by Judy Nunn
‘How’s Hugh enjoying school?’ Amy, noticing her brother’s pensiveness, decided to change the subject in order to distract him.
‘Very much indeed.’ Reginald snapped himself out of his mood; there was no point in being maudlin. ‘And he’s an excellent student.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. He’ll be joined by his cousins soon. Wesley and Harold will be starting next term.’ Edwin Stanford-Balfour had enrolled his sons as boarders at the Hutchins School. ‘Harry will no doubt be in Hugh’s class as they’re near the same age,’ Amy said. ‘I think eleven is a bit young to be a boarder, but Edwin is not in the least concerned. He says Wesley will look after his little brother, and I must say for a boy who’s not yet thirteen Wesley is certainly a responsible child.’ Amy’s face clouded with concern: she doted on her grandsons. ‘I can’t help but worry though. Harry is still such a baby.’
‘I shall keep a close eye on them for you, Amy,’ Reginald promised. ‘They shall come around to tea regularly, and any weekends they wish to spend here with us, they are more than welcome.’
‘Why Reginald, how very kind of you.’ Amy was most surprised by the offer, her brother had never appeared to enjoy the company of children. ‘That would relieve me of all my worries – I really would be most grateful.’ She hoped he didn’t think she’d been hinting.
‘What else are families for?’ he said with a smile. ‘I shall look forward to becoming acquainted with the Stanford-Balfour boys.’
The prospect of the boys’ visits very much pleased Reginald, who always encouraged Hugh to bring his schoolfriends home. Indeed, the cook was instructed to keep up a regular supply of pasties and scones and cake for hungry little boys. Reginald was of the opinion that a social life with normal children would rescue Hugh from the damage that might result should he be left too much in the sole company of his brother.
‘I feel I should warn you,’ Amy said laconically, ‘that they’ll no longer be Stanford-Balfours.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Reginald’s look was blank.
‘Edwin asked me whether I’d mind if Wesley and Harold dropped the hyphen. He said they’d rather not have a double-barrelled name as the other boys at school might think they’re trying to be fancy. Darling Edwin,’ she said fondly, ‘he was so embarrassed when he asked me, I’m sure I’ve saddled the poor dear all these years with a name he can’t stand. I did it purely for Father’s sake, of course. It seemed the only way to continue the family name. And then lo and behold you came along,’ Amy gave her brother the brightest of smiles, ‘and what’s more you presented him with another two Stanford males . . .’
Another one, Reginald thought, only another one.
‘. . . so my good intentions proved quite unnecessary.’
‘Balfours or Stanford-Balfours, Amy, it doesn’t matter either way,’ Reginald said, ‘I shall look forward to the company of Wesley and Harold. Now let’s have a cup of tea, shall we?’ He signalled to the maid, who was passing with the tray.
Wes and Harry, as the Balfour brothers quickly became known at the Hutchins School, proved to be pleasant lads, although on their weekend visits to Stanford House, Reginald found them a little rustic. Hardly surprising, he supposed. Like their father and their father’s father, they were simple country boys, but they were highly respectful, their manners were acceptable enough, and most important of all they provided valuable company for Hugh.
He was interested to learn that the older boy, Wesley, was an accomplished athlete. Perhaps Hugh will gain inspiration from his cousin, Reginald thought. He certainly hoped so. A record of fine sportsmanship stood high on the agenda he had planned for his son.
‘Wes is playing footie above his grade, Father,’ Hugh said, ‘and it looks like he’ll be selected for the school seniors next year.’
Reginald had popped into the breakfast room next door to the kitchen where a casual lunch was served up to the boys on a Saturday. He made a habit of popping in to have a brief chat when the Balfour brothers were staying. He thought it only proper to show an interest.
‘Is that so, Wesley?’ He pulled a chair up beside the table, where all four boys were seated scoffing down the warm Cornish pasties cook had just delivered. He avoided looking at Rupert, whose face was covered in chutney.
