Spud - Learning to Fly (15 page)

06:00 Some good news at last! Mad Dog called at the crack of dawn and said he was inviting the Crazy Eight to spend a week on his farm in the July holidays. I said yes without even asking for the folks’ permission and noted that I was hopping weirdly from foot to foot like an excited elf.

‘Buckle up, Spuddy,’ said Mad Dog in an ominous voice, ‘because it’s going to be the maddest week of your life!’

He then barked loudly down the phone and said he had to call Vern.

‘Good luck,’ I said.

He roared with laughter and hung up.

I can’t wait to see that crazy dog again.

I retired to my room and hatched a plan for extorting permission out of my parents. What with my mother still mentioning last year’s escapades I’m going to have to be as stealthy as a cat.

Called Fatty to let him know about the Mad Dog plan. Fatty, who sounded like he was crunching on concrete, said he had already heard about it. ‘How wicked is that?’ he said before swallowing whatever it was that he was chewing. Then I heard whispering and sniggering in the background. Suddenly a loud voice shouted down the phone, ‘Milton, you lesbian!’ Fatty hooted with laughter and admitted that Boggo was spending the last week of the holiday with him. The rest of the conversation involved Boggo shouting lame taunts in the background at which Fatty would laugh hysterically and then relay back to me as if expecting me to find them equally amusing.

I finally called it quits when Fatty tried to fart Die Stem into the telephone receiver.

9:15 Caught Dad talking to Amber over the fence. When he saw me he hurriedly said goodbye to our neighbour and raced back down the stepladder.

‘You won’t tell your mother, will you?’ he begged with a panicked look on his face. ‘She’s neurotic about Amber.’ He snapped the ladder closed.

‘I didn’t see anything,’ I replied and grinned at my father.

‘That’s my boy!’ roared Dad and punched me on the arm.

‘Dad,’ I said innocently, ‘Mad Dog has invited everyone to his farm for a week in the July holidays.’

Dad was so excited that he not only gave me permission on the spot, but then made me practise my rifle shooting technique, using a cricket bat as a dummy.

Once Dad was satisfied with my performance he announced, ‘I’ll be damned if my boy enters the wild without a sound knowledge of bush craft.’

He then demonstrated how to tie a reef knot on the hosepipe. I didn’t remind my father that I already know all about knots, and didn’t point out that my father’s reef knot was actually a granny knot.

I’m going to Mad Dog’s farm – it’s official. Now that’s what I call a birthday present.

I stole one final look at the photograph Mermaid sent me yesterday via Marge and Mom. It was taken in the garden of the Holy Water Ministry and it revealed a gorgeous blonde girl with wild green eyes laughing into the camera. On her arm is a recently turned sixteen-year-old with two large pink pimples on his forehead. He looks nervous and uncertain and his smile seems a little forced. I flipped the photograph over and written on the back in neat writing was the word:

Faith

10:00 We have a new Geography teacher by the name of Mr Gordon Bosch, who made us all remove our watches as we entered his Geography classroom. He then locked them away in his desk drawer and led us out of the classroom and into the sunlight.

There has been no explanation for why Mr Erasmus, our former Geography teacher, is no longer teaching us because he hasn’t left the school. Boggo said it was because Erasmus was as thick as a plank and couldn’t keep up with our class’s sheer brilliance. After watching half the class chasing Rooster Illingworth around a bush in an attempt to flick his bum with a ruler, I’m not so sure Boggo’s theory holds water.

Bosch led us up the hill past all the staff houses towards the crest of the hill overlooking the dam. He made us sit down under a tree before saying, ‘I’m not going to bother with introductions because you’ll get to know me soon enough.’ He then took off his spectacles and gave them a clean with the corner of his shirt, which had become un-tucked on the brisk walk up the slope. After he replaced his glasses he said that we were incredibly fortunate to study in a place as rich in biodiversity as this. ‘Geography, boys,’ he said, ‘is about experiencing the reality.’ He picked up a small rock and held it up for us to examine. ‘Every stone has a story. Nothing just is. Real geographers look for cause and effect.’

