by R. B. Baxter
Chapter 8 - Epilogue
Mum went ballistic of course.
Mrs Simpson had knocked on the door within minutes of Dad leaving for work and by all accounts things went exactly as I had forecast. The old harridan had even embellished the story. She told Mum I laughed like a madman while waggling my dangly bits at the women of her 'Walk for Health' group who, according to Mrs Simpson, suffered the vapours for hours afterwards and looked like taking quite a while to recover.
Mum took all that in her stride. She assumed there was more than a little hyperbole in what the old bag was telling her so she took a pretty philosophical view of the whole thing. But when I arrived home from school and handed her the note that Sister Francis had written her, everything changed.
The principal’s note outlined with remarkable clarity the shame and degradation I’d brought upon her beloved school through my thoughtless disregard for other peoples' feelings. And the fact that this had happened on one of the most important days in the school's recent history was in short, unforgivable.
I had considered ‘losing’ the note on the way home but Sister Francis had promised that my life would not be worth living if I didn’t deliver it to my mother as instructed.
When Mum read it she hit the roof. She didn’t much care about my offending Mrs Simpson but Sister Francis was another story. Mum said she had no idea just how she’d be able to hold her head up in front of the principal ever again.
Dad didn’t help matters. Mum filled him in as soon as he arrived home from work. She had obviously expected him to be just as outraged by my lewd behaviour as she was and to respond accordingly by administering a sound thrashing followed up with a thorough talking-to.
Unfortunately Dad hadn’t read the script and he reacted in exactly the way she thought he wouldn’t—he laughed uproariously. This made Mum even angrier and resulted in her grounding me for a whole month.
And what a month it was. Complete misery. Straight home from school; no going out on the weekends; no footy; no cricket; no lollies or sweets after dinner—I swear, the punishment did not fit the crime. Even the fact that I’d done so well in front of the Archbishop failed to gain me any leniency. Mum would not relent at all. She was determined that I would serve my time to the absolute minute and that time just dragged and dragged.
Fatty Parker steadily recovered from the state of catatonia brought about by his shock at seeing Mrs Payne fall. By the end of a fortnight he was back to his normal dull and sycophantic self. Sister Francis elected him Class Prefect for a spell and we all suffered. He waddled around with a small notebook into which he scribbled everything that transpired regardless of whether it was good, bad or otherwise. He filled scads of these books and dutifully reported to the principal three times a day.
I think Sister Francis realised her error in appointing him when he reported one of her fellow nuns for farting in the playground. It was Sister Bernard, a very old and venerable woman who was so incapable of the transgression Fatty was accusing her of as to be beyond reproach. Besides, we knew the truth. It was actually Arnie Grace that had let one fly. He happened to be standing behind the good sister at the time and she, being true to form, had pretended she hadn’t heard. Fatty had turned upon hearing the raucous bottom-burp and from his point-of-view had seen only Sister Bernard.
Now whether you’re a nun or just a student, farting in the playground is hardly a reportable offence but Fatty made a note regardless. It was the reporting of this event that made Sister Francis realise that she had created a monster. She stripped him of his commission that afternoon and as a result Fatty had a relapse becoming catatonic again, but only for a short while.
Ever since the “naked-in-the-window” thing, Sister Francis had decided that I was someone who definitely needed watching. It didn’t seem to matter where I was at school—playground or classroom—all I ever had to do was turn around and there she was, hovering in the background, running her cold, malevolent eyes over me in that hawk-like way she had. She had always operated on a hair-trigger but ever since Mrs Simpson had planted the idea in her head that I was the sort of individual who would dangle my wobbly bits out a window in order to frighten the good Christian women of my neighbourhood, our principal had become downright obsessive in her watchfulness.
I knew that I now held pride of place at the top of Sister Francis’s current hit list and I also knew that there was nothing I could do about that. No doubt as other issues cropped up that needed dealing with she would focus less on me but for the moment her overt watchfulness was wearing thin. In the meantime, I just had to keep my head down and make sure I didn’t mess up. She was so primed and ready to explode that even the smallest misstep on my part would be sure to tip her over the edge and I didn’t like to think about just how extreme her reaction would be this time. I only had a couple of weeks to go until the end of term and then there’d be a two week holiday. I was sure she would have forgotten all about my transgressions by the time we got back to school.
And that two week break was going to be fun. I could meet up with some of the neighbourhood kids and play cricket or football, or go fishing or eeling. I could walk over to Nicky’s place for the day. He had plenty of great games that we could play or we could head down to the river and go swimming. But the best thing about the two week break was the fact that I wouldn’t have to worry about the principal and her constant vigilance.
Of course there was always the ghastly spectre of Mrs Simpson looming on my horizon. She would cause me all sorts of grief given half the chance and she'd enjoy every single minute while doing so. But that was fine. I knew what that horrible old harridan was capable of, and as for any sort of problem she might decide to cause for me… well, I’d just have to cross that bridge when I came to it.
THE END
Thank you for taking the time to read "Desperate Measures". I hope you've enjoyed it. There are more Owen Finnegan stories coming soon so please keep an eye out for them.
R. B. Baxter
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