A Pure and Honest Heart
by Zambezi
Chapter Three
Brad enjoyed Saturday mornings, particularly when the afternoon would bring a rugby match against Trinity's biggest rivals, Woodlands School. Trinity had lost the fixtures, home and away, for the previous seven years and the whole squad felt they had been cheated by foul play at Woodlands on the Saturday of half term, over a month before. As Brad leapt out of bed that morning, not even registering the early December ice which had formed inside his window, he felt the sweet scent of revenge in the air. They had only just lost; with home advantage and several key players recovered from injury the team thought they were in with a chance for the return game.
The long term had taken its toll on the boys in the House. Whereas in the first couple of weeks Brad could expect to encounter perhaps fifteen or twenty other early risers in the showers before 7am, when he went at his habitual 6.40am the place was deserted, most of his school-weary peers now preferring the extra few minutes in bed. Tony joined him a couple of minutes later. "Don't worry - it might never happen," Brad offered, consolingly. Tony never looked better than death warmed up in the morning, and muttered an expletive back.
"It's only two weeks until the Christmas hols now, isn't it?" Tony enquired, knowing Brad would have memorised the school calendar back in September. "I can't wait - I've never felt so knackered in my life."
"Wimp. And, you don't even have to play fly half this afternoon, nor centre-half in next week's hockey game."
"Christ man, I don't know where you find the energy." Tony was not really a sportsman by Zimbabwean standards, although he was actually a half-decent player at everything he tried. He was always more of a scholar.
"Neither do I sometimes. I'm around all evening doing the evening duty which my prefects - present company excepted - can't be bothered to do properly. Then I'm up half the night doing the homework I should have been doing earlier. I sit through classes with the proverbial match sticks propping up my eyelids, and then I'm expected to turn in match-winning performances on the rugger field. You know, I sometimes wonder if it's all worth it just to - maybe - get a place at Oxford. The Christmas break is enough to get me through 'till March, and then another three weeks' break will see me through the exams. Or so the theory goes. If I have a minor catastrophe like a couple of days in bed with 'flu, I'm finished. It's not easy putting on a show to keep everyone thinking I can go on forever. I usually do, I know, but it feels bloody lonely when every other bugger around has given up. They haven't so much at stake - they know if they screw up then Daddy will still take care of them."
Brad looked at his ten year old Casio watch, but the screen was dead. "Fuck. I have saved a total of twenty quid for a new watch. I need forty times that to pay for the Omega I want and we just don't create that kind of money. Are these things cheap in Zim?" Next, Brad studied the empty shampoo bottle he hadn't had time to replace. "Shit."
Tony offered his own bottle, then announced that he was heading back to Bulawayo to escape another dismal British winter. "What about you? Any plans?" He knew Brad would scowl back, with no attempt to hide his jealousy. Tony knew him better than that.
December mornings were wonderful when they were fresh and clear with a crisp frost in the air. When they emerged through the struggling dawn to be gloomy and drizzly, they were not so nice, even if that meant being slightly warmer. Brad noticed the ice on his bedsit window and figured that a front must have swept in late on. He quickly changed, and headed for breakfast.
All through the morning there was a buzz of expectancy through the school. The match was going to be big, and as the day progressed so did the belief that Trinity would finally beat their arch-rivals.
On match days the team always ate lunch together, even before home fixtures. It promoted a stronger team spirit. Brad sat down next to Nathan Gregory, back in the team after recovering from a broken finger. "And the big question today: will it hold together?" Brad asked, not entirely sarcastically.
"Not if I punch the daylights out of the bastard who did it to me in the first place." Nathan was one of the ones looking for blood.
"Now, now, my impatient friend. We'll play like the gentlemen we aspire to be," Brad sniggered. "I tell you what." He was suddenly serious. "Usually I'm happy to eat with the whole team before a game. Today it's making me nervous," he admitted, observing that the normally lewd pre-match banter had been replaced by virtual silence. Most of the players picked at their food, the weight of the expectations heaped upon them clearly visible. The rest of the school had had its games practice cancelled so they could watch and support the team. "Let's try and cut the ice." Some enterprising cook had dubbed today's lunchtime slop 'chicken chop suey', which seemed rather fanciful for something that could just about be eaten by slurping direct from a mug. Brad suddenly started shovelling food noisily into his mouth like a cartoon character might, his hands in front of him a blur as he devoured the entire plateful in seconds. He let out a long satisfying belch, then looked obviously, rudely, at all the other plates up and down the table. He put on the phoney New York accent that Zach, last year's US exchange pupil, had coached into him. "Aren't any of you hungry? Can I have yours?" On a normal day, this would have had everyone roaring with laughter, Brad figured. Not today, it didn't. He was losing his touch - a bad omen.
