by John Marsden
‘Yeah, I’d like to go to a high school, just to check it out,’ James said. ‘You feel like you’re cut off from the real world here most of the time. Last year we wanted to get football matches with the local high school but they wouldn’t let us — must have thought they’d be too rough. When I go home now, half the kids won’t speak to me because I go to a snob school.’
‘Where do you live?’ I asked him.
‘Walforth.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Near South Walforth.’
‘Oh yeah, great. Where’s that, to the south of West Walforth, huh?’
‘Yeah, wow, how’d you guess? No, it’s near Bromley, about four hours from here, on the Evelyn River.’
‘What do you do there, you got a farm or something?’
‘Yeah, we run cattle, and my father works in town too — he’s got a business making irrigation equipment. And my mother’s a Nurse Educator at Bromley Hospital.’
‘What are you going to do when you leave here — take over the family farm?’
‘Yeah, maybe, I don’t know. My sister’s more interested in it than I am, I think. Whatever happens, I’d probably go to Uni first. My father says the only way you can go on the land if you don’t have an education, is as manure.’
‘Do you get on with your parents? I mean, do you mind my asking?’
‘Yeah, sure, it’s fine. Yeah, I get on with them really well. We’ve got a good family. Like, we can talk about anything. Sometimes I listen to the stories these guys tell about their life at home, and the way their parents fight and get divorced and stuff, and I think, “How lucky I am”. I mean, my parents never fight or anything. They’re more like friends to me than parents. I’m pretty well off, that way. How about you? You get on with yours?’
‘Yeah, I guess. My parents run a newsagency in Gleeson so they work long hours and they work hard, but they’re good people. They put up with the dumb things I do and the way I have my hair and all that, although sometimes my father tries to have these serious talks about it, but I just laugh it off. They take it OK.’
There was a pause while someone went past the door of the dorm, but, luckily, didn’t come in. Brian ‘Sog’ Bell rolled around in his sleep and cried out, something about ‘they’re not plums, they’re not plums’. Matt Roxborough was snoring, like he did every night. Down the other end a glow from under a doona showed that David O’Toole was reading in bed again. I stood up. ‘Better get some sleep I guess. These 6.30 appointments are killing me. It’s been good talking to you.’
‘Yeah, you too. See you on the starting blocks.’
I headed down the dorm but passing the bathroom door nearly ran into Clune, who was coming back from the toilet.
‘Look out,’ he mumbled, in his poetic whining voice.
‘Hey, watch it my man,’ I said. ‘One of these days I’m gonna squash you so small you’ll have to pull your socks down to take a shit.’ He stood gaping after me, his mouth stupidly open. I went to bed.
Chapter Six
By now I was spending so much time in the pool that I was scared I’d grow gills. My hair was turning green from the chlorine and I kept expecting to find mould under my armpits. I was training harder than I had for the State titles two years ago, the last time I took swimming seriously. The way that water was parting for me, it must have thought I was Moses.
I started shaving some times off some records, clocked my best ever hundred metre result in an invitation meet at Linley, and hadn’t been defeated yet by any of these rich little private school boys with their personal swimming pools and their hotshot coaches. I was training with the Opens and, believe me, those guys were swimming in broken water when I was in the pool. Crewcut had me doing some work with weights as well, four times a week in the Gym, and I got a buzz out of that — something really chemical happened when I got among those weights — although it meant I saw even less of Melanie.
At the St Paul’s Carnival I won the fifty, hundred and two hundred; I broke two records at the Linley meet; and at the District All-Schools’, where they put me in the Opens, I took out two titles, a record, and swam the last leg of our relay, which came second to St Bede’s. You think I wasn’t loving it? That day at the All-Schools’, the pool felt like it was filled with champagne. My parents were in the stands; Melanie was winning her third diving title for the season; and I couldn’t understand why our ancestors had ever bothered to leave the water and grow limbs.
