Chameleon

Chapter One
Toby pressed his face so close to the burning rock he could smell the red and orange lichen growing in the crevices.
Veins of white quartz and the garish glint of fool’s gold gave the granite its inimitable look.
He pulled upwards with one arm, the other cradled his pride and joy, a Czechoslovakian Slavia 620 No.1 handcrafted air gun. The well oiled blue gunmetal glistened, as did the carved East European hardwood stock.
Lead pellets nestled beneath Toby’s tongue, ready at a moment’s notice. He was in his element, pursuing his favourite pastime, suffering the consequences rather than miss a moment in search of prey.
Notwithstanding his mother’s incessant pleas he still wore his school uniform. The durable khaki stood up to the rigours of the harsh environment, they were cool, comfortable, practical and inexpensive. His veldskoen too, were multi-functional, soft suede uppers that endured the elements, yet allowed the feet to breathe. The rubber soles gripped like Velcro.
Toby’s tanned limbs contrasted with the light beige of his clothes, reflecting a lifetime of outdoor existence. The heat distorted his vision and radiated off the iron rich rock, burning his lungs.
Sweat streamed down both his temples and along the back of the young boy’s neck, turning the khaki green. He licked his top lip in an attempt to detract the flies from their relentless quest for moisture and took cover to avoid the risk of dehydration and certain sunstroke.
The monitor’s remarkable camouflage and sense of survival made it almost impossible to detect. Outwitted, he sought respite beneath a rocky overhang and even though he had been there a thousand times, he marvelled at the breathtaking rock formations.
He was relieved the hunt had ended without success. No matter how much he loved the chase, despair and finality defiled it. He never got used to the killing. (Is it the sport, or just because I can?)

He recalled the men from the club.
“You are not a man unless you can hunt.”
“You must experience the thrill of pursuit and the fear of the hunted.”
Somehow, it sounded more glamorous in the luxurious cocktail lounge of the country club. (Perhaps animals don’t share the same feelings? Hunting is natural.)

His conscience did not concur. With each kill his guilt and self-disgust grew. He wondered how long it would take before emotion out weighed the thrill. Yet at every opportunity, he was out on some poor creatures trail.
A faint breeze cooled Toby. The view of the valley was breathtaking, yet stark in its harsh reality. He could make out the small house in which he lived.
It formed part of a string of identical governmental houses that circumcised the kopje, a cheap bejewelled belt of red roofs and green gardens. Spangled greys of granite contrasted with earthen rouges, completing her apparel. (Development; Man’s acne.)

Meagre rainfall and fierce temperatures discouraged everything but the sparse semi-arid thorn tree. Colloquially known as the wag n’ bietjie tree [wait-a-bit]. Bleached, razor sharp three-inch thorns protected the tree’s vital nutrients.
Once ensnared by them they were impossible to extricate from without inflicting deep gashes, risking infection from the poisonous tips. Nature’s barbed wire, perfect for spear fishing. They were lethal projectile for blowpipes as well as an impenetrable fortification for campsites.
The soil was thin and stony, only the magnificent Baobab thrived. Because of its incredible life saving properties, the tree commanded enormous respect from man and animal alike.
Over twenty meters tall, with berths nearing ten meters, some reputed to be thousands of years old. The thick, smooth, waxy bark protected the most precious product in Africa - water. Gnarled branches, leafless ten months of the year, gave the tree the impression of growing upside down. Its thick heavy pod, the size of American footballs, contained the crème-a-tartar fruit. An off white powder encrusted around dozens of small pips, with a sharp, tart taste that offered relief from thirst. Toby learnt from the local tribesmen to mix it with water for a refreshing drink.
The heat of the low-veldt began to take its toll. He took a tepid sip of water and grimaced, it tasted of the plastic hip bottle. (It needs some Crème-a-tartar.)

It was silly season, silly, because of the uncompromising temperatures. Situated on the fringes of the Kalahari Desert, the area lay a thousand meters below the rest of the country, creating the furnace effect.
The bush turned deathly quiet by mid afternoon, normally only associated with imminent danger. Not here, the debilitating temperature the culprit.
In spite of the harshness, Toby felt a harmony, irritated, of late, by a sense of unease.
He gathered himself and headed for his favourite Baobab tree, the forks of which provided enclaves where he could rest above the ground, taking advantage of the slightest breeze.
Nowhere did he feel more secure than in the arms of this bi-millennium giant.
He spent hours daydreaming the identity and escapades of past visitors. He imagined Bushmen articulating great hunts around crackling fires, pith-helmeted explorers of old resting their porters and the skulduggery of the modern day terrorist. The latter sent a cold chill down his spine, causing a knot in the pit of his stomach. Emotions he could not fathom.
Toby brushed debris from the nook and lay on his back, using his hands as a pillow. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the show of dappled light filtering through the leaves onto his eyelids, whilst inhaling the sweet aroma of her fruit. He drifted off, thankful there had been no killing.
The height of the sun told Toby he had slept for a number of hours. His parents had given him a watch for his last birthday, but he never remembered to wind it. (Besides, it gets in the way, snagging and glinting in the sun.)

