Spud (13 page)

Gavin, the prefect who lives under the stairs, dropped a letter into my lap while I was trying to find my Modern Basic Mathematics textbook. I didn’t recognise the handwriting on the envelope and thought that it was perhaps some mistake (nobody has ever written me a letter at school). I opened it rather slowly, trying not to tear the envelope. It was written on pale peach coloured paper in smooth and flowing handwriting. My eyes immediately glanced down to the name signed at the bottom of the page. It read:

I think I nearly fainted. My heart was pounding like a gigantic bongo drum. I quickly packed up my books and sprinted up the stairs to the safety of our deserted dormitory. I opened the letter and began to read:

The bell rang for the end of break, I folded the letter and slid it carefully into my back pocket and then sprinted off to Afrikaans, prouder and happier than I can ever remember being.

15:00   Viking grandly announced to the ten of us that we are being considered for the title role of Oliver. He then ordered us to line up outside the music room. (I still had the Mermaid’s letter in my pocket – I must have read it over thirty times in four hours.) I was second last in the queue and news filtered down that we would have to sing a song called Consider Yourself. It’s one of those tunes that I seem to know although I can’t ever remember having learned it.

I read my letter one last time before striding in to the music room. It’s amazing what the most beautiful girl in the world can do to you. One moment you feel lower than a squashed dwarf and the next you feel like you’re the king of the mountain.

Viking nodded and greeted me formally. ‘Right, Milton,’ he said. ‘Down to the last ten.’ He scratched his beard and studied me closely. ‘I very much liked your last audition. A little bland in the face but the voice was bewitching. Now Consider Yourself is probably the best known song from the score. It’s full of life and vitality,
and for the first time in the play we get a vision of a better life for Oliver.’

I decided to be as expressive as possible and launched into the song like a maniac. After one line he shouted me to a stop and told me I looked like a retard.

In total he made me sing the song five times and after each attempt he would ask me to add something new to the next attempt or to stop doing something that I had added. At last he seemed satisfied and before dismissing me from the room, he told me to keep a sharp eye on the noticeboard. I skipped my way back to the house up the familiar pathway and for the first time I truly thought of the crazy idea that I could play the lead role of Oliver. Whilst skipping away like a fairy I nearly crashed into Devries who was on his way to the sanatorium for a ‘cheeck up’. (Ha ha!)

All in all, a perfect day in the life of Spud Milton.

My run of good luck continued when the boy who sits next to me in English (Geoff Lawson) invited me to his parents’ stud farm on Sunday. He’s promised to take me fishing. I thanked him for the invite and we made plans to meet at the old gates, 07:00 sharp. (He says his farm is about an hour’s walk from the school.)

22:00   Our dormitory was savagely attacked by marauding second years, each armed with a pillow. We were having great fun until a second year called Michael Jack swung wildly at Gecko and caught the neon lights with his back swing. The light tubes sprang from their sockets and exploded as they crashed down onto the locker below. Fatty and I continued pounding a second year called Carruthers, who was trying to take cover from our pillows by sliding into Vern’s footlocker. (At the first sign of attack, Roger the cat had screeched in
terror and leapt out the window.) Soon I realised that the fighting had stopped and everybody was staring at this grotesque figure covered in blood who was staring silently back at us. If it weren’t for the teddy bear pyjamas I would never have guessed the victim was once again poor old Gecko, who looked a bit like ET with a long piece of glass tubing stuck in his head!

I have never seen Luthuli so livid before and while Gavin, the prefect under the stairs, carried Gecko to the san, our head of house shat all over the second years for starting the pillow fight. Simon’s chest and back were badly bruised. Apparently, Pike had joined the fight with a pillowcase stuffed full with rugby boots. Luthuli ordered Vern, myself and Fatty to mop up Gecko’s blood.

Earthworm was awarded cricket colours in assembly. I was wickedly proud of my prefect as he strode up onto the stage and shook The Glock’s hand.

22:30   Macarthur Meeting: The candles were lit, the dormitory assembled (apart from Gecko who was still having the light bulb removed from his head). Fatty took three deep breaths before he began:

‘We all know that Macarthur committed suicide.’ He paused briefly and then unfolded a photocopied piece of newspaper and began reading in a slow, intense voice:

‘Daily News, 6th December 1944. Schoolmaster Miles Macarthur was found hanged by the neck in the school chapel on Sunday. Foul play has been ruled out. Sources reveal that Macarthur, an English teacher, had been under great stress of late brought on by a failed marriage and his only son’s service in North Africa.’ Fatty folded the piece of paper and returned it to his pocket. He then stared into the flame of the candle. I wasn’t sure if that
was the big news or whether more was to follow. Fatty seemed to be in some sort of weird trance.

The spooky atmosphere was finally broken by Simon who said, ‘So we know it was suicide then. The guy was depressed, his wife left him, and his son was at war. Case closed.’

‘Not quite,’ replied Fatty, sounding a lot like Jessica Fletcher. ‘There are questions that still need to be answered, like what happened to his son? Why did he hang himself in the chapel? Why did he choose such a public death? No, no, gentlemen, my feeling is that we have only just scraped the tip of the iceberg.’

‘I agree,’ said Rambo. ‘This story stinks to high heaven. Do you guys realise how big this could be? We could blow this school wide open!’

Fatty blew out the candles and then in the darkness spoke in an eerie whisper, ‘Gentlemen, I will not stop until I have solved this mystery. I am following various leads and will report back next week.’ He then coughed up something vile and retired to his cubicle.

