Spud

by Unknown

  My blood ran cold – I had just been messing with Jaws! We got fishing again and soon Dad pulled in two shad, which he said were both just less than two and a half pounds. He rigged up our rods with wire trace and cast out the shad for us. There we stood like two warriors waiting for a deadly battle against the most feared beast on earth. Dad gave me a few swigs of beer saying it would put hair on my chest. I’m not greedy. Personally, I’d settle for a couple more ball hairs. (Total ball hair count sixteen as of lunchtime.)

  Then suddenly Dad’s rod tip shook violently from side to side. He passed me his beer and crouched into a striking pose. His eyes bulged with anticipation and he started talking to himself. The shark screamed off like a wounded Ferrari. Dad whooped loudly and began staggering across the rocks towards the bay so that he could fight the shark from the beach. I reeled up my live bait and left the fish in a rock pool before running across to catch up with Dad on the beach. He reckoned the shark had already stripped off more than 200 metres of line and was nearing Madagascar. Since it was getting dark I ran back to where our bags were on the rocks and brought them back to the beach. I gave the live bait its freedom because I felt sorry for it gulping away in its green and slimy rock pool.

  Back at the beach Dad was starting to lose hope. His back was causing him trouble and the nylon had cut through the skin on his left palm. It was like the old man and the sea, although Dad didn’t seem too impressed when I told him so. Unfortunately, the shark pulled a sneaky move and began moving parallel to the beach towards the left. Dad tried his best to stop him but his line was burnt off around the reef. My father didn’t seem too upset, perhaps because the shark had already worn him out or maybe like his son he was secretly terrified of what he might just pull out of the water.

  Back at camp I had to make the fire because Dad was too busy marching around from campsite to campsite telling stories of the big one that got away. He told the guy next door that it was well over five hundred pounds and probably a ragged-tooth. Our neighbour looked a little worried and said that he would advise his family to keep out of the water. After striking fear into the entire Park Rynie caravan park, Dad happily settled into his deckchair and ordered me to write a full account of his shark fight in my diary.

  22:00 Dad just went and shat on the surfers for playing their music too loudly. They were quite rude to him and called him a ‘ballie’ once his back was turned.

  Sunday 14th April

  Great day suntanning. No fish or sharks.

  Monday 15th April

  Five days until my birthday! Fifteen definitely sounds a lot older than fourteen. The Miltons took a drive down the coast and had lunch at a pub called The Orange Octopus. They were playing fishing videos on a TV in the corner and Mom had to keep telling Dad to stop watching and listen to her stories. But Dad already had that wild fisherman glint in his eye and ate his burger so quickly that we had to stop at a pharmacy on the way home for a bottle of Enos.

  I caught two more shad in the afternoon but this time there were no sharks around. Dad filleted one of my fish and we cooked it on the braai along with boerewors, lamb chops, chicken sosaties and last night’s reheated rump steak. After dinner everyone was so stuffed that we all went to bed before eight o’clock.

  21:00 I lay awake listening to Dad snoring and Mom grinding her teeth. After a while I slipped out of the caravan trailing my sleeping bag behind me. I closed the door, tiptoed up to the fire and threw some more wood on the coals. The smaller pieces caught fire and I settled down for a night beside the campfire. By the looks of things the surfers were setting up for an evening’s party and soon music was booming from the blonde surfer’s car stereo. They were playing Out of Time, REM’s latest album. I’ve heard it coming out of Death Breath’s room every afternoon since half term. I lay down next to the flames and looked up at the stars and listened to the sound of the waves breaking and sliding up the beach. I thought how magical it would be if Mermaid was lying here with me. She also loves perfect moments like these. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth because I could feel a lump in my throat.

  That’s me in the corner.

  That’s me in the spotlight

  Losing my religion.

  Tuesday 16th April

  Four days until D-Day!

  The moment we were home I told the folks that I was off for a cycle. I tore down the street and made it to Mermaid’s house. Everything was locked up. They must be away on holiday.

  Saturday 20th April

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SPUD MILTON!

