Page 31 - Exile-ebook

30 AN EXILE OF THE MIND MELTING TONES OF THE PACIFIC 31

prow. A grim figurehead to guide his by boys. Martha, played by a into the school play, told blood- map of a declining Empire on his
charges in the sea of mashed potatoes, beautiful effeminate boy with a curdling stories of his wartime classroom wall where I planned
overcooked vegies and fatty meat. ginger wig and flowered frock, was experiences to a rapt audience. This my globe-trot and found in the
And yet a star did glitter amidst teased unmercifully and became sensitive student feigned trance-like antipodes the island nation of New
these treadmill years. Mrs Cratchit very popular with other exquisite attention, hands either side of my Zealand just visible in the blue
emerged unflappable in the annual boys. While I earned the nickname, head with a finger secretly plugged expanse of the South Pacific.
school play, A Christmas Carol ‘Scratchit Cratchit’. into each ear to muffle the horrors. My dream of travelling to a
by Charles Dickens. This was my School walls provided enticing The geography teacher whittled Gauguin paradise of grass-skirted
launch into future stardom. Michael blank canvasses to paint ambitious away the school hours drawing Polynesians and cascading water-
Parkinson of TV fame also played murals. Nudity not permitted. My elaborate pictures in chalks of many falls was becoming a reality. Now
this role at his own school a few years modest talent was unveiled to avoid a colours, remarkable images of all made possible with odd jobs and
before. And look where that got him. trampling in freezing mud by studded things communist. Steam trains pounds cadged from relatives. To
Boys’ schools tend to have a boots chasing a ball and my shins. puffed the length of the blackboard, sail off to the land Down Under
serious lack of female talent with Our English master, my favourite sporting hammers and sickles. where the air was pure and the sun
female parts performed reluctantly teacher who had press-ganged me I scrutinised a large red-blobbed shone long enough to tan the body.
My departure from the auld sod
was planned in secret. I was ready
to set out into the new world bliss-
fully unaware that dangerous things
could happen. A coddiwomple urge
to travel the globe when stepping
out into your own suburb wasn’t
safe. These were the days of stove-
piped Teddy Boys, leather-clad
Rockers, and the National Service.
If I thought travel was dangerous,
then routine was even worse.
A mixture of anxiety and antic-
ipation welled up as I clambered
up the gangway of the Rangitane
lugging a battered suitcase, a record
player and a shotgun slung over my

A 1950s postcard of Papeete.