Direct Motion

“Muum! Has dad always been good at sport, games and things?”

“Why do you ask Peter?” replied his mother with a knowing smile.

“Well, he’s just so good at it. We played pool during his coffee break and he let me win, just, but some of his shots were just unbelievable.”

“Well, he’s played a lot you know,” replied his mother putting down her peeling knife and giving Peter all her attention since this was building up to a lengthy interrogation which they have had before.

“But he says he’s only played pool since he bought us a table, and how do you account for him wiping Uncle Dave off the floor the other day at snooker, at the rugby club? Uncle Dave keeps telling us he was going to be a professional at one time and Dad beats him hollow. Mind you he deserves to be beaten. He’s a big show off.”

“Now mind how you speak about Uncle Dave.”

“Sorry mum, but all dad does is sit at a desk all day and he’s terrific at sport.”

“Hey, he did the London Marathon last year so he can’t be that unfit.”

“That’s the point mum! He doesn’t train then does the marathon in less than three hours. Beat all the members of our Sports Club.”

“Determination, Confidence, Persistence and Concentration always pay’s off,” his mother replied, wagging a finger to reassert her words.

“Leave off mum! Dad’s always repeating that to us.”

“But it’s true Peter. Look at the times he comes to watch you play Rugby or Cricket. You always do better, play harder. He obviously gives you confidence, doesn’t he?”

“I know mum but it’s quite uncanny. Last week he came to watch the House football competition and I was taking the corners. I’m not really all that good but this time I curved the ball right into the net and twice to-boot. Our goalkeeper kicked out for our normal kick and rush stuff and the ball bounces outside the box, over the head of the goalie and rolls into the net. Our goalie can’t normally kick the ball beyond the halfway line!” complained Peter.

“So, you won the match?”

“It was five nil at half time then dad left with Mr. Harrison and we lost six five. How do you account for that mum?”

“I was going to repeat the words that your father says and obviously the other team listened.”

“It’s not like that mum. Listen to this then. The archery club were setting up at the rugby club last Sunday after the training sessions and dad said I should have a go to see if I liked it. We get the gear and supposed to shoot at the nearest targets. I get three shots off and hit the target once, dad shoots and misses the target by miles and hits the farthest target right in the bull. They call it Gold. Then he does it twice more. Even the chief archer was astonished.”

“Beginners luck, that’s what it was. Now let me get on with the potatoes or else we will be without dinner tonight.”

“Has dad told you he’s turning out for the third team next week?”

“What? Not you’re dad! He’s too old. Where did you get that idea from Peter?” asked mother with astonishment stopping the peeling.

“Its true mum, honest. He was helping with the training on Thursday night. You know the usual stuff. But the coach wanted kicking and catching practise, so dad set up the balls and got us kicking at goal. Then smart arsed Gavin gave him a mouthful and challenged him to kick one over.”

“Language Timothy!”

“Sorry mum. So he asks Gavin, does he want him to drop kick, place kick and from which point? Without waiting for an answer dad dropkicked five balls over the bar then proceeds to place kick all the balls set up right to the touchline and they all go over. Then tells Gavin go and collect them up. Mr. Talbert was watching.”

“Peter, you still haven’t told me about Saturday!”

“Well, I overhear Mr. Talbert asking dad to coach the Thirds. He says he hasn’t got the time but he wouldn’t mind turning out on an occasional Saturday when they are short. Well, we are always short.”

“Well, the old codger hasn’t told me!” said his mother angrily. “He’s too old to be playing boys games.”

“Mum! Don’t be too hard on him. We could do with someone like him to lead us. We are really crap as a team! Sorry mum. Do you know the kids have started calling him Superman?”

