Henry Hoey Hobson

by Christine Bongers

  Now I had my evidence ... and a whole lot more trouble than I had bargained for.

  The back of the truck creaked and a shadow flitted across me; I flinched as the tall, dark-haired man landed with a light thud beside me.

  ‘You should go to school.’ His voice was hoarse, creaking like old leather that had been left too long in the rain. His gaze swept across the footpath, to the house and back again, brushing past me without stopping.

  He started towards me, then stopped, his eyes locking onto mine. Something like pain rippled across his face. The wiry muscles in his forearms tensed, as though readying to fend off a blow. Like he was cornered, out here in the open ... threatened, in a street that was empty, apart from the two of us.

  I took a step back. ‘I will – I am ... Tell Caleb – uh, bye.’ I turned and tried not to break into a run as I stumbled back up the drive and into my house.

  Once inside, I slammed the front door and sank down beside it, my back to the wall. The bloke had spooked me, but to tell the truth, I was more frightened about what was in store for me at Perpetual Suckers.

  Angel Girl had enough evidence to drive a stake through the heart of any chance I might have had of making any friends at this school.

  I glanced at my watch. Maybe, for once in my life, I’d catch a break, and develop swine flu in the next thirty minutes. I’d give it fifteen, and if no symptoms developed, I’d phone Mum and suggest she sign up for early starts and late finishes for the rest of the year. Then I could forge a note from her: Dear Mr Paulson, I am withdrawing Henry from your school and enrolling him in one where he might have some slight chance of making a friend...

  That could work. Then I could lock, deadlock and bolt the front door and hole up at home until it was time to start high school.

  Thirty minutes later, the ringing of the morning bell forced me to choose: truancy police or public ridicule? I groaned and pushed myself to my feet.

  What was the worst thing that could happen? More squealing girls accusing me of being something I wasn’t? How bad could that be? The blood welled up my neck and pooled in my face as I slammed the front door on the likely answer to that question.

  Outside, rush hour had been and gone in the street. There was no sign of anyone at the truck, so I was spared any further confrontations with the weird mob from next door. Peterson Street had emptied of kids and only a few chatting mums were still hanging around the front gate as I slipped past.

  The stream of green-striped uniforms being siphoned off into classrooms had slowed to a trickle by the time I dragged myself up to the Six/Seven room.

  Joey Castellaro and Jironomo Marquez were the last to go in, jostling at the port racks and laughing. Joey caught sight of me and elbowed Hero in the ribs. They produced a perfectly choreographed stare – at me and then at each other – before bolting into the classroom.

  I hung up my bag and hat, took a breath and pushed open the door.

  The classroom was equal parts chaos and noise, with kids shoving, yelling and laughing. Ms Sanders was out the front, ineffectually waving her hands about, trying to get everyone to calm down.

  ‘Class ... Year Six/Seven – Will you please all just sit down and be quiet–’

  I stepped inside and silence spread like a Mexican wave across the room. Every eye in the classroom was on me. Every eye except for Ms Sanders’.

  ‘Thank you.’ She adjusted her glasses. ‘That’s much better. Now if you could all open up your Spelling Matters–’

  I slipped into a seat at the back of the classroom, trying to ignore a couple dozen pairs of eyes drilling into me.

  ‘–and please turn to page twenty-two.’

  Reluctantly, heads swivelled back round to the front of the room, and hands began flipping through pages.

  I was so grateful for this small mercy that I decided to repay Ms Sanders tenfold for unintentionally diverting attention away from me. I vowed that I would throw myself wholeheartedly into her chosen classroom activity, exceed all her expectations and excel at this, if at nothing else in life.

  Within minutes I had memorised the impossible vowel combinations in manoeuvre and facetious,the correct number of ‘ l’s in signalling and enrollingand their correct placement in parallel.

  ‘Class–’ I looked up expectantly at the sound of Ms Sanders’ voice. ‘When you are confident that you know your list of words–’

  I was ready, yessiree, was I ever.