Ninety minutes later, Brad was practising on the field with the other backs, just as the Woodlands team arrived. They were all enormous - even the shortest one towered several inches over Brad. One appeared to have a fully grown beard. Nathan leant into Brad's ear and whispered, "Don't we have rules about over-age players? Or have they actually fielded a team of apes?"
"Baboons, methinks. Yes, look - that one has a patch on his arse." Brad didn't often show fear in his voice, and his attempt at defusing the tension with humour failed again. It was raining, but only in a light drizzle again. The wind had picked up though. He was suddenly glad he had been to the bathroom before coming down to the pitch.
Sure enough by half time Trinity were four tries down, one of which had been converted to make it 0-22. Brad could console himself that he could have kicked the other three blindfolded. They huddled around in conference, complaining that the opposition were all too big, too strong, and too fast. "It's no use. We'd have better luck farting against thunder," claimed one.
"I'll give it a go next time it's beans!" quipped Brad. Blood dripping from a gash above his eye, he had tried to attract the referee's attention to an illegal pair of studs, but had been warned to back off. The humour almost failed a third time. He rescued it: "Look guys, I don't mind losing to good teams. I don't even mind losing to cheats and bad referees, but I'm not willing to lose to a man with a beard, at least not until I can grow one myself." The other guys in the group broke into laughter, some slapping him on the back. "This game is not over - there are two halves, you know, and no law to suggest that we can't score as many points in this as they have just now. You guys have given up already - you're pathetic." His derogatory remarks always sounded charming. It seemed to spur the group into action.
Within ten minutes, Trinity had clawed two tries back. Brad converted them both - one with each foot as they were at either side of the field - to make it 14-22. Minutes later, refereeing decisions started going their way, too: Brad kicked two penalties to make the score a more respectable 20-22. He ran through the formation to his kick-off position, a huge I-told-you-so-grin on his face. The crowd loved it, suddenly spurred into life by the prospect of a rare victory against the old enemy.
An eternity then seemed to pass during which time Trinity almost gave away several tries, saved on each occasion by last-ditch tackles from weary bodies. Woodlands then missed a penalty kick. Moments later, from a defensive lineout a few meters from the Woodlands try line, Brad glanced at the newly installed digital timer on the scoreboard. It showed three minutes remaining in the game. The ball dropped to the blind side. Nathan, on the wing, swooped onto it without looking and suddenly realised he was about to be flattened by four large forwards. Panicking, he passed the ball one-handed to a stationary Brad, who with no player behind him was in turn suddenly facing annihilation by the bearded one and his henchmen. He swivelled to get a better view of the goal posts. From the angle, his left foot - the stronger one anyway - would be better for the drop goal, but the rapidly advancing baboons left him no time to shift his weight. He struck it with his right, before being upended and sprawled over the touchline. He opened his eyes in time to see the ball come to a virtual standstill as it hit the far upright. In what seemed like agonising slow motion for the hundreds of boys gawping at the side of the pitch, not to mention the 30 players on it, the ball bounced down and teetered on the crossbar before finally falling to the ground. The whistle blew: 23-22 to Trinity, and the boys at the side of the field erupted into cheers.
Woodlands were having none of it. They raced back to the centre line to kick off again, doing so just as Brad limped back into his own half. Sixty seconds of frantic scrambling followed until the ball emerged from a ruck and was punted up the field by Woodlands. Brad was in exactly the right position after having moved to full back to help defend the final few seconds, but he was tired, sore from the tackle, and still trembling from the anxiety of the drop goal. The ball, very high, swirled in the wind, just as Brad suddenly became aware of blood running into his eye again. As it came down, slippery with mud and rain, it seemed to pass right through his hands, arms, and body. The bearded wonder got a lucky bounce and scooped it up in a single, smooth motion - not even slowing down - before he fell over the try line to put Woodlands back into a four point lead. The final whistle blew moments later, the three seconds it took turning Brad from legendary hero into campus pariah. He slumped to the ground, face in his hands. No one heard him whimper "sorry". No one wanted to.
