Bye Bye, Black Sheep

By Simon Winter

'Bye Bye, Black Sheep' is a coming-of-age story about three young South Africans (two black and one white; two boys and one girl) set against the background of apartheid.

It is a gripping adventure story with elements of mystery and suspense, but it also explores such universal themes as the quest for identity, unreasonable parental expectations, inter-racial relationships, racism and patriotism, and, most crucially, loyalty and betrayal. It acknowledges the complexity of such issues and avoids providing glib answers.

The narrator is Chris Bates, an insecure young man, who turns out to be something of an anti-hero. His best friend (and rival) is Goodwill Mavume, who has great potential, but is racked by internal conflict. Goodwill's younger sister, Miriam, is a bright and vivacious young woman who falls in love with Chris.

The constraints of boarding school life, the unrealistic expectations of parents, the clash of cultures, the sinister intrigues of the security police, and their own impetuosity all have a devastating impact on the lives of these young people.

As with any tragedy, there is much in this novel that is uplifting and noble. The characters will certainly live with you long after you've shared their story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781467892346

Simon Winter

Simon Winter is deeply concerned that so few adolescent boys read fiction, but he understands why this is so. Having taught high school English for many years, he has come to know what teenagers like. As a result, he has written a novel which will appeal to them in particular, although it will also appeal to adults who are still young at heart. He also enjoys writing doggerel verse and was surprised to win the Slug Poetry Prize. He is currently involved in education management and was honoured to be a finalist in the South African National Teaching Awards for Excellence in Secondary School Leadership in 2004. He is married and has two daughters and two grandchildren. This is his first novel.

Book preview

PROLOGUE 

It may be a distinctive fragrance. It may be a half-forgotten song. Each of us has some such key that unlocks a chamber of our mind, awakening memories or associations that have long lain dormant. Yet, surprisingly, once disturbed, they leap out in startling clarity, catching us unawares.

For me, it was a snide remark passed by the cashier at my local Sainsbury’s on Christmas Eve.

Despite the best intentions, I invariably leave my Christmas shopping to the last minute. I must have a masochistic craving to be jostled by the madding crowd and driven to distraction by Bony M or Kenny G in one overheated store after another. By the time I’d joined my last checkout queue, it was almost eight o’clock. Standing there in a daze, I became dimly aware of some sort of altercation ahead of me. The cashier responded by asking, ‘Whatever happened to goodwill?’

I was overpowered in an instant. If she’d asked about ‘peace on earth’, my demons would have remained safely ensconced in the remote recesses of my mind. But no. She’d asked the very question that I’d successfully evaded for almost 25 years.

Now that it’s been asked, I feel compelled to provide the answer.

PART ONE

PILGRIMS 

Instead of the cross, the Albatross

About my neck was hung.

from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

HE WHO WOULD VALIANT BE

If you were to raise Mother Africa up and stand her on her tiptoes, as it were, she’d start toppling westwards, due in part to the gravitational pull of those whose roots were plucked from her Bulge during the slave trade. But her tilting motion would soon be arrested by a small prong or stay jutting out into the south Atlantic, known as the Cape Peninsula, and described by Sir Francis Drake as ‘the fairest cape in all the world’.

Imagine yourself flying high above this tiny promontory at the foot of Africa on a late summer’s afternoon. As you descend, your eye will be drawn to the imposing crags of Table Mountain, burnished by the rays of the setting sun. You’ll probably fail to notice the leafy suburb of Rondebosch, nestling serenely in the shadow of the mountain, but if you listen very carefully, you’ll hear the distant strains of music emanating from her shady pines. As you draw ever closer, you’ll hear the notes gradually swelling into the stirring crescendo of five hundred young male voices, mine amongst them, seemingly urging you to forget your flight of fancy and to share with them their noble aspirations:

Then fancies flee away,

I’ll fear not what men say,

I’ll labour night and day

To be a pilgrim.

The organ surged on triumphantly as the school filed out of Chapel. The first College Evensong of the year was over, with its motivational message that faith, hope and love overcome adversity and bring success. I’d found the sermon inspiring and had been able to concentrate more easily than I had in my first year at Pilgrims. Perhaps I was maturing intellectually, or perhaps it was a subconscious reaction to a niggling comment on my last report – ‘Chris tends to daydream’. The most likely explanation, however, was that I no longer sat beneath the pulpit as we’d moved further back in order to make room for the newboys. As a result, I could at last see the chaplain, who relied heavily on gestures and facial expressions to hold his congregation’s attention.

