The Bad Day

“Sister Senan, it’s hot. Can we open another window?”

“No Mr. Cunningham. We may not open another window. If you are hot, just offer it up to Jesus. Think about how our dear Lord must have felt, hanging up there in the scorching desert sun. Now sit down, and finish writing out today’s spelling words.”

“Yes Sister.”

I was confused about the weather in ancient Jerusalem. In June, Sister had told me to think about how cold Jesus must have been, up on the cross in nothing but a loin cloth. I think about asking her for a clarification, but I suspect that will get me a slap on the hand from her ruler, and a half hour of cleaning blackboard dusters. I write down the last three words for tomorrow’s test — marsupial, kangaroo and fortnight.

“Is everybody done? Good,” said Sister without checking to see if that was the case. “Now I would like you to write down these Maths problems.”

Sister turns her back and starts to write on the board. There are patches of white chalk dust on the arms of her black habit. I’d heard other kids call her a penguin, but I disagree. With her long-pointed nose, the twitchy moves of the head, and her ability to swoop down and inflict pain on unsuspecting kids, Sister Senan is definitely a magpie.

A sharp pain in my bum makes me start. I check to make sure Sister is still facing the board, and then turn my head. Mark Datley is smirking at me. Mark Datley. With his piggy eyes, greasy hair, and cabbage smelling farts. Mark Datley, who has sat in the seat behind me for three years. I hate alphabetical order. I went back to writing. Problem three: 625 + 471 + 65. The next thump was in the same on my left cheek, but harder. I whip my head around in time to see the scuffed toe of his leather school shoe, slide under his desk.

“Cut it out,” I hiss.

“Cut what out?”

I scoot my bum forward until my belly presses up against the splotchy varnish on my wooden desk. It isn’t far enough. His third kick between the seat and the back rest, catches me right on the tail bone. It really hurt. I turn again.

“Knock it off, you dag.”

“Do you have something you want to share Mr. Cunningham?” said Sister Senan. “Or are you just so captivated by Mr. Datley’s pretty face, that your words are only for him?”

To the credit of my classmates, there are only a couple of nervous giggles. I think about telling, but I’m not a dobber.

“Come up here,” says Sister.

Bugger.

“Raise your hand.”

Smack! At least it was the twelve-inch ruler, and not the yard stick.

“When the bell rings you can stay behind and clean the dusters.”

“Yes Sister.”

By the time I make it to the playground, the sit-down part of lunch is nearly over. All the shady seats are taken. I sit on a bench in the glare, leaning forward so my back won’t touch the baking brick wall. I open my plastic Phantom lunch box. The lid on my milk thermos has come loose, soaking the contents. My vegemite sandwich has swollen its way out of the wax paper wrapper, and looks like a mutated, black-stripped marshmallow. My two Iced VoVo biscuits have disintegrated into pink and white sludge. Great. Just great. I slide the soggy mess into a bin, and then reach into the pocket of my grey short pants. Mum knots a twenty-cent piece into the corner of my hanky, for emergencies. This seems like an emergency to me.

Our Tuck Shop is run by volunteer mums and has a limited lunch menu. Three items in fact. A sausage roll — 15 cents, a sausage roll in a buttered bread roll with tomato sauce — 20 cents, or a meat pie — 30 cents.

“I’ll have a sausage roll in a bread roll with tomato sauce. Please.”

“Oh, I’m sorry luv, we just sold out of sausage rolls. Do you want a pie?”

The mid-lunch bell rings and Sister Senan shoos us into our appropriate paddocks. Girls stay in the courtyard to play hopscotch, hand tennis, or jump rope. Regardless of the temperature, boys are dispatched to the playing field for mandatory physical exertion.

“Red Rover, Red Rover, Joe Cunningham come over”, says Sean Blanchfield. Of course, it’s me. It’s always bloody me. When you want to be sure of catching someone, you pick me. The game of Red Rover, is a matter of cold blooded percentages. Someone fast volunteers to be it, and then choses a slow target. Each new captive picks another victim, to build up a hunting pack in the middle of the oval. The game doesn’t really get interesting, until the faster kids are trying to outrun most of the class. If someone makes it uncaught to the slope on the other side, everyone charges across at once. This is the most exciting part of the game, and treasured because of its rarity. I have never made it to the other side untagged. I don’t think any part of the game is exciting.

“Hey Cunningham,” said Datley. “After you get caught, don’t call my name, or you’ll be sorry.” Ignoring him, I walk to the edge of the field. A murder of crows are perched on the pale limbs of a ghost gum behind the school. Their grating caws mock me. I study my opponent.

I don’t often look at Sean’s tanned face, but thanks to our consistent seating assignments, I’d become an expert on the back of his head. In summer, tiny rivulets of sweat formed under the middle of his crew cut, and drift to the right on their way to his grey school shirt. In winter when he scratches his blond hair, light flurries of dandruff drift onto his shoulders. Any time of the year, his protruding ears redden when Sister calls his name. At eight and a half, he’s the tallest, and fastest, kid in Grade 3. His picking me isn’t personal. In the same way that a hunting dingo has nothing personal against the slowest wallaby in the mob. But none of these insights are going to help me make it untouched to the other side.

Sean paces back and forth in the middle of the oval. “Come on Hambo,” he says. “Get a bloody move on.”

The overhead sun beats down on my freckled face. I step forward. I shudder as a light breeze cools the damp shirt, stuck to my back. I have had it with this day. I’m hungry. I’m sick of cranky nuns, spelling tests, splintered desks, scratchy polyester uniforms and leaky thermoses. I hate being the youngest kid in Grade 3. I’m tired being bad at cricket, rugby, running, long-jump, relays and every other stupid activity on compulsory sports day. Somewhere in my empty belly, a flame flickers.

I wait until Sean has drifted to the left. I take off to the right as fast as my short, pudgy legs will carry me. Sean lazily trots back, already pondering his next victim. He reaches out for the tag. I dodge and increase my stride. His blue eyes widen as he realizes some effort is going to be required. The gentle hill on the other side of the oval is forty yards away, but to me it looks more like four hundred. Sean had been caught flat footed, but he is closing fast. There’s a roaring in my ears, my chest aches. My brief moment of glory is coming to a rapid close. But the noise in my ears, isn’t just the pounding of my blood. There’s yelling. The Grade 3 boys at Saint Thomas are cheering. For me. Sean’s arm lashes out. I veer right, coming perilously close to the stringy bark trees, that mark out-of-bounds. A towering jacaranda grows on the opposite slope. I can see the carpet of purple blooms that represent safety. Only ten yards to go. There’s a chant from behind, “Hambo, Hambo, Hambo.”

Sean makes one more lunge. I stumble to avoid his grasping fingers. I land face first in the soft grass and fragrant flowers. Rolling onto my back, I stare up at the lattice of branches above. Sean is protesting that I’d stepped out of bounds. His complaints are lost in the joyous yells of the rest of the class, stampeding across the field.

Maybe this wasn’t such a bad day after all.

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