Schoolie

Life in The Village, through the eyes of Tom Grant, the only teacher at the remote school.

This is an original work of pure fiction (just an expression of a fantasy)
by Robert A. Armstrong (a pseudonym)
(re-written from my 2013 version)

The resemblance of the characters by action, name, location or description to any real person is purely coincidental.

If it is illegal, or offensive, for you to read stories involving interactions of a sexual nature between adults and youths, what are you doing here?

 

Chapter 1 - The Village School

In Australia, the school year consists of four terms of approximately 10 weeks each, with a two-week vacation in between each except for an extended six weeks over the summer (Christmas) period. Terms one and two may vary slightly so that the first vacation coincides with Easter whenever possible. New teaching appointments are usually taken up at the end of the summer vacation, to commence Term1.

 

Checking yet again that I have remembered to attach the school keys to my key ring, having picked them up, as arranged, at the (for me) remote Post Office, I reduce speed as I draw nearer to a cluster of trees and buildings that herald `The Village'. I again glance in my rear vision mirror and observe the trail of dust that has been chasing me for the past many kilometres, watching its redness settle back down on the western side of the road, concluding that the semblance of an easterly breeze must exist in the heat outside.

As I approach the corner formed by two intersecting red dirt `roads', I become immediately aware of the much-revered country pub, shielded mostly by two large eucalypts and the gnarled peppercorn tree - now old and scarred (most obviously by some past human abuse). The large crumbling-stone building, fortified in places by random varieties of mortar and bricks, is topped by clusters of tall chimneys that suggest multiple internal open fireplaces. Now ravaged by time, the exterior of the discernibly once-grand hotel can be best described as 'maintenance-neglected' - except for the odd panes of glass that have been replaced by pieces of board or corrugated iron. Its almost-indiscernible late-nineteenth-century small advertising billboards are only afforded a measure of protection from further decay (and visibility) by the bowed roofline of the wide, overhanging verandah.

And yet, the cacophony emanating from within the pub at noon on a Friday still proclaims this to be the local oasis for thirsty travellers and locals alike - perhaps both the drunks and the not-yet drunks.

At the same time, I experience a strange feeling of familiarity with the building, although I don't know why. I've never been here before. Perhaps it's just the iconic image of the typical country pub, as seen in magazines or on an outback documentary, which evokes an unexpected re-acquaintance.

I slow my car to almost a stand-still to take in the `view', and to gain my bearings. The other three corners of the crossroads are now devoid of buildings, displaying instead, collections of weeds that I muse would keep an aspiring botanist busy for many days. Glancing to the left I see another iconic outback image - a shack, standing far enough down the track so as to be not immediately visible to a stranger; its grey-streaked timbers providing an almost perfect camouflage amongst the weeds and the background of scrubby gum trees. Straight ahead in the direction of the river I can make out another cottage in much better condition - potentially inhabited.

I resist a fleeting urge to investigate either at this time. Instead, noting the diversity of randomly-parked country autos of various types, ages and conditions, I proceed around the corner to the right, and past the pub's corner-facing double doorway. My eyes are drawn from their brief glimpse of the patrons inside to a surprising sight. About 50 metres ahead of me, a tiny wooden church, previously concealed from view, stands starkly alone. It is as small as a city suburban single-car garage. Taking in the arch of its pitched-roof gable, my brain playfully morphs it into a tombstone, for The Village itself. There is no obvious sign to denote a denomination. It seems ironic that there would be a church in a village with only two discernible houses and a minimal number of residents. This `headstone' is the remnant of obviously-better days, when The Village, then a town, would probably have been a bustling horse and coach stop, on the way to somewhere else.

To say that it, too, has not been well maintained would be an obviously redundant statement. There it stands; the (presumably) consecrated reminder of Christendom, in its own patch of sacred ground, disengaged from the world by its semblance, or remnant, of a fence.

I draw my car to a halt and decide to wait for the small puff of tailgating dust to settle before continuing on foot. Opening the door of my air conditioned, near-new car, I instantly become aware of the extreme midday temperature and appreciate why the pub is so full of people seeking liquid respite from the heat. The smell of eucalyptus oil, released from the gum leaves by the heat, invades my nostrils. It feels as though the sun is focussing its strength directly onto me as I step out. Behind me I can now clearly hear those people who are quenching their thirst while, somewhere off to the left of me, I hear the muffled but familiar sound of children's voices - probably some of my soon-to-be school students! But, where?

My eyes fall upon the church-yard gate, an amateur welder's fabrication of some years past which appears now to be held together more firmly by rust. The decayed hinges have more recently been fortified, although even the thick-gauge fencing wire no longer seems capable of allowing the sagging gate to swing. Any intending visitor would need to lift it tenderly out of its space in the fence, and then reverse the process, for whatever irrational reason somebody might consider that the gate might need to be `closed'.

