Don't Call Me Ishmael (7 page)

Most people assume that Miss Tarango's unearthly eardrum–shredding shriek was produced in response to the last of the stick insects mistaking her neat, blond hair for a landing pad. Personally, I think the sight of Bill Kingsley with his shirt off might have been the real cause. In any case, it brought people running from all directions, and leading the cavalry charge, as always, was Mr Barker.

‘Sweet mother of god, it's the plague of locusts!' he gasped in horror as he surveyed the classroom. It was quite a sight. Grasshoppers and spiders decorated the walls and ceiling and every so often startled cockroaches made erratic dashes across the floor. Meanwhile the stick insect that Miss Tarango had repelled with a mad flurry of hands before she fled down the corridor was now climbing shakily up the edge of the blackboard, while the one that had tangled with the fan was lying like a wrecked umbrella on the ledge.

Mr Barker glared at the class. He ground out his words like
a Mack truck in low gear. ‘I'm only going to say this once, so listen very carefully. You will have
one
chance and
one
chance only. I want whoever is responsible for this to …
MY GOD, SCOBIE! GET THAT TARANTULA OFF YOUR FACE
!'

James Scobie looked at Mr Barker and then crossed his eyes as he tried to examine the spider spanning his glasses. ‘Actually, sir, I think you'll find it's not a tarantula but a very fine specimen of a Mexican bird-eating spider. They're quite harmless, really.'

‘Scobie, I don't care if it's the spider equivalent of Mother Teresa. Just get that horrible hairy insect off your face!'

Scobie gently lifted off his glasses and placed them, with spider intact, delicately on his desk. ‘Technically, sir, it's not an insect, although many people make that same mistake. You see, insects' bodies are clearly divided into three parts or segments and insects usually have two pairs of wings and three pairs of …'

‘Scobie!' Mr Barker's voice rang out like a warning shot. ‘If you say one more word, one–more–word,
you
will become an insect. Because if you
say
one more word, I will come down there and with my bare hands I will clearly divide
you
into three parts or segments and then before you know it, you will be flying, insect-like, out that door and down to my office. And guess what? You won't need two pairs of wings, Mr Scobie. Oh no. Because all the
thrust
you will need will come from my boot on your backside. Do I make myself clear, Mr Scobie?'

Scobie blinked his small glassy eyes and nodded.

‘Right, now who knows where these insects came from?'

James Scobie raised his hand.

‘Scobie, if you are about to tell me that that spider on your desk came from Mexico, I would recommend very seriously that you reconsider.'

‘No, sir, I was going to say that all the insects, and the
spiders
,' Scobie added quickly, ‘came from my desk.'

‘From
your
desk, Mr Scobie?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Do they belong to you, Mr Scobie?'

‘No, sir.'

‘So are you telling me that you didn't put them in your desk, Mr Scobie?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Well, in that case, Mr Scobie, do you have a theory on how the insects … and
spiders …
came to be in your desk?'

‘No, sir. That remains a mystery to me.'

‘A mystery, Mr Scobie? Well, let me see if I can help you solve it.'

Mr Barker rubbed his chin and paced slowly back and forth in front of the class, turning sharply towards James Scobie whenever a new hypothesis came to mind. ‘Tell me, Mr Scobie, do you think that it's possible … that the climatic conditions inside your desk just happen to be the next best thing to insect
and spider
Utopia, and maybe that's why bugs from all over the globe seemed to be rushing to take up residence there?'

‘I wouldn't think so, sir.'

‘No? Well, could it be … that your desk is not what it appears, but is in fact the opening to a wormhole in space that leads directly to the planet Insectoid?'

‘Highly unlikely, sir.'

‘Then I suppose you would also discount the possibility that your desk is actually the portal to Hell … and these poor creatures are escaping the fiery furnace?'

‘I'm afraid there's no hard evidence to support that notion, sir.'

‘Well then, tell me, Mr Scobie, is it just possible–and I realise that this is a bit out of left field–that maybe, just maybe, someone
else
, perhaps even someone in this very room,
put
all those insects, and other creatures that might appear to be insects but aren't really insects, into your desk because his disturbed and peanut-like brain perceived it to be something akin to a joke?'

Have I mentioned that Mr Barker had a black belt in sarcasm?

‘What do you think, Mr Scobie? What is your
considered
opinion?'

‘I think … that the only conclusion that can logically be drawn is that someone else put the insects and the
arachnids
into my desk,' James Scobie replied seriously.

‘Really? And would you have any idea just
who
might have done such a thing?'

James Scobie reached forward, gently tipped the big spider from his glasses and put them on. He looked around the class calmly before letting his eyes rest on Barry Bagsley. Then he
turned to face Mr Barker. ‘If I knew for certain I would tell you, Mr Barker, but as I have no proof, I don't think it would be right to blame anyone just on suspicion.'

‘Very wise and very noble, Mr Scobie. I agree wholeheartedly with you. Justice must be seen to be done. So let's get our proof, shall we?' Mr Barker suggested happily. ‘Everyone … open up your desks and bags.'

