Lowewood Academy

The shivering and chattering of my teeth must have woken Ed. I had wakened in the middle of the night lying in a pool of my own sweat but freezing cold. I forced myself to climb out of bed and put my dressing gown on, but it didn’t help at all. I lay awake, head spinning and body shaking for what seemed like an eternity, trying to convince myself that whatever bug I’d caught would soon pass and I’d be fine to play in tomorrow afternoon’s rugby match until Ed came over.

“Bloody hell mate, you look a right state.”

I tried to answer, but found I could only croak.

“Better get you down to the san. Get some medicine into you before it takes a hold.”

I can’t say I really wanted to go to the san, but I was in no fit state to protest. Ed helped me out of bed and half carried me into the corridor and down the stairs.
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“Oh, go on!”

“I dare you!”

“Oh you must, it’s too good to resist!”

The gang of us smothered our laughter again as best we could at the sight which we’d stumbled on. Believe me, it wasn’t easy! Another snore reverberated up from the riverbank and we stifled our own snorts in response. Poor old Perkins: flat out on his back in the autumn sunshine, sleeping off his lunch, far removed from the horrors of lower sixth geography at Lowewood. Or so he thought…

This was so cool, being out of school at last on our first weekend trip to the village. Lowerton is pretty small and quaint, it ain’t exactly Camden Market! But hey, you take what you can get when you’re cooped up in a boarding school all week, and it was double celebrations for Lydia and me: we’d also escaped Saturday detention!

I really couldn’t have faced that two weeks’ running… and I don’t think Lyds would handle it too great either frankly. Her poor tender newbie-butt still bore traces of bruising from Beth’s caning, whilst my backside was clearly striped from the combination of that and last weekend’s detention. I guess that must be what had kept us on the straight and narrow, but anyway we’d escaped censure since and had clawed back some valuable housepoints to try to make amends for the netball disaster.

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I surveyed the scene.

Alex ap Iorwerth was standing in the corner, trousers and pants around his ankles, hands on head. I’d decorated his bottom with ten strokes of the tawse which stood out, livid, against his skin. He’d taken them well, but there’d been a tremble in his voice as he counted the last three or four. Good. He was sorry.

Looking at the second person waiting for my attention, I knew that here, was a tough cookie. Or looking at it another way, an arrogant little tosser who I was going to greatly enjoy beating. Not exactly the proper sentiments, but who gave a toss. I bet Richard had had moments exactly like this last year and he’d never given quarter to anyone. Especially not me.

William de Lacey. Cocksure, egotistical, over-confident, supercilious. Oh, and mean to boot. The De Lacey family obviously bred their boys like this, because he was almost a carbon copy of his brother Rufus. At least Rufus had learnt the art of winding me up more subtly.

By now, I’d managed, thanks to some sage advice from Lord Fawcett, to instil a wary respect from the new boys’ intake, something I’d received automatically, by virtue of my badge, from the Lowewood girls. Oh sure, they’d still give me trouble this year. But I could handle that. Apart from two of them, who I heartily wished anywhere but Dashwood. These were William and Joseph Garvey Flanders the III.

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