The Crimes and Punishments of Miss Payne (3 page)

I'm a fairly hard worker at the subjects I enjoy, like English. Other stuff doesn't really interest me too much. Science is okay because it's quite beautiful and well worked out, like a poem. And some of the words are really cool. But phys ed sucks. I hate physical exercise and I can't see the point of it. And while we're on the subject of pointlessness, can anyone explain the value of drama lessons? Swaying like a tree or holding sweaty hands in a circle or pretending you're a bird. Call that adequate development of lifelong learning skills?

• Q. And what makes you think you will be a good journalist/teacher/copywriter/politician/organized crime boss?
  

• A. Well, even though I'm crap at reading and writing, I can do one hell of an impersonation of a sulfur-crested cockatoo in a cyclone.
  

Look, I don't want to give the impression that I'm a rebel or anything. I tend to do what the teachers tell me to do because it's easier that way. I'm not like Kiffo in that sense. He seems to think that anything the teachers want you to do is a direct challenge to do the opposite. That's okay, though. We're all different. I just keep my head down and my chest in.

That's probably enough for the time being. I'll get back to the story.

Oh, hang on. There is one other thing you just might find interesting. Then again, maybe you won't. Who can tell? Anyway, here is another interesting/boring revelation about Calma Harrison: my mother is a Westinghouse refrigerator.

So where was I?

“Creeping hell!” said Vanessa. “What in the name of God is that?”

I was bent over my exercise book, putting the final touches on a character star sign entry—

—when her hoarse whisper caught my attention. I looked up at her face. Her eyes were glazed with horror and her mouth turned down in an expression that seemed to indicate that something exceptionally smelly had just been thrust under her nose. Vanessa would have yawned if the Archangel Gabriel had materialized in front of her on a skateboard, so naturally I twisted my head to follow her line of sight. When I saw what she had seen, my jaw hit the desk….

Imagine a pitbull chewing a wasp and you'll have some idea of Miss Payne's expression when she entered our classroom after Miss Leanyer's dramatic departure. And I'm not talking about a normal, plug-ugly pitbull. I mean a pitbull that wasn't only at the end of the queue when looks were being dished out, but a pitbull that had missed the line altogether. The whole class gasped. One or two of the boys, the ones who spent all their time in the library playing chess, were on the point of passing out entirely. I'm fairly certain Melanie Simpson wet her knickers. I couldn't blame her. The vision in front of us would have made Attila the Hun soil his pants.

Miss Payne paced backward and forward at the front of the class for a few minutes. She was built like a Russian shot-put champion—even her bulging biceps had muscles on them. The walls of the classroom shook as she paced, and small wisps of plaster drifted from the ceiling. She was wearing an enormous black dress that could have doubled as a six-person tent. We are talking an imposing presence! But it was her face that held our attention most. Small, red, beady eyes darted here and there, looking for the slightest sign of disruption. Fat chance. None of us would have blinked if we'd been plugged into a wet socket. A thick forest of eyebrow hair matched a bushy growth on her upper lip. Her mouth was twisted into a sneer, with little beads of drool starting to dribble. I mean, if she really had been a dog, someone would have shot her before she had the chance to bite anyone.

After a minute or two, she stopped pacing and stood, like a brick wall, in the center of the classroom, completely blotting
out the blackboard. I could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall. Finally, the thin lips parted and she spoke. Imagine a voice that has the quality of rough sandpaper rubbing over solid granite and you will get the general idea.

“My name is Miss Payne,” she growled. “You will address me either as Miss or Miss Payne or Generalissimo or Führer. [I made those last two up.] Anyone who speaks without being asked will receive a detention. Any moving around without permission will incur a detention. Any slacking of any kind”—and here she swept her formidable gaze across the entire class—“will incur a detention. No extensions of any kind will be granted for assignments. Late submission will result in a mark of zero and a detention. Any unauthorized consumption of any material whatsoever will result in a detention. Any lateness, for any reason whatsoever, will result in a detention. Unauthorized breathing, smiling and generally enjoying yourself will result in ritual disembowelment and a detention. [I made that up as well.] Do I make myself clear?”

