The Fight

The fight 1

There was a fight. The cry went out: “Fight! Fight! And boys were running from all corners of the playing field and the quadrangle to the area behind the cricket pavilion. Within seconds the whole school was milling in the space between the rifle range and the cricket pavilion. Peter was sitting in the sun, reading, and suddenly he found alone. “Children” “, he thought, “they all act like silly children.” But he too got up and followed the crowd. He didn’t run, he just sauntered across, but he went.

The crowd was pushing and cheering and suddenly he found himself caught up in the crowd. He was pushed right into the scrum of spectators by others who arrived after him. He hated crowds, he hated being touched by others, he hated being near others, but he was hemmed in. He could not see who were fighting, there were others in front of him and others behind, he was just swaying with the crowd. The as suddenly as the fight had started it ended. Perhaps some prefects had arrived to break it up. The pressure eased, the crowd dispersed. There were a few playful skirmishes, some of the boys chased each other. Then somebody knocked Peter’s book out of his hand. He bent down to pick it up and saw a foot trample on it. The foot kicked it, someone picked it up and tossed it to someone else. The book was thrown about, passed like a football with its pages flapping.

Red hot anger flooded through Peter. He could see it now, it was the Rat who started this. Who had knocked the book our of his hand, trampled on it and thrown it to the Mouse. The Mouse and the Rat tossed it backwards and forwards. Now there were others all screaming “Here Jim! Here!”

Both the Rat and the Mouse were called Jim, one was tall and the other short, both were slightly stooped and neither of them ever looked you in the eye. Peter was mad, mad and helpless. He tried to chase his book, but it was hurled from one to the other. He could never catch up with it. At last, in his unbridled rage he forgot everything. He only saw the broad grin o the Mouse. He took after him. He chased him with all his strength, but the Mouse was nimble on his feet and Peter was no runner. He ran with his clumsy flat feet, panting, blind with fury while the Mouse dodged all over the place. Then one final burst and Peter ran straight into him.

The Mouse hit him, and he hit back. He tried to hit hard, but his fists kept missing the mark. The Mouse tried to get away and run, but Peter didn’t let up, he kept punching him. The Mouse was quick on his feet, but there was no strength in his arms. Peter didn’t feel the blows. In his rage he didn’t care, all he wanted was to hurt the Mouse, to hurt him as much as he could.

He closed in on him, he pummelled him madly. He was aware of the boys cheering, but he didn’t care. Then his fist felt something soft give and the Mouse was bent double, winded.

Peter looked round triumphantly, but the next instant he felt an arm round his neck. He was grabbed from behind and thrown to the ground. He heard the Rat’s voice: “You take my cobber on, buy, and you take me on too.” This was no longer a fight according the rules. The Rat and the Mouse both got stuck into him, kicked him mercilessly in his most vulnerable parts. He tried to get up but the Mouse kicked him in the face. And just as the Rat was going to kick him again, someone came and restrained him. “Don’t be a bloody fool, Jim,” someone said. It was the King. Peter lived in a private world of his own. He had his own names for the boys in his class. The Rat, the Mouse, the King. King because he was Maori and had a name that sounded much like King.

“You all right, boy? Said the King, as he helped him on his feet. “Yes,” said Peter ans as an afterthought he added “I am all right, thanks.” He slunk off. “Bastard,” Peter muttered under his breath, “idiots, idiotic bastards.”

He didn’t cry. He made a conscious effort not to cry. He was too old to cry. He had to learn to fend for himself. He just clenched his fists and cursed under his breath. He kept repeating the curses like magic incantations until his anger abated.

He sat on his own all afternoon. He didn’t talk to anybody. He was sulking. The others were talking about him, thy were discussing the fight. He knew, ut he didn’t care. They could say whatever they liked. The whole school could gang up on him, their mocking, their mocking, their laughter was like the braying of asses. He preferred open hostility to condescension. The way some of them befriended him, the poor little lost boy, the poor stranger. It was worse than the baiting of the Rat and the Mouse. At least he could hit back, give vent to his hatred. There is nothing to be ashamed of in that. He had acquitted himself well, but the patronizing condescension of some of the others he found humiliating and he was helpless in face of this humiliation.

What could he do? Tell them that he had lived more in five years than they would in twenty? Tell them that he was a grown man while they were still chasing each other around like children? Tell them that he was conferring an honour on them by stooping to civilize them? They were too dumb to understand. He just had to put up with them.

He had his consolation. He could prove his superiority, he could outstrip them in his school work with hardly any effort. He was used to schools with real standards, not playgrounds, kindergartens. They hated him because he was better than they and he hated them because … because they did not understand. They did not understand what loneliness was, There was a time when he had had friends, with whose help he could have taken the whole school on, friends with whose help he would have punished the Rat and the Mouse and all the others who jeered. But those friends were far away. Here he was on his own.

As he was packing up after school the King came to see him. Peter looked up. The King grinned.

“Here is your book, Pete,” he said “You left it outside.”

“Thanks,” Peter said.

“You all right?”

“Yes.”

“Are you still sore?”

“No.”

“They are just jealous.”

“Toads.”

‘What do you mean?”

“Never mind. They are silly. I hate them. I hate their guts.

“It must be tough.”

“What?”

“You know, coming out here. New school, new friends, everything different.”

“It’s all right.”

“I am from the East Coast. I used to hate it here.”

“You too?”

“Yeah. Got used to it though.”

Peter had never taken much notice of the King. He was just one of the boys. He was big, Bigger than most of the others, and quiet, almost shy. He played good football. He was in one of the top teams. He was the only Maori in the class. There was something gentle about him, too. Peter had just noticed it.

“Coming my way?” said the King.

“I suppose so,” said Peter.

They biked home together side by side. Neither of them said much. Peter tried to put into words what he felt, There was something about the King that he liked, something that reminded him of friends he had left behind.

They parted.

“Se you,” said the King.

“See you.”

1 Published in N.Z Listener, June 21, 1968