Authors: John Van De Ruit
I’ve always struggled to understand the hidden meanings in poems, especially ones written in old English style, but somehow I had the feeling that this poem from my namesake meant more now than it did on my birthday.
23:45 No vote was needed. The final night swim needed no debate or argument. The evening was balmy and clear. Perfect. The full moon would surely help our final assault on the holy grail of illegal, after lights out entertainment. We could have done it with our eyes closed. The roof, the window, the gallery, the chapel, the crypt, the rose garden, the lemon tree, the great open field, over the fence and then the warm water washing over us. We were playing again, diving in and splashing each other. There was Rambo chasing a giggling Vern, Boggo creeping up to scare Fatty and Simon, and Mad Dog climbing up the tree to launch himself into the dark water below. We may be one short, but the Crazy Seven is still one helluva collection of nutters!
Then we were running and laughing, still trying to trip one another as we galloped back across the field. Somewhere a big dog barked – Mad Dog barked back at it. There was nothing to be afraid of anymore. We were just a bunch of fourteen-year-olds charging across a rugby field in our underpants in the middle of the night.
D Day!
09:00 The Glock bade us farewell in the final assembly and dished out scores more awards and certificates. He finished in a booming voice before striding out of the Great Hall with his black academic gown as always billowing out behind him.
We all shook hands and said our goodbyes. Even Pike was in high spirits and told me to have a good holiday before trying to spit on my shoes.
Gradually, the crowd of boys filtered off to their parents’ luxury cars. Dad would be an hour late, but that was okay – there was somewhere I wanted to go.
As I clambered up the slope I felt the sweat gathering in sticky pools around my body. The African summer is ruthless, especially in full school uniform.
I’d been avoiding Hell’s View since Gecko’s death but now I wanted one more look before I left. One more chance to check out the valley below me. One more time to watch and remember.
I’d forgotten how beautiful it is up there. Everything was so alive and full of colour. Brightly coloured birds and butterflies were everywhere and at last the Christmas beetles were back with their shrill summer screech. Below me the lush green fields and stark red brick buildings seemed to be magically sculpted out of the landscape. I felt proud to almost live in a place this beautiful. Away to the right were the cricket fields and Trafalgar, and then the bog stream and Crispo’s old house. I could see his arum lilies, little white specks against the green. The old man was right: looking at them did make you feel better. I remember him in his rocking chair beside the fire. He turned to me and said something I haven’t forgotten.
‘Remember, boy, God gave us the greatest gift of all.
Not love, health, beauty, not even life. But choice… God’s greatest gift is choice!’
I’m not really sure why I thought of his words at that particular moment. Maybe as I grow older they will suddenly change the way I look at the world, but it seems to me that God often doesn’t give us a choice. He deals the cards and we play them.
Below me an old green station wagon made its way up Pilgrim’s Walk. A black and white bird with a bright orange crest hopped onto my rock, glared at me rather suspiciously and then flew off after a locust. I stood up, stretched my back and took one last look around me. Then I stumbled down the slope to meet my father.