needed urgently to urinate. She moaned.
‘Louisa needs the toilet,’ her mother said.
‘There are none,’ her father said.
‘Richard, pull over, please.’
‘Let her sit in it.’
Her father was always the last to relent, if he did so at all, but on this occasion another louder moan was all it took. He feared for his upholstery and soon pulled in to a layby. As Louisa prepared to leave the car he turned around and said, ‘Who do you think you are?’
She often recalled that nasty remark in adulthood. What a thing to say to a child. She got him back in the end, she reasoned, simply by answering his question.
Louisa and her mother climbed the roadside bank, struggling against their skirts in a strong gale. Over the bank was a stubble field, and before that a tangle of bushes and weeds. Louisa squatted awkwardly with one hand on her dress and the other outstretched to her mother, for balance. She nearly passed out with relief.
The bird arrived as she was in mid-flow. She could not identify it. Now, when she thinks back, she sees an eagle but she knows that it was probably a buzzard, or a kite. The bird had perhaps been glanced by a car or attacked by crows, for it came down scared, and crashed into the bushes. The thrashing noise startled Mrs Smedley, who screamed and let go of her daughter’s hand. Louisa stumbled slightly, pissing on her shoes, but she did not fall. She was quite calm. The bird righted itself, and they watched each other. It looked so big, so outraged. Three seconds passed until it recovered and took off, Louisa watching it all the way over the trees.
‘Good God,’ Mrs Smedley said, with a hand to her chest. She looked at the damp patch on her daughter’s dress, but Louisa hadn’t noticed. Louisa had never heard of falconry, but at that moment she had a fair idea of what she wanted to do. It was all over bar the shouting, of which there was plenty.
Her father had assumed falconry to be a regal sport, but soon found that – apart from a few famous exceptions – the majority of modern practitioners were working men. As such, he hoped Louisa’s fascination would pass, but she flung away the picture-books about dancing, and he found her burying her pony figurine in the flowerbed, digging with her hands. Two summers later, she was still talking about hawks, and Richard saw a notice promoting a small summer fair given for the council housing residents in the back-end of Staffordshire. He thought he could scare it out of her.
It was a bare, rough place; the smell of yeast from the nearby Marmite factory and brewery competing with the bad meat and burnt sugar of the food stalls. The wind whipped gravel off the hill-top car park. Richard Smedley saw the bony, half-dressed slum-clearance youths throwing hoops and wondered if he’d gone too far, whether this might turn nasty. He looked nervously back at his car.
Louisa could see nothing but the six birds, tethered and fenced off, raising their legs one at a time as if attempting to free themselves from adhesive goop. She watched them, straight-faced, hands in the pockets of her unseasonal coat. She looked like a folded umbrella.
Roy Ogden stood on the pristine bowling green, the best patch of grass for ten miles in any direction. Forty yards away perched Banjo, an Indian eagle owl, his head turned to look at something in the firs behind. ‘Anybody up for a goo?’ Roy said.
Louisa pushed to the front, right hand still in her pocket, left hand out and bared. ‘I would like to.’ The small crowd noted the elocution, and looked at her father, who said, ‘That’s too big for you, dear.’
‘No it is not,’ Louisa said. ‘I can hold a two-pound bag of sugar. He’s not much more than that.’
Roy Ogden smiled. He’d been doing displays long enough to know the voice of a falconer, whatever the size of the person it came from. He lifted her over the dividing wall.
Banjo would not come when Ogden called, and Louisa’s top-lip whistle
‘Louisa needs the toilet,’ her mother said.
‘There are none,’ her father said.
‘Richard, pull over, please.’
‘Let her sit in it.’
Her father was always the last to relent, if he did so at all, but on this occasion another louder moan was all it took. He feared for his upholstery and soon pulled in to a layby. As Louisa prepared to leave the car he turned around and said, ‘Who do you think you are?’
She often recalled that nasty remark in adulthood. What a thing to say to a child. She got him back in the end, she reasoned, simply by answering his question.
Louisa and her mother climbed the roadside bank, struggling against their skirts in a strong gale. Over the bank was a stubble field, and before that a tangle of bushes and weeds. Louisa squatted awkwardly with one hand on her dress and the other outstretched to her mother, for balance. She nearly passed out with relief.
The bird arrived as she was in mid-flow. She could not identify it. Now, when she thinks back, she sees an eagle but she knows that it was probably a buzzard, or a kite. The bird had perhaps been glanced by a car or attacked by crows, for it came down scared, and crashed into the bushes. The thrashing noise startled Mrs Smedley, who screamed and let go of her daughter’s hand. Louisa stumbled slightly, pissing on her shoes, but she did not fall. She was quite calm. The bird righted itself, and they watched each other. It looked so big, so outraged. Three seconds passed until it recovered and took off, Louisa watching it all the way over the trees.
‘Good God,’ Mrs Smedley said, with a hand to her chest. She looked at the damp patch on her daughter’s dress, but Louisa hadn’t noticed. Louisa had never heard of falconry, but at that moment she had a fair idea of what she wanted to do. It was all over bar the shouting, of which there was plenty.
Her father had assumed falconry to be a regal sport, but soon found that – apart from a few famous exceptions – the majority of modern practitioners were working men. As such, he hoped Louisa’s fascination would pass, but she flung away the picture-books about dancing, and he found her burying her pony figurine in the flowerbed, digging with her hands. Two summers later, she was still talking about hawks, and Richard saw a notice promoting a small summer fair given for the council housing residents in the back-end of Staffordshire. He thought he could scare it out of her.
It was a bare, rough place; the smell of yeast from the nearby Marmite factory and brewery competing with the bad meat and burnt sugar of the food stalls. The wind whipped gravel off the hill-top car park. Richard Smedley saw the bony, half-dressed slum-clearance youths throwing hoops and wondered if he’d gone too far, whether this might turn nasty. He looked nervously back at his car.
Louisa could see nothing but the six birds, tethered and fenced off, raising their legs one at a time as if attempting to free themselves from adhesive goop. She watched them, straight-faced, hands in the pockets of her unseasonal coat. She looked like a folded umbrella.
Roy Ogden stood on the pristine bowling green, the best patch of grass for ten miles in any direction. Forty yards away perched Banjo, an Indian eagle owl, his head turned to look at something in the firs behind. ‘Anybody up for a goo?’ Roy said.
Louisa pushed to the front, right hand still in her pocket, left hand out and bared. ‘I would like to.’ The small crowd noted the elocution, and looked at her father, who said, ‘That’s too big for you, dear.’
‘No it is not,’ Louisa said. ‘I can hold a two-pound bag of sugar. He’s not much more than that.’
Roy Ogden smiled. He’d been doing displays long enough to know the voice of a falconer, whatever the size of the person it came from. He lifted her over the dividing wall.
Banjo would not come when Ogden called, and Louisa’s top-lip whistle
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