I introduced Melanie to my parents. She stood there in her blue and white costume, water streaming off her, untangling her long hair with one hand while she smiled at them and put on her best telephone voice. God, I loved her at that moment: she seemed so perfect. I’m sure my parents remembered her from that first day of school but they were warm and friendly towards her and didn’t even say anything to me about it afterwards. They were pretty classy that way.
As for schoolwork — back in the ‘real world’ of the classroom — well, things weren’t exactly going like the Orient Express, except maybe for the murder part. It seemed like every day there was another little assassination in there. Not necessarily of me — one time our English teacher, Mrs Murray, read an essay that Michelle O’Byrne had written, just so she could pull it to pieces and show us all its faults. Michelle sat there going red, with tears in her eyes but I don’t think Mrs Murray even noticed. James told me later that Michelle had taken endless trouble with that essay and had been really proud of it . . .
Mrs Murray wasn’t such a bad teacher though, just boring. But I liked English, so I didn’t mind even the lessons that other kids found boring. We did some good books, like To Kill a Mockingbird. We got to write a poem or two, and she let us express our opinions more than most of the others did. But we spent a lot of time on adverbial clauses, on subjects and predicates, and stuff like that. How this was supposed to help me write or read better is beyond my simple mind to figure out.
Probably the worst teacher was Mr Swenson, who tried to teach History. What am I talking about! He didn’t just try to teach History, he was History! The only time he came to life was when he gave me detentions, almost a daily occurrence. I figure I kept him alive by being so slack — it was my contribution to the school. The only person he hated more than me was Melanie. Even other students noticed that and commented on it — you know it has to be bad when that happens. Most of the time he wouldn’t even let us sit together; it was like we were third graders or something. Sure we provoked him, but God he asked for it. I got him good one time though: when he turned his back to the class to write something on the blackboard, I flicked my fountain pen and a beautiful trail of ink drops appeared all the way down the back of his light grey suit. Sometimes there are advantages to sitting in the front row.
I just can’t figure out teachers like Swenson — or Swineson, as the kids called him. If he hated kids so much, why did he go into teaching in the first place?
We had a guy called Walker for German — he was OK. And Mrs Goldman for Science, who was geriatric enough to look like she had invented the Law of Gravity. She looked like a Science experiment herself — one that had gone horribly wrong. But she told good stories about the Korean War, where she’d apparently been an ambulance driver, or something.
For Maths we had Dr Collins, who was a real funny guy, and who you could never believe, because he’d tell you anything with the straightest face so that you’d get sucked in every time.
‘What are we doing in Maths today, sir?’
‘We’ve got that test, Gatenby, don’t you remember?’
‘Sir, who owns that Porsche in the driveway?’
‘Well, I’m not sure if I’m meant to tell you this, but I guess it’s OK — the story’s bound to come out sooner or later . . . ’
And he’d embark on this long and amazing saga about how Mr Gilligan had once played in a rock band that had been hugely popular, and they’d had all these groupies who’d followed them everywhere, and although most of them had grown
up and lost interest, there was one woman, now a big car dealer, for whom the flame still burned as bright as ever, and every year she’d have delivered to Mr Gilligan a brand new sports car with a single flower placed on the driver’s seat, and . . .
And this story’d go on for ten minutes without a pause, and through it all his voice would be absolutely matter-of-fact, his face wouldn’t show a flicker of humour, and if we started laughing at him he’d seem to get quite offended, till we really didn’t know whether to believe him or not. In between all these stories we’d also get to do a bit of Maths. Actually we did quite a lot because he moved fast, but he explained things well. I didn’t mind Maths at all. I admired the guy’s imagination, even though out of class he gave Melanie and me a hard time.
