by Robin Klein
‘Got up to phone my girlfriend,’ said Barry. ‘I often ring her up at funny hours. She doesn’t mind. Get out of the box while I make this call. It’s very private.’
I kept a toe in the door to listen. The girl answering Barry’s call had a loud cross motherly voice, and she blasted him for ringing at that hour. She wanted to know what the teachers thought they were doing, letting kids roam around after midnight. She told him off for leaving his parka behind when she’d sewn a name label on specially, and she said he’d better be behaving himself up at the camp else she’d belt him one when he got home. Then she hung up.
Barry put the receiver down and came out of the phone box. I didn’t want to go back to my room. The long corridor was spookily meshed with shadows, and a tap dripped in the sinister way taps do in the middle of the night. And the thugs were still prowling around on the roof. I wondered if Miss Belmont would mind if I got into her bed.
Barry Hollis’s sleeping bag looked like a drowned corpse in the moonlight.
‘Bet you’re scared, sleeping out here all by yourself,’ I said.
‘I’m not scared of anything. Not like you, so scared you got up and rang your mum. Some guy named Leo, huh! It was your mum yelling over the phone woke me up in the first place.’
‘And your mum yelled just as loud at you, Barry Hollis. Ringing up some girl, huh! As if any girl would let you ring them up in the middle of the night, or any other time. I bet you wanted your mother to drive up here and collect you because you’re so scared of the dark.’
‘I already told you I’m not scared of anything,’ Barry said.
‘Oh, aren’t you indeed?’ asked Miss Belmont coldly.
At the sound of her voice, Barry Hollis and I both jumped into the telephone box and slammed the door, thinking it was the Basin Skins. But when she rapped on the door with her whistle (fancy wearing a whistle with a dressing-gown), we had to open the door. She stood over Barry while he meekly got back into his sleeping bag, and then she escorted me personally back to my room.
‘It’s very unhealthy sleeping with the window shut,’ she said severely. She reached over the booby trap and shoved the window up wide enough to let the bunyip from the creek climb in as well as all the Basin Skins. Then she went away, and I lay in bed hating Alison Ashley for not having insomnia.
n the morning the first thing Margeart said when she woke up was, ‘Why are the chairs tied together with a windcheater?’
‘It’s a temporary clothes line,’ I said. ‘My windcheater got accidentally wet in the shower, and I had to dry it in case there’s a cool change. I hope I didn’t wake you while I was doing it.’
‘I never wake up once I get to sleep,’ said Alison Ashley unnecessarily.
‘Neither do I,’ said Margeart. ‘That’s a funny way to dry clothes, Yuk. It looks more like a booby trap for the Basin Skins.’
For such a dumb kid, Margeart Collins could be terribly irritating. Alison was already up and dressed, the clothes from yesterday put neatly into her plastic laundry bag. Wearing a white T-shirt and white jeans, she looked as fresh as a vanilla ice cream. ‘Alison, you haven’t got the slightest idea about clothes for a school camp,’ I said. ‘We’re going to be bushwalking, not playing lawn tennis.’
‘But I never get dirty,’ she said.
‘That’s because you’re an only child and you’ve got your mother running round waiting on you hand and foot,’ I said. ‘Anyone could look spotless if they’re an only child.’
‘I happen to look after my own clothes, Erica, and my mother doesn’t wait on me hand and foot. You don’t know anything about what goes on in our house. Not that it’s any of your business.’
I noticed with interest that her expression was changing a little bit, like the surface of a pond when someone tosses a pebble in. I wondered idly what would happen if anyone ever chucked a dirty big rock into Alison Ashley’s pond.
Miss Belmont stopped at our door with the terrifying information that she was going to inspect all the rooms in five minutes. ‘And by the way, Erica, if you feel homesick in the middle of the night, you’re to go and tell Mrs Wentworth,’ she said. ‘It’s extremely thoughtless of you to ring your home and wake up your mother. Especially without having permission to use the phone. In any case, I should have thought a person in Grade Six quite capable of dealing with a little bout of homesickness.’
Then she went into the next room to paralyse the kids in there with her whistle and clipboard and three-colour snap biro.
