by R. A Humphry
Manu stared up at the hooded boy, who was thrusting his heavy-looking standard up at the sky and waving his hands in a mystical manner. There was something familiar about him.
“Here come the juniors.”
Manu turned to see the gaggle of younger children in bright and varied costumes. They were all wearing painted wooden masks and were running all over the road, striking fierce and menacing poses.
“And so you can see why Cas likes having a Merlin about. The prep school is down the road, close to Meare, but they always take part when there’s a Merlin. Cas says that they’re supposed to represent the faerie host, or great hunt, I forget which. Anyway, Merlin locks them in the Tor.”
The children were having a blast and were roaring and hissing and clawing at the crowd in a whirlwind of energy and playfulness behind the slow moving float. Behind them strode a giant with a long, floating cape. The giant was a straw-stuffed effigy wearing a horned helmet and had a burned and blackened mask. He was carrying a huge papier-mâché sword. The giant was controlled like a puppet by a performer who carried it and controlled it, amazingly, while walking on stilts.
“And that’s Gwyn. I forget his full name. Something Welsh I think. Anyway, I think he’s supposed to be the king of the horde or something. They burn the effigy on the Tor before Merlin vanishes and Gerald Fitzgerald walks down the hill to form the school. They used to hire professionals to do Gwyn, but now they use their own students from the Performing Arts centre. Good, isn’t it?”
Manu nodded while watching the dexterous performer glide through the streets with incredible grace. Manu turned and stared back down the road to the Tor which rose up high behind them. The giant followed Merlin and the Vanguard.
“Great, we’re in luck. They’ll let us through this gap while the procession heads to the Tor. With luck we can get to Dukes before the next lot go.” Despite his optimism, progress was slow. It seemed that they were not the only ones trying to make it into Darkwells before the procession returned to clog the streets. “The rest of them join on the way down from the Tor you see, so it’s much worse getting caught then. Goes on for hours.” They turned a corner and started down a road marked ‘Main Drive’. As they did so Manu’s breath caught.
The drive was wide and flat and without tree coverage. On both sides he could see pristine manicured lawns that stretched out to wooded horizons. Looming in the distance were the timeless buildings of Darkwells. The four towers rose out of the flat land with flags on their tops fluttering in the limp breeze. The curved back of The Chapel glittered as the meagre sunlight caught in the arched alcoves and glinted off its famous stained glass. Old Hall was a solid and imposing block of dark stone with terraced arcades. The stout gate-house, with its two stunted, rounded, towers and its stone arch stood directly ahead of them a distance down the drive. “They’ll head through there and into the court-yard,” Manu’s guide said, pointing.
Halfway down the Main Drive Manu spotted a pair of identical grey stone statues. They were standing guard in a round green island that sat as a dividing line between a convergence of four roads, the offshoots leading off to two different boarding houses. The guardians were worn down by age and weather but there was something very familiar about the way they crouched behind what might have been shields.
Before he could wonder about it the taxi turned down the first right hand turn and Manu caught sight of his future home. “They call this cross-roads ‘Shields’. To the left is Edward the Third House, you’ll hear it called ‘Princes’ though - after the Black Prince. On your right is your house, Marlborough. They’ll call you a ‘Duke’. So I guess that this Marlborough must have been one, once. Behind you, by the river, is Queens, where the girls stay, named after Elizabeth the First. The lads call them ‘Jets’ though. Cas says it’s because we had a couple of the original suffragettes here. The other house on the grounds is Kings, which is based in the old Divinity building in the inner wall. They call themselves ‘Lions’ apparently, after Richard. Then there are the two off-grounds houses - the Earls and the Barons - but for me, Dukes is the best. Say what you will about Killynghall, he runs a tight ship.”
Marlborough was a grand building, much newer than the core of buildings at the end of the drive, but still ancient. This building was more in the Gothic style, with lots of narrow windows and pointed arches. It put Manu in mind of a starker, smaller, Westminster. As they approached he could see the unmistakable shapes of rugby posts and floodlights. Beyond that he could make out the outline of what he would later learn was the science block that everyone called Alchemy. The curtain wall that joined the Chapel and Alchemy gave the school a hostile, military aspect, quite at odds with the serene surrounds. The taxi pulled up and the driver started unloading his bags into the empty car park, in a rush.
