Chapter Twelve

In which Baby recounts his day and Mjomba makes a stand

The sign outside Baby’s school may have said ‘academy’ but let me tell you, it was nothing like my alma mater. The Finesse Academy at which I was lucky enough to be incarcerated, had ivy-covered walls, stained glass windows, and was steeped in history and tradition. This modern monstrosity was an agglomeration of concrete and glass. Brutalist, I think you could call it. I spent five seconds looking at it and was horrified. Imagine what spending a whole day within its confines might do to a young and malleable mind.

Regrettably, Jamie Peters had to leave us to it. We promised to bring him up-to-date and I assured him I would acquire a telephone of some description as soon as I possibly could. My shopping list was filling up: telephone, one of those screen things, wi-fi, no milk...

Our attire - or lack thereof - was attracting attention from the children who pressed their faces against windows as we walked to the main entrance. Teachers appeared behind them to call them back to their lessons, only to remain there themselves, gawping at our approach.

A woman behind the reception window performed a perfect double take when I told her who I was. She instructed us to take a seat and then picked up a telephone receiver.

“Headmaster, some... parents to see you,” she said. “Yes. Those ones.”

Man and I sat. The reception area was pleasant, with potted plants and paintings by the children. A cabinet was brimming with trophies celebrating sporting achievement.

“It won’t be long before they’re engraving Baby’s name on all of those, darling,” I said.

Man grunted. He was thinking what I was thinking: Baby may not be at the school long enough to write his name on the bathroom wall.

Rebecca Lyons appeared. “Hello, Man, your ladyship,” she sounded abashed. There was no ‘woo-hoo’ this time.

“Hello, dear. What’s happened? Where’s Baby?”

“Come with me,” she said, avoiding eye contact. My stomach churned with misgivings.

Man put his arm around me and we followed the Lyons girl in her pretty summer dress to the Headmaster’s office.

***

Rebecca knocked on a featureless door bearing only an engraved plate that read ‘Head’.

“Come!” we heard a voice intone from the other side.

She opened the door to admit us. How very different from the office of old Miss Frink, headmistress of Finesse! Where was the wood panelling? The portraits in oils of predecessors or the school’s founder? Where were the shelves bowing under the weight of leather-bound tomes? Here, it was all filing cabinets and low, shapeless upholstery. A coffee table. Behind a desk that could have double as a wallpapering table, sat a bald man with a grand moustache. He stood when we entered. Baby was sitting across the desk. He looked over his shoulder.

“Mother!” he cried, and joy twinkled in his tear-sodden eyes.

“Judge,” said the bald man.

“Well, the furniture’s rubbish and the carpet is horrid,” I told him.

“No, Mother,” Baby said in a stage whisper. “This is Mr Judge, the Headmaster.”

I extended my hand. Mr Judge ignored it. He gave my husband and me a quick, cold appraisal.

“I am sorry,” he said, oozing sarcasm, “to call you away from your sun beds but your son here gave me no alternative.”

“Mr Judge,” I said in my most clipped tones. “We are worried sick. Please tell us what has happened.”

He waved a hand in an invitation for us to sit. We pulled up chairs and flanked our son, creating a defensive wall of parenthood on either side. The head seemed to notice that Rebecca Lyons was still present.

“That will be all, girl,” he dismissed her.

“Rebecca is our neighbour,” I told him. “She has been most useful in assisting us with the transition into our new home. I would like her to stay, if at all possible.”

“I didn’t realise you would need an interpreter,” the moustache twitched. Mr Judge was clearly a man who amused himself.

Man pointed at Mr Judge’s hairless pate and then back at the door. “Head,” he said.

“Yes, darling. Very good.”

Mr Judge decided to address all further remarks to me. “Madam,” he began.

“Your ladyship will do,” I smiled thinly.

“Your ladyship, in all my years in education, I have never encountered a student like your son.”

I beamed with pride and squeezed Baby’s hand.

