Spud (27 page)

My father was noisily rattling collection money in a tin box and handing out large red stickers to every innocent shopper he could get his hands on. Behind him was a huge signboard emblazoned in thick red paint with the words ‘SEND SPUD TO CAPE TOWN!’ To make matters worse, he was forcing people into parting with their cash. Like a loony circus ringmaster he strode around shouting nonsensical slogans and harassing old ladies. I slipped out of the biltong shop and sprinted home.

Mom just smiled after I had finally related the horror that I’d just witnessed and said, ‘Isn’t it wonderful? Your father has already raised over six hundred rand for your trip and he hasn’t even covered a quarter of the shopping centres in the city!’

My shame gave way to guilt – my dad is actually willing to beg to send me on a school cricket tour. This
is proof that my dad is a marvellous father. (Perhaps I should donate him to a more deserving boy.)

12:00   Dad returned in triumph with two hundred and twenty rand and a plastic button in his money box. He looked wickedly proud of his efforts and I didn’t have the nerve to tell him that I felt desperately ashamed.

I have begun reading Waiting for the Barbarians which seems after ten pages to be a very strange book. I have, however, decided to persist with it. I’m sure it could come in useful to possibly spark a great literary conversation with my co-star or with the ‘brains’ at the African Affairs meetings.

12:00   What would a long weekend be without a lunchtime braai with Wombat? The grand old lady arrived in a faded green ballgown and a crimson smoking jacket (no doubt under the impression that her long awaited invite to lunch at Buckingham Palace had finally arrived). Unfortunately, all she got was a termite-infested deckchair, a tough steak and a piece of boerewors!

Wombat’s fuming because the policeman (who she called in to inspect the case of her missing bath mat) managed to make off with a jar of her strawberry jam. She’s now lodged a charge of theft against the policeman. To make matters worse Wombat’s adamant that somebody’s stolen her car. (Unfortunately, she doesn’t own a car nor has she ever learned to drive.)

For an extra laugh I asked her about the Easter eggs. She moved closer to me and whispered that somebody had stashed them in the washing machine and then cunningly moved them to another location. (Talk about Inspector Wombat!) Dad said that it could be the Easter bunny. Wombat gave the matter some thought and then
assured us that she wouldn’t tolerate rodents in her flat – even if it were on a holy day.

Wombat asked me again if I had a girlfriend and then prattled on about me ‘spreading my wild oats’. She told us that my grandfather had proposed to four women and left them all standing at the altar before finally tying the knot with her. (I wonder what the other four were like, and if he ever regretted his decision.)

After lunch, Dad asked Wombat (who he says is ‘as mean as cat shit’ and ‘wouldn’t give you ice in winter’) if she would like to enter a competition where the first prize is a trip to Buckingham Palace for a week. Wombat (who is apparently rolling in cash) bought ten tickets to the value of R200. Dad winked at me and said ‘Cape Town here we come!’ Mom shook her head in dismay and cleared away the lunch plates.

Visited the Mermaid again. This time she was sitting up in bed and looking a bit brighter. She still didn’t say much, but seemed happier and giggled when I told her about our lunch with Wombat. Unfortunately, I soon ran out of stories, so I just sat with her holding her hand. After a while, she asked me to sing her a song from Oliver. I sang I’ll Do Anything. Unfortunately, that started her sobbing again.

The sobbing turned into hysteria when Marge told me that I had to go. She gave the Mermaid some pills and told me to sit with her until she fell asleep. After she passed out, I kissed her pale, cool forehead, draped the blanket over her and left. On the way home Marge explained that the Mermaid was going to see a psychiatrist for the first time tomorrow. I arrived home feeling sad and utterly depressed. That homesick feeling was starting up again – the great heaviness in my tummy – the dull ache in my bones… Tomorrow I’m getting back on the bus and going back – back to Mordor! (Okay, okay, so maybe it’s not quite so bad!)

