Don't Call Me Ishmael (11 page)

For a while there I almost felt like I was a normal person. I even started to think that maybe Ishmael Leseur's Syndrome was just a figment of my imagination or that somehow, miraculously, I had been cured. And why wouldn't I? I was a part of the most successful debating team in recent St Daniel's history; James Scobie, school celebrity and personal mascot of the St Daniel's First Fifteen rugby team, was my friend; and Barry Bagsley, my former tormentor, was reduced to a skulking figure in the background. As for Kelly Faulkner … hey, well, who could tell? If I could survive a chronic case of Ishmael Leseur's, anything was possible, right?

Even at home they noticed a change in me. Mum said that I looked like ‘the cat that had swallowed the cream'. Dad, on the other hand, said he was worried that too much happiness wasn't character building and suggested that I should think about getting married. This resulted in Mum thumping Dad's shoulder with what he described as ‘the punch that killed Bruce Lee'.

And can you believe this-even Prue was impressed. She called me the brains behind the debating team. That really got me, that one–my little sister Prudence Leseur, official near-genius, saying that
I
was the brains. Talk about the kettle calling the pot an excellent heater of water. Normally it was Prue who stole the limelight. Not that she meant to, or anything like that–she was just being herself. Here, I'll give you a classic example: The Clash of the Peg People.

It all started when I was in Year One at Moorfield Primary and our teacher Miss Sorrensen brought along a box of chunky wooden clothes pegs and said we were going to make some peg people. It was a lot of fun. We drew on faces, gave them cotton wool hair, painted them and made clothes for them.

I made Batman.

I remember spending hours wrapping black tape around the peg to give it muscles, using black crepe paper for the cape and moulding a headpiece out of black plasticine. When he was finished, I was so proud that I took him out in front to show the whole class. Miss Sorrensen held up my peg Batman and asked, ‘Who knows who this is?' Nearly every hand shot up straightaway. I grinned triumphantly.

‘Philip, can you tell us who Ishmael has made?'

‘That's easy-the Fat Controller from
Thomas the Tank Engine!'
Philip said confidently, while the rest of the class nodded enthusiastically around him.

Now that would have been bad enough, but the real point of the story is that two years later, when Prue was in Year One,
Miss Sorrensen trotted out the peg people idea again. But do you think my little sister Prudence made Batman or Ronald McDonald or even one of the Wiggles? Oh no, she got out Dad's old
Time
magazines, found a series on ‘the most influential people of the century', researched around a hundred scientists, thinkers, leaders, artists and entertainers from the past hundred years, and then settled on a top ten consisting of Albert Einstein, Nelson Mandela, Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr., Sigmund Freud, the Wright Brothers, John Maynard Keynes, Winston Churchill, Picasso and the Beatles. Then she recreated each of them in peg form with uncanny accuracy and detail. Of course they made my pathetic effort, which Dad had thoughtfully christened the Bat Controller, look like a black blob in comparison.

But the peg people saga didn't stop there. They became an obsession for Prue. Why stop at ten? Why limit them to people from the last one hundred years? What about Shakespeare? Da Vinci? Michelangelo? Newton? Didn't they deserve their own pegs too? Then Mum got into the act. Where are the women? Joan of Arc? Madame Curie? Audrey Hepburn? And what about the writers? Austen? Hemingway? Joyce? Steinbeck? Eliot? Blake? The Brontës? Then Dad hopped on board. Where's Dylan? And Gough. How could you not have Gough?

At last count the peg people numbered over a hundred, and since Prue insisted that they should be practical as well as educational, I am confronted by them every time it's my turn to peg out the washing. I guess having a little sister who's a
near-genius can be a little daunting at times, but it does have its up side. How many people get to choose which of history's most influential, creative and brilliant people will hold up their underpants to dry?

So, like I was saying, for a moment there I almost felt like a normal person. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe I had dropped my guard and left myself open. Whatever the reason, I was about to feel the full effects of Ishmael Leseur's Syndrome.

It all happened on the night of the final preliminary debate. Dad says that one day it will make a good story and that I'll be able to laugh about it. But I've got a feeling that by the time that day arrives I'll be so old I'll probably be laughing every time my teeth fall into my porridge, anyway. Believe me, if there was any way I could avoid writing about this I would, but how else can I explain to you the horror of Ishmael Leseur's?

