Tuesday 3rd December

The matrics performed their traditional haka in the main quad after their final exam. Afterwards the house gathered to say goodbye (and good riddance) to the class of 1991. Emberton tried to break my wrist when he shook my hand. Anderson didn’t look any of the Crazy Eight in the eyes and Death Breath is still looking terribly grief stricken about Freddie M even though it’s been over a week since the news.

When Pike shook my hand he said rather ominously, ‘Ciao, Milton, see you in six weeks.’ I asked him if he was coming back for post-matric but he just grinned and refused to answer. No doubt a final attempt to ruin my holiday.

Anderson is staying on until Friday to keep discipline in the house. The third years are suddenly all racing around looking powerful and important. Rambo reckons they’re all making a last ditch attempt at pushing for prefect.

17:00 I was setting off along the cloisters to fetch my trunk from the store room when I noticed Sparerib carrying a huge pile of papers and stationery from his office. I lagged back so that I wouldn’t have to speak to him but he then dropped half his stuff all over the cloisters and in the gutter. The wind was blowing the papers everywhere and I felt obliged to help him out. I knelt down to pick up some textbooks and met Sparerib’s face eye to wonky eye just as he pounced on some flapping papers. He suddenly seemed to me to be a different human being. Like he was twenty years older. He was pale and sickly and sad – but I mean really sad like it was impossible that there was anything that could cheer him up ever again. He said, ‘Thanks, John, let’s take them back to the office. I’ll bring my wheelbarrow when the wind dies down.’ I headed back into his office and dumped the stuff on the floor near the cupboard where he keeps his canes.

Sparerib placed the rest of the papers and books on his desk and continued looking away from me and out the window which looks onto his house. Suddenly I realized that his shoulders were shaking and then a low moaning sound escaped from his lips like an animal in pain. I didn’t know what to do so I started a very steady reverse creep back towards the office door. I was just centimetres away from freedom when the wind slammed the door shut with a huge bang. Sparerib turned round and his eyes were red and stained with tears. ‘John,’ he said in a broken voice, ‘what… what should I do?’

Here was my housemaster with tears running down his cheeks asking a rather small and insignificant second year what he should do. I didn’t know what to say and I couldn’t use my old trick of shaking my head sadly and looking out the window because Sparerib was staring at me with tears streaming out of his wonky eye, demanding an answer to what seemed like quite a serious question. Thankfully he spoke again because so far I hadn’t come up with anything helpful. He said, ‘What do you do when you’re a small wooden raft surrounded by a… a seething sea of complete madness?’

He seemed to be asking this question more of himself than of me. But I felt like I finally had the answer to his question. I cleared my throat and said, ‘You keep a diary, sir.’

Sparerib glared at me like he was about to start shouting but then his face seemed to almost shatter into a smile. He started laughing loudly, although tears were still streaming down his face. It seemed unnatural for Sparerib to laugh. It made you think that he might be on the verge of a sudden seizure.

But his laughter died as quickly as it had begun and his face returned to looking desperately sad again. He studied me for some time before saying, ‘Thank you, Milton.’ He then dismissed me with a very formal nod.

I left my housemaster’s office for the last time and realized that I didn’t hate Sparerib anymore. Perhaps it’s because for the first time he didn’t seem to hate me. Maybe it’s just that I feel sorry for him now. This doesn’t mean that I necessarily like him… We’ll call it a truce.

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 598