The Red Road (33 page)

“Want to go into town?” he
asked. “We could go to Burger King for lunch, and then go to the
cinema to see
Wayne’s World
.”

“Sounds good,” I said, watching
as my father made his way into the kitchen to talk things through
with my mother. I should be revising, but it was probably best that I
disappeared out of the house for a few hours. “I’ll see you there
in an hour.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

T
he
return to St Christopher’s for the summer term was quite chaotic.
When I had been in the first and second years, as well as the junior
school, I would always return to the same dormitory in the spring and
summer terms, only moving to a new one in the autumn.

Now in the third year and being
charged with looking after a dormitory, I had to move to a new one
each term. The extremely short five-day Easter holiday meant that no
one packed away their clothes and personal possessions, and the third
years left it until the day of their return to rotate their beds.
Boys were therefore walking up and down corridors, waiting for those
that were occupying their new dormitories to move their things out.
The person waiting on their place would also be forced to wait, and
so on. Apparently, this was what being in the chain to buy a house
was like. It only took one person to dally or screw up, and the
entire thing could end up collapsing.

As I had known, I would be looking
after a second year dormitory this term. They were a great deal less
submissive than the first years I had looked after in the autumn,
growing a good deal more confident as they saw themselves soon to
progress to becoming third years themselves. I knew that they would
pay me little attention and not respect my authority a great deal,
and so I chose to pre-empt such things by not bothering in the first
place. I had only twelve weeks to survive in this term, shorter if
you considered that my GCSEs would be done within ten weeks, and I
could in fact leave the school at that point.

Anthony Simmons was the other
prefect in my dorm. I had expected him to complain about having to
share with me two terms running, but he was strangely sedate, waving
to me as I came in and saying hello. I wondered if he was remembering
the night I had stood over his bed during my sleepwalking and had
decided to play it safe and be nice to me.

“Did you get much revision done?”
he asked, as he was setting up his stereo.

“Some,” I said. “But it was
more like being home for a weekend than a proper holiday. I finished
all my remaining coursework, though.”

“It will be good next year when we
get our own rooms and don’t have to keep moving all our stuff
around. Don’t you think?” he asked when I didn’t respond.

“I won’t be here next term,” I
announced to him.

“What?” he said, stopping what
he was doing and looking up at me. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m going to
do my A-Levels somewhere else.”

“Shit,” he said, coming around
to my side of the dorm. “When did you decide that?”

“Just over the holiday,” I said.

“Was it your decision or ...?”

“Mine and my dad’s. He thinks
I’ve been here long enough and that I should go and do my A-Levels
somewhere else,” I told him, being somewhat economical with the
truth.

“So, you’re not going to be here
next term at all?” he repeated, looking a little shocked.

“Nope.”

Though Simmons was part of the
Clique, and I hadn’t had too much to do with him in recent years,
other than the odd conversation here and there, I had known him since
the junior school. He probably felt as though a small connection to
that place had just abandoned him.

The dormitory door opened and in
walked Charlie Smith. “Alright, Ant?” he said.

“Hey, Charlie, Joe’s leaving,”
Simmons said immediately.

“What? When? Now?” Smith said.

“No, not now,” I said. “At the
end of term, when I’ve done my GCSEs.”

“You’re not staying to do your
A-Levels?”

“No,” I said.

“Why?”

“Just because,” I shrugged. “I’m
going to do them somewhere else.”

That was largely how the
conversations ran from there on out. The Clique reacted in shock to
the news, almost as if I had just declared that it wasn’t cool to
remain at St Christopher’s. Baz, having already confessed to me
that he had plans to depart, was the easiest to talk to about it,
being on exactly the same wavelength as me.

“Have you heard from Sam at all?”
he asked me as I sat in his dorm.

“No,” I said, somewhat bitterly.
I wondered what had happened to him. Since leaving, he had not
contacted me at all. He hadn’t called, written a letter or
anything. I began to wonder if he was okay. I had tried to call his
home in Texas a number of times, but no one had ever picked up.

