Silver Fin Page 7

  As they hit the first major hill, two or three of the leaders slowed down and dropped back, which encouraged James. He dug his feet into the soft ground and almost flew up the slope. As they sped down the far side, the gaps between the runners widened, so that the leading group was getting very strung out. James measured his steps, keeping them even, working his body just as much as felt safe. In the weeks since the underwater swimming race with Butcher, the chubby horn-player had been working with him every day on his breathing. He pictured his lungs working like a mechanical pump, smooth and regular, filling slowly with air, extracting the precious oxygen, then releasing the spent gas in a long, even flow, but the signs of stress were beginning to show; there was a rawness in his throat and his heart was hammering away in his chest like a blacksmith at the forge, forcing the blood to his hungry, aching leg muscles, but in a way the pain felt good. He was on his own, running against himself as much as against the other boys.

  They came to the second hill, which passed without incident, then the third and biggest of them all, Parson’s Hill, where there was a hard climb, up a winding track through the trees, which got steeper as it rose. James had to shorten his steps, and for the first time he could feel his body really straining. No matter, it was a strain he could deal with. He could certainly cope better than Gellward, who he had been running behind and using as a pacemaker; halfway up, the wiry boy stopped and bent over, clutching his side and gasping for air. James passed him and even put on a bit of speed so that he was soon behind the next runner.

  There was a short, flat section at the top of the hill before the even steeper descent, where two marshals stood counting the runners. James glanced from side to side – they were Sedgepole and Pruitt, but he thought nothing of it as he was concentrating fully on his running.

  The top of Parson’s marked the halfway point and, as they came down the other side, the going got very tough. The track was made up of loose dirt and shingle, plus some larger stones that the lead runners had already kicked into life. James had to be very careful not to lose his footing, and all he could do was focus on his feet directly in front of him. He lost track of most of the other boys but, in the mad scramble down the slope, he saw another runner fall and go skidding and sliding off into bushes. James slowed down; it would be terrible to go out of the race through a silly and careless accident, but he got down without mishap and joined the tail of the leading group.

  He looked round. There was Carlton, and Forster, but where was Hellebore? What had happened to him in the chaos of the hill? James glanced behind him. Gellward was leading a second, smaller pack of runners. Hellebore might be one of them; they were too far back for him to see clearly… Or was it possible that he had got in front? What if, even now, he was streaking ahead by himself? James knew that the hardest part of the course was behind them, so he could risk pulling forward and setting the pace for a while. He urged his body on and steadily moved through the pack of puffing boys until he was level with the leader, Carlton, who turned and made a face at him that said, ‘This is tough, isn’t it?’

  ‘Have you seen Hellebore?’ James panted.

  Carlton shook his head.

  ‘Is there anyone ahead of us?’ James asked.

  ‘Not sure…’ Carlton grunted. ‘Don’t think so.’

  There was only one way to find out. James increased his speed still more and left the others behind. Now he was truly alone, out ahead by himself, and running faster than he had wanted to at this stage. He must keep some strength left for the final long, straight haul up to the finishing line. But where was Hellebore? James cursed himself for not paying more attention as they came down Parson’s Hill.

  He pounded up the next, mercifully smaller, hill, took a great wide turn and was suddenly aware of something moving, away to his right, through the bushes. He glanced up; it had been a streak of white but now it was gone. There was a long high ridge running alongside the track that would have extended all the way from the top of Parson’s. Could it have been a boy? Another runner? Surely not. He must have imagined it.

  He accelerated and tore round a tight corner between steep banks, and there, just ahead of him, was Hellebore! But it was not possible that James could have caught up with him so quickly. If George had been on the track ahead, James would definitely have seen him before now.

  There was only one explanation.

  Hellebore must have cheated and taken a short cut; instead of coming down the hill, he had nipped off to the side, knowing that the other runners would have been too busy trying not to fall over to notice him. James crackled through a pile of twigs and fallen wood and Hellebore heard him. He glanced back and looked very surprised to see James catching up with him fast.

  James spotted a course marshal ahead of them. If Hellebore had taken a short cut, this boy would surely have seen, but as they drew nearer James saw with disappointment that it was Wallace, standing there scratching his big, square head, a self-satisfied smirk plastered across his lips.

  Suddenly Hellebore staggered to a halt and clutched his chest.

  James slowed down.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he said.

  ‘Stitch,’ said Hellebore bluntly. ‘I’ll be fine…’

  James ran on. Well, if he had been cheating, it had got him nowhere. James grinned, but his happiness was short-lived. He’d used up a lot of energy scouting ahead, and now he felt utterly worn out. His body, which had seemed so light before, now felt like a dead weight. Never mind, he was confident that he was in the lead, so he could afford to slow down slightly as the main pack must still be some way behind and Hellebore appeared to have stopped altogether.

  He took long, easy strides and, as he broke free of the thick overhead branches of oak and beech and entered a small clearing, he felt the sun warm on his back. The leaves of the trees were lit up, bright yellow and gold, and the sky above was a beautiful clear blue. He turned his face up and breathed in the soft air… and then he saw it again: a streak of white off to one side. He stopped and peered down through the trees. It was Hellebore. He’d taken another short cut. The track here followed a wide sweep round the side of a hill, but Hellebore had gone crashing through the undergrowth straight down the side, cutting off the whole corner. That was why he’d pretended to have a stitch, so that James wouldn’t see him leave the track.

