Don't Call Me Ishmael

  ‘I wouldn’t think so, sir.’

  ‘No? Well, could it be … that your desk is not what it appears, but is in fact the opening to a wormhole in space that leads directly to the planet Insectoid?’

  ‘Highly unlikely, sir.’

  ‘Then I suppose you would also discount the possibility that your desk is actually the portal to Hell … and these poor creatures are escaping the fiery furnace?’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no hard evidence to support that notion, sir.’

  ‘Well then, tell me, Mr Scobie, is it just possible–and I realise that this is a bit out of left field–that maybe, just maybe, someone else, perhaps even someone in this very room, put all those insects, and other creatures that might appear to be insects but aren’t really insects, into your desk because his disturbed and peanut-like brain perceived it to be something akin to a joke?’

  Have I mentioned that Mr Barker had a black belt in sarcasm?

  ‘What do you think, Mr Scobie? What is your considered opinion?’

  ‘I think … that the only conclusion that can logically be drawn is that someone else put the insects and the arachnids into my desk,’ James Scobie replied seriously.

  ‘Really? And would you have any idea just who might have done such a thing?’

  James Scobie reached forward, gently tipped the big spider from his glasses and put them on. He looked around the class calmly before letting his eyes rest on Barry Bagsley. Then he turned to face Mr Barker. ‘If I knew for certain I would tell you, Mr Barker, but as I have no proof, I don’t think it would be right to blame anyone just on suspicion.’

  ‘Very wise and very noble, Mr Scobie. I agree wholeheartedly with you. Justice must be seen to be done. So let’s get our proof, shall we?’ Mr Barker suggested happily. ‘Everyone … open up your desks and bags.’

  The end came very quickly for Barry Bagsley, Danny Wallace and Doug Savage. The shoeboxes with holes punched in the top, the empty jars and the paper bags were as good as an armoury of smoking guns. When Mr Barker pulled the last cardboard box from Danny Wallace’s desk he took off the lid and shook it slightly.

  ‘Well, well, well … another box with holes punched in the top and, if I’m not mistaken, insect excrement rattling around inside. To me, Mr Wallace, that could only mean one thing. Do you know what that is?

  Danny Wallace swallowed and smiled sheepishly. ‘The excrement has hit the fan?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Mr Barker smiled back menacingly. ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself.’

  18.

  A BEAST, NO MORE!

  After the insect (and spider) incident, Barry Bagsley’s fortunes plummeted while James Scobie’s rocketed skywards. It was as if they were on opposite ends of a gigantic seesaw.

  The fallout from what Orazio Zorzotto labelled as ‘Bug-gate’ was that Barry Bagsley, Doug Savage and Danny Wallace were given a week’s afternoon detention as well as being banned from school sport for two Saturdays, which meant no footy. For Barry Bagsley, this was the cruellest blow of all. The Year Ten boy was found to be an unwilling participant in the whole affair. It seems Barry Bagsley had also recalled him getting an award on assembly once, but unlike me, he remembered it was for an amazing insect display that earnt him first prize in a statewide science competition.

  The Year Ten boy, whose name was Jeremy Gainsborough, apologised to James Scobie, who dismissed it as nothing to worry about.

  A few days later Scobie presented Jeremy with a replacement stick insect that was even bigger, more gaudily coloured and more bizarrely shaped than the one that had tangled with the fan. I don’t know exactly what it was or where it came from, but it was enough to turn Jeremy Gainsborough into a gibbering idiot.

  ‘But … how … who … where …?’

  ‘Let’s just say it flew off the back of a truck,’ was the only explanation James Scobie would provide.

  As for Barry Bagsley, rumour had it that Brother Jerome had given him the ‘last warning’ speech. In any case, when he finally returned to class he was as sullen as a caged animal, a bit like the T-Rex at the beginning of Jurassic Park trapped inside that steel enclosure with a zillion volts of electricity zinging through the wires. Which was fine by me. The only trouble was, I kept thinking that when you watch a movie like that, you just know that eventually, for some reason or another, someone or something will turn the electricity off. Still, for the time being at least, as long as I didn’t stick my hand into his cage or fiddle with the high voltage switch, it seemed that Barry Bagsley was under control.

