Summer Half

I'm not sure there's a better time of year than the summer half at school. The smell of freshly mown grass this week, the sound of ball on willow, and the feel of the sun on my back has made me appreciate all things summer. Ok, it may not be technically summer yet, but it certainly looks and feels like it, and it's wonderful.

The first thing I look forward to about the summer half is the sport. There's the cricket. The tennis. The athletics. All designed for being played in pleasant weather. No scene encapsulates the summer better than that of eleven men resplendent in white tossing around a red cork ball against a background of verdant foliage. It tingles the senses.

Then there’s the extra daylight. British summer hours means long evenings past eight o’clock, allowing for games of football on the fields after supper and getting into bed with the setting sun. Gone are those lugubrious days of December, where it seemed like the street lamps were never switched off.

The summer half brings a new, better timetable too. Afternoon divs are switched from after games to before them, meaning that cricket and tennis practices begin in the late-afternoon and carry on until supper. This often means a dash back to the house or Bekynton for food, hoping not all of it has been scoffed.

Some things also look different in the summer. Gone are the bulky overcoats, the hats and the gloves. In their place are brightly-coloured blazers (for rowers and senior members of the house) and half-dress on especially hot days (when the waistcoat and tailcoat can be replaced by a simple suit jacket).

But the main difference in school life in the summer half, in my opinion, is the relaxed atmosphere. Which is surprising given the impending doom of exams for most of the school, but something that can be explained by all of the above. The long mild evenings are perfect stress relievers, as are the impromptu kick-arounds, something just not possible during the other halves. The sight of garish blazers at every street corner makes life seem less serious, and the absence of particularly competitive sports (cricket not quite matching the football and Field Game house rivalries) gives the place a more genteel atmosphere. Summer may be a time for studying, but it is an also opportunity to lounge on fields, stroll along the river, grab a Mr Whippy and play the odd spot of tennis. The gallop of the Michalemas and Lent halves slows down to a trot.

Several times over the past week I’ve noticed this effect on the people in my house. One B blocker, not the friendliest guy at times, has on two occasions let me through the door before him. Without even a‘ladies first’ I should add. And the D blocker in the room next door to me has kept his music at a very reasonable level, playing some decent tunes as well. It’s all been very welcome.

Even Runty has appeared mellower. Rather than dominate the conversation at lunch as usual, telling everyone how much booze he drinks and how many girls he pulls, he’s been far more civilised. Today he even seemed interested in my opinion on the England test match, which is a first for him.

However, whilst everyone else has thought nothing of this change in personality, I've been somewhat suspicious. Why should Runty be acting kindly all of a sudden? What event in his life could have prompted such a change? Could he have experienced a Damascene conversion?  It was all a bit of a mystery.

Or that's what I thought.

History tells us that the greatest discoveries are often unintentional, and so it was with Runty. On the Tuesday of this week it happened that I needed to borrow a book from Runty to help me with my EW. Convention dictates at Eton that you don't need to knock on someone’s door before entering if they're in the same block as you, (rude, I know), so I just barged straight in.

What greeted me was not a scene of nudity (thank God), or even an explicit video being watched. Instead, Runty was sat there talking on his phone, but in a way I had never heard him speak before. His voice was soft and simpering. Pathetic even.

Upon seeing me his face changed. A mixture of embarrassment and anger flooded his cheeks, and he motioned angrily at me to get out . Indeed, his reaction was so violent that whereas normally I would have hung around and jumped on his bed to annoy him, I felt frightened and left immediately.

In the safety of my room I pondered over what I had just witnessed. I had never seen Runty react like that before. Why had he done so? He had been in a good mood earlier in the evening so it's not like he was having a tough time. The answer surely lay in the person he was talking to on the phone. It must have been someone important, important enough to warrant such a reaction. But who could it have been? His mum or dad perhaps, possibly bringing bad news? Or his little sister ringing on her birthday? But somehow that didn't seem likely.

Slowly I thought back to how he had been speaking when I'd burst in. It was like the way toddlers talk to their mums; gooey, sickly. Not what you'd expect from a teenage boy certainly. But then I realised I'd heard this same type of voice from other friends at previous times. They had also been on the phone when I'd caught them. And who they been talking to? It suddenly clicked! Their girlfriends. They'd been talking to their girlfriends! Runty had a girlfriend!

I don't think I've ever felt so pleased with my detective work before. I gave it twenty minutes before I sprinted back downstairs to confront Runty with my theory.

‘You’ve got a girlfriend, haven’t you?!’ I said, bursting in.

‘No,’ he said, his face turning red.

‘You have! I know it! That's who you were speaking to on the phone!'

‘Well, kind of’ he muttered. ‘It’s complicated you see.’

I had him! My theory had been proved correct. Runty had a (sort of) girlfriend!

Now, there’s nothing wrong with a seventeen year old boy having a girlfriend. In fact, it’s positively normal. But the idea of Runty having one, after years of claiming to be a womaniser, struck me as hugely ironic.

It's funny, although one part of me is jealous. Why can't I get a girlfriend? The Princess for instance. But for the most part I’m pleased. If a girlfriend is going to make him more docile then I’m all in favour of it. Indeed, maybe it could lead to a rapprochement between us two, an alliance of some sorts.

I say this because Dark Horse has also come back from the holidays behaving rather differently. Unlike Runty, however, it is for the worse. His smug attitude and over-confidence has increased even further, and my fear is that he sees his election as house captain as a done deal. Perhaps he knows something I don’t - after all, his parents did visit our house master at the end of last term. But there's no doubt he can be stopped. He's not an unstoppable force. If Runty and I were to somehow join forces, form a coalition of some sort, then maybe, maybe we could take him down. Because it’s reached the point where I’d almost rather have Runty than Dark Horse as house captain.

Perhaps I've been overtaken by the whole general election fever. Maybe I’m seeing opportunities for electioneering where there are none. But if I’ve learnt anything from the past few weeks, as candidates from each political party have been toppled by unsavoury allegations, it’s that smear campaigns do work. And if smear campaigns work on future MPs, then they can surely work on Dark Horse and the house captaincy.

Which leaves only one thing for me and Runty to do: get digging!