A Pure and Honest Heart
by Zambezi
Chapter Two
The next few weeks of school life at Trinity were almost as they had been for the previous eight years, allowing for the fact that Brad was now seventeen, not nine any more. Work, more work, followed by revenge of the killer work with a light sprinkling of sports. His A-level subjects of Economics, History, and French were already causing headaches with course work, while Maths was just a nightmare with classwork. He was fly half on the school First XV rugby team as well, which meant most of his free time was taken up in practice, while he had his House Captain duties to take care of. He would be exhausted by half term break.
Brad had taken it upon himself to perform the House Prefects' evening duty every other day for the first couple of weeks, partly to give out the message to his Prefects that he wasn't a slacker, partly to establish his influence amongst those people in Wordsworth House who were still holding their counsel on Brad's appointment as House Captain, and partly to get to know the new boys. Amongst the thirteen year old Third Form intake there was Marcus Carter, the cocky young thing bristling with the false confidence that came with never genuinely believing he was a cut above the others, despite his efforts to portray that. He was a nice enough guy on his own because of his insecurity and vulnerability, Brad decided, but intolerably arrogant in a crowd. There was Allesandro Correlli, the slightly portly, super-rich and super-spoiled, son of a wealthy Italian businessman. There was Robert Gillson, "Bob" to everyone else, made friends with anyone. There were another half a dozen nondescripts who would in time fade into the background memory of Brad's last year at school.
And then there was Richard Young. Young did seem to get picked on a bit more than the others, and Brad had several times found himself shooing bullies away before helping the boy up and dusting him down. Young would always relax and force a smile when he knew it was Brad who had rescued him, and then stare at his feet and mutter a sheepish thanks. Brad, for his part, would invariably wink at him and once or twice had also squeezed his shoulder or patted his back.
Brad had found his attempts at prolonged conversation with Young stilted at best, at worst hopelessly one sided. Young only ever listened, speaking only to explain silences. Brad found himself on several occasions revealing more about himself than he wanted, purely to open up and illustrate to Young that he was human, trustworthy, and wanted a mutually beneficial relationship to develop. Verbally, there was little interaction. But, Brad noticed, the boy hardly ever communicated in words. As Brad rabbitted on about life on his farm, Young just listened, punctuated with the odd question to indicate he was also interested in developing the relationship. But his listening was strong. Brad somehow just knew that this kid was a thinker rather than a speaker, but there was something else always at the back of his mind. The boy was lost. He was alone, and he was reaching out. That this much was obvious through the younger boy's insufferable shyness was amazing, but it was a definite cry for attention. Brad resolved to provide some of that, since he knew if he didn't then no-one else would.
* * *
A joke had developed fairly quickly around the House that when Brad walked anywhere as if he was trying to knock down a door with his forehead, then he meant business, even if he did look mildly ridiculous, being only 5'10" tall and still fairly boyish-looking. Furthermore, everyone in the House knew that if he uttered the words "What in the hell is going on?" then they were in trouble. Thus, when he charged into one of the junior dorms late one evening some three weeks into the term, its occupants were somewhat relieved. Bob Davis was not.
Brad had been stuck at his desk troubled with a particularly difficult Economics problem, with only Tchaikovski on the hi-fi for company. The frustration was made worse by the relevant page being mysteriously absent from his text book. When the thundering from upstairs at nearly midnight had caused a piece of plaster from his study-bedroom ceiling to land in his coffee he was far from amused, so he tore upstairs with his equally irritated Housemaster in tow.
Davis had decided that he was hungry, and knowing that one junior had received a large parcel of goodies from home that day had thought he'd help himself. When big Chas Danton decided to put up a fight to protect the cake his Mum had sent him for his 14th birthday, all hell had broken loose.
Brad threw the lights on as he opened the door. Exercise books and files had replaced the carpet as the principal floor covering, one curtain was missing, and a couple of duvets were strewn around for good measure. It looked as if it had been bombed by terrorists. Danton was sprawled across Richard Young's bed, his nose dripping profusely with blood, his body pinning the bed's occupant beneath. Bob Davis was just about to land another blow.
"I'm not even interested in excuses. I suggest you get as far away from here as possible before Mr Stephens gets here," Brad barked, fully aware that Tom Stephens was standing inches away, out of sight in the corridor.
"What are you going to do about it, you wuss? Manhandle me away?" Davis laughed, his 6'4" frame easily dwarfing Brad's. His breath reeked of illicit alcohol.
"I have no idea what I might catch from close physical contact so no, I won't manhandle you away tonight. Instead, I'll try using my superior intellect and powers of reason to persuade you to leave this dorm right now, before you begin to regret having entered it." A snort of laughter issued from the bed on his left. Brad knew full well he was treading on thin ice - he wouldn't have dared being this smart without the backup of his Housemaster, still lurking in the shadows outside. It worked. Enraged, Davis began to move towards Brad, just as Mr Stephens appeared in the doorway. Davis checked his swinging arm, stopping to glare at both the policemen. "I'll clear up in here, Sir," Brad said through a cheesy grin.
Stephens nodded and followed Davis out, desperate to dress him down in front of the juniors, but settling for the staircase instead. Brad turned to Danton, helping him from Young's bed and producing a tissue for the nosebleed. Two minutes later and the dorm was almost respectable again, files having been picked up in double time and the curtain easily hooked back up onto its rail. The six occupants back under their duvets, Brad stood by the door, feeling uncomfortably paternal, given his tender years. Part of the territory, he reckoned. "Try and get some sleep: it's getting late. Good night."