  I got a Sony Walkman from Mom and Dad. For once my presents weren’t complete rubbish. (Apart from Wombat’s, who gave me a two rand note and three British stamps to the value of just under a pound.) Even better news was that with my music voucher from Uncle Aubrey and Aunt Peggy I bought REM’s Out of Time and spent the afternoon playing it over and over while walking around and singing. Blacky gave me a packet of biltong although he growled at me when I opened it. The Guv called me and sang the entire Happy Birthday song and then abruptly hung up.

  11:30 Mom dropped a pink envelope onto my bed and casually sauntered out of my room without saying a word. Just one look at the writing and I knew who it was from. I ripped the envelope open. Inside was a card with a picture of a big red tomcat licking his lips.

  Dear Johnny

  Happy Birthday

  Love

  Ps I miss u

  Mermaid

  I jumped off my bed forgetting that I was wearing my headphones and ripped them clean out of my Sony Walk-man. I then had to piece the ripped envelope together to see where it was posted from. Turns out it came from Jeffrey’s Bay, the big surf spot near Port Elizabeth. Mermaid must be on holiday there with her boyfriend. Did she send me the card because she’s feeling guilty or because she still loves me? I read the card a few more times and hid it under my pillow. I played Losing My Religion and pressed repeat.

  18:45 Mom shook me awake and told me to get dressed for dinner at Mike’s Kitchen. We waited on the road for Dad to arrive with Wombat. Eventually headlights came into view and the old station wagon screeched to a stop.

  It was clear from the outset that my father and Wombat had been fighting on their way to our house. Wombat accused Dad of trying to cut her head off in the window. Dad said he was trying to close his own window and had hit the wrong window button. Mom tried her best to cheer everybody up but Wombat was so angry that she didn’t even wish me happy birthday.

  Dad told our waiter that we were having a family emergency and that he should bring a double round of drinks at once. Dad winked at me and then ordered me a Castle Lager. Clearly Mom and Dad have decided that fifteen years old is a perfectly reasonable drinking age. What with my balls about to drop and now legally having a beer on my birthday, I doubt I’ll be called Spud for much longer.

  Mom spotted a woman from her book club sitting at the next table and urgently ordered me to hide my two beers under the table, but before I could move the woman’s large face was looming over us like a cold front. Mom looked down in embarrassment. The book club lady tried her best not to stare at all the booze in front of me but couldn’t help her eyes darting from the beer to my face and back to the beer again. Dad then pointed at me and said it was my birthday. The book club woman said ‘Happy Birthday’ and then asked me how old I was. I said fifteen but if you were going by the high-pitched tone of my voice she’d probably have thought twelve. The book club woman left us, and Mom and Wombat spent the next half hour gossiping about the cold front’s sex life. (She basically sounds like a female Boggo.)

  Some time after dessert Mom, Dad, Wombat and the waiter sang me a raucous version of For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow… Everybody in the steakhouse turned to stare although nobody sang along. After the cringy hip hips and hoorahs, Wombat stood up to make a speech to the restaurant. She raised her champagne glass and thanked everyone for attending her birthday party and said that she was feeling younger by the day. She then sat down and wolfed down a plate of melba
toast.

  Sunday 21st April

  I arrived home after my afternoon bike ride to another rendition of For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow. My report card had arrived.

  3 As (English, History and Drama)

  3 Bs (Science, Biology and Geography)

  2 Cs (Afrikaans and Maths)

  On the back side of the card was a comment from Sparerib. (Obviously a new ruling from The Glock.) I have stuck it into my diary:

  John needs to apply himself more to achieve what I believe to be his full potential. He is a well-liked member of the house but is sometimes prone to moments of introspection and solitude. Whilst finding him to be a well-adjusted boy, he needs to maintain higher levels of scholastic endeavour to realize the faith this school has put in him. A suggestion would be less focus on writing in his diary and more on the coming examinations. John has impressed me with his courage, and despite his late physical development has bravely borne the trials of recent months and continues to exude warmth amidst a troubled year of boys. I continue to follow his development with great interest.

  Underneath Sparerib had signed his crab-like signature. I couldn’t resist writing Sparerib’s report card.

