Spud (20 page)

The physiotherapist reckons Dad has torn his hamstring and has told him to keep his leg up for a week. Dad is thrilled – he now has an excuse not to go to work.

The Mermaid came around with Marge to say goodbye. We talked for ages in my room while I packed. We kissed until our tongues ached (with all the practice I’m becoming a maestro) and then the Mermaid cried and said she didn’t want me to go back to school. She looked so sad that I almost burst into tears. I suddenly had a desperate urge not to go back. That dead weight in my tummy was stronger than ever and suddenly I felt terribly nervous and unsure of myself. Once the
Mermaid had gone I packed the last of my clothes, showered and dressed in my school uniform. Ready… or not?

On the way to the bus, Mom took me to visit Wombat. (Dad said his leg was too sore for him to join us.) When I arrived, she clapped her hands and told me that I was extremely handsome. She asked me if I had a girlfriend, and Mom told her about the Mermaid. She shook her head sadly and warned me about settling down with a family too soon and said I must ‘spread my wild oats’. Obviously, Wombat’s forgotten I’m a spud.

Wombat then went on to tell us (in hushed tones) that the bank was stealing money from her accounts. She’s gathering her evidence and once her case is watertight she’ll then inform the Department of Finance. Mom abruptly stood up and said it was time to go.

Mom cried at the Westville bus stop but thankfully she didn’t do anything drastic like wave the bus off or chase it down the road!

The bus trip was totally boring. Fatty wasn’t there and I knew none of the boys very well. A number of the first years looked wickedly miserable and one of them burst into tears as the bus pulled away. As a punishment he was forced to sing all five verses of the school song to the giggling and squawking occupants. One of the older boys said that he liked the look of the young boy’s sister and asked him if she ‘squatted for bus fare?’ The young boy burst into tears again and was then ordered to sing the national anthem with his pants down. I shrank down low into my seat, worried that as the next smallest person on the bus I would be the next victim. Luckily, the older boys got bored and told the snivelling first year to get lost. The poor sod returned to his seat and tucked into some delicious looking sandwiches, perfectly wrapped by his mother in cellophane.

I stepped off the bus into a Midlands wind that was cold and biting. The trees had lost most of their leaves
over the holidays. I walked through the archway into the main quad and there stood Pissing Pete slashing on his goldfish. Some things never change.

Earthworm was standing outside the house, sipping a cup of tea and looking smug. He said hello and then ordered me to unpack his trunk and bags. Suddenly there was a piercing screech and then a squeal as Julian sprinted past in his underpants pursued by Bert who was brandishing a fly swatter.

The bus from Johannesburg was late so most of our dormitory hadn’t arrived. Only Vern and Fatty were about. Fatty was noshing a box of sandwiches and Vern was trying to unpack around a playful Roger who kept jumping inside Vern’s trunk and viciously attacking his socks.

21:30   Lights out. The dormitory is at last assembled and it’s like we’ve never been away.

Crazy Eight holiday highlights:

06:15   The rising siren launched me out of my bed like a scud (spud) missile. A huge groan sounded around the dormitory. As I padded along the cold floors towards the showers I was left in no doubt that the holidays were now well and truly over. Afrikaans greeted us at 06:40. Seriously reconsidering my desire in the holidays to get back to school – think I may have been afflicted by a bout of Milton madness!

A new subject for this term is called religious instruction with Reverend Bishop, which is basically a class where we are supposed to talk about Christianity, but actually discuss anything we feel like. Rambo spent the lesson taking the piss out of the Reverend who thought he was being sincere. He asked the chaplain if oral sex was against God’s law. Reverend Bishop said it was fine as long as it was within a loving and committed relationship. Boggo then asked the poor man if it was immoral for a woman to sit on a police baton. The chaplain didn’t understand the question and said that women had a right to protect themselves. By then the class was beside themselves. Larry Radford from Blake house tried so hard not to laugh that he had a coughing fit and had to be excused. Reverend Bishop asked Fatty
to say the closing prayer before dismissing us.

11:00   The notice read:

FULL OLIVER CAST meeting in the theatre at 16:30.