The thought of Alison Ashley knowing that I’d babyishly rung up my mum was unbearable. ‘I guess you’re wondering about the real reason I rang up my house,’ I said casually to Margeart.
‘No,’ said Margeart. ‘Did you ring up? But you couldn’t have, Yuk. You’ve been here making your bed.’
‘I meant last night,’ I said. ‘Last night I had this vivid dream about our house burning to the ground with everyone trapped inside, and a newspaper headline with today’s date on it. So I had to ring up my place and warn everyone. And it was just as well I did. Mum went round the house checking, and she’d left one of the stove hotplates switched on.’
‘Didn’t the stove get burnt up with the rest of the house?’ asked Margeart, looking puzzled.
‘The fire didn’t happen, because I warned them in time,’ I said. ‘Margeart, I wish you’d try to concentrate when people are telling you interesting things.’
‘We have a gas stove at our house,’ said Margeart. ‘Your mum could come over every night and cook on our stove till your house gets rebuilt.’
I gave up.
During room inspection Miss Belmont practically used a magnifying glass and fingerprint powder. Margeart lost points for having a hairpin on the floor underneath her bed, even though it was an old rusty one just about welded to the carpet because it had been there so long. She also lost points for disappearing when inspection was taking place. She must have been mixed up with my talking about fire. She confused room inspection with fire drill, and we found her waiting patiently outside the terrace door, which we’d been told to use if there was a fire at camp. Miss Belmont told her to come in again, but it took a lot of coaxing. Margeart remembered that we’d been told never to go back inside a burning building on any account.
Alison Ashley didn’t lose any points. Her bit of the room was as tidy as a museum fossil exhibition. There wasn’t one wrinkle in her quilt or pillow, and there wasn’t anything on her bedside table except her torch and a polished apple. Miss Belmont gave her ten out of ten.
I didn’t score very well at all. I’d forgotten to clean up under my bed after the midnight feast, but Miss Belmont didn’t forget to look under there. She pulled out a whole lot of Minty wrappings, silver foil from chocolate, an empty packet of salt-and-vinegar chips, the wrapping from two Wagon Wheels, an empty Coke can, and some Throaties with fluff on them. She looked very disgusted, and I felt humiliated. ‘All those bits of old paper must have fallen out of my slippers,’ I said. ‘I always stuff the toes of my slippers with paper to keep them a nice shape.’
‘If you must eat during the night, follow Alison’s example and keep an apple by your bed,’ said Miss Belmont. ‘And Erica, stop inventing all those silly excuses. I gave up listening to any of your excuses from the second day of being your grade teacher.’
‘Never mind, Yuk,’ said Margeart when Miss Belmont went striding off to X-ray all the other rooms. ‘I always like listening to your excuses.’
‘So do I,’ said Alison. ‘I think Erica’s excuses are always original.’
‘Are you insinuating that I tell lies, Alison Ashley?’ I demanded.
‘I didn’t say that at all.’
‘You don’t have to. I can always tell exactly what you’re thinking even though you have that face on all the time.’
‘What face? I can’t help my face.’
‘It’s an irritating one, if you want to know. I’m fed up with you looking down your nose just because you happen to l
ive in posh Hedge End Road with an automatic dishwasher and a colour-coordinated laundry.’
‘And I’m fed up with you calling me a snob,’ said Alison. ‘How can I help where I live, anyway? I have to live where my mother does. You’re the one who’s a snob, always trying to shut me out of things. Just because you went all through Barringa East Primary and I didn’t, you act as though you own it or something. The darkroom and the sick bay and everything. I thought maybe you’d be different away at this camp, but you’re not. You’re just as nasty and bad-tempered as ever. It’s like sharing a room with a piranha.’
‘Don’t you dare call me a piranha, you rotten little goldfish!’
‘Are you two having a fight?’ Margeart asked.
‘Of course not,’ Alison Ashley and I both said haughtily, not looking at each other.
The breakfast bell rang and after breakfast we had to go into the common room for our first group activity. Miss Belmont gave us a lecture about doing the right thing by Mrs Wentworth.
