappeared waving a pair of giant blue drawers.

‘Here Casper, get them on!’

He wanged them across the room, and Billy caught them flying over his head, then held them up for inspection as though he was contemplating buying. The class roared. They would have made Billy two suits and an overcoat.

‘They’ll not fit me, Sir.’

The class roared again and even Billy had to smile. There was only Mr Sugden not amused.

‘What are you talking about, lad? You can get them on, can’t you?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Well they fit you then! Now get changed,
QUICK
.’

Billy found an empty peg and hung his jacket on it. He was immediately enclosed in a tight square as two lines of boys formed up, one on each side of him between the parallel curtains of clothing. He sat down on the long bench covering the shoe racks, and worked his jeans over his pumps. Mr Sugden broke one side of the square and stood over him.

‘And you want your underpants and vest off.’

‘I don’t wear ’em, Sir.’

As he reached up to hang his trousers on the peg, his shirt lap lifted, revealing his bare cheeks, which looked as smooth and boney as two white billiard balls. He stepped into the shorts and pulled them up to his waist. The legs reached halfway down his shins. He pulled the waist up
to his neck and his knees just slid into view. Boys pointed at them, shouting and laughing into each other’s faces, and other boys who were still changing rushed to the scene, jumping up on the benches or parting the curtains to see through. And at the centre of it all, Billy, like a brave little clown, was busy trying to make them fit, and Sugden was looking at him as though it was his fault for being too small for them.

‘Roll them down and don’t be so foolish. You’re too daft to laugh at, Casper.’

No one else thought so. Billy started to roll them down from his chest, each tuck shortening the legs and gathering the material round his waist in a floppy blue tyre.

‘That’ll do. Let’s have you all out now.’

He opened the door and led them down the corridor and out into the yard. Some boys waited until he had gone, then they took a run and had a good slide up to the door, rotating slowly as they slid, and finishing up facing the way they had come. Those with rubber studs left long black streaks on the tiles. The plastic and nailed leather studs cut through the veneer and scored deep scratches in the vinyl. When they reached the yard, the pad of the rubber studs on the concrete hardly differed from that in the changing room or the corridor, but the clatter produced by the nailed and plastic studs had a hollow, more metallic ring.

The cold caught Billy’s breath as he stepped outside. He stopped dead, glanced round as though looking to escape, then set off full belt, shouting, across the concrete on to the field. Mr Sugden set off after him.

‘Casper! Shut up, lad! What are you trying to do, disrupt the whole school?’

He gained on Billy, and as he drew near swiped at him
with his flat hand. Billy, watching the blows, zig-zagged out of reach, just ahead of them.

‘I’m frozen, Sir! I’m shoutin’ to keep warm!’

‘Well don’t shout at me then! I’m not a mile away!’

They were shouting at each other as though they were aboard ship in a gale. Mr Sugden tried to swat him again. Billy sidestepped, and threw him off balance. So he slowed to a walk and turned round, blowing his whistle and beckoning the others to hurry up.

‘Come on, you lot! Hurry up!’

They started to run at speeds ranging from jogging to sprinting, and arrived within a few seconds of each other on the Senior football pitch.

‘Line up on the halfway line and let’s get two sides picked!’

They lined up, jumping and running on the spot, those with long sleeves clutching the cuffs in their hands, those without massaging their goosey arms.

‘Tibbut, come out here and be the other captain.’

Tibbut walked out and stood facing the line, away from Mr Sugden.

‘I’ll have first pick, Tibbut.’

‘That’s not right, Sir.’

‘Why isn’t it?’

‘’Cos you’ll get all the best players.’

‘Rubbish, lad.’

‘Course you will, Sir. It’s not fair.’

‘Tibbut. Do you want to play football? Or do you want to get dressed and go and do some maths?’

‘Play football, Sir.’

‘Right then, stop moaning and start picking. I’ll have Anderson.’

He turned away from Tibbut and pointed to a boy who
was standing on one of the intersections of the centre circle and the halfway line. Anderson walked off this cross and stood behind him. Tibbut scanned the line, considering his choice.

‘I’ll have Purdey.’

‘Come on then, Ellis.’