  James Scobie, on the other hand, had become a bit of a cult hero. Even the biggest doubters began to think that maybe it was true and that maybe he really couldn’t feel any fear. Certainly the image of him sitting calmly with a gigantic man-eating spider (the story tended to be embellished a little in the retelling) plastered on his face was very convincing. Yes, after only a few weeks at St Daniel’s, James Scobie was the talk of Year Nine. But it didn’t end there. Soon he would have the entire school buzzing, and as far as Barry Bagsley was concerned, he would be untouchable.

  It all started in the multi-purpose centre at the fortnightly school assembly. The assemblies were held right before lunch on Thursdays, so that if the need arose, as it nearly always did, Mr Barker could threaten us with something like, ‘If you can’t sit still and listen politely and without comment, then we’ve got all lunchtime to practise.’ That usually did the trick.

  On this particular Thursday, James Scobie and I had just come from Science and I was leading the way through the rumble of seven hundred boys to the rows of seats allocated to our Homeroom. When I sat down, however, James Scobie was no longer with me, and I couldn’t find him in the swirling flock of grey uniforms. I assumed that with his newfound celebrity, he had got caught up talking to someone, so I kept a seat for him and waited. But I was still alone when Mr Barker switched on the microphone with an amplified Thook!.

  ‘Right, settle down everyone.’

  The last of the stragglers were finding their places when I glanced up and saw Miss Tarango taking the class roll beside me. ‘James Scobie was here a minute ago, Miss, but I don’t know where he’s got to.’

  Miss Tarango smiled warmly. ‘I do,’ she said, pointing her pen towards the front of the hall.

  I looked over the sea of heads to the stage, where Mr Barker bent his big frame close to the microphone and spoke like the voice of God in some Hollywood epic. ‘I’m waiting. I won’t ask you again. We can always practise this at lunchtime.’

  The last murmur of voices was sucked up like dust into a vacuum cleaner. Mr Barker’s eyes drifted over the faces before him until the absolute silence hardened like concrete.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen.’

  It was only when Mr Barker stepped aside from the rostrum to pass the microphone to Brother Jerome and I ran my eyes along the row of teachers, student leaders and guest speakers seated behind them, that I saw the small frame of James Scobie perched calmly at the end. I turned and looked at Miss Tarango. She raised her eyebrows and dropped her jaw as if she had seen a ghost. When she smiled, I realised she had just been imitating my expression. In the end I had to wait through the entire assembly to find out what James Scobie was doing up there.

  The main item on the assembly that day, after Brother Jerome’s usual deep and meaningful homily, Mr Barker’s usual blunt and wide-ranging blast and a few mind-numbing reports from various teachers and student committee leaders, was a rev-up by the school captain and prefects for Saturday’s big local derby rugby match, St Daniel’s First Fifteen versus arch enemies Churchill Boys Grammar. Now to say that the St Daniel’s versus Churchill rugby match was important is a bit like describing the end of the world as a break in transmission. No matter what else happened during the year-whether we lost every other football match in every age group or came last in the swimming and athletics or even if the average IQ of the entire school population plummeted to less than that of a worm farm-it would still be a go
od year if we could say, ‘At least we beat Churchill in the rugby!’

  Tragically, no one at St Daniel’s Boys’ College had been able to say that for fifteen years, and this year our Firsts were languishing in the bottom half of the table while Churchill were undefeated on top with the premiership already secured. The only thing that stood between them and the coveted title of ‘Undefeated Premiers’ was the final game of the season against St Daniel’s at St Daniel’s.

  Up on stage the school captain and vice-captain urged the school to turn out and support the team, and then they led us all in a rousing rendition of the college war cry.