It was more than an hour before Brad moved from that kneeling position, raising his head to make sure he was alone. It was dark. He knew he'd be persona non grata at the post match refreshments, and he just wanted to be alone. He ran the whole game over and over again: the hopeless half time position; his pep-talk then; his thirteen points in the second half - more than any individual on either team; being only seconds away from a famous victory all due to his efforts. He hated being constantly referred to as the team's one real match-winner; now, his one mistake in the whole ten weeks of the season would label him the match-loser for ever. Schoolboys, he knew, could be very cruel. It just wasn't fair.
"It's not fair, is it?" echoed a soft voice.
He was not alone after all. Unable to gauge the direction of the voice in the gathering winter squall, he stood up swiftly and turned around. The voice's owner was right behind him, soaked to the skin through his uniform coat.
"Young! What the hell are you...." Brad's voice trailed off, part angry that his private agony was being invaded, part glad to have company that wasn't baying for his hide. It would be in short supply.
"I saw you left there on your own after the team hit the showers. I didn't want you to feel that everyone had turned their back on you. My memory's a bit better than theirs."
"Uh?"
"I haven't forgotten that you nearly won the match as well. The drop goal was the best shot I've ever seen. You should be very proud of your performance - you certainly don't deserve to be treated like that." The boy's voice was full of sincerity.
"Thanks," Brad replied, suddenly humbled by the kid's kindness. "We'd better get indoors before you freeze to death."
"OK. I have your tracksuit here." The boy held up a carrier bag as they started walking back towards the school buildings together.
"Thanks, Young."
"Brad?"
"Yuh?"
"My name's Richard, although I prefer Richie." From any other junior, it would have been unthinkably cocky. This, however, felt perfectly natural.
His head starting to spin from suddenly getting up, Brad momentarily forgot where he was. "Richard?" echoed the older teen. Brad held out his hand, still not all there. "I'm Brad"
"Nice to meet you Brad, at long last," Richard smiled. "I've heard a lot about you."
Gradually coming to his senses again, Brad saw the trap, too late. He smiled himself as he turned his head to get a look at his companion. The look in his eyes which had for the previous three months cried out for attention had vanished from Richard's eyes. The younger boy was now completely at ease, walking alongside his House Captain, just the two of them surrounded by playing fields as far as the eye went. It was at that point that Brad also realised that any other junior would be crapping enough bricks to build a modest-sized house. It took Brad aback a bit. Most beatings, after all, had no witnesses. For his part, Brad always felt ill-at-ease when alone with juniors. There was no telling what they might accuse you of, he remembered, but strangely, he also knew he was completely safe right then with Richard. They walked in silence all the way back to the school campus.
Brad and Tony sat at their table throughout dinner that evening. No one joined them. Now it was Brad's turn to pick at his food, while his friend tried to inject a bit of humour into the experience. Tony's knock-knock jokes went down like lead balloons.
"I don't get it." Brad was in his very pensive mode again. "I've never dropped a ball like that in my life. And on the one occasion when it really matters, I bloody fluff it! I'll be a marked man for ever now."
"Don't be so damn stupid, Brad. It was only a game. It may have been a pretty important game, but so what? It's not as if anyone's dead or anything."
"Yet." Brad was smiling weakly.
"OK, so I'd stay away from the bar tonight. But trust me, they'll have forgotten by next week, and so will you."
"I doubt I'll ever forget today." Brad put on his best quizzical smile.
"Until you lose the next game in the dying moments, maybe not. But you'll get your chance at redemption soon. There's still the hockey, football, and cricket seasons to run through."
"I wasn't talking about some poxy sports match." He looked fiercely at his friend. The subject was over. "See you upstairs?"
"Nah, I'm off to the bar. Spencer promised me a game of snooker." Tony then realised he had just sentenced his friend to an evening in no-man's land.
"Great. An evening with Brad beckons." Brad didn't sound happy. "I'll be able to cover another badly-done evening duty."
"Most people think you deserve it!" That remark earned Tony an eyeful of mashed potato. Brad got up.
"I'll see you around." He headed off to his study-bedroom.
Brad always tried to find the positive side in a piece of bad luck. It was one of his ways of showing a little optimism when the chips were down, and it had often enabled him to catch his detractors off guard. His incredible failure to hold onto a falling rugby ball that afternoon would place his name in infamy as long as he lived, without any shadow of a doubt. Two minutes from time, the rest of the school were expecting Trinity to win. His mistake cost the match.
