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  ‘How much?’ I was on the edge of my seat. ‘How much can I win?’

  Mr Weaver shrugged. ‘Thirty quid? Fifty? I’m not sure what the going rate is these days.’

  But it sounded pretty good to me. ‘What do I have to do?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve told you,’ he repeated, ‘join a club. There’s no other way to enter the races. As a junior, it wouldn’t cost the earth. And you needn’t worry about what your mum said – it’s not much to do with pubs or Working Men’s Clubs. A lot of pigeon folk gather at someone’s house. Where do you live?’

  I told him. He spread his hands.

  ‘Barely a wingbeat from Barrowmoor. Some fine flying men – and women – up there. Len Spigott for one. Now if ever there was a genius with pigeons…I’m sure Lenny’d be pleased to help you out. I’ll give you his address when we’re back at the office.’

  ‘No!’

  Mr Weaver railed back slightly. ‘But I thought…? A minute ago you were all for doing it?’

  I was – but not with Lenny Spigott. Lenny Spigott. He seemed to be everywhere. ‘I’d have to ask my mum,’ I muttered quietly. It seemed the best excuse I could offer.

  Mr Weaver hoisted the box off the bench. ‘Don’t worry,’ he winked. ‘I’ll ask her for you.’

  ‘No!’ I said, even more firmly.

  Mr Weaver frowned. ‘Make your mind up,’ he tutted. ‘Do you want to fly this bird or not?’

  ‘Yes, I mean…well…’ I didn’t know what to say. Then a thought struck me and I voiced it out loud. ‘Do you know Alf Duckins?’

  ‘Alf?’ said Mr Weaver. ‘Everyone knows Alf. Been at the sport for fifty years. Next to Len Spigott he’s the best customer I’ve got. Why, do you know Alf?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘he’s my friend.’

  ‘There you go, then,’ Mr Weaver sniffed. ‘Have a word with Alf about joining a club.’

  ‘I will,’ I said, ideas tumbling like mad through my mind. ‘Erm, how much did you say I could win again…?’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Homework,’ Mr Tompkins announced. He walked to the blackboard and started to wipe it. It was the opportunity I needed to look across at Garry and tap my wrist.

  Garry checked his watch. ‘Eight minutes,’ he whispered. He held up nine, then seven, then finally eight fingers.

  ‘YES, GARRY?’ Mr Tompkins boomed.

  Garry stiffened in his seat. ‘Sir?’ he said.

  ‘Did you want to ask a question?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Garry answered.

  ‘Did you want to be excused to go to the toilet?’

  Janet Perrywell sniggered. ‘No, sir,’ said Garry.

  ‘Then put your hands down, pick up your pen and write these words on a clean page of your workbook.

  That goes for all of you. Quickly, please.’

  There was a rustle of paper and a lifting of pens. The chalk rattled and tapped against the blackboard. I glanced at Garry. He put out his arms and pretended he was flying like a racing pigeon.

  ‘What you doing?’ Connor Dorley hissed.

  Garry swooped and dipped. ‘Nearrgh…’ he went.

  ‘I won’t tell you again,’ Mr Tompkins rumbled, looking sternly over his shoulder. Garry shrank into his seat and picked up his pen. He started copying down the words from the board:

  COURAGE

  CHARITY

  FOOLISHNESS

  SYMPATHY

  NEGLIGENCE

  COMPASSION

  ‘Now,’ said Mr Tompkins, stepping back from the board and juggling two pieces of chalk in one hand, ‘by next Monday I want you to look up each of these words in the dictionary, choose one that interests you, then write five hundred words to illustrate its meaning.’

  There was a mild groan from the back of the room.

  ‘Come on,’ said Mr Tompkins. ‘It’s not that difficult. Let’s say I picked CHARITY, for instance.’ He ringed the word in yellow chalk. As he did so a paper dart landed on my desk. The words ‘Cherokee Wonderbird’ were written on its wings and there was a hopeless drawing of a pigeon’s head at the tip. I grinned at Garry and spread my arms – just as Mr Tompkins turned from the board.

  ‘Migrating somewhere for the winter, Darryl?’

  Silence. My face turned red. ‘No, sir,’ I mumbled, lowering my arms.

