Fergus McPhail

by David McRobbie

  ‘They’re for my grandfather,’ I lie sincerely. Sophie leans against me again. I can’t see her face but I know she’s smiling.

  Grandpa, wherever you are, I’m sure you’ll understand.

  No Whatsits Day

  Diminutive Mr Boddie’s off again on another of his infamous schemes to extend our knowledge of this great, wide world of ours. He comes prancing into the room one morning, a newspaper clipping fluttering from his fingers.

  ‘This is a national disgrace,’ he informs us, little bits of spit flying out of his mouth. A guy in the front row puts up his umbrella. Mr Boddie goes on to say a national survey showed the majority of first year university students did badly in spelling. ‘You could beat them,’ he rants on. We know what’s coming. The newspaper article gives the list that bothered the university students, words like alliteration, bacilliform, curvaceous, deification and effervescent. Lambert and I use them all the time.

  ‘I say, that’s a very curvaceous ball you have there, Lambert. Let’s have an effervescent game with it.’

  ‘Get lost, you deified bacilliform!’

  Before long, Mr Boddie wants us to try spelling the words that tripped up the future brains of the nation. Five years from now, a new young doctor, fresh out of university, writes in his report: The patient is deed.

  ‘Doctor,’ says a nurse. ‘Shouldn’t that be D-E-A-D?’

  ‘Oh, picky, picky!’

  After ten minutes of scrawling on our writing pads, pen-biting, head-scratching, the university students have won hands down and comprehensively. Mr Boddie is not happy with us. He announces a week of extra dictation, vocabulary expanding and general year ten student bothering. Then there will be a spelling test. But Sophie interjects with a question.

  ‘In the university results,’ she asks, ‘who did best? Males or females?’

  ‘Females,’ Mr Boddie reports and Sophie sits back with a smug there-you-are-then smile on her beautiful face. One thing leads to another and before you can say triumphancy, the forthcoming spelling test is to be a boy versus girl affair. The girls have a point to prove. Bummer!

  In other respects, things are going well on the Sophie front. We’ve gone out a couple of times but not on a proper date. Our kissing has improved but we are only up to six on the Sophie Bartolemeo Kissing Scale which she worked out with Angela’s help and vast experience of the subject. I score a copy and add a few amendments of my own. (The boy version.)

  The Sophie Bartolemeo Kissing Scale

  0. Kissing the back of the hand. (Old fashioned. Only done by middle-aged European men but to be encouraged if the guy has bad breath. Suggest saying: ‘It’s so sophisticated. Makes me all quivery.’ Anything to keep them away from the facial area.)

  1. Air kissing. (Insincere, a sign of jealousy, often favoured by actors or older women who hate each other and wear too much make-up plus big dangly earrings which are in danger of interlocking.)

  2. On the cheek. (Usually from one's auntie who has just given a present so you have to put up with it. Leaves heavy traces of unusual coloured lipstick. If Auntie spits on a tissue and dabs your cheek, subtract a point.)

  3. On the lips, one party with eyes wide open and entire body rigid. (The I’ve-been-expecting-you-to-make-a-move-you-bastard kiss. For many guys, their first and last. The priesthood beckons.)

  4. On the lips, both parties eyes shut. (The getting-somewhere-at-last kiss.)

  5. On the lips, one party doing a two-arm wrap with eyes closed. (Indicates greater enthusiasm from one party but as with 3 above, may also be his last chance at a kiss for some time.)

  6. As above but with mutual two-arm wraps. (Danger of getting sprung if a parent opens the front door unexpectedly and switches on the porch light. Don’t bother inventing an excuse. No matter how original, you will not be believed. It is always the boy’s fault.)

  7. As above but add use of exploratory tongue by one party. (Known as face-licking. If done by a male too soon in a relationship, can result in a sharp knee applied to the groin.)

  8. As above with mutual use of tongues. (Use mouthwash afterwards and check that your parents have private health insurance. But raise this subject in a casual way. If you say, 'Mumsy, do we have medical insurance?’ she’ll have you down the 24-hour health centre before you can blink.)

  9. Performing any of 6 to 8 with both parties seated. (In daylight hours, subtract 2 points for scandalising people who have no chance of getting a date.)

