Of butterflies and braves deeds
Laugh lines
By Amrita Dhingra

THERE are several ways in which a man can react to the tugging at his makeshift skirt and "Psssst" coming from the nether regions of his desk. There are people who can loftily ignore such a comment and carry on with their day’s work but it seems that you just aren’t one of them. There is no way you can ignore such an event. Consequently you find yourself peering under the desk, all agog with wonder.

"Don’t be afraid it’s only me". Announces a voice, still whispering stealthily.

"Tom? What are you doing here?" The red hair is a dead give-away, even though you can’t see the rest of him too well.

"Lock the door and come back," his imperious whisper floats back.

You are of course glad to see young Tom Spence, he having been your partner in crime on that memorable occasion when Alan Stokes was forced to face the wrath of fifty boy scouts armed with cream pie, but his mysterious behaviour puzzles you. Still willing to excuse a comrade in arms his eccentricities, you lock the door.

Apparently satisfied Tom deigns to come out from under the desk, on all fours. "I hope she is isn’t around here?"

You understand perfectly. Given the fact that you have discovered that Tom is dressed in the full glory of a Red Indian brave you fully understand his desire to avoid Amanda. As you hasten to reassure him that the office is an Amanda-free zone at least for the day it occurs to you that Tom should not be here, he ought to be at his boarding school fifty miles away. You put the question to him casually.

"I’ve run away," he said in a calm, matter of fact manner, no doubt to reassure you on the point. "I shall need a place to stay for a day or two, before I can head for the South Pole".

He then elaborated on his plan to join an expedition headed for the South Pole, which he had been reliably informed left the day after tomorrow. His intention, he said scowling fiercely, was to study the habits of the polar bear and live the life of an explorer.

"I’ve had enough of schools an’ lessons an’ suchlike. Besides we had a man that came to lekcher us the other day and he said that one ought to start early. I figure I’ve wasted enough time on ‘rithmetic and French verbs..." At this point his scowl deepened and he ended with some disgust, "what with Ole Cromley and trouble with everything I do. Just trying to help that’s all... Ha! they’ll see. Them and Amanda!".

It was obvious that Tom had a lot on his mind. It was equally obvious that something had gone terribly amiss. Making yourself comfortable on the couch you settled down to hear his story. Mr H.P. Cromely, M.A., was Tom’s headmaster. He was also Tom’s arithmetic master. It was Tom’s opinion that Cromely was an object unfit for human consumption. Having thus stated his opinion Tom proceeded to elaborate on the theme, detailing the circumstances that led to his momentous and irrevocable decision to run away.

Tom and Mr Cromley had failed to see eye to eye ever since Tom had entered Mr Cromley’s prestigious prep school. Tom only went to school because Amanda hounded him constantly and Cromley only tolerated Tom in his school because he was Amanda Spence’s brother and the old man’s son. So there was no love lost between them at all, even to begin with. Given the fact that it had been two memorable years since Tom had entered the institution that was Cromley’s pride and joy, and that Tom was a boy with an eager interest in life it was a miracle, nothing but a miracle, that nothing too drastic had happened.

However lately the thunder clouds had been gathering on the horizon. Old Cromley had been suffering from a bout of hay fever for the past two weeks. Tom, who was a natural mimic and never missed any opportunity, had been regaling his class for several days with realistic, if slightly overdone, versions of Mr Cromley’s sneezes. One way or another news of this had reached old Cromley. Needless to say he was not amused. As he could do nothing on the mere basis of hearsay Cromley, said Tom, decided to spring a trap.

The midterm festivities included a play being performed by Tom’s form. Thus far Tom had enjoyed the role of a Red Indian brave. He had strutted in his costume, much to the envy of the masculine half of his form, uttering wild yells and careless hoots whenever he chose. It was a role close to his heart, he was quite convinced that this was the role for him, the only role for him and he meant his performance to serve as a bench mark for all future Red Indian hopefuls.

What happened next came as a rude shock to him. Old Cromley announced at the afternoon play practice that since Gladys, the girl who was to play the role of the fairy princess, had been taken ill with chickenpox there was an urgent need to find a replacement for her.

Then casting his eye sternly about the cast, an effect which was spoilt by the two violent sneezes brought on by his persistent hay fever, he said, "In view of the fact that the fairy princess had redhair we shall need someone who fits the role, also someone who knows Gladys’ lines. On consultation with Mr Rolen," he nodded to the nervous little man who was the drama master, "we have arrived at the conclusion that only one member of the cast is fit to be The Fairy Queen," he rolled the words out, as if savouring each syllable, "Thomas Spence!".

An aghast silence greeted this announcement, followed immediately by the knowledge that a fight was on. Tom felt himself grow red, till his face almost matched his hair. "You shall be wearing braids which shall quite easily match the colour of your hair and of course you must see the seamstress about alterations to the fairy’s gown".

Poor Tom. Gone was his dream role, gone was the glory of the brave Thundercloud warrior. Instead he was to dress up in a soppy girl’s dress and parrot the line, "Wish for this, wish for that, wish for everything with the Fairy Queen".

A sense of injustice grew in his heart throughout the rehearsal, his eyes fixed on his beloved Indian brave costume, now proudly worn by his best friend, his face taking on the dark hue totally in opposition to the sweet disposition of the fairy queen, he glowered at all and sundry. It rankled in his heart that Cromley had put one over him, it irked him that there was nothing he could do.