  The only person who would have known was Sedgepole.

  What to do now? The code of honour of the school meant that he couldn’t accuse Hellebore of cheating, particularly as the only witness was Wallace, who could deny everything.

  Damn him. This wasn’t fair.

  James turned and ran back up the track. He had to tell Carlton and the others. After a couple of minutes he saw Carlton running alone, and he waited for him to catch up. Carlton slowed to a grateful stop and rested his hands on his knees. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said, his voice broken and husky.

  ‘It’s Hellebore,’ said James. ‘He’s cheating. I saw him take a short cut down the hill.’

  ‘Typical.’ Carlton straightened up and peered into the trees. ‘He wants to win so much, he doesn’t care how he does it. Well, that’s that, then,’ he spat. ‘We can’t catch him.’

  ‘I could,’ said James. ‘If I followed him, I might catch him up… But then, I’d be cheating too.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Carlton, smiling. ‘You had this race in the bag, Bond. I could never have caught you if you hadn’t come back.’ Carlton smiled. ‘Go after him. He deserves it, the dirty cheat.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Go on… I’ll square it with the others. See you at the finishing line.’

  James took a deep breath and leapt over the side of the path down into bushes, all his pain and tiredness forgotten.

  There was no track here, so he had to pick his way through boulders and shrubs and fallen logs in a crazy headlong rush down the slope. At one point he tripped and went spinning, head over heels, through a patch of nettles, badly stinging his face an
d arms, but he barely felt it; all he was thinking about was catching up with Hellebore.

  In a minute he came back on to the track. He’d missed out a long stretch, but where was the other boy?

  There! A couple of hundred yards or so ahead, lumbering down the path towards the edge of the forest with the open parkland and the finishing line beyond.

  For a moment James felt desperately weak and tired. George had missed out two sections of the track, so he hadn’t run nearly as far as James, who had also been forced to run back a fair distance to meet Carlton, burning up both energy and time.

  Well, this was a real test, then. Could he catch up with George?

  He wasn’t going to give up now. He was at least going to try.

  James forced his feet to run faster, his lungs to breathe deeper, his heart to force the blood round his aching system quicker. He could barely feel his legs; they were jelly-like, separate from the rest of his body. He worried that they might just pack up and collapse under him.

  This was the hardest thing he had ever done. None of his training could have prepared him for this. His body was telling him to stop, telling him that it couldn’t go on, that he had used up every last drop of strength; but his mind was telling him to go on. He wasn’t going to be told what to do by his stupid body.

  He could do it.

  Up ahead, Hellebore was nearly at the edge of the trees now, but he was tired too, he had slowed right down and was struggling to keep going.

  The ground took one last dip downwards. James growled through his clenched teeth and found another pocket of strength from somewhere. It was like breaking through an invisible barrier: suddenly he was racing forward, his feet gliding over the ground.

  He was going to do it. He was going to get past Hellebore.

  Hellebore finally became aware, too late, that there was someone behind him. He looked back and his red face twisted with fear and anger. Still James raced on. Nothing could stop him. He was level, and now he was pulling ahead.

  In his anger and frustration, Hellebore tried to trip James up, lashing out with a leg, but James’s senses were on full alert and he simply hopped higher as Hellebore’s foot passed harmlessly beneath him. In the process, however, the American tripped himself up and went tumbling off the path into a boggy patch of mud and rotten logs. James heard a splash behind him but didn’t risk looking back. He hadn’t won the race yet.

  Then he was out into the light, and he could see the spectators way up ahead and hear their faint shouts. His vision was blurring, everything swimming in and out of focus, his blood whistling in his ears with the sound of a waterfall. He was covered in sweat; it was thick and oily on his skin. It stung his eyes, it dripped into his gaping mouth, it filled his running shoes.

  He tried to keep his pace up, but faltered. It was too much, he’d pushed himself too far. He slowed down, closed his eyes and a wave of blackness crashed over him. He was asleep on his feet.

  But then a tiny voice spoke up at the back of his mind. ‘Come on, Bond,’ it said. ‘Keep going…’

  No, wait a minute, he recognised that voice. He opened his eyes and looked to one side; there was his little group of friends – Pritpal and Tommy Chong, Butcher… And there was Mr Merriot; it was his voice that James had heard.

  ‘Come on, Bond… Keep moving!’

  ‘Go on, James,’ yelled Pritpal. ‘There’s no one can catch you!’

  James glanced back; there was no sign of Hellebore. It was a clear run home. That cheered him up. He was able to summon up one final burst of energy… and he was home, staggering across the finishing line, the tape wrapped round his chest. He wobbled on for a few steps then fell to the ground, surrounded by a group of cheering boys. He closed his eyes once again, and for a moment he was bobbing in the waves on a sunny beach somewhere a million miles away… but then all the pain he’d been holding back flooded in, from his ruined muscles, the stings on his face and arms, his scalded throat, his tattered lungs. He groaned and someone helped him to his feet.