‘Yes, sir.’ Wesley’s voice was muffled as he fought to reply without showing a mouthful of pasty. He always tried his hardest to observe his manners in front of Hugh’s father, whom he’d been told to call ‘Uncle Reginald’ – though ‘sir’ seemed to fit much better. At least Wes thought so. Harry, quick to follow his big brother’s example as usual, had also opted for ‘sir’ and, as neither of them had been corrected, Wes had presumed he must have hit upon a safe bet. It was strange really, because they were quite happy to call Hugh’s mother ‘Aunt Evelyn’. They liked Aunt Evelyn.
The Balfour boys were both a little overwhelmed by Stanford House and all it entailed. The family farmhouse at Pontville was big and spacious, but it was nowhere near as grand, and they didn’t have servants who waited on them, they had labourers who worked side by side with their father. They didn’t have a whopping great silver Rolls Royce either, much as they’d love to, although their father intended to buy a car soon. It was the way of the future, he said – they’d motor into town instead of catching the train. Things were done differently at Stanford House too. Dinner in the formal dining room on a Saturday night could be a daunting affair, what with wondering which fork or spoon to use. Wes had got it down to a fine art now though. He’d just follow Hugh’s lead and nudge Harry if he got it wrong.
‘The school seniors?’ Reginald queried. ‘But you’ll be only fourteen next year. That’s a very young age to be playing for the senior football team, surely.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Wes said again, very clearly now that he’d swallowed the mouthful of pasty. ‘But I don’t know for sure whether I’ll be selected,’ he added modestly.
‘You will be,’ Harry piped up: he was dead proud of his brother.
‘Wes’ll be the youngest footie player on the senior team, Father,’ Hugh said with equal pride. ‘Nobody gets to play for the firsts until they’re at least fifteen. That’s how good they reckon Wes is.’
Pleased though Reginald was that Wesley Balfour’s sporting prowess had made such an impression upon his son, he did wish Hugh would avoid the use of slang and diminutives. But he supposed he couldn’t blame the Balfours for that. Such bad habits were bound to be picked up at school. The young were so slovenly in their speech these days.
‘I’m most impressed, Wesley,’ he said, ‘well done.’ Thank goodness they can’t make a diminutive out of ‘Hugh’, he thought.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Wes replied, ‘fingers crossed though, I’m not on the team yet.’
Reginald stood, his duty done – he could play the jovial father for only so long. ‘What are you boys up to this afternoon?’
‘We’re going to the Domain to kick the footie around,’ Hugh said.
‘Jolly good. Perhaps tomorrow morning after church,’ he suggested casually, ‘we might all go for a little spin in the car. What do you say?’
Wes and Harry exchanged a look of sheer delight. They were lost in awe of the silver Rolls Royce. Hugh’s father had taken them for a ride in it once before and it had been the greatest thrill of their lives.
‘Oh yes, please sir,’ Wes said and Harry nodded furiously while Rupert bounced up and down in his seat braying.
‘Excellent.’ Reginald smiled. He enjoyed being popular with the boys. ‘We’ll set off around eleven o’clock. Wipe your mouth, Rupert, there’s a good lad.’
The following year, Wes Balfour was selected for the Hutchins School senior football team, and he was the youngest member on the side. Training began in earnest for the first inter-school game of the year, the annual grudge match to be played against St Joseph’s College in the autumn of 1910.
Also on the team were the Powell cousins, Gordon and David. Like the Balfours, they too wer
e boarders, and had been for several years. Gordie, who had never outlived his childhood nickname, was seventeen now and a giant of a lad. Standing over six feet tall and with a strong physique he was an invaluable full forward. Gordie Powell could mark over the heads of his opponents, and once he’d done so remain steady as a rock. With his hands locked around the football there was no moving Gordie, or the ball for that matter; he just stood there while others who’d gone for the mark careered into him and each other.
Gordie’s cousin, fifteen-year-old David Powell, lean and fit and fast, played in the ruck alongside Wes Balfour and the teamwork between the two was excellent. But of all the players, it was without doubt young Wes who was the prettiest to watch. Wes was an all-rounder. He was nimble. He could dodge and weave in spectacular fashion, his marks were dazzling, his goal kicking accurate and he could outrun anyone on the ground. When Wes had the ball none could catch him. The older boys had a great deal of respect for Wes Balfour’s skills and they’d very quickly dropped their initial jibes about playing footie with babies.