Brad had never been one to duck his responsibilities, and had already drafted, in his mind, the wording of an apology to the coach and the Headmaster. He figured that would have to do them. The worst that could happen was for him to be dropped from the squad, and even that didn't matter because it had been the last game of the season - his last at the school as it happened. It didn't take long for him to find the positive angle on the day's events. He knew he'd be cold-shouldered out of the Sixth Form bar which opened every Saturday evening for him and his classmates. It wasn't a brilliant bar, but it was a way of unwinding after a long week and it was usually funny to watch the fate of the poor bugger who overdid it every week. Brad found drunkenness amusing.
The best thing that could have happened to Brad that day was a reasonable excuse to keep him out of the bar, and his cock-up had done just that. He now had a whole extra four hours to catch up on his French literature and his Economics, which he had neglected somewhat in the previous fortnight or so. He sat down, selected a disc of opera arias and duets which had been given to him by his Mum the Christmas before, and pulled a file from the shelf.
Brad was always at his best when under pressure. Not only did the work flow from his wrist more quickly, but it was usually better too. He expected things to run smoothly again, and for a while it did. Ionescu's Rhinocéros was hardly the kind of thing to get the blood running in his brain, but the comprehension exercise proved fairly painless.
He was in full flight until the CD player jumped, breaking his concentration. No matter which track he selected, the damn thing just would not settle down, and there weren't even any signs of muck on the disc. He took it out and replaced it with another. Then there was a knock on the door. If Brad knew his fellow Trinity pupils, that meant he had about one and a half seconds to get out of the door's way before it flew open at light speed, courtesy of a size eleven boot. Brad apparently did not know his fellow pupils: nothing happened. The knock was repeated.
Only Mr Stephens ever waited for a response before entering, and it wasn't his knock. "Come in," Brad called, puzzled. Slowly the door swung open. It was Richard. "Come in," he repeated, beckoning in this Third Former who had no reason at all to be entering his room ever, let alone on a Saturday night. The trouble was in the eyes again. Almost instinctively Brad asked, "What's on your mind? You haven't come to check up on me, have you?"
"Not really." Richard let out a sigh of relief. He had, after all, just walked the entire length of the Sixth Form corridor, and survived unscathed. "I just didn't particularly want to hang out with the others this evening. Mind if I stop here for a while?"
"Be my guest," replied Brad, nodding at the bed. "You'll have to clear some of those papers."
Richard began to clear a space to sit down on the bed. All the beds in Trinity were built into the room at the same height as the built in desks, to accommodate a set of deep drawers underneath. "You're a slob, you know."
Brad was continually amazed at the confidence this shy boy showed in front of him. "You sound like my mother. And don't be so cheeky." The last warning sounded like the afterthought it was; he didn't really mind. He was pleasantly surprised that Richard felt comfortable with him, despite his usually putting on a grumpy exterior in front of the juniors. Brad turned back to his work, holding that morning's newspaper over his shoulder. "Read this, if you're bored."
"Maybe I'll just listen to your music. What is it?"
"Soundtrack to Empire of the Sun. It's one of my favourite films."
"Never seen it."
The first track is a Welsh lullaby called Suo Gan. It's something my Mum used to sing me to sleep with when I was little."
"What's the film about?"
"I'll tell you about it sometime, but I really need to concentrate on my homework now."
"OK, sorry."
An hour of silence accompanied by Suo Gan and John Williams followed, punctuated only by the occasional turning of a page or click of a ring binder file. Brad finally looked up, closed his text book, swivelled his chair around and announced that he'd like to crucify whichever joker thought that Keynesian economics was suitable for A level study.
Richard put down the newspaper and pointed out that being only thirteen years old he didn't really understand what that meant. Brad started on the life history of John Maynard Keynes before his common sense got the better of him. "You didn't really come here for an economics lesson, did you? Why don't you want to hang around with the others tonight?"
"Since I joined the choir they think I'm a loser - as if I can make my voice break just like that! In any case, I have a bit of a problem, and didn't really feel like sharing it with any of them." Richard's eyes suddenly tensed up again.
"And you wanted to talk about it with me?" Brad asked, pre-empting the boy's next statement.
