The Mudskipper Cup

by Christopher Cummings

  “We’d better hurry up,” Peter said. Graham agreed, zipped up his shorts and headed for the entrance. As he did he heard the barred gate swing shut and the bolt rattle. As Graham rounded the corner he saw it was Burford. The bully snapped the padlock shut.

  Graham was dismayed. “Hey! Let us out. We’ve got exams!” he cried.

  “Too bad, ya little shit. That’s the right place for ya. Haw haw haw!” Burford replied. He walked off laughing. Several passing students looked, laughed and ran off to tell their friends. Graham yelled angrily and shook the bars.

  “Let us out! Come back you big ugly turd!”

  Burford spun on his heel and headed back. At that moment Peter joined Graham at the gate. That made Burford pause.

  “Let us out Burford,” Peter said.

  “Can’t. I haven’t got a key.”

  “Go and get us one then,” Peter grated. “If I’m late for my exam you’ll be sorry.”

  Burford began walking away. “Big words! You dob and you are the one who’ll be sorry.”

  More students passed. The word had spread and a group of Year 8’s, led by Crane, appeared.

  “Give the monkeys a peanut!” one Year 8 shrilled.

  “Gorillas,” a second corrected. “Gorillas in the zoo.”

  “In the poo,” a third added. The Year 8’s cackled.

  Graham glowered at them. Peter threatened. “Go and get the Janitor you little toads, or when I get out you’ll be sorry.”

  Crane sneered. “You’d think a bad smell could just blow out,” he said.

  “Blow off,” another said. They all giggled.

  The second bell went and the Year 8s walked off. The passing stream thinned. Graham swore and pounded the bars. “Bugger it! I should be in the exam room by now. Oh bugger it! Geography is almost the only subject I can do!”

  Peter was also in a fever of anxiety. He began to yell. “Help! Help! Let us out!”

  Minutes dragged by. Nobody came. Peter went and searched for another way out. Graham joined him. “Any luck?”

  “No. All the windows have bars on them,” Peter replied. They returned to the door.

  “Bloody Burford! I hate him! I’ll get him one day!” Graham muttered. He called again and banged at the lock. Peter looked at his watch and swore.

  Footsteps approached and Mr Page, the Senior Geography Master, appeared. “What the devil are you two up to?” he growled.

  Graham explained. The teacher rubbed his chin. “Who locked you in? Who is responsible?” he demanded to know.

  Graham hesitated, but Peter didn’t. “Burford Sir. He’s in Year Twelve. He’s been bullying Graham all week.”

  “Hmm. Has he eh? Yes, alright. I will go and find the Janitor,” Mr Page said. He walked off. Peter kept fretting and looking at his watch. Graham just felt sick in the stomach. Another failure!

  It was ten-minutes before the Janitor and Mr Page appeared. The door was unlocked.

  Graham said, “Sir, will you please come with me to explain to Mr Conkey why I am late? I’m supposed to be doing a Geography exam.”

  Peter nodded. “Same for me. Please Sir, I’m in Mr Holden’s class,” he added.

  Mr Page assented. They went first to Peter’s exam, it being closer. “Give him an extra fifteen minutes,” Mr Page directed. He then led Graham on to the next room. By then Graham had recovered a bit. He had been on the edge of tears earlier.

  Mr Conkey was one of the few teachers Graham got on really well with and liked. He was also his History Teacher, as well as being captain of the school’s army cadet unit. Mr Conkey listened to his story, then shook his head sadly. “You aren’t having much of a run of luck lately are you Graham?” he said sympathetically.

  “No Sir. Sorry Sir,” Graham whispered. He was so upset his lip trembled.

  “You’d better make a start. I will give you the extra twenty minutes,” Mr Conkey replied.

  “Thank you Sir,” Graham said. He took the exam papers and made his way to a vacant desk, aware of the curious stares of his classmates.

  This time Graham managed to keep writing right to the appointed time. That meant an embarrassing quarter of an hour left on his own. Mr Conkey stood outside waiting, talking to three Year 12’s who were the cadet unit’s Cadet Under-Officers.