He paused as a horn pealed out across the flat land and he dropped Manu’s bags in annoyance. “Well that’s done it. I’m trapped here now until they’re back through. Better turn the meter off now,” he said, grumbling. He then walked to the front of the house and pressed the bell, with no answer. After a few minutes of vigorous knocking he gave up and walked back over to Manu. “Everyone’s out. Right, since I’m trapped here we might as well get a good look at the show, eh? I’m Jeff, by the way.”
“I’m Manu.”
“Manu, is it? I thought the ‘M’ was for Mike. Manu, like Manu Samoa eh?” Jeff leaned in closer then nodded, “Yes, that’s what I thought you looked like.”
“No, no. I’m British, not…”
“Hear that? Sounds like they’re here already. Let’s move.”
#
Jeff led them back down the driveway to the Main Drive where the silent guardians stood their vigil. A large crowd had gathered along the road and by the time they got there the head of the procession had already passed through the gates.
Jeff pointed out interesting characters as they passed. “Cas says that one is John Dee. Is supposed to be an Old D.W. I think. He had something to do with Elizabeth the First if I remember. You can always pick him out because of the long beard
“She,” Jeff said, pointing, “is meant to be what’s-her-name Wally-stone-craft. My, looks like the young lady they chose this year is quite angry looking, don’t you think? Behind her is Mary Shelly, her who wrote that Frankenstein. They are both Old D.W’s.”
Manu looked with curiosity down the line to a motley bunch in differing forms of dress that seemed to span a sizable proportion of the line. Some were even wearing modern suites and ties. All wore masks with painted portraits and were drawing cheers and jeers from the crowd in equal measure.
“Those are the Old D.W. Prime Ministers. Useless bunch, if you ask me. Behind them are the ones that have been awarded the V.C. and behind them are the sports stars. Cricket and rugby for the most part, although the equestrians do seem to do well. Come; let’s get inside the walls before we miss the end.”
With that Jeff took off across the grass towards the chapel. Manu followed in a hurry, already feeling bewildered and overwhelmed. How could he ever fit in a place that had produced a long line of Prime Minsters with what seemed like absent minded contempt? They followed the curve of the Chapel and alongside the straight tall wall that led to the south wing of Alchemy - on the outside it looked a sheer wall with wide panelled windows at regular intervals. They followed this around to the rounded base of the Alchemy tower which stood tall and impressive against the grey cloud. This brought them close to the rugby field that Manu had seen earlier and he stole a longer look at it, admiring the perfectly level ground, the fine cut grass, the bright painted lines and the large club-house and clean terraces that lined the sides. He wondered what it would feel like to play on that field, with the Alchemy tower and Darkwells dominating one end.
They cut across from Alchemy and skirted around the short sunken dome that was, he would later find out, Rhetoric. This led them to a tall, caste-iron gate, which Jeff hurried them through. Manu found himself in what looked like woode
d parkland. Neat little paths led from one building to another in straight lines with rows of English trees planted down the sides, all in shades of copper and bronze. He could see Rowan and Yew and in the distance, Beech. Around the sides of the courtyard were the timeless buildings of Darkwells, clustered together and linked by walls.
Jeff led him deeper into the heart of the courtyard and Manu could see that the procession had stopped by an old ruin. “Hurry, we almost missed it!” Jeff said as he moved Manu closer. Amongst the ruins Manu saw the boy that had stood next to Merlin. He approached a crumbling pile of rocks that had an iron and rope pulley on a post near it. He said some words that Manu couldn’t make out and started to pull on the rope, which brought up a wooden bucket. The boy gathered the bucket then dramatically upturned it in a splash of water revealing a gleaming, silver statue of a dragon.
“Dreki! Dragon!” he cried, excited.
“Dragon! Dragon!” the others in the procession shouted. A murmuring started in the watching crowds.
