Short: Flight

Flight

The white throat sets off the spread of sooty brown across the body, distinguishing the fragile feathered creature as a swift, a bird whose migration takes it to Africa during the colder months. Its slender frame is normally seen arrowing through the air; to witness the ascent is uncommon. Perched on the branch, it leans forward, much like a diver preparing to enter the water. Once gravity takes control, momentarily becoming unbalanced, the swift then falls freely. Seconds later, wings extend and an upturn quickly turns into a graceful glide. He—it is a he—rises, and begins to round.

The binoculars need to be manoeuvred at speed to ensure the flight isn't lost or forgotten. A forlorn figure, at first glance, the swift drifts from the left to the right on its lonesome, but the bird isn't pitiable: it is free.

"Sir!" David Williams turned and took in the mop of dark hair, the brace-toothed grin, as Joey Matthews, from 8R3, exclaimed in a loud whisper, "I didn't expect to see you here!"

The feeling was very much mutual. David, Head of RE at one of Manchester's more—difficult—schools, had come to this same hide at the same time, 5:30-6:30am, every Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday during term time or, to put another way, the last fifteen years—since September 1990—and this was the first occasion on which he had run into any of his pupils.

Joey came alongside his favourite teacher, and David made a space for him, moving his battered bird book. Seeing the copy of A Field Guide to the Birds of Britain and Europe, the boy, who had received a detention for throwing a pen at his English teacher the previous day, quickly dropped his bag and fumbled about in it, pulling out the exact same volume; surprisingly in similar condition.

"This was my Grandad's. He travelled the whole of Europe. He saw almost every single bird in here, he did, and I'm trying to find the other ones."

"That's nice, Joey." David smiled reassuringly at the young lad. "I'm sure your grandad would be very proud of you. Do you want to sit with me and watch for a bit? I'm going to be here for another thirty minutes."

* * * *

Mama. Where are you? Where did you go? I need my Mama. I'm scared, Mama. I'm hungry, and my body hurts. The men. They have guns, and they hurt people. Did you go to the woods, Mama? People who go to the woods don't come back. Yahweh, help me. I need my Mama.

Benjamin woke with a start, sweating. Again. That was a long, long time ago.

* * * *

Time passed, as it does, and David almost forgot that he had a companion—such was the silent intensity with which the boy watched for birds. That is, save for a couple of occasions when Joey yelped quietly, then scrambled and looked in the bird guide, easily finding his way to half a dozen pages where there was a bird without a mark against it, only to, disappointedly, put the book back down and return to gazing fixedly into the distance. When the soft buzzing of David's alarm signalled time to go, he picked up his things and turned to the fourteen-year-old, before pulling on the wobbly handle of the rickety shed door and leaving.

"I will see you period three, Joey. Good luck spotting; if you look out to the left you might have some luck with that desert wheatear. I've seen a couple there in the last few weeks."

Later that day, just after he had dismissed 8R3—who, bar one young boy with bags under his eyes, but a wide grin on his face and an excited "thanks for the tip" at the beginning of the lesson, had been an absolute pain—David received a phone call. Once he had replaced the handset, having gratefully said goodbye to the man on the other end, he stood and was about to go looking for Rachel Harrowgate, but found her instead at the door to his office. Short and stocky, with a nest of grey hair, she was only a few years from retirement, and the general consensus around the staff room was that their ears would be thankful for that blissful day.