Authors: Ted Dawe
“One day when I was in the sixth form, my music case was stolen. It contained not only the music which I was supposedly performing at the prize-giving but also the pieces I had written myself. You must remember, I was made much of at school and this created jealousy. The sporties didn’t like that.”
He paused as if steeling himself to re-engage with this ancient battle.
“Anyway, I decided this was the end. It was time to fight back. Hell, I wasn’t going to have my career ruined by a group of Neanderthals.
I went to the principal and told him everything. This principal was a keen amateur musician himself (no real talent but he responded to flattery) and he declared war on this group.”
“What did he do?”
“He suspended them.”
“Did that stop it?” Devon asked, even though it seemed unlikely.
“As if …”
“Why not?”
“Well, Devon, there are some things that can be stifled easily. My success had, in some way, rocked their world. Shown them that they just weren’t good enough, never would be. The principal may have suspended them but he never provided the protection I needed.”
He paused and then added contemptuously, “So what happened? He imagined his word was law. The day before prize-giving they all came trooping back to school, from their three-day suspension. And they were after me. I fought bravely but there were too many of them.” He held up his hand, showing a knobbly bone growth on the back.
“The rest is, as they say, history. They broke my hand. There was no performance at the prize-giving. But that wasn’t the half of it. Do you know many bones there are in the human hand?”
Devon shook his head.
“There are nineteen in the hand and fingers, another eight in the wrist. It’s a complex mechanism, and they all have to work in concord. Mine refused to knit together or in any case they never articulated in a way that allowed me to fly over the keys like a concert pianist.”
“But you do fly over the notes like a concert pianist.” It seemed to be the easy compliment he was seeking.
“Oh thank you, Devon.” Willie gave a little sigh. “There were some who said I could have been the best this country has seen. The new Michael Houston. But that dream died that day behind
the school assembly hall.”
“What happened to those boys?”
“Who knows? Who cares? Presumably they have gone on to dazzling careers at Paremoremo and now are subjected to regular humiliating and degrading acts. One can only hope so. They were well qualified for that at least. But Devon, what value is revenge? Does it bring back the dreams and promises that nurtured you?”
Devon said nothing. For a moment he thought of the dreams and promises he was nurtured on. All they had done was make his life more difficult.
“No, it doesn’t. But that was not the end of me; I wouldn’t allow it. Although I was physically quite small, still am, “Not a very impressive specimen,” the Scottish head of PE used to say, I had a heart and a dream that wouldn’t die and I came back triumphantly as a composer.”
“You write music too?” How easy it was to lead this guy on.
“Oh yes, Devon, screeds of it. Concertos, symphonies, chamber music, you name it.”
“Rock music?”
“Of course. There are no genre restrictions in the world of music. I have written whole rock operas, easily the match of anything written by the likes of Lloyd-Webber and Rice.”
“Really?”
“… Yes really. In fact, I intend staging one here, at Barwell’s, this year, and Devon, I hope that there will be a part in it for you.”
“A rock opera?”
“You know
Cats
,
The Phantom of the Opera
, a fully-fledged oratorio, and made for boys’ voices.”
“No girls?”
“Oh girls …? You want girls?” He seemed to milk the moment. “There will be girls. We are combining with Saint Leonard’s Anglican Girls’ School.”
“SLAGS in Remuera?” asked Devon, the idea of those snooty
girls coming into Barwell’s was beyond his comprehension.
“Yes, the same. I will be bringing girls into this school and it is not before time.”
After this talk, it seemed that Devon was accepted. He had listened sympathetically to Willie’s story, he had asked the right questions, he had demonstrated the correct level of adoration. Steph would have been proud of him.
******
Back at Marsden House, though, Hartnell began to assert himself. That he was made head of house over Briggs was a clear message from Mr Simmonds. It was sports over the arts. It also meant that there was little Hartnell couldn’t do. Somehow the lesson of Mitch’s beating had been rewarded: Simmonds had sided with force. The house was a changed place now as a new regime established itself. Devon could feel Hartnell’s eyes on him in the food queues, at dorm inspection. He knew it was just a matter of time before things deteriorated.