It all started with a phone call.

‘Ishmael? It's Scobie. We've got a bit of a problem.'

It was a Wednesday night, about seven o'clock. The debate was on at seven-thirty, and we were up against Lourdes Girls
College. Prindabel was unavailable because he was in the school band and they were involved in some competition. (Not surprisingly, Ignatius played the triangle.) Our team, therefore, was Kingsley, Razza and Scobie. I was timekeeper, so I didn't need to get there as early as the others.

‘Bill Kingsley has laryngitis.'

‘What?'

‘Kingsley has laryngitis. He can't speak–not a word.'

I thought back to the meeting we had at lunchtime. Bill hadn't said much, but then again, he never did. There was
something
he said about his throat …

‘Ishmael, you still there?'

‘I'm here.'

‘Look, I know I said … well … the thing is … we might need you to fill in … to take Kingsley's place.'

I felt like someone had jabbed a hypodermic needle through my chest and pumped a syringe full of liquid nitrogen into my heart. ‘Why? We're already into the finals. We can just forfeit. It doesn't matter if we lose.'

‘That would be fine, except there's a “no forfeit” rule.'

‘A what?'

‘A “no forfeit” rule–rule twenty-three of the debating regulations. Any team that forfeits a debate in the preliminary rounds is ineligible to compete in the finals.'

I could feel the tone of my voice beginning to slip towards panic. ‘What sort of a stupid rule is that?'

‘It's there to stop teams just not turning up if they qualify early like we did. It's quite reasonable, I think.'

Reasonable? I didn't care about what was reasonable. I wanted an escape route. It was time for some frantic straw-clutching. ‘But what about someone else? There must be someone else who can do it? What about one of the Year Eights? They're on tonight, as well. We could get one of their reserves. Be a great experience for them. One of them could do it. I can't do it … I'm hopeless … I'm not prepared. Anyway, I've got to do the timekeeping.'

‘Ishmael, listen. Calm down.
Anyone
can do the timekeeping. Kingsley's here, he can do it–he doesn't need to speak. We can even ask one of the audience if we have to. But we can't ask one of the Year Eights to take Kingsley's place because they're ineligible. There are only five names on the registration form … and the last one is yours.'

‘But I'm only the researcher–that's what you said.'

‘Yes, I know I did.' For a moment the line was silent. ‘Look, Ishmael. I said I'd never
make
you debate and I won't. It's your call entirely. But
this
is the situation. We are one man down. If we can't get a replacement, we have to forfeit. If we forfeit, we are out of the finals. The simple fact is that
you
are the only one who can take Bill Kingsley's place. There is no one else.'

Great. No pressure. This would be easy. All I had to say was, ‘Sorry, love to help out, but I think I'll give it miss. Shame about those finals and letting the team and the school and Miss Tarango and everyone else down–after all that hard work, too. But as you say, it's my call entirely, so if it's all the same with you, I'd rather not.'

I don't, of course. I cling pathetically to one last feeble strand of straw as I sink blue and bloated into the watery depths. ‘But I'll be hopeless …'

‘You'll be fine. After all, you practically wrote Bill Kingsley's speech for him, and you have a far better understanding of the topic and our case than he ever did. Just read it out. And look, even if you don't go so well, what does it matter? Win or lose, we still get through to the finals … and we'll have you to thank for it.'

I could hear James Scobie breathing on the other end of the line. I imagined his mouth twisting as he waited for my reply and I thought of all the times he had put himself in the firing line-standing up to Barry Bagsley, facing up to the school assembly, taking on the might of Churchill Grammar, dragging our team of struggling first-time debaters across the finish line time after time. Yet James ‘No Fear' Scobie had it easy, didn't he? I really couldn't tell you why I asked the next question, although I have often wondered about it. Perhaps being on the phone with just a voice between me and the answer made it easier somehow.

‘Scobie … you know that story … about the tumour and the operation and everything … and about never being afraid? Is it really true?'

A long silence followed. I pictured Scobie's face frozen mid-twist. Finally I heard his voice. It seemed different somehow.