Just as he reached for the lights, an unbroken voice whispered so softly he almost missed it. "Brad? Thanks."
Brad was in his ninth year at Trinity, and knew when he was being lied to by his less than genuine fellow pupils. For the first time in what seemed like forever, he knew whoever had said that truly meant it. He looked down at Young and was astonished by what greeted him. Those turbulent eyes still held all their secrets but the boy's face, which had rarely during the last three weeks shown any expression at all, had begun to form a relieved smile at the corners of his mouth. Brad clicked the lights off, hoping to hide just how unnerved he was. He swept down the flight of stairs to his study, shivers running down his spine.
He was just in time to hear the last track on the CD, the final scene from Swan Lake. As the rising tension in the Russian's music exploded into the rousing concluding moments, the homework problem presented the answer right in his face. He somewhat sarcastically thanked the fracas upstairs, hastily scribbled down the answer, and began to undress for bed.
Padding across the landing outside the housemaster's study on his way to the bathroom, he noticed a chink of light from the door. Stephens called out. "Brad? Is that you?". Brad pushed the door open and was beckoned inside. "Drink?" The Housemaster produced a bottle of wine from the filing cabinet, and fished around in the desk for a corkscrew before he passed both to Brad while he took a pair of glasses from a shelf. "Any idea what all that was about?"
"Does there have to be a reason for it?"
"There certainly never used to be. I had hoped things were getting better." Stephens looked battle-weary as Brad filled his glass. "Your brother must be getting old enough to consider Trinity by now. I guess the thought of putting him through something like that doesn't really appeal, does it?"
"I had no idea what I was letting myself in for, did I? I still have hopes of making this House a slightly better place to be by the end of this year, you know. In any case, unless he gets a full-ride scholarship, which is pretty unlikely after the prep school attempt, then there's no way we can afford to have him here. You know that."
"Yes, but I also know that there are bursaries available, and he still hasn't tried the senior school scholarship anyway. Between you and me, the school will find a way to have him here if he's anything like you. What does your tuning-fork of a tongue reckon to the wine? There's a special offer on Chilean merlot this month."
Brad had spent all of his life surrounded by a chief ingredient in beer, so when he was having a drink it was often the last thing he chose. He had instead developed a bit of a taste for wine, and it showed. "I'm sure there is. You ought to know, however, that there is more than merlot in this glass: it's bulked out by, I think, a bit of malbec." Stephens was impressed, his own interest in oenology rubbing off well on the teenager in front of him. For a country bumpkin, thanks to Tom Stephens' tutelage Brad knew his stuff, ready to give the crustiest Oxford don a run for his money.
"You seem to have been a bit out of sorts this term. Anything going on I should know about?" The Housemaster meant business.
"I don't think so. I knew the pressure from my work would be strong, but everything in the House seems to be running smoothly. No real problems with anything - as long as Bob Davis keeps out of my hair. I guess I needed to hit the ground running and just needed a bit of time to get the right pace. Things will be fine from now on."
"I knew there'd be a reasonable explanation." The older man didn't look convinced, but let it lie. He swirled his glass up in the light, relieved that for the first time in his twenty years as a Housemaster he had finally found a pupil with whom he could properly relax and treat as an equal. As they chatted about nothing in particular, he observed Brad perfectly at ease in the chair opposite the desk - normally reserved for those about to receive a rocket - happily quaffing a glass of red wine without having to pretend he was enjoying it. Brad's genuine nature in his Housemaster's presence brought with it a maturity which was sadly lacking in his contemporaries, past and present. "You never told me how you got on in France this year."
"The whole thing was a bit weird, to be honest. Sarah and I have never really spent all that much time completely alone together, and although as you might expect there was a great deal of heated passion at times, at others we seemed to go for ever without actually speaking to each other. I mean, we would discuss what to do for dinner, or whether we should head for the beach or stay by the pool, but we never just talked like we used to. I thought everything was there, but now that I think about it, not everything was. But I can't put my finger on what was missing," Brad sighed.
"As you get older, Brad, you'll realise that life isn't really a bed of roses. If you really love her, then what happens between you from day to day shouldn't really matter - just being together will be enough. Sometimes, you won't even have to actually make words come out of your mouth to be speaking to her, or whoever it is you love. The vibes are that strong."
"But how will I know when I'm really, properly, in love? I mean, it's not as if it comes with a label or anything."
"I remember when I met Susan, I knew it was love when one day after we had been seeing each other for about two months I suddenly realised that I could not stop thinking about her. Every minute of every day I thought about her - nothing else seemed to matter. Do you feel like that about Sarah?"
"To be honest, probably not, at least not yet."
"You know, other than fleeting visions of Susan I have no other memories of the year that we courted. Eventually you'll find yourself willing to defend her actions and support her interests unconditionally, without giving your own values a look-in. You simply do it through a sense of obligation. You may not realise you're in love straight away, but when you do realise, you'll be in no doubt at all."
Brad emptied his glass again, and reached for the bottle to replenish it. It was empty, prompting him to check his watch. It was nearly half past one. "Jesus. I've got a long day tomorrow." He stood up.
"Goodnight. See you in the morning." The two stopped outside in the corridor, ready to head their separate ways. "Brad," Stephens enquired, "doesn't it ever bother you that you are always the last one to bed, without exception, and almost always the first to get up?"
"Not really. How else would I be able to lead my contentious secret double life?" he joked.
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