Henry Hoey Hobson (6 page)

A little bell dinged on the top of the door when I pushed it open at the start of first break. A clever early-warning system for the canny school secretary.

The office was hardly any bigger than a storeroom. It just managed to squeeze in a reception counter that doubled as a modesty panel for Mrs Newton and her desk. Thanks to that chest-high barrier, our school secretary was invisible from the doorway. She could be doing anything behind there – reading trashy magazines, catnapping, watching daytime television – and that little dibber-dobber bell would give her heaps of time to hide the evidence.

I peered over the neatly stacked pile of school newsletters.

Just as I suspected.

Mrs Newton had been quick off the mark. She was on the phone now, nodding and taking notes as though she had been at it the whole time. She glanced up and pointed a pen at the open door behind her left shoulder.

I decided to let her get on with her double life, and nodded politely as I edged past the reception counter and into the doorway behind her.

Mr Paulson bounded up from his chair, hardly any taller on his feet than he had been when seated. ‘Henry, come in, come in.'

I was already in. If I came in any further I'd be on top of him.

‘Please, have a seat.' He gestured expansively at the single chair squeezed up against the corner of his desk. It was angled so the principal could chat with a visitor without an intimidating expanse of desk between them.

I sat down, squirming, wishing that Mr Paulson valued the traditional symbols of power and hierarchy a little more. I would have much preferred to be on the other side of his laminated computer desk. I needed a barrier, a buffer zone, between us. I was exposed out here in the open, my knees wrinkling the razored crease of Mr Paulson's trouser leg.

‘Henry, I just wanted to touch base with you after speaking with your mother this morning. She phoned in her new contact details, so we had a chance to have a little chat.'

I stifled a moan and tried not to slump in his visitor's chair, wishing fervently that I were a visitor, so that after a suitably polite interval I could smile, nod and walk away, never to return.

‘Naturally, we are both concerned with how best to ease your transition into OLPS–'

Naturally.
That would leave my mum free to work long hours without feeling guilty about me, and it would allow the head of Perpetual Suckers to relax, knowing that he wasn't importing any new problems into his school.

‘So I thought we should run through what's coming up on our agenda, so that you will have the opportunity to participate fully in the raft of activities we have scheduled for the remainder of the term.'

I liked that. The
raft of activities.
Sounded like something that Mum and Principal Paulson had dreamed up to keep me afloat in the dangerous waters of Year Seven. Something that would stop me from sinking without a trace, while one hundred and twenty-six Perpetual Suckers looked on from the comfort and safety of the lifeboats.

Little did they know that I didn't need a raft of activities. I was the self-inflatable Blowy Blobson, able to float like a cork since I was protoplasm, the boy who had never outgrown his gills. Mum had photos of me grinning underwater before I had teeth, before I had hair. I didn't need a raft of activities. I could float like a butterfish, sting like a ray. I would do swimmingly on my own, I would–

‘So, how does that sound, Henry?'

Mr Paulson's face floated back into focus. Blood flared in my cheeks as I tried to frame an answer that wouldn't reveal I hadn't been listening, and at the same time, wouldn't commit me to whatever he'd been talking about for the past minute or so.

I settled for the time-honoured shrug, figuring it covered me for an each-way bet.

Mr Paulson looked disappointed, as though he'd been hoping for more.

‘Your mother seemed to think you'd be pleased that you hadn't missed it, she said it was the highlight of the sporting year for you–'

I snapped forward in my chair; there was only one highlight in the sporting year as far as I was concerned. ‘Wait a minute – are you talking about the swimming carnival, Mr Paulson?'

A line appeared between his brows. ‘Well, yes, Henry. That is what I've been telling you about.' The frown quickly winked out as his natural good-humour reasserted itself.

‘OLPS has its swimming carnival coming up, just before the City Districts inter-school meet. Everyone else's times have already been registered. I was asking your mother whether she had any times for you from your last school, or from club, so we can place you in the correct heats and, more importantly, see if you qualify for Districts.'