‘Sort of … the tumour, the operation … they're true. The other thing … not being afraid … well, it depends on how
you look at it. Maybe it wasn't a scalpel that did it. Maybe … when you're lying in an operating theatre and someone is cutting into your brain … and you don't know whether you're going to …'

For a few seconds all I could hear was Scobie breathing. When he continued it was almost in a whisper.

‘Well … maybe there's just so much fear you can have … and in that one moment you use up all the fear you were ever supposed to feel … and it's the fear that cuts you … and it cuts you so deep that you just decide that nothing else is worth being afraid of … and that nothing is going to scare you any more … because you just won't let it.'

I didn't know what to say. The image of Barry Bagsley towering over James Scobie and counting to five with his clenched fist poised to strike leapt into my mind. Then it was quickly replaced by a pale boy with a spider wrapped around his face like a hand.

‘But what about the bugs and spiders and stuff? How …?'

‘My father is an entomologist,' Scobie said calmly. ‘He studies bugs and spiders and stuff. I grew up with bugs and spiders and stuff. Some kids had rattles and squeaky toys in their cots. I had tarantulas and beetles. What happened in class was just the old Brer Rabbit trick. The Barry Bagsleys of this world can't resist throwing you into the briar patch.'

Before I could ask Scobie exactly what he was talking about he cut back in.

‘Ishmael. We really don't have much time here. The debate starts in fifteen minutes. According to the rules we've only got
ten minutes after that, then it's officially a forfeit. If you don't leave almost straightaway you won't make it. You need to decide now. Can I tell them you're coming?'

As much as I wished it wasn't true, I knew there was only one possible answer to that question. ‘Yes … I'll be there.' And that was it. I hung up the phone and checked my watch. Scobie was right. It was going to be close. There wasn't even time to think about the other question I had wanted to ask him-about whether that last part of his story was true or not.

You know, the bit about him being fine and the tumour being gone.

‘Mum? Where's all my school stuff gone? I can't find any of my clothes. Mum? I need a clean school uniform. Mum? Mum!'

Panic and hysteria were arm-wrestling inside me. Someone had taken all my school gear. I'd have to debate in my jocks. But why would someone steal all my school gear? This couldn't be happening. Wait, maybe it really wasn't happening. Maybe I was just having one of those crazy dreams where you turn up somewhere in your pyjamas or with no pants on. Of course! That was it! It was all just a dream. I was only dreaming! None of it was true. I didn't have to debate at all. It wasn't real. How could it be? What an idiot I was. Entire school uniforms don't just disappear without explanation.

‘I washed yesterday. Have you checked the line?'

Oh … right.

I sprinted downstairs and out to the backyard. I madly grabbed my shirt, shorts and socks, wrenching them from the line and sending a half-dozen or so of the world's most
influential people cartwheeling to earth. Sorry, Prue. I checked my watch. Twenty past seven-oh my god–time for warp speed. I charged back to my room, tore off my clothes, and blasted on some sickly-smelling deodorant.

‘That shirt will need ironing,' Mum called.

‘Haven't got time–I'll wear my jumper.'

I quickly attacked my school uniform, flung on my shirt, strangled the buttons and yanked up my shorts. Hardly pausing for breath, I wrestled on my jumper, jerked up my socks, stomped on my shoes, snatched up a fistful of pens, jammed them in my pocket, ripped a comb through my hair, shouted goodbye, tore through the house, jumped in the car and lashed on the seatbelt.

‘You OK?' Dad asked.

‘Yeah.' (Except that every meal I had ever eaten was on the verge of making an encore appearance.)

‘Sure?'

‘Yeah.' (If you ignore the fact that some alien beast was growing inside me and was just waiting for the most appropriate time to burst through my chest.)

‘Feeling worried?'

‘A bit.' (Yeah, that bit where my entire nervous system had gone into meltdown and was leaking into my shoes.)

‘Well, we're all proud of you. You'll be fine. Just stay positive and try not to worry.'

‘O?.' (No problem. I'd sailed past ‘worry' three or four levels of hysteria ago.)

The rest of the journey was a blur. Apart from feeling
the pens in my pocket jabbing into my leg, I was numb with dread.

