A Kestrel for a Knave (13 page)

‘Er… we’ll be Liverpool, Sir.’

‘You can’t be Liverpool.’

‘Why not, Sir?’

‘I’ve told you once, they’re too close to Manchester United’s colours aren’t they?’

Tibbut massaged his brow with his fingertips, and under this guise of thinking, glanced round at his team: Goalkeeper, green polo. Right Back, blue and white stripes. Left Back, green and white quarters. Right Half, white cricket. Centre Half, all blue. Left Half, all yellow. Right Wing, orange and green rugby. Inside Right, black T.
Centre Forward, blue denim tab collar. Tibbut, red body white sleeves. Left Wing, all blue.

‘We’ll be Spurs then, Sir. They’ll be no clash of colours then.’

‘… And it’s Manchester United
υ
. Spurs in this vital fifth round cuptie.’

Mr Sugden (referee) sucked his whistle and stared at his watch, waiting for the second finger to twitch back up to twelve. 5 4 3 2. He dropped his wrist and blew. Anderson received the ball from him, sidestepped a tackle from Tibbut then cut it diagonally between two opponents into a space to his left. Sugden (player) running into this space, raised his left foot to trap it, but the ball rolled under his studs. He veered left, caught it, and started to cudgel it upfield in a travesty of a dribble, sending it too far ahead each time he touched it, so that by the time he had progressed twenty yards, he had crash-tackled it back from three Spurs defenders. His left winger, unmarked and lonely out on the touchline, called for the ball, Sugden heard him, looked at him, then kicked the ball hard along the ground towards him. But even though the wingman started to sprint as soon as he read its line, it still shot out of play a good ten yards in front of him. He slithered to a stop and whipped round.

‘Hey up, Sir! What do you think I am?’

‘You should have been moving, lad. You’d have caught it then.’

‘What do you think I wa’ doin’, standing still?’

‘It was a perfectly good ball!’

‘Ar, for a whippet perhaps!’

‘Don’t argue with me, lad! And get that ball fetched!’

The ball had rolled and stopped on the roped-off cricket square. The left winger left the pitch and walked towards
it. He scissor-jumped the rope, picked the ball up off the lush lawn, then volleyed it straight back on to the pitch without bouncing it once on the intervening stretch of field.

Back in the goal, Billy was giant-striding along the goal line, counting the number of strides from post to post: five and a bit. He turned, propelled himself off the post and jump-strode across to the other side: five. After three more attempts he reduced this record to four and a half, then he returned along the line, heel-toe, heel-toeing it: thirty pump lengths.

After fourteen minutes’ play he touched the ball for the first time. Tibbut, dribbling in fast, pushed the ball between Mr Sugden’s legs, ran round him and delivered the ball out to his right winger, who took it in his stride, beat his Full Back and centred for Tibbut, who had continued his run, to outjump Mr Sugden and head the ball firmly into the top right-hand corner of the goal. Billy watched it fly in, way up on his left, then he turned round and picked it up from under the netting.

‘Come on Casper! Make an effort, lad!’

‘I couldn’t save that, Sir.’

‘You could have tried.’

‘What for, Sir, when I knew I couldn’t save it?’

‘We’re playing this game to win you know, lad.’

‘I know, Sir.’

‘Well, try then!’

He held his hands out to receive the ball. Billy obliged, but as it left his hand the wet leather skidded off his skin and it dropped short in the mud, between them. He ran out to retrieve it, but Sugden had already started towards it, and when Billy saw the stare of his eyes and the set of his jaw as he ran at the ball, he stopped and dropped down, and the ball missed him and went over him, back
into the net. He knelt up, his left arm, left side and left leg striped with mud.

‘What wa’ that for, Sir?’

‘Slack work, lad. Slack work.’

He retrieved the ball himself, and carried it quickly back to the centre for the restart. Billy stood up, a mud pack stuck to each knee. He pulled his shirt sleeve round and started to furrow the mud with his finger nails.

‘Look at this lot. I’ve to keep this shirt on an’ all after.’