  ‘–pair up with a partner, and commence testing one another.’

  It was as though she’d dropped a stink bomb in the middle of my desk.

  Chairs scraped on vinyl tiles as everyone inched as far away from me as they could get. Within seconds, the classroom had subtly rearranged itself into pairs of heads busily quizzing each other on spelling as though their lives depended on it.

  ‘All right then, everyone has a partner–?’

  Ms Sanders’ eyes roved the room, came to rest briefly on me, then fluttered about for a quick double-check before zeroing back in.

  ‘Henry–’ She knew my name. That was not good. ‘Bring your book up. You can work with me.’

  Usually, you had to be disabled, diseased or otherwise dysfunctional to show up as a blip on a supply teacher’s radar.

  I stood up and managed to knock my Spelling Mattersonto the floor. Blood lit a fuse in my jugular and exploded across my face. I ducked down, scrambling for the fallen textbook, wondering if the day could get any worse. The answer wasn’t long in coming.

  ‘Excuse me, Ms Sanders–?’

  The disciplined curls of the school secretary’s silver perm inserted themselves through the gap in the door. ‘Could you send Henry to the office at morning break, please? Principal Paulson would like to see him.’

  I somehow made it all the way to Ms Sanders’ desk.

  A long, lonely walk for a prisoner facing a life sentence in solitary; my only immediate prospect for social contact, an interview with the warden.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A little bell dinged on the top of the door when I pushed it open at the start of first break. A clever early-warning system for the canny school secretary.

  The office was hardly any bigger than a storeroom. It just managed to squeeze in a reception counter that doubled as a modesty panel for Mrs Newton and her desk. Thanks to that chest-high barrier, our school secretary was invisible from the doorway. She could be doing anything behind there – reading trashy magazines, catnapping, watching daytime television – and that little dibber-dobber bell would give her heaps of time to hide the evidence.

  I peered over the neatly stacked pile of school newsletters.

  Just as I suspected.

  Mrs Newton had been quick off the mark. She was on the phone now, nodding and taking notes as though she had been at it the whole time. She glanced up and pointed a pen at the open door behind her left shoulder.

  I decided to let her get on with her double life, and nodded politely as I edged past the reception counter and into the doorway behind her.

  Mr Paulson bounded up from his chair, hardly any taller on his feet than he had been when seated. ‘Henry, come in, come in.’

  I was already in. If I came in any further I’d be on top of him.

  ‘Please, have a seat.’ He gestured expansively at the single chair squeezed up against the corner of his desk. It was angled so the principal could chat with a visitor without an intimidating expanse of desk between them.

  I sat down, squirming, wishing that Mr Paulson valued the traditional symbols of power and hierarchy a little more. I would have much preferred to be on the other side of his laminated computer desk. I needed a barrier, a buffer zone, between us. I was exposed out here in the open, my knees wrinkling the razored crease of Mr Paulson’s trouser leg.

  ‘Henry, I just wanted to touch base with you after speaking with your mother this morning. She phoned in her new contact details, so we had a chance to have a little chat.’

  I stifled a moan and tried
not to slump in his visitor’s chair, wishing fervently that I were a visitor, so that after a suitably polite interval I could smile, nod and walk away, never to return.

  ‘Naturally, we are both concerned with how best to ease your transition into OLPS–’

  Naturally.That would leave my mum free to work long hours without feeling guilty about me, and it would allow the head of Perpetual Suckers to relax, knowing that he wasn’t importing any new problems into his school.

  ‘So I thought we should run through what’s coming up on our agenda, so that you will have the opportunity to participate fully in the raft of activities we have scheduled for the remainder of the term.’

  I liked that. The raft of activities.Sounded like something that Mum and Principal Paulson had dreamed up to keep me afloat in the dangerous waters of Year Seven. Something that would stop me from sinking without a trace, while one hundred and twenty-six Perpetual Suckers looked on from the comfort and safety of the lifeboats.