  10. Performing any of 6 to 8 with both parties horizontal. (Males subtract 8 points if they roll her in a cow-pat or doggy doo-doo.)

  Sophie and I walk a lot, we talk a lot, we laugh heaps and make crazy plans for the future we don’t even know we’re going to have together. It’s fantastic, especially being open about it. When I see Sophie in the morning, I get this great, breathtaking lift in my spirits. Then when she sees me and smiles, I get an even bigger lift and have to fight for air. Jennifer notices the effect Sophie has on me, but it only makes my sister sniffy.

  ‘Huh! I think I’ll stay pre-pubescent for ever!’ With Sophie, I try putting in a word for Lambert on the Angela front but Sophie tells me that Angela thinks Lambert’s okay. (At least she’s noticing him now.) Angela thinks Lambert’s a very sweet boy, serious, sincere but a bit immature and not ready for dating. I nod wisely at this summary and stroke my beard. It will be something to tell my friend.

  ‘Lambert old son, you’ve got the sweetness down pat, now work on your immaturity.’

  ‘How do I do that, Fergus?’

  ‘Grow up.’

  ‘Become taller, eh ? I never thought of that.’

  Lambert’s chance at maturity comes sooner than expected.

  Mr Boddie gives us each a list of words - the ones that stumped the university students plus some that he added himself, sitting up at night at his little computer typing them out while his wife calls out from the other room, ‘Bring that little Boddie in here!’ This is only a bit of wild, uninformed speculation on my part, so back to the list. We’re going to be tested on these words, but more than that, we have to start using some of them in our conversation and be able to prove we know what they mean.

  ‘This will give you a pretty extensive and sophisticated vocabulary,’ Mr Boddie tells us. I see Lambert’s eyes light up at that word. With that list, he could be on the road to maturity. Later he tells me he’s practising speaking with a deeper voice and he’s learning lots of cool jokes. Not the Christmas-cracker type but really debonair ones. He tries out a suave joke he heard his father tell a mate at a drunken barbecue.

  ‘Ring, ring,’ Lambert says. ‘Is that the Australian Levitation Society?’ He deepens his voice. ‘Yes, do you want to join?’ ‘No, I want to get down.’ Lambert laughs at his dad’s joke. I reflect.

  ‘I think you’re getting “sophisticated” mixed up with “incomprehensible”.’

  ‘You wait. One day, when you’re at university, you’ll suddenly burst out laughing.'

  ‘Takes that long, eh?’ It’s a very urbane joke but I suggest he doesn’t chance it with Angela who is pretty worldly, but in a different way. How worldly? How sophisticated? Just read on and marvel.

  I walk home with Sophie on my left, and Angela on my right, the three of us shrugged in our windcheaters. Mr Boddie has announced the date for the test. It’s to be next Thursday, which gives us a week to comprehend all the words on that inventory.

  ‘Oh, hang on,’ Angela interjects, talking across me. ‘Next Thursday’s National No Whatsits Day.’ Sophie slaps her forehead. She has forgotten about this, whatever it is.

  ‘But that’s not going to stop us taking the test.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Angela agrees. ‘Still, free of tests we’d have lots more fun.’

  ‘Well, we can’t have everything.’ Sophie walks on and the subject is dismissed. But not by me. National No Whatsits Day is not a celebration I have heard of. Mothers’ Day, Fathers’ Day, Show Day, Labour Day, Kite-Flying Sunday, Long-Lie-In-U
ntil-You-Get- Bedsores Saturday, they’re all part of folklore.

  ‘Urn,’ I venture. ‘What is National No Whatsits Day?’

  ‘It’s a girl thing.’ Angela dismisses me with a wave.

  ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ Sophie adds. We reach the spot where the road bifurcates. Angela takes the left junction. Sophie and I perambulate for several lambent moments.

  ‘Go on, tell me,’ I urge after a long silence.

  ‘Can’t. It’s a secret.’

  ‘I won’t tell.’

  ‘I know you, Fergus McPhail. In your vocabulary, secret means only telling ten guys!’ And no amount of cajoling will prise the confidence from her lips. But after I have left Sophie at her gate, I go home in a pensive mood. What can they mean?

  At school next day, I share the no-whatsits information with Lambert but he is none the wiser. The fact that it is both national and a girl thing intrigues him.