Ed Taylor was sitting in his office at the bottom of the garden watching the heated conversation going on between Peter and his mother. He wondered whether to intervene but thought better of it. They were both smiling. Ed was an Accountant or a bean counter as he liked to refer to himself. He once worked as a Financial Director for a large firm but found the work restrictive. He set himself up in business as an accountant doing books for local small businesses then he branched out into giving financial and business advice to these businesses to maximise their profits and stop them going under. He now had five people working for him, two full-time and three mums part-time. He either charged the businesses a flat rate or became their Financial Director with a share of the profits. Most tended to choose him as a Financial Director since he also invested money in them.

He turned away many good offers from larger firms and instead concentrated on the smaller customers, ensuring that they stayed afloat and provided good local services to the community where the Taylor’s lived. Under his wing he had the local grocer, butcher, hardware, estate agent, repair garage, double glazing outfit, pub, hairdresser, window cleaner, garden centre to name a few. He ensured they all prospered by providing exceptional service and differentiated themselves in some way from the large chain outfits. He was also the treasurer for various clubs, schools, and churches. That way he knew everybody in Kipford and was able to advise, support and ensure everyone locally prospered.

From an early age he recognised that he had an exceptional gift or what he called power. Whenever he concentrated and visualised a movement, he could control it. His earliest recollection was throwing crushed up paper into a waste basket at school. He could do it from anywhere in the classroom and even over his shoulder. He made light of his ability but occasionally he had to use the power for his own gain. At a house cricket match at school, they were thoroughly being beaten and it was his turn to bowl an over. He bowled out the last five players, scattering their stumps. At batting, he scored fifty-five not out mainly in sixes and fours. The teacher in charge of cricket was amazed and sorry that it was the end of the season otherwise he would have been in the first team. In September he had moved up to the sixth-form college and gave up serious sport and only played occasionally for enjoyment.

He quickly realised that he had to temper his ability if he wanted to avoid being called a freak; only now and again, when he was challenged that he rose to the occasion and used his special powers. Thursday night he recollected was a time when that stupid Gavin had irked him beyond control. At least he showed them all that it could be done even by an old duffer like him. The only problem was that the coach was watching. He hadn’t accounted for that. Now he was committed to turning up for the Thirds occasionally.

Ed thought back to his boyhood when he read a fictional novel about people with enhanced abilities like his. They could get object to move to order. He remembered a scene where these people worked, picking beans in a field and just walked up the rows and the pods just jumped into their baskets by command. He once tried levitating a glass on the fireplace in his room. He managed to raise it by concentration and then he was disturbed by his sister Kay knocking on his door and it had crashed and broke into fragments on the hearth. He never tried that again but found he was more able to direct moving objects. He once stopped his father’s lawn mower in its tracks and confused the old man for ages. Getting back to thoughts on the rugby left him rather concerned. His son Peter regularly played in that team and already he had let his guard down with him whilst playing snooker with that old fart Uncle David. He needed taking down a peg or two. Full of bluster and shit he was.

The dreaded day came for the first rugby game for the thirds against Warmhead. Fortunately, it was an away game without any supporters to witness any of his jiggery pokery. He didn’t look out of place since there was always a few old lags that enjoyed the run out and the bar antics afterwards. He drove the car to the venue with four other lads including the Captain who asked which position Ed wanted to play. Ed told him he usually played scrum half in the past and also took charge of the forwards. The Captain looked at Peter and the other two players in disbelief but agreed. Traditionally the scrum half was a cheeky runt and they were looking at someone six foot two and over fourteen stone in weight, somewhat oversize for that position. Little did they know that that was when he was only fifteen and size didn’t matter that much at school and that was the last time he had ever played. He did enjoy watching the Internationals and supported Peter occasionally but not too often as he couldn’t resist giving his team an occasional hand with the kicks and the opposition spilling the ball rather too often.

