A Short Story from the Archives:
Vol. 8, No. 32, Pages 229–233 (January–June 1961)
Sonny Boy lifted the lid of his desk cautiously and peered at the big ripe mango which was resting on his reading book. There was a great gnawing in his stomach as he had not eaten since lunch time and it had been only split peas soup with two dumplings in it. That was since 12.30 pm. He wondered if he dared take two quick bites before Mr. Callender returned from the toilet. He put out his hand to take it, then drew it away again. It was too big a risk, he decided. The juice would be all over his fingers and, besides, Mr. Callender would smell it. It was a quarter to five. He would wait until five, when he hoped Mr. Callender would let him go home.
He bit another piece from the pencil he was holding and his eyes wandered listlessly round the room and finally fastened on the open door before him from which Mr. Callender’s plump figure would emerge at any moment. He was writing an essay on “Birds” and there seemed so little he could say. He did not know many birds anyway. There was only the blackbird and the sparrow, and perhaps seagulls. Why couldn’t
Mr. Callender give him a composition on something he knew about—crabbing, for instance. He could write pages about that. His mind was brought back abruptly to the present as Mr. Callender appeared.
“Finished yet? You don’t have to take the whole evening to write one piece of composition.”
“Yes, sir,” he said. He had only written six lines which were really only a list of the few birds he knew, and some like the nightingale and the swallow that he had read about. It was better to get it over, though. To wait longer was only to prolong the agony.
“Bring it here!”
He rose slowly and pushed back the chair with his right calf. It scraped harshly and tottered for a moment, before it crashed to the floor.
“Put some life in you, boy. That’s all you can do. This can liven you up, you know,” and he stretched out his hand towards the leather strap which remained either curled up like a lazy snake on his desk, or hung languorously from his shoulder. No one would suspect that there was such a deadly sting in its tail.
Sonny Boy picked up the chair smartly and walked with a sinking heart towards the head teacher. He handed him the exercise book half-closed. Mr. Callender snatched it from his hand and glared at the few lines. Their smudged inkiness looked so pitifully inadequate against the vast expanse of white unused paper.
“So that’s how you waste my time! Think you can win a scholarship like that? Well, you go back and fill up that page, or else your back will know why not.”
Sonny Boy’s lips trembled. His stomach was really folding up now and the wall clock pointed to five to five.
“I don’t know anything about birds, sir,” he whispered, the front of his left canvas shoes rubbing on the laces of the right.
“Oh, you don’t? Well, it is time you learnt.” He flung the exercise book back at him and walked towards a cupboard at the back of the room. He unlocked it and, after a moment’s fumbling, picked out a slim, red book. It was worm-eaten and he blew some fine dust from it before handing it to Sonny Boy.
“Read the first chapter of this and then make a summary of what you have read.”
Sonny Boy took the book in his inky fingers and through tears, he read the title—Birds of Western Europe. He stumbled back to his desk and hastily wiped away a tear with the back of his hand. He was glad the other boys in his class were not here to see his weakness. He never cried, no matter how hard that strap flayed his seat. But now, he was so hungry.
It ended eventually. He had struggled through a maze of difficult words and had understood, only imperfectly, what it was all about. Still he managed to fill the rest of the page and his letters became noticeably larger as the composition lumbered towards its close.
“You may go now. Stay again after school tomorrow.” He suspected that Mr. Callender let him go only because he himself was tired.
Sonny Boy leapt down the stairs two at a time as he dug his teeth into the mango. There was only one week left. He would be glad when this wretched scholarship exam was over. He had known no peace since he had been chosen with four others for special coaching. Every afternoon, at 3.30 when the other children had gone, they had to remain behind to be subjected to a relentless drill in arithmetic and composition. There had been a gradual weeding out, and now only Sonny Boy remained to face the full blast of Mr. Callender’s erudition. Sometimes Mr. Francis, the assistant teacher, took the lessons, then Sonny Boy enjoyed it. He made him write about exciting things like carnival and space ships. Mr. Callender always grumbled afterwards that this scholarship exam was a serious business and there was no time for such foolishness. Sonny Boy would be twelve in November and this was his last chance.
It was not only Mr. Callender who was after him. That is what made it so bad. Ma and Nennen were just the same. Home used to be such a happy place where he could do as he pleased. Now he could no longer take his bag of cashew nuts and go next door to play “Jacks” with Roland and Carl. He was forbidden to play cricket in the gap, or go down to watch the boys tune the pans and beat steelband. Usually it was nearly six o’clock by the time he came home nowadays. Ma and Nennen would fuss around him and as soon as he had eaten, they would light the big kerosene lamp, which was normally used only when visitors came. He had to sit at the table and do more sums from the Longman’s Arithmetic which Mr. Callender had told Ma to buy. He liked Arithmetic but there was a limit to it. Sometimes he would write little compositions about jets, or cricket on the beach, to amuse himself but Ma always hovered anxiously over him and she disapproved of his mere writing. Sums she could see and understand a little. They looked impressive on paper and she felt he was really working when he was doing them. Sometimes he merely copied out numbers on the book and wrote down imaginary answers. She would pat him on the back fondly and say, “That’s right, me child. You get what I didn’t get.”
