Spud - Learning to Fly (7 page)
Read Spud - Learning to Fly Online
Authors: John van de Ruit
English Orals!
The Guv was in raucous form during the oral presentations. He interrupted and shouted comments throughout and even made Martin Lesley stop in the middle of his oral and accused him of having the oratorical skills of a dyslexic pygmy. Only after our English teacher had calmed down and carefully reloaded his pipe was Lesley allowed to proceed with his oral on the digestive system of Friesland cows.
When Garlic announced that he was doing his oral on Lake Malawi, The Guv screamed loudly and clutched at his skull like he had a blinding migraine. He then relit his pipe and declared, ‘The oral cannot be done!’
Garlic looked crushed. He began pleading with The Guv to hear him out and let him say his oral, but The Guv was having none of it. He slammed his fist into his desk and shouted, ‘Either the oral goes or I go!’
Eventually, after much muttering to himself in Shakespearean verse, our English teacher conceded defeat and said, ‘Do your damndest, Garlic, and pray, good man, remember, brevity is the soul of wit.’
Garlic launched into his oral with gusto but was brought to a halt after the first line. ‘Good God, Garlic!’ boomed The Guv. ‘Must you insist on shouting? This isn’t a fish market in darkest Africa, and you, my lad, are no Winston Churchill!’
‘Thank God Almighty,’ gasped The Guv as Garlic finally finished his oral to a pathetic ripple of applause. The Guv then asked the class if we had any questions. Rambo surprisingly raised his hand skyward. He cleared his throat and said, ‘Sir, I would just like to ask Garlic the name of the predominant rock strata that exist under Lake Malawi itself.’
Garlic’s eyes swelled, his face reddened and his mouth opened but no words came out. The Guv glared at Garlic in mock anger and said, ‘Clearly, you know very little about your subject. In fact I have my suspicions as to whether you really come from Nyasaland at all. The name Garlic sounds a little queer, too. Have you not considered the possibility, dear boy, that you might not in fact exist?’
Poor Garlic stuttered and pleaded and even offered to run back to the dormitory to fetch photographs to prove his existence. The Guv refused. Then Boggo piped up and said, ‘Sir, I think I have a question that will finally establish if Garlic is a true Malawian or a lying impostor.’
Garlic wiped the sweat off his brow with his forearm and looked like a man facing execution.
Boggo cleared his throat and asked, ‘What is the national snake of Malawi?’
Garlic shouted, ‘Snake?’ as if the question made no sense. A murmur turned into a roar of laughter as it became obvious that Garlic didn’t know the answer. In desperation he shouted, ‘Cobra!’
The Guv rocked back in his chair and raised his hands for silence. He sucked on his pipe and said, ‘All right, Greenstein, please enlighten this herbaceous African as to what the national snake of Nyasaland in fact is.’
Boggo stood up and announced, ‘The one-eyed trouser snake, sir.’
The Guv thought this was hilarious and took some time to gather himself before saying, ‘Garlic, it is clear to me that as a non resident your knowledge of Lake Nyasa is sound and your passion for the topic unquestioned and hitherto unseen.’ The Guv motioned Garlic back to his seat and shouted, ‘Live long Garlic and never allow anyone to question your existence again.’
The Guv seemed very impressed with my oral on the magic of theatre. He even cheered and applauded after I quoted Orson Welles. After I had finished, he said, ‘Milton, your oration has left me itching to tread the boards once more.’ The siren rang for the end of the double, and The Guv ended the class with, ‘If theatre be the wine of love, drink on!’
15:00 After procrastinating for days about phoning home I finally psyched myself up to tell Dad the bad cricket news. Thankfully, Mom answered the call because Dad had just discovered that his garage door was infested with termites and had rushed out to buy poison. Mom said she would try her best to break the news softly and promised that he wouldn’t do anything embarrassing this time.
17:00 I found Garlic sitting on the grass behind the chapel. His eyes were red and it was obvious that he’d been crying. I asked him if he was all right. He nodded but then his eyes filled with tears and he covered his face and turned away from me.
‘I hate it here,’ said Garlic eventually. ‘I’m trying to be friendly like, and everybody hates me. I think I want to go home.’
I explained to Garlic that nobody hated him and that he shouldn’t take the mockery personally. I told him about getting my balls polished in first year and how bad things have happened to everyone along the way.
He looked at me with his huge eyes and asked me why I stayed at the school. I heard myself rambling on about school spirit and the extra facilities the school offered. In truth I didn’t have a good reason to give him.
