The Mudskipper Cup

by Christopher Cummings

  “It is her business,” his mother cut in. “Now stop arguing and pack up. And put a shirt on, silly boy.”

  Graham blushed hot. ‘Silly boy!’ What would Jennifer think? But he did as he was told. Only then did he look to see just how red his shoulders were. The cotton material of his shirt was painful to pull on. The pain made him wonder if he liked sailing. And he had no further chance to talk to Jennifer.

  That evening at home Graham was sick and feverish. He slept for a while but the pain of his sunburn woke him. He found he could not lie comfortably as his chest and arms were as scorched as his back. Most painful of all were the tops of his feet which had turned a deep pink. He tossed and turned, then got up to have a cold shower.

  Sick and sore and unable to sleep he dug out books on sharks and tried to decide what sort it had been. At length he decided it was probably a Tiger Shark and noted ruefully that it was listed as a ‘man-eater’. For a time he lay deep in thought, reliving the incident. At last he dropped into a fitful sleep.

  The next day he was so sick and sore that he was excused school. His back had come up in angry blisters and he was hot and feverish. He spent a miserable day. Unable to lie down he sat at his work bench and tried to take his mind off the pain by working on his model.

  On Monday evening Graham was in even more pain than the previous night. The skin across his face, arms and back seemed to have stretched taut and gone leathery. Across his shoulders was a thick scattering of blisters which felt repulsive to the touch. Bright red skin on chest, sides and the top of his feet stung and burned. To ease the pain he lay for over an hour in a cool bath. He was only able to sleep after his mother gave him a painkiller.

  On Tuesday morning he was still feeling very sick so his mother again allowed him to stay home. His father just grunted and said: “Serves the silly little bugger right.”

  Graham again spent the day working on his new model. He completed all the hull frames, deck pieces and sides and painted them. The smell of fresh paint helped to cheer him up as he felt quite lonely.

  In the afternoon Roger dropped in. He had one of his HO Scale clockwork locomotives, a blue 0-4-0 Tank Engine, to which he was adding detail. He showed it to Graham and they happily discussed the model railway.

  Kylie came home with Margaret.

  “How’s your sunburn Graham?” Margaret asked, her eyes all soft with concern.

  “OK. I’ll live,” Graham replied gruffly.

  “Let me look.”

  Graham didn’t want to but he unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off. Margaret’s face wrinkled up in concern and horror.

  “Oh you poor boy! Have you got cream or something to rub on it?”

  “Come on Margaret,” Kylie said impatiently. “It’s his own fault. Anyway, no brain, no pain.”

  Margaret didn’t want to go but she reluctantly followed Kylie. Graham pulled his shirt gingerly back on and buttoned it up. Girls! Sisters in particular! Why couldn’t Jennifer come over. ‘I wouldn’t mind her rubbing my back,’ he thought. Then his mind wandered on to contemplate him rubbing Jennifer’s back. Roger brought him back to earth.

  “Those bullies in Year 12 chased me today.”

  Graham groaned. He had forgotten Burford and Co. “We will have to do something about those mongrels,” he growled. But exactly what he couldn’t decide.

  Thus, when he went to school the next day, he was on his guard. Luckily he saw no sign of the bullies and safely joined the others.

  “How!” Max said, holding up his right hand.

  “What?” Graham asked.

  “Paleface greeting redskin,” Max replied.

  Graham wasn’t amused. He sniffed and asked Stephen how he was.

  “I’m OK,” Stephen replied. “But you won’t be. Old Buggermeister is after your blood.”

  That made Graham swallow in alarm. “Why?”

  “I don’t think you did very well in your maths exam,” Stephen replied.

  And he hadn’t. He had the lowest marks in the class - only twenty-three percent; and the teacher thought he had been deliberately staying away because he was scared. It made for a miserable morning. Graham was glad to escape outside when the bell went.

  He saw the bullies in the distance but stayed close to his friends and kept out of their sight.

  “What do we do about this sailing race?” he asked. “When do we practice again and what are the plans for the holidays?”

  “Do we need more practice?” Max asked.