In the majority of places, the post-and-rail fence itself is no longer complete and appears at first glimpse to have been feasted upon by termites, although closer inspection reveals that it is more the result of years of weathering - through blistering summer days, like today, and perhaps sub-zero winter nights - year after year after decade. I wonder what purpose the gate and fence serve, when any intending worshipper, stray cattle or disoriented drunk could easily take a much more direct route.

Between the gate and the building is a uniform height of knee-deep brownness. Grass? More fodder for the botanist. The only sign of animal life `in there' is a few grazing sheep which, even to the untrained eye of a `city slicker', are in need of shearing. I feel a smirk cross my face as I wryly consider where the sheep might rate on a smart-scale of local life, obviously having avoided making use of the gate.

Not far beyond, stands, in stark contrast, the school. There it is - the object of my imagination for the past three months since my appointment as "Teacher-in-Charge". I start walking. It stands in the very short `street' as identified by two just-noticeable tracks where the stunted vegetation has been worn down to the bare red dust by occasional cars, horses and feet, probably having had little-to-no traffic at all during the six weeks of the school vacation. Then, a short way past the school, the track stops abruptly at two rows of white-trunked gums - the river, the now-obvious source of the `children' sounds.

The school, although small, is closer in size to that of the pub than its immediate holy neighbour. Another anxiety dispelled! But what signals its difference from the other buildings in The Village is its well-maintained condition. As I pause to take it all in, I jiggle my key ring and bring the two school keys to my fingertips. One is obviously for the newer padlock on the gate, and I again wonder at the intelligence of putting a gate in a fence of four strands of wire that a body could easily step through. Who would it really keep out - or in?

Padlock key at the ready, I stop abruptly at the gate when I hear a siren-like, female voice, from the direction of the river, "Hey, kids, the new schoolie's here!"

Turning towards the direction of the voice I see a mini stampede of squealing, scantily clad, dripping characters that could be straight from Lord of the Flies, heading straight towards me in full flight. I fumble with the padlock and drop the keys in semi shock. Nowhere to hide! My car is 75m behind me. While quickly scanning to see if they are carrying sharp sticks and half expecting to hear the chant of "kill the pig, kill the schoolie", I take a deep breath, engineer a brave smile to disguise my inner anxiety and turn to confront them head on.

I muster, "Hey guys!"

The pack leader, a dark-haired girl of about 13 or 14 comes to a sudden halt, too close to me for comfort, with the odd assortment of youngsters quickly catching up to her. She looks at me; no, she stares at me, then turns to the others, some of whom look at her, then at me, then back to her and shrug their shoulders. She turns and stares again. I have the feeling that there might be something on my face that I forgot to wash off this morning, or, maybe like a college prank, somebody shaved off one of my eyebrows while I was sleeping.

"You are the new schoolie, aren't you?" the already-familiar voice asserts more than enquires, louder than is necessary considering the within-reach distance between us. I nod. "I'm Jane!" she says.

I'm still being stared at. Perhaps it is because I look young for my age. Not baby-faced - just young. That has always been a problem. When I first got my driver's licence, I was always being pulled over, suspected of being under age. But the look that I am getting from the children is somehow different.

"Hello Jane. Yes, I'm Mr Grant. Pleased to meet you. And who are all of these other handsome children?" I emphasise the `handsome'.

The sudden wave of broad grins and giggles from the band of urchins is priceless. This unexpected compliment dispels any initial unease between us. The hunters have morphed into cherubs. Jane introduces the other eight to me in rapid fire. I manage to remember only the last one - Eric, the smallest who can be no older than five - curly red hair and a little round face full of freckles.

"Are you all of my school students?" I ask.

Jane is the spokesperson. "Oh no, sir. There are a couple more of us who only come into town from their properties on school days." Scanning again everyone standing in their still-dripping and clinging underwear, Jane squawks, "Hey! Where are Jake and Little Willie?" Then, turning up the volume (if that is possible) she hollers, "Jake! Little Willie!" as if to summon a pair of working dogs from a distant back paddock.

"Little pair of buggers! Oops. Sorry Sir. They were with us at the river. C'mon, we'll show you."

Grateful that my ears may be subjected to no further immediate punishment I follow a little more leisurely as I watch the variety of still-wet, youthful backsides dash away from me, with Jane determined to be first back to the river. After walking the additional 75 metres or so, I see the actual "river" for the first time.

