Fergus McPhail

by David McRobbie

  ‘Yeah, baby,’ one of them says, tapping his fingers on his walking frame.

  Lambert and I go home, our guitars over our shoulders, happy smiles on our faces. Mitch is with us, carrying his violin-case.

  ‘I told you Gran was ace,’ he says.

  ‘You sure did, Mitchell.’

  In class, things seem to have improved there too. Richmond appears to have forgotten all about the business with the CD. He makes jokes with Duncan who joshes him about the bowler hat and spangled jacket he wore for the audition. When Sophie and Angela are there, he even has a kind word to me, using my name. This is a new Richmond, or it’s the old one in disguise. Lambert and I get a chance to discuss it.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask. ‘He’s like - nice.’

  ‘He makes a better ratbag,’ Lambert says. ‘You know where you stand.’

  But Richmond keeps up with the nice-guy stuff for the rest of the day. As we move from room to room, he just gets on with work and keeps his head down. In the art room, he gets in front of me when we go to the cupboard to pull out cutting boards and Stanley knives. He hands a board to Sophie. ‘Here you are, Soph.’ Then he reaches in and gets another. Sophie gives me a wink and goes back to her place. It is moment-of-truth time. Richmond comes out with two boards - and gives one to me. ‘There you go, Fergus.’

  ‘Thanks, Rich,’ I say. We go back to our places and I watch Richmond’s expression. He makes a joke with Duncan and they both laugh. Duncan likes the joke and I hear him tell it to another guy. It’s not a joke about me. Not funny either, but you can’t have everything.

  So what’s going on here? It is almost eerie. All the time I expect things to change for the worse. It’s a bit like swimming with a shark - you don’t know if he’s already had breakfast. Not that I’ve swum with many sharks. In fact, up until now, my shark-swimming experiences total zero. But you get the idea. You keep both eyes open.

  As we hack and chop at defenceless bits of linoleum, Ms Crombie has some news for us. There’s to be a bushwalk for our class - a combined Art and English experience, she calls it. Then after a pause she tells us that Mr Boddie will accompany us to look after the English side of things. Ahem, ahem. Even from a distance, I can see Ms Crombie blushing. Some of us reckon there’s more to these two than meets the eye. Art and English experience? Oh yeah? Bet that’s what they all say.

  When I bounce this uncharitable and none-of-my-business thought off Lambert, he shakes his head.

  ‘He’s got a wife,’ he says. ‘I know her name.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Annie.’

  ‘Annie Boddie? You're kidding.’ When I look, Lambert’s shoulders are shaking. Mr Boddie isn’t married, so that’s all right then. Nothing like a bushwalk to bring people together. I glance at Sophie; Lambert sneaks a look at Angela.

  But all this lustful looking means taking my eye off Richmond. A bad move, as it happens.

  On a morning that promises a hot day, we turn up at school for the bushwalk, not dressed in our usual scruffy gear, but kitted out in smart outdoor stuff, big boots, mosquito repellent, sun-hats, backpacks, compasses and global-positioning indicators. A couple of guys lug tents and sleeping bags but have to leave them behind.

  ‘Miss, can I bring my portable potty?’ It is one of the wet kids who hasn’t matured much in the year. ‘If it makes you happy, sling it on the bus.’ ‘Goody.’ We pile aboard the ancient vehicle, specially hired for the occasion. It is a veteran of many a school outing as well as taking senior citizens to Bingo and the Whoopee Club. A sign above the surly driver’s head says: NO SINGING. As to the seating arrangements, I’m too late; Angela is already parked beside Sophie, who wears a bush hat, green T-shirt, shorts and walking boots and carries a backpack. Lambert and I have to move further down the bus. Never mind, I console him, we’re all heading in the same direction, all with one thing on our mind. At least I have.

  Ms Crombie is in a relaxed mood. Mr Boddie checks to make sure we have our notebooks and pencils to write down interesting, expressive words and phrases that come to mind as we ramble through the greenery. The bus engine coughs, growls then rattles into life. I write down: clapped out. The gears grate, the driver picks one of them and with a jerk we’re off to the mountains. Sophie turns around and looks at me and winks. I wink back. Angela doesn’t turn around and do the same for Lambert.

