THE POWER AND THE FURY

by James Erith

  Daisy was both.

  He loosened his clothes as his body warmed up and before long he came to a huge grey boulder three times his height. In his mind’s eye, he measured the distance and set off at a sprint towards it. At the last moment, he sprang up and grasped a stony outcrop just high enough to haul himself up onto the top of the boulder where he sat down and gulped in mouthfuls of morning air. Removing his rucksack, he reached into his bag and flipped open the lid of his bottle, grateful for the cooling effect of the water.

  The day wasn’t particularly hot, just sticky – muggy and steamy – like a Turkish bath without the heat. He rubbed an apple on his jumper and took a bite. How long would it stay like this, he wondered. He thought of old Miss Turner who smelt of a mixture of bad cheese and cat pee. Even Kemp stank; did he ever get his shirts washed? Archie lifted his arm and sniffed. Not too bad.

  Not everyone, he realised, was as lucky as them to have Old Man Wood and the wonderful Mrs Pye to clean their clothes so regularly. Well, at least she was wonderful to him.

  He wiped his lips on his sleeve and stared out over the valley. His eyes focused on the buildings of Upsall – particularly the school – perched above the flood plain at the foot of the moors. Above the school he noted the rugged, menacing, dark forest and jagged rocks that jutted out of the steep slopes like angry faces. In stark contrast were the manicured green stripes of the school playing fields, laid out symmetrically below.

  He smiled; man’s doing down below, he thought, God’s above.

  He cast his eye along the valley, where large weeping willows marked the course of the meandering river at perfect intervals, as though guarding the valley floor like sentries.

  Archie thought how Upsall appeared so much grander and more important than it really was. At school, they were constantly reminded of the school’s monastic heritage; how the main chapel and quadrangle with its grey stone and red-brick colonnade were relics from an age when it was a vital refuge for those heading north or east over the harsh Yorkshire moors.

  It had the medieval combinations of security and style; solid chunks of masonry on the school frontage, with a huge circular rose window inlaid with delicate stained glass filling the void above a huge oak door.

  With its tall, square, crenellated tower climbing into the sky, it must have been a welcome sight for weary travellers as they came off the hills. Archie looked at his blazer with the school badge on the left breast and the tower embroidered on it. Definitely a fitting emblem for Upsall School.

  The surrounding village nestled into the foot of the hills with the high edges of the moors protecting it like a shield. Raised on a platform above the river stood a jumble of buildings in varying shapes, sizes and colours. Some were rendered in plaster, but most were finished in grey stone or red bricks typical of the area. The effect was of chocolate-box charm but with no real order or sophistication.

  Old Man Wood often told them that the ruin next to Eden Cottage – up on top of the hill – was far older than the rest. Archie spun to his right, towards the sheer rock face that rose high above him. A great position for a fortress, he thought, hidden away in the forest, but at the same time imposing and bold – as a castle should be – with a view that reached way into the Vale of York.

  But something was missing. He searched his mind. Nothing came. So he wondered what it would have been like in medieval times and for a while his imagination played with images of knights and swords and armies filling the valley and hill where he sat.

  No one really knew about their ruin, not from the school at any rate – they preferred the other side of the river with its rolling hills. Perhaps it was a bit too rustic, or too hard to get to, Archie thought. Mr Solomon called it, ‘the hinterland’, but for the de Lowe children there were endless possibilities for imaginative games – and battles. Using the battlements and ancient earthworks the children created swings and slides and aerial runways.

  Archie returned his gaze to the school. Had Upsall once been similar to the Abbeys of Fountains and Rievaulx, nearby? And then it shot into his brain. He stared at the rock face again. Where were the birds that soared from the high perches in the cracks in the rock? He listened. Not a birdcall in earshot. Where had they gone?

  He checked his watch and groaned; school beckoned. After the extraordinary events the previous night, the running, jumping, swinging and scrambling felt like a dose of medicine to clear his mind and fill his body with energy.