12:00   The Guv looked identical to my Dad on Easter Sunday: unshaven, crinkly clothes and bloodshot eyes. He seemed distracted and mumbled his way through double English. He didn’t once make a joke or threaten anyone with a gruesome death. After the lesson I went to say hello. He just said, ‘Greetings, Milton, good holiday?’ and stared distractedly out the window. I could see he wasn’t really interested in my reply. Disappointed, I excused myself and slipped out of the classroom.

16:30   About fifty of us gathered in the theatre to meet Viking. (The teacher actors were absent.) The big black stage thrusts right out into the auditorium, which seats about 500 people, and with the gallery overhanging the action it looks like a colosseum. Already the atmosphere was electric. I noticed that many boys stared and pointed at me in private discussions. ‘TV star’ Smith looked away when I smiled at him. Winter just looked big-eyed and sad.

All right, you bastards. I will be running a tight ship. In fact this ship will be run tighter than a nun’s $%&^#$!’ I looked around. Did Viking just say what I thought he said? ‘This play will be your life for the next five months. This play will be no am dram wanky school production; this play will be good enough to grace any professional stage anywhere in the world. I demand endurance, discipline and, most of all, creativity!’

Viking called up Lloyd Cresswell (The Artful Dodger) and myself and showed us off to the rest of the cast. ‘These are your stars. Give them all the assistance they need because by God they’re gonna need it!’ I noticed
Geoff Lawson amongst the cast and he gave me a smile and thumbs up. It was a relief to see a friendly face.

Viking handed out scripts and musical scores to everybody, despite the fact that most of us can’t read music. He then handed out rehearsal schedules. The cast is made up of three chorus groups, the workhouse boys, consisting of the youngest, smallest boys (like me), Fagin’s gang of medium-size boys, and then the older London Town chorus who are mostly third years and marries. Each group will practise twice a week. I have to be at just about every rehearsal, which is just fine with me. Rehearsals will take place mainly in the evenings, Monday to Friday, from 20:00, and all day on Sundays. With special permission from Sparerib I’ve been granted leave of absence from prep from 19:30 every night and from free bounds on Sundays. Rehearsals begin tomorrow night!

When we arrived for lights out, we found that everybody’s bed had been moved out of the window and onto the vestry roof. Due to the steady drizzle they were all soaked. PJ Luthuli was absolutely livid and immediately called in Pike and Devries who denied responsibility for the prank. Sparerib had to get the laundry opened and we all marched off in our pyjamas to get new mattresses. Luthuli has vowed to kill the offender (slowly and painfully).

Pike woke us up and asked us if we were having wet dreams. Rambo threw a shoe at him which clonked him on the head. Pike squawked and disappeared and the rest of us cheered – according to our tally, the score is now 1-1.

After weeks of anticipation, the great day arrived for our first rehearsal in the music department. I was so nervous that my score and my voice were shaking like
dried leaves in a hurricane. Thankfully, I didn’t have any solos and we worked on the grand intro Food Glorious Food and the song Oliver with the workhouse boys’ chorus. Both Winter and Smith were there and made a point of ignoring me. Ms Roberts and Mr Sturgeon (the musical director) took us through our paces. Mr Sturgeon, who is completely bald and a dead ringer for Kojak (hence the nickname), swung a baton in our faces and screamed if we were going too fast or too slow. Winter started crying for no apparent reason and Viking had to take him outside for a pep talk. After the rehearsal Viking patted me on the back and said, ‘I see tomorrow is your special day, Milton. Happy Birthday… and er… good luck.’

I walked back to the house, gazing up at the stars. With all the excitement about rehearsals and the new term, I’d forgotten about my birthday completely. Tomorrow I will no doubt be put through some horrendous torture. (I sure hope it isn’t a bogwash.) I eventually decided that whatever will come will come, and calmly sauntered back to the silence of the sleeping house.

Happy Birthday, Spud Milton! Fourteen years old today. (A birthday shared with Adolf Hitler.)