“I’m sure he’s okay. He’s
probably just busy,” Baz said. “Maybe he lost your address.”

That would be the most reasonable
explanation. I found it hard to believe that Sam would simply cut off
all contact with me once he left the country.

“In that case, hopefully he’ll
find it soon and let me know what’s happening with him back home.
I’ll have to tell him that I’m not staying here, too. Have you
finished all your coursework?”

“I’ve got a bit left,” he
said. “But I’ll get it finished soon. All our classes are now
dedicated to finishing that, revising and doing tests.”

“Do you know where you’re going
once you finish here?”

“To whatever sixth form college
will take me,” Baz shrugged.

“You don’t already know?” I
asked.

“Nope,” he laughed. “I’ll
just see where I end up.”

“A little blasé of you,” I
said.

“Well, keeps things interesting,
doesn’t it?” he said. He then looked around his bookshelf to a
first and second year, who had started arguing fiercely with one
another. “Oi! Cut that out!”

“But he’s just given my bed an
apple turnover!” the first year wailed, indicating the mattress and
sheets that were sitting the wrong way up on the bed.

Lucky he didn’t lamppost it
,
I thought. Those metal beds were rather heavy, so it often took two
boys to lift one. Only once had I ever heard of the Holy Grail of
lampposting - doing it to a bunk bed. That was impressive. Not so
much fun for the two boys that were later forced to right it, though,
I admitted.

“Daniels, fix his bed,” Baz
ordered.

“No,” Daniels, the second year,
said.

“Do you want me to give you five
hundred lines?”

“Oh, come on,” Daniels said,
preparing to leave the dorm. “I was just messing about.”

“You could go on the
Murga List
instead, if you like?”

Daniels hesitated in reaching for
the door handle, and then turned around and reluctantly started to
help the first year to flip his mattress back over and tidy up the
sheets.

“And you know what,” Baz said,
looking to me, “anywhere is better than here.”

~ ~ ~

Along with an end to classes and the
start of revision, the summer term also brought with it copious
amounts of hot weather, which we were all glad for following the cold
we had suffered through. The summer also meant that the rugby and
football seasons ended, and we were encouraged to start playing St
Christopher’s other favourite sport – cricket.

“I’ve hated that sport every
since I was ten,” I told Rory, as we made our way to the athletics
field, watching the other boys practising in the nets.

“Since you were
ten
?”
Rory said.

“Yep,” I said.

“Why?”

“Don’t you remember? I’m sure
you were there,” I said. Rory shrugged. I then remembered. “No,
wait. That’s right – you came the year after, since I did my
first year twice.”

“So, what happened?” Rory asked.

It had been six years ago, and my
memory of my time spent in the junior school, especially of that
first year, was quite hazy if I was being honest with myself. Even
so, I remembered my first experience of cricket as clear as day.

In the summer term of my first year
at the school, myself and all the other first year junior boys were
taken down to the cricket fields. Mr Styles, the cricket coach,
demonstrated the idea behind the game, explaining the rules and
telling us how we should hold the bat, where to stand, how to stand,
and the various different strokes. He was very keen on
forward
defence
and told us that this was what we should always play in
times of uncertainty. We watched quietly as he picked two boys,
showed them how to put on their pads and bowled a few test balls to
them.

Assured that we now understood the
game, he divided us into two teams – one to field, and the
other to bat. I was put in the team to bat, the batting order
declared as reverse alphabetical. It meant that I was third from
last. Not to worry, I thought, I would get a go soon enough. I
settled down to watch from the side as the game went on.

And on, and on, and on, and on, and
on, and on, and on, and on. It was the most boring hour and a half of
my life, sitting there by the side. You have to understand – I was
ten years old, full of energy and with wide-eyed wonder at the world,
wanting to explore new things, interested in everything that
happened, and keen to see the results as soon as possible. Sitting
around, watching others enjoying themselves was therefore not my idea
of fun. Cricket was a team game, I had been told. I couldn’t quite
see how when eighty percent of the team sat about doing nothing
except pulling up the grass and trying to find ways of entertaining
themselves (and with the sports teacher telling them to be quiet
whenever they were talking). It was more like a punishment than a fun
sporting activity.

