Spud (14 page)

Fortunately, sensing danger, the quick thinking Boggo jumped up and informed Crispo that the bell had rung and that the lesson was over. Poor Crispo looked at his watch and shook his bewildered head in a fog of confusion.

The Guv cancelled lunch because of a staff meeting. Spent the afternoon with Mad Dog trying to shoot red-winged starlings with his catapult.

Once again I set my work aside and spent prep reading The Lord of the Rings. Worried that this book may mean the end of my scholarship.

21:45   Fatty lit his candles and hummed softly to himself – a sure sign of a Macarthur meeting. We crowded around his locker and waited expectantly for another piece of the puzzle. After the usual heavy breathing and long pauses, Fatty asked Vern to fetch his torch. Vern happily obeyed and seemed pleased that he had an important role to play in the meeting.

Fatty carefully opened a large brown envelope and pulled out an old black and white (and yellow) photograph. He held it close to his chest and looked at us gravely. He then placed it carefully on his bed
and invited us to take a look. One by one we studied the photograph while Vern held the torch with a shaky hand. The picture was of a number of stern men, mostly with giant handlebar moustaches, staring grimly into the distance. The men ranged from their early twenties to an old fogey who looked about a hundred! After we had studied the photograph Fatty cleared his throat and said, ‘Gentlemen, this is the official 1944 staff photograph. If you look at the man second from the left in the back row, you will be staring into the face of Macarthur.’

There was a mad scramble for the photograph and Rambo snarled at Simon before getting first look. Eventually, I had my chance and gazed at the middleaged figure with dark hair and big bushy moustache. He looked solemn but hardly depressed. I tried to imagine what he would have looked like hanging from the chapel ceiling, tongue out, eyes rolled back and his neck broken. Obviously the others were thinking the same thing, as there was silence around the cubicle. Even Roger seemed entranced.

The face of the deceased,’ said Fatty once again to emphasise the point. ‘But there’s more.’ Fatty loved the attention and it became obvious that he was going to try and string out the intrigue for as long as possible. ‘Gentlemen, there is more to this picture than just Macarthur. This photograph gives us the clue that may lead to the solution of the entire mystery. So I ask you to take another look.’ Fatty’s speech was incredibly formal during these meetings, but somehow it seemed acceptable that he should call us gentlemen and waffle on like he was twice our age.

Once again the photograph was passed around. There was a lot of muttering and shaking of heads. Suddenly Mad Dog leapt up with a shout and prodded the photo with a filthy fingernail.

‘Got it! It’s so obvious. Check this guy out!’ He
stabbed at the photo once again with his forefinger. ‘You check this dude here?’ We packed in tightly behind him and Vern was ordered to stop shaking and to focus his torch. ‘This dude over here is the key to the puzzle.’ Mad Dog was triumphant and he too was relishing the spotlight. ‘You check, he’s not looking at the camera, he’s looking at Macarthur – it’s like he suspects something, like he’s curious. This dude knew something was about to happen and was watching Macarthur instead of the camera.’

In truth Mad Dog’s theory required some imagination. The man in question seemed to be looking at the floor rather than at Macarthur and, upon closer scrutiny, it was decided that he could even be squint as his right eye was at odds with his left. Mad Dog refused to give in, however, and it was only when Fatty mentioned the fact that the photograph was taken eight months before the suicide that any doubt crept into the mind of our Mad Dog.

After Mad Dog’s theory had been quashed Fatty took the photograph back and held it up in front of us again. Then, very quietly, he said, ‘The man who can solve this mystery stands in the second row from the back. He’s fourth from the left.’

For about the tenth time we stared at the photograph. He was one of the youngest of the teachers, no older than thirty, with blond hair and big brown eyes. He smiled warmly at the camera and seemed somehow familiar in a weird sort of way. Boggo said he felt like he’d perhaps seen this man before. The others said he wasn’t familiar at all and Mad Dog reckoned he looked like a pillow-biter.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Fatty with much gravity, ‘this man is none other than John Riley Crispo, our history teacher.’ There was a gasp and then a frantic commotion as everybody tried to take yet another look at the photograph. Fatty was right. It was Crispo – the face had
changed, his hair was now white and his eyes sunken with wrinkles, but the grin was the same. Something about him hadn’t changed.

‘Believe it or not,’ said Fatty, ‘but that’s Crispo, recently returned from North Africa with a shrapnel injury to his shoulder.’ Fatty eyed us beadily, then added, ‘Crispo can unlock Pandora’s box!’