‘The drama programme is going to be handled differently this year,’ she said. ‘At previous camps some people just sat back and expected the teachers to do all the work. Well, that’s not my idea of a school camp at all. We’re not going to use those old plays from last year, though I expect a lot of you thought you’d just be handed a script without any effort needed on your part. You can use your activity time this morning to think of an original idea for yourselves. The play can be about anything, but I certainly don’t wish to see any violence or anything in poor taste that will give Barringa East Primary a bad name. Mrs Wentworth will be here purely to supervise. If you all work together, you’ll gain much more from the Friday drama night as a result. Yes, Erica, what is it?’
It was outrageous! I thought of all the time I’d spent studying the leading roles in order to make a brilliant, dazzling stage debut. ‘Can’t we use bits out of last year’s plays?’ I asked. ‘We could jumble up the speeches and make two brand-new plays. Couldn’t we do that?’
‘Certainly not. I want you people to use some initiative. Anyone who doesn’t feel like joining in may pack their suitcases and I’ll phone Mr Nicholson to come up and collect them.’ She left, swinging her whistle by its chain like a knight swinging a mace.
Mrs Wentworth sat down cosily in one of the hard plastic chairs, making it seem almost like an armchair, and got on with knitting her son’s cricket jumper.
‘Kangas won’t ever get a play written by this Friday or any other Friday,’ said Jason, who was our group leader. ‘Mrs Wentworth, can you write plays?’
‘I’ve never tried to, dear,’ she said. ‘Knit one through back loop, purl two, cable six. Anyhow, Miss Belmont wants it to be all your own work. Knit two, purl five. There are plenty of nice stories you could adapt for a play. Knit two, purl two, knit one, purl one eight times. What about Robin Hood and his Merry Men?’
Even Alison Ashley flinched. ‘I guess we’ll come up with something ourselves,’ said Jason. ‘Anyone got any ideas?’
‘The Boston Strangler,’ said Barry Hollis. ‘Jack the Ripper. Bags me being Jack.’
‘She said no violence,’ Jason said. ‘Jeez, you kids, come on, will you? Ideas!’
‘We could put on a mannequin parade or a beauty contest,’ said Diane, and everyone gave her such a hard time she flounced out on the terrace to sulk. Mrs Wentworth put aside her knitting and went along to coax her back, saying, ‘There now, dear, they didn’t really mean it. Put a nice big smile on your face and come along and join in the fun.’ None of the other Barringa East teachers ever said anything as gooey as that, but because it was Mrs Wentworth, Diane allowed her cheeks to be patted dry and came back again sucking a jelly bean from the store Mrs Wentworth always carried in her handbag.
Our group was having difficulty welding itself into a team. Barry Hollis got bored and went out onto the terrace to trap lizards. ‘Barry Hollis nicked off,’ Diane said nastily.
‘So?’ said Jason.
‘So you’re supposed to be the group leader and keep everyone together. Rehearsing a play, what’s more.’
Jason went nervously out onto the terrace, looking as though he didn’t enjoy being group leader right then, but Barry came back quietly because he’d found a skink. He sat on the floor and stroked it gently with the tip of his little finger, as loving and tender as a new mother. I stared at him with surprise.
‘Let’s have a hold of it,’ said Paul Kovak, but Barry Hollis didn’t say yes or no, he just bunched up the fist that didn’t have the lizard in it, and let fly.
‘Don’t make such a fuss, Paul,’ Mrs Wentworth said soothingly. ‘I’m sure Barry didn’t hit you on purpose. Here, have a black jelly bean while I go and find some ice cubes.’
Jason looked as cheerful as a captain going down with his ship. Colin was the only one trying to help with the rehearsal, but all he was doing was arranging the chairs like an auditorium and running along the seats in his football boots. Mark and Lisa and Narelle were over in a corner playing poker. Christine and Diane were picking an armful of bracken and fern and making themselves skirts. Craig was up on the roof. Howard had Margeart Collins guillotined in the window but she hadn’t realised yet. Leanne was writing her third letter to her mum. Daryl was drawing felt-pen snake-bite punctures on the calf of his leg.