The batsmen were gradually whittled
down, until it came close to my turn. By this time, it was three
fifteen p.m. Afternoon tea would be served at half three, classes
resuming at four. Things would probably have to speed up if we were
going to get back to the school in time. I pulled on my pads, picked
up a bat, and took my place in front of the wickets. I was careful
about where I put the bat and how I would swing it, as I had already
witnessed a couple of the boys knocking the bails off as they flailed
about while attempting to strike the incoming ball. Not that it had
made a difference to Mr Styles, who simply told them to replace the
bails and carry on.

As with everyone else, Mr Styles
took a short run up and then bowled a gentle ball to me. It was an
easy one to handle, yet I found myself panicking as it came towards
me. I lifted the bat as it bounced, not swinging it, but holding it
in front of me, deflecting the ball high into the air, where it
drifted almost gracefully towards Mr Styles, who watched the ball
come down and caught it smartly.

“Out,” he said.

I stood there looking at him, not
quite sure of what I had just heard. “What?” I asked.

“Out,” the cricket coach said.

“But that was my first go,” I
protested.

“You’re out, Crotty,” one of
the second year boys who had been watching from the other crease
called out. “It’s Pete’s go.”

“Sir?” I started. “Can’t I
have another go?”

“No,” the teacher said, tapping
his watch and gesturing for me to return to my place. “We’re
running late as it is.”

“But—” I sniffed, starting to
well up.

“You’re out, Crotty!” some of
the other second years joined in the jeers.

I ignored them, looking to my
team-mates through blurry eyes as the tears warped my vision, seeing
Peter Barnet strapping his pads on eagerly and snatching up a bat. I
looked pleadingly back to Mr Styles, but he only came forward, put
his arm around my shoulder and walked me back to my place on the
bench.

“It’s not fair!” I blubbed.

“It’s just the way the game
goes,” the cricket coach said. “Sometimes you can be in bat for
hours, sometimes just minutes.”

“But I wanted another go! I
haven’t played this before!”

“You’ll do better next time,
Joe,” Mr Styles said. “And we need to keep going if everyone is
going to get a turn.”

The game went on for another thirty
minutes, cutting into class time, and Peter Barnet never went out. We
were even scolded by the junior school’s history teacher, who told
us that those who weren’t playing should have returned and washed
and dressed immediately. The following Saturday we swapped teams, my
side fielding as the others batted. I stood on the field for close to
two hours, and the ball never came my way once.

I often looked back on that first
ever time in bat, imagining that it might be rather like how I
expected losing my virginity might be. Except not nearly as
disappointing, not over quite so quickly, and not without the desire
to ever do it again. Sadly, I was forced to endure the sport for
another five more years.

“Really?” Rory said, looking
quite stunned as I finished my story.

“No word of a lie,” I said. “And
that’s why I absolutely hate cricket and swapped to athletics and
swimming, instead. The only downside is that we have to put up with
Mr Bertrand whenever he’s taking it.”

“Which is probably today,” Rory
said.

Damn
, I thought. Still, this
might present an opportunity for me to exploit. If I could somehow
schmooze my way into the French teacher’s good books by means of
promising athletic ability, some well-timed jokes and helpfulness
throughout the afternoons, then it could help my GCSE result. Should
I find him taking my French oral in the real thing, as I had during
the mocks, then he might be a little more lenient and forgiving when
speaking and not be so rude. But then again, maybe not. After all, I
reminded myself, he
was
French.

“Why are you doing athletics,
anyway?” I asked. I tried not to make it obvious that I didn’t
exactly consider Rory the athletic type. He was quite chubby, and
running any real distance tended to turn his face as red as a tomato.