50 Ways of Saying Fabulous Book 1 20th Anniversary Edition (9 page)

When my turn came, I didn’t feel nervous at all. Mr McTaggart would call out ‘over’ and I would trot across and stand near Stuart. I got on the scales. Conversation dwindled away. All eyes suddenly turned in my direction. Mr McTaggart was taking his time pronouncing me ‘over’. He was scrutinising the scales, bending down even closer. ‘Christ Cracker,’ he finally said, ‘we’ve got an over the overweights here.’

I felt cheated. No one else had attracted any remarks on their weight. It was so unfair. I was deeply mortified. Some of the other boys tried to edge forward to get a look at the scales. They didn’t need to. Cracker came over to take a look and announced my weight to the world. ‘Eleven stone,’ he said in awe.

Everyone was staring at me and whispering. My father rushed over. ‘What’s the problem?’ he asked.

‘He’s too heavy,’ said Cracker. ‘He’s over six stone seven of course, but he’s over the upper limit of nine stone seven as well. There’s no division for him.’

I digested that information. Was I actually going to be pronounced too fat to play? All of the indignity would be bearable if that was the case. Then I noticed Arch Sampson. His grin was jeering. His eyes gloating. My brief flare of hope curdled. It would never be worth it. Arch was going to torment me mercilessly.

‘But you’re short of players in the overs,’ my father started to argue, much to my horror. ‘No one’ll know anyway. There’ll be no scales about when you’re playing matches. No one’s going to think twice about it.’

‘That’s true,’ Cracker nodded vigorously. ‘We shouldn’t let the boy miss out when he’s keen.’

I wanted to protest, but my father was nodding as vigor­ously as Cracker. ‘Oh, he’s keen as mustard. Been in training for the trials for weeks.’

I felt like crying. But knew it would only make things worse, become another source of ridicule for Arch and his cronies. I squeezed my eyes tight to hold the tears back. I couldn’t believe that salvation had come so teasingly close and then been so brusquely snatched away. I’d managed to check my tears, but a fury of emotions were seething within me. My father placed an encouraging hand on my shoulder and I wrenched away from him as if I’d been stung. I caught a brief glimpse of his bewildered face, surprised at my sudden reaction and what he saw burning in my face. Hatred. He, who was always trying to cajole me into killing something – an old ewe for dog tucker, the vegetable-garden rabbits – had finally succeeded in arousing the killer instinct in me. At that moment, I hated my father with a murderous intensity.

My father had stepped back from me in surprise. It was Mr McTaggart who guided me in the direction of the over­weight team. ‘Off you go, son,’ he said kindly.

With that, the flame of feeling faded as quickly as it had sparked. ‘He’s got a bit of spirit in him after all,’ Cracker remarked to my father as I plodded over to join the other boys.

There were only thirteen of us over six stone seven. It was a foregone conclusion that all of us would be selected for the team and two more players scraped up from somewhere. Nevertheless, Cracker and Mr McTaggart insisted we still had to go through the formality of the trial. They stood on the sideline bellowing instructions at us, trying us out in various positions. I began to feel like one of my father’s dogs after a while.

Going into a scrum, close to the goalposts, Stuart approached me and put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Push hard this time,’ he said, ‘I want this ball.’

For the first time, I actually saw some purpose to the game. Trying to push our opponents back off the ball, so Stuart could scoop it up and dash through for a try. I heaved, the ball disappeared and when I finally emerged out of the scrum, Stuart was diving for a try. A tremor of excitement pulsed through me at the sight of him. I felt uplifted for a moment by the thrill of our victory. I could hear my father cheering. I jogged modestly back down the paddock, anticipating that Stuart would come leaping after me, jump on my back and rub up against me, like they did in British soccer matches on television.

But he did none of that. When I looked back for him, he was preoccupied lining up the ball for the conversion. And after that, he ignored me. He didn’t thank me or even acknowledge me with a grin or a glance. After a while, I realised he must’ve been brooding over his conversion and forgotten me. It had been a disaster. The ball had veered off to the left and missed the rugby posts completely.