  Mr Tompkins glared at us all. ‘The next person I catch larking about stays behind after class. Is that understood? Now, pay attention. Charity. Charity is not only about giving money to worthy causes. You can also give your time and help to other people. If you choose this word for your homework assignment you might, for instance, write about someone who does the shopping for their elderly neighbour.’

  He turned to face the board again, drew a dash against the word CHARITY and started to write his example beside it. I quickly scribbled, ‘How long now?’ on a wing of the dart and threw it back at Garry. Bad move. To my horror the dart soared and curved in a beautiful arc before descending towards the front of the room and skimming the floor by Mr Tompkins’ feet. There was a collective gasp. Mr Tompkins whipped round. Everyone had followed the flight of the dart but my eyes were the last to dip away. Guilt was written all over my face.

  ‘See me afterwards, Darryl,’ Mr Tompkins said.

  ‘I take it this afternoon’s little disturbance has something to do with your pigeon?’ he started. He had the paper dart opened out on his desk and was smoothing the creases, examining the words.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I muttered.

  ‘Hmm,’ he hummed. He leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. ‘So what is it that’s so important about your pigeon that it prevents you from paying attention during my English lessons? It didn’t entirely escape my notice that you and Garry were in a tearing hurry to be somewhere else as soon as the bell went.’

  I lowered my gaze and shuffled my feet. ‘We’re going to see Mr Duckins, sir. We’re going to ask about Cherokee being in a race.’

  Mr Tompkins stared at the ceiling a moment. ‘Is that all?’

  I wasn’t sure what he meant, so I said, ‘We have to be at his house at half-past four…tonight,’ I added as an afterthought.

  Mr Tompkins nodded slightly. He rolled forward in his chair and tapped the desk. ‘Listen to me, Darryl. There is a time for hobbies and a time for schoolwork, and the first should not interfere with the second.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘No, sir,’ he repeated sharply. ‘It’s become all too apparent over the past few weeks that something is getting in the way of your learning. I had hoped it wasn’t this pigeon business, especially as you did so well with your project, but it seems as if I’m wrong, doesn’t it? I’ve seen that “lost” look coming back into your eyes again and I don’t like it, I don’t like it at all.’ He paused, inviting me to make a comment. I just picked my nails and wished he’d get on with it. I didn’t want to miss the bus to Alf’s. He’d told us he was playing a bowls match at five.

  Mr Tompkins shook his head and scrunched up the dart. He lobbed it softly into the bin. ‘A good command of English is a valuable aid in anyone’s life.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I muttered. He’d told us that about a million times.

  ‘It’s very disappointing to watch a bright boy like you squandering his chances of a decent education by—’

  Phreeep!

  Suddenly, the telling off was interrupted by a shrill whistle. I froze in terror. It was Warren’s whistle. I couldn’t see him for the blind across Mr Tompkins’ window. It didn’t matter anyway. I was never going to find him within a minute.

  Mr Tompkins frowned and parted the slats of the blind with his fingers. He scowled left and right through the gap. ‘If I find the boy who keeps doing that,’ he muttered, ‘I shall make him dig a very big hole and bury that whistle right at the bottom.’ He let the blinds close with an angry snap and turned back quicker than I thought he would. I jerked to attention and bit my lip. ‘Do you know who’s responsible for that?’ he asked.

/>   ‘No, sir,’ I said, trying not to fidget.

  Mr Tompkins narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The whistle went again. This time, Mr Tompkins didn’t turn away. His gaze locked solidly on my face as if he was trying to read my mind through the skin and bones. ‘All right,’ he said quietly, ‘off you go.’

  ‘Thanks, sir,’ I said and headed for the door.

  ‘Oh – and Darryl?’

  I turned.

  ‘Don’t forget the words.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The LIST,’ he said in exaggerated tones, thrusting a finger towards the board.

  I looked at the words and realized I hadn’t written them down. It didn’t matter. I could copy them from Garry. ‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘Can I go now, please?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ he sighed.

  I bolted for the yard.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Dazza, this way!’