  ‘Girls are more interesting than guys,’ he tells me. ‘They don’t think like us. We think in straight lines, head for the jugular; girls go round corners.’

  ‘That’s very profound, Lambert,’ I say.

  ‘And they like to wear lace.’

  ‘But what about this national day, next Thursday?’

  ‘Ask your sister,’ Lambert suggests. Of course, she’s a girl. Why didn’t I think of that? I find Senga at lunchtime, in a lonely out of the way part of the school grounds. She has a boy seated on her left and another on her right and all three have an exercise book out. I have to admit that Senga looks nice these days. Mum makes her dress more circumspectly and hair-wise she is neat and trim. The guys like her too; they hang on her every word.

  'What did you get for number seven?’ Senga asks.

  ‘Oh, Bolivia,’ the guy on the left says. Senga makes a note then sees me and makes a family eye signal which means, ‘Hop off.’ I make an eye signal that means, ‘I will in a minute.’

  ‘Listen, Senga,’ I say urgently. ‘I need to know. What is this National No Whatsits Day?’ The two guys with Senga become interested.

  ‘How d’you hear about that?’ She is sharp and concerned at the same time.

  ‘From Sophie.’

  ‘Huh, she’d better watch herself, that girl! Say too much, she’ll get herself drummed out of the sisterhood!’

  ‘That bad, eh? But what is it?’

  ‘It’s a girl thing, now nick off.’

  Deeply puzzled, I wander off. As I go, both guys start quizzing Senga about National No Whatsits Day but her lips are sealed. At least it has confirmed that there is a special day next Thursday and it’s a deep, deep girlie secret. But not for long. Blabbermouth Lambert has already told seventeen guys, none of whom know what it means either.

  ‘If we knew what a whatsit is, we’d be laughing,’ one boy says. There comes a huge gust of wind from all the dictionary pages being riffled simultaneously. The closest guys can get is: Whatsit: an expression used when one does not know the right name for a thing. But I already knew that. The problem is, what is the thing? Then Lambert tosses a curly one.

  ‘Did they say, whatsit or whatsits?’

  ‘Whatsits,’ I tell him.

  ‘Then whatever it is, is plural. Like, there’s two of them.’

  ‘Or more.’ It is very intriguing. Are they coming to school barefoot?

  Days pass, Thursday is looming, and the fever is not over the spelling test but about what secret thing the girls are getting up to next Thursday. And it will be not just in our school, but all over Australia. From time to time, I hear snippets from Angela or Sophie.

  ‘Last year, the participation rate was ninety-five per-cent.’

  ‘Nationwide?’

  ‘From Perth to Cooktown. Yep.’

  ‘Be hard to prove though. Some girls might have said they did when they didn’t.’

  Then I come on the scene and the girls suddenly talk about something else. It is maddening. Other guys have also tried their sisters who either pretend they know nothing or clam up altogether.

  On Tuesday after school, Sophie and I stroll home. Angela has gone. Sophie is in a good mood, although not frisky but you can’t have everything. Things on the Sophie front have taken an upwards trajectory since her stepfather vanished from the scene.

  ‘Can I trust you?’ Sophie smiles.

  ‘With what?’ I ask.

  ‘With a little secret.’

  ‘You mean -?’

  ‘I asked, can I trust you?’

  ‘Of course you can.’ I put on my sincere expression, maintain eye contact, head to one side, little half smile, look like a Spaniel. She hesitates.

  ‘It wouldn’t be good for me if other girls knew I’d been talking. Thursday’s a tradition, dating all the way back to this time last year.’

  ‘Sophie, Sophie,’ I say with a little bona-fide plea in my voice.

  ‘I’ll only give you a clue,’ she goes on.

  ‘A clue’s fine.’ We reach her gate and still she tarries. Sophie closes the gate then stands on the other side and leans towards my ear and whispers enigmatically.

  ‘It’s above the knees and below the waist.’ Then she’s gone, almost skipping up the path. I get a smile and a wave from the front door then head home, my eyes out on wobbling stalks, turning corners before I do. Very ‘X-Files’. Does this mean what I think it means? And one day last year most of the girls in Australia were at it? A ninety-five percent participation rate. What a secret to be entrusted with. It’s almost too much.

  I get a chance to use the phone, which is still warm from Senga’s ear.