"I asked Stephens - sorry, Mr Stephens - who else knew about my family situation. You're the only one, and I already knew that you are just about the only person in this House who has a conscience I can trust. Plus, I feel safe with you. I know you're not going to bite my head off, and I know you're certainly not going to go and share my secrets with the rest of the world. The thing is, I have a decision to make, and I can't choose-"
"Which of your parents to spend Christmas with," Brad interrupted. It was Richard's turn to be surprised. "And don't worry: it's a fairly open secret that I was quite a bit older than you when my own voice broke. If you look, you'll see I still have no facial hair. Take it from me, they'll have forgotten about it in no time at all. By the way, both your parents told Mr Stephens separately that they thought you were okay with the divorce."
"Well, I'm not right now. They've always maintained that I'd never have to choose between them, and right now I feel like that's exactly what I have to do." Richard sounded annoyed. Brad had concluded weeks before that Richard Young had no emotions: he had certainly never showed any. The younger teenager explained what each parent had offered him by way of enticement, and how he felt even worse as an only child. "What would you do, Brad?"
"If you really came to me because you valued my conscience, then you know full well that that very conscience prevents me from giving you a ready-made instant answer. Sure, I can help you evaluate each of your options, and I can perhaps help you think up a few more. But I will not tell you what I would do. I think you already know that, and what you came to hear was that you really did have to sort this one out for yourself. As you get older, you'll realise that you have to make your own decisions - tough ones - about yourself, your future, and the effects that those decisions will have on others, whether directly or indirectly. Having someone else make the choice for you only allows you to pin the blame on them if it goes pear-shaped. If I allowed you to grow up thinking that you could evade your responsibilities in that way, I wouldn't be meeting my own. If whatever happened out on the rugby field after today's match was anything to go by, I think that you have a very strong conscience as well, which should make my position all the more clear."
"I figured you'd say that - you're absolutely right. I guess I was just looking for an easy way out." He sounded sheepish, and still disappointed.
"Whatever happens, I can tell you that in a situation like this, where there is no obvious answer, you mustn't let hindsight cut you up about making the wrong choice. You can still hold your head up in front of people who understand. As for those who you might feel ashamed in front of, then I suggest that their opinions don't really count."
Brad got up from the chair and moved over to the bed to sit next to Richard, who looked up at Brad with an innocent charm that didn't fully conceal the emotional turmoil he was suffering. There was a hint of a tear in his eyes. As Brad plonked himself down next to the younger boy, letting out a exhausted sigh, he involuntarily found his hand moving up Richard's back until his arm was draped over his shoulders. Almost instantaneously, the boy's head fell over to rest on his House Captain's shoulder. He was crying.
The two sat there, motionless, for what seemed like hours. Brad had no idea what to say, but whatever great force there was controlling his actions right then did. He was vaguely aware that he was speaking, but it felt like he was listening to a conversation from another planet. "Richie," he started to say gently into the boy's hair, "I want you to know that whatever happens, you can come and talk to me, at any time, about anything at all. I'll be here for you, I promise. You understand that?"
"Yeah. Thanks." The crying had stopped. As Richard brought up his sleeve to wipe his eyes, he glanced at his watch. "I guess I'd better get back to my dorm before we're both in trouble." It was nearly eleven o'clock, an hour after Third Form lights out.
"Jesus. Don't worry, I'll walk upstairs with you. Just go along with me, understand?" Brad waited for his charge to nod, then headed out of the door.
A minute later, they reached Richard's dorm. Brad placed a firm hand on the shoulder opposite him, whispering, "Time to face the music in there. About Christmas, I'm sure you'll make the right choice. Now, you'd better get some sleep. Goodnight." He opened the door, and then violently shoved his new friend through it. "And don't let me catch you snooping around the back of the science labs at this time of night again!" he shouted with convincing anger. A chorus of sarcastic cheering responded from the darkened room. "Shut up!" he cried back as he closed the door before walking away, deep in thought.
He arrived back in his room and went straight to the hi-fi, still annoyed that it was jumping when he had last tried it several hours before. He switched it to the radio, just in time for the presenter to announce the end of the evening concert. "Hmm, I'm glad I listened to that," he muttered to himself, turning it back to CD mode. He closed his eyes, dug out another disc, and put it in the tray, pressing the random play button. A couple of bars of unfamiliar strings came until he identified scene 14 from The Nutcracker, the Pas-de-deux. Perfect music after a rotten, long, and exhausting day. His head was spinning. He turned back to his desk, opened the Maths book, and reached for his pen. It would be a long night, too.
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