Mom was waiting in my room when I got home. She
gave me a hug and said, ‘Girls are complicated, Johnny. Don’t spend too much time working them out. Just listen to them and try and figure out what they want.’ I nodded, Mom gave me another hug and walked out. She’d left a Bar One on my pillow.

I discovered that Innocence is selling home-brewed booze from her room. I followed one of her clients and hid behind a bush while the deal was going on. She charges one rand a bottle. The booze looks like a mixture of linseed oil and frothy piss. Decided not to tell the folks or they’ll try and fire her again.

Spent another embarrasing morning buying underpants with Mom. This time she got into a long conversation with a fruity shop assistant on what happens to underpants in boys’ boarding schools. (I haven’t told her that there could be a sicko on the loose – I just blamed it on the laundry.) The shop assistant nearly convinced my mother that I needed something exotic. (Can you imagine the mocking if I revealed my brand spanking new tiger skin tanga to the Crazy Eight?) Thankfully, the assistant had to help another customer and I got away with the usual blue and white jocks. I wish this pervert would stop stealing my underpants – I’m not sure how many more of these shopping expeditions I can take.

17:30   Sat next to Fatty on the bus (in truth I sat half under him and half off the seat). Whilst noshing a triple Wimpy cheese and bacon burger he told me that his mother wanted him to go on a diet. His parents are worried about him having a heart attack before he reaches twenty. I told him it was puppy fat and that he shouldn’t worry. (Okay, I lied but it made him feel better.)

Crazy Eight weekend scorecard:

Nothing much has changed over the weekend, except for a rock pigeon that got trapped in our dormitory and shat on Simon’s pillowcase. The bird was perched quite happily up in the rafters cooing contentedly to itself when Mad Dog killed it with one savage flick of his catty.

23:00   The much anticipated second Glassy Glassy experience was a complete let-down. Nothing happened – not even so much as a twitch out of Roger. Fatty reckoned there was no chance Macarthur would reveal himself twice in a single week (not sure why we were playing Glassy Glassy then?). Fatty could see that our
patience with Macarthur was wearing thin so he pulled out his trump card. After glaring at us intensely, he said that the only way forward was to ‘attend to the critical point’. He suggested we hold a seance in the chapel, under the very beam where Macarthur had breathed his last. After various squabbles and outbursts of outrage, it appeared that only Rambo was willing to go along with Fatty and since there had to be a democratic majority, the idea has been shelved.

Boggo has drummed up enough support to be the house’s AV monitor. This means that he has access (and a key) to the audiovisual room one week in every seven when our house is on duty. Not only will he be able to watch his porno movies at school, but being the sly capitalist that he is, he plans to make a tidy profit from his screenings.

20:00   Bada bing! The real deal has begun. We have started with the dialogue and the action scenes of the play. Tonight we rehearsed the workhouse scene and I got to say the famous line: ‘Please, sir… I want some more,’ to the evil Mr Bumble (science teacher Mr Dennis). This is definitely more like the real thing – real acting – the real deal McCoy. Stand by, De Niro, here comes Spud Milton! (He must be quaking in his boots!)

Looks like the Rain Man is back with a vengeance. Since returning to school Vern has not slept in his bed. He slinks off late in the night with Roger clinging to his jersey and then returns just before the rising siren. I’m not sure if it was the dead cat or landing on his head
that set him off, but either way he certainly isn’t normal (not that he was ever really classically normal).

I’m concerned about bearing witness to another of Vern’s Houdini disappearing acts. I casually informed Earthworm of Vern’s odd behaviour whilst sharpening his stationery scissors. Earthworm stared at me over his reading frames until he was satisfied that I wasn’t taking the piss and then said, ‘I’ll take it up with the relevant authorities.’ Feel a little bit guilty about telling on Vern, but demented people have to be watched closely!