  By the time Mr Barker called on James Scobie to speak, the hall was bubbling and restless. ‘Right. Settle down. We have a final … I said, settle down! We have all lunchtime if we need it.’ Mr Barker scanned the hall. ‘Brad Willis. My office-now!’ You knew Mr Barker was getting angry when he did away with verbs.

  A lone figure skulked down the long aisle towards the back doors like a prisoner heading for the gallows. We settled down.

  ‘Anyone else?’

  There was no one else.

  ‘Then we can continue. Our final speaker is James Scobie from Year Nine, who would like to talk to you about debating.’

  A rumbling groan rolled around the assembly. Mr Barker, who was halfway back to his chair, swivelled and glared. The groan retreated like a scolded dog. Mr Barker sat down, crossed his legs, folded his arms and stared straight ahead. Scobie walked in his strange upright style to the rostrum, his stomach and hips arriving slightly before the rest of his body. He stepped up on the small platform and the microphone pointed into his forehead like an alien probe. Laughter poked its nose tentatively back into the hall. Mr Barker uncrossed his legs and peered into the mass of boys, stretching his back and neck up like a periscope.

  James Scobie pulled down the microphone and looked calmly at the assembled school. His mouth slewed to one side, and then slid across to the other before thrusting upwards. This time the laughter broke free and scuttled and slid around the hall like an excited mutt on slippery lino. Mr Barker sprang to his feet and took a step forward. The hall hushed.

  James Scobie began to speak.

  ‘What is a man,

  If the chief good and market of his time

  Be but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more!’

  Scobie pounded on the rostrum. The whole assembly stared. Mr Barker stared. James Scobie waited and then his strong clear voice rang out again.

  ‘He that made us with such large discourse,

  gave us not that capability and god-like reason

  To fust in us unused …’

  In the audience heads began to turn. Around me I saw eyes filled with questions. Questions like, ‘Who is this guy and why is he speaking in tongues?’ But before anyone had time to put his bewilderment into words, James Scobie continued.

  ‘Gentlemen, these lines from Hamlet remind us that if we don’t utilise our power of reason, if we let it fust or decay in us unused, if we don’t exercise and challenge our minds, then we are no better than beasts who simply spend their Uves sleeping and feeding. I bring this to your attention because last year, to our shame, no teams from St Daniel’s competed in the Schools Debating Forum. This year we want to change that. Here at St Daniel’s we are rightly proud of our fine sporting tradition, but we need also to test ourselves on intellectual battlefields. We need to engage our minds. This is the role of debating. Now some of you may feel that debating is for wimps. I’m here to tell you that you are wrong. Research shows that most people are more afraid of speaking in public than they are of dying. Debating is not for wimps. It’s for boys with courage. That’s right, courage–the courage and commitment to stand up and perform under pressure. If you disagree, then put your hand up now, and volunteer to debate me on the topic at our next assembly’

  A murmur shuffled around the gym. Scobie waited. No hands went up.

  ‘Gentlemen, we are not looking for the world’s best speakers. Those skills can be developed. We want boys with the courage and commitment to do St Daniel’s proud. If you are such a person, then come to the meetings scheduled for next week, and if you have any questions at all please see me, or Miss Tarango, who has generously volunteered her time to be debating coordinator.’

  The assembly remained silent a moment and was about to give its usual half-hearted applause, but James Scobie wasn’t quite finished yet.

  ‘Finally, if I may, I would like to recite a few verses I’ve written for another group of boys who will also need to show courage and commitment when they represent the college this Saturday against the might of Churchill. The poem is called We Are St Daniel’s Men.’

  The murmuring started to gain momentum again. James Scobie waited until it subsided. Then a defiant voice boomed from his small frame.

  We wear the mighty blue and white

  We play it hard

  We play it right

  Will we lie down? No! We will fight

  With all our might and courage.

  We’ll step with pride upon the field

  We will not bend

  We will not yield

  We’ll strive until our fate is sealed

  A backward step not taken.

  And should our efforts seem in vain

  We won’t relent

  We’ll strive again

  Till we have overcome the pain

  And set our course for glory.

