Ten of the Best (9 page)

‘Are you all right, dear?’

‘No,’ I sobbed.

‘You’re soaking wet! You’ll catch your death!’ And then: ‘You’re from that school up the road, aren’t you? You’re running away, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where to?’

‘Home.’

‘Where’s home, dear?’

‘Essex. By the sea.’

‘But that’s a hundred miles away. Why don’t you get in the car, dear? I’ll take you home with me. Would you like a sticky bun and some nice hot tea?’ And she opened the door for me. There was something about her I trusted at once, the gentleness of her smile perhaps, the softness of her voice. That was why I got in, I think. Or maybe it was for the sticky bun. The truth was that I’d suddenly lost heart, suddenly had enough of my great escape. I was cold and wet, and home seemed as far away as the moon, and just as inaccessible.

The car was warm inside, and smelled of leather and dog.

‘It’s not far dear. Half a mile, that’s all. Just in the village. Oh, and this is Jack. He’s perfectly friendly.’ And by way of introducing himself, the dog in the back began to snuffle the back of my neck. He was a spaniel with long dangly ears and sad bloodshot eyes. And he dribbled a lot.

All the way back to the village, the old lady talked on, about Jack mostly. Jack was ten, in dog years, she told me. If you multiplied by seven, exactly the same age as she was. ‘One of the windscreen wipers,’ she said, ‘only works when it feels like it, and it never feels like it when it’s raining.’

I sat and listened and had my neck washed from ear to ear by Jack. It tickled and made me smile. ‘That’s better, dear,’ she said. ‘Happier now?’

She gave me more than she’d promised – a whole plate of sticky buns and several cups of tea. She put my soaking wet shoes in the oven to dry and hung my blazer on the clotheshorse by the stove, and she talked all the time, telling me all about herself, how she lived alone these days, how she missed company. Her husband had been killed on the Somme in 1916, in the First World War. ‘Jimmy was a Grenadier Guardsman,’ she said proudly. ‘Six foot three in his socks.’ She showed me his photo on the mantelpiece. He had a moustache and lots of medals. ‘Loved his fishing,’ she went on. ‘Loved the sea. We went to the sea whenever we could. Brighton. Lovely place.’ On and on she rambled, talking me through her life with Jimmy, and how she’d stayed on in the village after he’d been killed because it was the place they’d known together, how she’d taught in the village school for years before she retired. When the sticky buns were all finished and my shoes were out of the oven and dry at last, she sat back, clapped her hands on her knees, and said:

‘Now, dear, what
are
we going to do with you?’

‘I don’t know,’ I replied.

‘Shall I telephone your father and mother?’

‘No!’ I cried. The thought appalled me. They’d be so disappointed in me, so ashamed to know that I’d tried to run away.

‘Well then, shall I ring the Headmaster?’

‘No! Please don’t.’ That would be worse still. I’d be up the red-carpeted stairs into his study. I’d been there before all too often. I’d bent over the leather armchair and watched him pull out the cane from behind his desk. I’d waited for the swish and whack, felt the hot searing pain, the stinging eyes, and counted to six. I’d stood up, trembling, to shake his hand and murmured, ‘Thank you, sir,’ through my weeping mouth. No, not that. Please, not that.

‘Maybe,’ said the old lady. ‘Maybe there’s a way round this. You can’t have been gone long, an hour or so at most. What if I take you back and drop you off at the top of the school drive? It’s nearly dark now. No one would see you, not if you were careful. And with a bit of luck no one would have missed you just yet. You could sneak in and no one would ever know you’ve run away at all. What d’you think?’ I could have hugged her.

Jack came in the car with us in the back seat, licking my neck and my ears all the way. The old lady was unusually silent for a while. Then she said: ‘There’s something Jimmy once told me not long before he was killed, when he was home on leave for the last time. He never talked much about the war and the trenches, but he did tell me once how scared he was all the time, how scared they all were. So I asked him what made him go on, why he didn’t just run away. And he said: “Because of my pals. We’re in this together. We look after each other.” You’ve got pals, haven’t you, dear?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘but they
like
coming back to school. They
love
it.’

‘I wonder if they really do,’ she said. ‘Maybe they just pretend better than you.’

I was still thinking about that when the car came to a stop. ‘I won’t go any nearer than this, dear. It wouldn’t do for anyone to see you getting out, would it now? Off you go then. And chin up, like my Jimmy.’ Jack gave me a goodbye lick as I turned to him, on my nose.

‘Thanks for the sticky buns,’ I said. She smiled at me and I got out. I watched her drive away into the gloom and vanish. To this day I have no idea who she was. I never saw her again.