During double drama, Rambo and Eve performed their scene from a Tennessee Williams play called A Streetcar Named Desire. Rambo played the young and aggressive Stanley and Eve played Blanche. In the scene Rambo responds to Blanche’s flirting by trying to get it on with her – creating all sorts of tension. They were both excellent in the scene and afterwards Eve demonstrated to the class how one goes about approaching a stage kiss. She repeatedly kissed Rambo to demonstrate (she even showed the wrong way of stage kissing and stuck her tongue in his mouth). Boggo then asked to practise with Eve but she said that we had run out of time. We were all wickedly jealous – Rambo just shrugged after class and refused to answer any of our questions. Spud smells a rat!

11:00   Our rugby team has made history. The entire team has been dropped. That’s right, folks, the under 14Ds are now the under 14Es. In a great show of loyalty the coach has also dropped himself as well. Luckily, as the E team, we do have a fixture tomorrow against St James.

After lights out Boggo accused Fatty of being a chicken because he refused to eat a tin of shoe polish. Boggo then did a loud chicken/rooster impersonation. Rambo
joined in with a very realistic cow moo. I threw in a high-pitched sheep baa for good measure. Then followed the rest: Gecko barked like an old granny’s poodle and Fatty shouted like a baboon. Simon tried a hippo but ended up sounding exactly like Viking. The farmyard musical dissolved into fits of cackling laughter (hyenas?) and into general Friday night chaos. Just as well Rain Man had already gapped it for his hideaway because the noise would have spooked the hell out of Roger.

Suddenly from across the quadrangle came a savage blast of animal noises. Barnes house first and second years replied with interest. Not to be outdone, the seven of us redoubled our efforts, raising new farmyards from all over the school. Soon Fynn, Century, West, King and Woodall houses joined in with gusto. Suddenly the school was alive with the sound of domestic and other animals in a splendid display of late night school spirit.

Then some idiot set off the siren. There’s always one goon who takes things too far. Unfortunately, that idiot standing in the middle of the quad in his dressing gown with a lantern looked astonishingly like The Glock! We leapt away from the windows and dived into our beds. The other houses must have done a similar thing because suddenly it was only the Woodall idiots who were still mooing, barking and bleating. (Woodall doesn’t overlook the quad so they obviously hadn’t seen the danger.) The Glock, with his cane in one hand and a lantern in the other, strode off to ruin Woodall’s night. The Woodall farmhouse symphony lasted another two or three minutes and then stopped abruptly. No doubt The Glock was rounding up a few wayward animals for a savage thrashing.

The under 14Es (formerly under 14Ds) stormed to their first victory over the awestruck St James side by
a whopping 19-0. (Yours truly scored seven points with the boot.) Mr Lilly was so thrilled with the victory that he burst into tears and then hugged us each in turn. St James lost every game (our first team won 18-7) barring one… that’s right, you guessed it, the brand spanking new under 14Ds (formerly the under 14Es) lost 28-0. The curse continues!

18:30   Called the Mermaid but Marge said she was asleep and that she’d had a bad night. I asked her if the psychiatrist was helping. She sighed and said it was traumatic.

20:00   Saturday night’s movie was The Deer Hunter with Robert De Niro and Christopher Walken. The movie is all about Vietnam and is savage! Walken spends the entire movie playing Russian roulette until he finally runs out of luck and takes one to the cranium. Mad Dog said it was the best movie he’d ever seen. Enough said. (Not sure about De Niro quaking in his boots…)

10:30   The girls are back. We spent the morning working on the funeral parlour scenes. The girl playing Charlotte (real name Jessie) is very funny and friendly. She treats me like I’m her brother and spends her life punching me or trying to punch me. She told me that she lives on a farm near Ladysmith and has four brothers.

As always Amanda was aloof from the crowd and spent the morning reading her book. I walked past her on the way to the toilet and I noticed that her new novel is called A Dry White Season. She must have finished Barbarians. It turns out that she’s in standard eight (second year) and more than a year and a half older than me. Damn. Not that I was ever interested.