I suggested to him that he keep a low profile until he knew how the school worked. I also advised him never to mention Lake Malawi again and to stop shouting random questions at people all the time. He nodded and his eyes filled with tears again.
Then we had an awkward few minutes where nothing was said. I eventually got up to leave but he jumped up too. He said, ‘Thanks, Spud. You’re my best buddy.’ I gave him a friendly thump on the back. Garlic grinned happily and said, ‘Hey, what are you doing in the holidays? Why not come to Lake Malawi?’
I ran.
The cricket match against Arlington was a complete waste of time. I took five wickets but it didn’t really feel like much of an achievement because the batsmen were committing suicide by charging down the wicket and swinging wildly. The game ended well before lunch but Mr Ashleigh-Meyer said there would be no second innings and immediately dragged the opposition coach off to the staff room for the rest of the afternoon.
18:00 Boggo came charging into the dining hall and said he had just witnessed the actress from Wild Coast getting out of her car and he reckons she’s the hottest chick he’s ever seen in the flesh. He then said he was too in love to eat mediocre food and tore back to the theatre to offer technical help.
20:30 There was much mocking and jeering as the matrics and Pike set off to watch Wild Coast. Boggo became so desperate that he tried to bribe Meany Dlamini in the main quad and received hard labour for his troubles. Boggo said his quest to be the sound operator was doomed because by the time he got to the theatre there was already a waiting list of twenty sound operators and a fight had broken out over who was manning the follow spot. Boggo says the reason that the third years weren’t allowed to attend the play had nothing to do with nudity and age restrictions. He reckons the real reason is that Wild Coast is completely sold out. The local farming community has booked in their droves and a farmer’s co-op from Fort Nottingham has reserved over a hundred and twenty seats. Boggo said the whole thing was iniquitous. ‘Our folks,’ he whined, ‘pay shitloads for our education. This play should be for our cultural development, not for a bunch of horny sheep farmers from Fort Nottingham.’
Norman Whiteside, our officious new head of house, had grandly announced that he was forgoing Wild Coast to keep order in the house. Clearly the idiot thought we wouldn’t notice him wrapped in a scarf and darting behind the walls in the cloisters. The lure of the naked actress has claimed its second victim.
The school fell silent as the crowds disappeared into the theatre. Rambo, who had from the beginning shown no interest in the play whatsoever, sauntered into the prefects’ kitchen and made himself a pot of tea. We sat around on the house bench while Rambo silently drank his tea. Boggo continued his rant about the severe theatrical injustice that had been dealt to us, while we stared out at Pissing Pete and the general gloom of the deserted quad.
Rambo downed his tea with a satisfied smack of the lips and said, ‘Right, gather yourselves, gentlemen. It’s time for a christening.’
The Normal Seven were awake because we caught Spike tormenting Runt and the last remaining Darryl. Rambo didn’t stop in the second year dorm but continued into the first year dorm and closed the door behind us once we were all through. The first years were all asleep or at least faking sleep. Fatty wasted no time in marching to the first cubicle on the left and shaking one of the new boys awake. From under his trench coat he produced the house telephone, which he and Boggo had unplugged and stolen.
Fatty told the new boy that his mom was on the line and handed the first year the receiver. The gullible first year took the receiver in a sleepy daze, placed it on his ear and said, ‘Hi, Mom.’ Fatty nearly fell over, he was laughing so much. The poor first year didn’t know what was going on and looked on the verge of tears.
Boggo then ordered the new boys out of their beds and told them to line up in front of us. The new boys silently obeyed and soon stood shivering pathetically in their pyjamas. Vern strode forward, thumped his left foot into the ground and saluted ferociously. Boggo groaned and Garlic burst into loud laughter. The new boys all saluted back at Vern who, satisfied, took a gigantic step backwards to where he’d been standing before. Fatty closed his eyes and took a deep breath that whistled tunefully through his nostrils. After a few more seconds he said, ‘Be seated.’ The new boys obeyed immediately.
