Leehurst Swan’s Yellow Flags

My first time seeing the grounds was in late Summer (2009). I stood beyond the mossy dry stack walls of a neighbouring meadow just about able to make out the dormant gothic redbrick of the main school building. The school’s front lawn carried a weak, parched layer of worn down sheen green. Birds flew anonymously overhead against a weary blue sky, scanning for vulnerable grubs. The adjacent clock tower stood casting a coveting shadow.

Two boys played cricket inside an astroturf cage near the clock tower. The taller of the two had taken the role of bowler while the shorter boy, equipped with an ugly navy-blue helmet, was batting. They used a makeshift wicket from plastic water bottles and a stick. Neither boy was wearing uniform but I still assumed they were boarders, part of the small group left behind over the holidays. The rattling sound of cricket balls crashing against the cage echoed across the field - reaching the meadow.

Tracing along the meadow wall, I found an overgrown back entrance gate. Brambles and rain had suffocated the steel beaming over time, allowing a parade of geraniums and erigeron to creep beneath the rusted frame. I slipped through the gate to reach the other side and scuffed my wellies anxiously against the school grass. The soil was firm and domesticated, far removed from the untamed dirt of the meadows.

Opposite the sports cages there was a small treeline of oaks. While making my way there to watch the game a deflated snap came from below. Beneath my feet was a modest yellow flag. The flag’s pole (a small wooden skewer) had cracked into two pieces, but the yellow fabric of the flag was still flapping in the wind. I thought of an injured sparrow laying in the earth, helpless twitching with one wing barely fluttering and a beady open eye faintly staring back at me.

“I thought I told you boys to leave this area alone,” a hoarse voice mumbled from the depths of the treeline. In the shade I saw a tanned and rugged man, possibly the groundskeeper? He had a round, weather-beaten face with distinctively fine features. His clothes appeared to have worn out unevenly. The torso of his muddied white polyester shirt still hung tight to his body while his sleeves lay sloppy around his forearms, with threads hanging loose at the cuffs. Emerging from the treeline, he raised a broad hairy hand to protect his eyes from the sun and with a heavy sigh continued, “D’you remember what the yellow flags mean?” I kept my arms by my side, taut against my ribs, as still as I could be. He stared at me. He must have mistaken me for a boarder. I said nothing.

We remained in a reserved silence for a few moments, interrupted only by the ambient rustle of tools jangling from his bum bag and the rhythmic crashing of the astroturf cage. Tired of this elongated staring contest, the man’s body sank and he turned to watch the game. I stood tentatively at the edge of his peripheral, observing the game alongside him. He slouched down into a low squat and asked, “D’you recall what Leehurst’s Motto is at least?” Looking back over his shoulder at me with a coy smile, he hinted, “wouldn’t blame you if didn’t.” He puffed his cheeks, putting his top lip over the bottom waiting for an answer. Again, I said nothing.

He eventually gave up and released the stocked air from his cheeks before explaining, “officium tuum exsequaris. Latin. Basically means do your job.” He paused and looked by my feet at the remains of the crippled yellow flag. Taking a deep breath before continuing, “Nothing wrong with the sayin’, just something wrong with how people think of it. They take it for granted.”

In the distance the game was getting more competitive. A low, inside ball from the shorter boy. The ball, bending its trajectory alongside the turbulence in the air, homed in on the gap between the batter’s legs. The batter, stayed tight, held the bat close to his body and bumped the ball back along the turf to the edge of the cage. The bowler took a moment to reflect. Masking his next bowl as the same inside low ball, he this time mixed in threw a outside pitch ball. The batter, unable to adjust in time, we watched as the ball bounced perfectly over the batter’s right shoulder onto the makeshift wicket, crushing the structure - sending the bottles flying across the ground.

The man rested his chin sleepily against the back of his right hand and turned his attention to the clock tower. With his left hand he slowly rolled his fingers up and down his knee, before biting down on his teeth and letting his eyes glaze over. Keeping his sight locked on the clock tower, he shuffled and grabbed an item from his right pocket. His shoulder blades retracted, neck extended overhead and torso elongated as he began to come up from his squat. He rose to his feet and proceeded to grab me by the wrists, prise my arms from my sides and gently cup my hands within his palms. I braced as he tightened his grip. His rough inflamed skin shed and calluses scratched against my knuckles.

I looked down at his boots. I wanted to look up at him, but the sun was too piercing. Noticing this, he pivoted me into his shadow and drew me closer. And uttered to me an explanation I’ve been stuck on since. He said, “Remember son, the yellow flags have one role. It’s easy for them.”

I lifted my head to meet his gaze and tried to stared into his eyes. Shapeless - his facile pupils were meek and absent, submerged beneath two pools of vapid green iris, both of which blended faintly into their surrounding pale sclera. These eyes were undefined, erratic, and vacant. Just as my body began to seize up, the man relaxed his grip and left something enclosed within my hands as he let them go.

Over in the cage, the boys had now reconstructed the make-shift wicket and were in the process of switching roles. I unlocked my hands and looked down to check what the man had given me. It was a new yellow flag.