Stuart scored all the tries. No one could catch him. With his reputation as a sprint star, no one on the other team even tried to. After half an hour, Cracker called us off the field and announced the team. I was prop. Roy was my lock and Stuart was centre and captain of the team. We were sent off to shower. I went to find my father to get my glasses back from him. I wanted to get a good look at Stuart under the shower. After I’d retrieved them, I actually ran across to the changing rooms. I didn’t want to miss anything. Roy was sitting morosely on a bench outside. ‘I wouldn’t go in there if I was you,’ said Roy.

I stared at him in surprise. It was the first time he’d spoken to me directly since Lou’s birthday, but I had no time for Roy or anything he had to say. I plunged on into the changing room. It was dark and steamy. One of the lights had blown. The other boys were yelling over the sound of the showers. My glasses fogged up instantly and I couldn’t see. Someone yelled, ‘Here he is, the one-man scrum,’ and there were whoops and cheers all around, coming closer, encircling me.

At first, I thought they meant to congratulate me. I had pushed hard and Stuart had scored a try. I stood there, smiling shyly, trying to wipe my glasses so that I could see. I wanted to see Stuart smiling his gratitude. Then someone seized my hands and pinned them behind my back, his fingers pinching into my wrists. I realised I’d been mistaken.

My vision was a blur, yet I knew I was surrounded. I could feel the hot breath of my team-mates all around me. One of them gave me a shove and then they all started to push me, so that I swayed back and forth between them. I lost all sense of direction. I couldn’t think where the door was to escape. Everything was strange and surreal. Shapes moved in front of my eyes. Insults echoed around me. Liniment fumes choked me so that I could hardly breathe, let alone call out for help. Slowly I crumpled downward. I huddled there on the cold, concrete floor, while they panted above me, hesitating for a moment. I realised my hands were free and hastily I wiped at one of my lenses so that I could see.

A glimpse of muscled leg. A mud splattered boot. A flash of steel in the dim light, descending upon me.

I screamed and as if that was the signal they had waited for, they all set in on me, the studs of their rugby boots raking at me, as if I held the ball or had something else clutched to my chest, something to hide.

Later, they threw me under the shower. I’d lost my glasses at some point, but even without them I could see that there was blood dripping from somewhere onto the tiles, before it was swirled down the drain.

Roy was holding my glasses when I emerged from the changing room. He handed them to me without a word and walked off. I limped over to the car. Not that my leg hurt particularly, but because I wanted someone to notice the damage that had been done to me. But the fathers were all having a beer out of the back of Cracker’s station wagon. No one even glanced my way. I felt battered, dazed and bewildered. I had aches and pains, but they were almost vague and unreal to me, compared to the sharp misery of feeling suddenly so alone and vulnerable. What had I done to provoke the attack? I didn’t understand why.

When my father finally joined me in the car, he glanced at me quickly. ‘I don’t know how you got that cut on your forehead,’ he said. ‘You were hanging off the mauls for the whole game. You should have been in there with your boots, rooting for the ball. That’s how I would have played it… ‘

I let the words wash over me and leaned back in the seat. I wept silently and my father failed to notice as he instructed me in the ways of rugby and men, a world in which I was hopelessly at sea.

Even now after all the years that have passed since that after­noon in the changing rooms, the memory of it still makes me wince. In the days and weeks that followed, I tried my best to repress what happened. But I was bewildered. I couldn’t understand why. That made it impossible to forget. It tormented me. There had been such malevolence in that casual brutality. What had I done to inspire such intensity of feeling?

They were boys I only knew in the vaguest way because our mothers played golf together or their fathers ran busi­nesses in Glenora that we patronised. The attack hadn’t been incited by Arch, the closest person I had to an enemy. He’d still been out trialing for the underweights. He bore a grudge against me, but he would never act upon it in such a way. We were ‘Mawera men’ and that was an unmistakeable bond, a reason even to protect me from out­siders. These were strangers compelled for some reason to shame me.

