A three-part story: Part 1
The evening had finally arrived—the one that Nicholas and I had been planning for ages but kept putting off because the timing was never quite right. It was early February in 1988, with a light dusting of snow, biting winds, and temperatures barely above freezing. Conditions weren't ideal, but it was winter in Wales. My suntan from Oman had long faded, leaving me with my usual pasty-white complexion. While I experienced bouts of homesickness, there was plenty of fun to be had, and tonight would be no exception. Nick and I struggled to concentrate in class, our secret plans too risky to share; with genuine snitches in our class, tell one person and you'd told the world! At break time, we walked to the massive Lebanese cedar tree on the muddy school lawn, facing the edge of the woods covered in damp leaves. The only green came from the occasional pine tree standing out among the bare, grey trunks. We stood side by side, whispering as the distant sound of a chainsaw filled the air. Adrenaline coursed through me. “Do we have torches?” I asked, just as three girls walked back into the classroom. “Yep, I’ve got two,” replied Nick, who was always prepared. “Do you think we should paint our faces, camouflage style?” I suggested. “I can get some paint from the art room.” “No—while it might help in the forest, we can’t wash it off later.” “Okay, but I don’t have black clothes—just navy blue and brown.” “Anything dark will work, but black might be a bit much,” Nick agreed. “We don’t want to look like bank robbers.” The thought of "up there" excited me. We looked and spoke like characters in a war film plotting our escape, which we were—though we planned to come back. Alex approached, easily identifiable with his Norwich City scarf pulled up to his nose. “What are you two doing?” he asked suspiciously. “Just…talking about…building a den,” Nick said quickly. “When? Tonight?” “No, this weekend…” I hoped he would go away, and thankfully, he returned to the classroom. He was a day boy, part of a different world. By the time we’d be out in the woods, he would be at home with his cat. Nice, but Nick and I had something far more exciting in mind. As we walked to the forest, Nick took a handful of Sugar Puffs from his parka pocket. We shared them, gazing at the path ahead. “I can’t wait; this is going to be great,” I said, smiling at him while wiping my runny nose for what felt like the umpteenth time. The cold damp seeped into my scuffed black school shoes. A gust of wind sent shivers down my spine. “This path,” he pointed ahead, “leads to the clearing. We just need to decide whether to follow the road or head across the fields.” “Cool! I’m going back to the classroom; I’m freezing. Are you coming?” A mix of rain and snow blew into our faces. “Yes…but let’s really do this tonight. We keep putting it off. No word to anyone, especially Matthew. He’ll tell Donna, and she’ll tell everyone—including the teachers.” She really would. Back in the warmth of the classroom, we opened our desks, which still stank of Lynx Oriental—we had sprayed a bit too much weeks ago. Three girls played noughts and crosses on the blackboard, while Edward and Andrew munched on Opal Fruits and pored over battered National Geographic copies. Mr. Evans arrived with rain-specked history textbooks, his tweed trousers a tad short and his hair reminiscent of Doc from *Back to the Future*, his Valleys accent rolling each 'r' like it was part of his identity. “Morning, everyone. Rrrrright, girls, clean that off, please…” he boomed. “Ah, Sir, it’s still break time!” Natasha protested, her perm resembling Mark Hughes’s hair. “What are we doing today?” Matthew called from the back, managing to put Huw in a headlock. “Arkwright’s Spinning Jenny,” Mr. Evans replied with a smile. No one knew what that was, but it sounded boring, and we groaned collectively. No one wanted to do anything—except for Alex, who sat bolt upright like a soldier, ready to take notes. The rest of the day was a blur for me and Nicholas as we focused on our adventure ahead. That evening, we had three after-school activities: cadets with Commander Fry, who ran us ragged; Art with Mrs. Bell, which meant "draw what you want but keep the noise down"; or woodwork with Mr. Phillips—a cozy setting where we could listen to music. We chose woodwork and told Mr. Fry we’d leave cadets. He didn’t seem bothered by our decision; we were the antithesis of the boys he preferred. He liked alpha boys who could run for miles—not two skinny nerds who couldn’t manage five push-ups. “Wren! Come on…your father is in the Navy!” he would say. True, but I wasn’t. I was always expected to be a miniature Navy officer. No thanks. We told Mr. Phillips we were considering woodwork for next week, and he was fine with it, as long as “Commander Fry knows.” He did, believing we’d attend woodwork tonight. Yes, it was a lie, but we’d gained a grace period for one evening where each activity leader thought we were somewhere else. Everything would be fine—just so long as no one looked for us. We bolted down dinner, readying ourselves for prep, after which we’d finally be on our way. Sitting in class doing homework, I struggled to concentrate from nerves and excitement, frequently checking the clock. Mrs. Morgan sat at the front, reading a newspaper and pausing occasionally to ensure we were working. Most of us were doodling or passing notes, as was customary. The classic trick was to hide a magazine inside an atlas and pretend to study, but it depended on which teacher supervised prep. Some patrolled like passport officers; others simply read newspapers, barking “Shush! Get on with your work!” It was dark now, and despite the chilly wind, the sky was clear, so we’d stay dry. “Right, pack up, please…” said Mrs. Morgan, quickly out the door and to her car. I understood exactly how she felt. Everyone headed back to their dorms to change for evening activities, but we lingered behind, waiting until everyone had left. As we walked the short distance to the boarding house, Nick tapped me on the shoulder and half-whispered, “Go to the toilet.” “What?” “Go to the toilet; I’m going too. Wait until the others change; otherwise, they’ll ask about our dark clothes. Then we can get changed when they’re all out of the dorm.” Nick was smart; he had it all figured out. This was already turning into a very exciting evening. Where were we going? My home - less than 20 minutes from my boarding school. It was a very strange situation, and I could actually see my garden from the dorm window. Mum and dad were in Oman, I was at school, but tonight I'd be home again....sort of.
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