“Mr. Jeff, what just happened? What does it mean?”
“It’s the Hallow ritual lad. They go to the well and fish out one of twelve totems. It’s supposed to describe the year ahead. From what Cas told me, Dragon is violence and upheaval. Or was that Wolf? Not that people believe in that sort of thing here anymore. Just a bit of fun. Ho, look, here comes the Queen.”
Manu turned to watch as the boy who played Gerald Fitzgerald was approached by a girl wearing the most incredible costume Manu had ever seen. It was a mountainous piece that she did well to move in. She approached Gerald at a stately pace. “That’s Elizabeth the First,” Jeff informed him in a whisper. Gerald bowed and kneeled. She nodded and knighted him with her sceptre. “She’s now telling him that the school is to take female students,” Jeff supplied. Behind the queen a line of girls fanned out across the courtyard. They were all dressed in various historic costumes and they seized their male counterparts in the line behind Gerald. A string quartet, hidden in the walls of the ruins, struck up a lively Waltz and the impromptu couples started to dance in whirling circles under the trees. A minute later and the sky erupted in a series of firework blooms: crack, crack, crack, crack went the rockets streaming out from the tops of the four towers in greens and blues and silver. A few breathless moments later and it was over and crowd and parade cheered as one.
Manu stared wide-eyed and Jeff chuckled behind him. “Yes, that’s exactly right Master Wardgrave. Welcome to Darkwells.”
Chapter Eight: Narrowboat
Heather winced as the girl shrugged out of her costume and let it fall negligently to the floor. Whoever had picked the players for this year’s parade had done a great job, she thought. This girl looked like she had stepped out of one of the over-sized portraits she had glimpsed in the foyer of Queens. She had the round face and milk white complexion that Heather had hoped would provide the required contrast to the bright colours and frivolous flourishes she had spent so many hours crafting into the costume. That and a natural haughty demeanour with a swan like neck that radiated superiority.
Heather had not liked her much in the brief fitting session before the parade and she gathered that the feeling was mutual. It didn’t bother her; the likelihood of a Darkwells Jet becoming friends with a townie - worse, a local College placement student - was vanishingly small. Heather sighed and admitted that it wasn’t as if she had made a huge effort at being friendly. She knew it was wrong, but something about the assumed superiority of the Darkwells’ girls brought out the worst in her. At least she (what was her name? Gemma? Jemima?) had looked the part and hadn’t torn the costume during the dance.
She pushed through the pandemonium of undressing players, giggling girls and harried looking teachers to try and rescue her project from the ravages of stomping feet and careless, thoughtless destruction. It wasn’t just the hours she had put into the garment, and god only knew how many of those she had invested, sewing and cutting in the dark stretches of the night, she had also put a lot of her own meagre savings into it, buying expensive cloth and synthetic whale-bone. The small allowance given by the College would never have covered even the meanest materials required for a good Elizabeth costume, let alone one to be worn at the Darkwells Hallows parade. It would be fine, she told herself, so long as she could add it to her portfolio and her mother never, ever, found out.
She broke into a run as she saw a careless Jet skip over to Gemma-Jemima to grab her in a squealing embrace and tread on and bend a section of the farthingale. She gave the girls her best effort at a smile as she gathered up the costume and carefully hung it on the rack. She then waited with admirable patience beside the babbling pair until, at length, Gemma-Jemima realised that she still had a good portion of the Performing Arts’ props in her bright copper hair and sat down to allow Heather to methodically remove them. The other Jet left them to it after air-kisses and a “Jem, you were fabulous, darling, fabulous,” that made Heather cringe. That was the problem with Darkwells, she decided; there were just enough real toffs there to make the fake toffs grate.
Jem settled down in her chair with an air of bored resignation as Heather set to work. As she untangled the diadem from her hair she sensed that the girl was watching her via the mirror. Heather glanced up and made eye contact, expecting the girl to look away, and was surprised when she said: “you have such dark hair.” Heather smiled and managed to tug out another couple of pins. “It goes well with your pretty eyes,” the girl finished, making Heather feel uncomfortable.