The Right Back was drawn by this lament, but was immediately distracted by a chorus of warning shouts, and when he turned round he saw the ball running loose in his direction. He ran at it head down, and toed it far up field, showing no interest in its flight or destination, but turning to commiserate with Billy almost as soon as it had left his boot. It soared over the halfway line, and Sugden started to chase. It bounced, once, twice, then rolled out towards the touchline. He must catch it, and the rest of his forward line moved up in anticipation of the centre. But the ball, decelerating rapidly as though it wanted to be caught, still crossed the line before he could reach it. His disappointed Forwards muttered amongst themselves as they trooped back out of the penalty area.

‘He should have caught that, easy.’

‘He’s like a chuffing carthorse.’

‘Look at him, he’s knackered.’

‘Hopeless tha means.’

Tibbut picked the ball up for the throw in.

‘Hard luck, Sir.’

Sugden, hands on hips, chest heaving, had his Right Back in focus a good thirty seconds before he had sufficient control over his respiration to remonstrate with him.

‘Come on, lad! Find a man with this ball! Don’t just kick it anywhere!’

The Right Back, his back turned, continued his conversation with Billy.

‘
SPARROW
!’

‘What, Sir?’

‘I’m talking to you, lad!’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Well pay attention then and get a grip of your game. We’re losing, lad.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Manchester United equalised soon after when the referee awarded them a penalty. Sugden scored.

At the other end of the pitch, Billy was busy with the netting. He was standing with his back to the play, clawing the fibres and growling like a little lion. He stuck a paw through a square and pawed at a visitor, withdrew it and stalked across his cage. The only other exhibit was the herd of multi-coloured cross-breeds gambolling around the ball behind him. The rest of the grounds were deserted. The main body of the collection was housed in the buildings across the fields, and all round the fields a high wire fence had been constructed. Round the top of the fence strands of barbed wire were affixed to inward-leaning angle-irons. Round the bottom, a ridge of shaggy grass grew where the mower had missed, and underneath the wire the grass had been cut in a severe fringe by the concrete flags of the pavement. The road curved round the field in a crescent, and across the road the row of council houses mirrored this exact curve. Field Crescent.

Billy gripped a post between both hands, inserted one raised foot into a square in the side netting, then, using this as a stirrup, heaved himself up and grabbed hold of
the cross-bar. He hand-over-handed it to the middle and rested, swinging loosely backwards and forwards with his legs together. Then he let go with one hand and started to scratch his arm pits, kicking his legs and imitating chimp sounds. The bar shook, and the rattling of the bolts turned several heads, and soon all the boys were watching him, the game forgotten.

‘Casper! Casper, get down lad! What do you think you are, an ape?’

‘No, Sir, I’m just keeping warm.’

‘Well get down then, before I come and make you red hot!’

Billy grasped the bar again with both hands, adjusted his grip, and began to swing: forward and back, forward and back, increasing momentum with thrusts of his legs. Forward and back, upwards and back, legs horizontal as he swung upwards and back. Horizontal and back, horizontal both ways, hands leaving bar at the top of each swing. Forward and back, just one more time; then a rainbow flight down, and a landing knees bent.

He needed no steps or staggering to correct his balance, but stood up straight, smiling; the cross-bar still quivering.

Applause broke out. Sugden silenced it.

‘Right, come on then, let’s get on with this
GAME
.’

The score: still 1–1.

1–2. When Billy, shielding his face, deflected a stinger up on to the cross-bar, and it bounced down behind him and over the line.

2–2. When the referee, despite protests, allowed a goal by Anderson to count, even though he appeared to score it from an offside position.

A dog appeared at the edge of the field, a lean black mongrel, as big as an Alsatian, sniffing around the bottom
of the fence on the pavement side. A second later it was inside, bounding across the field to join the game. It skidded round the ball, barking. The boy on the ball got off it, quick. The dog lay on its front legs, back curved, tail up continuing the line of its body. The boys ganged up at a distance, ‘yarring’ and threatening, but every time one of them moved towards it, the dog ran at him, jumping and barking, scattering the lot of them before turning and running back to the ball.

The boys were as excited as children playing ‘Mr Wolf.’ Carefully they closed in, then, when one of them made his effort to retrieve the ball, and the dog retaliated, they all scattered, screaming, to form up again twenty yards away and begin a new advance. If Mr Sugden had had a gun, Mr Wolf would have been dead in no time.