  Little did they know that I didn’t need a raft of activities. I was the self-inflatable Blowy Blobson, able to float like a cork since I was protoplasm, the boy who had never outgrown his gills. Mum had photos of me grinning underwater before I had teeth, before I had hair. I didn’t need a raft of activities. I could float like a butterfish, sting like a ray. I would do swimmingly on my own, I would–

  ‘So, how does that sound, Henry?’

  Mr Paulson’s face floated back into focus. Blood flared in my cheeks as I tried to frame an answer that wouldn’t reveal I hadn’t been listening, and at the same time, wouldn’t commit me to whatever he’d been talking about for the past minute or so.

  I settled for the time-honoured shrug, figuring it covered me for an each-way bet.

  Mr Paulson looked disappointed, as though he’d been hoping for more.

  ‘Your mother seemed to think you’d be pleased that you hadn’t missed it, she said it was the highlight of the sporting year for you–’

  I snapped forward in my chair; there was only one highlight in the sporting year as far as I was concerned. ‘Wait a minute – are you talking about the swimming carnival, Mr Paulson?’

  A line appeared between his brows. ‘Well, yes, Henry. That is what I’ve been telling you about.’ The frown quickly winked out as his natural good-humour reasserted itself.

  ‘OLPS has its swimming carnival coming up, just before the City Districts inter-school meet. Everyone else’s times have already been registered. I was asking your mother whether she had any times for you from your last school, or from club, so we can place you in the correct heats and, more importantly, see if you qualify for Districts.’

  I shook my head. My school times from last year would be way out of whack, especially after my recent growth spurt. And I’d never joined swim club; it was too expensive and too hard for Mum to get out of work for the meets. Instead I’d just hung around the public pools every afternoon in summer, eavesdropping on the drills at squad training and trying to keep up in the adjoining lane. Mum didn’t mind. A few dollars to get into the public swimming pool was a lot cheaper than after-school care.

  I hadn’t had much time to train lately with the move and all, and I hadn’t yet found my bearings in the new neighbourhood. ‘Is there a pool around here? I could time myself after school this afternoon – do you want fifty metres of each stroke? Or do you swim hundreds here?’

  Mr Paulson’s eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘Fifties will be fine, and the hundred-metres freestyle if you’re up for it’ He leaned forward. Even his lashes were ginger.

  ‘As I told your mother, the local pool is only about ten minutes’ walk from here. If she can arrange to get times for you this afternoon, or tomorrow afternoon at the latest, we can enter them in our school database and see if you qualify for the District Schools Competition.’

  Sounded like Mum had let him think that she’d be taking me to the pool. No point in disillusioning the poor man.

  ‘Could you write down how to get to the pool, please, Mr Paulson? Mum’s hopeless with directions, and I don’t want her to get us lost.’

  While he jotted down the details, I allowed myself a momentary flare of pleasure. I knew what I’d be doing after school from now on. I might be a Nigel-No-Friends at school, but at least I now had something to keep me busy through the long afternoons till Mum came home from work.

  ‘Here you go, Henry.’ Mr Paulson handed me a very clear mud map showing the location of the pool in relation to the school, and the pool’s street address printed clearly and underlined three times in black. My mother spent her days covering more kilometres than a cabbie, crisscrossing Brisbane in search of real-estate gold. She wasn’t the one who needed help with directions.

  ‘Thanks Mr Paulson, we’ll get those times to you tomorrow.’ As I braced myself to stand, he raised a hand, stopping me from levering myself up and out of the seat.

  ‘Not so fast. We’re not done here yet, Henry.’ He settled back in his chair and made a hand gesture that indicated I should do likewise.

  ‘As I explained to your mother, the pool has official time sheets. We need these to see which students qualify for the District Meet that leads on to Regionals and States. She has to fill it in, sign it and drop it back here by Thursday morning at the latest.’

  I made a mental note to collect the time sheet, fill it in and get Mum to sign it. Mr Paulson leant forward, lacing his fingers on the desktop.

  ‘There is one other matter that your mother and I did talk about, that I’d like to discuss with you as well...’