He grew to dread the days Hartnell was on duty. By becoming head of house something new was released in him: a hunger for persecution that now had few boundaries. Some of the younger boys, particularly, regarded him as a hero. This made him worse. There would always be something that Devon got picked up on. At first it was just low-level stuff like finding fault with the tidiness of the pen they shared and making the four of them do extra routines. That was fairly standard; even Adam Neeson had done that. It was a way of telling juniors that they had become big-heads.
Then Hartnell decided it was time to re-name them. It was a talent he had developed quite a rep for in the school and he took credit for many of the catchiest names. Mr Roberton, the chubby physics teacher, was called Rubber Bum. Mr Becker, the chaplain, was Pecker on account of his big nose. Wankin’ for Mr Rankin the
groundsman who couldn’t say his Rs.
Hartnell seemed to have accepted that Mitch, and by association the other three, couldn’t be physically bullied so he was determined to do otherwise.
Mitch became Monkeyboy, Wingnut was Sheep, and Steph, Queenie. He kept his original for Devon: Nigger, or Nig if a teacher was around.
As Mr Simmonds withdrew from the low-level running of the house, so it was Hartnell’s voice that dominated the intercom. Here he had a wider audience for his announcements and it seemed that Steph and Devon were often on the receiving end.
“… and so they ask me, do we have a fag-free house here at Marsden? I say to them, not quite. Yep, that’s N for Nigger, Q for Queenie …”
For a while the choir diversion worked and life became more bearable. Steph and Devon excused themselves from the house as much as they could by volunteering for every possible duty. Hartnell’s ability to make their lives hell seemed to recede into the distance.
The FLS was only a few hundred metres from Marsden House but in some ways it was like a different galaxy. Under Willie’s control the rule was “anything goes”. The dress code, the age hierarchies, and enforced masculinity didn’t apply. Illicit snacking, loafing and generally goofing off went unreprimanded. Although evening choir practice was meant to run from 8.00 to 9.30, in fact it ran until Willie felt like packing it in. Other times it continued even after he had left. Briggs was the FLS monitor and locked up when he felt like it.
Some weeks into the term, the spell finally broke. It was a particularly cold night, and Steph and Devon set off to evening practice. Devon was wearing the HDT jacket that Mitch’s Uncle Frank had given him. As they were passing through the house foyer Hartnell’s voice rang out.
“Not so fast, Nigger boy, where do you think you’re going in that jacket?”
Devon froze. He had forgotten that Thursday was Hartnell’s night. He hated answering to ‘Nigger’ but there seemed to be no way around it.
Hartnell and Mr Simmonds’s understudy, Peter Newell, came out of the office. Newell stood in front of the double glass doors, arms out, blocking their exit.
“Choir practice! It’s allowed,” Devon said, the indignation creeping into his voice.
“Queer practice! It’s allowed,” Newell repeated, using a faggy lisp to draw in other boys who were going past.
“He’s right, Hartnell. You can check with Mr Willis.” Steph tried to smooth things over. He was wearing an old striped blazer, but Hartnell wasn’t interested in that.
“I’m not going to ring up Mr Phallus. I reckon anything goes in the FLS.” Hartnell winked at Newell, and then added to the growing crowd of juniors, “I don’t want to even think what you arse-bandits get up to.”
Newell and the others hung on every word, their faces red with excitement.
Then Hartnell came up so close that Devon was bathed in the stench of his sweat. “What I do know all about is what you can wear around this place.”
He waited so that even the youngest and dimmest had time for the full import of the words to sink in.
“Everyone knows there is a no-mufti rule in the houses until fifth form. Last time I checked, you two were in the fourth form. You’re a year early.”
Then, turning to the gathering crowd, he added, “I reckon that over-rides all the stuff that you choir fags are allowed.” He placed his hand over his arse.
There was a roar of approval from the gallery of onlookers.
“So let’s have it.”
No response.
“Come on, take it off.”
And then louder and more insistent, “I said, take … it … off … now. I’m confiscating it. You can get it back off Mr Simmonds directly. See what he’s got to say about it, Nignog.”
“I’m not giving you my jacket. You can report me to Mr Simmonds, but you’re not getting it.”