“What Judge mean?” said Man, narrowing his eyes. The Head’s gaze flickered in my husband’s direction but he continued to address his remarks to me alone.

“There has been an incident,” he said, “One of those regrettable incidents in which pupils new to the school invariably find themselves embroiled.”

“Son fight,” was Man’s translation.

Judge ignored him. “When incidents of this nature occur, it is school practice and policy to have those involved produce a written account of their side of events. The other boys have provided their testimony here.” He held up three grubby sheets of paper on which a few lines were scrawled. “And here, by contrast, is your son’s.” He held up a heavy pile of papers - there must have been half a ream there, all covered with Baby’s distinctive and decorative copperplate hand.

“Well done, Baby!” I said, perhaps a little prematurely.

“Your ladyship, the literary merits of your son’s account aside - and it is the most fantastical thing I have read since Edgar Rice Burroughs kept me entertained as a boy - if there is a grain of truth in it, there are some very serious implications indeed.”

“What Son write?” Man asked, nodding at the papers.

“I did tell the truth. Honestly, I did. Dad! Mother!”

“Of course you did, darling.” I put a maternal arm across his shoulders. It was only then that I became aware of the dirt on his brand new blazer.

“I think it best you read the boy’s story for yourself,” Mr Judge smiled like someone about to play a nasty practical joke. “I shall leave you to it and afterwards we can discuss your son’s future at this academy.”

He went out. Behind his back, Rebecca stuck out her tongue.

“Now, now, dear;” I reprimanded her gently, “Just because one person is odious does not mean we have to lower ourselves.”

“Sorry, your ladyship.”

“Read!” Man urged.

“Is there anything you’d like to say, Baby?”

Baby looked defeated, confused and frustrated all at once. “I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. I really don’t,” he said, making me want to scoop him up in my arms and carry him as far away from this school, and Dedley and England right that very minute.

“Read!” said Man. He picked up the papers and thrust them at me.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” Baby said sadly.

“Let’s see if you have anything to be sorry about first,” I smiled. I read the papers, every last word. I reproduce them all for you here now.

***

How can I describe my feelings as I walked to school for the first time? Nervous excitement, to be sure, and no little amount of trepidation were vying for dominance within my breast like alpha male gorillas in a leadership contest. But there was also some physical discomfort, unaccustomed as I am to wearing clothing and completely alien to the concept of footwear. I tugged at my new clothes and scratched myself with every step. I could not imagine how the dozens of others I saw heading in the same direction, all clad exactly the same, could bear it.

“What’s up?” asked Rebecca Lyons, my escort and neighbour.

I had to sit on the nearest kerb and pull off my shoes and socks. The relief was palpable.

“You can’t!” But my friend’s admonishment meant nothing to me. With my feet released from confinement, I was able to hurry along and I soon left her behind.

“Come on!” I laughed over my shoulder. “Remember that cupboard!”

I slowed to let her catch up. It gave me a chance to enjoy the spectacle. “Just look at them all,” I breathed in awe. “Herding like wildebeest. All sharing a single purpose, all moving as one mind.”

“One brain cell, more like,” muttered Rebecca. Her face fell. “Uh-oh,” she said. I asked what was wrong. “If that lot’s the wildebeest, here come the hyenas.”

I could scarcely believe it. “Really? Where?”

I felt her nudge my side. Three older boys were moving against the tide, making their way towards us. “Friends of yours?” I asked.

“This is not a good start,” was her non sequitur of a reply.

I could see at once these three youths had made alterations to their uniform. They sported badges and other decorative features, including piercings to their ears and/or noses. Their ties were at half-mast and their shirts unbuttoned at the throat. One was tall, one was stocky and the third was of a darker hue and wore the most daring deviation from uniform on his head: a turban. I hadn’t seen one of those since we found those bearers in the jungle who had been spooked in the old diamond mine. I was so pleased to see something that reminded me of home, I offered him my hand right away.

He didn’t take it. Instead, the tall one addressed me with a sneer.