I shook my head. My school times from last year would be way out of whack, especially after my recent growth spurt. And I'd never joined swim club; it was too expensive and too hard for Mum to get out of work for the meets. Instead I'd just hung around the public pools every afternoon in summer, eavesdropping on the drills at squad training and trying to keep up in the adjoining lane. Mum didn't mind. A few dollars to get into the public swimming pool was a lot cheaper than after-school care.

I hadn't had much time to train lately with the move and all, and I hadn't yet found my bearings in the new neighbourhood. ‘Is there a pool around here? I could time myself after school this afternoon – do you want fifty metres of each stroke? Or do you swim hundreds here?'

Mr Paulson's eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘Fifties will be fine, and the hundred-metres freestyle if you're up for it' He leaned forward. Even his lashes were ginger.

‘As I told your mother, the local pool is only about ten minutes' walk from here. If she can arrange to get times for you this afternoon, or tomorrow afternoon at the latest, we can enter them in our school database and see if you qualify for the District Schools Competition.'

Sounded like Mum had let him think that she'd be taking me to the pool. No point in disillusioning the poor man.

‘Could you write down how to get to the pool, please, Mr Paulson? Mum's hopeless with directions, and I don't want her to get us lost.'

While he jotted down the details, I allowed myself a momentary flare of pleasure. I knew what I'd be doing after school from now on. I might be a Nigel-No-Friends at school, but at least I now had something to keep me busy through the long afternoons till Mum came home from work.

‘Here you go, Henry.' Mr Paulson handed me a very clear mud map showing the location of the pool in relation to the school, and the pool's street address printed clearly and underlined three times in black. My mother spent her days covering more kilometres than a cabbie, crisscrossing Brisbane in search of real-estate gold. She wasn't the one who needed help with directions.

‘Thanks Mr Paulson, we'll get those times to you tomorrow.' As I braced myself to stand, he raised a hand, stopping me from levering myself up and out of the seat.

‘Not so fast. We're not done here yet, Henry.' He settled back in his chair and made a hand gesture that indicated I should do likewise.

‘As I explained to your mother, the pool has official time sheets. We need these to see which students qualify for the District Meet that leads on to Regionals and States. She has to fill it in, sign it and drop it back here by Thursday morning at the latest.'

I made a mental note to collect the time sheet, fill it in and get Mum to sign it. Mr Paulson leant forward, lacing his fingers on the desktop.

‘There is one other matter that your mother and I did talk about, that I'd like to discuss with you as well...'

He paused, as though needing to choose his next words with care. I wound up my paying-attention dial, which was a bit dodgy at the best of times.

‘Each year, in first term, we have Boys' and Girls' Weekends at Stradbroke Island. Camping, learning to surf, that kind of thing. For Years Four to Seven. The Girls' Weekend was last weekend. The Boys' Weekend is coming up next month.'

I nodded non-committally. It sounded like fun, but like all things in life, I guessed it would depend how much it would cost and whether Mum would be working that weekend.

‘There is a basic fee, which we waive in special circumstances, so everyone who wants to take part is able to do so.' I stiffened, but Mr Paulson kept right on talking, like his ability to mind-read was no big deal.

‘Our Parents and Friends Association introduced it a couple of years ago as part of our proactive program to help boys, in particular, achieve their full potential at OLPS right through to the end of Year Seven. We would like to retain as many boys as possible until the end of primary school, and we've found it to be a highly successful annual event. It's a great bonding experience for the boys and the significant males in their lives – not just for fathers and sons, but for the older brothers, uncles, grandfathers and family friends who have taken part.'

My chest tightened. I could zone out right now because I knew where this was heading. I just didn't know how much Mum might have told him.

Would she have shared the complete absence of ‘significant males' in my life with my new princi pal? Would she have told a complete stranger, even one this transparently well-meaning, that I had no brother, father, uncle, or grandfather? That I had no family at all, apart from my mother? Were these the types of things she blurted out to a man she had met only once? During a phone call to leave her emergency contacts?

Come to think of it, just who had she nominated as an emergency contact this time round? We didn't know anybody around here. At my other schools, we usually called on the neighbours in times of need; someone conveniently retired or housebound, so they were available during school hours.