Devon tried to push Newell out of the way but it was no good; he had a firm grip on the brass handles.
“You’re not going anywhere, Nigger; not till I say you can.” Hartnell had this tired sing-song voice now, and shook his head in disbelief. He turned to a couple of fourth formers who were watching with great interest. “You two, give me a hand with this Maori will you? The jacket’s coming off. I’m confiscating it. End of story.”
The smaller of the two, Brian Nobles, seemed reluctant, but the other one, Josh Cockburn, held Devon’s wrists low so that Hartnell could slide the jacket down. Then Newell was able to slap a headlock on Devon, forcing him face down onto the floor.
“Whoops … down he goes, just watch that jigaboo eat carpet.”
By the time he was released, Hartnell had squeezed into the jacket and was adopting poses for the other boys. “Now, a lesson.” He started talking “retarded” style.
“Nig, see jacket? Me wear because me senior. You no wear because you junior. Simple for your brain.” He looked around, luxuriating in the adoration.
Something snapped. Devon sprang. He grabbed at Hartnell’s face, screaming and swearing. For a moment Hartnell was caught by surprise and the two of them went down, but it wasn’t long before Hartnell had Devon flat on the ground with his arms pinned up his back.
Devon’s face was red and tear-stained, pressed against the carpet. He kept repeating. “You fucken, fucken cunt. I’m gonna kill
you.”
Hartnell looked up at the crowd that now surrounded them. “Whoooo! I’m real scared! See the headlines — ‘Hartnell mugged by angry black fag.’”
Nobody was laughing now. Hartnell gradually released Devon and then stepped back, fists up and ready for another onslaught. Devon sat up stiffly, sucking on his bleeding lip.
“Want some more? Want some more? I got plenty to share.” Hartnell, part of the wrestling team, was very confident in the fight situation.
But Devon didn’t advance. He stared hard at Hartnell for a moment, visualising shit and vomit, all the ugly things … then he burst out through the double doors, unopposed. Steph, waiting silently for him, opened his mouth to say something and then shut it again. As they walked towards choir practice Steph put his arm across Devon’s shoulders. They waited for a while outside the FLS for Devon to compose himself and then went in.
Devon ached from the encounter, now that the adrenaline had worn off. Scenarios of murder and maiming played in his head for the rest of the evening, right through the hymns and folk songs they were rehearsing for the mid-winter choir festival.
They finished earlier than usual that night because Willie had to go somewhere. Briggs tried to persuade Steph, and by association Devon, to stay on with him, but they had no taste for it. When they returned, Devon was surprised to see his jacket lying on the bed. He had been sure that he would be retrieving it from Mr
Simmonds
, maybe not until the end of term. As soon as he picked it up he realised why. There was a big split under the right arm. Hartnell had been wearing it when he fought him and he remembed hearing a tearing noise, which he’d assumed was his uniform shirt. The hole was big enough to put a fist through. Repairable maybe, but now ruined. Defiled.
He showed Steph.
“What can you do? I knew from the first day he was going to
be trouble, but he has reached that seniority now where there is not much anyone can do about it. It’s how these places work. I know these things, remember. I’ve been to a few.”
“Yeah, well, there is something we can do. We can get him kicked out.”
“And how, pray tell? For bullying? I don’t think so.”
“No,” said Devon, “not for bullying, for tearing my jacket. He can buy me a new one.”
“I don’t think that’s going to work. You’ve got the jacket back. Anyway, legally I guess he was allowed to take it. Seniors can confiscate jackets; happens all the time.”
“And the rip?” Devon asked.
“Well, he can claim it was already torn or that it happened in the struggle to get it off. Rough and tumble. ‘Boys will be boys’. Anything, really.”
Devon felt a sense of helplessness. Futility.
“Devon, it’s like Rome here. He’s like a patrician, or a senator, and we’re just plebeians. In lots of ways these schools are modelled on the Roman Empire, they don’t change, that’s why they last. That’s why people want to send their kids here.”
Devon looked at the floor. It didn’t wash. Steph couldn’t explain this away or make things seem all right. It wasn’t salvageable; it wasn’t bearable.
“That’s the finish. I don’t want to stay here anymore. Place sucks. I’m out.”