  ‘See what I mean?’ he says. ‘I saw that! No wink for Lambert.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I agree, trying to keep my smile from spreading too wide. I write down wink in my notebook, then a small snatch of verse that comes to mind:

  O, Sophie is beauteous,

  Sophie is fair.

  She winked at me,

  So there!

  The air in the mountains is crisp and bracing. Up here it is at least five degrees cooler than the city. There is also a romantic mist wisping amongst the trees and as we pile off the bus, the smell of eucalyptus hits my nostrils. Green parrots screech away from us, zipping home to warn the kids that we’re coming. Ms Crombie gathers us to give out words of artistic wisdom and to hear literary ones from Mr Boddie.

  ‘Right.’ He points in a direction. ‘We’ll take that track - it’s six kilometres around so we’ll be back here to have lunch at the picnic tables.’

  ‘And keep together, don’t dawdle,’ Ms Crombie adds. ‘It’s single file for most of the way.’ We go - but I hang back, because Sophie is in no hurry to move. Mr Boddie and Ms Crombie disappear into the forest together like happy little wanderers.

  ‘'They’re not in single file,’ Sophie points out. Other kids crash and chatter through the undergrowth, following the teachers. Angela shrugs her backpack on to her shoulders then goes and Lambert joins her, a step or two behind. He’s not exactly with her; on the other hand he’s definitely on the scene. She turns to say a word or two to him but I can’t hear what it is. It must have been something nice; Lambert looks grateful.

  Duncan follows, then Richmond. I watch them go and am just about to start after them when Sophie gently leans a hand against my shoulder. She has something in her shoe.

  ‘Hang on a sec, Fergus.’ She pokes at the foreign object with her finger, in her exertion, making a face. ‘That’s not it.’ It’s no use. The shoe has to come off.

  We find a seat and Sophie undoes her laces as I sit and watch. Whatever was annoying her must have been very tiny and before I can see it, she flicks it away. It takes another two full minutes to do up that lace then she rises and stamps her foot to settle the shoe firmly. ‘Let’s go, then.’

  I follow Sophie into the forest track which at this stage is wide enough for us to walk side by side. Somewhere up ahead are the voices of the others. One of them bursts into song. It’s the way I feel too.

  ‘This is great, eh?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Sophie hitches her backpack higher and we move on. I sing a bit of the old Robert Louis song for her and mentally score a line through another item on my secret check-list.

  I will make a palace, fit for you and me,

  Of green days in forests, and blue days at sea.

  ‘That’s nice, Fergus.’ Sophie stops to examine a flower on a bush. I kneel to hold the branch for her. It is a flower of great ordinariness but it’s the reason we’re dawdling like this so I forgive it its mediocrity. Sophie bends to inspect the flower more closely, letting her hair spill on my hand. It’s a fragile moment and I’m almost afraid to move for fear of breaking the spell. Look what life does to us: on the one hand, Mother Nature fills us with hormones, makes us beautiful so we fancy each other. Then other well meaning types force us together, boy and girl, while the oldies shake their heads, wag fingers and say, naughty, naughty, mustn’t touch. You’re too young.

  Sophie smiles and straightens up.

  ‘We’d better get on,’ I suggest.

  ‘I thought we were getting on.’ She smiles again and we go. The others are well ahead, as we can tell by the absence of voices. We comes to a sign which says WALKING
TRACK. Underneath there’s an arrow pointing to the right. It’s narrower on this track so I let Sophie go first. It’s also downhill and somewhere ahead are the rest of the bunch but who cares.

  It is quiet in this part of the forest and very idyllic. Tree branches hang low, insects hum in the stilly air, birds sing and chat each other up, build nests and stuff, make commitments. It is Mother Nature at her finest, working flat-out while I am with the woman of my dreams, hoping some of this nature will wash off on us. I follow Sophie along the narrow track which winds and twists through the greenery. From the back, Sophie’s got really nice legs which I can admire to my heart’s content. Normally, in full-frontal mode, you can only sneak occasional glances before having to look away and pretend you weren’t really staring at her legs or the bulgy top part of her shirt or whatever. But this is luxury. As we walk, Sophie sometimes tosses a word or two over her shoulder. Gratefully I catch them, throwing back answers or comments. It is very romantic and we are alone and this is not a dream.

