Kevin Cassidy The Cassidy Chronicles
Page 44
* * *
As the end of year approached our exam time drew nigh and with it came a mounting feeling of tension. Examinations were never light-hearted affairs, of course – and end of year finals especially so – yet for some reason this year was different.
Even the weather seemed part of it – still air, dark heavy clouds ... and that feeling of urgent apprehension which often heralds an approaching storm.
At first I thought it was just me, that the idea of facing my biggest test so far was somehow weighing down my thoughts and feelings. I soon realised this was wrong, however, for even some of the more scholastically-suspect among the juniors seemed affected by it.
The only bright spot during this time came the day prior to the exams commencing. An letter addressed to Sash and I arrived in the mail, postmarked Katherine, NT. Inside the envelope was a photo of Doogle and two of his workmates.
Judging by their large weatherbeaten hats (and the way they were acting the fool under a stock tank overflow pipe) the others were stockmen as well. And apart from their hats not a vestige of clothing adorned them.
In large letters at the top was written “WANTED”, and beneath that: “Have you seen these men?” At the bottom had been added, “WARNING. Do not approach them. They are armed and dangerous. Also, this is their first wash in five weeks. Reward: Ten shillings and sixpence” ($1.05). On the back was written, ‘You can do it. All the best, Doogle’.
And this was how the lead up went to our exams: no light-hearted banter; no jokes about being back next year and demoted a grade instead of advancing. Not even any long-winded and ambitious plans for the holidays, wherein a boy could project himself past the trial and into the days of sunshine and freedom beyond it.
On completing the first subject I became even more unsettled. Information I had burned into my brain seemed mysteriously veiled or somehow just beyond my reach, while other seemingly irrelevant details came bursting to the fore uninvited. Somehow though, the words were found – or some of them at least.
When time was up I handed in a paper I felt was better suited to making preparatory notes for a rough draft of the answers.
Sash came running up behind me as I trudged back to the dormitory. “Wait up Casey,” he puffed as he fell into step beside me. “How d’ you reckon you went?”
“I’m just goin’ back to start on me suicide note,” I replied. “How about you?”
“Well, I was thinkin’... Maybe there’s a position for a shit picker-upper’s off-sider in the stock-camp where Doogle’s workin’. A bloke wouldn’t need any diploma for something like that.”
“Good thinking,” I replied. “Ask em if they want two.”
He took off like a sprinter from the blocks. “It shouldn’t be too hard to learn,” he yelled back over his shoulder. “We could pick it up as we went along!”
“You’ll bloody pay for that you stinkin’ little RAT!” I shouted after his rapidly disappearing, hysterical form. Where exams were concerned Sash was totally immune to feelings of anxiety.
Back in the dorm I rummaged around in my bedside cupboard’s bottom drawer for Molesworth’s Ancient History. I wanted to re-read the section on which some of the more difficult questions had been based, to confirm whether or not I’d managed to successfully bluff my way through.
The books there were not exactly indexed, of course, and before I found it my hand fell on a familiar book-sized box. In it lay the quartz crystal old Nugget had given me.
Suddenly I wanted to hold it again, to see once more its glorious perfection, to look into its sublimely transparent heart again and to marvel anew at the tiny bubble – imprisoned there for so terribly long in that almost-inconceivably ancient water.
And as I held it up to the light I felt the strangest sensation, as if the stone were again working its magic. Somehow I began to feel bigger and better than at any time during these past few weeks: stronger, more resolute and more purposeful.
Looking back I realise it may only have been a revisiting of the sensations experienced on first seeing it. Whatever the case, holding it again certainly made a difference. Somehow my thoughts seemed clearer and more focused. I felt more confident, too, about what would be needed of me to achieve my goals.
I’m not suggesting that I then went on and breezed through the exams, though. Quite the contrary, in fact. In my better subjects I found the questions difficult; in the difficult subjects they seemed impossible.
A couple of times on first reading through a paper I felt as if I’d had the wind knocked out of me. But I was now in possession of something lacking on that first day: a sense of purpose that helped fix my wits on the task before me, no matter how daunting it might seem.
With the exams dealt with our thoughts turned to speech night, for some the very last. Preparations were soon in place, too, as Julia had sent me the script of a play called “The Hole in the Road” – an item her drama class had briefly considered presenting.
She’d recognised instantly what it was, knowing our brand of humour: exactly what we’d be looking for come speech night planning-session. When their group decided against doing it she’d immediately forwarded it to me.
And it was brilliant; I lay on my bed trying to read it and couldn’t stop laughing. In fact it was almost as if the play had been written especially for us Gower Abbey idiot-thespians. (Sash volunteered that a bucket of water would fix my hysteria soon enough.)
We final-year students intended to make it a night to remember, too, certainly while ever a school existed at Gower Abbey. This would be the greatest speech night ever, we insisted, and better even than the night of Bluey and Curley and the burning truck – particularly if we got the “gas explosion” right (...and even more so should we not).
And, in the event, our night of nights was long-remembered, though for reasons far removed from those we had planned.
The dawning of our speech night evening saw us bursting with excitement. Here we were, on the brink of triumph and fame (we kept telling ourselves). Infamy even.
Yet, unbeknown to us – and everyone else in the wider community – momentous forces were at work, gathering themselves for a speech night event of far greater significance than anything we minor bit-players in life could have dreamt up.
Throughout this time the clouds had lingered, all dark and oppressive. Little had been lent in the way of wind or rain, yet the ominous feeling had persisted. At five minutes past eleven that morning their grim intent was revealed when the overbearing pre-noon calm was rent by a terrible wind.
Cyclone Gloria had tired of her wanderings. Slowly and surely she came around and aimed her mighty engine of destruction at the heart of the Sherbert Valley.