Half way through the term we got hit with the first lot of official grades. God, when I saw that neat little list of letters my heart freeze-dried, my brain caught galloping hypothermia and frost rose in my legs like a speeding stalagmite. Man, I didn’t know it was going to be this bad! My parents were paying all this money to have me fail at Linley. I could have failed at Gleeson for free! I got an A in PE, a B in Art, C in English, D in Maths and German, and Es in History, Geography and Science. Melanie got As in PE and Art but her next best was a D. It was two pretty shaken students who headed up through the manhole into the Art Room ceiling, which had become our favourite place for a quiet smoke.
‘Grades suck,’ was the first thing Melanie said, then she cried for a few minutes, but it was like she was half angry and half depressed. ‘I hate it,’ she said, ‘it’s so unfair. They put you down every time. God, I’ve been working much harder than I ever did at Ainsworth, and I’m still in the bottom set for everything.’
Just then the ceiling collapsed under our weight, and we both fell through onto the floor of the Art Room, amid heaps of plaster, rubble and dust. It was the biggest crash I’ve ever heard; it sounded like World War Eight, and felt like it too.
Chapter Seven
We sat there among the wreckage of the ceiling, white dust from the plaster rising around us in clouds. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I felt bruised all over, and just a little shaken if you want to know the truth. Melanie looked utterly amazed: she was sitting with her mouth open, gaping at me. We both had our cigarettes still in our hands, the smoke idly mingling with the dust. We were still holding them when a flying wedge of teachers, prefects and students came bursting in through the door.
‘Oh my, oh my,’ I thought to myself. ‘This ain’t no way to fly.’ I started laughing, a little hysterically I guess. Then we were led away to the Headmaster’s office.
We waited out there for some time before we got to see the man. His dog came by and I scored a swift kick somewhere in its middle; it yelped and skidded around the corner, the most life I had ever seen it show. Melanie started giggling and wasn’t able to stop for some time, so I guess she was a little hysterical too. Finally the Headmaster arrived, fresh from inspecting the damage, it seemed, since he was wiping plaster dust from his hands. He didn’t even look at us as he marched into his office. We had to wait another five minutes before he called us in. When he did, the conversation was short and sweet — six hours’ detention on each of the next two weekends, our parents had to pay for the ceiling, and if we got in any more trouble we’d be suspended or expelled. ‘Nice one Boss,’ I said to him, patting him on the head as he ushered us out. No, not really, just kidding. But I did have an almost irresistible urge to do it.
God, what a day it had been. The first person we ran into was James Kramer; he raced us off to the Form Centre to find out what had happened. When we told him our punishment he said we’d got off lightly because the CCS swimming and diving meet was so close. Well, I must admit that thought had crossed my mind already. But I wouldn’t have exactly called it a light punishment. When my parents got the bill for the roof they were going to explode worse than a gastric volcano. I mean, how many newspapers do you have to sell to pay for half an Art Room ceiling? A lot, that’s how many. And guess who was going to have to do paper rounds in his next holidays to pay his parents back? Me, that’s who. God, here I was ploughing furrows in that damn pool every morning for dear old Linley, and this is how they reward me. Cheap way to get themselves a new roof if you ask me.
Still, no-one seemed to have much sympathy. Matter of fact, the opposite seemed to be the case. Most people spent all their time trying to think up cute one-liners to try out on us. We’d achieved instant fame — even year twelve kids were stopping to ask how it felt. No-one seemed interested in the dangers that we’d survived, the life-threatening experience that we’d had. They were more interested in making dumb comments like, ‘Hey what was it Gatenby, an exploding cigar?’ Funny one, fellas. I guess it’s like the man said, if you wanna play, you gotta pay.
The first serious payment came that night, when Gilligan, who had been looking at me all evening like I was a yodeller in a library, made me sit down and write a letter to my parents, spelling out the whole thing in gruesome detail. Melanie was in the Girls’ Prep Room doing the same. It was no easy task. No matter how I tried to explain it to them, it still sounded terrible. My first two attempts, which admittedly made only vague references to an unlucky accident in the Art Room, were rejected by Gilligan, because I hadn’t incriminated myself enough. I tell you, this man would have taken nails to a crucifixion. By the time I wrote one that satisfied him I realised I was playing a game of Monopoly with only two squares: Go and Jail. I was on a water slide that finished in a sewerage pond.
