Spud (21 page)

I began struggling again as I was carried into the harsh white light of the bogs. The thought of a bogwash made me want to vomit. (Boggo said it was the most horrific moment of his life.) In the light of the bathroom, I realised that the mob was large. There must have been between fifteen and twenty boys there, including Pike, Bert, Julian, and even Vern and Gecko.

Instead of dragging me into a toilet stall, I was dropped onto the cold concrete floor and it was only then that I realised that I was completely naked in the stark white light in front of so many prying and demented eyes. My hands instinctively tried to cover my groin but strong arms pinned them to the floor. Above me was Rambo with a black shoe brush, and suddenly he was polishing my balls! Then there was somebody else viciously scrubbing my spudness. I screamed and screamed. A hand clamped my mouth shut but still I kept screeching. Then Pike was there with a huge toilet brush and I could hear ugly laughter and then felt more pain. I closed my eyes – I couldn’t look.

Lying on the cold floor staring up at the long fluorescent lights, I realised that no arms held me anymore. The shower clock read 11:31, the date April 20, 1990. Fourteen years ago almost to the minute I had been born, but then it had been my mother’s turn to have
the pawing hands, the pain, the terrible bright light… I scrambled to my feet. The bathroom was deserted. I looked down at the black mess of my spudness. I opened the tap and tried to wash it away but the black shoe polish wouldn’t go. Even rubbing with soap didn’t help. Eventually, I had to use the clean end of the toilet brush to scrape away at myself. And there I stood (in my birthday suit) scrubbing my balls as the last few minutes of my birthday ticked away.

In the last minute of my birthday, I crept back into the dormitory. All were asleep as before, except for Roger who, in the moonlight, seemed to be looking at me with a mixture of pity and menace.

At least it’s over.

I woke up to flaming red spudness. In various spots on my willy the skin had been broken. (Maybe this will speed things up down there.) I didn’t shower (the thought of Julian and Bert inspecting my battle scars was not thrilling). Breakfast was as jovial as ever, with Rambo telling us how they had planned my attack with the utmost attention to detail. I think this was told to make me feel better, but it did little to help my shattered ego.

22:00   Fatty lit the candles. After his usual hocus-pocus the big man got down to business. He began by setting out exactly what we knew about Macarthur and then moved on to what questions were still left unanswered.

KNOWN

Mac died in 1944.
Mac was found hanging from the chapel ceiling.
Mac was divorced and had a son serving in the War.
Mac was an English teacher.
Mac’s death was hushed up by the school.
Mac’s ghost is still with us.

UNKNOWN

Was it suicide?
Why was it hushed up?
Why was Crispo uncertain?
Why is his ghost still here?

We got into a long discussion about Macarthur and his ghost called Mango. With the candlelight flickering across the ancient dormitory, the atmosphere was spooky. Suddenly there was a figure in the doorway – a figure in white, standing stock still. I felt my skin crawl, somebody groaned in fear, and Gecko whimpered. The figure moved slowly towards us, its hands stretched out in front of it. Then it squawked with laughter and Mango was revealed as a gloating Pike covered in a white sheet. After he had cackled himself to near exhaustion, he lifted the sheet, waved his pecker at us and then disappeared into the darkness making stupid ghost noises. Fatty blew out the candles, spat and let loose a couple of curses. Revenge on the Antichrist (Pike) was agreed upon. Meeting adjourned.

14:30   Rugby trials. All of the first years (unless armed with a doctor’s certificate) are forced to play rugby in their first year. Mr Andrews, a rather scary looking man with mammoth sideburns, is in charge.

Being rather small and insignificant, and not entirely speedy, I soon realised that rugby wasn’t going to be the sport in which I made myself famous. Thanks to my ball skills, though, I was selected as the flyhalf of the under 14D team. I was thankful for the presence of an E team
(who are the real cretins). Rambo is an awesome eighth man and, together with Simon (flyhalf) and Mad Dog (flank), was chosen for the A side.

