The Heart of the Party

A short sample from my yet-to-be-published novel - a flashback to our hero’s schooldays…

Sherborne School’s playing fields hadn’t changed much in over a hundred years. In recent decades, the surrounding area had been built up: a 1970s housing development now crowded around the small, terraced houses where once sheep had grazed. What had been an agricultural track now thronged with the whirr of vehicles heading in and out of the small market town. Yet within an acre and a half of prime real estate, tradition endured: the “Upper” stood as a testament to cricket and rugby’s hold on English public-school life. Some saw it as hallowed ground, engendering a hushed awe, a secret garden where the next generation of captains and directors were nurtured into bloom. These were the sons of the landed gentry, country doctors and the odd foreign prince, parents looking for a place to mould their progeny away from the limelight. It was somewhere that prized tradition, good sense and decency above all else. Ambition could wait. 

The half-time whistle chirruped. Sean Leigh trudged back towards the antique clubhouse, with its quaint clock tower and low-slung balcony, host to a smattering of parents and local dignitaries who were already beginning to retire to the gallery, where cups of tea and lemon drizzle cake were being served. Gilded boards cluttered the cosy room, displaying the initials and surnames of every team captain and scholar dating back to the 1860s – a reminder to the boys that they belonged to a long heritage of heroes. Sometimes, when he was filled with an adolescent yearning for the future, Sean longed to see S.E.H. Leigh etched alongside them.

Coach Davis patted him on the shoulder and bellowed at the others to get inside. The breeze drew a curtain of cloud across the sun as Sherborne’s captain, Thadeus Hillfield, led the team into the narrow changing room. They stood in a semi-circle, devouring their oranges in sweaty silence.

‘You’re on top! Good!’ Davis was saying, his voice sounding like weathered cowhide. ‘But let’s not get complacent. Three-tries-to-one isn’t a decisive lead.’ Davis turned to Thad. ‘You’ve got to start passing the ball out wide, lad. They’re on to you. That Number 7 is going to cut you down in the second half if you’re not careful. Sling it wide.’ Thad smirked. ‘Leigh, you’re doing great, but you’ve got to get to that flanker early, you hear me! Protect Thad.’ Sean felt all eyes briefly on him.

Soon they were running out for the second half. He saw her clapping, her chestnut hair fluttering as she bobbed up and down. She was between two other girls, two rows up. He watched as her eyes followed Thad. Thad, as he kicked off. Thad, as he rushed forward and made another searing run, his lip curled into a sneer oozing with cool arrogance. In that moment Thad was Achilles, electrified by the roar from a home crowd that began to sing his name. Sean caught a glimpse of a clenched jaw, sunlight illuminating a golden face as it tilted skywards, and then it was gone, lost under a blur of onrushing rugby jerseys.

Sherborne were running away with the game, but victory had never tasted so sour. Why play when it only made him sicker? Why go through all the rituals and the pain, the interminable laps, the back-breaking and lung-busting drills, only for her to look at another boy like that? And then there were the sycophants − damn it, the whole team were Thad loyalists, who looked down on him even as they looked up at him. Sean may have been younger, but he was taller, faster and stronger than all the other boys. And yet it was as if he were a mere serf in the land where Thad was king.

Sean told the voice in his head to go away, and as a wide-eyed teammate popped him the ball, it obeyed. Sean drove forward, bursting into open space, savouring the fear in the opposition’s eyes, revelling in his size and strength as he dashed across the line and touched down. She had seen it – how could she have missed it?

When he looked up, she was following Thad as he prepared for the conversion, stalking him with her eyes after the successful kick.Why look out for this peacock? The voice was back.

The ball spun in the air, wobbling in the wind, and the sky went dark again as another cloud was dragged across the sun. Sean caught the ball and sprinted forward, his heels hot with rage. Nothing or no-one was going to stop him, and seconds later he was touching down again under the posts. 

‘Easy, tiger,’ drawled Thad as Sean handed him the ball. 

She was watching him now. He heard a rumble of voices begin to sing in a low murmur. Sean Leigh! If living is without you! Sean Leigh! He can’t give any more! The ditty caught on, to the tune of the Nilsson classic − a schoolboy tease that had stuck since a supposed friend had heard the song on the radio, altered the lyric, and crooned it mercilessly for six weeks. Now the Upper choir was belting it out and Sean allowed himself a grin. Coach Davis was tapping his head with a gnarled index finger. Focus. Final ten minutes. 

He was underneath the oval ball again as it spun into his arms. He surged forward, a trail of “oppo” in his wake. He felt his teeth slicing through his mouthguard. The world swayed as he weaved one way and then another, cutting their defence to shreds. Twenty yards to go. One boy left to beat. He slowed, feigned, and then put on the afterburners, but the boy was tenacious, hanging on to Sean’s ankle as if his life depended on it. For several seconds, Sean dragged the clinging tyke closer to the try-line, but eventually the imp’s teammates were swarming around him like angry bees. He felt himself topple over like a siege tower. The ball was recycled backwards and, prone under a pile of bodies, Sean could only watch what happened next. 

Out of the ruck popped the ball, inexorably towards Thad. He imagined her eyes widening as Thad darted forward, as their Number 7 ducked his shoulder and the two boys collided. Everyone heard a whip crack, and then Thad was on the ground, screaming. A mere ten metres away, buried in the mud and grass, Thad’s face was contorted in agony.

Sean imagined the momentary confusion, then the silent shock on her face, and later he saw the tears falling down her cheeks. He saw the accusatory looks on the faces of his teammates’ parents, Coach Davis’s silent rage, the pale stares of the boys and girls standing in the bleachers. He witnessed the ambulance squeeze through the grand gates and drive onto the pitch. He watched the doctors bending over his captain; Thad’s breath as it clouded the face mask; a nurse carefully putting Thad’s crooked leg into a traction splint, his stretcher lifted into the ambulance before it drove away, sirens blaring, taking all of Thad’s terror and pain away from them. 

The referee gathered both teams and pedantically told them they would be playing the last ten minutes of the game. Sean noticed his opposite number whisper something to a colleague, a slight smirk appearing and then vanishing as he realised Sean was watching them.  

His huddled teammates were a scrum of eyes, all now looking to him. They were grim these boys, all thinking of revenge, but not quite willing or able to articulate it, let alone administer it. No-one spoke – that had been Thad’s role. They continued to look at the fair young boy, who already looked like a man.

‘We’ve got ten minutes,’ Sean stated, filling the silence. ‘Don’t think about scoring. Let him have the ball.’ A pause. ‘I’ll do the rest.’ The words came out in grey monotone.

He didn’t have to wait long. The only surprise was that the boy didn’t expect it. Sean saw his head jerk back; his eyes turn white. There was an unsettling stillness when he hit the ground, a shocked silence in the stand. Sean never saw the referee flourish the red card. He never saw parents restraining a livid father. He never saw the look on her face. He simply turned and walked off the pitch.