Ed put on his new boots, socks, thick grey shorts and was given an old smelly rugby jersey in club colours since he didn’t possess one yet. He strapped his knees up with ski bindings and was ready for the fray. The warmup was simply a slow trot across the field but he managed to get his forwards together and learn their names since he was going to be their pack leader. His first instruction was that they had to make a lot of noise. Be vociferous as if they knew what they were up to. That would at least put the opposition off for a while. Warmhead thirds were a strong team he had learned, since that the club could turn out even a fourth team, so they expected a drubbing. The Captain chose to play down hill which was a wise move whilst the team were still in some shape.

Warmhead kicked off and Ed shouted to the relief of all that it was ‘his’ ball to receive. He caught it cleanly as the opponents were puffing up the hill, kicked a long ball which landed in the opposition twenty-five area and neatly rolled into touch and off down the hill into a ditch so that the opposition couldn’t do a quick throw in. Thirds only had one ball and it took a while to retrieve. Ed had arranged that the two hefty second row forwards threw the diminutive hooker, Ronney, in the air, who neatly caught the ball to dismay of the opponents and passed it down to Ed in one easy motion. It looked a practised move which threw the opponents. Ed dummied a pass to Peter at fly half and saw a gap opening in the forwards at the lineout and charged through. The opposing scrum half of traditional small build though better of stopping a rampaging six foot two, fourteen stone forward and Ed touched down for an easy try and five points.

The Captain approached Ed and admonished him that he should have touched down under the posts to get an extra easy two points. Ed apologised and explained that he didn’t think he could run that far. Anyway, Peter managed to convert with a little aid and all was well. The next kick off was much the same with Ed booting the ball way down field for another throw-in. This time Warmhead had a confab and decided to throw long which was always a mistake for any Thirds. It was deemed not straight and the referee called a scrum. Ed called the forwards together and explained the tactic for this set piece. They set and as Ed put the ball in, the scrum gave way a step and the hooker, instead of hooking the ball back, hoofed it through the opposing packs’ legs. Two things happened; firstly, the opposing pack collapsed and secondly the ball came shooting out down hill to be picked up by Ed and slipped to his bulky number eight, who ran the extra mile to launch himself in a spectacular dive, under the posts. Kipford were fourteen points up in less than ten minutes played and had not even broken sweat.

Not to be outdone Warmhead kicked off as far away from Ed as they feasibly could. The immediate cry from Kipford was ‘Get it to Ed’ who dutifully kicked the ball down the field. Warmhead had already cottoned on to this possibility and half the team was positioned along each touch line to intercept. One foolish youth caught the ball cleanly and to avoid the up hill run kicked to touch and gave Ed’s team an easy throw in. It is usual to position the fast runners, the hares on the wings, even on Thirds, where their chance of getting a touch of the ball was zero and catching a death of cold extremely high. Ed called the two wingers over and positioned them near the back of the lineout. Ed threw the ball as straight as a dye, way over the heads of the lineout and even over the referee. Peter caught it neatly and passing between the two wings strolled in for another try under the posts. The referee then asked the Captain if Kipford were fielding their second team.

At half time Kipford were thirty-five points up and still in a fit state to face the uphill second half. Warmhead had learned a few lessons and kicked at every opportunity using the same tactics of their smug opponents. They were a far superior team and once on the opponent’s half could score at will. Kipford and Ed kept up a similar bombardment except that the Warmhead fullback kept spilling the ball resulting in a scrum to Kipford’s advantage or when neatly caught he would insist on kicking for touch giving the ball away. If he had run the ball at the opposition, then they would surely have scored given the slope and their team’s superior handling skills. Another tactic used by Ed, on their own throw-ins was that Ronney, from way up on high, would knock the ball down to Ed who would then box kick forward. This was no ordinary box kick in that it was kicked further than normal and the ball would float down and more often than not be snatched from the fullback by fleet footed wingers who had been positioned up in the lineout to reduce their running distance up hill at that.

