essay on the subject ‘Saved by the Skin of my Teeth’. Never mind the story about Uncle Vic, my adventure in the drain was pure gold. Having an idea for an essay always changed things. It made my pulse race and filled my head with so many possibilities there was no room for anything else; no room for fear and no room for vindictiveness. That could wait. I wanted to start my story immediately while my impressions of being trapped in the drain were still fresh.
I didn’t know whether to set the essay in a stricken submarine with me being the only survivor, exiting the hatch in the conning tower at the very last moment, or leave it in the drain, but this time have the water reaching up into the shaft. The latter idea appealed to me most but I knew there’d be hell to pay if my parents or teachers ever got their hands on it. They’d realise I was writing from personal experience. Yet the more I thought about it the more I wanted to set the story in the drain. I decided to give it a shot but have Catholic kids go down into it instead.
Catholic kids were always getting into trouble. It was generally accepted that Catholic kids were tougher than we were because the Brothers beat toughness into them as part of their curriculum. Being tougher it seemed reasonable that they’d take bigger risks. I’m ashamed to say my parents were receptive to criticismof Catholic kids and they weren’t on their own there. Catholic kids copped the blame for most of the trouble that occasionally flared up when the truth was they weren’t any different to us. Once I threw the Catholics into the mix, I knew I was onto a winner.
I heard Rod call out to me from the kitchen, which usually meant Mum needed something from the grocer’s. I was far too busy sorting out plot details to run errands, so I snuck back out into the shop, out of sight of Mum and her customers, and hid in the recess beneath the hinged section of the counter. I wanted to think through my new essay but instead I overheard what Mum’s customers were saying.
That’s when I learned what had happened to Mack.
CHAPTER FIVE
The school has a new swimming pool built into the bank alongside the playing field. All the boys love it and all the girls hate it. The girls hate the pool because it is always cold or raining when it is our class’s turn to swim in it. The boys love it because even a cold swimming pool is better than doing arithmetic or comprehension. Sometimes after swimming our feet and hands stay white and numb for more than an hour.
A N EXTRACT FROM ‘M Y S CHOOL ’
Kids are always surprised by the way events unfold. I remember how stunned Peter Davis was the day his parents separated. Peter sat three desks behind me next to Clive and played in the same cricket team. We didn’t have a lot to do with each other because he lived over in Herne Bay, at least a couple of miles from the school. But I knew him well enough. I remember him sobbing uncontrollably at his desk. He was taken to the sick bay where apparentlyhe bawled even louder. You could have knocked us down with a feather. Peter was a tough kid. He’d woken up that morning and discovered his dad had left home. One day he lived with his mother and father. The next day he just lived with his mother. He’d had no inkling his parents wouldn’t live together all their lives. Peter absolutely adored his dad, who had once played representative rugby for Auckland and sometimes lent a hand coaching the school team. We all thought Pete’s dad was pretty neat. He was good-looking, tall and strong, and great at all sports. Praise from him was better than praise from anyone else. We all wished our dads were more like Peter’s.
I have no idea what happened to Peter because he moved away soon after and he has no bearing on this story. The point is, Peter loved his parents, was loved by them and assumed his parents must also love each other. From his perspective, everything was as sweet as pie. His sense of betrayal
I didn’t know whether to set the essay in a stricken submarine with me being the only survivor, exiting the hatch in the conning tower at the very last moment, or leave it in the drain, but this time have the water reaching up into the shaft. The latter idea appealed to me most but I knew there’d be hell to pay if my parents or teachers ever got their hands on it. They’d realise I was writing from personal experience. Yet the more I thought about it the more I wanted to set the story in the drain. I decided to give it a shot but have Catholic kids go down into it instead.
Catholic kids were always getting into trouble. It was generally accepted that Catholic kids were tougher than we were because the Brothers beat toughness into them as part of their curriculum. Being tougher it seemed reasonable that they’d take bigger risks. I’m ashamed to say my parents were receptive to criticismof Catholic kids and they weren’t on their own there. Catholic kids copped the blame for most of the trouble that occasionally flared up when the truth was they weren’t any different to us. Once I threw the Catholics into the mix, I knew I was onto a winner.
I heard Rod call out to me from the kitchen, which usually meant Mum needed something from the grocer’s. I was far too busy sorting out plot details to run errands, so I snuck back out into the shop, out of sight of Mum and her customers, and hid in the recess beneath the hinged section of the counter. I wanted to think through my new essay but instead I overheard what Mum’s customers were saying.
That’s when I learned what had happened to Mack.
CHAPTER FIVE
The school has a new swimming pool built into the bank alongside the playing field. All the boys love it and all the girls hate it. The girls hate the pool because it is always cold or raining when it is our class’s turn to swim in it. The boys love it because even a cold swimming pool is better than doing arithmetic or comprehension. Sometimes after swimming our feet and hands stay white and numb for more than an hour.
A N EXTRACT FROM ‘M Y S CHOOL ’
Kids are always surprised by the way events unfold. I remember how stunned Peter Davis was the day his parents separated. Peter sat three desks behind me next to Clive and played in the same cricket team. We didn’t have a lot to do with each other because he lived over in Herne Bay, at least a couple of miles from the school. But I knew him well enough. I remember him sobbing uncontrollably at his desk. He was taken to the sick bay where apparentlyhe bawled even louder. You could have knocked us down with a feather. Peter was a tough kid. He’d woken up that morning and discovered his dad had left home. One day he lived with his mother and father. The next day he just lived with his mother. He’d had no inkling his parents wouldn’t live together all their lives. Peter absolutely adored his dad, who had once played representative rugby for Auckland and sometimes lent a hand coaching the school team. We all thought Pete’s dad was pretty neat. He was good-looking, tall and strong, and great at all sports. Praise from him was better than praise from anyone else. We all wished our dads were more like Peter’s.
I have no idea what happened to Peter because he moved away soon after and he has no bearing on this story. The point is, Peter loved his parents, was loved by them and assumed his parents must also love each other. From his perspective, everything was as sweet as pie. His sense of betrayal
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