  Archie slid off the boulder and followed an animal track through the brambles. A little while later the shimmering silver of the river cut through the red, yellow, amber and brown colours of the leaves and before long he was in the green meadows adjacent to the river.

  Archie ran along the towpath, over the bridge, across the playing fields and towards the chapel. As he neared the chapel steps, he dusted himself off and, noting the time, slipped in through the small oak door and sped, head down, over the large flagstones until he found his row and squeezed his way to the middle, where he sat down and caught his breath.

  He turned to see Daisy chatting to several of her friends. He caught her eye but she frowned and turned away. What did that mean? Was it about the team?

  For a brief moment he experienced a feeling that he was being watched, just as he had with the spidery-angel the previous night. His instinct was right. On the platform at the far end of the hall stood Mr Solomon, the headmaster, whose eyes bore into him.

  Archie’s heart sank. Another inspection.

  Those who had even the tiniest scuffs or tears, or buttons missing, were being entered into his dreaded red book..

  Archie gave himself a once-over. A shambles, possibly the worst ever.

  He felt for his tie halfway down his shirt and pulled it up. He drew up his socks and dragged a hand roughly through his hair, pulling out tendrils of a creeper and a few small strands of grass.

  Archie could sense it coming, but before he could tidy himself further, a familiar voice boomed through the hall. ‘Good morning, school,’ it said. ‘Please rise.’

  And with that, everyone automatically stood up.

  3

  Good & Bad News

  Mr Solomon patted the breast pockets of his coarse tweed suit and raised his thick eyebrows. Twenty-five years he’d been at the school, almost to the day; twenty years as headmaster and his performance every morning was as similar now as it was then.

  ‘Quiet ... please,’ he said. Wasn’t it strange how the noise level always seemed to rise as conversations were rushed to a conclusion? He removed his glasses from his round, ruddy nose and glared around the hall.

  ‘Thank you, children. Please, sit down.’

  Two hundred and seventy-two pupils sat down on the hard wooden benches, lined out row upon row. The noise echoed back off the stone before drifting high into the rafters of the vaulted ceiling. On either side the walls were lined with large portraits of headmasters, interspersed with dark wooden panels where the names of past scholars, captains, and musicians were remembered. Above, tall cross-beams supported large chandelier lights that hung from thick metal chains.

  Mr Solomon stared out over the throng and cleared his throat. He enjoyed this part of the day the best, when he had the full attention of the school, when he was in the limelight – in control of his audience. He wondered how different his life would have been if he’d got a break in the theatre as a young man. But he couldn’t complain; he’d served the school as best as he knew and it had looked after him pretty well in return. Maybe his experiences on stage had stood him in good stead for the show of fronting the school, even if his methods were considered a little eccentric and old-fashioned by the school board.

  Yes, perhaps now, in his twilight years, he was a little out of touch, but he knew that getting the best out of a child wasn’t done just by talking softly, it was done by using a blend of strong discipline, action, a great deal of humour and a large dollop of unpredictability mixed up like a great big soup.

  It
was the young teachers full of computer apps and agendas that were the problem. They fell back on technology, rather than personality, for their teaching methods. If they were all like this, children would never have interesting role models to look up to; only bland, square-eyed manager-types. That was no way to grow up.

  He took a deep breath, and began: ‘Now, there are three items on this morning’s agenda that require your attention. First off, please can years six, seven and eight hand in their project work to class teachers before they head forth on the half term break. Most of you have assignments, so please finish them as soon as you can and not at the very last minute.’

  The murmuring increased as Mr Solomon peered like an owl through his glasses to inspect his leather-bound clipboard. ‘Second: school dress!’ There was a groan.

  Archie felt a strong urge to disappear.

  ‘I see some of you shaking in fear,’ Solomon said, staring around the room, his eyebrows raised as if he were all-seeing and all-knowing. ‘And rightly, too,’ he continued. ‘There has been a marked deterioration in standards since the beginning of term. After half term, those who fail to comply with school regulation uniform will be given detention. Now, to show you what I’m talking about, no one is shaking more this morning than Upsall School goalkeeping hero, Archie de Lowe.’ A cheer went up. ‘Archie, please stand.’