It was ten o’clock before I had written something abject enough for Gilligan’s liking. By that stage all I had energy for was crawling off to bed, figuring that at least the day was over and nothing else could go wrong. But I’d forgotten my own unique genius for taking a sad song and making it worse. The lights were out in the dorm when I rolled in there with my armful of books, and demanded, ‘Who’s got the cigarettes? I’m hanging out for a smoke.’
A voice spoke in the darkness. ‘Indeed, Mr Gatenby, and what would you do with one if you had it?’ It was the Headmaster, making one of his rare nocturnal visits to Crapp House and taking the opportunity to slip a few words of wisdom to the boys in Dorm Six.
‘Nothing sir,’ I replied, crawling weakly into bed with half my clothes on. ‘Just kidding, just a little joke.’ But do you know, thinking about it later, as I lay there reviewing the day’s highlights, I wondered if maybe there hadn’t been a hint of a laugh in his voice? That was all I needed — a Headmaster with a sense of humour. I hated it when they turned out to be human. It upset the natural order of the Universe. Life was much easier when people didn’t step out of their roles.
Now that I was finally in bed and relaxed I could feel the full insult to my body of our graceful descent to the Art Room floor. Those bruises really started to play around. It was a miracle we hadn’t both been killed. Even my eyelashes hurt. My last thought before drifting into the lazy hazy crazy world of dreams was of just how bad swimming was going to be in the morning — and that was my first thought when I woke up. The reality lived up to my expectations. The cold water on my abused body was like rubbing liniment onto blisters. I was not at my best.
Malcolm Javor, the House Captain, was there. ‘Hey Gatenby, remember to turn at each end, won’t you? We don’t want you bursting through the wall.’ Real funny bugger. ‘Hey Gatenby, no smoking in the pool, OK? It dries out the water.’ I just put my head down and did the laps. Could these guys help it if they were one pickle short of a hamburger? Hell, they didn’t even have the bun.
The only good news was that this was the last session of early morning House swimming training. And that was very good news. I was too tired to get excited about it but deep down somewhere in my bones there was a gathering sense of relief. I felt it as I climbed out of the pool and I felt it grow during the day. I had never thought, God help me, that the prospect of ‘sleeping in’ till 7.15 every morning could be so enticing. But right now it
seemed like the most desirable thing in the world. And of course it meant that the end of the swimming season was close. Only the two biggies were still to come: Linley’s own Inter-House Carnival, and the CCS meet, where all the rich schools got together and fought it out for the title, the championship, the trophy. All this early morning stuff had been for the Inter-House Carnival, while the after school routine with Crewcut was for the CCS.
As a matter of fact even Crewcut got in on the act about the Art Room episode. That little turkey, if he ever went to a funeral he’d be wanting to tell the corpse how to lie. He drew me aside that afternoon for a confidential chat. In the undistant distance I could see Melanie who was laughing at me instead of concentrating on her diving, and that didn’t help any. The talk was all about smoking and how it’d mess up my body and I wouldn’t feel the effects for another five or ten years and then it’d be too late, all that stuff. Well, I knew that, and deep down I agreed with him, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing it. Occasionally I’d have a cigarette that I’d enjoy, but those moments were getting rarer and rarer. I knew the time would come when I would give them up, and it’d have to be soon. Apart from anything else it was too expensive, plus it was getting me into too much trouble. But this was not exactly the perfect week to make the move.
Crewcut did treat me to a few surprises though, by telling me he thought I was a hot swimmer who could get into the Federal Swimming Institute if I went for it. I’d never thought of that before. Those guys gave you an education, accommodation, and swimming coaching, all for free.