  “Max!” Peter cried. “Do we need more practice. Ye Gods and little fishes!”

  “We’d better ask Collins and see what he says,” Roger said. “I just saw him at the tuckshop. I’ll go and get him.”

  Five-minutes later Andrew and his crew joined them.

  “Can’t race next Saturday. I have to work on Saturday morning and we have cadets in the arvo. Have to be Sunday,” Andrew replied.

  “Where?” Peter asked.

  They agreed it would have to be at Palm Beach so that Peter’s team could have a hire boat. Graham had a mental image of the shark’s fin and wanted to pull out but bit his lip and said nothing.

  “And what about racing during the holidays?” Max asked.

  “Not me,” Blake said. “I’ve got to go with the family during the first week and then we’ve got a cadet camp.”

  “That’s right,” Andrew agreed. “Our cadet unit goes into camp for a week and it will be ten days by the time we travel to and from.”

  “That gives us some time to practice,” Peter said.

  “You need it, so I hear,” Simmo said with a grin.

  Peter pretended not to hear. “What will the rules be? How many races and all that?”

  Andrew stroked his chin. “Rules are no problem. We will just use the ordinary international racing rules.”

  “What are they?” Roger asked.

  “I’ll loan you a book if you don’t know,” Andrew replied. “We can’t decide on just one race. It should be the best of five or the best of seven races.”

  “Seven will do,” Graham said.

  “OK. Seven. All happy with that? Whichever team wins four races wins the prize.”

  “What prize?” Max asked.

  “Prize idiot!” Graham snapped.

  Max turned on him angrily. “Just ‘cause you can’t take a joke!”

  “Take a joke! I nearly got eaten by that bloody shark!” Graham cried.

  “Shark! What bloody shark? I didn’t see one,” Max sneered.

  “I did! And so did the girls,” Graham said.

  “That will do you two,” Peter said. Max and Graham eyed each other angrily but let the dispute drop.

  Roger asked, “Can we do more than one race in an afternoon?”

  Andrew shook his head. “Possibly, but it depends on the wind. If it drops you might be lucky to do one. I don’t think we should plan on it.”

  They discussed a program of races to fill into known dates for holidays, scout camps, cadet bivouacs and the like.

  “It’ll be months!” Roger cried.

  “Hmm. Mid July by the time we finish,” Peter agreed.

  Nobody mentioned the sailing race with models. Graham thought of it, but was happy to let the matter drop. He had his own competition to win there, building a better model than Kylie.

  After school he went straight home and settled to his work bench and set to work gluing the hull timbers together. After a while he relaxed into contentment. The pleasure of creating something, of seeing his own handiwork actually start to look like a ship’s hull; the smell of the balsa glue with its hidden memories of past pleasures - ah!

  His father came home at 5:30, tired out from twenty-four hours of almost non-stop work. The ship had been loading and preparing to sail.

  Capt Kirk stopped to look down at his youngest son’s work and grunted. He picked up the newly glued hull and squinted along the lines with a professional eye. He grunted again. Graham sat, tense and worried.

  “T
hat’s good son. That’s bloody good. You’ve got the sheer just right. At least as near as I can tell - and that’s good enough. Remember that the old shipbuilders judged things by eye. So, if it looks right, it is right. Good work!”

  Capt Kirk put the model down and put a hand on Graham’s shoulder and gave him an affectionate squeeze. Graham forced himself to beam with pleasure. His dad had obviously forgotten he was sunburnt and such a reward was too precious to spoil with any complaint!

  But Max did know. Max arrived ten-minutes later on his way home from tennis practice. He gave Graham a hearty slap on the back and laughed. Searing pain lanced through Graham. He cried out and sprang up, knocking his chair over in his haste.

  “Ow! That bloody hurt Max!”

  “Sorry. I forgot.”

  “Crap! You did that on purpose!” Graham shouted. His back stung like fury and he could tell that some of the blisters had burst. He lashed a punch at Max, who turned and bolted.

  Graham ran after him, through the front door and down the wooden stairs that led to the front gate. “I’ll wring your bloody neck!” he threatened.