Warmhead were in disarray and couldn’t agree on any joint tactic but gradually they wore Kipford down and started scoring steadily. It was a high scoring match with Kipford winning by sixty something points to forty odd. The delight on the faces of the Kipford youngsters pleased Ed. Under normal circumstances the score would have been in the sixties against with single figures for, if they were lucky. After a rowdy shower and followed by the usual hot pie, peas and chips supper with lashings of gravy, the team were up for further celebrations and rub up the noses of the opposition. Ed had to stay on to allow Peter some fun, him having scored or facilitated most of the team’s points. The opposition decided to break the deadlock by challenging them to a team darts competition; bad choice because Ed’s turn always resulted in darts flying everywhere but always sticking in high trebles. Having won at two darts sessions Kipford had the decency to depart in their glory and leave their opponents to lick their wounds. Ed was a little uncomfortable at his role in all of this and decided to feint an old knee injury. He informed the Captain to his dismay he couldn’t continue to play for them in the future and he would have to hang up his new boots for good.

“Daaad!” shouted Rachael in a singsong voice.

“Yes, my lovely daughter?” replied Ed who looked out of his office doors, seeing his daughter striding up purposefully.

“Give up dad! Are you and mum entering the badminton mixed doubles competition again next week?”

“You had better ask the boss. I could always play with you my dear.”

“I have a partner dad.”

“Not that poxy boyfriend of yours?”

“Don’t call him that Dad. Please,” begged Rachael putting on a hurt pout.

“OK, why don’t you play with me instead of that spotty boyfriend of yours? We could win?”

“Dad, we’ve been through this before and don’t call him that either.”

“I just want the best for you and he gives me the creeps. Why won’t you partner me? We could easily win the seniors.”

“Dad, your drop-shots embarrass me. You always drop them on the net and they just topple over and you don’t even apologise.”

“That’s part of the game isn’t it; to stop the opponents getting it back?”

“But you do it all the time Dad.”

“Just shows you how good I am, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose so but most people do it once in a while but all your drop shots are like that. Anyway, I’m playing with Paul and I want to know if you will be playing with Mum again? If so I don’t think we will enter because you two always win.”

“Well, I tell you what. Mum can play with Peter and I’ll stay out this year. I hurt my knee the other week playing rugby.”

“Peter told me about that. He said you were fantastic at organising their team and they won, I think. Peter said they adopted the same tactics against Cranwell and nearly won. They are all going to the practice this Thursday to practise the moves you taught them and they reckon they will whup Homewell’s Fourths this Saturday. Will you come and watch our netball this Saturday instead of the rugby. We always do well when you come and support us.”

“OK treasure, as long as I don’t have to taxi a clan of screaming girls home in my car.”

“It’s an important match dad and anyway there’ll be lots of parent there to give them lifts home. Thanks and bye dad,” said Rachael satisfied with the outcome and ran off to tell her mother the news. Ed stared at his screen absently thinking that the outcome of the rugby the other week was better than he had hoped for. At least he had given the team some confidence, guidance and leadership. Maybe they will learn from that. He noticed a mistake in his spreadsheet and corrected it without touching the keyboard. He admonished himself for being so careless. One of the staff could have been watching and what would they have made of it? He was satisfied that he had got out of the badminton. He hadn’t realised that his net cord drop shots had been so noticeable. He would have to be more careful in future. At that moment his phone rang.

“Hi Ed. It’s William. Can you join us for the indoor cricket this weekend?”

“Sorry Bill, I’m busy Saturday, supporting Rachael.”

“The match is Sunday and we need you. We must win this leg.”

“OK, OK I’ll be there.”

“Thanks Ed, we are counting on you. I’ll see you on Saturday at netball and give you the details. Sandra is playing so we’ll also be there, bye.”

Ed sighed and placed the receiver carefully in its holder. He enjoyed these encounters for social reasons but now people were relying on him to win the matches for them. Last year he had played for a local cricket team. He was still some three hundred runs not out on the accumulative score sheets and an average of three catches in the slips and four wickets cleanly bowled per match. He was their star player even though he tried to disguise the fact. He enjoyed the social side and the party was always better on the winning side.