  He paused, as though needing to choose his next words with care. I wound up my paying-attention dial, which was a bit dodgy at the best of times.

  ‘Each year, in first term, we have Boys’ and Girls’ Weekends at Stradbroke Island. Camping, learning to surf, that kind of thing. For Years Four to Seven. The Girls’ Weekend was last weekend. The Boys’ Weekend is coming up next month.’

  I nodded non-committally. It sounded like fun, but like all things in life, I guessed it would depend how much it would cost and whether Mum would be working that weekend.

  ‘There is a basic fee, which we waive in special circumstances, so everyone who wants to take part is able to do so.’ I stiffened, but Mr Paulson kept right on talking, like his ability to mind-read was no big deal.

  ‘Our Parents and Friends Association introduced it a couple of years ago as part of our proactive program to help boys, in particular, achieve their full potential at OLPS right through to the end of Year Seven. We would like to retain as many boys as possible until the end of primary school, and we’ve found it to be a highly successful annual event. It’s a great bonding experience for the boys and the significant males in their lives – not just for fathers and sons, but for the older brothers, uncles, grandfathers and family friends who have taken part.’

  My chest tightened. I could zone out right now because I knew where this was heading. I just didn’t know how much Mum might have told him.

  Would she have shared the complete absence of ‘significant males’ in my life with my new princi pal? Would she have told a complete stranger, even one this transparently well-meaning, that I had no brother, father, uncle, or grandfather? That I had no family at all, apart from my mother? Were these the types of things she blurted out to a man she had met only once? During a phone call to leave her emergency contacts?

  Come to think of it, just who had she nominated as an emergency contact this time round? We didn’t know anybody around here. At my other schools, we usually called on the neighbours in times of need; someone conveniently retired or housebound, so they were available during school hours.

  My mother had a gift for attracting Nanna-substitutes, old ladies who fussed over me on the odd occasion when I was too sick for school. Or overwhelmed young mums who were relieved to have me play with their babies on pupil-free days.

  One thing I was fairly confident about was that Mum wasn’t going to embarrass either of us by foisting a weird
Wally on me, just so I could qualify for a weekend at Stradbroke. For that, at least, I was grateful.

  ‘–so you’ll let me know, Henry? After you’ve talked to your mother?’

  I refocused on Mr Paulson’s face and nodded, despite the fact that I had not the foggiest idea what he had been talking about while I’d zoned out.

  I was going to talk to my mother, all right. I was going to find out what she’d been telling the principal about our tight-knit little family of two.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I pulled the cord tight and retied the knot, but it didn’t help much.

  My old Speedo Enduros were on their last legs: saggy, baggy and tissue-thin daggy.

  I hoped our budget would stretch to a new pair before the school swimming carnival. The last thing I needed when I was up on the dive blocks was for the twins to fall out of their cradle in front of one hundred and twenty-six Perpetual Suckers.

  Last year’s goggles were almost as sad. Eye-poppingly tight, with brittle rubber straps threatening to snap at any moment. I decided against trying to coax an extra centimetre or two out of the strap. I didn’t want to tempt fate, not with new Speedos a priority. I could swim without goggles if I had to, but without Speedos? Uh-uh. Not in this life.

  I’d grabbed my swim gear straight after school and walked round to the pool in less than ten minutes. I’d found it easily, thanks to Mr Paulson’s excellent directions. I had the pool change room to myself, and found the bare concrete floor and whitewashed brick walls oddly comforting after the shambles of my day.

  I had to admit I would never have survived it without Mr Paulson.

  He’d taken up most of morning break ‘touching base’ on things I needed to know. Like where the nearest pool was, when to catch whooping cough so that I could avoid the blokes-bonding weekend on Stradbroke Island, and how to fill in the lunch break that loomed like a black hole, sucking all of the pleasure out of my day.

  He didn’t realise it, but assigning me to be lunchtime library monitor had saved me the humiliation of any more friendless lunch breaks.