**********
THE CLIPBOARD
Our boys’ high school secondary college had a very strict discipline code. Toss in a correctly worn uniform regime of socks up, shirt tucked in, no cap on indoors, and cap on outside the school gate. No running inside school buildings, though obviously the gymnasium and the indoor basketball courts were exemptions. We stood back from the door to allow a teacher or school visitor through first, and stood up when an adult entered the room. Really, it was only basic courtesy and manners, with a few safety and tidiness issues thrown in.
There were always teachers on watchful supervisory duties during morning tea and lunch breaks. At these times, dozens of different boy-games were played, some on bitumen, some on the grass fields. Whatever was being played, everyone tried to avoid where the staff member we called Squinty, was patrolling, complete with his red clipboard under his right arm. Sometimes he sat in shaded areas, trying to be inconspicuous while watching the boys’ activities, and still writing in his clipboard, which he would immediately slam shut if anyone approached.
The school not only had academic assessments, but assessment of various social issues and skills. It included leadership, co-operation, assistance, manners, fair play, playground conduct, and interaction, among a host of others. For seniors, their attitude toward juniors was carefully watched; for juniors, their respect toward senior pupils was seemingly noted.
During his two year tenure at the high school, nobody could recall Squinty ever taking a class lesson. He had, on occasions, overseen a class for an absent teacher away sick, but nobody could remember his ever giving formal lectures. He would merely set reading tasks for the students to undertake in silence. In silence it was done, as Squinty’s red clipboard always seemed at the ready to deliver the equivalent of a death blow of social ostracism, to an erring student.
Even stranger, was his attendance as a spectator at all the school 1st XV rugby, and basketball games; still carrying his clipboard.
Break-time supervision was meant to be shared equally among the staff, a task that most teachers seemed to want to shun; but not Squinty. Every day, he and his red clipboard was patrolling and watching. It was rumoured that he had the ear of the headmaster, and was the most influential in the attitude assessment section of the school reports.
“You boy!” His boney finger on his right hand would point at some target and shake like a snake with only half a tongue.
“What’s your name?”
On receiving a reply, Squinty would push his bottle thick glasses higher up the bridge of his big hooked nose, then wrinkle his nose so the glasses rode higher and glare through them as though inspecting a glass-slide under a microscope. Then, with a disdainful flick of the wrist, he would wave the named boy away.
Tall, very skinny and bent over, Squinty reminded me of a large vulture watching for the last gasps of life from a dying prey. The image was enhanced by his wearing of an aged black university graduation cloak over equally aged always dark gray suits. When he walked, the flowing cape emphasized the hovering vulture image. Faint traces of scars on his face like burn marks, together with the seemingly accentuated limp in his right leg also suggested somewhat of a Frankenstein image.
When sitting in shade he was frequently unseen by an unwary prey. Suddenly the voice would boom out.
“You boy!”
His long shaking spindly finger and fist just making it out into the sunlight like the sudden appearance of the head of a moray eel from its small cave. His victim, after overcoming the shock of such a strike from the darkness, and having seemingly been caught for some trivial infraction, was probably muttering obscenities under his breath far worse than the indiscretion.
After the pupil’s dismissal Squinty would lift the top-hinged cover of his clipboard, and hold the top up at a right angle; it prevented anyone from seeing his notes. Sometimes he would not write anything until long and serious thought had been done; while using the split between thumb and forefinger of his left hand to rub his chin; or the little finger of the same hand to clear some imaginary block in his left ear. Everything was deeply considered; there was no rush to judgement.
It was nearing the end of the school year. Many final exams had been set and sat by the hundreds of pupils, but final pupil reports were yet to be completed. The school and all its activities and lectures were winding down.
Some of the boys were partaking of their rebellious activity of sneaking a cigarette behind the bike-sheds. This was an area where some of the wealthier senior pupils parked their private cars, and where the caretaker’s large and old wooden lock-up day-shed was located. One of the cars must have been suffering a petrol leak as the aroma of spilt fuel was quite strong on the summer-dry grassed area.
For some strange reason, Squinty had decided to check on this area that he had never previously checked. Maybe it was the smell of petrol?
As Squinty appeared around the corner of the bike sheds, the offending boys panicked. Half smoked cigarettes were tossed in multiple directions as they fled. None wanted to be caught with this highly punishable sin as part of their record. With luck they hoped to get away without being identified.
Embers from one or more of the cigarettes ignited the inflammable grass, erupting with the suddenness of a flame-thrower. Fire quickly surrounded and ignited the caretaker’s large old wooden building, engulfing it.
One of the fleeing boys cast a quick eye behind him and later secretly told the others he saw Squinty, cape flying out behind him, rushing shoulder first into the caretaker’s door. Seconds later the building collapsed and Squinty was nowhere to be seen.
Minutes later the fire brigade arrived and the flare-up was quickly doused. They were surprised when they found the body inside because the caretaker had been the one who reported the blaze and phoned them. Though a pedestrian passer-by had said he had seen someone with a cape rushing into the blaze. A quick roll call of all the boys and staff revealed that the only one missing was Squinty. The area was quickly taped off for police, forensics and fire investigators to do their work. It was very quickly confirmed the body was that of Squinty.
Despite the early findings that the fire was the probable accidental result of the combination of cigarettes and spilt petrol, investigators were unable to identify who might have triggered such an event. The guilty parties kept silent as expulsion from the school was a certainty, and criminal prosecution a possibility.