I ran down through the rhododendrons and out into the deserted courtyard at the back of the school. The lights were on all over the building, and the place was alive with the sound of children. I knew I needed time to compose myself before I met anyone, so I opened the chapel door and slipped into its enveloping darkness. There I sat and prayed, prayed that I hadn’t been found out, that I wouldn’t have to face the red-carpeted stairs and the Headmaster’s study and the leather chair. I hadn’t been in there for more than a few minutes when the door opened and the lights went on.

‘Ah, there you are Morpurgo.’ It was Mr Morgan (French and Music, and the choirmaster, too). ‘We’ve been looking all over for you.’ As he came up the aisle towards me, I knew my prayers had been answered. Mr Morgan was much liked by all of us, because he was invariably kind, and always thought the best of us – rare in that school.

‘Bit homesick, are you, Morpurgo?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘It’ll pass. You’ll see.’ He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘You’d better get yourself upstairs with the others. If you don’t get your trunk unpacked by lights out, Matron will eat you alive, and we don’t want that, do we?’

‘No, sir.’

And so I left Mr Morgan and the chapel and went upstairs to my dormitory. ‘Where’ve you been? I thought you’d scarpered, run away,’ said Simpson, unpacking his trunk on the bed next to mine.

‘I just felt a bit sick,’ I said. Then I opened my trunk. On the top of my clothes was a note and three bars of Cadbury’s chocolate. The note read: ‘Have a good term. Love Mum.’ Simpson spotted the chocolate, and pounced. Suddenly everyone in the dormitory was around me, and at my chocolate, like gannets. I managed to keep a little back for myself, which I hid under my pillow, and ate late that night as I listened to the bell in the clock tower chiming midnight. As it finished I heard Simpson crying to himself as silently as he could.

‘You all right, Sim?’ I whispered.

‘Fine,’ he sniffed. And then, ‘Pongo, did you scarper?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Next time you go, take me with you. Promise?’

‘Promise,’ I replied.

But I never did scarper again. Perhaps I never again plucked up the courage; perhaps I listened to the old lady’s advice. I’ve certainly never forgotten it. It was my one and only great escape.

PAUL JENNINGS was born in England but went to live in Australia when he was six. He became a teacher and then a lecturer, first in Special Education and the in Language and Literature. His first book Unreal! was published in 1987 which won the Young Australian’ Best Book Award which he then went on to win eleven times with other titles! In the Australia Day 1995 Honours List he was appointed Member in the General Division of the Order of Australia for services to children’s literature. His television series Round the Twist won the Prix Jeunesse Award and in 2001 he won a COOL Award for The Paw Thing which was declared the ‘Coolest Book of the Decade’.

T
hese days kids don’t get the strap in schools. And a good thing too.

I don’t think I was a particularly bad boy at school but I did seem to get the strap a lot. We called it, ‘getting the cuts.’ The thought of it hung over my head like a rain cloud. Every school day this cloud followed me around. At any moment it might turn into a storm which would engulf me totally.

That was the awful thing. Not knowing when the cloud was going to break. Not knowing when I might do something which would incur the wrath of the particularly awful teacher I had that year. His name was Mr Down but we always called him Downie.

I remember him walking into the classroom on the first day of school. What was he going to be like? A wonderful human being who would fill your year with fun and laughter? A tyrant who would leave you trembling all day? A weakling who would let his pupils run all over him? No one knew. The class fell silent. Every eye watched his slightest move.

He walked over to the side of the wooden cupboard at the front of the room. He opened the door and took out a hammer and a nail. He banged the nail loudly into the side of the cupboard. Each thump echoed around the room and made us shake. Finally he unrolled a long leather strap from his pocket and hung it on the nail.

We all quivered. We knew the answers to our questions and he hadn’t even spoken a word.

This man made fifty-two children’s lives miserable for a year. One minute you would be innocently sitting there minding your own business and the next you were hauled out in front of the class and publicly punished.

I could live with getting the strap for doing something genuinely bad. But not for nothing. It hurt much more to be strapped when you were innocent.

Once when I was puzzling over a page of sums I remember chewing the end of a red pencil and pressing it thoughtfully against my forehead.

‘Jennings,’ roared a loud voice. ‘You’ve got the measles.’ I looked up in astonishment. I felt quite well but I hoped it was true. A week off school with the measles was a week less suffering in the classroom. Downie bent over and inspected my head more closely. The red spots were not spots at all. They were dots made by the end of my wet pencil.

