THE FOSSIE COFFEE PLAN
It was only much later that at last I admitted to myself that Billy hadn't been able to make either. Yes, alright, in fact he had cheated. But for one's hero to be caught out, to lose face ... Well, by the time I did realize it, it had happened too long before for me to be disillusioned, or even disappointed - just enough for a wry smile. We'd both left the school at the end of standard five: and anyway, even before that we had drifted apart. Funny how it goes - having been close friends for two years, we were afterwards little more than acquaintances, two boys in the same hostel.
The school itself was named for the line of latitude, lying about thirty minutes drive north of the town, that marks the point when, at the solstice, the sun reaches its southern zenith before receding back to the Equator and beyond. One couldn't say it was a typical Northern Transvaal school. How could it have been? - it, and the high school which shared its name, were the only two English medium schools north of Pretoria. But I suppose the same boyish pranks and fights, the rivalries and friendships, the yearnings and strivings of prepubescent youths, were acted out over and over in the surrounding Afrikaans schools, maybe even also in the Bantu schools (but of course at that time we knew nothing we knew nothing about them).
It was 1966. We were in Standard Four, and like anybody who was anybody, were eleven years old. Dorm Four had ten beds, and was a fairly representative mixture of boys, with its own well defined social hierarchy, dominated by Titch and Evan. Their fathers worked respectively in the mines at Phalaborwa and Mica - this was important! On reflection this may seem surprising, but at the time it just was: amazing that hailing from an obscure platteland dorp could bestow such prestige. Money certainly didn't grant status. Often it was the reverse. There was at least one major argument about whose father earned the least (I remember the figure of R31 a month being bragged about and squabbled over). The prestige emanated really from Titch and Evan themselves, in that bond between them: their parents were friends, they had grown up together and had been together in the hostel since Standard One, in itself an important point of status. Their friendship, and their powerful personalities, established their dominance in the dormitory.
Another group was the sons of farmers. They were usually Afrikaans boys who had, presumably, been sent to the school to become fluent in English. Boys like Leslie and Flippie. Flippie was unusual though. He'd had lumbar puncture and we were fascinated, and even more horrified, to hear the details thereof. He wore his hair crewcut. Generally this should have been considered a gross decorum violation. This in a school where putting on a vest, or even worse, wearing pants anywhere other than two inches below the hip, was grounds for endless and usually ruthless peer ridicule. But somehow the crewcut was permissible for Flippie - his father apparently insisted on it, which made it OK, and anyway his great uncle (or something) - was a senator (or something).
There was another Douglas, and his younger brother, from Johannesburg. The story went that Jo'burg boys were sent to the school because they were problem children: too naughty, their parents couldn't handle them, they had been expelled ... More probably, in the case of the primary school anyway, most of the boys from the Reef were there because their parents were, or were getting, divorced; so it was convenient to have the children away from home for a while.
Billy and I were the only ones in the dorm from "up North". There were others like us in the school - sent down from Zambia or Rhodesia to get a South African education, or maybe for the same real reason as the Jo'burg boys. We unfortunately however had gained no sinister aura around us. The previous year, when we had started, there had been three of us - Billy and me, along with Dougie. But his parents had immigrated and now lived in the town. So Dougie was now a day scholar. And the invisible divide between day scholar and boarder was almost as rigid as the more formally imposed racial separation in existence in the country at that time.
So Billy and I paired off. Or I would have liked to. He was rather too independent for that. I was his follower; when he felt like it, he was my leader. William Henry Colton. It is a clich� perhaps, but there was something about him - he certainly had style. I was lucky and content, most of the time, just to enjoy his reflected limelight. While in Standard Three he once took me into the (strictly out of bounds) dormitories one afternoon, to chat to his friend, a boy in Standard Five, nogal, who had sneaked in for a smoke. Yet when offered, Billy refused a drag on the cigarette because he said he had given up! We couldn't have described it like that then, but that was way cool. I hadn't even expected to be offereda drag. I wasn't.
He wasn't one of the inner circle of the dorm - but not because Evan or Titch wouldn't let him. He was tacitly invited; they may even have encouraged him to join, but he, I think, preferred his independence. They liked him, certainly. Everybody did. But unlike me who tried extra hard to keep on the right side of the hostel authorities, Billy not so much bucked the system as simply sidestepped it. He was often in the forefront of escapades, yet chose not to be an overt leader. Like the night a boy was shot in the leg with birdshot while up a tree in a neighbouring orchard. I was never called on to testify, but I know for a fact - Billy too had been out fruitraiding that night. Somehow though he had managed to get himself back into the hostel unobserved, and had avoided any of the repercussions.
Our dorm centred around Titch and Evan - they were the arbiters in all disputes, judges in cases of infringements of the unwritten precepts by which our interactions were governed. Sometimes it might even be necessary for them to promulgate new codes of behaviour, as situations arose. No one would have questioned their right, nor that the new rules were invariably in their interest first.
So it was with the Fossie coffee scheme (or should it be scam?). I should point out that being in a boarding school, food was a major obsession with us. "Food, Glorious Food" from Oliver would have been an apt theme song. Anything to do with food. We dreamt about it, discussed it constantly, drooled about it. Anyway, back to the scheme...