The big day dawned and the weather was perfect. At least it was perfect in the morning: one could only hope that it would remain so. Given Hobart’s unpredictable weather anything could happen.
The match, which was to be played at the Sandy Bay recreation oval, was scheduled for mid-afternoon on a Friday, and classes finished early, allowing time for those senior students wishing to attend the game to catch the tram. Virtually everyone was going. The sportsmaster and the team had departed a good hour or so earlier and were currently limbering up.
Harry Balfour was about to leave with the general exodus of boarders who had been herded into the courtyard by two of the teachers.
‘I’ll see you there, Harry,’ Hugh called as he headed for the main gates.
‘I’ll save a place for you both,’ Harry called back and he waved. Hugh was going home to collect Rupert.
By the time Hugh and Rupert arrived at the oval, the match was just about to start. The two had had a bit of a delay en route.
‘Where’s my scarf?’ Rupert had said, suddenly panic-stricken as they’d arrived at the tram stop. ‘Where’s my scarf? I haven’t got my scarf!’ They’d had to go back for it, of course. Rupert always wore Hugh’s school scarf at footie games: it made him one of the gang.
Hugh looked about the grassy perimeters of the oval. There was a good turn-out of supporters from both schools. Prominent on one side were the magenta and black of the Hutchins School and, on the other, the blue, white and gold of St Joseph’s College. Elsewhere, pockets of people were sprawled on the grass. A number of families had laid out picnic rugs and were set up for afternoon tea with Thermoses and sandwiches, proud parents and siblings of the team members, no doubt. The weather had remained kind and the atmosphere was festive.
Hugh saw Harry wildly beckoning from the sea of magenta and black, indicating that he’d saved them each a space, but out on the field the two teams were assembled and the umpire was about to blow the whistle: any second the ball would be bounced. Hugh didn’t want to disrupt the moment by wending his way through to Harry, so he waved back and pointed to the ground indicating they’d stay where they were. They’d join the others at quarter time, he decided.
‘We’ll sit here, Rupert,’ he said and Rupert plonked himself down on the grass, his eyes trained unwaveringly on the ball in the umpire’s hands.
The whistle sounded, the ball was bounced and the match was under way.
The centre clearance was carried out with clockwork precision by the Hutchins School team. The ruckman tapped the ball to David Powell who broke two tackles and swiftly passed to Wes Balfour, and then Wes was off like the wind. At the end of the field, big Gordie dodged his defender, and was in a perfect position to mark Wes’s kick, planting himself tree-like while other players charged into him. He lined up his kick, which was an easy one as he was right in front of goal, and the ball sailed square through the middle of the sticks.
The Hutchins School supporters went wild. They’d scored within just one minute.
Rupert sprang to his feet. Waving his scarf madly, he jumped up and down cheering at the top of his voice; his fourteen-year-old voice, now broken, carried a lot of power.
The ball returned to the centre.
‘Sit down, Rupert,’ Hugh instructed, as the teams gathered for the bounce.
Rupert immediately sat. He always obeyed Hugh’s instructions, knowing that he sometimes forgot when to be quiet.
The second goal proved just as easy. The centre clearance was again quick and faultless and within seconds Wes Balfour had the ball. This time, however, with two St Joseph’s defenders covering him, big Gordie Powell had trouble getting clear so Wes bounced the ball and kept running and, thirty yards out, he kicked for goal himself. The ball again went straight through the middle, and the Hutchins School supporters again went wild. The score was twelve points to nil within barely three minutes: it looked as if they might have the match sewn up right from the start.
But as it turned out they didn’t. The next clearance was not so easily won. The St Joseph’s centre man, having read the play between the opposing team’s ruck players, seemed to leap out of nowhere and the ball never reached Wes Balfour. The centre man tapped it to a team-mate who deftly hand-passed it back, and before anyone could respond he was sprinting for goal. A quick pass to another player as he was about to be tackled, a dodge and a weave to get clear, and the same centre man had the ball again. None could catch him, and his running kick for goal just ten yards out was an easy one. The score was now twelve points to six.