  As I burst out of the school doors and belted down the steps Garry grabbed me by the arm and swung me around the side of the building. He put a finger to his lips and gestured me into a crouching run. I soon discovered why. As we hurried down the side of the Science block and scurried between the staff cars parked along the drive, I saw Warren Spigott from the corner of my eye. He and Ginger and another boy and Paula were hanging round the bushes near the front school gates. Warren was beating the bushes with a stick. ‘This way,’ Garry whispered, changing direction and hugging the mesh of the tennis courts. At the corner of the courts he flapped me to stop. He stuck out his neck and checked we were safe, then: ‘Quick,’ he hissed, ‘we’ve just got time!’ And we sprinted for the spinney at the back of the playing fields. By now, I understood what he had in mind. We were making for the bus stop before the one at school. We got there just as the bus arrived, paid our fares and pounded upstairs to the seats at the front. My throat felt like a kettle coming to the boil. I flopped out on the seat and panted like a dog. I was proud of Garry. His escape route was brilliant. I just prayed the Spigott gang didn’t get on the bus.

  About two minutes later my prayers were answered. ‘Yes,’ Garry cried. ‘Easy! Ea-sy!’ I guessed from the gestures he was making through the window that Warren and his gang were still outside the school. I blew a sigh of relief and raised myself into a sitting position.

  ‘Was he mad?’

  Garry swivelled in his seat and planted his feet on the front of the bus. ‘Steaming,’ he nodded. ‘What you gonna do?’

  I lifted my shoulders as if it didn’t matter. But a cold, cold shiver was running down my spine. Warren Spigott didn’t like to be ignored. The next time I had to answer his whistle he was bound to do something horrible for sure. I told Garry I didn’t want to talk about it. We talked about racing Cherokee instead.

  ‘Whatever you do,’ I told him firmly as we jumped off the bus at St Wilfred’s Road, ‘don’t say anything to Alf about prize-money. We don’t want him to think we’re doing it for that.’

  ‘But we are doing it for that,’ Garry muttered, perplexed.

  ‘I know,’ I said tetchily. ‘Just don’t say it.’

  ‘You’d better split it with me if you win,’ Garry huffed. ‘Fifty-fifty. You promised, Dazza.’

  I opened the gate to Mr Duckins’ drive. ‘I always keep my promises, don’t I?’

  ‘You still owe me your baseball cap,’ he sniffed.

  I pretended not to hear him and rang the bell. A few seconds later the door swung open. Alf appeared in a set of white flannels. He looked a bit strange without feathers sticking to him, but he was still just as grouchy as ever. ‘Oh aye – you pair,’ he greeted us. ‘Come on. Come through. I thought you were turning up at half past the hour? I’ve a taxi booked for five o’clock. You’ll have to be on your way by then.’

  Garry glanced at his watch. ‘Ten to five,’ he hissed.

  I clenched my fists. ‘Sorry, Mr Duckins. The bus took ages.’

  ‘Aye, well,’ Alf grunted and walked on through to the back of the house. He stopped at the table by the patio doors and packed a towel into a canvas bag. ‘Right, then, what’s with this hen?’

  Garry poked me in the back. ‘We want to race her,’ I gulped.

  ‘Race her?’ Alf said in a derisory voice. ‘Don’t be barmy. She’s a crock. You can’t go flying a damaged bird. She won’t last the length of a football pitch, not on a gammy wing at any rate.’

  ‘But she flies really well, now. Honestly she does.’ I gestured to Garry for a bit of support.

  ‘She’s dead fast,’ he said.

  ‘Really fast,’ I added.

  ‘Aye, on a short toss, maybe,’ said Alf. ‘You let her off in a proper race and she’ll be stopping at every chimney-pot she sees. Race her? I’ve never heard owt so daft.’ With an air of finality he zipped up his bag and hoiked it manfully into the lounge. There was a clack of wooden bowls with every step he took. It sounded like his knees were knocking together.

  ‘Please, Mr Duckins,’ I pleaded with him, tripping at his heels like a faithful dog. ‘Mr Weaver at the basket works, he said we should do it.’

  Alf dropped his bag on the end of the sofa and paused at the mirror to comb his hair. ‘George Weaver wants his brains examined,’ he sniffed.

  Garry snorted and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He tilted his head towards St Wilfred’s Road, but I wasn’t ready to give up yet. ‘He said we could put her in a novice event. He said there might be one this Saturday morning. He said you’d help us with…y’know, everything.’

  ‘Oh, did he,’ Alf said, smoothing his hair. He pulled a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and blew his nose with a terrifying snort. He looked at me and I nodded like mad.