Mr Fouch� was a very stern teacher. Probably quite young, though to us an adult was an adult. He was thin, with a prominent Adam's apple that gave me the creeps when I looked at it. It stuck out particularly sharply when he swallowed. Being very strict, he did not believe in spoiling the child by sparing the rod.
Like the morning the dorm had woken up early to play Monopoly. Now when one speaks of Monopoly, this was not just the ordinary board game, but MONOPOLY.
It was played passionately. Like chess players who can play in their heads, without a board, I really believe we could have played without any equipment save the dice, Take a Chance and Opportunity Knocks cards. The board was superfluous, just something to throw the dice on. For example, a player throwing a nine on Fenchurch Station immediately took himself, without counting, to Bond Street. Every detail, every price was known without reference to the title deeds cards. (BOND STREET: �26 please, or double that if unimproved and both other properties in the group were owned! ). Everyone knew what everyone else owned, and usually how much money each player had.
Perhaps we had been making a noise, I don't know, but Fossie walked in. Who were we to question whether playing Monopoly before the wake-up bell infringed hostel rules? We were summarily marched off for a moderate hiding - two cuts each. Mind you, given there was only our flimsy pyjamas as protection, maybe it wasn't so moderate. Going back to the room, we debated whether to continue playing. Convinced Fossie'd never check up, we thought we could remain undetected so long as we didn't make a noise, so we played on for a few minutes. The optimism of eleven year olds.
Horrors! I looked up to see Mr Fouch� leaning on the door. Laconically observing us. I am convinced now he was enjoying himself. Having been the only one to see him so far, I, to my shame, tried to weasel out of trouble, suggesting to the others that we should indeed pack up. They scoffed at that and continued playing, while I continued to squirm, and Mr Fouch� continued to watch. Reality dawned on the others. Slowly. One by one. Off we all went again (yes, me too: despite those attempts to save myself) for a really severe beating - possibly the most painful I ever received. We returned to the dorm. And again we debated if he would come again to check whether we had packed it in - the stupidity of eleven year olds! Discretion prevailed over valour though. Fortunately because of course he did check.
But I digress. Returning to the coffee scheme (which in the light of the above, you will come to agree, was rather daring). A long corridor ran from the diningroom, past the dormitories numbered one to five, to Mr Fouch�'s flatlet. The scheme began simply enough, and lasted for a few weeks, maybe a few months. I don't even remember now how it ended. I suppose it just fizzled out. That's unimportant. But every morning at a quarter to six, a big pot of coffee (pure percolated coffee, with fresh milk, served from a jug) was brought to his flat and left outside the door by a worker from the kitchen. Somehow an arrangement was made by someone in the dorm: I can't believe it was either Titch or Evan - had it been, the rest of us could never have got in on it. Anyway, instead of returning the tray directly to the kitchen, it was to be left in our bathroom and only collected (empty of course), after we'd gone to school.
We knew there were about five cups which could be had per pot (apart from Fossie's, of course). In fact, effectively it was about three cups - the last two were the dregs only: remains of the coffee grinds, usually no milk either. Realising this, the operation became even more bold (foolhardy?). It was decided to pour two cups before the tray was delivered to Fossie. On its way back, others could pour from the remains. Such an operation obviously needed the regulatory authority of a Titch and an Evan. So they decreed the following:
i Coffee was poured strictly on a first come, first served basis - the first three mugs placed inside the door of the bathroom were entitled to claim from the pot on the way down to Fossie's. All other mugs - to the extent there was any left - could get from the pot on its way back;
ii mugs could only be put out in the morning, and only by the owner himself: that is, no boy could ask his friend to place his mug for him.
Obviously whoever woke first would get pole position. And, by sheer coincidence, Titch and Evan were the early risers. I was usually one of the last to wake up, but as I rarely drank coffee I didn't mind. At first. But it really got to Billy though. He couldn't wake early enough ever to get one of the good cups. He generally missed coffee altogether in fact. He could have asked Evan to wake him (their beds were adjoining): but he didn't. He tried many times to beat them to it - but they always seemed to wake before him. Still he wouldn't ask them directly to help. Stubborn.
He then began to hatch his plan. But first he needed expert legal advice. So he sent me to the experts - Titch and Evan: they, after all, were the authors of the law.
Instruction: "Clarify the exact letter of the Law."
The Law states: "The first mugs put out in the morning."
"And morning?"
"Any time after midnight."
So we (notice I, the non-coffee drinker, am now included in this), were to stay awake until midnight to get our mugs first and second in line.
"Lights-out", as readers who have been in a boarding school will know, is strictly enforced - and these were the good old days before television (South Africa being one of the last countries in the world to get TV). Prep in our case was over by eight o'clock. What followed was usually high volume highjinx. At 8.15 the lights were flicked, signalling a rush to the bathroom. For boarders, we were amazingly fastidious about brushing teeth last thing in the evening - this had become de rigueur (surprising, given that showering or bathing was to be avoided whenever possible, and only done when under duress from teachers).