‘Here we are, and five minutes to spare. Sure you don't want me to come up for moral support?'

‘No, I'll be right.' (There were some things a father shouldn't have to see.)

‘O?.'

‘Thanks for the lift.'

‘No problem,' Dad said, glancing quickly around as if he were afraid of being overheard. ‘Old jungle saying: Sometimes the Phantom travels the streets as a normal man … this is one of those nights.'

For Dad's sake I forced a smile. ‘Well, you don't have to worry about picking me up–I'm getting a lift with Mrs Zorzotto.'

‘O?, I'll see you then … And look, mate … just do your best, all right? You'll be fine. Remember, stay positive.'

‘Thanks, Dad.'

‘Right, then-my work here is done. Back to the Skull Cave.'

I watched my father drive off into the night. We had a lot in common. He was ‘The Ghost Who Walks' and I was a dead man walking. I tried to push that thought from my mind as I headed upstairs to the debating room.

Scobie was waiting at the door to usher me quickly to my seat. I knew every eye would be on me, and so as we came in I showed intense interest in the pattern and design of the floor tiles. We managed to make it to our desks, which were
on the far side of the room, angled slightly to face the audience. I sat down between Scobie and Razza and pulled a stack of blank palm cards from my shirt pocket. I stared at them as if they had the answers to the greatest mysteries of the universe carved on them. My face was burning like a flare.

Scobie handed me Bill Kingsley's palm cards, the ones I had helped to write over the last couple of days. Then he gave me what I interpreted as an encouraging smile but what in fact looked more like the demented leer of a homicidal maniac.

I turned to look at Razza. He was scribbling something on a palm card. He slid it across to me. I picked it up. It had a stick figure drawn on it with its arms thrown into the air. A giant arrow was sticking out of its chest. Above the drawing was the word ‘Twang!' in capital letters. I frowned and looked back at him. His face was one sickly smirk. He raised his eyebrows and nodded towards the other side of the room.

I lifted my head for the first time. The girls from Lourdes College sat opposite us. They were huddled together whispering intently. One of them glanced up. My heart froze. I was staring into the ice-blue eyes of Kelly Faulkner. Razza pushed another card my way. I snaffled it up and nodded my head thoughtfully while I read it so that Kelly Faulkner would think it contained some deep philosophical debating point. All it said was ‘Hubba hubba!'.

A scraping chair startled me back to reality. The Lourdes girl who was chairing the debate stood up. She was behind the desk that separated the two teams. Beside her was Bill Kingsley. He was holding a stopwatch and gazing palely into deep space.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to this fourth-round debate between St Daniel's College Moorfield and Lourdes College Hillview. The topic for tonight's debate is:
That the private lives of public figures should remain private.
Our adjudicator tonight is …'

As the chairperson droned on I peeked around the classroom. There were about fifteen or so people in the audience. Miss Tarango wasn't there because she was with one of the Year Eight teams. Mrs Zorzotto was there, along with Bill Kingsley's father and little sister. Down the back was the adjudicator-a young girl with spiky red hair. The rest were Lourdes supporters.

I lowered my eyes to the empty space between the two teams and tried to imagine myself walking out there to speak. Suddenly my legs began to jump and shake and I had to grab them and hold them down like I was wrestling two baby crocs. Then my stomach started slurping and churning like a dying washing machine. I felt like I was about to pass out. I had to pull myself together.

What was it that Dad said? Stay positive. All right. It was time to fill my mind with positive thoughts. Let's see, positive thought number one-in about ten minutes it would all be over. Good! Positive thought number two-whatever happened, it wasn't going to kill me. That's true! Positive thought number three-a lot of people had to face much worse things like war, persecution, poverty or watching reality TV, so why should I worry about a silly debate? I shouldn't!

Hey, this positive thinking trick was actually working.
Maybe it wouldn't be as bad as I thought. After all, what was the worst that could happen? Well, let's see … the worst … the worst would have to be if I went totally blank and turned into a bumbling, stuttering, gibbering, dribbling, babbling, um-ing and ah–ing baboon, then had to stand there like a store dummy till I was stripped of every last shred of dignity and ended up having the self-worth of an amoeba.

Looking back, I really wish it had gone that well.