“Who’s this then? Shirley Temple?”

I thought perhaps he was referring to someone behind me, so I turned to look.

“I’m talking to you, curly head,” the fellow’s sneer became more pronounced. Rebecca Lyons stepped in front of me.

“Leave him alone, you big pig,” she said. Her voice quavered but only a little.

“He’s got no shoes on,” observed the squat one. The others looked down and were appalled.

“Where’s your shoes, Shirley?” the tall one persisted with that nomenclature. He nodded to the one in the turban. “Get his shoes, Ranj.”

“What?” said Ranj.

“Get his shoes,” the tall one repeated.

I held them out, ever one to be helpful. As far as I was concerned, they were welcome to the horrid things.

“What for?” said Ranj.

“Just get them.”

“Have them, please,” I offered them to the boy in the turban. “I can’t bear them.”

My words confused them. A bell rang.

“Come on,” said Rebecca, pulling me by the sleeve of my blazer.

We joined in with the herd teeming in through the school gate. The other three seemed in no hurry to come inside.

I met my teacher, a woman who appears to be permanently in a flap like a startled ostrich. She was too preoccupied to notice I was not wearing my shoes and everyone was in too much of a rush to pay me much attention. The bell rang again. The bell regulates our activities, I was quick to learn. I wonder if I shall ever grow accustomed to it, used as I am to being governed only by the sun - and of course, my parents - which tells me when to wake up, when to go to bed, casting shadows so I might know how the day advances... But here it is all bells, shrill, strident bells, and everyone heeds them. Everyone obeys the bells.

It’s like some kind of cult.

The herd poured into a large room, which Rebecca said was the main hall, and we were all expected to stand in lines while a man, with all the gravitas of a high priest but none of the ceremonial garb, walked out onto the platform we were all facing and bade us sit. The man, who I now know is our esteemed headmaster Mr Judge, addressed us all about something or other - he will have to forgive me for missing the thrust of his speech. I was perhaps the only child alert in the room; I drank it all in, the sounds, the smells of so many humans corralled in one place. My heart was fluttering like a hummingbird.

I became aware that an adult at the side of the room was glaring at me. I tried to soften his expression with a smile and a friendly wave. This only seemed to infuriate the man. He made some gesture and I realised he was referring to my shoes, which were suspended around my neck by their laces. I believe he was about to take action against me when the bell rang once more and everyone stood up and he lost sight of me in the ensuing melee.

From the main hall, Rebecca led me to a classroom wherein we were to be instructed in Mathematics. It was all Greek to me, this ‘geometry’ business, and I am afraid I did not make a good first impression on the teacher. My classmates found the spectacle of me counting on my fingers and my toes hilarious - but that is the method Uncle Mjomba taught me and if it is good enough for him, it should be good enough for anyone.

The bell summoned us to an English lesson, despite my protestations that I am already more than fluent in the language. The teacher, another harassed individual, searched desperately for someone to answer her questions about Romeo and Juliet, someone other than me, because I was the only one able to answer at all. At the end of the session, I approached and said she could save us all a lot of trouble and find all the answers she needed if she just read the play for herself.

Her answer is lost to posterity because it was drowned out by the ringing of the bell.

The herd poured out of the building and I asked Rebecca if we were finished for the day and allowed to go home. She laughed as if this was quite the most amusing thing she had ever heard and then explained that it was merely ‘break time’.

She asked me what I thought of my lessons so far. I told her that the Mathematics was rather difficult.

“Tell me about it,” she said.

“I thought I was.” The people here say such funny things. “All those a’s and b’s and x’s. I couldn’t make head or tail of it. Why do they want us to learn such things?”

“You tell me,” said Rebecca.

“I don’t know; that’s why I’m asking.” Honestly, a conversation with a native can be as confusing as their Mathematics.

She suggested we change the subject, so I told her about the English class.

“Don’t you find Shakespeare the most vibrant, most exciting and most insightful of dramatists?”

