brave Jock, the boy whom he had met before, the boy who would be his friend.
“Jock!” shouted Bertie. “Jock! Here I am!”
Jock, who was running towards the gate, a bag of some sort in his hand, stopped in his tracks and looked at Bertie. He looked puzzled.
“Yes,” he said. “There you are.”
Bertie took a few steps towards his friend. “It’s me,” he said.
“Bertie. Remember?”
Jock still looked puzzled. “Not really,” he said.
Bertie felt a stab of disappointment, but did not show it. He gestured to the bag that Jock was carrying. “What are you doing with that?”
142
“Rugby,” said Jock. “Over there.” He pointed to a playing field, where a group of boys was beginning to form round a teacher wearing a red tracksuit. “Are you coming too?”
Bertie lost no time in replying. “Of course,” he said. Then he paused, and added: “I’ve got no kit. I can’t play in my blazer.”
“Changing rooms,” said Jock casually. “There’s always stuff lying around. Just wear that.”
Bertie followed Jock to the changing rooms, where he soon found a pair of discarded rugby shorts, a torn and muddy jersey, and a pair of boots that, although several sizes too large, at least did not pinch his toes. Then, trotting along beside Jock, he made his way onto the field, to join the knot of other small players in the middle. His anxieties over the possibility of detection had now faded, and he felt immensely happy. Here he was at last, on the rugby field, in rugby kit, about to play a game with his rediscovered friend, Jock. Mr Gavin Hastings must have started like this, he thought, although he probably wore boots that fitted his feet and wore a jersey that did not have a tear across the right shoulder. But these were small things; the important matter was that he was about to play rugby, on real grass, with real boys, and with a real ball.
143
The teacher divided the boys into two teams. Bertie had hoped that Jock would be on his side, but he was not. He waved to Jock, though, but Jock did not return the greeting. Perhaps he did not see me, thought Bertie. Perhaps his mind is on the game already.
The whistle blew and the ball was in play. Bertie was not quite sure what to do, but he ran enthusiastically in the direction of play. The ball was passed, and Bertie’s side had posses-sion. Bertie cried out: “Over here!” and, rather to his surprise, the boy who had the ball passed it over to him. Now, the ball in his arms, Bertie started to run towards the posts in the distance. He knew that one had to score a try if at all possible, and that all one had to do was to run fast and touch the ball down on the other side of the line.
He ran as fast he could. There were boys coming towards him, but he ran on. Then one of the boys – and it was Jock –
stepped in front of him and neatly inserted a foot and ankle between Bertie’s feet.
Bertie fell to the ground, the ball beneath him. Jock, standing above him, now kicked Bertie in the ribs and, as the effect of this kick made him writhe in agony, Bertie felt the ball being snatched from beneath him. There was no whistle blown; there was no shout of objection; the game simply passed Bertie by.
Bertie picked himself up and looked at the game, now at the other end of the field. He tried to control himself, but he could not, and the tears ran down his cheeks; bitter tears, that were for everything, really – for the failure of his plan, for the end of his friendship with Jock, for the sheer humiliation of being who he was.
Bertie ran out of the gate of George Watson’s College, hesitated at the edge of the street, and then launched himself across Colinton Road. The traffic was light and he felt none of the 144
panic that had paralysed him during his recent foiled attempt to cross Dundas Street. Now, the ill-fitting rugby boots chafing against his lower ankles, he made his way blindly back towards Spylaw Road and the sanctuary of the Steiner School. It had been a terrible mistake, his break for freedom; he did not belong at Watson’s and he never would. And rugby, which he had so looked forward to playing, was a violent nightmare; a game in which even one’s friends would think nothing of tripping one up and kicking one in the ribs. There was none of that at Steiner’s, where aggressive ball games were not encouraged.
By the time he reached the Steiner’s gate he was exhausted.
Running all the way from Watson’s had given him a stitch, and the nagging pain from Jock’s kick was still present. He had hurt his wrist, too, in his fall, perhaps from clutching the ball as he went down. That was a sharp pain, that seemed to come and go, but which made him catch his breath and wince each time it made itself felt.
He slipped through the gate and walked slowly to the shed at the edge of the garden. He did not bother about being seen now; there was no secret any more – or no secret worth keeping. Entering the shed, he kicked over the bucket under which his clothes were stuffed. There were his familiar dungarees and his checked shirt. But there were no shoes, of course, as he had left those in the changing room at Watson’s. Those were gone forever, then, as was his new plum-coloured blazer and his tie. Those at least he had no use for; it was different with his shoes – the loss of these would have to be explained to his mother.
The rugby kit abandoned on the floor of the shed, Bertie made his way to his classroom. The door was closed, but through the glass panel he could make out the figures of his classmates, all seated in a circle. He took a deep breath and entered the room.
Miss Harmony looked up as Bertie came in. She smiled, and indicated to the empty place which awaited him.
“You’re a little late today, Bertie,” she said. “But no matter.