  ‘Lambert,’ I whisper. ‘I’ve found out.’

  ‘So have I,’ he breathes.

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Angela let it slip.’

  ‘But it’s a secret, eh? No can tell.’

  ‘Not a whisper.’ Lambert pauses. ‘Except Johnno, Fizzer, Stinko and Flung-a-lung, the phlegm-thrower.’

  ‘Why’d you tell them?’

  ‘It sort of slipped out. They saw me talking with Angela and wanted to know.’

  ‘Well, not another word.’ I hang up. National No Whatsits Day is secret no more. And, if it was nationwide last year, that means the girls in Brisbane must have been at it too. Come to think of it, there was a day when they were all smiling smugly. But that might have been International Women’s Day. It’s hard to keep track of girl things.

  The last day before the test, Mr Boddie is at it again. We can never have too extensive a vocabulary, he tells us, not that we use it to impress people. It is to make our reading all the more assured, our conversation more lively and interesting and our thinking clear and precise.

  ‘For example,’ Mr Boddie points to a boy, ‘what are you thinking of right now?’

  ‘Whatsits,’ the boy says. Mr Boddie is on to him in a flash.

  ‘Ah yes, whatsits.’ He doesn’t like the term. ‘One of those make-do words that people use as they flounder for the right expression.’ He gives a couple of examples. ‘Where are my whatsits? Did you see my whatsit?’

  ‘Whatsits,’ a boy corrects him. While another guy suggests an example.

  ‘As in, that girl’s not wearing any whatsits.’

  He gets a curt frown from Mr Boddie while Sophie gives me a glare but I shake my head. I did not tell those boys her secret. Mind you, I might have mentioned it to a couple of other guys. Ones I can trust.

  Thursday dawns and I go to school early, wondering about each girl I see. Catching up with Lambert plus a couple of guys, I can tell they are wondering too. We proceed, a strangely silent little band with but a single obsession between us.

  In school, all the girls wear skirts or dresses and they have shoes on so my early footwear theory was wrong. They laugh amongst themselves while the guys bite their nails.

  And then it is Mr Boddie’s lesson and the test begins - but who can concentrate on big words when the classroom is half-full of girls wearing no whatsits.

  ‘Undifferentiated,’ Mr Boddie inton
es as the forty second word. He leaves a pause. Guys write underclothes, underwear and under-dressed, and so it goes on until we have to swap papers and do the final reckoning. Lambert collects our efforts and his face is glum.

  ‘Don’t reckon I’ve done good, sir,’ he mumbles as he hands them in.

  ‘Done well,’ Mr Boddie corrects him. ‘Well for performance, good for morals.’

  ‘That too, sir.’ But Mr Boddie does a swift count and declares the result.

  ‘I should say the girls win hands down,’ he announces.

  ‘Pants down!’ Flung-a-lung says bitterly. But the girls are pleased. And outside at the break, Sophie twirls twice before my eyes and her skirt rises but before it gets too high she flops beside me on our bench under the tree, gives me a nudge then slowly edges up the hem of her skirt until I see black bicycle shorts.

  ‘As if we would,’ she grins then gives me another nudge. ‘Great trick, though?’

  ‘And you had a word to Senga? To put me off the track?’

  ‘Naturally. We covered all the angles. No loose ends, or - whatsits.’ I get another playful dig. We guys have just been out-manoeuvred by a bunch of experts and half of us have already gone blind. That’s what I call a victory.

  Revenge is sweet, so the saying runs. Lambert and I put our heads together and plan to make it all the sweeter. It’ll have to be sophisticated, we agree. Subtle, humorous yet tinged with a degree of complexity. See, Mr Boddie’s big words are coming back to me. But where were they on Thursday for the test?

  ‘What say, we chain all their bikes together?’ Lambert suggests.

  ‘Infantile?’

  ‘Okay, we all wear spots and say we’ve got a disease?’

  ‘A lot of guys have got spots already.’

  Lambert makes some other damn-fool suggestions then we go and hoof a soccer ball around.

  The tricky thing about revenge is that when one party pulls off a great all-time winner of a dodge, and the other party plans revenge, the first party expects it so the second party has to be all the more careful in their planning. Rule one is to bide your time. Do not rush into the fray. I don’t know what rule two is.