In class that morning we had to go outside and find an ant and follow it for a while and write down everything we could about it—its size, its appearance, the way it moved, the way it reacted to other ants, and so on. After we’d done that we had to go and find another ant, and do the same thing again. Then we had to compare the two ants. It was amazing. They were so different; I’d never really thought about ants being different from each other before. They’d always just seemed like . . . ants. I guess it’s like people in a way—all being different, I mean. Maybe to people from outer space we look like ants.
In the afternoon we did some writing and we were allowed to choose our own topic. I couldn’t think of anything to write for a while, but then I wrote this:
SHADOWS
We were walking along the street, and it was full of sunshine. There were four of us: an old man, my father, my little brother and me. I don’t know where we were going, but I think it was to get water. We were wearing hats and carrying buckets.
As we walked we talked. The old man was showing us how to get there. My father kept going off to look at other things along the way. He collected some of them. My little brother was worried because he thought something was following us. I told him not to worry.
When we got there, the old man fell in the water and drowned. I thought my father would save him but he was nowhere to be found. My little brother was getting in too deep too, but I managed to pull him out before he got into trouble. I took him home and dried him, but we forgot our buckets, so there was no water at home that night.
It was a strange piece of writing. I didn’t understand it myself really, but it was a bit like a dream I’d had. I didn’t read it out to the class this time though.
At the end of the day, when there were still ten minutes left, we played a sort of game we sometimes played, called ‘Interviews’. Each time we played, a different kid would get asked all these crazy questions by Mr Murlin, and he or she would have to answer as quickly as possible. The rule was ‘Don’t think, just answer’. Today it was Michael Marsh and the first question was:
‘What’s your favourite finger?’
‘Fish finger.’
‘Who would you choose for Prime Minister?’
‘Inspector Gadget.’
‘What would you most like for a pet?’
‘A Walkman.’
‘What goes best with ice-cream?’
‘Liquid Paper.’
‘What’s your favourite kitchen appliance?’
‘Rocks.’
‘What’s your favourite word?’
‘Breakfast.’
‘Choose a nickname for yourself.’
‘Trogg.’
‘Who’s the best Year Five Teacher you ever had?’
‘Um . . . Pass . . .’ Michael said. Mr Murlin chucked a piece of chalk at him, then a duster, then a book, then everything he could lay his hands on—maps, pens, bags, jumpers. Michael retaliated with all those things, plus more. The air was full of missiles, as the rest of us ducked, laughed, yelled, then joined in. In the middle of it all, when we had Mr Murlin penned up behind a cupboard in the corner, and losing badly, Miss Holland walked in. There was a silence like you get in a paper bag. Mr Murlin just grinned at her and said, ‘Thank God for the cavalry.’ Miss Holland turned around and walked out. Just then the bell rang, and it was the end of classes for the day.
CHAPTER 16
Term was quickly coming to an end. Johnny and I, we didn’t have anything special to do. Wes was coming round to our places quite a lot: he was probably spending more time at our places than he was at his own. Johnny was teaching him how to ride a skateboard and being taught by Johnny was like having Don Bradman teach you cricket. Johnny was the hottest kid I’d ever seen on a skateboard. His ambition was to become a professional. Those guys make millions of dollars. I said I’d be his manager.
Once the holidays actually started I felt a bit bored. We said goodbye to Mr Murlin and went into town for a while, but we didn’t have any money. Michael Marsh was on the bus and he said he’d invite us to the farm again, on the first weekend of next term. We didn’t know if he’d keep his promise or not, but we sure hoped he would. He was a good kid.
I spent a lot of time with Grandpa as the holidays went on. He was definitely better now, nearly back to the way he used to be, except he moved a bit more slowly and got tired more quickly. He liked talking about the past a lot. Sometimes I liked listening to his stories; sometimes I got bored. Johnny and Wes always seemed to enjoy them though. It’s funny, you always like hearing other kids’ parents tell stories more than you do your own. Maybe because you’ve heard so many of them over and over again.
Grandpa told us his first teaching job had been just after the War, in a one-teacher school at Bunjap. He’d had fourteen pupils, but one of them was twenty-eight years-old, a farmer who’d been in the army and who’d decided while he was overseas that he needed an education. He couldn’t read or write. ‘What did you do with him?’ Johnny asked. ‘I made him School Captain,’ Grandpa answered.
One time he was Headmaster of a small country school, when a Duchess or somebody came to open a new building they’d put up. It was built of recycled timber, because new materials were still in short supply. Right under the spot on the verandah where the Duchess had to stand to sign the visitors’ book was a knothole in the floorboard. There was a kid in the school who had a false eye, a glass one. So what the kids did was to borrow the boy’s eye and put it in the knothole. The Duchess, in her light summer dress, stood over it and leant forward to sign the visitors’ book. A breeze stirred and blew her dress up; she smoothed it back in place again, looking down as she did so. Suddenly the ceremony was wrecked as the Duchess screamed, backed away, screamed again and, still backing away, fell off the verandah . . .
Grandpa really got on with Wesley too. After a while—I’m not sure how it started—he began reading Wes a book called Tiger in the Bush. I thought it’d be too hard for Wesley, but he seemed to love it. Grandpa used to read him a chapter a day, and Wes would be queuing up for it every morning.
Mum couldn’t get any time off work at all because she’d had so much during the term. And Anthony spent most of the time over at his mate Raffael’s place.
So it was a pretty quiet, slow holiday. I wasn’t all that sorry when the time came to go back to school, even though that’s not the sort of thing you’d want to admit publicly. But we had had a good term in Mr Murlin’s class and I was keen to get on with it.
Anyway, the day came when we had to start getting up at 8.00 again, having a fast shower and breakfast, and racing for the bus. Johnny and I had agreed to get the early bus, so I really had to move.
When we got to school, we dropped our bags and raced off to the classroom to say ‘Hello’ to Mr Murlin. We ran along the corridor, flung open the door and burst into the room yelling, ‘Da da! We’re back!’
A tall man in a checked suit was standing at the desk, sorting through some cards. He stopped what he was doing and looked at us coldly.
‘Mr Murlin has left the teaching service and I am your teacher now,’ he said. ‘You will oblige me by never entering a room again in that manner, for as long as I remain your teacher. Now leave quietly and close the door behind you.’
I should have guessed.
John Marsden
Looking For Trouble
Last week Mrs Hazell got us to write a story called ‘The Biggest Disaster I Ever Caused’. I should have asked for extra time to write it. I’ve got a feeling that by tomorrow I’ll be able to do a whole new version.
Seriously bored with his life, Tony decides to go looking for trouble. But when a strange and secretive family move in down the road, Tony begins to wonder whether trouble hasn’t come looking for him.
A warm and funny novel from the bestselling author of Staying Alive in Year 5.
John Marsden, Staying Alive in Year Five
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