“Thank you,” she replied and she wrestled the diadem free, “but it’s pretty boring to be honest. Not much you can do with it.”
Jem ignored her, continuing with her compliments. “I’ve always wanted dark hair. I thought it would go with my skin, but Mummy forbids me to dye it. Says I’d look like a gypsy.”
Heather froze for a moment then set back to work, saying, “oh, but I’ve always liked curly hair like yours. It’s so…”
Jem cut her off. “I’ve always said that I’d love to look like a gypsy. So wild and romantic, don’t you think? But it horrifies mummy; she thinks gypsies are the worst scum in the world. Anyway, I don’t have the eyes to carry it off. Not like your eyes, so green and exotic. I think my brown ones would look very plain, very English. Don’t you think?”
Heather swallowed and composed herself. Don’t rise to it, she told herself. It’s what she is after. “Oh, but ginger hair is always more exciting, I think. Wild and fiery, so bright and… orange,” she said, regretting the provocation instantly. Why, oh, why can’t I keep my mouth shut?
In the mirror, Jem’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard,” she started, “that you have a little stall down on Wick Hollow where you tell people their fortune.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes, and, I’ve heard that you live in a caravan and travel around in it from place to place. Is that true?"
“It would make doing my course difficult,” Heather replied in a tired voice. This depressed her. Why should any of it matter these days? Why was she ashamed of it? Anger started to build as she considered why she was taking this from some pampered Darkwells tart. “Besides, what does it matter to you? Don’t all of you just assume that us townies are little more than thieving gypsies anyway? Isn’t that what you joke to each other about? The pub, the Job-Centre and Magistrates, right? I suppose telling fortunes would mean I’m a pioneer. The Richard Branson of poor people.”
“Hey! You’re hurting me!”
Heather realised that she had been yanking at the rest of the fake-jewels in the girl’s hair and had clumps of it in her fingers. She sighed and mumbled an apology.
The girl, who had been on the edge of tears, settled back. “I’m sorry too. I don’t know… it’s just that you are so… striking and mysterious. The other girls started to… well, you know what they are like. They are jealous, I suppose. I just wanted to see if any of it was true.”
Her words pained Heather, who regretted her temper. “It’s
my mother who keeps the stall. Not me. We live on a boat, not a caravan. We are not gypsies - travellers they are called these days - but I can see why people think that. C’mon, let me get the last of these out of your hair and you can join the party. Your friend was right, you did look fabulous.”
#
Heather left the curved glass and steel structure that was Darkwells’ famed Performing Arts building, which gleamed like a Christmas bauble in the greens and browns of a Somerset autumn. The mirrored exterior windows were reflecting the sun and giving the impression of a second sun-set behind her. As she made her way down Players’ Walk and over the bridge she saw rowers gliding upstream in pairs with the wooden boat house bathed in sunlight behind them. Ahead of her were the ancient buildings of Darkwells: Rhetoric and Divinity. To her left was Queens and the rugby pitches where she could see figures running together in symmetrical patterns and crashing into big, blue bags. She quickened her pace and strode through the narrow gate and into the inner courtyard. There she saw clusters of milling students, all in their stiff, formal uniforms. The boys walked around in dark navy blazers with pressed white shirts and ties that marked out their houses. The girls were in below-the-knee plaited skirts and dark green blazers. Heather felt both self conscious and relieved that she was wearing her comfortable, tattered jeans and warm polo neck jumper. She wasn’t meant to cut through the courtyard but she found it saved her close to quarter of an hour compared to walking around and had long since decided to risk a dressing down from some Darkwells prefect or Housemaster, none of whom ever noticed her.
She hurried down Rowan Way then down Beech Boulevard. Some of the science sixth-formers were lounging in the cloisters arcade of Alchemy and she ignored their curious glances towards her. She turned onto Birch Row and sped past the Chapel, through the main gate and onto the Main Drive. She glanced at her watch, will I make the bus? Her purposeful stride increased to what was almost a jog as she raced to get clear of the grounds.