  Feeling much happier, Graham handed the exam paper back to Mr Conkey, thanked him and left. By this time most of the students had gone home. Only a few loitered outside talking to friends or waiting for parents or busses. Graham met Peter and the two friends stood talking for a few minutes. Then Peter said goodbye and left. Graham shouldered his bag and set off for home, his thoughts already on his new model ship.

  He had gone a block when he suddenly looked up and saw trouble. His heart turned over and leapt in fright. Burford, Harvey and Macnamara had appeared around the next corner. Both Burford and Macnamara were smoking. They had so obviously been waiting for Graham that he stopped and looked desperately around for help or escape.

  Burford called out. “Come here, you little turd. We got a bone to pick with you,” he ordered.

  Graham swallowed. He wrestled with his options: run, and appear a coward, or fight and get beaten up.

  The bullies began walking towards him.

  “There’s no shame in running from superior force,” Graham told himself. “They’re older than me, and bigger than me. And there are three of them.” But his emotions weren’t convinced and he could feel the hot blood mounting his cheeks - along with the fear.

  Scorching with emotion, he turned and ran. The three bullies yelled and set off in pursuit. Half a block back on the other side of the street was Roger’s house. Graham decided it was his only hope. The distance wasn’t much over a hundred metres but even as he crossed the road he could hear feet pounding close behind.

  Harvey was the closest. A terrified glance told Graham he wouldn’t make it. There would be no time to open the gate. Running desperately he leapt the gutter and was across the footpath in two racing strides. As he did he flung his schoolbag aside and dived.

  He went head first over the garden fence and tried to execute a forward roll. In this he almost succeeded but Mrs Dunning’s well-tended garden included a rose bush. Graham twisted to avoid this, didn’t quite, and fell heavily.

  As he rolled on the grass he let out a gasping howl of pain as a thorn scourged his leg. Then he scrambled to his feet. The plan wasn’t working. To his dismay he saw Harvey vault the fence, trampling the orange and yellow flowers. Burford wrestled with the gate.

  Graham bolted for the back of the house but he was too late. Harvey grabbed him and they fell heavily on the lawn. A fist thudded into Graham’s shoulder.

  “You little shit! You dobbed on us!” Harvey snarled.

  Graham struggled violently and let out a strangled yell for help, lashing out with his legs and arms. A boot thudded into his thigh and then into his buttocks.

  Suddenly water drenched them. There were cries of alarm and the bullies sprang back. It was Mrs Dunning and she had her gardening hose.

  “You boys are trespassing. Now get out of my yard this minute or I will call the police!”

  “Yah! Mind yer own business, ya old bag!” Harvey jeered. For an answer Mrs Dunning turned the jet of water full up and into his face. Harvey stepped back swearing angrily.

  Roger appeared wielding a cricket bat.

  Mrs Dunning turned the jet towards Burford who hastily retreated. “Get going you bullies! And stop your gutter language you foul-mouthed pig!” she shrilled.

  The bullies retreated, still making threats.

  Mrs Dunning pointed towards the school. “Be sure I will telephone your school principal,” she added. As the three were in the same school uniform as Graham and Roger this was no idle threat.

  At last it seemed to sink into Burford that they had overreached themselves. The three walked off along the footpath muttering. Roger helped Graham up. He washed blood off his leg and was led upstairs for first aid by Mrs Dunning
. Roger retrieved Graham’s school bag. After telling the story, Graham was treated to afternoon tea and he and Roger then went downstairs while Roger’s mum picked up the telephone. Graham wished she wouldn’t but knew it was useless to try to dissuade her.

  The boys went into the ‘Train Room’ and after a while Graham relaxed and forgot about the incident. The magic of tiny wheels clicking over shiny rails absorbed him.

  Only on the way home two hours later did Graham remember the bullies. He looked carefully at each intersection but there was no sign of them. His mother was worried but he only said he had been at Roger’s and did not mention the bullies.

  That evening he divided his time between finishing an assignment and working on the new model. The Falcon was to be just over fifty-centimetres long, bowsprit to taffrail, and twelve-centimetres broad. Graham had determined to build her as a waterline model so that later she could join in his game. He had no desire for another race.