We sat immediately behind the last row of newboys, self-conscious and awkward in their crisp, new uniforms. The boy in front of me was bigger and broader than most of the seniors and I could imagine our 1st XV coach sizing him up as a potential prop forward. The one next to him had short-cropped hair and wing-nut ears, one of which still glowed after Baxter had flicked it when the confused fellow had remained seated while the rest of us had knelt.

My newboy year had been one long nightmare and I can’t even begin to describe how relieved I was that the year of fagging, initiation and humiliation was at last behind me. It was, therefore, with a certain degree of new-found confidence and superiority that I swept down the aisle past the newboys and out into the cool evening breeze. I was totally unprepared for the shock that awaited me.

‘Where’s Bates? I’ve got a message for him,’ somebody called in the gathering gloom.

‘Over here,’ I replied.

‘Ah, Bates, Cartwright wants to see you in his study right away.’

I went cold. Why me? The head of house wanted to see me? Or could it be…?

‘Come off it,’ I said, trying to sound unconcerned. ‘You’re burting.’

‘Swear to God I’m not. Ask any senior. He was here just before you chaps came out.’

‘Okay.’ But I was still unconvinced. ‘Did he say why?’

‘No. Just wants to see you right away.’

‘Listen, if this is just a…’

‘I swear!’

‘Okay. Thanks.’

I turned to Charles Hart (Chart to those of us who were his friends). I could see the concern in his eyes. There’s a beast that lurks within every schoolboy, although most would never admit it. It goes on vacation during school holidays, but as the days of freedom diminish, it returns and begins gnawing away at his vital organs, sapping his strength and turning him cold. After a few days it settles down inside him, hardly an obvious presence, but it becomes heavy and cold when it senses danger. In moments of terror it turns into a solid lump of ice that almost paralyses the body. Mine was busy freezing my guts and Chart knew it. His would have frozen too, had he been in my position.

‘What d’you think he wants?’ I asked.

‘Haven’t a clue,’ he replied. ‘Are you sure you don’t know?’

‘No idea. I haven’t done anything wrong yet, as far as I know.’

‘Well, there’s only one way to find out.’

‘Yes, you’re right. Only…well, you know…’

‘I know. But get it over with. It can’t be serious. I’ll see you when you get back to the dorm.’

‘Okay. Thanks, Chart.’

‘Good luck!’ he called as I hurried away.

I felt certain that I’d need more than luck. I feared Cartwright more than I feared most of the teachers. He’d been a prefect during my newboy year and had established a reign of terror. Now he was in post-matric, was head of the house and deputy head of the school. He was like a man! To tell the truth, his deep voice, athletic build and authoritative bearing commanded such respect amongst us juniors that we would have believed it if told that he ruled by divine right. I little realised then that the awe in which we held him served merely to boost his already grossly inflated ego. Standing outside his study door, trying to pluck up the courage to knock, I might have been preparing to enter the headmaster’s office.

I remembered only too clearly my previous visit to Cartwright’s study, when, on my second day at the school, I’d been told to give him a message. I’d knocked on the door then, as I was about to do now, had heard a gruff voice call, ‘Enter!’ and had found myself surrounded by five prefects, their blazers glittering with gold braid.

‘What do you want?’ asked one with bad acne.

‘I’ve got a message for Cartwright,’ I replied.

‘Then give it to him,’ he said.

‘I don’t know which of you is Cartwright,’ I said.

‘Why not?’

‘Well, I’m a newboy and…’

‘That’s no excuse. You’re expected to know all the prefects.’

‘Yes,’ I replied, sheepishly.

‘Yes, what?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

They broke into confidential chuckles.

‘Well, we’re all ears. What’s your message?’

‘Myburgh’s booked the squash court for four o’clock and wants to know if that suits…is okay.’

‘Hold on a second. I’m confused,’ said the one with bad acne. ‘Your message was meant for Cartwright, not so?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, perplexed.

‘Then why in God’s name are you telling all of us? We’re not interested in Cartwright’s sordid affairs.’

I was close to tears and didn’t dare reply.

‘I’ll give you a clue that might help you,’ said another prefect. ‘Cartwright’s easy to pick out: he’s the ugly bugger.’

Now I was really trapped, unable even to hazard a guess without causing offence. I looked at the frayed rug on the floor. At last one of the sadists broke the silence.

‘You tell Myburgh that I’ll be there,’ he said. ‘And I want you to tell him something else as well: that you’re the biggest creep in the school. D’you understand?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, reddening.