----------
“What can one say about our dear departed colleague, and old boy of this school?” the headmaster began addressing the huge congregation in the chapel for the funeral service, four days after the fire.
We senior boys attending all looked down, attempting to disguise the suppressed grins on our faces and thinking, ‘yes, what indeed, can he say about Squinty?’
“A man we were all fortunate enough to have worked with, even if so brief a time over these two years,” he went on.
A few of the boys made noises as they forcefully suppressed their giggles.
“This man was so dedicated he attended all the school’s basketball and 1st XV rugby games to give his support, even though he could barely make out colours beyond 15 metres. In his school days he was an amazingly accurate goal-shooting basketball centre, and despite his thin physique, an outstanding 1st XV, hard, rugged, ball-winning lock.”
Some boys looked at each other and rolled there eyes, and one even muttered “Get real.”
“A man whose mission with us was almost as secret as the many covert missions he performed behind enemy lines in the earliest times of the Afghanistan conflict during the late 90’s.”
To a boy, all the pupils suddenly looked up at the headmaster.
“A man whose unflinching bravery and self-sacrifice earned him medals from two countries; Afghanistan and our country.”
Suddenly we were all ears.
“Operating alone for weeks at a time, bearded and disguised behind enemy lines, with no access to instant rescue or
assistance, he gathered information about people, and locations of enemy positions. Having become fluent in Turkic, the language of the Kirghiz people who lived in an area strongly controlled by the Taliban, and also fluent in Arabic and Pashtun, he was a natural for the missions.”
“It was on the last and almost fatal one of these missions that he almost lost his life. After a USAF bombing raid that cruelly went awry and bombed the wrong village, a local school, built of aged dry timber and straw, and filled with children, was hit and burst into flame. Our colleague, showing bravery way beyond that of any of us here could ever muster, never hesitated.”
“He crashed through the flimsy door and ushered out those who were conscious and could walk, and carried others who could not. Despite the increasing inferno, he returned time and time again into the flames to carry out many more unconscious and injured children.”
“Finally, with his clothing, hair and beard ablaze, he collapsed outside the still burning building. The locals put out the body engulfing flames and did the best they could to comfort him. Luckily, a nearby patrol of British forces, realized the USAF had made a mistake and rushed to the village where they found our colleague in a very bad and seemingly life-ending state. An emergency Chinook helicopter evacuation, immediate medical attention at the army base, and an emergency flight to a German military hospital saved his life. He had though, suffered horrific injuries. As well as the near destruction of the corneas of his eyes, and severe facial burns, the worst damage was to the lower half of his body.”
Several of the senior boys were now in tears.
“During his eight year recovery period he completed his degree in psychology and human behaviour. He honoured us with his presence where we tried to assist him toward his Doctoral studies. We had been requested to keep his study activities secret as he feared knowledge of what he was doing would affect the behavioural activities of the students. Despite his severe sight handicap where he could not see much beyond a few metres in front of his face, he would have to call out to the staff and boys to come close enough to check if he was able to recognize them. Otherwise, he kept much to himself while present at our school; passing his time doing his precious crosswords and suduko puzzles which he kept hidden in the red clipboard that was always with him.”
Many were now openly sobbing.
“We can never imagine the fear and dread of fire that he had to overcome, when once again he had to crash down the door of our caretaker’s day-room just in case our caretaker was trapped inside. Thankfully the caretaker was not inside.”
“Unfortunately, this time, no amount of medical help was able to save our self-sacrificing colleague. We can but hope that the agony from the pain he must have been suffering in the time before he died was brief.”
The Headmaster paused in his eulogy and looked toward the curtains behind him. The curtains parted. An officer followed by six soldiers, all in full dress uniform emerged, marching crisply, and stood at attention each side of the coffin. The officer, facing forward, stood at the head of the coffin. He made a swift 180 degree turn to face the coffin; his right arm snapping to his brow in a long held salute. He snapped his arm back to his side, and swiftly returned to face away from the coffin.
The headmaster’s eyes slowly scanned the faces of the congregation, seemingly lingering longest on the faces of the senior students.
“I know you will all join with me for one minute’s silence as we all think back on how we reacted to him during the time he shared with us.”
**********
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John Muir was born in Hamilton, New Zealand. Attended Palmerston North Boys High School and graduated in accounting from Massy University. Spent 25 years in Sydney, Australia and time in Asia.
Discover other titles by John Muir
-The Siege Of Apuao Grande (1st novel involving TA)
-Just Cause Wrong Target (2nd novel involving TA)
-Singapore Straits Diamond Pirates (to be completed-3rd novel involving TA)
-Short Shorts & Longer Tales
-My Other Shorts & Formal Tales (this book)
-Denim Shorts & Foxy Tales
-Poems, Prose & Penniless Vol. 1
-Poems, Prose & Penniless Vol. 2
-Poems, Prose & Penniless Vol. 3
-An Artist’s Freedom (from Short Shorts & Longer Tales)
-A Sunday Market Seller (from My Other Shorts & Formal Tales)
-Modernised, Upsized Fairy Tales For Teens
-Patch (A short story for 8-12 year olds)
-A Soap Slippery Bath Imp (A short story for 8-80 year olds)
-A Baker’s 6-Pack Of Plays (7-10 minute plays)
**********
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends