Prologue | Novel

The House Husband

It was always a few degrees colder on the King John’s top playing fields. Even at midday the sun was still hidden, struggling to clear the mist that surrounded the year eleven rugby pitch. Somewhere across the expansive school grounds a gardener was having a bonfire and the woodsmoke brought a crisp autumnal smell drifting in on the breeze.

The King John’s parents stood shivering through their navy jackets, brown flat caps and floral wellies, they raised just the hint of a muddy trail leading from the carpark to brush the dew from the touchlines. The St Benedict’s parents arrived promptly, muttering about the cold, already resenting the pilgrimage across the city to the frankly underwhelming private school facilities. They stamped their feet, clapped their gloved hands and straightened their slumped Thermos flasks between their feet, like penguins shifting an egg across the tundra. However the initial air of bitterness was quickly giving way to an atmosphere of excitement. The local private/state school rivalry had brought out a much larger crowd than usual and parents from both sides agreed: today was an extra special meeting of the two. They had come to see history in the making, as two of the city’s best up and coming stars had been brought down from the first teams to play for their actual age groups.

St Benny’s star player was a bruiser – a ginormous number eight named Angus Allen. Rumour had it that St Benny’s had pinched him from the opposition in the understanding he would be signed to a certain London club the day he finished his A-Levels. He was an incredible sight: coal-coloured eyes hidden beneath a dark red scrum hat, biceps straining at the lycra around his arms, steam snorting from his nose and mouth like a dragon preparing to breath fire. The shocking red of the St Benny’s kit barely cloaked his broad shoulders and torso in one go. He didn’t move before kick-off. Angus stared across the ten meters and into the distance, hands tucked beneath his armpits exposing the entire brevity of his upper body.

At the other end, clinging to the snow white kit of King John’s, was Edmund Dunsford. A warm, polite boy who’d played full-back his entire career, as had his father before him. He was a skinny lad with a slight hunch and a ruffle of raven-coloured hair. Standing among the other already sizeable young men, he wasn’t much to look at. But what Edmund lacked in size he more than made up for in skill. He had hands made of glue and could slip through a defence like a stream slips through pebbles. His father had played professionally for a time and the pair could often be seen haunting the parks and pitches near his home passing odd, small shapes between them, conditioning the hands to catch larger objects with ease. His father was a familiar face at every game, but this weekend he was away on business (or so the rest of the parents were informed) so Edmund’s mother was standing on the touchline instead. She babbled away excitedly to the other parents, slapping her hands together and watching her son with pride.

Edmund didn’t take much notice of the hype. Through the moments before kick-off he stood on his own try-line, gently stretching and joking with his winger. The parents felt the tension more than either side of players. All except Angus; he looked murderous.

The referee, Mr Mike Welting, blew his whistle and the St Benny’s fly-half sent the rugby ball swirling into the air to start the match.

It was every bit the sensational contest the crowd had been hoping for. Angus muscled over two tries in the first half hour of play. One scored from the back of a scrum, pouring his huge bulk over the tiny scrum-half and rolling him flat like dough, the other tipped from the top of a line-out and sent straight into Angus’ arms. Charging like a bull towards the inside-centre he was finally dragged down by three King John’s players two meters over the try-line.

The home side were very silent during the last five minutes before half-time. Edmund hadn’t held the ball once and was struggling to get into the game. That was till the forty minutes were up and the St Benny’s scrum-half sent the ball towards the far touchline to end the half but undercooked it. Edmund snatched the ball from extinction with his long fingers, like an octopus snatching at its prey, performed a deft manoeuvre as he passed it to himself back into play, and flashed in the first King John’s try of the match.

Cheers erupted from the home touchline. Angus cursed foully at his scrum-half for the misplaced kick. Edmund’s mother gave her son the thumbs up as they headed in for the break.

That last try made all the difference. Suddenly the King John’s team understood the tactic. Edmund began handling the ball more and more, holding on to bad passes and skipping around the tackles like an impala escaping the lion’s jaws. He ran in two more tries in the first ten minutes of the second half to St Benny’s one. As the last minutes flew by in a stream of tired kicks and handling errors the score remained 17 - 19 to the home team.

Both sides of supporters seemed moderately happy with what would be the end result. It had been an excellent contest and both Edmund and Angus had played with the skill and determination of world-class players. The only person who didn’t seem to think so was Angus. He charged from ruck to ruck, gum shield barred, hunting down those last points. Out of the referee’s eye-line he was also stamping on faces, putting his massive forearm to throats, and threatening members of the King John’s touchline when they protested.

Moments before the game ended, St Benny’s had a twenty-two drop out. Angus walked over to his fly-half, whispered something in his ear then trudged and stood on the touchline. He was smiling, sucking on the mud caught in his wispy ginger moustache.

The St Benny’s fly-half sent the ball tall but short. Edmund was nearest and only had to scuttle backwards a few paces and the ball landed perfectly in his arms. The King John’s touchline 4 cheered; it looked like the game was over. All Edmund had to do was kick the ball off the field. Before he could do so the touch judge beside him lifted his flag for offside, a second later Angus was airborne, gliding towards Edmund in the same manner in which an anvil drops on a cartoon character’s head.

To everyone present the encounter appeared to take place in excruciating slow-motion as Angus’ shoulder connected with the bottom of Edmund’s spine and his body snapped in half. His feet went flying into the air while the back of his head smashed into the dew-stained grass. His neck bent sideways, limp body following. There was a few horrific moments of silent squirming before he shuddered into a still heap and the ball bobbled away toward the clubhouse. It was officially a knock-on. The game was over.

Referee, Mr Mike Welting, blasted on his whistle, trying desperately to end the match. But it fell on deaf ears. The King John’s touchline had exploded. Tall, wellied and jacketed King John’s fathers stormed the pitch heading for Angus, red-faced, furious. The fathers from St Benny’s were not far behind. Gathering speed they charged across the grass to protect their player.

Angus picked himself off the ground. Slowly, sheepishly, he wiped the mud away from his lips. He saw the parent’s running towards him and closed his eyes. Snatched up by his lycra collar he became suspended in mid-air, jostled this way and that, face filling up with the parent’s spittle, no one noticed as Edmund’s mother ran onto the pitch.

Collapsing a few metres from her son, she crawled on all fours towards his mop of raven coloured hair and reached out to touch his body. A body that, up till a moment ago, had been so alive, but was now just a still heap of bones, covered in pale skin. Made up in snow white lycra.

Would you like to read more of ‘The House Husband’ - please contact Henry Heffer