He was, however, not one who took the slings and blows of outrageous fortune without chalking up a few blows to his credit. He lay awake a good part of the night thinking furiously, all he needed was a way to get back at old Cromely. Still, the morning found him at a loss. All through breakfast and the following three lessons he racked his brains and then in the Environmental Studies class he gave up. Gave up not because he had given up, but because this was one class Tom enjoyed. It was the one lesson that justified the existence of school and masters and all those other beastly lessons.

Environmental science was Tom’s forte, he loved to run riot in the woods surrounding the school, loved collecting samples in jars and watching squiggly, ugly tadpoles turn into pompous little frogs. Mr Tannen was the absentminded teacher who took this class. For his part he was content to let the class run wild, so long as they did not disturb the nap he was accustomed to take under a convenient tree and so long as they came up with the correct specimens.

In his burning desire to collect the red eyed dragon flies that hovered over the surface of the water Tom forgot the agony of the previous evening, he forgot all about Cromely and revenge. He only saw the fascinating creatures that hovered like miniature helicopters over the pond. Having collected eight of the liveliest specimens and muddied his shoes in the process he now turned his attention to the neighbouring flora and fauna.

That was when he spotted the butterflies. There were hundreds of them in bright yellows, oranges and blacks. They sailed through the air in sheer delight, they sipped delicately from a flower here and a flower there. The naturalist in Tom became entangled with the eleven-year-old in him. He forgot all about collecting dragonflies, he forgot that the butterflies were common everyday ones. Their very numbers seemed to challenge him, he became convinced that they were indeed the rare species Mr Tannen had been talking about last week.

He ran, he leapt, he crept up on stealthy feet. He ambushed them, he caught them in mid air. Here a yellow, there a black, here an orange! For 20 joyous minutes Tom caught butterflies. He did not let the lack of extra collecting jars hinder him. Though he could not let go off the dragonflies, the naturalist in him was firm on the point, he wanted to keep the butterflies for ‘just a little while’. So he buttoned up his collar and shirt sleeves and made his shirt into a bag for his new captives. Their crawling about on his skin did not trouble him in the least.

The bell announcing the end of the environmental class was not welcome because it brought him back to reality with a thud. With a heavy heart he picked up his specimen jar and made his way out of the woods. He was not looking forward to Old Cromley’s math class. He was loath to part with bis butterflies. He knew he must, but he was loath to do it. He kept putting it off until he was out of the woods... halfway across the playground.... near the building. The rebel in him awakened, Old Cromley would never notice, besides why should he part with his butterflies just because of Old Cromley and a stupid bunch of theorems. Having thus made up his mind, he stepped into the class with a certain lightness of heart. He was, already, feeling better.

Mr Cromley’s hay fever was playing up rather more and he was determined to take no nonsense from anyone. Setting them all to do some exercises, he perched on his desk and directed an eagle-eyed stare at the class, chiefly it must be said, at Tom. He was not fooled by the innocent head bent industriously over the exercise. He knew he had set young Spence right and he expected retaliation. He meant to curb that retaliation and set him right once and for all.

Presently he thought he detected a sort of fluttering in Tom’s shirt. Must be his eye playing tricks. But no there it was again, an agitated fluttering of his shirt, without Tom moving a muscle. The butterflies having enjoyed the novelty of being transported around in Tom’s shirt, were rather tired of it all and wanted to go home. Tom felt them wriggling around at various points in his shirt but kept his head bent over the theorems. Mr Cromley, his temper on a short fuse, did not wait.

"Thomas!" he cried, "What have you got in your shirt?"

"Nothing sir," managed a fresh-faced Tom, who was actually dying to scratch his back where a particularly energetic butterfly was tickling him.

"Come here boy! There is a height to what may be tolerated". Mr Cromely would not even under the best of conditions win a contest for goodlooks, now his face turned an angry, ugly puce.

Tom walked up to him. The class watched open-mouthed as his shirt continued to writhe and wriggle, the butterflies having become more militant in their demands for freedom.

"Open up your shirt!" bellowed Mr Cromely.

Tom obeyed. Surprised by sudden liberty, the first butterfly burst out in a daze. Then as the news spread they sallied out in grand style. A riot of colour flew past Mr Cromley’s nose and around his face. Poor Mr Cromely choked back his words in horrified amazement. Surely this was a dream, surely hallucinations were not a symptom of hay fever?

Meanwhile the last butterfly, its wing slightly damaged by being cramped in Tom’s shirt flew out. Not quite at ease it decided to rest a while on the convenient perch provided by Mr Cromely’s nose. That did it. Mr Cromely began to sneeze. He could not stop sneezing. The class went up in an uproar of laughter. Some of them laughed so hardy they rolled to the floor. Still Mr Cromley sneezed, long after the startled last butterfly had fled. Tom quietly slipped out of the classroom.

"I stole the Red Indian costume so’s they couldn’t have it," he chuckled, enjoying the recap of his triumph nearly as much as he’d enjoyed the triumph itself.

"There’s only one problem though," much as you had enjoyed Tom’s victory and much as you hated to rain on his parade, you were constrained to point out, "my secretary just told me that Amanda is the chief guest at your mid-term celebration tomorrow and she expects to see you in the play".