It was the St Joseph’s College supporters’ turn to go wild, and they did. They’d been waiting for this to happen. It appeared that, just like the Hutchins School, they had their own football hero.
The game didn’t continue as cleanly as it had started – there was fumbling and messy play on both sides – but the principal focus remained on two players, Wes Balfour and the St Joseph’s College centre man. Their all-round skills were so superior to those of their fellow team members that it seemed to become a personal contest between them.
Shortly before quarter time, two girls arrived and settled themselves on the sidelines not far from Hugh and Rupert. They spread a rug out on the grass and sat down to watch the game. They were wearing St Mary’s College uniforms and clearly barracking for the team from St Joseph’s. Hugh barely noticed them, but Rupert did.
Rupert lost all interest in the game once his eyes fixed on the girl to his left, not five feet away. She was seated a little further down the slope, slightly in front of them, and her face was only visible in an occasional profile as she followed the action of the ball, but he wasn’t watching her face anyway. He was transfixed by her hair. She was hatless and the thick tresses, which reached below shoulder length and were tied back by a ribbon at the base of her neck, were a fiery chestnut-red. Rupert had never seen hair that colour before.
A huge cheer went up from the Hutchins School supporters as another goal was scored, but Rupert didn’t notice. He had eyes only for the hair.
Hugh glanced at his brother: how come Rupert wasn’t jumping up and down? But Rupert appeared to have gone off into one of his other worlds, as he often did, although rarely at football matches, so Hugh returned his attention to the game.
Rupert needed to touch the hair. It was so alive where it hung there. The girl’s slightest action set it moving with a life of its own, like the wild chestnut mane of an untamed horse. He was compelled to feel its texture. He shuffled sideways until he was right behind the girl. Then edging himself forwards he reached out his hand and with the very tips of his fingers he stroked the gleaming tresses.
His touch was so soft the girl didn’t feel it.
Just like a wild horse, he thought, a wild horse that I’m taming through my fingers, the ripples of its mane responding to my magic. Rupert was mesmerised by his own power.
Then, in following the action of the game, the friend of the re
d-haired girl turned and saw him. She let out a startled scream, and Rupert scuttled away a yard or so on his bottom, people nearby turning to investigate the commotion.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he said over and over; he was even more startled than the girls.
Hugh leapt to the rescue. ‘What have you been up to, Rupert?’ he said, crouching by his brother’s side.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ Rupert flapped his hands and jiggled up and down on the spot as he always did when he was distressed.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Hugh said and very firmly he took hold of his brother’s hands, ‘it doesn’t matter, calm down now. Calm down.’
Rupert’s panic quickly subsided, although he kept muttering ‘I’m sorry’ to himself.
‘He never means any harm,’ Hugh said apologetically to the girls. ‘What was he doing anyway?’
‘He was stroking Caitie’s hair,’ one of them said.
‘That was a bit rude – wasn’t it, Rupert?’ Hugh scolded in the gentle manner Rupert always responded to.
‘Yes, yes.’ Rupert nodded furiously. ‘Sorry, sorry.’
‘That’s all right.’ The red-haired girl smiled. She’s extraordinarily pretty, Hugh thought. More than pretty in fact, she was beautiful. ‘You’re Hugh Stanford, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘Your father owns the silver Rolls Royce.’
‘That’s right.’ His father’s Rolls Royce had made him famous at the Hutchins School, but Hugh hadn’t realised how widely his fame had spread.
‘I’m Caitie O’Callaghan and this is Mary Reilly. I’ve seen you driving around in your father’s car, very flash. I’ve seen you too,’ she said to Rupert.
She’s certainly bold, Hugh thought: he wasn’t accustomed to meeting girls as forthright as Caitie O’Callaghan. ‘How do you do?’ He nodded to both girls. ‘This is my brother, Rupert Stanford,’ he said. He always introduced Rupert in a formal fashion.