It's not as wide as I had imagined. In fact, we have housing estates at home on canals that are much wider than this. After I received that dreaded appointment letter in the first mail delivery after Christmas, my expectation of the river's size had been far too generous. I was sadly misled by its photo on Wikipedia (obviously taken a long way downstream and after generous rain). And, being on a tributary of the `mighty' Darling River I expected much more, with my dreams of water skiing or even canoeing now obliterated in a single glance. I should have suspected as much when the address of the school included "via Cunnamulla", and by the excessively-thick blue line in the old family atlas that I used to locate the little village with the almost-unpronounceable aboriginal name, in far western Queensland. `OMG!' had been my initial reaction on finding it - around 950 km west of my cosy family home on the Gold Coast. Actually, I think I let my guard down and dropped the f*** bomb in front of Mum. She was not happy. Dad's broad grin helped ease my pang of guilt. Both of them seemed amused at the geography lesson though, recapping previous discussions that neither had ever travelled much farther west than the coastal urban sprawl.

I remind myself that this area has been in an unusually severe drought for a number of years. Nevertheless, the river is certainly more than just a trickle here because of the weir, which stands almost 3 metres above the river level below. It has enough mud-coloured water banked up behind it to provide amply for local needs, including being a swimming hole for the kids. I immediately recall, in great contrast, the crystal-clear, chlorinated water in my backyard pool at home and the aquamarine surf with its invigorating salt spray immediately across the highway from our house.

"Jake! Little Willie!" I am brought back to reality but refrain from sticking my fingers in my ears. I muse that there is no need of a public-address system in this school, as long as Jane is around! Then I embrace another moment of ensuing blissful silence.

Everyone is looking around expectantly and, while awaiting the emergence of the two missing boys, I cast my eye a little more observantly over those who are present. Apart from Jane in her one-piece swimsuit, everyone else is wearing only briefs and no top. Two young girls are immediately identifiable by their long, braided hair; the boys by their little bulges in front in their universally-white, clinging, almost-transparent underpants. Two in particular catch my eye, with considerably more upfront to show, or hide, than the rest. I look from one of them to the other and, raising my gaze up to their faces, conclude that they are not only brothers, but probably twins about 11 or 12 years old - their similar height, blond hair, blue eyes, almost-square jaw and slim (without being thin) bodies with evidence of well-defined musculature. Very handsome!

Without warning, a shriek something akin to the call of Tarzan breaks the peace, and a body drops from a thick tree branch just above us, striking a contrived menacing pose that is obviously meant to scare us, or just me. I do gasp at the suddenness of his appearance. Mission accomplished! He maintains his stance but his eyes widen while peering at me curiously. I glance from him to Jane and back again: another pair of siblings - as if the voice hadn't already betrayed that!

"Where's Little Willie?" Jane demands.

So, this one must be Jake! Hmmm - Jake and Jane. `Tarzan' would definitely have been appropriate. This good-looking lad is the oldest of all the boys, perhaps a year or so younger than Jane and standing somewhat over five feet tall. Slim like Jane with similar dark hair and facial features - same mouth, same nose, same hazel eyes and long eyelashes, although his chin is a little squarer with a noticeable dimple in the middle. And, just like the twins, I can't help but notice that this lad is another who seems `well-endowed' for his age. Country boys!

"Hiding," Jake chuckles, turning his inquiring gaze back upon me, then adds, "as usual".

I imagine Little Willie to look something like Tarzan's Cheetah, a younger brother to complete the jungle trio. Or maybe a little fat kid whose penis is cruelly undersized compared to those of the other local boys.

Silence. Stillness. I scan the tree branches. Nobody else up there! My head starts a slow 360-degree scan, using my best powers of observation to locate a Little Willie hiding behind a tree or a riverside log. Nothing.

Then, as I turn back towards the weir, I detect a movement on the down-river side, just below where the overflow is creating a bubbling disturbance in the water. What appears at first to be a dog or a sheep, rises just sufficiently to reveal a pair of piercing blue eyes below the mop of mid-brown curly hair. This new alligator-like lifeform surveys the scene on the river bank for a moment then appears to fix its gaze squarely on me. The engagement is sufficiently long enough for me to feel my heartbeat quicken, and then there is a sudden movement. With water gushing from it, a body stands bolt upright, in the thigh-deep water below the weir. Facing me directly, it pauses, then turns its back and dives under the foamy spill-over.

"What...? Or who... was that?" I ask hesitantly.

"Little Willie!" jubilantly choruses everyone around me. Then I feel, and observe, every pair of eyes focus on me, as if anticipating some reaction.

I stand transfixed, staring at the spot where the unexpectedly-man-sized body disappeared, replaying in my mind, in slow motion, the few seconds of action that I have just witnessed.

The hair. The eyes. The stare. The gush of water. The body. The turn. The dive.

Slowly: The eyes. The stare. The body. The dive.

Slower: The stare. The body. The dive.

Pause: The body.

"That," I ponder silently, after multiple in-head replays with zoom function, "was definitely not a little willie!"

 

(to be continued)

 

There is a parallel version to this story, soon to be published, told through the eyes of one student. Look for "Kurt" soon.

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rob.zz@hotmail.com

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