A Kestrel for a Knave (2 page)

‘I don’t know, it’s typical.’

‘What’s up, I haven’t let you down yet, have I?’

The bell tinkled. Porter straightened up, smiling.

‘Morning, Sir. Not very promising again.’

‘Twenty Players.’

‘Right, Sir.’

He turned round and ran one finger along a shelf stacked with cigarettes. His finger reached the Players and climbed the packets. Billy reached out and lifted two bars of chocolate from a display table at the side of the counter. He dropped them into his bag as Porter turned round. Porter traded the cigarettes and sprang the till open.

‘Than-kyou,’ his last syllable rising, in time to the ring of the bell.

‘Good morning, Sir.’

He watched the man out of the shop, then turned back to Billy.

‘You know what they said when I took you on, don’t you?’

He waited, as though expecting Billy to supply the answer.

‘They said, you’ll have to keep your eyes open now, you know, ’cos they’re all alike off that estate. They’ll take your breath if you’re not careful.’

‘I’ve never taken owt o’ yours, have I?’

‘I’ve never given you chance, that’s why.’

‘You don’t have to. I’ve stopped getting into trouble now.’

Porter opened his mouth, blinked, then pulled his watch out and studied the time.

‘Are you going to stand there all day, then?’

He shook the watch and placed it to one ear.

‘Next thing I know, everybody ’ll be ringing me up and asking why I can’t deliver on time.’

Billy left the shop. The traffic was now continuous along the City Road, and there were queues at all the bus stops for buses into town. Billy passed them as he headed away from the City. He started to deliver at a row of detached houses and bungalows: pebble dash and stone, and leaded windows. The row ended and he turned off the main road, up Firs Hill. The hill was steep. Trees had been planted at regular intervals along a cropped verge and the houses stood well back, shielded from the road, and from each other by trees and high wicker fences. Billy stopped before a wrought-iron gate with spikes at the top. On one of the gate posts was a notice:
NO HAWKERS NO CALLERS.
Billy looked down the drive and popped two squares of chocolate into his mouth. He left one half of the gate wide open and set off towards the house. Rhododendron shrubs crowded both sides of the drive, right up to the front door. He pushed the flap. It was stiff and the spring creaked. He looked towards the corners of the house, then eased the paper through and slowly lowered the flap until it clamped the paper. The curtains in all the front windows were drawn. The garden was wild, and moss and grass were replacing the asphalt on the drive. Billy used the moss and the grass like stepping stones until the last few yards, then he sprinted out, slamming the gate shut behind him. He unwrapped the last two squares of chocolate and looked back. A thrush ran out from under a rhododendron shrub and started to tug a worm from the soil between the loose asphalt chips. It stood over the worm and tugged vertically, exposing its speckled throat and pointing its beak to the
sky. The worm stretched, but held. The thrush lowered its head and backed off, pulling at a more acute angle. The worm still held, so the thrush stepped in and jerked at the slack. The worm ripped out of the ground and the thrush ran away with it, back under the shrubs. Billy flicked the chocolate wrapper through the gate and passed on.

A milk dray whined up the hill, close to the kerb. Every time the near wheels dipped into a grate, the bottles rattled in their crates. It stopped and the driver jumped out of the cab whistling. He slid a crate off the back and carried it across the road. Billy glanced round as he approached the dray. There was no one else on the hill. He lifted a bottle of orange juice and a carton of eggs and popped them into his bag. When the driver returned, Billy was delivering papers at the next house. The dray passed him again further up. It stopped and the driver lit a cigarette, waiting for Billy to draw level.

‘How’s it going then, young un?’

Billy stopped and lolled back against the dray.

‘O, not so bad.’

‘Tha could do wi’ some transport.’

He grinned and patted the dray.

‘This is better than walking, tha knows.’

‘Ar, only just, though.’

Billy kicked the back tyre.

‘They only go about five miles an hour, these things.’

‘It’s still better than walking, isn’t it?’

‘I could go faster on a kid’s scooter.’

The milkman nipped his cigarette out and blew on the end.

‘You know what I always say?’

‘What?’

‘Third class riding’s better than first class walking, anyday.’

