A Kestrel for a Knave by Barry Hines Read Free Book Online Page B

through the wood.
    The farmhouse was in darkness. Billy carefully climbed over the wall into the orchard and ran crouching across to the ruins. He stood back from the wall and looked up at it. The moon illuminated the face of the wall, picking out the jut of individual stones, and shading in the cracks and hollows between them. Billy selected his route, found a foothold, a handhold, and began to climb. Very slowly and very carefully, testing each hold thoroughly before trusting it with his weight. His fingers finding the spaces, then tugging at the surrounding stones as though testing loose teeth. If any stones moved he felt again, remaining still until he was satisfied. Slowly. Hand. Foot. Hand. Foot.Never stretching, never jerking. Always compact, always balanced. Sometimes crabbing to by-pass gaps in the stonework, sometimes back-tracking several moves to explore a new line; but steadily meandering upwards, making for the highest window.
    As he climbed, his feet and hands dislodged a trickle of plaster and stone dust, and birds brushed his knuckles as they flashed out of their nest holes. Occasionally he dislodged a small stone or a lump of plaster, and when he felt this happen he paused during the time of its fall, and for a time after it had landed.
    But there were no alarms, and he reached the window and hooked his left arm over the stone sill. He slapped the stone and sh sh’d at the hole at the other end of the sill. Nothing happened so he climbed astride and hutched across to the nest hole. He peered in, but there was nothing to see, so he stretched belly flop along the sill and felt into the hole, wriggling further along as his arm went further in. He felt around, then withdrew his hand grasping a struggling eyas kestrel. He sat up, caged the bird in his hands, then placed it carefully into the big pocket inside his jacket. Five times he felt into the hole and each time fetched out a young hawk. Some were slightly larger than others, some more fully feathered, with less down on their backs and heads, but each one came out gasping, beaks open, legs pedalling the air.
    When he had emptied the nest he reversed the procedure, dipping into his pocket for an eyas and holding it in one hand while he compared it with another. By a process of elimination, he placed them back into the nest until he was left with only one; the one with most feathers and only a little down on its head. He lowered it back into the pocket, then held his hand up to catch the light of the moon. Bothback and palm were bleeding and scratched, as though he had been nesting in a hawthorn hedge.
    When he reached the bottom of the wall he opened his jacket and clucked down into the pocket. The weight at the bottom stirred. He placed one hand underneath it for support, and set off back across the orchard. Once over the wall, he started to whistle, and he whistled and hummed to himself all the way home….
    … Billy had been standing so still that the hawk had lost interest in him, and flew from the shelf to the perch at the back of the shed. He put his face close to the bars, had a last look at her, then turned away and walked up the path and across the estate to school.
Anderson?
Sir!
/
Armitage?
Yes Sir!
/
Bridges?
Away Sir.
0
Casper?
Yes Sir!
/
Ellis?
Here Sir!
/
Fisher?
German Bight.
/
    Mr Crossley dug the Biro point in. Too late, the black stroke skidded diagonally down the square. He lifted his face slowly to the class. All the boys were looking at Billy.
    ‘What was that?’
    ‘It was Casper, Sir.’
    ‘Did you say something, Casper?’
    ‘Yes Sir, I didn’t…’
    ‘Stand up!’
    Billy stood up, red. The boys looked up at him, grinning, lolling back on their chairs in anticipation.
    ‘Now then, Casper, what did you say?’
    ‘German Bight, Sir.’
    The rest of the class laughed out, some screwing their forefingers into their temples and twitching their heads at Billy.
    ‘He’s crackers, Sir!’
    ‘He can’t help it.’
    ‘ SILENCE