CHAPTER 3 (Part 1)

Resting on the bed in the medical room, I closed my eyes. Sirens sounded. Police, fire and ambulance crews were now on site unraveling the true nature of the ‘emergency.’

Mr Dodds entered with a cup of tea, said Mrs Dyke was on her way, at which point she walked in through the door. Whilst I received first aid Mr Dodds said he’d ‘nip off to check on things.’ I received kind words and sympathy whilst Mrs Dyke examined my wound. I was warned the antiseptic cream would sting, but it didn’t animate the agony as much as the opening and closing of my fingers. Eyes smarted, she apologised, said it was a case of being cruel to be kind, which of course it was. As she left, commenting that she hoped this was the last time we met under such circumstances, Mr Dodds returned. Pulling up a chair, ‘Sorry, Ben,’ he said, solemnly.
‘For what?’
‘For not finding you sooner. It now appears that Mr Meadows was duped by Cappy into believing the toilet block was empty.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ I insisted. ‘How could you have known what Cappy was up to? As a matter of interest ... how did you suss it?’
‘Vince,’ he revealed, somewhat hesitantly. ‘He ummn ... found out about it.’
Drawing a breath, intending to probe his vague response, a sudden painful spasm diverted my attention. As I sucked in air through gritted teeth, a concerned Mr Dodds asked what he could do. With face contorted, I couldn’t speak. A few short sharp breaths later, back in control, I was quizzed about the injury to my hand. Discovering the identity of my tormenter, rendered Mr Dodds speechless.
‘He was drunk,’ I explained. ‘I’ve said before, the man’s an alcoholic. He lost the plot when I refused to apologise. It was madness to think I could play him at his own game. I should have walked away.’

The revelation rocked Mr Dodds perception of events. Visibly incensed, he said he’d investigate, promising that Potts wouldn’t get away with what he’d done. Up on his feet, he forced a smile then walked off, muttering under his breath. Relaxing back on the pillow, it came as great relief, to hear Mrs Dyke talking to the one person I most wanted to see. When grandpa’s eyes met with mine, his expression said everything. Mrs Dyke, reading his anguish, took him to one side for a quiet word, whilst I prepared to leave.

Grandpa and I were so well connected that each seemed to know when the other most needed silence and a comforting smile. The journey back to Merryfields was one such occasion. I was exhausted, grandpa was angry, but as always, my welfare was his primary concern. Home at last, standing in the hall, Grandpa embraced me, gently. Visibly upset, he said he was sorry, but I immediately contested that the apology was mine: I should have taken his advice.

I needed time, needed my own space and retired to the sanctuary of my room. Reclining on the bed, I blocked all images of the day’s events and gave no thought to their consequences. What was done, was done and I had no regret.

Drawn to the photograph beside my bed, I buried all anguish by focusing upon the lost memory of my father. Here we were sat astride his Vincent Black Shadow motorbike. His untimely death was lamentable, but what I wouldn’t have given to jealously conjure a memory to complement the framed image.

I came across the photo whilst rummaging in an under stairs cupboard, a year or so ago. Sadly, further searches met with disappointment because my mother was vehemently opposed to the mention of my father’s name and forbid the display of photographs or trinkets that bore any connection with him. I refused to give up the photo I’d found, promising to keep it concealed in my room. My mother conceded, but still her attitude caused bitter resentment for I longed to embrace my father’s memory.

I dozed for a while, regaining consciousness when grandpa arrived to sit in the chair beside the window. I smiled, mind reflecting upon those early days at Merryfields. It was no less comforting then than it was now, to hear a kindly greeting from a man who cared much more for my welfare than he did his own.
‘Are you okay, son?’ he asked softly.
‘Yeah. I’ll be fine,’ I replied, faking a confidence.
‘Do you want me to phone mum?’
‘No. What’s the point? Besides, she’ll be home tomorrow.’
He nodded in agreement, stood to stretch his legs, winked, then left to prepare lunch.