  Max had to open the front gate to escape and he realised he didn’t have time. He turned and hit out with his tennis racquet. The racquet struck Graham a hard blow on his knuckles, fuelling his anger. He grabbed at it and got his fingers through the strings.

  Max screamed at him to let go and tried to pull the racquet free. That hurt but Graham wouldn’t let go. With his other hand he grabbed Max’s wrist and tried to twist the racquet free. Max yelled in pain as Graham wrenched his little finger. Graham tore the racquet free just as Max kicked.

  The kick was aimed at Graham’s groin but connected with his inside left thigh instead. It hurt. Graham gave a shout and hurled the racquet onto the concrete path. The racquet bounced and fell on the lawn, several strings obviously broken.

  Max looked at it, then swore and put up his fists. Graham saw the anger flare in Max’s eyes. Not wanting a fight he turned and scuttled up the stairs as fast as he could run. He made it through the door two paces ahead of Max and just had time to swing it shut. He leaned on it and clicked the latch.

  Max pounded on the door and shouted at him. “Come out you gutless bastard and fight!”

  Graham fumbled for the bolt to lock the door, then realised that his father was standing beside him, looking down.

  Their eyes met. Captain Kirk took his pipe out of his mouth and said gravely. “Your mate has just called you a gutless bastard boy. Now you go out and fight him. Don’t run away. You solve nothing by running. I know there are times when a man should walk away. And no sensible man goes looking for trouble. But there are also times when you have to stand and fight.”

  The captain leaned forward and unlocked the door. Max had stopped hammering and calling out at the sound of the captain’s voice and had retreated a few steps. Graham blinked and gulped. He was frightened and didn’t want to fight. His father gripped his shoulder with a massive hand.

  “Now, a man has to live with himself. If he runs when he knows he should fight then he wounds himself inside, in his pride, in his self-respect. That makes it harder to face the next battle that life throws up. It’s better to battle and lose. The pain of a fight usually only hurts for a few hours or days. But the pain and shame of knowing in your heart that you ran, that goes on for years.”

  He paused, held Graham’s shoulder and looked him square in the eyes. “Now, what this fight is about isn’t all that important. But he called you a gutless bastard. No man worth his salt would take an insult like that and not fight. Your honour is involved. And mine! I don’t want a son who’s a coward. So get out there and fight!”

  Captain Kirk pulled the door open and shoved Graham through. Graham felt as though he was in a state of shock. No escape! An angry Max in front and an angry father behind! He heard the door slam and lock, barring his retreat. He gulped and began walking reluctantly down the steps, raising his fists as he did. Max retreated ahead of him, opened the gate and retired onto the footpath.

  Reluctantly Graham followed, trying to pretend he wasn’t scared. But he knew it would hurt. He had been beaten enough times by Alex and the bullies to know it would hurt.

  The air was cool he noted. The sun was gone and evening was setting in. Max stopped beside his bicycle, his fists up.

  “Apologise,” Graham croaked.

  “No! You broke my racquet,” Max replied, licking his lips nervously.

  Graham advanced warily and the two began to circle each other.

  Alex called from the side yard. “Go on you little sook, hit him!”

  Graham groaned. The last thing he wanted was an audience. He just wanted it all to go away.

  Suddenly Max rushed in, fists flailing. The speed of the attack caught Graham by surprise and several blows landed. One, just above his left eye, really stung. He was astonished that his mind could work so fast, could note the blows, note how inexpert they were and still be able to plan a reaction.

  It wasn’t really fair. Captain Kirk had taught his children to fight, aware that waterfronts are not nice places. Graham backed off, blocking most of Max’s windmilling blows, then punched once, a hard right cross to the side of Max’s head.

  Max reeled back and cried out. Then he charged in again, head down and fists flailing. Graham tried to hold him off. “Stop it Max! Stop it, before one of us gets hurt! Ow!”

  Max had connected with Graham’s lip. Graham tasted blood and his temper exploded. He let drive with another hard right - smack! It drove into Max’s forehead and sent him reeling back.

  Max blinked in surprise and pain. He hesitated. Graham wiped sweat from his face and tasted blood. The two boys eyed each other.