The end came very quickly for Barry Bagsley, Danny Wallace and Doug Savage. The shoeboxes with holes punched in the top, the empty jars and the paper bags were as good as an armoury of smoking guns. When Mr Barker pulled the last cardboard box from Danny Wallace's desk he took off the lid and shook it slightly.

‘Well, well, well … another box with holes punched in the top and, if I'm not mistaken, insect excrement rattling around inside. To me, Mr Wallace, that could only mean one thing. Do you know what that is?

Danny Wallace swallowed and smiled sheepishly. ‘The excrement has hit the fan?'

‘Oh yes.' Mr Barker smiled back menacingly. ‘I couldn't have put it better myself.'

After the insect (and spider) incident, Barry Bagsley's fortunes plummeted while James Scobie's rocketed skywards. It was as if they were on opposite ends of a gigantic seesaw.

The fallout from what Orazio Zorzotto labelled as ‘Bug-gate' was that Barry Bagsley, Doug Savage and Danny Wallace were given a week's afternoon detention as well as being banned from school sport for two Saturdays, which meant no footy. For Barry Bagsley, this was the cruellest blow of all. The Year Ten boy was found to be an unwilling participant in the whole affair. It seems Barry Bagsley had also recalled him getting an award on assembly once, but unlike me, he remembered it was for an amazing insect display that earnt him first prize in a statewide science competition.

The Year Ten boy, whose name was Jeremy Gainsborough, apologised to James Scobie, who dismissed it as nothing to worry about.

A few days later Scobie presented Jeremy with a replacement
stick insect that was even bigger, more gaudily coloured and more bizarrely shaped than the one that had tangled with the fan. I don't know exactly what it was or where it came from, but it was enough to turn Jeremy Gainsborough into a gibbering idiot.

‘But … how … who … where …?'

‘Let's just say it flew off the back of a truck,' was the only explanation James Scobie would provide.

As for Barry Bagsley, rumour had it that Brother Jerome had given him the ‘last warning' speech. In any case, when he finally returned to class he was as sullen as a caged animal, a bit like the T-Rex at the beginning of
Jurassic Park
trapped inside that steel enclosure with a zillion volts of electricity zinging through the wires. Which was fine by me. The only trouble was, I kept thinking that when you watch a movie like that, you just know that eventually, for some reason or another, someone or something will turn the electricity off. Still, for the time being at least, as long as I didn't stick my hand into his cage or fiddle with the high voltage switch, it seemed that Barry Bagsley was under control.

James Scobie, on the other hand, had become a bit of a cult hero. Even the biggest doubters began to think that maybe it was true and that maybe he really couldn't feel any fear. Certainly the image of him sitting calmly with a gigantic man-eating spider (the story tended to be embellished a little in the retelling) plastered on his face was very convincing. Yes, after only a few weeks at St Daniel's, James Scobie was the talk of Year Nine. But it didn't end there. Soon he would
have the entire school buzzing, and as far as Barry Bagsley was concerned, he would be untouchable.

It all started in the multi-purpose centre at the fortnightly school assembly. The assemblies were held right before lunch on Thursdays, so that if the need arose, as it nearly always did, Mr Barker could threaten us with something like, ‘If you can't sit still and listen politely and without comment, then we've got all lunchtime to practise.' That usually did the trick.

On this particular Thursday, James Scobie and I had just come from Science and I was leading the way through the rumble of seven hundred boys to the rows of seats allocated to our Homeroom. When I sat down, however, James Scobie was no longer with me, and I couldn't find him in the swirling flock of grey uniforms. I assumed that with his newfound celebrity, he had got caught up talking to someone, so I kept a seat for him and waited. But I was still alone when Mr Barker switched on the microphone with an amplified
Thook!.

‘Right, settle down everyone.'

The last of the stragglers were finding their places when I glanced up and saw Miss Tarango taking the class roll beside me. ‘James Scobie was here a minute ago, Miss, but I don't know where he's got to.'

Miss Tarango smiled warmly. ‘I do,' she said, pointing her pen towards the front of the hall.

I looked over the sea of heads to the stage, where Mr Barker bent his big frame close to the microphone and spoke like the voice of God in some Hollywood epic. ‘I'm waiting. I won't ask you again. We can always practise this at lunchtime.'

The last murmur of voices was sucked up like dust into a vacuum cleaner. Mr Barker's eyes drifted over the faces before him until the absolute silence hardened like concrete.

‘Thank you, gentlemen.'

It was only when Mr Barker stepped aside from the rostrum to pass the microphone to Brother Jerome and I ran my eyes along the row of teachers, student leaders and guest speakers seated behind them, that I saw the small frame of James Scobie perched calmly at the end. I turned and looked at Miss Tarango. She raised her eyebrows and dropped her jaw as if she had seen a ghost. When she smiled, I realised she had just been imitating my expression. In the end I had to wait through the entire assembly to find out what James Scobie was doing up there.