  And when the battle’s been and done

  Win or lose

  We’ll stand as one

  United in the race we’ve run

  And no foe will deny us.

  They’ll see that we’re St Daniel’s men

  We don’t give up

  We don’t give in

  With courage forged in a lion’s den

  We stand proud and defiant.

  For a second there was silence. Then the school captain let out a ‘Woo!’ and stood up and began to clap. Around him and throughout the hall the applause, shouting and whistling grew like a landslide.

  Soon the audience was on their feet and they stayed that way, clapping and cheering while James Scobie folded his notes and made his way back to his seat. Not even Mr Barker suggested we should settle down.

  Scobie’s poem and his stirring delivery were the talk of the school. Even Mr Hardcastle, the sports master and coach of the First Fifteen, a man not noted for his subtlety and appreciation of poetry, saw its potential and asked for a copy. ‘We’ll use some of the words and whip up some banners and posters. That should stick it up those Churchill girls!’

  Like I said …

  Coach Hardcastle even asked James Scobie to come to the game as his ‘secret weapon’. We had no idea what he was talking about. Scobie agreed, anyway, and asked me to come along as well, and that was how I got to witness, up close, the final stage of James Scobie’s rise to fame.

  19.

  THE MAGNON

  Scobie and I arrived at the main oval well before kick-off, but the stands and surrounding grassed areas were already almost full. Fortunately, Mr Hardcastle had arranged a spot for Scobie down near the fence behind the St Daniel’s reserves’ bench, and luckily I was able to squeeze in as well.

  Mr Hardcastle’s face was set like rock. ‘Stay right there, Scobie, in case I need you. You might be our last hope,’ he said solemnly before marching off briskly to the changing rooms.

  Fifteen minutes later the crowd roared as the two teams ran on to the field and lined up facing each other. While the referee spoke to the players and checked their boots, the St Daniel’s and Churchill supporters shook the stand with their school war cries.

  I looked over both sides. The game hadn’t even started, yet somehow the Churchill team seemed bigger, stronger, faster and more skilful. There was only one positive I could see for St Daniel’s, and that was that Frankie Crow, Churchill’s most feared player, was not on the field. Thankfully, the rumoured knee injury appeared to be a reality.


  Finally the coin was tossed and the teams separated for the kick-off. The first half was hard and grinding. There was no doubt that the St Daniel’s team were playing the game of their lives, but even though their defence was outstanding, they struggled to match the skill and pace of their opponents. With five minutes of the first half to go, Churchill had already scored three tries to one, but thanks to some wayward goal-kicking on their part and a lucky intercept try to us in the dying seconds, St Daniel’s went to the break trailing by only two points.

  Coach Hardcastle quickly bundled the team into the dressing room. As he passed us he shouted, ‘Scobie, get ready to do your stuff.’ We both wondered exactly what his ‘stuff’ was.

  We soon found out. Before half-time had finished, Coach Hardcastle hustled the St Daniel’s team back on to the field. Then he came over to the reserves’ bench, handed Scobie a copy of his poem and a microphone and said earnestly, ‘We need you, son. I want you to give it everything you’ve got, Scobes old pal. Let it rip, boy. Don’t leave anything in the tank. Do you hear me?’

  Scobie furrowed his brow, pushed his bottom lip forward and waddled out to where the team was lined up in front of the grandstand. Then he turned to face the crowd and drew the microphone to his mouth.

  If the reading at the assembly was stirring, this one was electric. Scobie was inspired. He paced in front of the team like a circus ringmaster, and his voice echoed around the ground as he hammered out the words of his poem as if he was chiselling them on stone. When he shouted out the line, ‘Will we He down?’ he pointed the microphone to the crowd and a deafening and defiant ‘No!’ blasted back at him from the grandstand like a sonic boom. Later, when he boldly declared, ‘We will not bend. We will not yield,’ huge banners and posters rose from the stands with the words emblazoned on them, and soon more followed with ‘We don’t give up. We don’t give in’.