  “I’ll make a sea of blue plaster,” he told himself. “Or rather out of white plaster, which I will paint to look like waves.” For the next hour he sat and happily daydreamed as he cut out and sandpapered curved wooden frames and dozens of deck beams.

  Graham woke up on Friday morning in a state of very mixed emotions. There was relief that exams were over - but dread at what the results and their consequences might be. There was apprehension bordering on fear over what consequences Mrs Dunning’s phone call might have. There was relief that it was Friday.

  “I don’t think I can take much more of this,” he muttered. The thought crossed his mind that he should pretend he was sick and stay home. He dismissed it. His mother would fuss and would soon detect he wasn’t. “Maybe I could wag school? Now, where could I go?”

  In the end Graham dragged himself reluctantly to school. He almost crept there like a Mohawk in Iroquois territory, scouting every intersection and, once at school, every corner. There was no sign of the bullies.

  He was also sure he must be the object of great public derision and was both relieved and hurt when the population at large seemed to simply ignore him.

  In fact the day was a real anti-climax. Even the expected mental scarifying over exam results did not happen as most teachers had not finished marking. All day Graham expected a summons to the Office but that did not eventuate either.

  But going to the toilet at lunch time was still an ordeal. He said nothing but waited, hoping one of the others would go, so he could go with them. To his immense relief Peter came to his rescue.

  “OK. I’m going to the dunny. Now, we won’t get caught again. Roger, you scout ahead. Stephen, you go and keep lookout at that end of the building. Max, you go the other way.”

  They did as they were told. Graham then followed Peter and Roger in. This brought a few behind-the-hand comments from other boys but apart from feeling hurt Graham ignored them. He relaxed. “Peter is certainly a good friend, ah! That’s a relief!”

  “Hey!”

  The steel gate had clanged shut. Graham felt a spasm of fear and cut off his pee in mid stream. Peter and Roger both raced for the entrance. Graham followed, hastily adjusting his clothes.

  There was laughter.

  “Max you bugger!” Peter called. “Don’t do that again.”

  Graham joined them. Max was grinning at them from outside. It made Graham’s temper boil over.

  “Bugger you Max! You frightened the shit out of me.”

  “Right place for it to happen,” Max replied with a laugh.

  “Very funny! Now open up and let us out,” Peter said.

  Max went to do so. His face changed to comical disbelief. “I can’t. The lock has snapped shut. Sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”

  “You bloody drongo!” Peter cried. “Go and get the Janitor.”

  Graham scowled at the grinning faces which had begun to collect. “I think I’ll give up going to the dunny altogether,” he said glumly.

  They were duly released but my then Max had made himself scarce. Peter saw the funny side of it and laughed but Graham wasn’t amused. He sat through the afternoon lessons in a state of growing nervousness. Would the bullies he waiting for him again?

  Friday afternoon was his favourite time of the week. Not only was it the end of school for a few days, with the weekend to look forward to, but it was shopping day. His mother always brought home a chocolate and a comic for each of them. This was usually ‘The Phantom’ for Alex, a war comic for Graham and a ‘Wizard of Id’ or ‘Charlie Brown’ for Kylie. And there was Scouts that night.

  “I don’t want my Friday afternoon spoilt,” Graham muttered bitterly. He skulked in the front entrance for a while looking for the bullies. He saw Alex go past with some of his mates but they were a mob of rough Year 11 yobbos and wouldn’t welcome Graham tagging along. So he waited another five-minutes, then walked quickly out and headed towards Roger’s.

  Nothing happened so he didn’t stop at Roger’s. After ten-minutes of fast and anxious walking he was safely home. He sighed with relief and went through to the kitchen.

  Alex was there, eating a chocolate and reading a comic. He looked up. “Here he is. The famous dunny lurker,” he teased. “I hear you’ve become the star attraction at lunch times.”

  “Leave me alone Alex. I’ve had enough. I hate the way those bullies pick on me.”

