Spud - Learning to Fly

by John van de Ruit

Rambo grinned, ‘They can’t bust us, you piss brain, because they’re all in a prefects’ meeting in Viking’s office. Trust me, it’s now or never.’

  We reluctantly followed our leader along the passage and watched him throw open the door to the second years’ dormitory. Our arrival was met with a horrified silence …

  THE NORMAL SEVEN

  The Normal Seven were appalled to see the Crazy Eight. In fact half of them dived onto their beds and desperately tried to hide, while Darryl (the last remaining) made a hilarious attempt at disappearing into his trunk. Rambo ordered them all to sit on their lockers. All obeyed except one: Spike made a big show of lying on his bed and opening up a newspaper. Rambo once again demanded that Spike sit on his locker. Spike ignored him. Rambo strode up to Spike’s cubicle and stood over him looking like he was on the verge of violence. I noticed the hands holding the newspaper were becoming a little unsteady.

  ‘My brother’s a prefect, in case you haven’t heard,’ said Spike, trying to appear nonchalant. ‘You guys so much as touch me, touch any of us …’ He faded off in a strident voice and waited for Rambo to say something.

  Rambo said nothing and instead softly plucked the newspaper out of Spike’s hands and began reading it. Spike jerked his hand away in fear of the sudden movement, and there were a few snorts and sniggers from the Crazy Eight.

  After about a minute of reading the newspaper Rambo finally spoke. ‘Tell me, Spike, why are you reading a newspaper from November last year?’ Spike didn’t answer and there were a few more sniggers rippling around the dormitory.

  ‘Is it because you’re woefully behind the times? Or is it because you get turned on by this picture of Margaret Thatcher?’ Rambo flashed us the picture of Margaret Thatcher dressed in green and looking horsey. The sniggers now turned into loud cackling laughter.

  ‘Or is it because you wanted to try and look cool in front of your mates instead of lying there with your legs open like the dipshit you really are?’

  The laughter died away and Rambo turned and made his way towards the first year dormitory. Boggo snapped up the old newspaper, took a brief look at the picture of Margaret Thatcher and then stashed it into the back of his pants before following Rambo.

  ‘Piss off, you wanker.’

  It took a few moments for us to realise that the insult had been uttered by Spike, and that his intended target was Rambo. For the second time in minutes Rambo had been challenged on his way out of a dormitory door. This time he stopped and swung around with his jaw clenched and his dark eyes burning.

  ‘I’m sorry, what did you say, Spike?’ replied Rambo in his brand new soft and terrifying voice.

  Spike stood up and repeated, ‘I said, piss off, you wanker!’

  Rambo marched up to him and everybody backed away a few paces. He stopped his march centimetres from Spike’s face.

  ‘Listen, Spike, what you’ve just said is insubordination to a senior. You ever speak to me, or any of my boys like that again, I’ll go straight to Viking. Am I understood?’

  Spike nodded and suddenly looked on the verge of tears. I even found myself feeling a bit sorry for the idiot.

  We left again. It was a relief to exit the second years’ dormitory because Runt was staring at me and making me feel self-conscious.

  THE NEW BOYS

  When we arrived in the first years’ dormitory they all dropped what they were doing and stood to attention at the foot of their beds like they had been drilled all afternoon by an army sergeant. Unfortunately, Vern strode forward and saluted vigorously at the new boys. Some of them saluted back while the rest stared back at Vern in terrified confusion. Vern held his rigid salute for about thirty seconds while beadily eyeing out the new recruits. When he was satisfied that he had sized them all up, he dropped his right arm, sniffed loudly, and returned to his place in the line.

  Garlic looked a little confused by the military developments and asked Fatty, ‘Why are these boys saluting us?’ Fatty glanced around suspiciously and whispered, ‘This dorm is haunted, Garlic. There can be no explanation for the shit that goes down here.’ Garlic looked around nervously and asked, ‘Voodoo shit or like weird shit?’ Fatty closed his eyes dramatically and inhaled through loud nostrils as if sniffing the air for the supernatural. Then he said, ‘All kinds of shit.’ Garlic’s eyes widened like saucers as he nodded slowly to himself and said, ‘Same at Lake Malawi.’

