THE BATTLE OF THE BLUES, HOW IT ALL BEGAN
The battle of the Blues is the sporting event
and social occasion of the year. The celebrations in connection
with the centenary brought Royalist and Thomians in special
charters from New York and London, from Sydney and Hong Kong.
Dying of cancer, Elmer de Haan lets his lively imagination roam
to give us his own fanciful account of how it all began a
century ago. As a Royalist, de Haan of course is fiercely
partisan and proud of it.
The Bishop was troubled in mind. He read and
re-read the letter on his desk but repetition only served to
increase his worries. In utter perplexity he sent for his chaplain,
an old school friend, on whom he was wont to lean heavily in
settling the vexatious problems of his diocese.
"Good morning, Boke, he greeted the chaplain,
"will you sit down", 'Hullo juggins, why the long face. Have you
been at the bottle again?"
The Bishop sighed. Boke was very helpful in times
of need but apt to be facetious at times. "I've had another letter
from Lambeth, will you read it."
The Chaplain did so. "Pheugh" he muttered, "what
have you done to rile the old boy, he seems to have his knife on
you?"
"No. I can't say I blame him, he is only doing
his duty. You see behind the Archbishop stand the industrialists.
With them Christianity is just a matter of profit and loss. If they
are to support our mission abroad , they expect to be reimbursed ,
and that most handsomely".
H'm there is much truth in what you say, Bish,
how are you expected to help?"
"By willy-nilly increasing the number of converts
each year, Boke"
"But the day of forcible conversion is long past
and I cannot see the other way of, shall we say, persuading the
heathen to abandon his pagan gods and accept Christ the Savior".
"The Archbishop is of opinion, and the Governor
agrees with him, that should we open more schools in the island and
accept only Christian students who would later be eligible for the
higher posts in both the Government and Mercantile Services, we
would solve our problems".
"But how would that help those blasted capitalist
back home".
"Why Boke, it is all so very simple. You convert
the heathen and the first thing he does is cover his nakedness and
dress like a Christian. Then Manchester supplies the clothing,
Nottingham the footwear and so on"
"Ah! The economics of religion. What a solid
business it all is, Juggins, I never saw my priesthood in this light
before. Every time I convert the heathen I shovel some chink into an
industrialist's pocket".
"Don't take it to heart, boke we are both doing a
Job of work for which we are paid handsome salaries, like the
gardener out there. It is never good for a priest to have illusions.
I never had any". The bishops voice grew kindly, "Never, boke, stir
muddy schools, I suggest we begin in Colombo. Will you see to the
notice in the gazette. What do you think a suitable name ? " "S.
Thomas' was he not the disciple who doubted" "Excellent", chortled
the bishop "I see you have not lost your sense of humour".
The next week a notice appeared in the gazette
calling for applications from boys below fifteen years of age who
were to be admitted to the new school in Mutwal. "Instruction would
be given to the Three R's and the Christian religion. Selection
would be limited to the sons minor headman, rural peasantry and
estate workers. Preference would be given to boys who were not
I.R.C's"
The results were calamitous. Every churl, every
varlet every villein, every clodhopper, who could beg or borrow a
pair of brown shoes from kindly European planter, promptly mounted
his thirickelle and drove post-haste Mutuwal to seek admission. They
came in droves, these sons of soil. From of Bintenne, from the wilds
of Dedigama, from the jungles of Raja Rata, from the rolling plains
of horagolla, they kept on coming, all demanding admission. The
Bishop did some quick thinking. Selecting two hundred or so of the
less disreputable, he dismissed the others with kindly words and
gestures, advising them to re-apply the next year. Ordering the
chosen few to cut off their kondes and bathe their selves, he took
counsel with his chaplain as how best to prepare a dinner for the
new boys.
Mr. Ashley Walker waxed wrathful. Spacing his
study, he groaned aloud. What the devil did this fellow Falkner
think he was doing in suggesting a cricket match between Royal and
this foundling S. Thomas'. Did this idiot Falkner realize what sort
of boys he (Walker) had to deal with. Haughty aristocrats every one
of them, filled with pride of race. Stiff-necked and quick to anger.
He, Walker, already knew what their answer would be. The rigid
stare, the raised eyebrow, the curled upper lip, the stony silence,
the cold contempt.
