Spud - Learning to Fly (17 page)

I’ve reclaimed my diary. I’m back on my feet and ready to face the world again. Sister Collins says I can leave the san, which is a relief because I was sleeping next to an unhealthy looking first year called Woodrot. (I didn’t ask questions.) Sister Collins has also forbidden me from playing rugby this term for fear that another bang on the pip might result in permanent damage. Despite feeling a little dazed and unsteady, I set off determinedly towards the house and ignored the loud sniggers from the common room as I slowly made my way up the stairs.

I didn’t care and didn’t stop. Instead I packed up the collected works of WS and headed for the hills. Under a tall pine tree on the edge of the forest overlooking the school, I repeated my audition piece well over a hundred times. I returned for roll call (and a few hundred mocking taunts about being stampeded by a Pig) knowing Lysander’s monologue better than the names of my family.

BRING IT ON!

Feeling splendid. Yesterday’s audition was the best I’ve ever had because I refused to be nervous and intimidated by Viking’s fury and shouting. After the audition he screamed, ‘That’s more like it!’ and told me to keep an eye on the theatre notice board.

I’ve already checked it twice this morning but thus far there is still only the original auditions notice on which somebody had scribbled
Colin/Colon!!!
in red ink.

I found it difficult to concentrate on schoolwork and Reverend Bishop’s confirmation class barely registered a blip on my radar screen. I’m constantly daydreaming about playing a Shakespearian hero and kissing beautiful women dressed in tights in a dark corner backstage.

22:00 Vern has somehow acquired another box of matches and spent the evening lighting one match after another and staring mesmerised at the flame. Nobody could sleep until the cretin had struck up the entire box and finally called it a night. Even Rambo reckons Vern is a serious hazard with his newfound discovery of fire.

On the way to breakfast I noticed a crowd of boys across the cloister gazing up at the theatre notice board. I raced over and fought my way through the excited crowd – it was the call-backs list of those who had made it through to the second round of auditions. The list was in alphabetical order so it was impossible to know which of the twenty-five names were up for which parts. Seeing my name was more of a relief than a thrill. Seeing Vern’s name was a complete shock. Rambo, Fatty and Boggo also made the shortlist, as did Spike, Runt and Meg Ryan’s Son. I noticed Geoff Lawson’s name above mine along with the irritating Smith, who boasted that he had been offered the role of Oliver in first year before ending up in the chorus line.

Poor Garlic was gutted that he hadn’t made the cut. This despite Viking having threatened him with death should he ever audition for anything ever again. He just couldn’t understand why Vern had made it through to the second round ahead of him. Garlic, still sporting a puzzled expression and watery eyes, complained, ‘Even Meg Ryan’s Son got in! He’s like barely up to my knee caps!’ Fatty placed a friendly arm around Garlic’s shoulders and explained that there was no shame in being edged out by Meg Ryan’s Son since acting obviously ran in the family and he was also fairly good looking on account of his mom’s excellent facial features. Boggo also pointed out the fact that auditioning for the female part of Hermia had probably not been the best idea on Garlic’s part.

‘How was I meant to know I was playing a girl’s part?’ protested Garlic as if it was somehow our fault and not his. After sniggering repeatedly like a machine gun, Boggo informed us that he had overheard Viking telling Mrs Bosch that Garlic had repeatedly referred to his character as
Hernia
at the audition. To a chorus of loud cackling laughter Garlic shouted, ‘What kind of a name is Hermia anyway? Why can’t we do Grease instead?’

Viking has instructed those left in the race to keep our entire Friday afternoon free and warned that the final auditions may run through the evening and into the next morning if he is not satisfied with our progress. Boggo was so excited that he performed a mostly Shakespearian speech from the top of his locker, before pulling down his pants and mooning the dormitory.

Pike bust us talking about the play after lights out and ordered us all to write a five thousand-word essay by Friday as punishment.

The title:

A notice on the board read:

Right now GT is a school hero!

It was a fantastic feeling to be packing away my books for the day at 11 o’clock. I wish school were always like this … As is tradition, a vast game of touch rugby spanning two rugby fields sprang to life without any announcement or notice needed. Standing out on the far right wing to avoid any potential head collisions, the ball was eventually flung across to our side of the field. I positioned myself perfectly to catch it but Garlic jumped in the way and the ball rebounded off his forehead before disappearing back to the other end of the field from where it never returned.

Boggo nearly had a fistfight with Thinny after stealing his bike and driving to Nottingham Road for magazines and supplies. Thinny was seriously steamed up and had to be restrained by JR Ewing and the last remaining Darryl before doing something rash like hitting a senior. Boggo suggested that Thinny should be honoured that he stole his bike, and handed him a business card for good measure. Thinny’s face grew very red but he wisely kept his mouth shut. Boggo returned to the dormitory with a bag full of goodies and accused Thinny of having a serious attitude problem. I asked Boggo why, if he has a new bike of his own, does he still use Thinny’s. Boggo snapped his fingers in front of my face and said, ‘Because mine is a limited edition. By next year it will be worth double the price.’ He then tapped his finger against his temple and told me I had no business acumen and suggested I buy his business manual.

23:30 Can’t sleep. Worrying about the play. If I don’t make it I have no excuses because I’ve done everything to master Shakespeare. If I can’t make The Dream, then what chance do I have of cracking it in the big wide world? Zip.

THERE’S NOTHING TO LOSE!

Spent the afternoon with Fatty in the archives. Thanks to his scoliosis/peptic heart murmur and my concussion, we were able to kick back, drink tea and talk about ghosts instead.

‘I’ve got something mega hectic to show you,’ said Fatty as he bustled across the dimly lit room to a freestanding bookshelf called ‘Old School’. He pulled down an ancient school magazine and collapsed onto the couch next to me breathing heavily through his mouth.

‘This is going to blow your mind, Spuddy,’ he said as he furiously flipped through the pages, greedily licking the ends of his fingers at regular intervals. He found the page and thumped the yellowing magazine page down on my lap and said, ‘Check it out. Boggo, Sidewinder and I think this guy is the spitting image of you.’

Fatty pointed out a figure in his school uniform in an old black and white rugby photograph. I didn’t see any similarity between us, and Fatty looked even more unimpressed when I refused to concede that our chins were identical.

‘Anyway,’ Fatty continued, ‘how’s this? Not only do you look identical, but his first name is Milton!’

His name was Milton Montgomery. The photograph was taken in 1913. He was killed in North Africa in 1918.

I pointed out to Fatty that there was a university degree in brackets after Milton Montgomery’s name, which clearly made him the teacher seated next to the boy in question. Fatty snatched the photograph back and his face fell as he realised his mistake. Still it didn’t stop him saying, ‘You’ve got five years, buddy. You’d better make the most of them,’ before disappearing into the storeroom to dig up more nasty coincidences. I then settled into a warm shaft of sunlight at the window to write this.