  Sparerib is a solid enough housemaster who needs to do more should he want to achieve the post of headmaster. Besides looking like a gnome and having to shoulder a serious defect (pardon the pun) he is also beset with squint eyes, bad breath and a slutty wife. He allows boys to bully, tease, mock, raise cats and show signs of extreme madness while thinking that his weekly thrashing of some boy is a good example of keeping discipline. Despite all these problems he continues to be an unliked housemaster and a compulsive skulker. I continue to follow his lack of development with little interest.

  I considered posting Sparerib’s report card back to school but by then my anger was gone so I stuck it in my diary instead.

  Sunday 28th April

  Tomorrow it’s back to school. For once I’m actually looking forward to getting back to the old asylum. (Although I know I’ll be regretting it the moment I set foot into the quad.) I’m also determined to be brilliant in the house plays. I have taken Julian’s hint and have read quite a few classic plays over the holidays in preparation.

  MY EASTER PLAY READING LIST

  (With comment and rating out of ten)

  Pygmalion by George Bernard Shaw. Not bad but not as good as the musical version, My Fair Lady. Spud Rating 6/10

  Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller. A bit boring but still very good. Spud Rating 7/10

  Endgame by Samuel Beckett. Very disappointing and nowhere near as good as Waiting for Godot. Most of the time I didn’t know what was cracking. Spud Rating 2/10

  Saturday Night at the Palace by Paul Slabolepszy. Despite his weird name I reckon this is the play of the holiday. Holding thumbs Julian chooses this one and I can play the character of Forsie. Spud Rating 9/10

  Monday 29th April

  HOLIDAY SCORECARD

  RAMBO Has taken up smoking. He reckons he can smoke 20 a day if he really wants to.

  FATTY His mom put him on strong medication and he says he’s lost ten kilograms although it’s impossible to tell if this is true. On the downside he seems to have brought a trailer-load of tuck back to school.

  SIMON His parents got divorced. He says he doesn’t give a stuff.

  BOGGO Spent the entire holiday with his new girlfriend, Ali. He says that on Sunday night he got her top off but it was too dark to see anything and Ali wouldn’t let him switch on the light. To prove he wasn’t pulling a fast one he hauled out a whole series of photographs of himself and Ali at a party. I must admit she’s a lot prettier than I expected.

  VERN Hard to tell, but it sounded like Rain Man killed a cane rat with his hat. When I asked him how big the cane rat was, Vern indicated that it was up to his waist. (?)

  MAD DOG Was arrested for driving a car on a provincial road. His father (Dad Dog) was fined two hundred bucks and was told to keep his son under control. Dad Dog then thrashed Mad Dog with a sjambok.

  ROGER Spent the holidays in a cupboard sleeping on Sparerib’s underpants.

  SPUD Got a Sony CD Walkman. (I kept the caravanning at Park Rynie to myself.)

  Mad Dog told us he had arrived before everyone else this morning and had spent the day booby-trapping the first year dorm. After congratulations and high fives we crept into our old dormitory. The Normal Seven were still awake and chatting, but when they heard us coming, they dived into their beds and played dead. Rambo stepped forward and said, ‘We know you’re awake.’ There was complete silence. True to form, the cowardly first years were obviously under the impression that if they didn’t make a sound then we would all give up and go to bed.

  Mad Dog moved to the nearest bed, pulled out his deodorant and sprayed his candle flame. A huge blue and orange flame lit up the room. There was a terrified squeal and then one of the Darryls jumped up and fell back against his locker clutching his face. Rambo spoke again. ‘Anybody else still asleep?’ There was a chorus of groans and whimpers and gradually the Normal Seven moved out of their beds and sat on their lockers.

  Rambo welcomed them back to school and told them that they would be seeing far more of us this term. Spike then stupidly told Rambo that he would report us to his brother if we so much as touched any of them. While Rambo twisted Spike’s arm behind his back, Boggo informed him that his mother was rubbish in bed and has serious body odour problems. In the ensuing chaos, one of the Darryls tried to make a dart for the door but was caught by Vern who shouted, ‘Stop, thief!’ and wrestled him to the floor. Simon and Boggo told the fleeing Darryl to take his pyjamas off and sing the school hymn. The poor Darryl slowly took off his shirt and then his pants. Vern immediately grabbed hold of Darryl’s willy and shouted, ‘Spud!’ He then cackled with laughter. Maybe he realized he was behaving like a psycho because he then let go of the Darryl’s penis like it was burning hot, and his hand shot up to his head. Runt looked horrified and held onto his own crotch, probably without realizing it.