“Ed, we need you to play golf this afternoon. John’s got an important client interested in the Manor and we need to show him what a nice community Kipford is. It’s important Ed. If we get this sale, then it will open the opportunities for the more expensive properties!

“OK Mags, I’ll turn up but I don’t play much.”

“Last time you played with John you nearly beat him and he’s just recently upped his handicap to single figures.”

“Ah but he was having a bad day then Mags.”

“No he didn’t! Said he was playing out of his skin. Anyway, what is your handicap for reference Ed?”

“I haven’t got one. Don’t do competitions. Only play hack and search with Peter occasionally.”

“OK Ed, we’ll make one up for you. I’ve spoken to Sue and you are all coming over to the farm for a barbeque after the golf for more socialising. We need to put on a good show. Bye Ed, we are counting on you.”

They completed nine holes and Andy Powell, the potential customer, was exceptionally pleased with his performance. None of his shots had strayed off the fairway, none had plunged into the bunkers and his putting had been phenomenal. Andy was in a good mood as they drove to the farm to continue the celebrations with a barbeque and meeting the locals.

“Ed, go and see to the barbeque. I can’t seem to get it going. The coals must have got wet,” pleaded Mags. “I don’t know what I’m going to do if we can’t get it going?”

“I’ll give it a go Mags,” answered Ed and strolled over to the large stove at the side of the garden. He picked up a large plate on his way and started wafting the coals. Having blown away the white ash debris he was left with just black charcoal and not a glimmer in sight. He thought to himself, ‘I shall have to go and get some fire lighters or fluid,’ then he decided to have a last waft and suddenly all the coals burst into flames, every one of them not just the ones in the middle. ‘Oh Gawd!’ Ed thought. ‘I have the powers to produce fire!’ He looked around frightened. ‘I hope they didn’t see my pyrotechnic display through the kitchen window.’

A pile of outgoing mail had built up on his desk. Ed glanced at his watch to confirm that he had enough time to get down to the post office and meet the midday pickup deadline. He slipped on his shoes, picked up the mail and nodded to Mrs. Baines showing her the mail. It only took six minutes to the old-fashioned red pill box which still had the emblem of the old Monarch carved on it in bass relief. They wanted to change it but ‘they’ got their comeuppance with all the fuss about it. He patted the top lovingly and started to push the envelopes through the slot, checking that each was stamped and had the correct postcode. They were all local and he could have hand delivered them but there was something important receiving a missive by mail. Bills could be offensive delivered by hand. Information gained some authority when it had gone through the hands of the ‘Royal Mail’ not that it was Royal anymore.

As he checked the last letter, he heard the roar of a noisy motorcycle coming around the bend behind him. Noisy blighters he thought as suddenly the noise altered significantly. Out of the corner of his eye, as the last letter was thrust into the mouth, he notices a flying object in a helmet, streaking for Mrs. Barton’s stone wall. He managed to lift the figure and set him down gently on Mrs. Barton’s mowed grass. What he failed to notice was the machine, uncontrollably, was heading in his direction. Too late and the heavy bike crunched him against the red pill box and did untold damage to him but the box was left unscathed.

He would fall into consciousness occasionally and could detect people, presumably hospital staff talking about his predicament. It wasn’t good. He could tell from the hushed voices that he was lucky to be alive. He woke up one morning with a horrendous headache. The pain was excruciating. He looked at the intravenous drip bottles hanging in the rack and decided the little one was the one with the morphine pain killer. He turned the tap fully on and quickly felt relief if not euphoria. His eyes darted about the room and came to rest on the multi socket electrical supply that powered all the life support machinery around him. He decided he would save all of them the agony of watching him deteriorate and switched the main lever to off. The residual current showed his heartbeat monitor fade to a straight line and screen go blank, in time to stop any automatic alarms going off and alerting the busy staff.