Moment of the day was when poor Gecko (who hadn’t stepped onto a rugby field since breaking his arm during the infamous touch rugby debacle) was given a run at outside centre. In the first movement he sprinted away from the ball at full speed, frustrating Mr Andrews, who told him he was a ‘blithering disgrace’. Eventually, a movement was engineered so that the ball was given to Gecko who again sprinted straight off the field and into the main pavilion where he locked himself in the ladies’ toilet. Vern was sent in to retrieve the ball and, after some gentle persuasion, managed to negotiate its release so that the trials could continue.

Fatty was sensational. In the first scrum he almost single-handedly pushed the other forward pack back about ten metres. He seemed certain of making the under 14A team until it became obvious that he could only last for about three minutes of playing time before falling over and wheezing like a beached whale. The big guy eventually limped off to the san and was diagnosed by Sister Collins as having a peptic heart murmur, which will probably keep Fatty out of sport for the rest of his life. (Music to Fatty’s ears.)

The Guv was on fire at the morning rehearsal. He shouted and performed and stalked around the stage like a psychotic loon. His singing is dodgy, but he gets away with speak-singing most of his words in a gruff Cockney accent. To hear him drop his hot potato Oxford accent for that of a London low-life is alone worth the ticket price. He kept shouting out things like ‘Cue!’ or ‘Don’t upstage Oliver!’ ‘They came to see me bat not you bowl!’ Even Viking didn’t seem to have a clue what he
was talking about most of the time.

Unfortunately, The Guv returned from the lunchbreak completely rat-faced. His breath stank and he became wild and abusive. After he had stumbled and fallen into the orchestra pit, Viking pulled him aside and sent him home. The entire Fagin’s gang chorus watched in awkward silence as he staggered out of the theatre still muttering away to himself in his Cockney accent.

Eve arrived for the afternoon rehearsal (she plays the prostitute, Nancy). When Viking told her he was going to make her look like an absolute slut, fifteen boys licked their lips and imagined our large-breasted drama teacher in skin tight clothes and a leather whip (at least that’s what I was thinking). Although I’m not sure if they had any skin tights or whips in nineteenth century England.

I proudly missed my first free bounds!

The Guv was back in top form in English today. He made Simon recite Keats’ Ode on a Grecian Urn, whilst savagely beating out the rhythm on the table with his left shoe which he had whipped off his foot. Simon kept losing his place, causing The Guv to scream and beat louder on the table. A couple of curious onlookers gathered at the window to watch the The Guv’s circus. When our raving mad teacher saw them he hurled his shoe at them. The boys scattered and without batting an eyelid The Guv pulled off his right shoe and continued his crazy drumming, which was only stopped by the shrill ringing of the lunchtime siren.

13:30   The Guv’s house was in complete disarray. The sink was clogged with dirty plates, his bed was unmade and the living room floor was covered in old newspapers, dirty socks and empty wine bottles. Over a
lunch of toast with peanut butter and red wine, The Guv told me that his wife had moved out during the holidays. He didn’t say why, and I didn’t ask him for any details.

After lunch we talked about the final book of The Lord of the Rings (I am on page 891 and am desperately trying to eke out the story for as long as possible). I could see that The Guv was thrilled that I loved the book. We read extracts of the Siege of Gondor together, with The Guv putting on a different voice for each character. We chatted about the cast of Oliver and The Guv reckoned that Eve needed a jolly good rogering and that she wasn’t getting any from Sparerib who was a miserable sod born to be an undertaker. By then he was slurring quite badly so I politely thanked him for the lunch and made my way back to the house.

Today’s topic of discussion in religious instruction was ‘Love thy neighbour’. Boggo kicked things off by asking the chaplain if you should love your neighbour even if she was a satanist. The chaplain considered the question carefully and then smiled sweetly and said, ‘God loves everyone, Alan (Boggo’s first name). Even those who have turned against him.’ Then Rambo asked, ‘So are you saying we can have sex with our neighbours then, Reverend?’ The Reverend blushed and said, ‘Not sex, Robert (Rambo’s first name), er… not unless you are married to your neighbour of course…’ I decided to take the gap. ‘Why would your wife be living next door then, Reverend?’ I asked in my most innocent spuddy voice. The chaplain knew I had him cornered and by the sound of all the snorts and giggles, the class knew it too.