‘Who’s Pandora?’ asked Mad Dog, with a large frown across his brow.

‘Your mother,’ replied Rambo, without batting an eyelid. Now Mad Dog was completely confused, but before he could ask any more stupid questions, Fatty interrupted. ‘So I suggest one of us approaches Crispo and tries to get the goods out of him. And I suggest that person is Spud Milton!’

‘Why?’ I asked, rather shrilly, once again sounding like a spud. Around me everybody seemed to be nodding in agreement.

‘Because,’ countered Fatty, ‘you’re top of the class, he likes you and you’re about the only boy he doesn’t think is a Jerry.’

Suddenly they were all staring at me. Fatty was nodding slowly as if encouraging me to answer. Boggo had a slight smirk on his face as if he expected me to act like a coward, whilst Rambo was almost daring me to refuse so that he could lay into me with some savage abuse.

‘Fine,’ I said with a sudden surge of courage. ‘You leave Crispo to me.’ Fatty ordered me to report back to the dormitory next Wednesday, closed the meeting, farted and then blew out the candles. The group (along with the fresh air) dispersed. A long silence followed and soon it felt like I was the only one awake. I fell asleep listening to the sound of the water trickling into the school fountain as I planned my attack strategy on the great Colonel Crispo.

17:45   Rambo told me that a matric boy called Greg Anderson has a sister who was the top sprinter in South Africa. He said she held the All Africa 100 metre sprint record. He said that Anderson loves talking about his sister and that I should go up and ask him how fast she runs the hundred metres. It all sounded a bit bizarre but, hoping to make a new friend, I approached the big matric who was sitting in the common room reading the papers. He smiled as I greeted him and asked me how I was doing. I then asked him how fast his sister ran the hundred metres. He stared at me dumbly and then suddenly tears welled up in his eyes. He looked away, wiped his face on his shirt and shook his head sadly. His newspaper dropped to the ground and suddenly I felt myself lifted off my feet and thrust against the wall. The wind shot out of my body like a popped balloon. I was gasping and staring into the ferocious face of an enraged animal.

Gavin, the prefect under the stairs, put down his didgeridoo and tried to calm Anderson down. Anderson ordered him to stay out of it and with a shrug Gavin returned to his didg. Anderson stared into my eyes for some time and then said in a broken voice, ‘My sister lost her legs in a car crash last year. You bastard!’ With that he released his grip and stormed out of the common room, slamming the door behind him. The first face I saw was the leering Pike who shook his head and said, ‘You have just made the hugest enemy of a first team rugby player. You are so dead, man. If I were you, I’d pack my bags and get out before you’re killed.’ I stumbled out of the common room, still heaving heavily, and saw Rambo laughing his head off in the cloisters. I tried to hurl abuse at him, but he just laughed and strolled off to supper with Boggo.

Never in my life have I felt so awful. I felt homesick
and sad and ashamed. I walked slowly to the dormitory and started packing my trunk.

06:30   After a night of very little sleep I’ve decided to confront the demon head on and apologise to Greg Anderson. I’ve also decided to unpack my trunk and fight on!

07:30   Anderson refused to let me apologise. He said he was too disgusted to talk to me and that he didn’t want to see me ever again. I retreated from his bedroom door with a heavy heart. Instead of moping, though, I decided to be proactive and verbally attacked Rambo at breakfast. Unfortunately, he just laughed at me and said he’d been joking and that any person with half a brain would have known it. After breakfast I scribbled an apology note and slid it under Anderson’s door.

Mom phoned and said that Dad had run over one of the neighbours’ dogs and was trying to convince the mourning neighbours that it was an accident and not an assassination. Mom said it was a gruesome sight and that after the collision the car was making a strange clanking noise and so they would probably not risk driving up tomorrow. She asked me if I was all right. I lied, and said I was fine. Looks like a black day all round for the Miltons.

Still no word from Greg Anderson. I know I’ve scarred him really badly. To add to my woes I bowled three wides and made a duck against St Julius. Luckily, we hung on for a draw as the mist and drizzle came down around 15:00. Simon and Mad Dog bravely held out until The Guv ordered everybody off the field, saying
he couldn’t see through his glasses anymore. The opposition coach seemed less than pleased to go off for such a light drizzle, but The Guv walked him off to the staffroom to drown his sorrows. He must have had many sorrows because a number of the St Julius boys watched the movie (Wall Street) with us and only left at about 22:00!