He could not understand this concern. There was always an anxious look in her eyes when she spoke about the scholarship. It hovered about the house these days like a sinister spirit. Even the neighbours regarded him as something special and frequent enquiries were made about when “it” was. Ma was always talking about how good education was and you could not get on without it. She was not educated, he thought, and there was nothing wrong with her. As for Mr. Callender! He launched into long exhortations which Sonny Boy never really heard. The one thing he understood was that he was expected to bring credit to St. Patrick’s Boys’ School, St. Patrick’s parish and most of all to Mr. Callender himself.
Ma was fussing as usual. Sonny Boy stood stiff and clean from head to toe. Ma had ironed his shirt a week in advance and it seemed to have more starch than usual. His new shoes squeaked as he walked and they pinched his toes.
“You have your pen and pencil?” She pulled at his tie for the umpteenth time.
“Yes, Ma.” He wondered how much longer his toes could stand this. They had to walk down to the end of the gap to catch the bus. The exam was held in town.
“I will carry the ink and the ruler.” Ma was wearing her best clothes too—the white hat and dress she had bought last Christmas for the church outing. Sonny Boy could tell that she was proud of him. She held the ruler awkwardly, but in some vague way it shed a gleam of academic glory over her. Many of the neighbours would be at the stand-pipe. They would see her taking her son to sit the scholarship exam. Sonny Boy wished he could do something about his feet.
“Ma, I could take off my shoes till I get to the bus?”
“What!” She turned on him so sharply that he almost fell over. “Boy, you must be mad! Come on. Walk fast. It must be nearly nine o’clock. The sun getting high.”
She held his hand and pulled him along. They were late.
The other candidates had already taken their places. A lady was standing at the door with a list in her hand.
“You are late. What name?”
“Sendall Thomas,” Ma answered nervously.
“Yes.” She ticked the name off on her list. “Well, hurry along; on your toes! The gentleman will show you where to sit.”
His stomach seemed to be contracting suddenly. He held out his hand for the ink and ruler and Ma clung to his shoulder.
“God bless you, me child.” Her voice trembled, and he was not sure that he did not want to remain out there with her, but the lady pushed him forward impatiently.
“Hurry on!”
There must have been about three hundred boys and girls in the large main room of the Town Hall. A gentleman who seemed to stand at the other end of time, beckoned him down the aisle. Like a robot he progressed down the room. He did not know whether the beat of his heart or the squeak of his shoes was the louder, but he reached the shadowy beckoning figure at last. A hand moved up like a signpost and pointed to a seat. Two boys had to stand up to let him pass in and he bounced against his desk so that the ink spilled a little. However, the arithmetic paper was in his hand at last.
They were not bad really. He had done sums like that dozens of times and he had
to write about cricket, so that was not so bad either. He still could not see why Ma and Mr. Callender made such a fuss.
They were out in the courtyard. Boys and girls from all over the island milled about between mothers and schoolmasters . He spotted Ma’s hat and shouted.
“Ma!”
He bounded towards her and stopped short. There was Mr. Callender. He too had come to be present at the kill.
“The papers were quite easy. You should do well,” he said. Sonny Boy had never noticed him so relaxed before. He wanted to tell Ma all about it but Mr. Callender’s presence overawed him. Before he could say anything a bespectacled gentleman strutted up and thrust out his hand.
“Hello Callender! You here too? You country fellows are vying with us these days. How many have you got?” He gave a swift scornful glance at Sonny Boy whose shoes had begun to hurt again, and he was fidgeting. He remembered now. That was Mr. Tallboy, headmaster of Colville School, the largest elementary school in town. His school got nearly half of the sixteen government scholarships every year.
Ma had been ill at ease and she took the opportunity for them to slip away.
Life was good again. For the next three weeks Sonny Boy could enjoy cricket in the gap to his heart’s content. He came to the house now, panting and hugged a homemade bat under his arm. His shirt tail flapped against his khaki shorts as he burst into the room. Nennen was standing by the table and Ma was bending over a newspaper. He had never seen her with one before.
“Me boy name in the paper,” she sobbed. Sonny Boy looked over her shoulder. There was a spot of grease on a list of words where her finger still rested.
At the top he saw his own name.