Howard College from Pietermaritzburg didn’t arrive. The Guv said the official reason was that the bus had broken down – although he reckoned they were just plain terrified! After a stirring speech about fear, cowardice and the seagulls of Brighton, The Guv dismissed us and said he would organise a mid-week match to keep the mean machine in working order. Luckily, my parents had stayed at home for the weekend. (Mom was spearheading a church cake sale and Dad was changing the oil filters on the station wagon.)

I took The Lord of the Rings and went to the oval to watch the first team. Earthworm took three wickets and bowled extremely accurately. The first team oval is beautiful, surrounded by massive trees and with a big
scoreboard on which the players’ names are displayed. The first team play in magnificent red and white striped caps and sponsored cricket shirts.

The Lord of the Rings is fascinating. I’m reading all about these creatures called Hobbits who live in a place called the Shire. In the first chapter, a hobbit called Bilbo Baggins has a big party to celebrate his eleventy-first birthday (111) and then disappears rather dramatically at his own birthday bash. Forty pages down, 1,002 to go.

Have written twelve letters to the Mermaid. Not sure which one I should send.

20:00   The Saturday night movie was Days of Thunder with Tom Cruise. It was all going great until a huge storm struck, which brought on a power failure. A groan echoed around the school as we were all plunged into darkness. Rogers Halibut brought in a small generator that made a huge noise and little difference. The movie was cancelled and we were ordered to bed.

07:00   Met Geoff Lawson at the old gates and together we walked along the road. Geoff looked concerned and ill at ease, glancing suspiciously at every car that drove past. After about ten minutes of walking, he pulled me off the road and down a dust track that led to a distant farmhouse on the hill. The next minute an old white farm bakkie sped off the road and stopped next to us. I followed Geoff as he leapt onto the back of the vehicle. A black man dressed in a white uniform jumped out of the driver’s seat and covered us with a sheet of tarpaulin. The bakkie did a quick u-turn and took off back down the road. Geoff explained that what we were doing was highly illegal but it was a lot better than walking ten kilometres to his farm. The black man who’d picked
us up was their housekeeper whose English name was Joseph. (Generally African people have an English name because white people can’t pronounce their Zulu ones.)

After about twenty minutes the bakkie stopped. Joseph pulled back the tarpaulin and I was greeted with the most extraordinary sight imaginable. I was gaping at a mansion as only seen in Hollywood films. A huge white house with a thatched roof and green leafy plane and oak trees. Everything was perfect and this farm (if you could call it that) was a lot like I always thought heaven would be.

‘Breakfast is waiting, Master Geoff,’ said Joseph, with a gentle smile, and led us inside. The dining room was larger than our lounge, kitchen and dining room combined and we were treated to eggs, bacon, tomato, toast and fig jam.

Geoff and I spent the day paddling around the dam in a small boat, fishing, laughing and talking nonsense. Geoff managed to catch a small rainbow trout, but I only succeeded in catching a tree and the anchor rope. We chatted about school and English and life in our houses. He seemed very interested in the goings on of our dormitory, especially the truth of Fatty’s conversion and the Vern disappearance saga. He says his house is boring and that our dormitory has become known around the school as the ‘Crazy Eight’. He reckons everyone, including some of the teachers, think we’re stark raving mad. I don’t think they’re far wrong.

He went on to say that his parents live in Johannesburg but also have homes in Montreal and London, and that they seldom visit the stud farm except to see him. For an instant he looked sad, but then quickly changed the subject to other things.

Geoff was wickedly impressed that I was reading The Lord of the Rings. He reckoned he had once got the book out of the library but was too scared to open it. 17:00 Joseph dropped us off where we had met him
and waved us goodbye. Tired, satisfied, and with a belly full of luxurious food, we strolled happily through the old school gates, up Pilgrim’s Walk towards the great red brick buildings in front of us.

Still agonising over the Mermaid. I have now written about twenty letters to her, none of which I like. If I don’t post one of them by tomorrow she’ll think I’m not interested. I long to see her, even a picture of her would do. I spend the evening composing my twenty-first letter to her in three days.

After a brief read I decided that the letter was perhaps a bit honest and I opted for a less radical approach. Also, I can’t call her Mermaid to her face – she’ll think I’m childish or mad!

After reading all twenty-two letters twice over I have finally decided to send the above version in the morning post.

The letter has been posted. My hands were shaking badly when I pushed it down the chute. I then had second thoughts about sending it and tried to slide my hand down the chute only to be shouted at by the head boy Marshall Martin who thought I was trying to steal letters. I told him I was checking if I’d put a stamp on my envelope. He eyed me shiftily and told me to get lost.

How long until I get a reply? Sparerib saw me talking to myself and looked at me strangely with his squint eye. He then shook his head and trudged off. I think Sparerib rates me as a bit of a borderline nutter.

Crispo has definitely lost the plot. He brought
Boggo up in front of the class to demonstrate a Nazi interrogation strategy. Crispo attempted to be vicious but his poor German accent made us all laugh. Even Boggo snorted and giggled in the face of the old geyser’s dodgy ham acting. Boggo’s laughter came to a screeching halt, though, when Crispo brought out some dangerous looking apparatus that he called The Sausage Machine. He plugged it into the wall socket and then asked Boggo to take his pants down so that he could attach the rusty old electrodes to his testicles. A shocked silence spread across the room as we all realised that the old maniac wasn’t joking.