She gave me a blank look and professed to be a Neighbours fan.

“But I’m your neighbour... ”

Before I could pursue the meaning of her statement we were interrupted by the three would-be toughs from earlier. They sloped up and circled us.

“Hark at him,” said the stout one. “Chatting her up with his posh voice.”

“Yeah,” said the thin one, “With his shoes round his neck like some kind of a - um...” Words failed him. I could recommend a good English class.

“Yeah,” said Stout. “Hoi, Ranj.”

“Uh?” said Ranj.

“Get them shoes off him.”

“What for?” said Ranj. It seemed to me a pertinent question.

“Because we says so; that’s why.”

“Whassa marrer, Ranjit?” They stopped their circling for a moment to deal with this dissension in their ranks.

“You wanna be with us, you do what we tells you.”

“Yeah!”

“OK, OK, flippin’ heck.” Ranjit capitulated. He turned to me - I had been waiting patiently for them to finish their little exchange. It would have been impolite not to. “Hoi, Curly Head,” was his opening salvo.

“Hello,” I smiled pleasantly. “What can I do for you?”

This appeared to throw him. “What?” he blinked.

“Come on, Sonny; let’s go.” I felt Rebecca tugging at my blazer.

“I must say,” I was looking at Ranjit’s badges, “I do admire those emblems. Are they uniform though? What do they represent?”

He pointed out some of the colourful discs on his lapels. “Well, this one’s the Villa, that one’s Stuff The Whale, and this one’s a prefect’s.”

“You, a prefect!” Rebecca was scornful. “You’ve nicked that!”

“I found it,” said Ranjit, sounding defensive to me. “Any road, that’s not the point. I’m supposed to be giving you a hard time.”

“Why?” I felt compelled to ask.

Rebecca whispered in my ear. “It’s those other two; put him up to it. He’s just creeping up to them.”

“I’m not!” Ranjit obviously heard her.

“Are you a native?” I felt it was a harmless question but he looked as though I’d flung dung in his face.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he clenched his fists.

“You don’t come from around here,” I continued. I was trying to establish some kind of common ground between us, but he seemed to be taking offence.

“I do! I was born here.” He jutted his chin. “My grandparents came over, fifty years ago.”

“And do they behave like you?”

“Who?”

“Your elders.”

“What?”

“Do they try to fit in?”

“Sort of... Well, yes and no. They do and they don’t. They do some English things and some... ”

“... Like they’ve always done!” I completed the sentence on his behalf. “My parents are exactly like that. They want to fit in but they don’t want to change all that much either and why should they?”

Ranjit actually smiled. “That’s right!”

“But,” I was approaching my point, “they would never try to give anyone a hard time just so they can fit in. Would your parents?”

“No!” Then he frowned. “Hoi, what is this?”

“I would say that you and I have more in common than you have with those two.”

Ranjit glanced from side to side. Skinny and Stout were scowling like graven images, angry totems at the ruined temple. Urgent grunts escaped them. Ranjit leaned towards me in what might look like a threatening manner. He lowered his voice to barely a whisper.

“I’m supposed to take your shoes off you.”

“Have them.”

“You’re not supposed to like it.”

Rebecca sneered. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”

Ranjit turned on her. “Keep out of this, nose.”

I was losing whatever ground I had gained. I pointed out the probability of his elders not knowing he treats people like this. He took this as a threat and his hackles rose.

“And they’d better not find out, all right?”

“That’s better,” said Rebecca. “Now you’re getting nasty.”

The bell rang, signalling the end of break time. Rebecca seized me by the sleeve and pulled me away. “Oops, time’s up. Come on, Sonny; say goodbye to your little friend.”

“Goodbye,” I called over my shoulder.

The last I saw of Ranjit before I went indoors was the sight of his shoulders slumping as the thin one and the stout one closed in on him.

Perhaps a career as a diplomat is not in my future after all.