Boggo pointed at the smallest boy and said, ‘Hey, you, dickcheese. Stand up.’ The frightened first year scrambled to his feet and stood to attention, looking desperate not to offend. Boggo examined him closely before turning to Fatty and saying, ‘I think this is the one. I’d recognise Meg Ryan’s nose any day.’ Fatty examined the new boy’s nose and agreed it was definitely the same as Meg Ryan’s. Boggo looked the boy up and down and asked, ‘What’s your name?’ The first year replied with an extremely Spudly, ‘Er, sir, my name is Jack.’ Boggo nodded solemnly and replied, ‘Bad news, Jack. Bishop Boggo is about to knock over the king and ace the queen!’ Boggo nodded at Vern who immediately produced a pad of paper and a pen. He then licked his fingers manically and began paging through his notebook searching for a clean page.
‘Address?’ demanded Boggo. The poor first year coughed up all his mother’s details, including her name (Virginia), star sign (Pisces) and favourite food (Lobster Thermidoor). Unfortunately for Boggo, Jack had no idea whatsoever what his mother’s bra size was or whether she had any kinky outfits in her closet or not. Boggo ordered Vern to put Jack’s mother down for a 32D size bra and a leopard print obsession. Boggo christened Jack with the nickname ‘Meg Ryan’s Son’ and told him it was a possibility that he may soon have to address Boggo as Dad.
There was a triumphant shout from the far end of the dormitory where Fatty had just discovered a gold mine of tuck under a new boy’s bed. Immediately the largest of the first years jumped up with a look of panic spreading across his round face. He blurted, ‘Sir, that’s mine, sir, it’s special food, sir, because I have a spastic colon.’ While wolfing down a box of wheat cookies, Fatty quizzed the large boy about his spastic colon and took a great interest in each item of tuck and what its health benefits were. The new boy became desperate and begged, ‘Please don’t eat all my food, sir.’ Fatty looked deeply wounded and replied, ‘What do you take me for – some kind of animal?’ He then poured an entire packet of dried prunes into his mouth and chomped away noisily whilst riffling through the boy’s underpants drawer. ‘Oh, and don’t call me sir,’ he mumbled, with prunes tumbling out the sides of his mouth. ‘Sir is what you call teachers. I’d rather you called me something like … Guru.’
‘Oh guru my guru!’ gushed Rambo as he leant nonchalantly against the door. Even the new boys laughed.
Simon suggested that since the new boy’s name is Graham, he should be called ‘Fat Graham’. But Fatty was having none of it. He said Graham was well short of obese, and would have to pack on at least thirty kilograms if he wanted to be considered properly fat. We finally all agreed on ‘Plump Graham’ for a nickname. Plump Graham blushed scarlet and sat down looking humiliated.
‘Who’s the one with the skew willy?’ shouted Garlic immediately. None of the first years raised their hands so Boggo made them all strip from the waist while Garlic and Fatty examined their privates and Vern aimed the torch. The culprit was immediately exposed and the humiliated first year was christened ‘Sidewinder’ and mocked mercilessly for the next ten minutes.
Boggo christened the fourth boy ‘Gastro’ without giving an explanation. It then took quite some time to work out whether the final boy was either painfully shy or completely mute. Fatty eventually lost patience with the boy’s continuing silence and nicknamed him ‘Rowdy’.
Once all the first years had been christened, Rambo stepped forward to speak. I noticed the fear and respect glowing in the new boys’ eyes. It seems amazing that without saying a single word Rambo can somehow command focus. It was like some great chief was about to make a dramatic announcement before a historic battle. When he spoke his voice was oddly gentle. ‘Boys, I want you to know,’ he began, ‘that we are on your side. This is just normal initiation. We don’t mean you any harm.’
‘Ja, right!’ chortled Boggo and began shadow humping Meg Ryan’s Son’s locker. Rambo looked at the first years with a meaningful stare and said, ‘Boys, I want to know who’s been giving you shit?’
There was a long silence as the new boys refused to meet his eyes.
‘Tell me!’ demanded Rambo, this time in a more forceful voice. Still nobody spoke. Eventually, Plump Graham raised his hand tentatively and said, ‘Sir. Um … we aren’t meant to rat, sir, because we’ve been told that if you rat, sir … then you get kind of … killed, sir.’
‘Who told you that?’ asked Rambo.
‘Sir, we can’t say, sir.’
Rambo tried his best to look friendly but ended up looking a little frightening. He said, ‘Telling a prefect or Viking is ratting – but sharing this information with me is a display of good school spirit.’ His eyes locked onto those of Plump Graham. ‘Tell me,’ he said once again, his voice growing slightly menacing. ‘I want a name.’
Plump Graham looked around nervously but the others seemed to be nodding and egging him on. Plump Graham turned to Rambo and whispered: