The Heidie
by Pat Black
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: Barry shouldn't have played headers and volleys in the schoolyard. Didn't he know that? So a trip to the dreaded red bench beckons.
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Barry did as he was told and sat down on the red bench. Normally the rich raspberry sound the leather made as he sat down would have amused him. But not when he had the heidie to think about.
It was Miss Tanner who’d pulled him in, right after school finished. He’d been pinging a tennis ball off the grilled windows of the auxiliary department. Barry had wanted to see how many times he could volley the ball off the meshwork, imagining it was the netting at Hampden Park. He’d clanged home forty-one perfect finishes in a row when Mrs Tanner had appeared at a window, octopus eyes bulging behind her specs.
“Barry Tierney, get to the red bench!”
Barry shrugged it off as his mates hooted but his eyes watered as he made his way to the bench outside the heidie’s office. He imagined the heidie marching up and down in there, practising his swing. The primary sevens said he still gave you the belt, if he felt you deserved it. No witnesses.
He heard footsteps approaching from the end of the corridor. Big strides, sharp report of boots on the polished floor. Perhaps the heidie was taking a long run-up; maybe he’d fly towards him, belt poised over his shoulder, black gown flaring out behind him like Dracula’s cape.
The door at the end of the corridor flew open and Barry jolted in fright. But it was only the jannie. “Hol, what are you daein’ there?”
“I’ve been sent to see the heidie,” Barry said.
“Eh? The heidie went hame ages ago,” the jannie said. “Come on, get out o’ there. I’ve got to lock up.”
Swearwords: None.
Description: Barry shouldn't have played headers and volleys in the schoolyard. Didn't he know that? So a trip to the dreaded red bench beckons.
_____________________________________________________________________
Barry did as he was told and sat down on the red bench. Normally the rich raspberry sound the leather made as he sat down would have amused him. But not when he had the heidie to think about.
It was Miss Tanner who’d pulled him in, right after school finished. He’d been pinging a tennis ball off the grilled windows of the auxiliary department. Barry had wanted to see how many times he could volley the ball off the meshwork, imagining it was the netting at Hampden Park. He’d clanged home forty-one perfect finishes in a row when Mrs Tanner had appeared at a window, octopus eyes bulging behind her specs.
“Barry Tierney, get to the red bench!”
Barry shrugged it off as his mates hooted but his eyes watered as he made his way to the bench outside the heidie’s office. He imagined the heidie marching up and down in there, practising his swing. The primary sevens said he still gave you the belt, if he felt you deserved it. No witnesses.
He heard footsteps approaching from the end of the corridor. Big strides, sharp report of boots on the polished floor. Perhaps the heidie was taking a long run-up; maybe he’d fly towards him, belt poised over his shoulder, black gown flaring out behind him like Dracula’s cape.
The door at the end of the corridor flew open and Barry jolted in fright. But it was only the jannie. “Hol, what are you daein’ there?”
“I’ve been sent to see the heidie,” Barry said.
“Eh? The heidie went hame ages ago,” the jannie said. “Come on, get out o’ there. I’ve got to lock up.”
About the Author
Pat Black is a thirtysomething writer, journalist and bletherer, born and raised in Glasgow. He says he has made that difficult transition from aspiring novelist to failed novelist, although he has had a couple of short stories published. He’s the author of Snarl, a completed novel about a monster that tries to mount the Houses of Parliament. Holyrood emerges unscathed, for now.