My mother had a gift for attracting Nanna-substitutes, old ladies who fussed over me on the odd occasion when I was too sick for school. Or overwhelmed young mums who were relieved to have me play with their babies on pupil-free days.

One thing I was fairly confident about was that Mum wasn't going to embarrass either of us by foisting a weird Wally on me, just so I could qualify for a weekend at Stradbroke. For that, at least, I was grateful.

‘–so you'll let me know, Henry? After you've talked to your mother?'

I refocused on Mr Paulson's face and nodded, despite the fact that I had not the foggiest idea what he had been talking about while I'd zoned out.

I was going to talk to my mother, all right. I was going to find out what she'd been telling the principal about our tight-knit little family of two.

I pulled the cord tight and retied the knot, but it didn't help much.

My old Speedo Enduros were on their last legs: saggy, baggy and tissue-thin daggy.

I hoped our budget would stretch to a new pair before the school swimming carnival. The last thing I needed when I was up on the dive blocks was for the twins to fall out of their cradle in front of one hundred and twenty-six Perpetual Suckers.

Last year's goggles were almost as sad. Eye-poppingly tight, with brittle rubber straps threatening to snap at any moment. I decided against trying to coax an extra centimetre or two out of the strap. I didn't want to tempt fate, not with new Speedos a priority. I could swim without goggles if I had to, but without Speedos? Uh-uh. Not in this life.

I'd grabbed my swim gear straight after school and walked round to the pool in less than ten minutes. I'd found it easily, thanks to Mr Paulson's excellent directions. I had the pool change room to myself, and found the bare concrete floor and whitewashed brick walls oddly comforting after the shambles of my day.

I had to admit I would never have survived it without Mr Paulson.

He'd taken up most of morning break ‘touching base' on things I needed to know. Like where the nearest pool was, when to catch whooping cough so that I could avoid the blokes-bonding weekend on Stradbroke Island, and how to fill in the lunch break that loomed like a black hole, sucking all of the pleasure out of my day.

He didn't realise it, but assigning me to be lunchtime library monitor had saved me the humiliation of any more friendless lunch breaks.

I'd gone straight to the library as soon as the bell rang, only to be bowled over by a stampede of enthusiastic preppies. Sebastian was in the thick of it, enjoying his reputation for fearlessness in the face of the school vampire.

It had ended up being kind of fun. I read them this picture book about a kid called Nicolas Ickle who was a right little cranky-pants about everyone trying to muscle in on his story: ‘Go away,' he kept yelling at them. ‘You're in the wrong book!'

The preppies had loved it, but I'd felt like the poor old confused elephant: stuck in the wrong book, not sure how to deal with everyone wanting to get him out of the picture.

The breeze swung round and the pungent smell of chlorine billowed into the change room. I filled my lungs and followed it out into the harsh sunlight.

I loved the smell of chlorine in the afternoons; loved the way it sliced through the fog of a bad day, freshening and reviving me like that eucalyptus stuff Mum made me inhale over a basin every time I caught a cold.

I sucked it up, happy to be somewhere I belonged for a change.

‘You right, mate?'

The woman behind the counter had a flattened brown face, round and wrinkled like a raisin. She could have been aged anywhere from a sunscorched forty to a pretty sprightly eighty years old. I wasn't much of a judge of age, but her name badge read ‘Ma Mallory' so I guessed she wouldn't be offended by the estimate.

‘I just need a time sheet, please, so I can clock my times for the school swimming carnival and Districts.'

‘Yeah? Well I guess that makes you Henry. Mr Paulson said to keep an eye out for you.' She whipped a jaundiced eye round the pool. ‘Where's your mum? She has to fill it in. If you qualify for Districts, they want to know the times are genuine. There's no bodgying up times at my pool.'

I thought fast. ‘She just had to drop something off. She won't be long. How about I put the form with my stuff while I warm up? Then she can clock my times when she gets back.'

‘How about you don't.' Her lips formed a wrinkled little cat's bum. ‘How about I keep it right here.'

‘But–'

‘But nothing. It's my last one. I don't want it getting wet or blowing away while you're in the pool. Tell your mum to come see me when she gets here.' She turned away to serve a harassed mother with a screaming toddler on her hip.