  Archie sat stone-still in disbelief. Not again. He felt a jab in his back and then another from the side.

  ‘Come on, Archie. Up you get,’ the headmaster prompted.

  Archie stared down at his worn shoes and, taking a deep breath, rose from behind the large frame of his old friend Gus Williams. Every pair of eyes stared at him. Archie could hear girls giggling nearby. His face reddened, the heat of his blush growing by the second. He didn’t dare look up.

  Mr Solomon continued: ‘Archie, I hate to make an example of you, but this morning you have beaten your spectacular record of being a complete and utter shambles.’

  A ripple of laughter filled the hall.

  ‘In all of my time at this school, your attire is by far the most dreadful I have ever seen. In fact it is almost the perfect example of how not to dress. Your shoes are filthy; you have no belt, which shows off your very splendid and colourful underwear, and your socks are around your ankles because there are no elastic garters to hold them up.’

  Mr Solomon paused as laughter pealed into the high ceiling. ‘Your shirt has lost buttons; your tie is halfway across your chest, and I’m not sure how this could have happened, but you seem to be wearing the wrong coloured jersey. Please turn around, de Lowe.’ Archie shifted, pretending to slouch like a tramp and in the process getting a laugh. It somehow made the humiliation feel a fraction more bearable.

  ‘Yes, just as I suspected,’ Solomon continued. ‘Blazer ripped and, of course, your hair is the usual bird’s nest.’

  Everyone was laughing.

  Archie feigned a smile while trying to pull his attire together and, on Solomon’s instruction, he sat down. Isabella would be livid with him; only this morning she’d told him to sort out his appearance and he’d completely ignored her again. It meant he’d not only be faced with more detention, which was bearable, but he’d finally have to go shopping. And Archie detested shopping. He bowed his head and didn’t dare look up in case he caught her eye. Then he turned to see Daisy staring at the floor.

  Solomon’s tone softened as he smiled, showing his small, tea-stained teeth. ‘Let this be a lesson to you, Archie. Today, and only today, you are excused because you’re an important member of our glorious unbeaten football team. And this, of course, leads me on to the third item on this morning’s agenda.’

  With these words the mood in the hall changed. The noise level increased. It was time for the news they had been waiting for with regards to their star player.

  The headmaster raised an arm for quiet before starting again. ‘Most of you are aware of our situation. As a small school our selection for teams is limited, and I regrettably endorsed that a girl could play in the boys’ team. This team has subsequently gone on to great things – to the very great credit of our school. However, I ... we ... were found out.’

  The headmaster pulled out a letter from the breast pocket of his jacket and waved it in the air.

  ‘Let me read you the important parts of this letter I received yesterday from the president of our Football Association.’ He unfolded the letter and nudged his glasses into the correct position on the bridge of his nose and thumbed his way down the page:

  ‘Rule 10.1.2 states that players must conform to the principles of a Boy’s League over the age of 11 at the beginning of the calendar year. Blah, blah blah,’ he read out as he scanned the letter ... ‘Ah-ha. Here we are: Now, what this means,’ he read, ‘is that we expect boys and boys only to play.’

  A slightly confused murmur spread around the room. ‘However, under rule 12.7.1 there is a clause which reads: Any team member who has played ten matches consecutively has the right to appeal for an impartial ruling if a matter of disrepute has been reported.’

  Mr Solomon put the letter down on the lectern and removed his half-moon glasses. He peered around the room. ‘What they are saying, therefore, is this: has Daisy played ten matches in a row this season?’

  He spied a raised hand from one of the girls at the back. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Sue Lowden – do you have the answer?’

  ‘I believe she’s played in twelve, sir. Thirteen if you take into consideration the friendly against the Dutch school.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Miss Lowden.’ An audible buzz passed around the room. The headmaster donned his glasses once more and turned back to the letter.