***

Our next class was much more to my liking: Art - Painting, to be precise. I found this to be exhilarating and rewarding. At home, I had rarely had the chance to experiment with pigments and dyes, although I had encountered several peoples who were skilled in decoration and adornment.

Presently, the Art teacher wove her way through the tables, assessing the work of the children. Sometimes she nodded. At others she pointed out where improvements might be made or another approach could be taken. I became aware that she was lingering at my shoulder, staring at the blank sheet of paper in front of me. I turned to face her and she gaped in shock. She even backed away, nudging the child behind her, sending the child’s paintbrush astray. The child swore in complaint.

Pretty soon the eyes of everyone were upon me.

I stood on my stool to afford them all a better view of the designs that now covered my face and upper body.

“Get down!” the Art teacher roared. “Stop making an exhibition of yourself.”

I applauded her clever play on words but this seemed to infuriate her further.

I jumped down from the stool, but not before posing for several of my classmates who had whipped out their camera-phones to capture the moment forever.

“Go and wash that off,” the Art teacher pointed at the exit. I could not imagine why she was so cross. Perhaps she is not a fan of tribal art. How narrow-minded!

The bell rang. The Art teacher barked instruction to everyone to pack their materials away but already some were shuffling from the room.

“It’s lunchtime,” said Rebecca. “Perhaps you ought to go home and clean yourself off.”

“I suppose. Perhaps I can show Mother my designs before they are lost.”

I liked that idea. I headed across an expanse of grass and towards the perimeter fence. Rebecca asked where I was going.

“It’s quicker this way,” I said, “through the bushes and over the fence.”

She asked how I could possibly know that. I tapped the side of my head.

“Sense of direction. I never got lost in the jungle. Well, hardly ever.”

She hurried after me to keep up. From the bushes emerged - guess who! - our three friends from break time. They were smoking cigarettes - I suppose they thought it made them look tough or grown-up or something. They should see the stuff smoked by some of the shamans I know back home. Intricately carved, convoluted pipes. Just one puff would give you hallucinations for weeks.

“Well, well, well,” said the thin one.

“What have we here?” said the stout one.

“Original, aren’t they?” muttered Rebecca. “Come on, Sonny; leg it!”

I begged her pardon.

“RUN!” she urged, pulling me back towards the field. “They look like they want to hurt you.”

“So do rhinoceroses,” I dismissed her concern. “They’re quite soppy, really.”

“Listen, Saint Francis,” I understood her Biblical reference and found it amusing, “These aren’t rhinos. They’re wasps. They look nasty because they are nasty.”

“You run if you want to,” I told her. “It’s me they want. I’ve faced worse than this, believe me.”

“But they’re Year Eleven!” she said, as if this should mean something.

“Hoi, you two!” said Stout, tossing the remnant of his cigarette at our feet. “Have you forgot we’re here or something?

“How could we?” sneered Rebecca. She was braver than I might have credited her.

“Shut it you,” said Skinny, in a most ungentlemanly like way. “None of your business.”

“You seem to have forgotten your manners,” I squared up to him.

“Manners!” scoffed Skinny. “Hark at it!”

“Let’s get him,” Stout enthused.

“Yeah,” agreed Skinny.

I shed my bag and blazer and adopted a pugilistic stance. Skinny and Stout exchanged bemused glances.

“Come on, then,” I pawed the ground with my foot. “Umgowa!”

“Sonny... ”

“UMGOWA!” I roared.

Skinny lowered his head and rushed toward me. Perhaps he was intending to charge at my chest like an angry bull but I sidestepped out of his path and tripped him over. Stout advanced with his arms flailing. I dodged and weaved (or should that be ‘wove’?) and dropped. Stout flew over my shoulder.

But then Skinny grabbed me from behind and, on the ground, Stout managed to get hold of my legs, kick at him though I might.

“Come on, Ranj!” Skinny called into the bushes. “Finish him off!”

I saw Ranjit emerge from the foliage like a new born deer testing its legs.

