Spud Read online

  Monday 18th February

  Mom called with the news that we are all going to England in July to explore the possibility of emigrating. Good news is that Wombat is paying for everything; the bad news is that she’s coming along. Dad got on the phone and said he couldn’t raise an innocent boy with crime running rife in the backyard. Not sure if he was talking about the robbery or the illegal shebeen? He didn’t sound too keen on moving to England either but said, ‘You know your mother, once she gets an idea in her head…’

  Had lunch with The Guv. I told him that Mermaid had dumped me. His eyes bulged and he shouted, ‘Frailty, thy name is woman!’ He then opened a bottle of wine and said I needed a good book to see me through this rough patch. ‘I think it’s about time I challenged your radical pinky politics,’ he said as he thrust a book in my face and said, ‘You have two weeks, Milton. Thereafter I shall remove a limb a day until only your head is left.’ The book is called Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell.

  I couldn’t sleep. Thinking about emigrating.

  Tuesday 19th February

  Today was cold and drizzly. I thought about calling the Mermaid but chickened out at the last minute. I then thought about my old friend Gecko and what advice he would have given me. He would have made me call her.

  Read the back cover of Orwell’s book.

  Thursday 21st February

  BOG DISASTER HARD LABOUR

  Spent the whole afternoon digging and weeding in the blazing hot sun. Vern had an absolute ball and spent most of the time imitating a chicken that was pecking around us. Boggo didn’t say a word all afternoon except for muttering, ‘And to think my folks have to cough up twenty grand a year for me to dig around in an Af’s garden.’ I asked Boggo if it would make a difference if it was a white person’s garden. He looked at me like I was crazy and said, ‘Of course it does, you toss.’ I didn’t say anything else and tried to move further away from Vern who was introducing himself to a locust.

  Dad phoned to say that he was in the dog box again. For their seventeenth wedding anniversary he booked Mom onto a three week cooking course. Mom apparently threw the envelope back in his face and screamed, ‘If you don’t like the food around here then why don’t you get off your arse and you go on a cooking course.’ Dad then blundered rather badly by saying that cooking classes were for moffies and housewives and that the cooking course was cheaper than a month’s supply of Immodium. Mom then blew her top and raced off down the road in the green machine. Dad reckons she’s at Wombat’s but he’s too scared to phone in case Wombat answers.

  After some haggling I agreed to phone Wombat under the ruse of calling for a chat. This was completely ridiculous because nobody in their right mind would ever phone Wombat for a chat. In return Dad’s giving me a ten rand raise in pocket money.

  I called Wombat’s but Mom answered and screamed, ‘Go to the bloody Wimpy, or even better – find yourself a young floozy!’ I didn’t know what to do so I hung up and then phoned Dad who answered on the first ring. I told him what had happened. He said he was only going to raise me up five bucks a month because I’d hung up and now Mom thinks that it was Dad who phoned and chickened out. If Pike hadn’t been waving his willy at me from the urinals I would have argued. Instead I wished him luck and headed back to prep.

  Friday 22nd February

  Just before lights out Sparerib entered the dormitory and told us that he was not bringing in another new boy to our dormitory after all. He didn’t look very happy about this and told us he was keeping a sharp eye on us. Obviously, he wasn’t referring to the wonky one.

  After Sparerib had slunk out Rambo gathered us around his bed and said, ‘For once I agree with Sparerib. That bed should be empty in memory of our Gecko.’ We all nodded in agreement. But then Rambo frowned and looked serious. ‘But, guys, we’ve got a problem. We are famous for being the Crazy Eight. We will be spoken about for years to come. Especially with Fatty running the school archives.’ Fatty grinned proudly and licked the sides of his chip packet. Rambo continued, ‘The only problem is, how can we call ourselves the Crazy Eight when we are only seven?’ There was a troubled silence until Boggo piped up and said, ‘Well, if we’re crazy then we’ll get away with it.’ There was another silence broken by the sound of Fatty striking matches and lighting his candles.