  Thankfully, Rambo interrupted.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen. We are the third years and I’m Rambo. We just wanted to welcome you all to the house. And if there’s anything, or anyone … that troubles you, come speak to me first.’

  No violence, no bloodshed, nothing. Rambo wouldn’t even let Fatty examine anyone’s tuck or allow Boggo to interrogate the new boys about their moms and sisters. The first years, I’m happy to report, are all smaller than me and at least three of them are still spuds. In fact I had the weird sensation of feeling my body growing taller while we were standing proudly in front of them.

  When new head of house Norman Whiteside came storming into our dormitory to turn the lights out, we were already lying silently in our beds. He looked dreadfully disappointed and didn’t even bother to say goodnight before flicking off the lights and slamming the dormitory door.

  These are strange days indeed.

  Wednesday 22nd January

  The rising siren is sheer horror. Mrs Bishop shat on me for falling asleep during Maths dawn patrol and said I was letting my parents, the school and myself down. I felt terrible and did my best to look lively but couldn’t stop myself from daydreaming about falling asleep in my own bed at home.

  11:30 There was a buzz of excitement in our English classroom as we waited for The Guv to make his entrance. Eventually, there was a lot of shouting and banging outside the door. The Guv came bursting in as if he expected to see an empty classroom and stopped dead in his tracks before looking heavenward and asking, ‘And this is the best they could come up with?’ He slammed down a large pile of books on his huge oak desk, flung his leather briefcase into the empty fireplace, and collapsed into his chair exhausted. He then cleaned his spectacles with a white handkerchief before replacing them on his head and glaring at us again. ‘Good God,’ he said, ‘it’s worse than I thought.’

  His eyes fell upon Garlic in the front row. Garlic’s face reddened, his eyes swelled and he broke into a great goofy smile. The Guv studied the new man in silence before lighting his pipe. He blew out a huge puff of smoke and continued to examine Garlic like he was an unusual species. Eventually, Garlic could take it no longer and blurted out, ‘I’m Garth Garlic, sir. I come from Malawi. You ever been to Malawi, sir?’

  The Guv replied in a deep and droning voice, ‘Young man, I wouldn’t go to Malawi if the rest of the world were ablaze! And I would prefer, Mr Garlic, if you would refer to your hallowed bastion of heathen horror as Nyasaland within the strict confines of my classroom.’

  ‘But, sir,’ stammered Garlic, ‘Malawi is a beautiful place – and it changed from Nyasaland nearly thirty years ago …’

  The Guv thumped his fist down on his wooden desk and cried, ‘Nyasaland may be thirty, but I’m a hundred and eight and this classroom is my empire!’

  The Guv sighed deeply, pulled out his handkerchief, and mopped his brow. He then analysed his handkerchief for some time before saying, ‘Who could have predicted that so much mischief could come from such an insignificant little snotrag …’ He looked at us with eyes burning with excitement and intensity. ‘Gentlemen,’ he announced, ‘reach into your bags and unsheath your Othellos.’ Once we had taken out our books he peered at us again as if we were about to embark on some mysterious and dangerous journey and said, ‘Now, gentlemen, reach into yourselves and unsheath your minds …’

  I returned to the dormitory after lunch to find a massive golf putting competition under way. Simon and Rambo were taking on Fatty and Boggo in an ill-spirited match and, judging by all the sneering and goading, Fatty and Boggo had fall
en woefully behind. This wasn’t that surprising since Boggo has no hand-eye coordination whatsoever and Fatty was having some trouble squeezing in between the lockers and was often forced to putt left handed with the back of his putter. Garth Garlic was jumping up and down with excitement and chanting the score at regular intervals, which only further enraged Boggo.

  Boggo and Fatty eventually called the match off because according to them, ‘People were cheating.’ They didn’t say which people or how they were meant to be cheating. Everyone then left to practise hitting golf shots on the field.

  I asked Simon what the sudden golf craze was all about. He glared at me like I was an idiot and said, ‘Because the father and son golf day is only six weeks away and this year it’s at Victoria Country Club. You’d better start grooving your swing, Spud.’