  ‘It is our opinion,’ he read, ‘that Upsall School has seriously abused the goodwill of this league. However not one opposition team member reported or noticed Miss de Lowe’s disguise until the information was passed to us by way of an anonymous letter.’

  Several heads turned towards a group of boys sitting on the left side of the room and a hissing noise started. Mr Solomon continued to read, this time in a slightly louder voice:

  ‘As this happened prior to the National Northern Under 14 Cup Final, and Miss de Lowe has played in every round, we have decided to impart the following: should Upsall School win, then we will recommend, with the full backing of the Football Association, that Miss de Lowe be allowed to continue playing for Upsall School and the rules be changed with immediate effect—’

  A roar of cheers and whooping noises filled the air.

  ‘However,’ Mr Solomon read as he raised his hand for quiet, ‘should Upsall lose,’ and here, his voice went so quiet that you could almost hear a pin drop, ‘then it will be Miss de Lowe’s last game for the school.’

  Silence spread over the pupils as they listened to the headmaster. Mr Solomon picked Daisy out of the assembly, peeled off his glasses and spoke directly to her. ‘So there we have it, Daisy. I have spoken to the authorities to make sure we are absolutely clear about the situation. You will play in tomorrow’s final against Chitbury Town, but with no disguise. Do you understand? It’s bitter-sweet, but it’s not all over by any means!’

  Mr Solomon addressed the children and thumped his fist down on the lectern. ‘So let’s make sure as a team and a school that we jolly well win!’

  Shouts rang out as Mr Solomon spoke. He waited for the noise to abate. ‘Kick-off tomorrow is at 11am. There will be no assembly, but there will be a chapel service for those of you who wish to get rid of your sins, so I’m expecting a great deal of you. If you are coming to watch the match, please note that Sue Lowden and Isabella de Lowe will be offering half time refreshments from the catering cart. And please remember to bring waterproofs and umbrellas as significant rain is forecast.

  ‘Now, as you are all fully aware, we are open to parents and public alike. Our school will be a hive of activity, so good luck to those who are involved in our many music, art and drama displays. Let’s make it a day to remember!’ This bur
st of enthusiasm signalled the end of the assembly and he motioned, with his familiar swirl of his hand, for the children to stand up. ‘One final thing. I’d like to see all three de Lowes afterwards for a moment, and prefects, can you ensure that everyone leaves in the usual orderly manner.’

  Kemp moved quickly to cut her off. ‘Now then, no more disguises,’ he sneered. He’d managed to trap Daisy between the stage, the wall, and the corner of the room. ‘They’re going to kick lumps out of you, de Lowe, and I cannot wait to see it.’ He smiled, his fat lips parting a fraction as he ran a hand through his thick red hair, which sprang back into its matted, shredded-wheat style – regardless of the dollop of hair wax he’d added.

  Daisy tried to back out but found herself trapped by his mates, Mason and Wilcox.

  ‘I can look after myself, Kemp,’ Daisy said coolly. ‘There’s no point trying to intimidate me. That’s what you boys always try and do, and as you know, I don’t feel pain—’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Kemp butted in. ‘What did you say, de Lowe, intimidation, pain?’ He laughed. ‘We wouldn’t do a thing like that, would we boys? Not really my style, de Lowe.’

  Daisy leaned in towards him, taking him off guard, and whispered in his ear, her breath soft on his cheek. ‘Only your foul breath could frighten me.’ In a flash she tried to push through a gap but Kemp recovered his wits and with a big hand grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back. A stabbing pain shot into her shoulder.

  ‘I haven’t finished,’ Kemp said. ‘Now listen up, Daisy de Lowe. My mates at Chitbury are SO looking forward to it, especially the second half.’ Kemp spoke the words slowly, right in her face. ‘Face it, you haven’t got a chance in hell.’

  Daisy tried to jerk her head away; his breath was gross – like fresh steamy dog poo, and Daisy detested that smell more than anything. ‘Tell your mates I’m looking forward to it,’ she spat, staring him coldly in the eyes.