For the next hour we followed Bosch around the school estate, examining rocks eroded by wind and analysing examples of exfoliation and oxidation. It suddenly seemed like I have wasted three years learning things that could be easily demonstrated in five minutes. Bosch must be a keen bird watcher because he showed us a hole in the trunk of a thorn tree and told us it was a red-throated wryneck’s nest. Sure enough a nervous bird with rusty red patches on its neck squeezed out of the hole and flew off in a panic. Our teacher didn’t even mind when Fatty said the wryneck squeezing through the hole reminded him of releasing a prisoner before breakfast. Bosch laughed along but then told Fatty that he would be more comfortable if he used the biological term ‘defecate’ during his classes. Fatty seemed highly disappointed to leave the nest and move on before he had another chance to see the wryneck squeezing out of the hole again. Bosch also pointed out a jackal buzzard and an olive thrush, which made Boggo snigger and make a rude comment about Eve.

We returned to the classroom to collect our watches. Bosch reckons as Africans, we should be able to tell the time by the angle of the sun.

Rambo argued, ‘That’s all very well, sir, but what do we say to the millions of watchmakers we put out of work?’ Bosch grinned and replied, ‘Aha, a socialist?’ Rambo said he wasn’t a socialist but a realist. Bosch thumped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Touché, Black – you’re a sharp one.’ He then dismissed the class with a cheery wave of his pencil.

11:30 We entered our English classroom to find a pile of books standing well over seven feet high. Frozen like a statue beside the tower of books was our English teacher who seemed to be undertaking some earnest reflection while chewing on the end of his pipe. We all sat down in hushed silence, not sure what exactly The Guv was up to. He ignored our entrance completely and continued with his earnest meditation. Once we were all seated and waiting, he turned to us and said, ‘Gentlemen, today we stand at the very brink.’ He exhaled an impressive cloud of pipe smoke and then said, ‘André Brink, to be exact.’ A few sniggers broke out from Boggo and Fatty’s desk and The Guv scowled at them like he was about to erupt into a nasty torrent of abuse. Instead he removed the pipe from his teeth and shouted, ‘To the man step forth and claim your literature in an orderly fashion.’

Garlic jumped up first and sped to the front of the queue like he was about to receive Christmas presents. He then realised that he was far shorter than the pile of books that now stood before him. He became terribly unsure of himself and tried to back away from the pile for fear of knocking it over. Unfortunately, the class had already formed a tight line behind Garlic and his retreat ended when he bumped up against the stocky figure of Richard Smithers.

‘So it’s the herbaceous fellow to the fore,’ said The Guv as Garlic looked around desperately. ‘Perhaps the garlic now wishes he was a runner bean!’ exclaimed The Guv, clearly enjoying Garlic’s predicament.

In a swift leap, Garlic landed on The Guv’s desk. He then grinned impishly and neatly snapped a book off the top of the pile. He held his set work aloft and announced, ‘Sir, we Garlics may be small but we have brains and cunning!’ Our English teacher shouted, ‘Bravo, old man!’ and refilled his pipe while chuckling merrily to himself. Garlic then leapt off the desk and crashed into Smithers who had just stepped forward to reach for his own copy. Garlic bounced back off Smithers and with a high-pitched shout, flattened the entire pile of Brink’s
Rumours of Rain
.

After the chaos was over, The Guv stated that the next two months would be a very, very long, dry white season, before winking at me and instructing Rambo to begin reading aloud to the class. Garlic kept his head bowed for the rest of the lesson and buried his face in his book, but he couldn’t hide his bright pink ears burning with embarrassment and shame.

17:00 I entered the showers to find Boggo shaving the head of Meany Dlamini. At his feet lay piles of hair of different colours and textures and bulging out of Boggo’s back pocket was a thick wad of cash.

‘Tenth cut of the afternoon,’ announced Boggo proudly.