The Red Road

by Stephen Sweeney

  “We were going to send you to live with Grandma and Granddad, but you didn’t want that,” my father added. “Remember?”

  I vaguely recalled it. I was eight when my parents had suggested that I go to boarding school. Older and somewhat wiser now, I realised that this was more for their benefit than my own. They had had to put the brakes on their careers ever since I had come into the world, and had been keen to get back to them.

  “I don’t see what the big deal is,” I said. “When I was here for three weeks the last time I coped fine on my own.” Other than the baked beans incident, which I had managed to cover up successfully. “I’m not a little boy any more. It wouldn’t matter that you might not be here, I could look after myself. I know how to get to the college and get back; it’s just down the road. I can also keep the house tidy, wash my clothes, cook ...”

  “You are not doing that. You’d burn the bloody house down,” my father said.

  “The point is that I don’t need looking after,” I said.

  “Yes, you do,” my mother said.

  “Mum, I’m sixteen!” I answered.

  “Exactly, you’re only sixteen!”

  “But, Mum, at that age I’m legally allowed to leave school, get married, get a job, have children ... The only thing that I can’t do yet is drive a car, but I can apply for my license next year, in February. I’m an adult.”

  “You’re not an adult until you’re eighteen,” my father answered, keeping his cool a lot better than my mother. “And how do you know that that school down the road is any good?”

  I didn’t. I just assumed it would be based on them only accepting ‘the best’. “I took my projected grades down there, and they said that they would accept me.”

  “They did?”

  “Yes, they did. Look, I’ll give you the prospectus I’ve got. You can have a look for yourself and tell me what you think,” I offered.

  My mother shook her head. “It’s only two more years, I’m sure you’ll survive. Once you’re done with your A-Levels, you can go off to university and have all the freedom you like.”

  See? They don’t want you here. Told you that you were a mistake, the voice of Craig Priest crept into my head. They never wanted you and only sent you to St Christopher’s so that they wouldn’t have to look at your ugly face every morning.

  Fuck off, Priest, I responded.

  “But you’re not actually both away all that often,” I continued to argue with my mother and father. “The last time you were both away for any significant amount of time was January, and that was for two weeks. And let’s be honest, you didn’t actually need to be here as much as you were when I came home from school in March. The only thing you need to teach me how to do is cook and use the washing machine ...” I ignored the look of horror returning to my father’s face. “I could walk or bike it to college, so that would save money on bus fares and petrol. And you’d be able to get another cat, too, Mum,” I added, pointedly.

  That stopped my mother a bit short. Her wishes for a new feline companion were strong, but her career had always come first. I sort of felt sorry for her. I didn’t actually know if my parents had many interests outside of work.

  “Being here would also help me get over the culture shock of going to university, where you can pretty much do as you please,” I said to my father. “I know of people who have found it difficult to cope with the freedom, and so this would be a good transitional step.”

  My mother and father said nothing for a time, each contemplating silently. “What are you going to study?” my father then asked.

  “Economics, maths and English,” I said immediately. My father eyed my grades once more, before passing them to my mother.

  “I don’t know,” she then said, sounding completely defeated. “Ask your father.” She turned and walked off into the kitchen, though not with the stomp that I had anticipated, more the steps of reluctant acceptance.

  My father didn’t look as though he was going to come to a decision any time soon. I decided to bargain, instead. “Okay, how about this?” I said. “If I don’t get good grades, then I go where you want me to.”

  “And what would you call ‘good grades’?”

  “Those or better,” I said, nodding to the sheet of paper that my father still clutched. “If I get grades lower than those, then you can make all the decisions. But if I equal or better them, I go to BSFC.”

  My father didn’t answer immediately, and continued to look at the grades on the paper. “I’ll think about it,” he said. That basically meant ‘yes’. He just needed to convince my mother of it. “Do you have the prospectus for that college?”

  “In my room,” I said. “Unless Mum threw it out.”

  “Get it for me. I’ll look at it tonight.”

  The phone in the hall began ringing, my father answering it.

  “Joe,” my father called. “It’s for you.”

  I made my way to the phone, seeing as I passed the kitchen that my mother was at the table, reading the Daily Mail. At the other end of the phone was Rob.

  “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

  The 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?”

&
nbsp; “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.