Each selection altered the structure of the line. When Tibbut had been removed from the centre, all the boys sidestepped to fill the gap. The same happened when Anderson went from near one end. But when Purdey and Ellis, who had been standing side by side, were removed, the boys at their shoulders stood still, therefore dividing the original line into two. These new lines were swiftly segmented as more boys were chosen, leaving no trace of the first major division, just half a dozen boys looking across spaces at each other; reading from left to right: a fat boy; an arm’s length away, two friends, one tall with glasses, the other short with a hare-lip; then a space of two yards and Billy; a boy space away from him, a thin boy with a crew cut and a spotty face; and right away from these, at the far end of the line, another fat boy. Spotty crew cut was halfway between the two fat boys, therefore half of the length of the line was occupied by five of the boys. The far fat boy was the next to go, which halved the length of the line and left spotty crew cut as one of the end markers.

Tibbut then selected the tall friend with glasses. Mr Sugden immediately selected his partner. They separated gradually as they walked away from the line, parting finally to enter their respective teams. And then there were three: Fatty, Billy, and spotty crew cut, blushing across at each other while the captains considered. Tibbut picked crew cut. He dashed forward into the anonymity of his team.
Fatty stood grinning. Billy stared down at the earth. After long deliberation Mr Sugden chose Billy, leaving Tibbut with Hobson’s choice; but before either Billy or Fatty could move towards their teams, Mr Sugden was already turning away and shouting instructions.

‘Right! We’ll play down hill!’

The team broke for their appropriate halves, and while they were arguing their claims for positions, Mr Sugden jogged to the sideline, dropped the ball, and took off his tracksuit. Underneath he was wearing a crisp red football shirt with white cuffs and a white band round the neck. A big white 9 filled most of the back, whiter than his white nylon shorts, which showed a slight fleshy tint through the material. He pulled his socks up, straightened the ribs, then took a fresh roll of half inch bandage from his tracksuit and ripped off two lengths. The torn bandage packet, the cup of its structure still intact, blew away over the turf like the damaged shell of a dark blue egg. Mr Sugden used the lengths of bandage to secure his stockings just below the knees, then he folded his tracksuit neatly on the ground, looked down at himself, and walked on to the pitch carrying the ball like a plum pudding on the tray of his hand. Tibbut, standing on the centre circle, with his hands down his shorts, winked at his Left Winger and waited for Mr Sugden to approach.

‘Who are you today, Sir, Liverpool?’

‘Rubbish, lad! Don’t you know your club colours yet?’

‘Liverpool are red, aren’t they, Sir?’

‘Yes, but they’re all red, shirts, shorts and stockings. These are Manchester United’s colours.’

‘Course they are, Sir, I forgot. What position are you playing?’

Mr Sugden turned his back on him to show him the number 9.

‘Bobby Charlton. I thought you were usually Denis Law when you were Manchester United.’

‘It’s too cold to play as a striker today. I’m scheming this morning, all over the field like Charlton.’

‘Law plays all over, Sir. He’s not only a striker.’

‘He doesn’t link like Charlton.’

‘Better player though, Sir.’

Sugden shook his head. ‘No, he’s been badly off form recently.’

‘Makes no odds, he’s still a better player. He can settle a game in two minutes.’

‘Are you trying to tell
me
about football, Tibbut?’

‘No, Sir.’

‘Well shut up then. Anyway Law’s in the wash this week.’

He placed the ball on the centre spot and looked round at his team. There was only Billy out of position. He was standing between the full backs, the three of them forming a domino : : : pattern with the half backs. The goal was empty. Mr Sugden pointed at it.

‘There’s no one in goal!’

His team looked round to confirm this observation, but Tibbut’s team had beaten them to it by just looking straight ahead.

‘Casper! What position are you supposed to be playing?’

Billy looked to the Right Back, the Left Back, the Right Back again. Neither of them supplied the answer, so he answered the question himself.

‘I don’t know, Sir. Inside Right?’

This answer made 1: Mr Sugden angry. 2: the boys laugh.

‘Don’t talk ridiculous, lad! How can you be playing Inside Right back there?’

He looked up at the sky.

‘God help us; fifteen years old and still doesn’t know the positions of a football team!’

He levelled one arm at Billy.

‘Get in goal lad!’

‘O, Sir! I can’t goal. I’m no good.’

‘Now’s your chance to learn then, isn’t it?’

‘I’m fed up o’ goin’ in goal. I go in every week.’

Billy turned round and looked at the goal as though it was the portal leading into the gladiatorial arena.

‘Don’t stand looking lad. Get in there!’

‘Well don’t blame me then, when I let ’em all through.’

‘Of course I’ll blame you, lad! Who do you expect me to blame?’

Billy cursed him quietly all the way back to the nets.

Sugden (commentator): ‘And both teams are lined up for the kick off in this vital fifth round cup tie, Manchester United versus…?’ Sugden (teacher): ‘Who are we playing, Tibbut?’