Still wracked with guilt about Anderson, who’s been making a point of savagely glaring at me at every possible opportunity. Made a mental note to say a special prayer for him and his poor sister in chapel tomorrow morning.

09:00   Reverend Bishop’s sermon stuck me in the guts! It was about humiliation and speaking harsh words to people. He told us that we must not let Satan in the door and then, with a wild swish of his hand, he knocked over a vase of roses, which shattered on the floor at the foot of the pulpit. He stared at the debris and then shouted, ‘Damn you, Satan! Get out of God’s house!’ He looked wickedly vicious so nobody laughed, except for Pike, who quickly pretended he was clearing his throat. The Reverend rabbited on for another half an hour and then took a giant swig of wine from the communion cup before giving some to The Glock, who also looked thirsty.

Geoff asked me if I wanted to go to his farm again. I was tempted, but felt too depressed to go so I lied and said I had work to do.

Spent free bounds reading, but not even the greatest book in the history of the world could hold my focus.

I had a desperate urge to call the Mermaid, but chickened out at the last moment.

18:30   Had the first laugh of the weekend while watching a National Geographic programme about baboons. A large male baboon with big bollocks was beating his chest and trying to look scary, when Emberton shouted, ‘Hey, check, it’s Glockenshpeel!’ The whole house hooted with laughter, especially when the baboon then tried to mate with a terrified smaller baboon with a bright pink bum.

I was sitting alone outside on the house bench when suddenly a large figure sat down beside me. My heart leapt with fear as I realised it was Greg Anderson, no doubt coming to get his revenge.

‘Spud,’ he said gently, ‘I have to tell you something.’ My heart sank. No doubt he was going to tell me about the pain and anguish he was going through, or, even worse, he was going to give me the graphic details of the accident. He stared into my eyes for what seemed like ages but was probably only a few seconds. I could see the pain and anguish – the horror of having a crippled sister. I think if I had a crippled sister I’d also be protective over her and help her all the time. He leaned close and said:

‘I don’t have a sister.’

With that he got up and sauntered into the house. I was speechless. I felt the most overpowering feeling of relief and then pure anger. My entire weekend had been ruined by a stupid sick joke. I was ready to lash out at anyone (a dangerous idea when you’re an undersized first year spud). Luckily, the first thing I saw was Roger the cat and I chased him all the way back to Sparerib’s garden, all the while making crazed noises. (I think I’m becoming a replica of my father.) Unfortunately, I nearly ran into Reverend Bishop who was leaving a prayer session in the crypt. He muttered sadly to himself and then went about his business. In hindsight I’m relieved that Vern wasn’t around or he might have freaked out or stabbed me with a pair of scissors for terrorising
Roger.

This night shall be remembered for the longest fart ever recorded. (Simon clocked Fatty’s feat at 28.6 seconds on his stopwatch.) Fatty said he would try to better his record the next time there was baked beans for dinner.

The trap has been laid. I approached Crispo after our history lesson. He was furiously counting a box of drawing pins and raised his hand to stop me interrupting him. Once he had counted the entire box, he snapped the lid shut and thumped his fist down on the desk. ‘Made in Germany and look… two short!’ he said. ‘What do you expect from the Jerries?’ I shook my head as if it was a disgrace and decided not to remind him that he’d used two drawing pins to stick up a map of Britain on the wall halfway through the lesson.

I asked if I could spend some time with him chatting about the War. A glint flickered in his eyes and he immediately invited me for afternoon tea. I accepted graciously and trotted off to maths planning my afternoon attack.

Had a great lunch with The Guv. We went on for hours about the first book of The Lord of the Rings. The Guv did a brilliant impersonation of Gandalf, and together we reread the Hobbits’ escape from the Black Riders. Once The Guv uncorked his second bottle of red wine he began to talk freely (mostly about what awaited me in future chapters). He then stopped abruptly and stared at me. ‘Johnno,’ he said with a slight slur, ‘if rumours are to be believed, you may soon make quite an acting debut.’ A thrill of electricity shot through my body, but no matter how much I pressed him for details, he refused to say any more, quickly changing the subject to my dismal form on the cricket field last Saturday.
I told him that I was under great stress with the sick joke about Anderson’s imaginary sister and her missing legs. The Guv let out a giant guffaw and clapped his hands merrily. He reckoned he fell for the exact same crack thirty-five years ago. Except they let him stew for a month before coming clean! It’s hard to imagine The Guv as a boy at the school (and a head of house). It seems that he would never have fitted in – I suppose in those days everything must have been different.