‘Good,’ he said, ‘because I’ll make sure he received that message when I see him. Four o’clock, did you say?’

‘Yes.’

There was another long silence.

‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ asked the one I now knew to be Cartwright.

I turned to go.

‘Aren’t you even going to say goodbye?’

‘Goodbye,’ I said, and once more tried to escape.

‘No, no, no, Boy. That won’t do. Didn’t your parents teach you any manners? Say goodbye to each one of us in turn.’

Thoroughly humiliated, I did what was required of me. As I closed the door behind me, raucous guffaws echoed down the narrow corridor.

‘You swines!’ I muttered as I fought in vain to hold back my tears.

Would this visit be the same? I knocked.

‘Enter!’ called the gruff voice.

This time Cartwright was alone in his study. He sat at his desk in the glare of a reading lamp.

‘You…er…wanted to see me?’ I ventured, hesitantly.

‘Oh yes. Bates, isn’t it? Mr Lipton wants to see you before assembly tomorrow morning. He said you were to report to him straight after breakfast.’

‘At his office?’

‘I presume so.’

‘Did he say why?’

‘No he didn’t, but it must be quite important if he asked me to set up the appointment.’

‘Well, thanks. Is that all?’

‘For the moment. Have a good year.’

‘Thanks. You too.’

He nodded. I could sense him watching me as I walked out and closed the door. He’d been pretty civil this time, but the beast within me was not appeased. Why on earth should Teabag want to see me? Perhaps my folks were ill. No, that was unlikely because he’d have seen me right away, and, in any case, they’d both been well when I’d left home a few days previously. Perhaps there’d been a mistake on my report and I hadn’t passed after all. That seemed more likely, but they just didn’t make mistakes like that. I couldn’t think of anything else. Chart wasn’t much help either: his suggestions were even more implausible, but at least having someone to confide in provided some relief. Understandably, I lay awake for hours after lights-out, the beast within me twisting, twining and knotting itself.

The moment I entered Teabag’s study, I knew I was in serious trouble. He sat at his desk, flanked by Cartwright and Reitz, the prefects whom I feared most. Teabag sat with his head bowed, but the prefects glared at me for roughly half a minute. Then, suddenly, they crouched over the desk, exchanging urgent whispers with Teabag and jabbing occasional glances in my direction. Trying to avoid their menacing glares, I glanced round the study. Hundreds of blank faces stared at me from photographs lining the walls. Why did they never smile? Some of those teams had played for Pilgrims over a century ago. They’d all be dead by now. A host of skulls was watching me! I wondered why I was so calm. How could I stand there, scrutinised by deadpan death-heads, knowing that those sadists were busy plotting my fate? I was startled by a bell clanging somewhere nearby. Teabag reacted by springing to his feet and scowling at me. I was amazed to see that beneath his sports jacket he still wore pyjamas!

‘Bates, you’ve been a wicked boy!’

‘Why, Sir?’

‘You have soiled the reputation of this house and of this school.’

‘How, Sir?’

Cartwright and Reitz were closing in on me. For the first time I noticed the array of canes soaking in a basin to the left of the desk.

‘You removed your blazer and tie in public!’

‘Where, Sir?’

‘On the train!’ he bellowed. ‘On your way back to school! On the train!’

At this, the prefects grabbed me and started shaking me violently.

‘Come on, Batty, wake up! It’s time to shower.’

‘Wha…?’

‘The bell rang a few minutes ago. You’ll be blocked if you’re not in the shower soon!’

Chart was bending over me.

‘Oh, yes. Sorry. Thanks, Chart.’ The fuzziness dissolved.

‘And don’t forget you’ve got to see Teabag after breakfast.’

‘No, I haven’t forgotten.’

As it happened, I remembered only too well.

Immediately after breakfast (the usual lumpy porridge), I headed across the quad to Teabag’s study. I had to wait outside for a few minutes until he’d finished discussing something with Matron in the dining hall. I felt so conspicuous standing there that I hoped nobody would notice me. Of all people, Baxter and his cronies would be the ones to come swaggering past at that moment.

‘Well, well, if it isn’t Bishop Bates! Don’t tell me you’re in trouble! Good heavens, Chaps! What’s the world coming to? Cuts for the Bishop! Ooh, Sir, it hurts!’

My pre-pubertal treble was cruelly mimicked in his falsetto. Then he switched to Teabag’s clipped staccato, a parody which