‘Whose is it? Who does it belong to?’ (From the back of the mob as it advanced, leading it when they retreated.) ‘Somebody go and fetch some cricket bats from the storeroom, they’ll shift it.’

In the excitement nobody took any notice of him, so he looked round and saw Billy, who was stamping patterns in the goalmouth mud.

‘Casper!’

‘What, Sir?’

‘Come here!’

‘What, Sir?’

‘Go and fetch half a dozen cricket bats from the games store.’

‘Cricket bats, Sir! What, in this weather?’

‘No you fool! To shift that dog – it’s ruining the game.’

‘You don’t need cricket bats to do that, Sir.’

‘What do you need then, dynamite?’

‘It’ll not hurt you.’

‘I’m not giving it a chance. I’d sooner take meat away from a starving lion than take the ball away from that thing.’

The dog was playing with the ball, holding it between its front paws, and with its head on one side, trying to bite it. However its jaws were too narrow, and each time it closed them its teeth pushed the ball forward out of reach. Then it shuffled after it, growling and rumbling in its throat. Billy walked forward, patting one thigh and clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth. The other boys got down to their marks.

‘Come on then, lad. Come on.’

It came. Bouncing up to his chest and down and round him. He reached out and scuffled its head each time it bounced up to his hand.

‘What’s up wi’ thi? What’s up then, you big daft sod?’

It rested its front paws on his chest and barked bright-eyed into his face, its tongue turning up at the edges and slithering in and out as it breathed. Billy fondled its ears, then walked away from it, making it drop down on all fours.

‘Come on then, lad. Come on. Where do you want me to take him, Sir?’

‘Anywhere, lad. Anywhere as long as you get it off this field.’

‘Do you want me to find out where it lives, Sir, and take it home? I can be dressed in two ticks.’

‘No. No, just get it off the field and get back in your goal.’

Billy hooked his finger under the dog’s collar and led it firmly towards the school, talking quietly to it all the time.

When he returned they were leading 3–2.

A few minutes later they were level 3–3.

‘What’s the matter, Casper, are you scared of the ball?’

Mr Sugden studied his watch, as the ball was returned to him at the centre spot.

‘Right then, the next goal’s the winner!’

One to make and the match to win.

End to end play. Excitement. Thrills. OOOO! Arrr! Goal! No! It was over the line, Sir! Play on!

Billy snatched the ball up, ran forward, and volleyed it up the field. He turned round and hopped back, pulling a sucked lemon face.

‘Bloody hell, it’s like lead, that ball. It’s just like gettin’ t’stick across your feet.’

He stood stork fashion and manipulated his foot. Every time he turned his toes up water squeezed into the folds on the instep of his pump.

‘Bugger me. I’m not kicking that again.’

He placed the foot lightly to the ground and tested his weight on it.

‘I feel champion, bones broke in one foot, frostbite in t’other.’

He unrolled his shorts up to his neck and pushed his arms down inside them.

‘Come on, Sugden, blow that bloody whistle, I’m frozen.’

The game continued. Sugden shot over the bar. Seconds later he prevented Tibbut from shooting by tugging his shirt. Penalty! Play on.

Billy sighted the school behind one outstretched thumb and obliterated it by drawing the thumb slowly to his eye. A young midget walked from behind the nail. Billy opened his other eye and dropped his hand. More midgets were leaving the midget building, walking down the midget drive
to the midget gates. Billy ran out to the edge of the penalty area, his arms back at attention down his shorts.

‘Bell’s gone, Sir! They’re comin’ out!’

‘Never mind the bell, get back in your goal!’

‘I’m on first sitting, Sir. I’ll miss my dinner.’

‘I thought I told you to swap sittings when you had games.’

‘I forgot, Sir.’

‘Well you’d better forget about your dinner then.’

He turned back to the game, then did a double take.

‘And get your arms out of your shorts, lad! You look as if you’ve had Thalidomide!’

Play developed at the other end. Billy stayed on the edge of the penalty area, forming a trio with his full backs.

‘How can I stop to second dinners when I’ve to go home an’ feed my hawk?’

All the toys had disappeared from the playground, some of them growing into boys as they walked up Field Crescent and passed level with the pitch. They shouted encouragement through the wire, then shrunk and disappeared round the curve.