Little veins bulged out on Downie’s face. He dragged me out the front and gave me six of the best.

I remember walking home nursing my sore hand and saying to myself, ‘When I grow up I am going to find Downie and flatten him. I will bash him up. I will pay him back one day.’

I nursed my hatred for this man every day. On the way to school I would sing a little song to myself that I had made up based on an old rhyme.

Bald head Down

Went to town

Riding on a pony

Stuck a feather up his bum

And called it macaroni

It’s funny – I was never one to use bad language, but this act of secret defiance made me feel a little better in my silent suffering.

Don’t get me wrong. Sometimes, like everyone else I did stupid things. Once, at break-time I found a large apple in my lunchbag. For some unknown reason I decided to throw it into the air high above the playground. At the very moment the apple left my hand I saw Downie watching me. With our eyes we both traced the high arc of the apple’s journey into the sky. For a moment it almost seemed to be going into orbit. But then it froze and fell towards earth. A girl named Julia was innocently skipping and laughing in the playground.

Julia was Downie’s favourite. He always chose her to arrange the flowers or clean the blackboard.

Oh the fear. The terror. In a fraction of a second the whole picture froze into my brain. I knew. I just knew what was going to occur.

Smash. The apple hit Julia fair on the head. The apple splattered into a million fragments and she dropped to the ground like a stone.

Mrs Henderson who taught the infants rushed over.

‘What happened?’ she yelled at Downie.

He grabbed me by the ear and spat out, ‘This, this…’ He couldn’t find a bad enough word to describe me. ‘Threw an apple at the girl and rendered the child unconscious.’

Julia was taken to the sick-room where she rapidly recovered.

Downie dragged me off and strapped me six times. I never recovered.

His words,
‘Rendered the child unconscious,’
burned into my brain. I felt terribly guilty. I had hurt Julia. It was thoughtless. What a fool I was.

Sometimes I would lie in bed and say the words to myself ‘Rendered the child unconscious.’ I would roll them around in my mouth like some unpleasant medicine that I just couldn’t bring myself to swallow. After that, Downie would find any excuse to give me the strap. He had a million ways of making me suffer.

It was always worse if you had to wait for several hours or days before your punishment was administered. I recall one particular incident really well.

‘Three boys were seen playing in the clay hills,’ said Downie one day.

We all looked at each other. All the kids played in the clay hills after school even though you weren’t supposed to. Three people were going to be strapped. Everyone froze. Well, all the boys did anyway.

Girls were never given the strap so they didn’t have to worry. But the boys were constantly talking about it. There were many theories about ways to stop it hurting. If you pulled your hand away you got an extra whack for your trouble. And if the teacher hit his own leg you might infuriate him. I never pulled my hand away.

I did try curling up my palm a couple of times but Downie would always flatted out my fingers with a mocking grin. Most kids agreed that it was definitely not worth letting Mr Down have an excuse to give you more.

‘Jennings, Simons and Humphries,’ said Downie. ‘Report to me after school.’ The three of us gasped in horror. Oh no. It was me. I was in it.

At lunchtime, the boys who were not going to be strapped gathered around. They were full of unhelpful advice.

‘Go first and get it over with,’ said Jeffries.

I looked at him balefully. It was all very well to say, ‘Go first.’ But when the time came you would do anything to put the pain off for a few more seconds. No one ever wanted to be first.

‘Rub this stuff into your hand,’ said my friend Foxy, ‘and it won’t hurt when you get the cuts.’ He handed me a lump of waxy, yellow substance.

‘What is it?’

‘Rosin,’ said Foxy. ‘Rosin Strap Stopper. My cousin gave it to me. He swears that it stops the pain. You won’t feel a thing I promise you. It won’t hurt a bit.’

I took the rosin hopefully. It was better than nothing. The rosin was passed from hand to hand and we rubbed it into our fingers and palms at every chance we got. I found a small stick and gave myself a gentle tap.

‘It still hurts,’ I said.

‘It only works on really hard whacks,’ said Foxy. ‘It’s guaranteed to work on the strap.’

The day wore on slowly. Oh the terror. There was just a chance, a small chance, that we would get a lecture and nothing worse. All day, like condemned men in their cells, we waited. But in our hearts we knew it was going to be the strap. Thank goodness for the Strap Stopper.

Finally the dreaded moment came. The three of us stood shaking on the platform at the front of the empty classroom. Simons’ face was clammy and pale. Humphries stood defiantly, not showing his fear. I felt sick.

‘Line up,’ said Downie as he took the strap down from its nail.

No one moved.

‘You first Simons.’

