Free The Colony of Unrequited Dreams by Wayne Johnston Page B

grounds that afternoon. Eager to hear what Reeves had said to the others, I showed up early, stood in the shelter of the entrance to the gym, facing the harbour. Beyond the Narrows, the water was as black as slate. The metallic smell of an approaching storm was in the air. Snow eddied across the open field and down the unpaved icy length of Bond Street. It would be so dark by five o’clock that the snow as it fell would be invisible. Finally, the others began to arrive, hands stuffed in the pockets of their overcoats, heads bent to keep their caps from blowing off.
    It turned out that Reeves had tried to get each of them to admit that I had written the letter, claiming that he had already been told by one of the students that I had and that he was merely seeking confirmation of my guilt. Prowse demanded that each of the boys swear an oath, bare hands on their hearts despite the cold: “May I die this night if I wrote that letter.” Everyone, Slogger and the other ’Tories, the Lepers, the Townies, me and finally Prowse, swore the oath.
    Then Prowse revealed that Reeves had threatened that unless he was soon told who had written the letter, he would mark them all so far down for character that the diploma they received upon graduation would be worthless.
    “You did this, didn’t you, Smallwood?” Prowse said, suddenly turning on me, putting his face to within an inch of mine. “You were the only dorm boy in town over Christmas.”
    I felt sick to my stomach, as though at the memory of some warning I had been too proud to heed. “I didn’t write any letters to anyone,” I said, staring at him.
    “You’ve got to tell us if you did it, Smallwood,” Prowse said, turning up his collar as the wind blew a gust of snow across the field. “It’s a good joke, really it is, a great joke, but it goes too far.”
    “I’m not going to admit to something I didn’t do,” I said.
    “There’s a lot riding on this for some of us, you know,” Prowse said. “We can’t afford to be marked down.”
    “But I can, is that it?” I said. “Someone might have put in that bit about the dorms to frame me.”
    “Are you accusing someone?” Prowse said.
    “No one in particular,” I said. “I can’t think of anyone that smart.”
    “The evidence points to Smallwood,” Slogger said. “We’ll have to tan his arse until he confesses. You might as well confess, Smallwood, and spare yourself a caning.”
    I looked appealingly at Prowse.
    “We’ve got to do something , Smallwood,” Prowse said, almost sheepishly. “Look, I don’t know if you did it, but we’ve got to do something .”
    “I did it. I sent the letter.”
    We turned and there was Fielding, her cane planted in the snow in front of her, her back to Spencer. She must have gone up on the road and come down on the Feild side of the fence, then marched across the playing grounds unnoticed to us, unheard because of the wind.
    “I did it,” Fielding said. “It was me. I did it to get back at Smallwood.”
    I looked at Prowse, who seemed almost at the point of panic he was so confused. It was a crucial moment for him and he knew it. Everyone looked at him.
    “What shall we do with her, Prowse?” Slogger said.
    Prowse looked at me, and for a second, I thought he was going to overrule Fielding’s confession with one of his own. “She’ll — she’ll be expelled,” said Prowse. “That’s enough.”
    “Not for me it’s not,” Slogger said. “I say we flog her bare arse.”
    “I say we let her go,” said Prowse.
    “What’s the matter, Prowse?” Slogger said. “Afraid of what Reeves will say?”
    “I’m not afraid of anything,” Prowse said. He grabbed Fielding’s cane away from her so quickly she almost fell forward into the snow. “Quick,” Prowse said, “before someone sees us.”
    With the rest of us following, several of the Townies hustled Fielding into the manual-training centre, where woodworking was taught but which at that time of day