The silence within the class was broken by a strangled sob from somewhere at the back and the faint drip, drip, drip from Melanie Simpson's knickers. Miss Payne stepped forward, rattling the desks, and drew herself up to her full height of something in excess of six feet.

“I said, do I make myself clear?”

Thirty kids reacted as one.

“Yes, Miss.”

“Yes, Miss what?”

“Yes, Miss Payne.”

“That's better. Now get your books out. Failure to get your books out at the beginning of each lesson will result in a detention. Do not forget to bring writing materials. Failure to do so will result in a detention.”

Call me silly, if you like, but I was beginning to think that the notion of detention was becoming a recurrent linguistic motif.

“Now, I have been given some information about this class.” Miss Payne resumed her pacing. “It has been brought to my attention that this is a particularly poor class in terms of attitude and work rate. This will change immediately. I have also heard that you have a history of treating teachers badly. In particular, your last teacher received totally unacceptable treatment at your hands. I will not tolerate any repetition, or attempted repetition, of such behavior. Should you attempt to do so”—and there could be no doubt that her eyes were riveted to Jaryd Kiffing at this point—“then you will regret it. I promise you that. Do your work and behave yourselves and you will find me, if not friendly and
fuzzy
, then at least tolerable. Cross me and you'll wish you had never been born. Right, spelling test. Thirty commonly misspelled words. Anyone getting fewer than twenty words correct will receive a detention. First word—'iridescent.'”

I got twenty-nine. “Diarrhea” was the only stain on an otherwise clean sheet. Kiffo got one. Pretty remarkable. I would have put money on him getting a big fat zero. Actually, over half the class got fewer than twenty. I mean, they were
tough
words. At least two-thirds were words that the likes
of Kiffo had never even heard, let alone read. It was a little unfair. Still, never mind. I was okay.

Of course, I was interested to see what Miss Payne would do with over half the class. You couldn't give that many kids a detention.

I was wrong.

“I will see you eighteen here at lunchtime,” she said, “and we'll go over those words again. Now, quiet reading for the rest of the lesson.”

I've already told you that I love English, but I was really glad when the bell finally rang for recess. I'd often thought that a quiet classroom would be great—concentrate on the work, do some uninterrupted reading without Kiffo recreating one of the battles of Gallipoli with the other boys at the back of the class. But it was strange. The silence was complete, but it wasn't a silence that felt right, somehow. It was strained to the point that you couldn't even read without the pressure forcing itself into your consciousness. I suppose that at least I'd learned there can be different types of silence. When the bell did go, we all looked up at Miss Payne and waited for her to dismiss us. Normally there would have been a rush for the door and the smaller members of the class would be in physical danger of getting trampled to death. Not today. Miss Payne glowered at us for about thirty seconds.

“I'm waiting for complete quiet,” she said.

Complete quiet? You'd have got more noise in an insulated coffin. Maybe someone was doing some unauthorized breathing. Finally, we were allowed to file out, dazed and blinking.

Without any conscious decision we formed a large group on the oval. The sun was beating fiercely through the trees, sending shivers of reflected light from the discarded Coke cans and foil wrappers that artistically dotted the grass. It was time for a committee meeting, though for a while we stood there in stunned silence.

“What a bitch!” said Melanie Simpson finally.

“A bitch?” chipped in Natalie Sykes. “That's unfair on bitches, that is! If I was a bitch, I'd sue you for that comment.”

“You
are
a bitch, Natalie,” said Nathan Manning.

“Stuff you, Nathan,” replied Natalie.

“In your dreams, bitch.”

“Hang on, hang on.” I felt that it was important to get back to the agenda. “We're not here to have a go at each other. What about the Pitbull back there?”

There was a chorus of agreement.

“Yeah, right. What a bitch!”

“She's a bitch, all right.”