  Rambo stood up and announced that Roger should be made an official member of the Crazy Eight. Boggo, Simon and Mad Dog sniggered. Vern stood up and stared at Rambo like he was the Pope. Rambo ordered a vote. Rambo, Vern and Fatty voted yes and the others gave Roger the thumbs down. For the first time ever I had the casting vote. I lifted my thumb and Vern hugged me so hard I was winded.

  Vern dressed Roger in his pink frilly outfit and carried him to Rambo’s bed. Roger then got a bit spooked by all the attention and tried to make a break for it. Vern grabbed him and held him up in the air. Poor Roger was so terrified that he froze and pretended to be dead. Vern placed Roger back on his bed and he immediately relaxed. Rambo stepped forward and placed his hand on Roger’s head like he was giving him a blessing and said, ‘Roger, you are now a lifelong member of the Crazy Eight.’ Roger took the news rather casually and without so much as looking at Rambo, set about licking his balls and purring to himself. We all shook Roger’s paw – except for Mad Dog who isn’t allowed anywhere near him.

  Seven boys and a cat. Boggo was right – what’s crazier than that?

  Saturday 23rd February

  Mom called to say that Marge had been served with divorce papers and that she was ‘in a hell of a state’. She said they were bringing her up for the cricket because a day in the country ‘would do her the world of good’.

  Great. That’s all I need.

  10:00 We took to the field against an English touring team called Wandsworth. The Guv always gives us a savage team talk before we take on any Poms. He called the British ‘a nation of whingers’, and ordered us to give them ‘the Isandhlwana treatment’.

  Mad Dog measured out his run up, which now extends beyond the boundary rope. The Guv looked a bit angry and told Mad Dog to ‘steady on’. Mad Dog then shortened his run up to just inside the boundary rope and then did some bizarre stretching exercises. The Wandsworth batsmen both strolled to the crease wearing bright green caps and looking smug. They smiled at each other and shared a joke, which made one of them laugh.

  Mad Dog sprinted in and bowled a vicious bouncer that knocked the smug opener’s cap clean off. The smug opener turned a pale green colour and both batsmen sprinted off the field to find helmets. There were no jokes and laughter as they nervously shuffled back to the wicket.

  Suddenly there came a shout of ‘PUSH!’ followed by the sound of a car backfiring. A green station wagon edged into view with about twenty boys pushing it along. Dad was shouting out of the driver’s window at the top of his voice while steering madly to avoid drains and flower beds. I felt the blood rushing to my head. Mad Dog stopped to gawk, as did everybody else. Rambo sniggered. The Guv tried to stifle a guffaw and Boggo raced along the boundary to get a closer look at the Milton circus. I spent the next two minutes on one knee tying and retying my bootlaces. Eventually, the station wagon came to rest. Dad got out of the car and savagely kicked the side door. He thanked the army of boys for pushing, and then started pulling deckchairs out of the boot. I saw Marge and Mom stroll out from behind the car and the bongo drum in my chest started banging away.

  We bowled the Pommies out for 136. I took two wickets. Thankfully, because the car wouldn’t start Dad was unable flash the lights and blow the hooter for a change. At lunch I walked across the field towards the car. Mom and Dad both charged up to me and gave me a series of hugs and kisses. Marge followed nervously and seemed very sad and tired. She’s dyed her hair a very bright orange/red colour (which makes her look a little bit like a Duracell battery). She gave me a hug and asked me how I was. She didn’t once look me in the eye.

  Dad (dressed in an apron that said OUMA’S RUSKS on the front) fired up
boerewors rolls on the skottelbraai. The smell wafted around the ground and within minutes Fatty had galloped across the field to greet my parents. Dad raised his glass and announced to everybody that Fatty was the world boerewors eating champion, gave him a hug and offered him a beer. Fatty looked a little startled but recovered quickly and said he would rather have a couple of boerie rolls instead. Dad said it would be an honour and threw another huge roll of boerewors on the skottel. He then furiously began chopping up an onion but within seconds was in floods of tears and wiping his nose on his apron. Marge offered to help out, but Dad gave her an ‘over my dead body’ look and said, ‘Fatty may be the eating champ, but Milton’s king of the grill!’ Marge backed off and lit a cigarette. Dad, still crying floods of onion tears, then chopped down on what he thought was an onion but turned out to be his hand. He screamed so loudly that Fatty also screamed. Blood was everywhere. Marge jumped up and wrapped the tablecloth around Dad’s hand while Dad drained his beer with the other hand. Mom swigged away at her wine and told Dad to stop showing off. I led Dad through the school to the sanatorium, one hand wrapped in the tablecloth and the other clutching his beer.