  ‘Whose idea was it to drop back like this?’ she asks.

  ‘Mine,’ I say. ‘Thought we’d let the rest of the world go ahead.’

  ‘So you can get me alone? Is that the idea?’

  ‘Why not?’ I can’t see Sophie’s face but hope she’s smiling. She pauses under a clump of overhanging bushes, turns and waits on the path for me to catch up. She is smiling.

  ‘Well, here we are, Fergus McPhail. All alone. So what are you going to do about it?’ It’s a downright challenge. We touch lips gently. Then it’s a full kiss, which lasts about a minute and a bit; not that I time it or anything. It’s as long as I can hold my breath; that’s how I know.

  ‘Wow!’ I come up for air. Sophie is so beautiful it almost hurts.

  ‘Gee,’ she says then turns to walk on. She’s been affected too so we don’t say anything. I want to kiss Sophie again but she teases me by swaying her bottom from side to side as she goes.

  ‘I don’t hear the others,’ she calls back to me.

  ‘They’re up ahead,’ I tell her. ‘About a hundred metres.’

  ‘You hope.’ We walk and come to a forest clearing where we can see for more than a hundred metres. The rest of the class is nowhere in sight. ‘Uh-oh,’ Sophie says. We are really alone now. Sophie looks at me and I expect her to let fly with a harsh criticism about this being all my idea, getting her lost, separating us from the group which means we’ll be in trouble when we catch up. Even now Mr Boddie and Ms Crombie could be in a panic.

  ‘The arrow back there said, walking track that-a-way,’ I assure her. ‘I did everything right, followed the arrow.’ Sophie shrugs.

  ‘ We followed the arrow. Let’s go back.’ She turns and pushes me ahead of her. ‘And you’ve been ogling my bum long enough. It’s my go.’ I walk on with Sophie behind me.

  ‘I wasn’t ogling your bum,’ I tell her in a sincere voice. ‘It was your legs.’

  Ten minutes determined walking brings us back to the point where we turned off at the right-pointing arrow but surprise, surprise, the arrow now points the other way. We pause to inspect it; the arrow is painted on a metal plate, originally held on with two nails but one of them is missing so you can swing the plate to point either way.

  ‘I smell a trick,’ Sophie says.

  ‘And I know who did it.’

  ‘Richmond!’ we both say together.

  ‘Is that the best he can do?’ Sophie wonders. ‘Is that Richmond’s revenge?’

  ‘Pathetic, infantile,’ I agree then we hurry on to catch the others, but we’re side by side now and for fifteen minutes there’s little conversation between us.

  ‘I’ve never had a boy sing for me before,’ Sophie says. ‘It was nice. Really nice.’

  What is not nice is catching up with the others which is one of those moments of angry relief. Mr Boddie and Ms Crombie both pounce on us while from the other kids, there is laughter and teasing.

  ‘Oh, they just wanted to be alone,’ Duncan jeers. Richmond is by his side and the look on his face tells me what I already know.

  ‘Be quiet, you lot!’ Ms Crombie snaps. ‘Now that was really, really irresponsible. Sophie, I’d expect better from you. And as for you, McPhail -’ Mr Boddie takes a hand.

  ‘So why’d you wander off together?’

  ‘We didn’t wander,’ Sophie says and she’s angry. I’m about to say more but Sophie catches my eye and makes just the smallest shake of her head. It means: the less we say, the more it will annoy Richmond. Mr Boddie and Ms Crombie splutter on for a while and then it dawns on me. Lambert and Angela are not with the group.

  ‘And you’ll be pleased to know we sent two students back to find you,’ Ms Crombie sniffs.

  We didn’t pass them on the way!

  So, here we go again! With the entire group, we retrace our steps, looking for Lambert and Angela, while Sophie and I wonder why we missed seeing them.

  ‘Maybe he dragged her into the bushes,’ I suggest as we walk.

  ‘Nobody drags Angela anywhere!’ Sophie is not in the mood for my weak jokes. But she has a theory. Knowing this area from childhood as she does, Sophie believes Angela and Lambert must have used a small track which spurs off to our left as we go back. This small track runs downhill, eventually meeting up with the other track we were on, the one where I admired Sophie’s legs, where we inspected flowers and I sang for her and then we kissed in the shadows. That track. The one that’s burned into my memory. The one I’ll never forget.