The main item on the assembly that day, after Brother Jerome's usual deep and meaningful homily, Mr Barker's usual blunt and wide-ranging blast and a few mind-numbing reports from various teachers and student committee leaders, was a rev-up by the school captain and prefects for Saturday's big local derby rugby match, St Daniel's First Fifteen versus arch enemies Churchill Boys Grammar. Now to say that the St Daniel's versus Churchill rugby match was important is a bit like describing the end of the world as a break in transmission. No matter what else happened during the year-whether we lost every other football match in every age group or came last in the swimming and athletics or even if the average IQ of the entire school population plummeted to less than that of a worm farm-it would
still
be a good year if we could say, ‘At least we beat Churchill in the rugby!'

Tragically, no one at St Daniel's Boys' College had been able to say that for fifteen years, and
this
year our Firsts were languishing in the bottom half of the table while Churchill were undefeated on top with the premiership already secured. The only thing that stood between them and the coveted title of ‘Undefeated Premiers' was the final game of the season against St Daniel's at St Daniel's.

Up on stage the school captain and vice-captain urged the school to turn out and support the team, and then they led us all in a rousing rendition of the college war cry.

By the time Mr Barker called on James Scobie to speak, the hall was bubbling and restless. ‘Right. Settle down. We have a final … I said, settle down! We have all lunchtime if we need it.' Mr Barker scanned the hall. ‘Brad Willis. My office-now!' You knew Mr Barker was getting angry when he did away with verbs.

A lone figure skulked down the long aisle towards the back doors like a prisoner heading for the gallows. We settled down.

‘Anyone else?'

There was no one else.

‘Then we can continue. Our final speaker is James Scobie from Year Nine, who would like to talk to you about debating.'

A rumbling groan rolled around the assembly. Mr Barker, who was halfway back to his chair, swivelled and glared. The groan retreated like a scolded dog. Mr Barker sat down, crossed his legs, folded his arms and stared straight ahead. Scobie walked in his strange upright style to the rostrum, his stomach
and hips arriving slightly before the rest of his body. He stepped up on the small platform and the microphone pointed into his forehead like an alien probe. Laughter poked its nose tentatively back into the hall. Mr Barker uncrossed his legs and peered into the mass of boys, stretching his back and neck up like a periscope.

James Scobie pulled down the microphone and looked calmly at the assembled school. His mouth slewed to one side, and then slid across to the other before thrusting upwards. This time the laughter broke free and scuttled and slid around the hall like an excited mutt on slippery lino. Mr Barker sprang to his feet and took a step forward. The hall hushed.

James Scobie began to speak.

Scobie pounded on the rostrum. The whole assembly stared. Mr Barker stared. James Scobie waited and then his strong clear voice rang out again.

In the audience heads began to turn. Around me I saw eyes filled with questions. Questions like, ‘Who is this guy and why is he speaking in tongues?' But before anyone had time to put his bewilderment into words, James Scobie continued.

‘Gentlemen, these lines from
Hamlet
remind us that if we don't utilise our power of reason, if we let it fust or decay in us unused, if we don't exercise and challenge our minds, then we are no better than beasts who simply spend their Uves sleeping and feeding. I bring this to your attention because last year, to our shame, no teams from St Daniel's competed in the Schools Debating Forum. This year we want to change that. Here at St Daniel's we are rightly proud of our fine sporting tradition, but we need also to test ourselves on intellectual battlefields. We need to engage our minds. This is the role of debating. Now some of you may feel that debating is for wimps. I'm here to tell you that you are wrong. Research shows that most people are more afraid of speaking in public than they are of dying. Debating is not for wimps. It's for boys with courage. That's right, courage–the courage and commitment to stand up and perform under pressure. If you disagree, then put your hand up now, and volunteer to debate me on the topic at our next assembly'

A murmur shuffled around the gym. Scobie waited. No hands went up.

‘Gentlemen, we are not looking for the world's best speakers. Those skills can be developed. We want boys with the courage and commitment to do St Daniel's proud. If you are such a person, then come to the meetings scheduled for next week, and if you have any questions at all please see me, or Miss Tarango, who has generously volunteered her time to be debating coordinator.'

The assembly remained silent a moment and was about to
give its usual half-hearted applause, but James Scobie wasn't quite finished yet.

‘Finally, if I may, I would like to recite a few verses I've written for another group of boys who will also need to show courage and commitment when they represent the college this Saturday against the might of Churchill. The poem is called
We Are St Daniel's Men.'

The murmuring started to gain momentum again. James Scobie waited until it subsided. Then a defiant voice boomed from his small frame.

For a second there was silence. Then the school captain let out a ‘Woo!' and stood up and began to clap. Around him and throughout the hall the applause, shouting and whistling grew like a landslide.

Soon the audience was on their feet and they stayed that way, clapping and cheering while James Scobie folded his notes and made his way back to his seat. Not even Mr Barker suggested we should settle down.

Scobie's poem and his stirring delivery were the talk of the school. Even Mr Hardcastle, the sports master and coach of the First Fifteen, a man not noted for his subtlety and appreciation of poetry, saw its potential and asked for a copy. ‘We'll use some of the words and whip up some banners and posters. That should stick it up those Churchill girls!'

Like I said …

Coach Hardcastle even asked James Scobie to come to the game as his ‘secret weapon'. We had no idea what he was
talking about. Scobie agreed, anyway, and asked me to come along as well, and that was how I got to witness, up close, the final stage of James Scobie's rise to fame.