At first, I thought it must have been my appearance. My physical grossness had been enough to provoke them. They had flung the usual names at me. Fatty. Fatso. But there had been another name too. For a moment, I’d felt a fond recognition. Poof. Poofter. But the name had been reinforced with the raking of their sprigs and I screamed when the steel tore at my skin. Those boys knew the meaning of that word. They’d chanted it at me, leaving me with no doubt that it was the gravest of insults. There was venom in their voices.

That afternoon in the changing room destroyed my sense of joy in my ambition.
Acting the poof 
lost all of its allure. No magic remained in those words. For a fortnight afterwards, whenever I took a bath, the hot water would sting, reminding me, and I’d swear to myself that I didn’t want to be ‘that’ when I grew up any more. I didn’t even want to know what it meant. It was loaded with shameful connotations and that was enough to know.

But there was something else about that incident, some­thing even more hurtful than the violence, something I tried never to think of. Largely, I succeeded. Nights were my downfall. There in my bed, I was alone in the dark with no distractions. It was then that what I had seen came back to haunt me. Loomed large in my mind. Insinuated itself into my dreams, where, monster-like, it transformed, growing in its malignancy, exaggerated and distorted into even crueller scenarios. I would wake grasping my pillow as if it were him.

Stuart. Stuart Hale.

In that brief moment before that first boot came down on me, I had caught a glimpse of a muscular leg. Only one boy had legs like that.

Stuart Hale had been the first to kick me with his boots. He was the natural leader in all things from being captain of the rugby team to setting an example with girls. The assault on me had been no different. He had gone first. But why? Had I been unsubtle in my admiration? Had he noticed me staring at him? I couldn’t see how. I had worshipped him from afar. But he must have sensed something to lash out at me in such a way. My anguish at such an unmistakeable rejection lingered long after the scratches and swellings he and his mates had inflicted.

I refused to go into the changing room after the first of the three county matches that the team played. My father ordered me in there but I wouldn’t answer him. It was the first time I had disobeyed him, not done exactly as I was instructed. To my surprise he didn’t insist. He didn’t say anything. For once we drove home in silence. Finally, when we were drawing close to home, he turned to me and asked, ‘Do things go on in the changing rooms… things you don’t like?’

I was too surprised to say anything. I nodded. My father stared at me gravely for a moment and then turned his attention back to the road and said nothing more. I was puzzled that he did not try to prise further details out of me. I glanced at him. He was staring fixedly at the road. This was also out of character. Usually his eyes were everywhere at this point on the drive home, appraising the state of our neighbours’ farms and what a poor comparison they made with our own.

I realised my father found the subject awkward, though I wasn’t sure what the subject actually was. What illicit activity did he imagine went on in the changing rooms? I was intrigued. I had rebelled, refused to do as he said and hadn’t been interrogated or even reprimanded. I knew he hadn’t guessed at what had actually happened. He had never even remarked upon the bruises on my arms and legs.

The end of the rugby season helped the memory of the incident fade. I would never have to play rugby with those boys again. I was to go to boarding school in Dunedin the following year. It was the school where both Grampy and my father had gone, and reportedly distinguished themselves with various honours and accolades on the sportsfield. I was expected to emulate their success. My father had even gone so far as to enrol me as a boarder a few weeks after I was born, to ensure me a place. He was a vigorous supporter of the Old Boys’ Society, taking even more delight in their occasional newsletters than he did in reading
The Farmer
magazine, the only reading material permitted to remain on the windowsill by the toilet ‘for the whole family to enjoy’.

With rugby over and my father engrossed in the sport on the television, Saturday afternoons became my own again. Lou always came over and we’d amuse ourselves in one of our make-believe games. But one weekend Aunt Evelyn made Lou stay home to measure her for new summer dresses. Lou was furious, but had to do as she was told.