“A real bitch, that one.”

I felt we weren't making much progress.

“Okay.” I said. “No need for a secret ballot on that
motion. The
real
point, though, is what are we going to do about her?”

There was much rueful shaking of heads and scratching behind ears. We'd had no problem establishing that Miss Payne was of the canine persuasion, but survival tactics were a different matter. Kiffo, who rarely attended class meetings since he normally lost no time at recess in kicking a football around and building up a store of body odor for the rest of the morning, was prominent in the rueful scratching stakes. The silence deepened.

“I think,” said Nathan finally, the fruits of his deliberations breaking through to the cratered surface of his face, “I think she's a real bitch.”

“A valid point, Nathan,” I said, “and one that you make with your customary level of articulation. But, I repeat: what are we going to do?”

“I wonder what her first name is,” said Natalie. “Ima. Ima Payne. That's it!”

There was general chuckling, and fifteen minds bent themselves toward this amusing notion.

“I.B.A. Payne,” said Melanie Simpson.

“Wotta Payne,” said Kiffo, rather unconvincingly.

“Doris Payne,” said Nathan.

There was a silence.

“What do you mean ‘Doris Payne’?” said Julie Walker. “That doesn't make sense!”

“I had an aunt Doris once,” said Nathan. “And she was a real bitch as well.”

I tell you, at my school, it's hard to keep up with the white heat of intellectual debate.

“Anyway,” Kiffo chipped in, with no regard to the conversational etiquette of keeping to the subject in hand, “I'm not going to go to no detention. No way. I've never been to no detention no time and there's no way I'm going to no detention now.”

Running out of double negatives, he lapsed into brooding silence. Fortunately, the bell rang for class. I felt that progress had been minimal, and the way things were going, it was unlikely to have been more fruitful if recess had been extended. At least Kiffo was going to make a stand, though. I felt grateful for that. Vanessa and I made our thoughtful way toward the science block.

“What do you reckon, Vanessa?” I asked.

Vanessa slowly turned her face toward me.

“About what?”

“About Miss Payne!”

“Who?”

“The Hound of the Baskervilles, the English teacher from hell. The Pitbull!”

“I wasn't really listening,” she drawled, and floated off in the direction of math, trailing a little dark cloud of boredom behind her.

Kiffo looked lost at lunchtime. True to his word, he hadn't turned up to Miss Payne's detention. He walked around the oval, kicking his football in splendid isolation. He was a forlorn figure. I was looking forward to the next English class.
It seemed to me that battle lines had been well and truly drawn and the contest could be pretty equal. Of course, at that time I had no idea how it would all turn out. I remember thinking that even though Miss Payne could probably disembowel a horse with her teeth, the odds were still with Kiffo. I don't mean in a straight physical fight. I doubt if anyone without a black belt in five of the martial arts would stand much of a chance against the Pitbull. But physical strength counts for nothing when it's a teacher against a student. Base animal cunning, emotional ruthlessness and a complete lack of any moral fiber will always win out. Put that way, I couldn't see how Kiffo could fail. It was going to get interesting, though. There was no doubt in my mind about that. Unfortunately, I had to wait until the following day for the next English lesson. Fortunately, it was first up after home group.

The door crashed open and the Pitbull swept into the room. Once again we were treated to five minutes of red-eyed glowering and the menacing body posture of a sumo wrestler. She oozed down the aisles, darting glances from side to side, impaling with a steely gaze anyone who looked as if they might be beginning to get the first hazy notion of wrongdoing. Finally, she came to a halt in front of Kiffo's desk. Spreading her feet, she leaned forward and placed both fists onto the desk. It groaned in protest. Then there was silence.

“Jaryd Kiffing,” she said ominously, her voice low and charged with violence. “You didn't make detention yesterday. I am interested in your excuse. Not that it will be acceptable,
of course. You must understand that. But tell me, Mr. Kiffing. Was your absence due to amnesia or should I read something more sinister into it?”