  This is a huge worry. It seems like this golf day is quite a major event – in fact every senior is expected to play and play well. I’ve never played golf before and neither has Dad, although he did use a three wood to kill a boomslang a few years back. (It turned out the boomslang had already been killed by the gardener, but Dad obviously didn’t know this at the time.)

  20:30 Narrowly avoided Garlic talking about Lake Malawi again. This time the victims were a couple of frightened first years whom he had unwittingly cornered at the far end of the common room. When I realised what was happening, I pretended to be looking for somebody and immediately raced out of the room, tapping urgently away at my watch. Garlic seemed to be swinging his arms backwards and forwards like he was trout fishing or perhaps whipping a servant. The first years watched him in silence with eyes of fear and uncertainty.

  All the first years look identical. They stand out because they are small and foreign in familiar surroundings. I’ve seen three of them crying already. (Although it could have been the same guy crying three times.) Either way it’s a bumpy ride for the newbies. I pity whichever one of those poor sods ends up slaving for Pike. If I were him, I’d slit my throat immediately.

  Boggo reckons he’s got first dibs on nicknaming the first years. He’s already compiled an extensive list of possible names which include: Doggystyle, Gonad and Gastro.

  Thank God I’m a senior.

  Thursday 23rd January

  8am Assembly

  The first assembly of the year was delayed until today because The Glock has only just returned from a disastrous skiing holiday to Austria. Apparently, the ski lift on which he and his wife were riding capsized, sending our headmaster and his wife crashing thirty feet into the snow. The Glock escaped with a broken wrist because he landed on top of his wife who cushioned the blow. Unfortunately, the force of the falling Glock broke his wife’s back and the poor woman is in traction for three months in a hospital in Vienna.

  I must admit The Glock looked a little pathetic standing up at the podium trying to look intimidating with his broken arm and bruised face. I noticed the first years didn’t seem to be that scared of him. The Glock didn’t threaten us with violent punishment nor ramble on about discipline. He just said a quick prayer, mumbled a meek welcome and walked out.

  Outside in the sunlight, Fatty said this was definitely The Glock’s bad karma coming back to bite him for the underhanded way he expelled Mad Dog and nearly expelled Rambo last year. Everyone shared a low-key high five and we went our separate ways.

  Pike is back. I saw him at lunch. He sat at the prefects’ table and seems to have developed an extremely fake ultra-casual walk that he’s no doubt been practising in the holidays. The good news is that he’s not staying in the house. He’s living in one of the post matric residences, although I’m sure that won’t stop him from snooping around and tormenting people smaller than himself.

  Friday 24th January

  Woke up feeling nervous and excited about my chances for the cricket season. Today the school is announcing trial teams from the firsts all the way down to the sixth team (let’s hope it doesn’t come to that). Obviously, I’m at a disadvantage because I’m only in third year and I’m now competing with matrics and post matrics for places along with all the guys from my year as well. The good news is that the first team spinner from last year (Bongo Wilkens) decided he wasn’t going to make Natal Schools after all and has gone to UCT instead. Good man. According to Simon, trials lists are usually an indicator of where you’ll end up. I’m praying to make seconds although Simon informs me that I’ll only make thirds. Rambo says he’ll definitely make seconds and obviously Simon will play firsts. We wait until eleven o’clock. Tick-Tock.

  8:00 Dad phoned to wish me luck for the trials announcement. He’s convinced I’m about to make my debut for the firsts, possibly as Captain. Unfortunately, he’s seriously misguided and semi-insane.

  11:00 A jostling crowd had already gathered at the cricket notice board by the time I arrived. I could hear cheering and jeering in equal measure as each boy fought his way to the front of the mob and searched hopefully for his name. I began with the first and second team trial list, which was a grave mistake, because I immediately noticed that my name wasn’t there and grew instantly depressed, despite not expecting it to be there in the first place. I pushed my way across to the third and fourth team trial list and then I was overcome by that terrible sinking feeling when I saw my name down at bottom of the page under the column:

  EXTRAS

  I staggered away from the noisy crowd and returned to the empty dormitory where I lay on my bed for ten minutes to digest the news and stop shaking. My first reaction was that there was some kind of conspiracy against me, led by Sparerib, who is now the second team coach. Is it impossible that somebody could go from U15A to a reserve for the fourth team in one short holiday? Obviously, it is. Worse news is that Rambo was listed in the third team and there’s now a possibility that I may well end up playing with Garlic for the fifths!