Beads of sweat started to trickle down Simons’ temples. With trembling knees he moved forward.

‘Then you, Humphries.’

Humphries moved into second place. I was last in line.

Poor Simons. I had never seen anyone look so scared. His face was white.

‘Hold out your hand.’

Simons held out his hand. The poor kid. He was absolutely filled with terror. ‘Whack,’ down came the leather strap. Simons’ face froze. Then he just dropped to the floor like a sack of wheat.

Now it was Downie who turned pale. He bent down and shook Simons’ head. No response. Simons had fainted.

Then I noticed something I had never seen before. Downie was worried. He glared at me.

‘Quick,’ he said. ‘Fetch Mrs Henderson.’

I turned to go but Downie grabbed my shoulder and thrust the strap towards my face.

‘Not a word about
this
,’ he said. He shoved the strap into a drawer and closed it.

I rushed out of the room and returned with Mrs Henderson.

‘What happened?’ she said.

No one answered. Even Downie seemed lost for words.

I couldn’t think what to say. There were four months of school left. If I told about the strap I would be history. And anyway, we were only kids. What could we do?

I tried to search for words. Nothing would come. I tried to force out a few words. Suddenly my mouth seemed to go into automatic drive. I just couldn’t stop it.

‘He rendered the child unconscious,’ I said.

Mrs Henderson didn’t seem to understand.

‘What’s this yellow stuff on his hands?’ she said urgently as she bent over Simons’ slumped figure.

‘Strap Stopper,’ said Humphries. He nervously blurted out the whole story. Mrs Henderson threw a quick glance at Downie and then helped him carry Simons out to her car. She told Humphries and I to follow. She took us to the local doctor and our parents were called. The doctor was very kind.

To us.

He didn’t seem to like Downie at all.

‘This yellow stuff could be poisonous,’ he said. ‘It could have seeped through their skin. These boys had better stay home in bed until I find out what’s in it.’

We were given a whole week off school. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.

Poor old Simons couldn’t remember a thing. And Humphries and I had escaped. So there hadn’t been any pain at all. The Strap Stopper turned out not to be poisonous but it had saved the day.

When we went back to school Downie had gone. Moved to another school. I only saw him once more, many years later.

My next teacher was Mr Hooper. A wonderful man who filled our life with joy and laughter. He showed slides of his travels around Australia and amazed us with his stories of mountain climbing and exploring Antarctica. He loved music and had the whole class singing at every opportunity. There was no fear. No strap. I loved school. I couldn’t wait to get there. The days and weeks just flew by.

My only regret was not telling him how much I had appreciated being in his class. I was too shy and at the end of the school year I just gave him a small present like everyone else. He never knew what joy he had given to all of us.

When I moved on to secondary school, I found that they didn’t use the strap at all. They had the cane instead. It was a long, thin stick that stung like the blazes. I only received it once.

I was never any good at football and it was my practice to sneak off and read in the library instead. The librarian knew what I was up to but she kept quiet about it. I was safely hidden because other classes would be in there doing research and no one noticed an extra student.

One day, however, the library was empty. The Headmaster came in and found only one boy reading quietly in a corner.

‘Why aren’t you at sport, Jennings?’

‘I like reading better, sir,’ I said in a weak voice. And I hate footy.’

He took me off to his office and gave me three stinging whacks on the hand.

Many years later when I was a man I received a letter from that school. It was from the librarian. She told me that the boys loved my books and would I come and speak to them about writing stories.

I went and I have to say that I enjoyed talking to those students and looking around the library that had been my refuge so long ago.

I told the boys a lot of stories that I had made up and put into books. But I didn’t tell them the true yarn about getting the cane. Sometimes it is better to keep quiet.

Later I grew up to be a teacher myself On one particular day when I was visiting the Education Department I found myself in a lift with a small, bald man. It was Downie. I towered over him. He seemed weak and old and unhappy.

My childhood thoughts of bashing him up came flooding into my head. As the lift headed upwards I stood there next to him chewing the familiar words silently like bad medicine.

‘He rendered the child unconscious.’

The lift doors opened and Downie walked out. My angry thoughts vanished with him and the doors closed on that part of my life forever. Well almost.

Ten years later I applied for a job as a lecturer at a teachers’ college. On my first day in the new position I read down the list of staff members named in the college handbook. I noticed the name, Mr Hooper, the marvellous teacher who had told us tales about exploring in Antarctica.

I rushed around to his office and thanked him for the wonderful year he gave me at school. ‘I have never forgotten you,’ I told him. ‘It was the happiest year of my life.’