He tucked the tab into the breast pocket of his overalls and crossed the road, carrying two bottles in each hand. Billy watched him across the open back of the dray, then dipped into his bag for the orange. He held the bottle horizontally between thumb and little finger, then tilted it to make the air bubble travel the length of the bottle, and back again. Top to bottom, top bottom tobottom, until the flakes raged like a glass snow storm. He punched his thumb through the cap, and downed the contents in two gulps, dropped the bottle back into a crate, and passed on up the hill.

A lane cut across the top of Firs Hill, forming a T junction. Billy turned left along it. There was no pavement, and whenever a car approached he either crossed the lane or stepped into the long grass at the side and waited for it to pass. Fields, and a few hedgerow trees sloped down into the valley. Toy traffic travelled along the City Road, and across the road, in the valley bottom, was the sprawl of the estate. Towards the City, a pit chimney and the pit-head winding gear showed above the rooftops, and at the back of the estate was a patchwork of fields, black, and grey, and pale winter green; giving way to a wood, which stood out on the far slope as clear as an ink blot.

Billy pulled his jacket together as the wind murmured over the top of the moor, and across into the lane. But the zip was broken and the jacket fell open again. He crossed the lane and crouched down with his back against the wall. The stones were wet, and shone different shades of brown and green, like polished leather. Billy opened his bag and flicked through the contents. He pulled out the
Dandy
and turned immediately to
Desperate Dan
.

Dan is going to a wedding. His nephew and niece are helping him to get ready. His niece puts his top hat on the chair.
Crunch
! goes the hat as Dan sits on it. He goes to buy a new hat, but they are all
FAR TOO SMALL.
This is the biggest in the shop, the assistant tells him. Dan tries it on. It’s almost big enough he says, but when he tries to pull it down a bit, he rips the brim off and it comes down over his face.
OH, NO!
he says, looking over the brim. Outside the shop he has an idea, and points to something not shown in the picture.
Ah! That
’
s the very thing!
he says, but first he has to clear the City Square so that no one will see what he is going to do. Round the corner, he bends over a water hydrant and blows. Water explodes out of the fountain in the square, drenching everybody, and they all have to go home, leaving the square deserted. Good, now I can get what I want, Dan says. In the next picture, Dan is trying on a big grey topper. He looks pleased and says,
That
’
s it! And it fits a treat
. He attends the wedding, and at the Reception Hall he hands his hat to the cloakroom attendant. The attendant can’t hold it and the hat goes
Crunch
! on his foot.
Ooyah
! goes the attendant. He tries to pick it up, saying,
Help! What a hat! It
’
s made of solid stone!
The last picture shows where the hat came from: from the head of the statue in the City Square:
WILLIAM SMITH
,
MAYOR OF CACTUSVILLE
1865–86.
SHOT AT HIGH NOON BY BLACK JAKE
.

Billy stood up into the wind and flexed his knees as he stepped back on to the lane. He started to run, holding the bag under one arm to stop it slapping and dragging at his hip. He delivered the
Dandy
with a newspaper and several magazines at a farmhouse. A collie barked at his heels all the way through the yard, and back out again. It followed him along the lane, then stopped and barked
him out of sight over a rise. Billy started to run again. He rolled a newspaper into a telescope and spied through it as he ran. Until he spied a stone house, standing back from the lane. Then he slowed to a walk, smoothing out the newspaper and rolling it the other way to neutralize the first curve.

At the side of the house, a grey Bentley was parked before an open garage. Billy never took his eyes off it as he walked up the drive, and when he reached the top, he veered across and looked in at the dashboard. The front door of the house opened, making him step back quickly from the car and turn round. A man in a dark suit came out, followed by two little girls in school uniform. They all climbed into the front of the car, and the little girls waved to a woman in a dressing gown standing at the door. Billy handed her the newspaper and looked past her into the house. The hall and stairs were carpeted. A radiator with a glass shelf ran along one wall, and on the shelf stood a vase of fresh daffodils. The car freewheeled down the drive and turned into the lane. The woman waved with the newspaper and closed the door. Billy walked back, pushed the letter box up and peeped through. There was the sound of running bath water. A radio was playing. The woman was walking up the stairs, carrying a transistor. Billy lowered the flap and walked away. On the drive, the tyres of the car had imprinted two patterned bands, reminiscent of markings on a snake’s back.