  ‘He said racing birds were born to race and that pigeon racing was…a rewarding hobby for a boy to get into. Please, Mr Duckins. You must have started when you were quite young.’

  ‘We’re twelve,’ said Garry.

  Alf sighed and shook his head. ‘No. You can’t race her. You can’t race that bird.’

  ‘Why not?’ Garry snapped.

  ‘Because,’ Alf huffed. We waited for him to tell us what. He muttered something rude under his breath. ‘You haven’t got…the proper equipment,’ he spluttered, throwing up a hand and waving us away.

  ‘Equipment?’ Garry sneered. ‘She doesn’t need equipment. She doesn’t have to wear a crash helmet, does she?’

  ‘I mean a clock,’ Alf grizzled. ‘You haven’t got a clock – a proper racing clock,’ he added, anticipating another of Garry’s daft replies. Garry wasn’t about to let him down.

  ‘I’ve got a diver’s watch with seconds hands on it.’

  ‘That’s not a proper clock,’ Alf tutted. He sighed at Garry’s ignorance and walked to the window, peering through the curtains for the taxi he’d ordered.

  ‘This is stupid,’ Garry moaned, not caring if Alf could hear him or not. ‘Come on. Let’s go and do a good sport – like football.’

  Shut up-pp, I mouthed and turned to face Mr Duckins again. ‘Can’t we borrow a clock, Mr Duckins?’

  ‘You’d have to be in a club,’ Alf muttered.

  ‘I know!’ I spoke up, getting suddenly excited. I’d almost forgotten about joining a club.

  ‘He’s got six quid,’ Garry spat out curtly. ‘How much does it cost to be in a club?’

  I dug about in my pocket and brought out the change I’d kept from Weaver’s. I held it out for Mr Duckins to see. ‘I can get some more at the weekend,’ I said.

  ‘Put it away,’ Mr Duckins sighed.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Put it away,’ he said more firmly, and looked as if he was going to add something when suddenly his eyes glazed over slightly and he paused as if he was lost in time. He blinked and staggered forward in small shuffled steps, groping like a blind man for the arm of the sofa. I moved forward to support him as he tried to sit down. He gripped my arm with the strength of a monkey. His other hand felt for the centre of his chest.
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  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’m all right now.’ I stepped back a pace and glanced at Garry. Garry was looking pale and concerned.

  ‘Now, listen,’ Alf said through a wheezy breath. ‘I can see why you’re keen to get into the game, and you’re right, it is a grand sport to follow. But there are certain things you don’t understand.’

  ‘Like what?’ said Garry, politely for once.

  ‘Like the rules,’ Alf said, putting back his shoulders to catch a deep breath. He looked like he’d just had his lungs pumped up. ‘Even if that bird can perform like she used to, it’s not a simple matter for you to race her.’

  ‘Are we really too young?’ I said disappointed.

  ‘No,’ said Alf. ‘It’s nowt to do with that.’

  ‘What then?’ I said.

  Alf clicked his tongue. His mouth set into a rigid line. ‘It’s her ring,’ he said. ‘Her registration. When it comes to marking her up…’ He gave me a very deliberate stare then turned his chiselled features away.

  I blinked in thought, my senses swirling. I guessed Alf was trying to tell me something, more than he really wanted to say – but I just couldn’t grasp what it was. I picked my fingers and hesitantly asked, ‘Can you get her registered for me, Mr Duckins?’

  Before Alf could answer, two things happened: outside, a car horn beeped; inside, Alf gasped and clutched at his chest.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said Garry, looking alarmed.

  I stepped quickly forward and knelt by Alf’s side. ‘Mr Duckins? Are you all right? Mr Duckins? Do you want us to ring an ambulance for you?’

  ‘Chest…’ he spluttered, gasping for breath. ‘Pills…’ He started to beat his pockets.

  ‘Where are they?’ I asked, feeling in his pockets. ‘Where are your pills?’

  Alf raised a shaky finger. He pointed at the table near the patio doors.

  ‘Get them, quick!’ I shouted at Garry. Garry ran to the table and was back in a blink.

  ‘These?’ he said urgently, holding up a bottle.

  Mr Duckins grabbed it and unscrewed the top. He ladled two tablets into his palm, picked them up and placed them under his tongue. Outside, the car horn beeped again.