I was restless and bored without her, but didn’t want my father noticing. He always thought I’d be eager for a job to do. Finally I decided to go for a bike ride to avoid him, setting off with no real destination in mind. I still wanted to lose weight and a recent issue of
Pink
had declared that cycling was an excellent way of burning calories. I ended up riding all the way to the old gaol down by the river, a distance of at least five miles. I felt certain that it would’ve worked off pounds of excess weight.

The gaol was disused. To my mind it never looked much like a prison, more like someone’s neglected home. It lacked bars on the windows, and had proper glass windows instead. Once you stepped inside it became more convincing. There were iron rings driven into the stone, with chains dangling off them. Just like what we tied our dogs up to. Those rings and chains always made me shiver. The walls of the gaol were covered with initials, and though I knew most of them had been scratched in by locals or tourists, at least some of them must have been genuine prisoners’ initials.

That afternoon, as I cycled down there, I invented a grander reason for my solitary circumstances. I decided I was a conqueror returning from my journeys in foreign lands, come home to inspect the contents of my personal dungeon where I had abandoned my enemies (various rugby-playing local boys) to rot in chains years before. Only over Stuart Hale did I hesitate. Despite his treachery, I couldn’t bring myself to consign him to the chains. Finally I decided upon the perfect punishment for his crimes: I would make him my personal slave, obliged to do anything I desired or he would be banished to the dungeon with his cohorts.

When I arrived, I left my bike at the road, slipped through the fence and wandered down to the gaol. It was tucked in beneath the willow trees that lined the little creek. Often there were campers or fishermen about, but there was no sign of anyone that day. It seemed I had the place to myself. By the time I’d reached the gaol, I was well into the spirit of my new game. I was surprised to notice that the bolt on the door was drawn. All the locals knew you were supposed to lock it after you’d been inside. It was an oversight I could incorporate very satisfactorily into my game.

I flung the door open. ‘So you’ve been trying to escape while I’ve been away?’ I bellowed.

My eyes adjusted to the gloom, and I realised with mount­ing embarrassment that there was actually someone there. For a moment I thought I’d somehow slipped back in time and this was an actual prisoner, for the person was slouched on the floor, one hand through one of the iron hoops, scratching at the stone wall with a stick. I’d startled him with my sudden entry, and he jumped to his feet. It was then that I recognised him. It was Roy.

We both muttered sorry at the same time and stared at the ground, lost for words. ‘I was playing a game,’ I finally said.

‘Yeah, me too,’ said Roy.

Neither of us knew what to do. Finally, Roy sat down again and went back to scratching his name on the stone wall. A nervous excitement began to stir in me. There hadn’t been an opportunity for me to be alone with Roy since Lou’s party. There was an expectant intimacy in our situation but I wasn’t sure how to proceed. I didn’t trust myself to speak. Tentatively I slithered down on the floor beside Roy, wrapping one of the chains around my arm.

The light was dim, and even sitting right next to Roy, I couldn’t see his features properly. I was relieved. I didn’t want to see that superfluous hair creeping up the planes of his face and the shocking smattering of pimples over his forehead. Side by side, propped up against the stone wall, I could almost imagine I was next to Stuart. Roy and Stuart were about the same height, similar build, both on the brink of adolescence, which had been kinder to Stuart. Stuart who was my personal slave. Stuart who I could do whatever I wished with. There was no need to ask permission. I sank my hand into the crotch of the boy next to me and felt the flush of his breath on my cheek as he turned towards me.

He didn’t object. Instead he reciprocated, reaching between my legs for what was swelling in the confines of my underwear. We fondled one another, both of us growing hard. Abruptly he pushed my hand away and began tugging down his jeans until he had them round his knees. He took my hand, clasped it for a moment before guiding it back to his cock. Then his hand burrowed beneath the elastic waists of my trousers and my underwear, grasping my cock as best he could amongst the complications of my clothes. The touch of his fingers upon it was a revelation. My cock pulsed as if it had developed a heartbeat. I closed my eyes. Every­thing was sensation. I was in a drowsy, swooning state. It was easy to believe that it was Stuart pressed against me. Stuart ransacking my pants and murmuring his appreciation over what he had found there.