‘Er… I’m not sure, John (my first name)’ said the Reverend. ‘I think perhaps we’ve drifted a little…’

Then it got worse. Boggo asked Reverend Bishop if your willy would frizzle up if you had sex with a
satanist. The chaplain said he wasn’t sure. Rambo then enquired if the chaplain had ever had a threesome with two lesbians. Reverend Bishop looked at his watch in desperation and said, ‘Good God, look at the time!’ and dismissed us fifteen minutes early.

14:30   Our first rugby practice with our coach Mr Lilly (the art teacher). Mr Lilly, dressed in long pants, white socks and tennis shoes, makes a change from all the other coaches on various fields sprinting around in rugby boots, barking orders and blowing their whistles with shrill blasts. Mr Lilly is a pacifist who’s incredibly concerned about us hurting ourselves. He doesn’t use a whistle, but claps his hands when play must be stopped. (He reckons whistles are a symbol of oppression.) His strategy is to have fun and be gentle with one other. Whilst other teams on other fields were training their guts out, the under 14Ds had a leisurely jog, followed by drink of water and a rest under the trees. We then stood in a circle and passed the ball gently to each other. Lilly reckons we’ll deal with tackling on Thursday. On Saturday we play our first match against Lincoln at home and he’s confident we’ll murder them. Lilly let us go after an hour of prancing around the field like a bunch of girls. On the way back to the house I watched the massive first team being drilled for the weekend. They are all enormous, fast and scary. I recognised Greg Anderson and Bert amongst them. A crowd of boys watched them practise, with looks of awe and wonder.

08:00   Grim-faced teachers filed into the hall, some whispering amongst themselves, others staring out vacantly at us. The Glock followed behind, his academic gown blowing out like he was walking through a hurricane. He also looked bleak. When he reached the lectern, he
felt for the microphone switch to check that he was live, and then told us all to be seated.

‘This morning the school flag flies at half mast.’ He looked sadly upwards to the roof as if he’d spotted a leak. ‘This morning we mourn the passing of a great friend and servant of this school – a man who devoted his life to the spirit and ideals which we all hold dear. Teacher, friend, master and servant. Today we mourn the death of John Riley Crispo. Let us all bow our heads in prayer.’

I didn’t pray.

It couldn’t have been more than a month ago that I sat with Crispo on his veranda, looking out at the stars and listening to his old War stories. I remembered his visit to our rehearsal last week and how old and frail he looked. In my mind’s eye I could see his wonderful old face so clearly. I wish I could have spoken to him again – even just to say goodbye. But too late, Crispo’s gone for good.

The prayer ended and we filed out of the hall. Most of the boys looked sad as they made their way to their classes. I walked off into the grey autumn mist, desperately fighting away an enormous lump in my throat.

Still very disturbed about Crispo. Boggo reckons he died in his chair out on the veranda. His maid Gloria brought out his afternoon tea and couldn’t wake him.

Received a letter from the Mermaid.

I called home and got Mom on the phone. She had no idea what Dad had been doing walking around in the fountain at the shopping centre. I told her about Crispo, but I could hear from her tone of voice that she was busy and not really interested. She said they were coming up to watch my first rugby match on Saturday.

14:30   Rugby practice. Mr Lilly told me that as flyhalf I should be the team’s kicker on Saturday. The tackling practice didn’t happen; instead we played a game of touch rugby to avoid any injuries before Saturday’s game. The forwards practised a few line-outs and scrums and the backline trotted around passing, and mostly dropping, the ball.

Just before lights out PJ Luthuli announced that we would be climbing a mountain called Inhlazane (Mother’s Tit) on Sunday. The mountain lies 28 kilometres from the school – we’ll be leaving at 03:00 and returning well after dark. The ‘hike’ is apparently a new boy initiation tradition at the school. Poor Fatty is beside himself
with worry and plans to get a doctor’s certificate from the sanatorium first thing in the morning. Gecko said he would join him and even I could swear I felt the beginnings of a serious disease coming on.