Seven Strange - Brian Jacques

Wayne Manfield Lee sat his daughter upon the boulder and took several photographs (none of which later turned out). As the car drove off up the lane he studied his daughter in the rearview mirror. She was sitting on the backseat with her sisters, eating English candies and discussing the ghostly occurrence. Wayne winked at his wife, and she smiled back understandingly. Young girls were forever imagining things; there was too much creepy stuff on television. Anyhow, in a few short years Agnes would discover boys in earnest and forget all this nonsense. Tammy passed a tissue box over to her daughters to wipe their sticky hands.

“Agnes honey, that surely is something, your first English ghost on your first visit over here. Wait’ll we get home and tell Aunt Gail, though I wouldn’t say too much to the kids at school. They’ll think you’re nutty. Keep it a secret to yourself, kitten.”

The car purred off the gravel onto smooth tarmac, leaving the deserted path lying peacefully in its wake.

7

Bullies are a cowardly breed,

Vicious, nasty, yes indeed.

But this of course you probably know,

Having encountered a bully or so.

Bullies never smile, they sneer.

Bullies never laugh, they jeer.

And bullies never, as a rule,

Pick on someone big at school.

The innocent, the small, the weak,

Are easy targets that they seek.

The frightened and the not so sure,

Become the victims who endure

A twisted arm, a hard-tugged ear,

Torment, torture, shock and fear.

Bus fare, money meant for lunch,

Donated to some bullying bunch,

From little ones who sob through break,

Terrified! For goodness sake.

Wouldn’t you just love to be

The one who stands courageously;

The one who has the guts to say,

“Bullies, you have had your day!”

Read on, dear reader young, read on,

You’ll find there’s hope for everyone.

R.S.B. Limited

There were three of them lounging at the school gates, two boys and a girl. They looked like trouble, all big and tough. Jonathan walked more and more slowly toward them, wishing he could suddenly turn and run away. Anywhere, as long as it was not in the direction of his new school and its bullies. His new school uniform made him stand out like a glace cherry on a white frosted sandwich cake.

For the next two years Jonathan would be living in the house that had once belonged to his grandparents —Uncle Fred and Aunt Helen owned it now. He had been sent there by his father from the army camp. Jonathan had been brought up in army camps; his father was a soldier and was allowed to have his wife and child with him while on home posting. But now the regiment was going abroad, out east to what his dad described as a “political hotbed.” Children weren’t allowed out there. He complained long and loud that his mother would be going, but Dad was adamant. Jonathan had to go and live with his uncle and aunt. He recalled his father’s parting words:

“Buck up, son, two years isn’t a lifetime. You’ll like Aunt Helen and Uncle Fred. Besides, this’ll give you a chance at some proper education. Saint Michael’s was your great-grandfather’s old school, y’know. You’ll see his name on the list in the assembly hall. Head prefect 1902 to 1903 Jonathan Coleman, same name as yourself.”

Jonathan felt his cheeks flush bright red as he faced the trio of senior pupils blocking the school gates. The girl was very tall, taller than the two boys, one of whom was quite tall, while the other appeared quite runty. She looked down her nose at Jonathan as if he were something she had trodden in. Taking a cigarette from her top pocket she turned to the smaller of the two boys; he lit it from a book of matches. A jet of smoke was directed into Jonathan’s eyes and he blinked as the girl addressed him.

“Name?”

“Er, Jonathan.”

“Jonathan what?”

“Jonathan Coleman.”

The girl looked faintly amused; the two boys guffawed. Out of the corner of his eye Jonathan watched other pupils going into school by a gate further down. He decided to use that one in future. The girl spoke to him in a superior manner.

“So, a little coalman, eh? Well, we don’t really need a coalman. Saint Michael’s is centrally heated by gas now. See us at break, behind the sports equipment hut on the big field. Okay?”

Jonathan nodded dumbly.

The bigger of the two boys knocked the schoolbag from Jonathan’s shoulder so that the contents spilled out on to the path. He picked up the can of cola and pocketed it, pointing a finger that touched the tip of Jonathan’s nose. “See you at break, coalman, don’t forget!”

They sauntered off laughing, leaving their victim behind to pick up his belongings and repack his bag.

Jonathan went through the routine formalities. This was not the first new school he had been in, though it was far older and larger than army camp schools. A vague, overweight principal told him how fortunate he was to be attending a school like Saint Michael’s; a twittering assistant principal said she hoped he would do as well as his great-grandfather, whose name was printed in gold on the assembly hall list. An indifferent school secretary took his particulars, illnesses, address, and names of relatives to contact. Jonathan missed breaktime—he was installed in a tiny room and given an aptitude assessment test paper by a Mrs. Van Horn, who said it was to determine his IQ. The boys and girls who were his classmates were pretty much the same as schoolchildren anywhere. They all knew each other, having gone through Saint Michael’s together, and were not prepared to accept the new boy into their company right away. Jonathan was alone, a stranger, and acutely aware of it.

The buzzer sounded for lunch. Miserably Jonathan sat alone at a corner table in the canteen, eating ham sandwiches that tasted like blotting paper between ceiling tiles with soggy edges. He was drinking a glass of milk that he had bought at the counter when his empty cola can, crushed almost beyond recognition, slammed down on the tabletop. It was the tall boy. He touched the tip of Jonathan’s nose with his finger again.

“Coalman, you didn’t wash your ears out properly, or maybe you don’t have much of a memory. You missed your appointment at break. Why?”

Jonathan stammered through a mouthful of ham sandwich and milk, “I was, er, had to test, er, assessment.”

The tall boy smashed his fist down on the remaining sandwich. “Behind the sports hut. Now!”

He spun on his heel and swaggered off, helping himself to anything that caught his fancy as he passed between the tables. Nobody said a word or made a move to stop him.

The milk tasted sour in Jonathan’s mouth as he turned out of the cafeteria into the main corridor. Standing at the far end was a boy his own age, and he looked very friendly. Jonathan smiled—he wanted to get to know the boy—but with a cheerful wave the boy skipped off down an intersecting corridor. Jonathan ran to catch up with him, but he reached the intersection in time to see the door to the sports field swing shut. Dashing down the passage he swung the door open.

“Aaaaahhhh!”

The tall boy had him by the ear. He twisted it savagely.

“Where did you get to, coalman? You’re going to be late again. Miss Bingham doesn’t like coalmen calling late, neither does Mr. Robbins, and as for Mr. Smith, well you can tell how I feel about it!”

Tugging at Jonathan’s ear he marched him across the field. Through the tears forming in his eyes Jonathan could see no sign of the friendly boy he had encountered in the corridor.