  “Are you sorry now you slapped my sunburn?” Graham asked, wishing to end the fight before it became serious.

  “Yes,” Max mumbled, “but you owe me a tennis racquet.”

  “Yeah. Well. You shouldn’t have hit me with it,” Graham replied. He groped for the words to make Max withdraw the accusation of cowardice but somehow couldn’t frame his words. He wasn’t sure if his actions had answered it.

  “I’m sorry. I lost my temper,” Max said.

  Graham accepted the offer gratefully, if warily. “OK. Peace then?”

  “Yeah. Peace.” Max lowered his fists and Graham did likewise. Max rubbed his head. “That was a good punch. Are we still friends?”

  Graham dabbed his split lip and nodded. He held out his hand. “Yes. Sorry.”

  They shook hands for a moment, embarrassed by Alex’s jeering comments.

  “I’d better get home for tea,” Max said. “I’ll just get my racquet.”

  Graham picked it up and handed it to him. “Sorry. I’ll pay for it.”

  “It’s OK. See you tomorrow.” Max wheeled his bike across the gutter, jumped on and pedalled off.

  Graham stood for a few minutes letting the emotion drain out of him. Then he went sadly upstairs. His father met him at the top.

  “Good,” Captain Kirk grunted. “You handled that well. Now go and have a bath. Your mother’s called us for tea.”

  Graham did as he was told. He felt regret at the whole incident and sensed that it had not really settled anything with Max. Indeed it seemed to have opened a breach of ill-will, exposing his friendship with Max as a fraud.

  “Perhaps we never have been friends?” he asked himself. It was an uncomfortable thought.

  CHAPTER 15

  PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT

  The following morning Graham said goodbye to his father. Capt Kirk would be making another voyage to Thursday Island.

  “I’ll be away for two weeks. You kids be good and look after your mother,” Captain Kirk said.

  Graham was secretly relieved his father was going. He was also glad his father had not remembered to ask about exam results. ‘He will skin me alive when he finds how poorly I’ve done,’ he thought miserably. After that he took himself off to school, still feeling sore from the sunb
urn.

  There he met Max and the two eyed each other warily and tried to pretend nothing had happened although Max’s eyes kept going to the scab on Graham’s bottom lip.

  Peter also noticed it. “What happened to you Graham? Have those bullies been at you again?”

  “No. Max and I had a little disagreement.”

  “What over?”

  "He whacked my sunburn."

  Peter smiled. “So then he gave you a fat lip?”

  Stephen, who was sitting nearby talking to a girl, looked round. “Suits him. He’s a fathead so he needs a fat lip.”

  Graham felt his body seem to change temperature, hot to cold to hot. Stephen’s jibe hurt. He tried to think of a suitable retort but couldn’t. He wondered how he had ever thought Stephen was a friend. Yet, perversely, he knew in his heart he still wanted that friendship. He clamped his jaws together and stamped angrily away.

  It was an unhappy day. Every day at school now seemed to be an unhappy day. Graham sat alone and looked out at the distant mountains and fought back the tears. The bullies alone were enough cause for misery. Coupled with his dislike of school and low marks it was demoralising. Then to fight with Max! And for Stephen to turn on him! It wasn’t fair. And Stephen always seemed to have a girl while he had none!

  Wistfully he thought of Jennifer.

  It was such a relief to go home in the afternoon. He took himself down to the privacy of his workbench and began painting the new model, the Falcon. The model already had an undercoat of clear varnish, to waterproof it. This was now hard but in drying had raised numerous rough areas. These Graham gently sandpapered until they were quite smooth. He ran his finger gently over the hull, enjoying the tactile pleasure of it.

  Then he opened a small tin of white paint and, using a small brush with bristles no more than two-millimetres in breadth, started to carefully paint. He had decided on his colour scheme. The waterline was to be an emerald green. Most of the hull, up to the line of the bulwarks and main chains was to be white. Above that the sides would be a light brown. When the ‘wales’ and rubbing strakes were added they would be black. He smiled in anticipation and lost himself in the pleasure of his work.