  Sister Collins gave Dad four stitches and a sucker but made him leave his beer on a bench outside the san. Dad thanked her and made me run back to the car with him so that he could make Fatty his boerewors rolls. We raced up to the car and both stopped dead in our tracks. It was an astonishing scene: Mom was having a chat with Lennox, The Guv had Marge doubled over in her deckchair in stitches of laughter, Fatty was nowhere to be seen and The Glock was cooking boerewors on the skottelbraai! I cringed in fear and embarrassment. Dad looked absolutely livid that The Glock had hijacked his skottelbraai, while poor Fatty was circling around the trees looking like a starving hyena. The Glock then offered me a boerewors roll in a voice that sounded like he was sentencing me to death. I took the roll, thanked him in a spudly voice and excused myself. I found Fatty standing behind a tree and gave the boerewors roll to him. He finished it in two bites.

  Thank God the station wagon started first time and it was a relief to see the folks and my ex-mother-in-law leaving early.

  At least we smashed the Poms!

  Sunday 24th February

  Read all morning. Nineteen Eighty-Four is very interesting but seriously bizarre. It’s set in a futuristic world called Oceania and predicts what our world will be like in 1984. It was actually written in 1948 and is all about Big Brother who runs the world in a vicious police state.

  In the afternoon I couldn’t get the Mermaid out of my head, so I decided to play poker with Boggo and Rambo and lost eight rand.

  Monday 25th February

  We are having extra choir practices every day now in preparation for the Easter tour to Johannesburg. The choir is sounding brilliant – except for the tenors who, according to Mrs Roberts, are a little wobbly on the harmonies. (Julian was less complimentary and called the tenors ‘ball bouncingly bad!’) Julian asked me if I would sing a solo of Dear Lord and Father of Mankind for the tour. I told him after singing it at Gecko’s funeral I’d rather not. He said, ‘Oh my darling boy,’ and then hugged me passionately.

  Received a letter from the Mermaid. It basically said exactly what she said to me on the phone when she dumped me. She reckons she loves me, but doesn’t want a relationship because her life is too busy and that she’s in a ‘funny place right now’. I showed the letter to Simon to get his opinion. He read the first line and then burst into hysterical laughter. He then showed Boggo, Rambo and Fatty, who also roared with laughter and slapped me on the back. They showed Vern who also cackled with laughter and furiously banged his hand on his locker. Unfortunately, it was clear that he didn’t know what was going on and only succeeded in looking like a cretin. I snatched the letter back and reread the first line. It said:

  Dear John

  Just to rub salt in the wounds my ex-girlfriend had sent me a Dear John letter!

  Tuesday 26th February

  SHROVE TUESDAY PANCAKE RACE

  We all gathered in the quad for the traditional inter-house pancake race where a boy from each standard and the housemaster run through the cloisters of the main quad flipping a pancake at every corner. From our house representing the Normal Seven was Thinny, who looked hilarious in very tiny running shorts, and this time Mad Dog was running for the Crazy Eight. Clearly Rambo was a bit miffed about not being chosen this year.

  The Glock fired the starter’s pistol and Sparerib screamed off to a big lead. (It must be noted that he was running against all the other houses’ first years.) Mad Dog ran third for us and had a controversial collision with a matric from Barnes which resulted in Mad Dog finding a clear path forward, and the Barnes matric missing the corner and ending up in The Guv’s English classroom. When Anderson received the frying pan for the final lap we were miles ahead. He ran with his house scarf around his neck and raised it high above his head as he broke the finishing tape.

  As a reward Sparerib delayed lights out by ten minutes, which provided Mad Dog with just enough time to cut off Potato’s leg while Vern groaned and rolled around on the floor like he was having his own leg amputated.

  Wednesday 27th February

  Two days to the long weekend.