  Sophie convinces Mr Boddie and Ms Crombie that she and I should go down that track while the others continue to the turn-off where we’ll all catch up. It’s agreed, so we leave the group and cut into the undergrowth, following a narrow path.

  ‘Hang on,’ I say as we walk single-file. ‘If you know this area so well, how come we took a wrong turning back there?’

  ‘Stick to singing your ancient songs,’ Sophie snaps over her shoulder. I can’t see her face to know her mood, and as for body language, forget it. She is ahead of me, moving carefully, threading her way down between a couple of giant boulders. The path becomes much narrower and at one stage there’s a steep drop to the left. There is no sign of Lambert and Angela, but in the sky, there is another sign. Dark clouds gather.

  Five minutes more and the first spots of rain begin to spatter us. Then it’s full on with the weather and a cloud rolls in. Water begins to slosh down the track and when we come to a place where we have to step down to a lower level, it’s like we’re accompanied by a mini-waterfall, one that’s not inclined to wait its turn or say, "After you’. Then we find them.

  Angela is pale. She’s fallen over and her ankle is badly twisted. Lambert is busy erecting a shelter for her out of a rain cape he carried. This is a different Lambert, no more the loser, the shy-guy who gets things wrong. He moves confidently and at the same time he tries to reassure Angela that she’ll be okay. They are both pleased to see us. Sophie kneels to attend to Angela.

  ‘Hey, look, we had an accident,’ Lambert explains. He’s hang-dog about it and tries to say more but Angela cuts him off.

  ‘It was my idea to come this way,’ she says. ‘I didn’t listen to Lambert.’ She uses his name but Lambert doesn’t seem to notice. The rain is pelting down, we’re streaming with it, the cloud is all around us.

  ‘Okay,’ Lambert goes on. ‘With three of us, we can carry Angela - easier going down than going up. The path widens out down there and it’s only ten minutes to the other track.’

  ‘Maybe Angela should stay here,’ Sophie suggests. ‘One of us can go for help.’ But Lambert just shakes his head.

  ‘No, it gets cold quickly up here. And besides, Angela has to be carried back anyway, so we might as well make a start. I checked things out, it’s just a twisted ankle.’

  ‘Even so -’ Sophie remains doubtful.

  ‘Listen to the doctor,’ Angela says weakly. Then the doctor turns into Mr Bushcraft himself, finding fallen branches, fashioning a stretcher and gene
rally doing things the right way. Sophie and I are both impressed and let Lambert do it. I glance at Angela who is also seeing Lambert in a new light. But Lambert is too preoccupied to take any of this in.

  Along the rain-sodden track we go, and soon catch up with the others. They are soaked and miserable but pleased to see we are in one piece - more or less.

  In our absence, Mr Boddie and Ms Crombie have found out about the arrow that can point one way or another. It seems that Duncan ran ahead and explained the trick to another boy - but he didn’t realise that Ms Crombie was not far behind and heard the lot.

  Thankfully, we board the bus and make Angela comfortable, but she insists that Lambert sit beside her all the way back to school.

  ‘Just in case she has a relapse,’ Sophie whispers to me. I sneak a look back at my mate who is explaining something to Angela. I hope he’s not telling about the hamster he had when he was a little guy and how sad he was when he found it dead inside it’s little wheel. But if he is, Angela doesn’t seem to mind. I smile to myself and look out of the rain-streaked window. A hundred years ago, old Lambert had a plan that he’d fall to the ground in front of Angela in the hope she’d notice him.

  Me? Back then I had plans of my own where Sophie was concerned, but look at us now. She leans her head on my sodden shoulder and closes her eyes. Steam rises from me.

  At home on the night of the dance, I become the centre of family attention, Senga taking an interest in how I should dress for the dance while Jennifer worries about my personal hygiene.

  Senga:

  Why are you wearing that T-shirt?

  Me:

  I’m in the band.

  Senga:

  You look like a Wiggle.

  Jennifer:

  Have you got any deodorant?

  Me:

  Yep. Splashed on some of Dad’s Bloke.

  Jennifer:

  Huh! It’s like cats’ wee.