‘Can’t you think of something?’ Jason asked Alison Ashley.
‘I’ve been trying to, but I just can’t,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you ask Yuk?’
I knew very well she said that just to put me in a spot. ‘As a matter of fact,’ I said triumphantly. ‘I have a very good idea for a play. Paul’s black eye gave it to me. The play could be set in a hospital. With an operating-theatre scene, and I could buy some sausages and kidneys and liver and stuff to make it look realistic. And we’ll have nurses and doctors and a visitor coming in drunk from a football match . . . Naturally the matron will be the main part. And naturally, I’ll act that, seeing I’m doing all the work thinking up these ideas.’
To my surprise, I discovered that thinking of ideas for a play was easy. Jason yelled at everyone to start rehearsal. Everyone said ‘Garn!’ but only automatically, the way kids always do when someone suggests a name for a new fish in the classroom tank, or stuff like that. They were relieved someone had finally come up with a better suggestion than Robin Hood and his Merry Men or a beauty contest.
‘The costumes will be easy,’ I said. ‘Alison Ashley’s brought along enough white clothes to outfit a hospital, and everyone’s got pyjamas. Shove some chairs together to look like a row of hospital beds.’ While they were doing that, my pencil raced down one foolscap sheet, covered the back of it, attacked another, and I finished Scene One. The matron did most of the talking.
I hadn’t actually met a matron, but I’d met a ward sister, when we visited Lennie in hospital after he fell out of his truck and fractured both his legs. The truck wasn’t even moving at the time. He’d pulled up by the side of the road so he could listen to the Urquhart Welter Handicap without any distractions, and when his horse came in first at twenty to one, Lennie was so excited, he fell out. Usually people break one leg at a time, but Lennie always overdid things.
Mum made us visit him in hospital, which I found embarrassing in case the hospital staff thought I was related to him. Having his legs immobilised didn’t make him less noisy or uncouth. The Sister told him off for bellowing, ‘OY, LOVE!’ up the ward instead of pressing the buzzer next to his bed when he needed anything. Also for the illegal off-course betting shop he was running at the hospital. So during that visit I’d had the chance to study a ward sister. And matrons would be like that, only more so; in fact, very much like Miss Belmont but dressed in starched white.
I put down my pencil. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘The rehearsal can start. Some of you hop up on the chairs and be patients, and some of you stand around being nurses and doctors. And then I come on as the matron making a tour of inspection. She’s a very bossy matron. Everyone has to sha
ke with terror when she runs her fingers along things checking for dust. And she ticks people off for having too many visitors. This is the way the part of the matron should be acted.’
My stage debut; the moment I’d been waiting for since the day I was born!
I sailed out into centre stage. (Probably nobody else in the grade knew that word; they would have said ‘the middle of the common room’.) I opened my mouth and began my dazzling career as an actress.
And it lasted maybe sixty seconds, maybe less.
All attention was focused on me, Erica Yurken, centre stage.
And I was swamped by the worst imaginable panic and terror. I gulped in air and licked my lips, but they moved as creakily as though I’d just had enough local anaesthetic injected for a dentist to work simultaneously on every tooth in my head. But not one word came out – just this peculiar honking sound.
‘There’s nothing funny about swallowing a fly,’ Mrs Wentworth reproved the other kids. ‘It’s a horrible sensation. You’ve gone quite pale, Yuk, dear; sit by the open window for a minute.’
I stuck my head out of the window into the fresh air and tried to deal with the devastating situation. At home in front of the mirror, I could act. I’d always taken it for granted that I would stroll on stage one day and astound everyone with talent. And instead, I was hanging out of the window like a wet rug and listening to the others rehearsing.
It didn’t go very well. They had only a couple of scribbly foolscap pages of dialogue, and all the other fantastic ideas for the play were still bouncing around inside my head. They fought about who was going to play what, and who was going to stand where. Diane Harper wanted to be a disco dancer who had come in with sore feet, and when the doctor fixed them up she would do a solo dance. Everyone yelled at her, so she ran out on the terrace to sulk and Mrs Wentworth had to go and coax her back again.