  ADVENTURE CLUB

  Mr Hall took us off to the small forest near the dam and conducted a demonstration on setting up camp. He then told us to imagine we were lost in the bush and had to create a ‘rudimentary sleeping arrangement’ for ourselves in just thirty minutes. Mad Dog sprinted off like a wild man and Vern must have misunderstood the instructions because he collapsed onto the ground and pretended to sleep. Mr Hall called him a mongoloid and told him to get up and stop farting around.

  I found some vine plants and tied them together to make a hammock. I then wrapped my jersey and school shirt around the vine stems to make it comfy and used a packet of dry leaves for a pillow. The final touch was tying an orange flower to the end of the vines to give it a homely feel. There was the sound of loud banging further into the forest and I noticed Fatty was grovelling around near the dam where he was being dive-bombed by three blacksmith plovers.

  We all gathered at 1pm and Mr Hall eyed us shiftily with his pipe in his mouth and smoke pouring out of his nose.

  Mr Hall told Vern to show us his bed. Vern collapsed onto the ground again and pretended to be asleep. Our master sucked on his pipe and considered the situation. Vern then started snoring loudly. Mr Hall told Vern to get up but Vern shook his head without opening his eyes and carried on pretending sleep but now whistling every time he breathed out. Mr Hall stared at him for ages, then took a long drag on his pipe and asked us what Vern’s name was. Rambo told him it was Rain Man. Mr Hall sucked on his pipe and said, ‘That figures…’

  The group moved on and left Vern pretending to sleep. Simon had made a great bed out of sacks and straw. Rambo had stolen a canoe from the shed and said that this was his bed. Mr Hall considered the boat which had Pope’s Canoe Centre in bold writing on the side. He told Rambo it was highly unlikely that he would find a canoe lying around in the bush but gave him full marks for creative ingenuity.

  Everyone laughed at my flower so I quickly took it down and stuffed it in my pocket. Mr Hall asked me if I was a nancy and everyone laughed again. He told me to lie down on my hammock of vines. Unfortunately, the whole thing broke and I ended up on my bum with everyone laughing again. Mr Hall shook his head and led us to the tree house Mad Dog had made. It could probably sleep six! Apparently he had found wood outside the canoe shed and nailed up an entire tree house in half an hour. Mr Hall gritted his pipe between his teeth and told Mad Dog he was ‘one of a goddamn kind’.

  We then returned to where Vern was pretending to sleep and Mr Hall conducted a fire making lecture. Vern was so intrigued that he kept opening one eye to watch what was going on. Mr Hall lit his fire and Vern eventually gave up sleeping and joined us all as we stood and stared, mesmerized by the flames.

  Friday 1st March

>   LONG WEEKEND

  After assembly we gathered in our dormitory and shook hands (and paws). I felt a little sad to be leaving the Crazy Eight. I then realized I was being ridiculous. I’m going home and I’ve decided to get my Mermaid back!

  13:00 Dad picked me up from the bus stop in our station wagon that now sounds like a drag racing car and has tinted windows. My father reckons he splashed out because business is booming and at last he can afford the V8 fuel injected diesel engine he’s always wanted.

  I did my best to hide my embarrassment that the Miltons are driving a super-charged hearse around town.

  Mom and Dad had a fight about the car when we got home. Mom says she’s the laughing stock of her book club. Dad said he blackened the windows for ‘security reasons’. It’s really weird to be home, knowing that burglars have been in my room. I double-checked that my 1990 diary was still safe. Obviously the burglars thought it was worthless.

  Blacky seems to have doubled in size since January. Dad says the dog’s a maniac and in need of a jolly good thrashing. Secretly, though, he loves Blacky and Mom and Dad now have him sleeping in bed with them so that he doesn’t bark at the flying ants.

  Spent the evening devising plans to get Mermaid back.

  Plan 1

  The romantic approach. Includes flowers, poetry and other romantic stuff.

  Plan 2

  Begging, pleading, snivelling and crying.

  Plan 3

  Pretend to have a casual chat and then kiss her when she least expects it.

  Plan 4

  Abuse and violence. Threaten her with a steak knife until she comes back to me.

  Plan 5

  Go and visit her, look completely disinterested and talk about all the girls I’m kissing. (Basically, lie.)