  There was a flick of a knife up in the rafters, Mad Dog shouted ‘Bombs away!’ and Thinny and his bed were instantly drenched by a bucketload of water.

  Mad Dog instructed Rambo to make the entire Normal Seven sit on JR Ewing’s bed. The Normal Seven may be short on spine but they are crafty and sneaky when it comes to getting out of trouble. They realized that Mad Dog must have rigged something nasty above JR’s bed and they all moved towards us instead to get away from certain disaster. I decided to flex my muscles and ordered the Normal Seven to JR Ewing’s bed immediately. Maybe it was the spudly voice or the fact that half of them are bigger than me, but nobody moved. Rambo and Boggo sniggered and suddenly everyone was watching me. I should have just shut up, but now I was in a catch-22. If I backed down then I would never be respected again in either dormitory, but if I didn’t back down then that meant I had to do something to someone!

  I viciously swung a hockey stick into the back of Thinny’s thighs. He screamed, stumbled a few metres and fell over. I felt awful. The Normal Seven panicked, sprinted to JR Ewing’s cubicle, and squashed onto his bed. Above us there was a wicked cackle, then a snip, followed by a cascade of eggs raining down on the first years. They groaned and whimpered as the eggs splattered all over their heads. Mad Dog jumped out of the rafters and onto the floor with a loud baboon bark. He then put away his hunting and filleting knife and led the Crazy Eight back to our dormitory.

  As we lay in bed giggling and mocking I could hear JR Ewing sobbing in our old dorm while he changed his bedding, and suddenly I felt ashamed and couldn’t sleep.

  Tuesday 30th April

  Saw The Guv outside the vestry. He was reading a notice about God and spiritualism that Reverend Bishop had obviously stuck up in a moment of religious excitement. I stood behind The Guv but he continued to read with absolute focus. When he’d reached the end he sniffed and then banged on the vestry door, shouting, ‘The truth will out, Vicar! You may rob me of my pride but the
truth will out!’ He banged again and shouted, ‘Frailty, thy name is Bishop. Priest by day, yellow-belly by night!’ I wasn’t sure what was going on but it looked like The Guv was picking a fight with Reverend Bishop. A few boys gathered around, eager to see a lunatic English teacher beat the hell out of a crazy priest. The Guv gave up and swung around, looking wildly into my eyes. He then jumped back in fright and said, ‘Madness, Milton! Madness! He butchers me at a game of tennis and now spurns my moral masculine outrage!’ The Guv looked wildly at the door again and shouted, ‘Injustice, Vicar! Agony piled upon shame!’ Then he turned to me and said, ‘Monday lunch, Milton – for you sure as bloody hell won’t get a decent education around here!’ With that he turned on his heel and strode off.

  UNDER 15 RUGBY TRIALS

  We no longer have to play rugby but I reckon it’s far better than tennis or hockey (mofstok). Simon, after playing flyhalf for the under 14As last year, has quit rugby and is playing tennis instead. He reckons he doesn’t want to get injured before the cricket season. Rambo and Mad Dog called him a fag and refused to talk to him at lunch.

  Most of last year’s dodgy under 14D side were back for another season, including Vern, who ran the wrong way three times during the trial matches. I wasn’t much better and dropped the first pass I received. At the end of the practice Mr Hall, the first team coach and master in charge, said there would only be three under 15 sides this year and the rest would have to fight it out to be on the reserves bench. Great. That probably means a whole season of carrying oranges and passing the ball back and forth to Vern on the sidelines.

  Thinny’s got a huge bruise on his left thigh. He’s also behaving weirdly to me. He doesn’t say a word but keeps staring at me at mealtimes.

  22:30 The bastards did it again! Like something out of last year’s birthday nightmare, I was carried down to the bogs by a mob of marauding Spud attackers. This time I kicked and bit and scratched and shouted until I had no more strength left. I managed to injure about three people before Fatty sat on my chest and nearly crushed me to death. I looked around the mob and saw the triumphant face of Thinny, who was watching with glee as Rambo shaved my ball hairs off with an electric razor.