JON’S WAR (continued)
He blundered up against the boy who now stood motionless, one arm stretched behind him, his palm raised in an arresting gesture, his head cocked. The two of them stood ‑ the one poised, the other scratched and perspiring ‑ at the edge of a sandy bank inclining gently upwards away from the dense undergrowth. At the top of the bank a fringe of beech trees filtered the light of the setting sun; blobs of thick yellow sunshine blurred the outline of the branches, stinging Jon's eyes. The boy squinted up at the trees and then lowered his gaze to the bank before them. He pointed. Jon followed the line of the boy's finger. He shrugged, seeing nothing but the green and yellow patches of late primrose and cowslip and the cages of tree roots arched around the rabbit holes they half concealed. As he peered, a fragment of grey bank broke away and, with a flicker of white scud, a rabbit bolted into its burrow. Jon's perception shifted with the precision of binoculars focussing: the bank side was alive with rabbits, their movements abrupt and businesslike. The boy grinned at Jon, dropping into a crouch and pulling Jon down with him. The boys leaned together, barely breathing, watching the shuffling, quivering animals as they gulped at the coarse grass and tested the air with noses and ears. Once again Jon felt like an intruder in a world as secret as the seabed. He was conscious of his crude incursion here, standing on the brink of a private alien world. He was overwhelmed by its rawness; it appalled him with its rank odours, its sudden thorns and its abrasive air. The cool earth beneath his palms, the rotted vegetation beneath his knees, the acrid tang of the boy beside him all lapped at his senses. The city from which he came seemed infinitely far away as he stifled in his urban clothing. He blinked as sweat refracted the sunlight in his eyes. Shaking his head, he re‑focussed on the rabbits.
Beside him the boy began to move. His rigid body tilted away and, with a single slow looping movement, he thrust his arm behind him, his still, flat blue eyes fixed on the fox. The arm emerged, a catapult in the fist, red elastic and leather patch dangling. The boy rocked sideways towards Jon, his right leg shuddering convulsively as the cramped muscles look the strain. He dug his left hand into his jacket pocket and tugged it out again, lifting the jacket away from his body and forcing him to steady himself against Jon. The two boys leaned together, their muscles working in concert to maintain balance and yet to remain concealed and silent. Neither motionless fox nor bobbing rabbits noticed the hidden boys and as Jon sunk back onto his heels two fragmented images flashed unbidden but bright in his mind: of his London garden and a sleek white cat disturbed by his mother from an open cold frame, the long phantom body pouring itself over the fence and into the park beyond; of his father crouching in a Norman ditch as shells lifted fountains of earth all around him.
The boy lifted his right arm, sighting through the Y of the catapult as it rose. The ragged scars of his cheek creased as he grimaced in concentration. From between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand he squeezed a small round stone and fitted it carefully into the sling. Jon watched with rapt attention as the elastic tugged the prongs of the weapon back. The boy's fingers tightened on the shaft, his thumb forcing it forward in compensation. Breathing ceased; there was only the sound of rooks disputing in the beeches above. From deep inside his chest, pushing up against his ribs, Jon felt the heat of a gathering cry. He ground his teeth together and thrust his jaw forward to lock in the sound. His nails dug hard into the fleshy base of his thumbs and his tongue rose in his mouth, cleaving to his palate. He felt nauseous with tension.
A pigeon crashed out of the treetops and away across the wood, its wings whooping. The fox shrunk back into the shelter of the bracken, its ears flattening. The rabbits vanished. Swearing, the boy dropped his arm and sunk back onto his haunches. There was a protracted silence, an unravelling of tension. Jon turned towards the boy, relief bubbling in his throat; he wanted to laugh and a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. The boy struck him hard on his upper arm with his elbow and nodded brusquely towards the bank. Once again the tapered nose tested the air; a delicate forepaw was lifted, limp‑wristed, tentative. Rabbits darted from their holes, their movements spasmodic and electric. The fox inched forward, visible only as an elision of slow movement against the browning bracken around it. Jon rested his hand on his thigh. Beneath his sweaty palm the muscles bunched in agony. He glanced at the boy. Leaning forward, eyes fixed again on the fox, his concentration total, he seemed a human parody of the stalking predator yards away. As the fox moved, hypnotically slowly, like a creature in a dream, the boy raised his arm and sighted the catapult as before. Equally slowly the boy pulled back on the elastic, freezing as the fox froze. HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHe swallowed once, noisily.
At the very moment of the stone's release the tangled sound trapped within Jon's throat burst free in a half‑strangled shout. The stone struck the animal on its folded thigh, poised to throw it forward. Instead all four compressed limbs snapped open, thrusting downwards, hurling the fox straight into the air. For a suspended minute all was photographically still: the fox seemed pinned to a flat backcloth of green and gold; the rabbits seemed embedded like pebbles in the bank. Then, within two blinks of sweat‑filled eyes, the tableau disintegrated. Soundlessly the rabbits flashed brief white and then vanished and the fox dissolved into the curled undergrowth leaving silence and stillness behind.
Jon fell back onto his buttocks. He pushed his throbbing legs into the greenery with a groan of ecstatic relief. Twisting the stiffness out of his neck, he peered up at the figure beside him, now staring ruminatively at the bank.
"Phew!" laughed Jon. "You got him. Jolly well done".
The boy turned his head without shifting position. His face was still, showing no trace of triumph.
"Ole fox", he grunted. "Been after our birds. ‘E ‘ad it comin’”. He replaced the catapult and rose to his feet, still watching the empty bank. He made no move to go. Jon was restless with excitement and he drew up his knees and hugged then, suddenly breezily confident with his taciturn companion.
"Well, I thought it was super", he said breathlessly. "A moment later he'd have been on them. He was only a foot or two away from that big grey one. Crikey, I mean he had no idea, did he? Just munching away with his tail in the air and that old fox only a floot behind him".
He jumped up and faced the boy, pushing his hands deep into his pockets. He kicked at the fibrous turn between them.
"Bit like in the War, really", he laughed. "All those rabbits, innocent and unprotected, and then the fox like Jerry, trying to sneak up and invade their country. Don't you think?"
The boy looked away and sniffed, unresponsive, but he still made no move to leave the clearing. Jon blushed, suddenly self-conscious again in the silence. Once more he was vibrantly aware of the breathing of the wood about him. The young Gypsy seemed so much an element of the green and brown neutrality all around, alive, active but uninvolved.
"Anyway", muttered Jon lamely, "it was awfully well done, I thought. Saving the rabbits".
Suddenly the Gypsy boy leered lopsidedly, his scarred cheek stiff against the grin.
"Oil bet you can't spit as far as that tree there", he growled in his deep voice. "Without movin' from `ere".
(Continued)
11:40:42 PM 
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