  16:30 When I returned from a private bowling session in the cricket nets, Meany Dlamini swore at me and said my dad had called seven times in two hours and screwed up his afternoon nap.

  ‘He wants to know what cricket team you’re in,’ he yelled, before slamming his bedroom door in my face.

  I decided to call Dad and put him out of his misery, despite the fact that he’s certain to do something extreme when he hears that South Africa’s ‘next great legspinner’ is turning out for the fifths! Thankfully, Dad must have thought that I was joking because when I broke the news, he howled with laughter, called me a cheeky little bugger, and slammed the phone down. Who knows – perhaps sense will prevail at tomorrow’s trial match and I’ll be promoted to the thirds.

  Simon, Rambo and Boggo spent the entire evening offering me coaching hints and sage pieces of cricket wisdom. This despite the fact that Boggo has never played cricket in his life. Vern thought my humiliation was utterly hilarious although I don’t know what the cretin was guffawing about because he’s the final EXTRA for the sixth team and what’s more, there is no seventh team. That officially makes Rain Man the worst cricketer in the school.

  21:30 Lights out. Rambo called us to a huddle at his bed and spoke in a very quiet whisper. I can’t remember Rambo ever whispering at a Crazy Eight meeting before.

  ‘I’ve got some news from the inside,’ he whispered as we all drew in close.

  ‘Ja, from the inside of your mother,’ snarled Boggo in a malicious whisper.

  Rambo clonked Boggo on his knee with the rim of his squash racquet and told him to shut up. Boggo collapsed onto the floor pretending to be seriously injured. He then got up and said his knee ligaments may have snapped. Rambo said Boggo should butch up and continued speaking in his conspiratorial whisper. ‘Look, we don’t have much time. Word on the inside is that the prefects are after us. I mean really after us!’

  ‘It’s Pike!’ hissed Simon angrily.

  ‘Who’s Pike?’ asked Garlic with a look of rising dread.

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ said Rambo.

  ‘So what are we gonna do?’ asked Fatty, looking inspired.
>
  ‘We’re gonna be stealthy,’ replied Rambo. ‘Pike’s on duty tonight so he’s obviously gonna try something. I want everyone in their beds and total silence. Whatever you do, don’t let him goad you.’

  The minutes painfully ticked by and I kept thinking about the cricket and Mermaid and felt like a complete failure. By 10:05 there was no sign of Pike. Fatty and Boggo became restless and I could hear whispering and the rustle of Fatty’s hand moving about his tuck box. Suddenly there were dark shadows at the foot of the dormitory door which then swung violently open as Pike burst in with Eggwhite trailing behind. Pike burped loudly and shouted, ‘Busted, you goat lickers!’

  His triumphant shout was met with absolute silence, apart from the faint rustle of a chip packet from underneath Fatty’s duvet.

  Then Pike said to Eggwhite, ‘I bet you the idiots have gone nightswimming! Quick – turn on the lights.’ Eggwhite stumbled over the bin while looking for the light switch. Towards the other end of the dormitory there was a stifled snigger. And then harsh light flooded the room.

  Pike seemed utterly shocked that we were all sleeping. He woke us up by kicking our lockers and demanded to know what we were all up to. Rambo got out of bed, stepped forward and said, ‘We’re trying to sleep, Pike.’

  ‘You’re Pike!’ blurted Garlic for whom the penny had just dropped.

  ‘That’s a first,’ snorted Pike, baiting for an argument. ‘It’s Friday night – I thought Rambo and his bum chums always did naughty things on Friday night?’

  ‘Not any more,’ said Simon, glaring at Pike like he was Satan himself.

  ‘Ohhhhhh,’ cooed Pike, ‘let me guess. Your mommies and daddies all sat you down and told you to behave yourselves. My, what good little mommy’s boys you are.’

  Rambo didn’t say anything but the whites of his knuckles were showing on the handle of his squash racquet.

  ‘I bet you never thought I’d be a prefect,’ said Pike with a self-satisfied look on his face.