I hung around for a bit, but Ma just ignored me. Clearly our conversation was over. I mooched over to the pool, the air seeping out of my day, and slumped onto the nearest dive block, wondering what to do next.

Ma Mallory sounded like a bit of a stickler for the rules, so if I didn't get Mum down here, I was sunk.

An old lady cruised towards me like a crocodile. Lane One was strictly for non-swimmers. For people who didn't know enough to keep left when doing laps. People who zigzagged when they swam. People who didn't wear goggles or caps, shut their eyes when they swam and then punched you in your goggles as they thrashed past.

The old lady's flowered bathing cap was pulled tight above eyebrows that had been drawn on in thick red-brown pencil. Her lipsticked smile was a shade brighter, and a good size bigger than her mouth. She had drawn outside the lines, like a kindy kid not used to working with crayons. Her stately breaststroke barely rippled the surface and I couldn't help but admire her ability to sail through the skin of the water without splashing a drop on her face.

She froggy-kicked towards me and touched the wall. ‘You look like your dog just died.' Then she turned and kicked off without waiting for a reply.

I stared after her. She might be a crazy pool lady, but at least she was doing something, which was more than I could say for myself. Mum always said that if you ever have a choice between doing something and doing nothing, always take the ‘do something' option; you never know where it might lead you.

So I put on my goggles, found an empty lane and dived in.

The water swallowed me in a crystal-cool gulp, then spat me back up to the surface. I rolled onto my back, letting the tension ripple off me.

Mum says that I've always been able to feel the water ... Before I had hair, before I had teeth, before I could walk, I could swim.

She says the first time she let go of me in a pool, I sank straight to the bottom. She thought I was going to drown, staring up at her from a metre below the surface, eyes round, arms raised, mouth trailing bubbles. But when she reached for me, I pushed away from her and kicked my chubby little legs back up to the surface.

‘You felt the water, Triple-H. You reached out with your little fat hands and pulled yourself back up without me. And when you hit the surface, you laughed. You rolled onto your back and you giggled. All the other mothers wanted to know how I did it. How I taught you to float. But I didn't do anything. You taught yourself. You could feel the water, even back then, and you trusted it to hold you up.'

Someone was thrashing like an egg beater in the lane next to me. I had opted for one of the middle lanes so I wouldn't splash the crazy pool lady's eyebrows. But this kid, he was going to drench her from four lanes away.

He was flailing at the water, determined to beat it into submission. Meeting it chest-on, skinny arms slapping at the surface, legs dragging like an anchor behind him.

It hurt to watch him. Throwing himself against it like it was a barrier he had to smash. An enemy he had to vanquish. After a couple of laps, he pulled up, exhausted. He hung over the lane rope, his back to me, blowing hard, shoulders heaving, water running in rivulets from close-cropped dark hair.

A junior learn-to-swim class had started in the little undercover pool off to the other side. I figured I had about fifteen minutes before the afternoon squads hit the place. Before things hotted up. I planned to do my usual trick and shadow their drills while trying to stay as inconspicuous as possible. Till then, I was happy to chill.

A huge body flung itself into the lane on the other side of me, hitting the water hard, with a painful, wet slap.

The kid behind me muttered, ‘That's gotta hurt.'

I nodded, my eyes on the belly-flopper, a big bull of a guy who had landed like a slab of meat hitting a chopping board. He reared up out of the water and shook himself off, then put a brave face on it and started ploughing his way to the other end.

‘He should've made himself a smaller target,' I said. ‘Water doesn't hurt if you thread your way through it.'

‘You reckon?' The voice behind me squeaked with interest. ‘It fights me every step of the way. I'd rather run five kilometres than swim one lousy lap.'

‘You need to stop fighting the water,' I said without thinking. ‘Try going at it at an angle, keeping your elbows high–' I turned to give him a quick demo and stopped dead, one elbow frozen in the air.

The kid next to me with the terrible swimming action was a Perpetual Sucker. The little Spanish kid, Jironomo, the one they called Hero. And you would have thought from the look on his face that he'd just found himself swimming in the same lane as a turd.