I got calls from the folks and the Mermaid and a birthday card from Wombat in Mom’s handwriting. Besides the above there was no other mention of my birthday from anyone. Not even a wink or a suspicious glance, nothing. Could the impossible happen? Could my birthday be forgotten? (Unfortunately, this seems unlikely as each boy is given a list with the precise age and birth date of every boy in the school.)

The Guv called our cricket team to a meeting in his classroom after lunch. He told us that we’ve been invited to a cricket festival in Cape Town over the July
holidays. The Guv wanted to see how many of us would be interested in going. Eleven hands immediately shot straight up into the air. The Guv ran his hand through his greying stubble and grinned for the first time this term. ‘Why am I not surprised?’ he said and dismissed us with a wave of his walking stick. Our team gathered outside and chattered excitedly about the possible tour to the Cape. What a birthday present! As I headed towards the lunch queue, The Guv called me over.

‘Happy Birthday, Milton.’

He slipped a present (badly wrapped, in Christmas paper) into my hand, and strode off towards the staffroom. I slid the present under my shirt and sprinted back to the dormitory where I hid it at the back of my footlocker. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna leave incriminating evidence of my birthday in full view of the Crazy Eight!

20:00   Rehearsal with Lloyd Creswell and myself. (He calls me Oli and I call him Dodge.) We worked on our solo pieces with Kojak once again swinging his baton around like a maniac. Viking looked on, occasionally making a point or asking us to try something different. Ms Roberts clunked away on the piano without showing any ill effects from all Kojak’s shouting and screaming, apart from the odd sneeze and the repeated blowing of her nose.

Halfway through the rehearsal Crispo shuffled in, looking old and frail and clinging onto Gloria’s arm. She sat him down in a chair near the piano. He cocked his head to the side and cupped his hand over his ear so that he could hear us sing. I sang a couple of solos and couldn’t help noticing the old codger swaying slightly to the music, tears trickling down his smiling face. After my last solo he struggled to his feet, waved to me and gave me the old Churchill victory sign before Gloria led him out of the music room. I felt like I wanted to run after him and see if he was okay but Viking ordered us
to repeat Consider Yourself once again.

I walked with Dodge back towards the school. We talked excitedly about the play and about being cast in the lead roles. Eventually, Dodge said goodbye and followed the path that led around the front of the chapel through the car park and on towards his house. I figured I’d waste a little more time before hitting the dormitory in the hope that the Crazy Eight would have all fallen asleep by the time I returned. I followed the same path taken by Dodge but instead of moving on to the car park, I snuck into the chapel.

Three candles burned on the altar and, unlike last term’s night swim, the chapel felt strangely warm and inviting. I took a pew towards the back and listened carefully for suspicious sounds (supernatural or otherwise). Besides the rickety old 23:00 freight train, chugging its way up to Johannesburg, all was silent. I thought of the play, the Mermaid, the scholarship, the cricket tour. I thought about being fourteen years old, and I thought about frail old Mr Crispo and his smiling face of tears… And then I did a funny thing. I said ‘Thank you’ out loud without really meaning to. My voice echoed around the empty chapel, sounding incredibly loud and full-bodied and not like a spud at all. Maybe this was a sign from God that my days of being a spud are numbered?

Unfortunately, I then thought about Macarthur, and a sense of unease overcame me like a thick mist. I was convinced that I heard a deep voice mumbling in agony. I kept turning around to check the huge oak doors behind me, half expecting them to creak open. (Then I reckoned that a ghost wouldn’t need to open the doors, he would just drift right through them.) By now I had completely terrified myself and scampered out of God’s house, slunk through the cold concrete cloisters and nipped into the house, up the stairs, through the second years’ dorm and finally tiptoed into
our dormitory. There was complete silence. I could hear the rhythmical breathing of sleep. The full moon cast yellow light through my window and onto my bed. Roger glared at me intently as I slipped off my shoes and socks, unbuttoned my shirt and slipped out of my pants and underpants. I leaned forward to grab my pyjamas from under my pillow… and suddenly the dormitory exploded! Boys were everywhere! Hands searched for me, held me, found me. In a blind panic I lashed out but soon the powerful bodies around me had killed my fight and were picking me up and carrying me through the dorms and down the stairs.