  It was Mr Merriot.

  ‘Don’t lie there, Bond, you’ll seize up.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Don’t apologise, boy. You’ve won. I knew you could do it.’

  ‘Who… Who came second, sir?’

  ‘They’re only just coming in now.’ Mr Merriot pointed and James looked back to see Carlton, plodding doggedly along, an expression of mingled pain and concentration on his face, and, behind him, covered in green mud and limping badly, was Hellebore.

  The boys cheered them in. Carlton was lifted into the air by his supporters, who knew that the cup was his, and Hellebore fell to his knees, his face in his hands. He was alone. All his friends were out on the track and there was only his father here.

  Lord Hellebore took one look at his son, in third place, the loser, and turned away, disgusted.

  It was an awful thing to see.

  George Hellebore raised his face towards his father and James saw that he was crying. Tears had made little tracks through the mud plastered to his cheeks.

  ‘I did my best, Dad…’

  But his father wasn’t listening.

  George suddenly turned and glared at James.

  ‘You,’ he said, getting to his feet.

  ‘Forget it,’ said James. ‘It’s all over.’

  George limped over to him. ‘You could never have caught up with me, Bond,’ he said. ‘Unless…’

  ‘Unless what?’ said James as boys began to gather round them, sensing a fight. ‘Unless I’d cheated? Is that what you were going to say, Hellebore?’ James stared into the boy’s red eyes. ‘Are you accusing me of being a cheat?’

  George looked round at the other boys, then down at his feet.

  ‘No,’ he muttered. Then he turned and pushed his way through the crowd. Someone started to laugh, then someone else, until all of them were laughing, and George Hellebore hunched his back and appeared to shrink.

  But James couldn’t join in the laughter. A bitter taste had come into his mouth.

  This wasn’t the end. From now on, things could only get worse.

  7

  Red Kelly

  Dearest James

  I am afraid that your poor Uncle Max is not getting any better and I do not feel that I can leave him just at the moment. I therefore think that it would be for the best if you made the journey up to Scotland and spent your Easter holidays with us here in Keithly. I am sure that it would do your uncle a power of good to have a young person about the place, and I must confess that I have missed you terribly. I am enclosing your ticket and some extra money for food. I can’t tell you how much I am looking forward to seeing you again.

  Your loving aunt,

  Charmian

  James was on the train to London, re-reading the letter from his aunt. The last two weeks of the half had passed without incident as life at the school returned to normal. Despite his fears, James kept his head down and managed to keep out of George Hellebore’s way altogether.

  Before the cup, he had been concentrating so hard on his running that he had almost forgotten about his studies, and his brief moment of fame as the winner of the cross-country race soon faded. It was back to the reality of the daily slog – early school, breakfast, chapel, then classes in the various odd buildings scattered around town: New Schools, Queen’s, Warre, Caxton, Drill Hall and all the others that he had had to memorise.

  He still got lost at least twice a day.

  At twelve he would lug his books to pupil-room and work away on Latin grammar and writing Latin verses and countless other deathly dull exercises under the amused eye of Mr Merriot, with only Codrose’s awful lunch to look forward to. After lunch he would wander in the town or play sports or work alone in his room, and on two days a week there would be more lessons: Latin, mathematics, history, French, English… one after the other in dreary succession. And the rules: never roll your umbrella, never be seen chewing in the street, never turn down the collar of your coat… It was
a relief to be getting away from it all.

  And it was a relief to be back in his own clothes. He hated the stifling school uniform with its itchy trousers, stiff collar and awkward little tie. He hated the ridiculous top hat and the waistcoat. He was wearing a plain-blue, short-sleeved, cotton shirt and grey flannel trousers and he felt like he was himself again, not someone pretending to be a smart schoolboy.

  He was sharing his compartment with three other boys, including Butcher the horn-player, and they were all chatting excitedly about their plans for the short holiday.

  ‘I expect I shall have a pretty quiet time of it,’ said James. ‘Stuck up in the wilds of Scotland with only grown-ups for company.’

  ‘Oh, I should think I shall have an equally boring time in London,’ said Butcher. ‘My eldest brother’s away in the navy, so I’ll be all on my own with my mother and father. Although they have promised to take me to a concert on Saturday at the Albert Hall.’

  James smiled but said nothing. Butcher didn’t know how lucky he was, to be returning home to his old familiar house and the love of his parents. That was something that James would never be able to do again.

  James folded his letter away. It was best not to dwell on these things.

  At Paddington station he said goodbye to his travelling companions and dragged his suitcase down the escalator to the Underground station, from where he was to travel across London to meet his connection at King’s Cross.

  The train was packed and uncomfortable and filled with the thick, choking smoke from a hundred cigarettes and pipes, which turned the air yellow. James couldn’t find a seat and stood up as best he could, rattled and jolted from side to side as the rickety carriage trundled beneath the streets of London. It was a huge relief to finally arrive and come up out of the smoky depths into the wide-open spaces of King’s Cross station with its great roof of iron and glass.