Lights were again flicked at 8.25. This was the signal to pray, for those who felt the need. I suppose it was the Afrikaner influence, but boys who knelt at their beds to say their prayers were given genuine respect. Catholics had it best - they could make the sign of the cross. This high profile religious action was admired greatly. It was no good for a Protestant to affect doing it though - that was grounds for ridicule, as I had found to my cost in my first year. Like the abridged Our Father they said in Assembly ("Amen," said with a flourish after Deliver us from evil), making the sign of the cross was a legitimate expression of religious fervour only if done by persons with the right credentials - Catholics, that is.
At eight thirty the lights would go out, and the dormitories were plunged into an enforced, but deep silence. Absolute quiet was required from every boy. Misbehaviour during this time was unthinkable. Teachers prowled the empty corridors all night: well, for the ensuing fifteen minutes or so, anyway. This probably had the desired effect - generally most actually fell asleep by the time the teachers were satisfied that everyone had gone to sleep.
That is, unless some scheme had been devised: like fruitraiding, or scaling over the pool wall to swim, or staying awake until midnight so one could get one's mug in line for first pour from the coffee pot.
It didn't start very well for me that night. Mr Cracknel was on duty. For some reason Crackers seemed to pace up and down the corridors far longer than usual or indeed seemed warranted. And I fell asleep. So it was Billy who woke me, just after nine, to remind me to keep watch with him. And so began a very long two and a half hours. Fruitraiding was out - for one thing, fruit wasn't in season, and not even Billy's charisma could have got me to step that far beyond the law. We then had to devise our own plans for keeping awake.
This was in fact not so easy. Reading was out - not enough light, which also put paid to any ideas of Monopoly - anyway, too easily discoverable had Crackers decided to do rounds. The others had fallen asleep so we were left on our own. There is a limit to how many stories one can think up in the dark - fairy stories (which I still secretly loved) were infra dig - and Billy's tales soon degenerated into ghost stories. These were counterproductive to his purposes though - they scared me so I didn't want to continue with the plan. Mind you, one of his stories had involved things that went bump under the bed, and I did notice he too had lifted his feet from the floor, and had them firmly tucked away into his blankets.
A trip to the swimming pool was eventually decided on. Now of course this was risky. Firstly one had to push one's pillows under the sheets to resemble a peacefully sleeping boy (this in case a teacher did decide to have an unexpected look around). Then one scaled down the tree next to the window, into the shadows below. The really tricky part came in having to dart from our building, across the grass lit by a lamp, into the safety of the shadows of the prefabs - the junior dormitories. That was when one was most vulnerable, but we made it safely that night. Getting over the wall into the pool area was easy enough, and then the big decision whether or not actually to swim. I would like to say that we did, but as I remember, the fact that it was a Highveld night in August got the better of us, and we eventually returned to the dorms, I think, without having braved the waters.
The night dragged on. What can I say? - there was nothing to do. It was dreary, dark and boring. But oh yes, there was one bit of excitement. It happened at about 10.30:
As I remember it, the bathroom walls were high, with a set of windows at the top. There was a sudden crash in the bathroom. At the time we were playing in the corridor and so actually Billy and I were dead to rights. Such a loud noise could not fail to bring out a teacher; and, fate worse than death, it was Fossie, not Mr Cracknel, who investigated. We ducked into the bathroom and found that a boy from another dorm had slipped, having climbed in from the high windows above. This was mysterious; it made no sense - the bathroom window was not the obvious way to get into the hostel had he been out. What was he doing there; why did he slip? These were questions a teacher was going to ask. And, more to the point, what did we have to do with it? If we were innocent, what were we doing up at this hour?
Meantime the other boy had scrambled back up to the high windows, clearly visible if one had to look up. Fossie came in but focused his attention on us.
"I got up to go to the toilet, Sir." This was my excuse, indicating the unlikely urinal, which happened to be flushing (automatically), as my alibi. Billy said something to the effect that he'd heard a noise and thought it was someone returning from fruitraiding, and had got up to apprehend the miscreant. The implausibility of these excuses still amazes me. Yet with the other boy suspended like Spiderman at the high windows above us, Fossie (of all teachers) apparently chose to accept us at face value and told us to go to bed. We dared not go back to find out what the other boy had been doing; I for one, never did.
The night dragged on. Once eleven o'clock came, it became very hard. In those days of innocence, I must have been truly honest: for it didn't seem to have occurred to me that we could have put out our mugs and gone to sleep. No one would have, or could have, been any the wiser.
By about half past, it was a losing battle. We were both desperately sleepy, trying to keep each other awake. Alternatively one set of eyes would close; only a prod in the ribs could force them open. My last recollection - looking at my watch: twenty to twelve. Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes that I slept through, for the next I remember, morning was upon me, with not even a decent cup of coffee to start the day. I was too tired to press the question, and Billy never explained how he had managed to stay awake those last twenty minutes without me, nor why at twelve he hadn't woken me to put my cup second in line after his: for there he was, sitting on his bed, triumphantly drinking his fresh milk, hot, percolated, first-poured coffee!