He, Walker, would feel like a worm in their
presence, and this was what that dunderhead Falkner was letting him
in for. He groaned in spirit., everything had gone wrong for him
since he came to this blasted school. What a fool he had been to
have fallen for the specious promises of the glib-tongued scoundrel
Cull. Back home he had refused the head mastership of a leading
public school in the South of England to come to Ceylon. If this
match docs not come off", he soliloquized grimly, he would be lucky
if he was given a house masters post at any Grammar School, One
forlorn hope, however, remained to him in his predicament. If he
could win Silva of the Sixth form, that silver-tongued orator, more
amenable to reason than the others? He sent for Silva.
"So you see, my dear boy", pleaded Walker, "it's
all up to you. The Bishop and the Governor are particularly in
favour of such a match in the belief that public school spirit and
sportsmanship could be established through intercollegiate matches.
It is all poppycock, 1 grant you, but my whole future depends on the
playing of the match".
"I shall do what I can", agreed Silva, "but it
will be hard going. These Thomians arc a rum lot, sir. I saw some of
them at the Fort Station the other day, there was still an
unmistakable air of the rustic about them. Clad in ill-fitting,
ready-made suits, probably purchased on installments at Simes
Emporium, they looked pathetic. Most of them wore black pants with
tan shoes. If you ask me, Sir, I think them impossible."
"But Silva" moaned Walker, "why should you of the
sixth be so stand offish".
"They are quite nice fellows, Sir, but you must
appreciate their position". This is an Eastern country with age-old
customs, customs you Europeans will never understand. Should, for
example, the son of a Maha Mudaliyar rub shoulders even on the
cricket field with the son of some minor headman who is probably
also the village cattle lifter as well, the MM will assuredly be
called upon to resign in disgrace. Here Sir, water does not readily
mix with oil. But I shall do as you ask of me and summon the Sixth
to meet next evening. Beven, Corea & Roberts are the ones you will
have to watch, specially Beven. He is tough".
Walker nodded gloomily. He knew that fellow Beven
only too well. Sharp eyed, possessed of the tenacity of a ferret, he
never missed anything. Corea was more easy going but stiff-necked
and unbending when his dignity was assailed. Roberts, gaunt and
taciturn, pounced on the first slip you made and like the terrier
never let go. It was not going to be easy despite Silva's suavity
and diplomacy.
Silva had made a good job of it. The sixth while
not being exactly chummy were not openly hostile. They had the
appearance of men who were prepared of great boredom to them selves
to listen to both sides of the story. Walker hastily decided to
abandon his opening preamble and get on with it.
"Silva", he informed the Sixth, "would have
already told you why this match should be played. I should like to
have your comments".
After a painful silence of nearly two minutes, a
cold, emotionless voice asked, "are you seriously suggesting, Sir,
that we should play this Dotheboys Hall S. Thomas' or whatever it is
called". There were murmurs of " you said it, Beven".
"Why, yes", gulp the stricken Walker, "both the
Bishop and the Governor expressly desire it".
A harsh, grating voice, not like an alligator at
lunch, cut in abruptly. "The wishes of these estimable gentlemen are
no concern of ours. By the way, where is this place called Mutwal?"
"Now wait a minute Roberts, don't rush matters".
Pleaded the now disintegrating Walker, "this, er, Mutwal is a small
village by the harbour, a little to the northwest of Kotahena".
A strangled "My God" from Corea made the tomb
like silence that followed Walkers ill-chosen words seem even more
deep than the eternal peace that enveloped the Universe before
Creation, for Walker had committed the unpardonable faux pas, the
word Kotahena we never used in polite circles.
"Does it mean, Sir" Van Geyzel, a shy youth who
rarely spoke, "that we have to pass through this 'K' place to reach
Mutwal.
A general murmur arose...... "Impossible....
Simply not done.....shocking........chuck the whole affair, I
say....... Walker must be crazy to expect us..... I warned you all
along that there was a catch somewhere...... Silva deserves a
ducking for letting us in for this..... lam for resigning and going
home".
Interrupting this symposium, Walker broke in with
"No. No. boys, its nothing like that. You will not have to go
anywhere near Mutwal. The match is to be played at Galle face".
"AAAAH! The long drawn sigh of relief filled the
room and swelled into a magnificent crescendo before dying away,
"why did you not say so at first, Sir, that makes all the
difference".
Walker sat back in his chair, mopping his damp
forehead. Arising, he tottered to his cupboard and took out a bottle
of his brandy. He needed it as never before. The Sixth had left some
minutes earlier, having given him their word to play the match...
By Elmer de Haan