His breath was hoarse and heaving in my ear. Then suddenly he gasped. I opened my eyes, turned towards the door, alarmed. Had someone silently entered the gaol and discovered us? But the door was still shut. There was no one there. I turned back to Roy, puzzled but also annoyed. The moment had been interrupted and ruined. I was disagreeably aware that it was Roy who was next to me, not Stuart. But before I could ask him what he’d seen, his face swooped towards me, his mouth wetly seeking mine. Roy kissed me.

I resisted. I did not want to be kissed by Roy Schluter. I was worried his pimples would rub off onto my face and start growing there. But this was a kiss like no other I had ever known and there was no stopping him once he’d started. His mouth squirmed wildly against my own as if he was trying to get a taste of me. Then, suddenly, he stuck his tongue into my mouth. It was the creepiest sensation to sud­denly feel it force itself between my lips and protrude there hot and heavy in my mouth. My own tongue retreated in alarm. Was it intended as an insult? Generally that was why kids stuck their tongues out at each other. I was relieved when Roy finally drew back.

His hot breath panted in my face, smelling of his mother’s menthol cigarettes. He burrowed his face into my neck and pressed himself against me, clenching my cock even harder. ‘Rub it faster,’ he said in a broken voice, a voice that didn’t even sound like Roy. ‘As fast as you can.’

I obeyed. This didn’t seem like the Roy I knew at all. He was possessed by a forcefulness of spirit I could never have imagined of him. I matched the pace he was setting with my own cock, and he began to squirm against me and moan in my ear. Then, suddenly, he let out a cry like he’d been shot in a game of cowboys and Indians. He abandoned my cock, grabbed his own and rubbed it furiously. But not before I felt a warm liquid explode between my fingers.

I had no idea what I had done but I didn’t like the feel of it. Surely Roy hadn’t gone to the toilet on me? Gingerly, I rubbed my fingers together. No, it was too heavy and sticky for that. Could it be blood? Had I pulled too hard and somehow burst a vein in it? Is that why he’d howled? Yet he didn’t seem in pain now or even concerned about checking for damage. He was on his feet and stuffing himself back into his underwear and doing up his jeans. The next thing he was out the door without a word or even a backward glance.

Hastily I rearranged my own pants before I followed him. My panic was mounting. What if I’d injured him seriously and he had to go to the doctor and explain what had happened, and everyone found out? I stood in the doorway of the gaol, dazzled for a moment by the afternoon sun, looking around for him. But there was no sign of him. He had vanished.

It was then that I thought to look at my hand. Sticky white stuff clung between my fingers. Gingerly, I touched it with my other index finger. What had happened? It looked like pus. Did Roy have some sort of sore on his cock? I knew about such things. There had been some frightful pictures in the sealed section of an issue of
Cleo
some months back. Photos of sores and rashes and discharges that had frightened me so much, I never again looked at that particular issue. I was convinced that Roy must be infected. With dread wrenching up in me, I hurried down to the creek behind the gaol to wash my hands. But even as I plunged my hand into the water, I knew the odds were that it was probably too late. I was undoubtedly infected too.

The stuff on my hand didn’t wash away easily. In fact, the water only seemed to adhere it more stubbornly than ever. Frantically, I tried wiping my hand back and forth on the grass, which shifted some of it. Finally, I got rid of the last of it by intertwining my fingers and rubbing them back and forth vigorously in the water. I scrutinised my hand. It looked just the same as usual. There was no sign of a rash or any other visible manifestation of infection. I prayed that my swift action had saved me from whatever disease it was that Roy was suffering from.