Outside the shop, Billy transferred the carton of eggs from the delivery bag to a large pocket, sewn into the lining of his jacket. The pocket pouched under the weight, but when he closed his jacket, there was no bulge on the outside.

Porter looked round at the sound of the bell. He was up a step ladder behind the counter, re-lining shelves with fresh paper.

‘Evening.’

‘I told you it wouldn’t take me long, didn’t I?’

‘What did you do, throw half of ’em over a hedge?’

‘No need. I know some short cuts coming back.’

‘I’ll bet you do, over people’s property, no doubt.’

‘No, across some fields. It cuts miles off.’

‘It’s a good job t’farmer didn’t see you, else you might have got a barrel of shotspread up your arse.’

‘What for? There was only grass in ’em.’

Billy folded the bag in half and placed it on the counter.

‘Not on there. You know where it goes.’

Billy walked round the counter and squeezed past the step ladder. Porter hung on until he had passed, then he watched him open a drawer at the back of the counter and stuff the bag inside.

‘You’ll be wanting me to take ’em round for you next.’

Billy shut the drawer with his knee and looked up at him.

‘What time is it?’

‘It’s time you were at school.’

‘It’s not that late, is it?’

Porter turned back to the shelves, shaking his head slowly.

‘I shouldn’t like to think it wa’ my job trying to learn you owt.’

As Billy squeezed past, he shook the steps and grabbed Porter’s legs.

‘Look out, Mr Porter!’

Porter sprawled forward into the shelving, his arms spread wide, his fingers scratching for a hold.

‘You’re all right, I’ve got you!’

Billy held Porter’s legs while he pushed himself off the shelves and regained his balance. His face and bald patch were greasy with sweat.

‘You clumsy young bugger. What you trying to do, kill me?’

‘I lost my balance.’

‘I wouldn’t put it past you, either.’

He descended the steps backwards, holding on with both hands.

‘I fair felt my heart go then.’

He reached the bottom of the steps and placed one hand over the breast pocket of his jacket. Reassured, he sat down on the stool behind the counter and exhaled noisily.

‘Are you all right now, Mr Porter?’

‘All right! Ar, I’m bloody champion!’

‘I’ll be off then.’

He crossed the shop to the door.

‘And don’t be late tonight.’

The estate was teeming with children: tots hand in hand with their mothers, tots on their own, and with other tots, groups of tots and Primary School children; Secondary School children, on their own, in pairs and in threes, in gangs and on bikes. Walking silently, walking on walls, walking and talking, quietly, loudly, laughing; running, chasing, playing, swearing, smoking, ringing bells and calling names: all on their way to school.

When Billy arrived home, the curtains were still drawn in all the front windows, but the light was on in the living-room. As he crossed the front garden, a man appeared from round the side of the house and walked up the path
to the gate. Billy watched him walk away down the avenue, then ran round to the back door and into the kitchen.

‘Is that you, Reg?’

Billy banged the door and walked through into the living-room. His mother was standing in her underslip, a lipstick poised at her mouth, watching the doorway through the mirror. When she saw Billy, she started to apply the lipstick.

‘O, it’s you, Billy. Haven’t you gone to school yet?’

‘Who’s that bloke?’

His mother pressed her lips together and stood the capsule, like a bullet, on the mantelpiece.

‘That’s Reg. You know Reg, don’t you?’

She took a cigarette packet from the mantelpiece and shook it.

‘Hell! I forgot to ask him for one.’

She dropped the packet into the hearth and turned to Billy.

‘You haven’t got a fag on you, have you, love?’

Billy moved across to the table and placed both hands round the teapot. His mother pulled her skirt on and tried to zip it on the hip. The zip would only close half-way, so she secured the waistband with a safety pin. The zip slipped as soon as she moved, and the slit expanded to the shape of a rugby ball. Billy shoved a finger down the spout of the teapot.