  “You should fight them,” Alex replied unsympathetically.

  “I do! But it’s no good. It’s easy for you to say. You’re nearly as big as them,” Graham cried.

  “So? Use your brain.”

  “I just wish they’d leave me alone. Is that my chocolate?”

  Graham had a drink and took his chocolate and comic to his bed. He flopped onto it with a sigh of relief and began to read.

  He enjoyed Scouts that night. He was the ‘Second’ of the Crocodile Patrol and they beat the Kookaburras and the Platypuses in both a tent erecting race and in a ‘chariot race’. Peter was Second of the Platypuses. Roger, Stephen and Max were Scouts. The friends also finalised their plans for the Sunday. As Graham had feared, he was required to work on his father’s ship all Saturday.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE DINGHY

  To save the expense of berthing fees the Malita had been moved out of Smiths Creek to moorings in Trinity Inlet. The moorings were about half a kilometre south from the point where Smiths Creek joined the inlet. The ship was undergoing repairs and maintenance and would be moved back to the wharf on Monday to load cargo.

  To reach the ship meant going by boat. There were two boats available: a five-metre aluminium run-about with a forty horse-power outboard; and a 3-metre plywood dinghy propelled by two oars. As neither Alex, nor Graham, was the holder of a Powerboat Licence it followed that they were condemned to the dinghy.

  “Bloody galley slaves, that’s what we are,” Alex grumbled, as he rowed them from the boat ramp near the shop to the ship.

  “Bloody wind! It’s always foul when you have to row,” he added. The South-Easter was blowing strongly along that arm of the Inlet pushing up a nasty chop that the bow of the dinghy kept butting into, throwing up cold showers of spray. Graham sniffed the fresh sea-air, tasted salt on his lips and was happy.

  Actually both boys had grown up in and around boats and were quite skilled in their handling. So using the dinghy was as much of a game as an imposition.

  They worked on the ship most of Saturday morning. First they scaled and chipped rust and painted. Then they helped clean out the hold. That was hot and dirty work and Graham did not enjoy it.

  There was a break for morning tea at 10:30. During it their father gave instructions to Graham. “Take the dinghy. Go to the Engineering Works. You know, the place where we got those tappet covers the other day? There should be a part there for us. It’s a flywheel out of a pump motor. They said it would be ready today.”

  “Is it heavy?” Graham asked.

  “No. You won’t have any trouble.”

  “Will I have to pay for it?”
>
  “No. Tell them to put it on our account,” his father replied. “Get going now. They might close up at midday.”

  “Yes dad.”

  Graham quickly finished his morning tea and made his way to the break of the poop. The boats were tied up alongside, lapping and gurgling on the waves. Graham climbed over the rail and dropped easily into the dinghy. He wore sandshoes, shorts and a shirt. Being winter he had dispensed with a hat.

  Humming happily, he positioned the rowlocks in their holes on each gunwale. One oar at a time was slipped into place, shipped inboard. Next he did a quick check: Bailer, life jacket (not on him though), anchor. He preferred to be on his own. Even the prospect of a hard row back didn’t dampen his spirits. It was a lovely sunny day, cool and clear. The sunlight sparkled on the waves. The water looked dark green.

  “Tide is just starting to ebb,” he noted. “That will make it a bit harder. I’ll hug the shore of Admiralty Island on the way back.”

  Graham stood up, untied the painter and pushed off. The dinghy at once went bobbing along with the wind and current. He settled at the oars but apart from an occasional course correction made little use of them.

  Only when he approached the mouth of Smiths Creek did he start to row. He pulled close in to the mangrove-lined shore of Admiralty Island, slid across a calm stretch where the two tidal currents baffled each other in the lee of the island, then turned and rowed quickly into the outgoing current in Smiths Creek.

  Graham did not fight the tide but made the dinghy slide diagonally across it so that within a couple of minutes he had it aground on the concrete boat ramp at the point. He boated his oars, jumped out and hauled the dinghy as far out of the water as he could. After making the painter fast to a post he set off, whistling cheerfully. A couple of minutes later he was at the Engineering Works.