Languishing, a while longer, my mother came to mind. Despite everything, I loved her, of course, but we weren’t close. I didn’t feel welcome in her world and there were times when I felt responsible for her melancholy existence. We never enjoyed physical affection: I had no recollection of her ever giving me a kiss or cuddle. There were times when I thought she wanted to, but just couldn’t bring herself to do it. With so little in common, it was difficult to engage in meaningful conversation. She loved me though, I never doubted that she loved me, just wished she could find a way to show it.

Grandpa called and I responded by joining him in the kitchen. The casserole had been lovingly prepared, but I had no appetite. Picking over chunky vegetables and beef, I asked grandpa what we should tell mum?
‘The truth,’ he replied, earnestly. ‘We’ll have to tell her the truth.’
‘Will you talk to her, Grandpa? Could you talk to her before she sees me?’
‘I could, but I think you should, son. She won’t be angry, she’ll want to help you.’ My sour expression, had him add, ‘Don’t be hard on your mother, Ben. People handle bereavement in different ways. Maybe one day you’ll come to understand her better.’
‘Mmn,’ I mused, forking a piece of carrot. ‘If I had a son, I’d never ignore him. I’d love him. Let him know that I loved him. Be a father to him...’
‘Your mother’s lost a husband she loved ...’ he reminded, sternly.
‘And I lost a father, I never really knew... ‘ I replied, bitterly.
Our eyes met in a fragile moment of poignant reflection. Grandpa had lost a much loved son. The atmosphere fragmented, words were difficult, but I had an overwhelming urge to say, ‘Sorry’. The apology had barely left my lips, when grandpa was on his feet. I stood up too, receiving a warm embrace and the confession that he was sorry too. Neither had a dry eye, such was our respective sorrow and regret. Faith restored, grandpa returned to sit at the table, whilst I busied myself making a pot of tea.
‘I should have told you about the bullying, a long time ago,’ I said, setting down two cups on the table. ‘Mum won’t understand why I didn’t.’
‘She will,’ he insisted. ‘Your mother will know, and in life you will learn, son, that there are times when you hide things, even lie, because the truth is too painful. Sometimes you’re not even conscious of it, but believe me, it always catches up with you in the end.’

I was mulling over what he’d said when the phone rang. It was Mr Dodds, eager to know how I was. He informed me that an emergency meeting of the Manor’s Governing body had been called and wanted me to clarify what happened in the Deputy Head’s office. I recalled details as I remembered them and he promised everything would be sorted, reiterating how sorry he was for what had happened.

Whilst grandpa napped in a fireside chair, I returned to rest in my room. My eyes slid along a shelf of books. My love of literature is something else grandpa instilled in me. In my younger years, he always read me a bedtime story, though I loved more the ones he made up. I’m a real fan of classic works, studied English literature at school, became an avid reader, then there were times when there was little else to do. I invested much time and energy riding and schooling my horse. There was always much preparation before competitions and in the menage, grandpa was always there to offer advice and encouragement. Riding was something I did as often as I could. Increasingly these days however, I rode alone. Grandpa, now past three score years and ten, said his bones were getting too old and rarely had the energy for such sport. I respected that, of course, but wished I had someone with whom I could share my passion. The farm was isolated. I often felt lonely as apart from Roxanne, I had no real friends to call upon. As Selby Smith’s number one target, I was effectively, the school’s prohibition. Favour or friendship with me came at a price few were willing to pay, and who could blame them?

Returning down stairs, I found Grandpa preparing to drive into the village. I accepted the offer to tag along, as it would soon to be Valentine’s Day. Though in previous years the occasion hadn’t seemed to merit sending Roxanne a card, my feelings for her had changed. She was often on my mind, always in my dreams and I couldn’t imagine a life without her. In the Spar Grandpa bought a few groceries whilst I selected a card, more witty than soppy, though the sentiment remained the same.

When Roxanne failed to ring in the evening, I called her. She was full of apology. Said she’d been a hectic shopping trip with her mother and it slipped her mind. I refused to report what happened at school, using it as a ploy to lure her over.