“Come on!” grunted Stout, as I continued to wriggle. “Lamp him one. If you’re not too chicken.”

I caught Ranjit’s eye. He froze with his fist raised.

Suddenly, Rebecca was upon them, swatting at them with her school bag.

“Let go of him, you big pigs,” she bellowed. My captors flinched from her blows but did not release me. Ranjit, altogether ungallant, shoved her away. He snatched her bag and hurled it towards the centre of the field.

Rebecca used vocabulary that was less than ladylike and I can’t say I blame her.

“Come on, Ranj!” Skinny urged, although their grasp showed no signs of weakening.

Ranjit raised his fist again but before he could strike, I threw back my head as far as I could. It nudged Skinny in the belly but that was not why I did it. I let out the Call from the back of my throat, using all the air I had in my body to push it as far and as loudly as possible.

It certainly surprised them. Before they could gather their thoughts and continue with the assault, Uncle Mjomba dropped from a tree with a terrifying screech. He described mysterious gestures in the air. My assailants stared at him, dropping me to the ground while they were about it.

I scrambled away from them and stood by my uncle’s side. Uncle Mjomba beckoned to Rebecca to join us. She sidled over, uncertainly. Uncle Mjomba gestured for us to stay put. He mimed rolling up sleeves and launched himself at the dumbfounded boys.

He lifted Skinny by his lapels and hung him on the fence. Stout was trying to ‘peg it’ but Uncle Mjomba threw a branch that tangled between the fleeing boy’s ankles, bringing him to the ground. Uncle Mjomba picked him up as if he were nothing more cumbersome than a watermelon and hung him on the fence alongside his crony.

Then Uncle Mjomba turned to Ranjit.

He put his hands together and bowed his masked head. Then he reached for Ranjit’s lapels.

“No! Uncle Mjomba, wait!” I tried to intervene. I addressed these words to Ranjit, “You don’t have to do what they say, you know. You’re not like they are, really. You don’t have to stoop to their level.”

Ranjit turned his brown eyes towards me. He looked nothing but sad.

“It’s not as easy as that though, is it?” he said.

“Isn’t it?”

“No, it isn’t.”

“You don’t have to go around picking on people.”

Ranjit shrugged. “You pick on people or you get picked on yourself. Survival of the fittest.”

I nodded. “Law of the jungle. I appreciate that.”

Rebecca was exasperated. “This is a school not the flipping Wild Kingdom. Come with us, Ranjit. We’re nice. We’re civilised.”

Uncle Mjomba grunted, indicating it was make-your-mind-up time for Ranjit.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He took Uncle Mjomba’s hands and placed them on his lapels.

“Hm,” said Uncle Mjomba, sounding bemused. He lifted Ranjit and hung him on the fence along with the others. He slapped his hands together in a job-well-done gesture. He tipped Rebecca and me a salute and then scaled the tree trunk and was gone.

It was only then that the three boys began to shout, bawling in their fury, demanding we let them down at once. Rebecca and I exchanged a glance and shrugged. We walked off to retrieve her bag.

Rebecca asked if Uncle Mjomba always saves me at the last minute. I said sometimes. On other occasions it’s Dad. Or Mother. She asked me if I ever sorted things out for myself. I asked what that was supposed to mean.

“I’ve seen it all before,” she said. “The big kids pick on the little kids, so the little kids get their big brothers to pick on the big kids, so the big kids get their own big brothers to pick on the little kids’ big brothers, so the little kids get their dads involved, so of course the big kids’ dads have to be called in. That’s how wars get started. When, if the little kids had stood up for themselves in the first place - No, that’s wrong! If the big kids had left the little kids alone in the first place, none of it would have happened and the world would be a nicer place. Do you see?”

“Er...” was all I could muster. My head was reeling.

“No, you don’t,” she snapped. “You’re as bad as them.”

I was about to tell her I took that as an insult but at that point we were intercepted by members of staff and brought to Mr Judge’s inner sanctum, where I was prevailed upon to pen this account.