African time was easier, though not as accurate. This frustrated the colonial communities no end when the work force turned up at approximate times dictated by the sun rather than that of Greenwich Mean Time.
It was time to go. He must stop by his old friend, Bow, who lived halfway down the hill.
He glanced at the distant open-cast coalmines. They reminded him of blackheads on a pretty girl’s face, irking him how civilisation intruded at every turn.
The feelings in his stomach returned. He sensed Nature might be losing the battle. The only consolation was that she would win
the war.
To abuse her was to risk retribution. (Man will be no exception.)

Toby hurried, he wanted to see Bow before the light vanished. His eyes scoured the bush looking past the curtain of brush that veiled
the wild animal.
Untrained eyes would see very little, focusing on the foreground.

“Bow, where the hell are you? Stop messing around, man, I can’t stay long.” Toby climbed into the thicket, taking care to avoid the notorious wag-n-bietjie thorns. “There you are, you bugger.”

Bow had his back to Toby, but this was no problem. His 360 degree rotating eyes turned backward and took a long look. With great deliberation, he turned towards Toby, who by now sat crossed legged in front of him.

“Hurry up, Bow, I’ve brought you something to eat.” He held up his hand and showed a black and red beetle struggling between his fingers. “It’s your favourite.”

With a flick of the tongue the insect disappeared. Bow was short for Rainbow. Despite his prehistoric appearance, he was a beautiful specimen, standing four inches high, two inches wide and a foot long. Indifferently, he cast a bulbous eye on Toby; the other looked for food and danger. Today, Bow wore a mustard yellow suit to coordinate with the dry savannah grass.
“At least you’re in a better mood today, Bow.”

The day before, Toby had found him in his Tuxedo.
(Something must’ve happened before I arrived. Perhaps a bird or snake tried to attack him, turning him black with rage and puffing himself twice his size.)
“Ok! See you tomorrow, Bow Chameleon, must get home before dark”

The sun disappeared, throwing a burnt orange blanket over the cooling earth. Twilight would last but an hour.
The evening symphony began its celebration, rejoicing in their survival of another day. Christmas beetles joined the twilight concerto, a little scratchy at first, but swelling to a crescendo. To complete the foray of operatics, the bass voices of the bullfrog fused in.
Toby paused before entering the house he took a deep breath, looked at his surroundings and smiled, thanking the heavens.
~~~~~~~~~~
The smell of cooking confirmed Temba was about to serve supper. (Somehow Mum and Dad managed to employ domestic help. Perhaps, it’s a perk, with Dad being an Inspector on the Police Force and all that.)

Mother worked mornings, so on Toby’s return from school Temba prepared Apricot jam sandwiches and a glass of ice-cold water.
Month-ends, he might get peanut butter.
Temba was a strapping, good-looking man well over six feet tall with a proud tribal heritage.
He had left his country disillusioned with politicians, of unfulfilled promises, corruption and crippling un-employment.
He sought greener pastures here in the bread basket of Africa.
They spent many hours discussing regional political affairs, which
planted the first seeds of uneasiness in Toby’s mind.
Temba ran the household, ordering the groceries, cooking, cleaning and doing the laundry. This was no mean feat because of parquet floors, hand washed laundry and a dry ironing. Void of all modern conveniences seen in glossy magazines, or when visiting the affluent neighbourhoods of the private sector.
Toby greeted Temba in the customary off-handed manner appropriate at the time. Both were aware of their imposed stations and permitted confines.
Despite the socio-political restrictions, the two were close. Temba would treat Toby as his own, reprimanding him whenever he felt the need.
He returned Toby’s greeting with a toothy grin. “Howzitt pikinin baas. I cooked your favourite scoff”.

“Bangers and mash?”

“Ja, without gravy.” He held a plate aloft.

Temba did a little jig and returned to the oven to dish up. Toby giggled, wrinkling up his sun freckled nose. His deep brown eyes sparkled with affection beneath a thatch of straw blonde hair.
“Dad will catch you messing about in the kitchen if you’re not careful.”

It did not seem to deter Temba who broke into a cheery whistle.
Toby knew his mother was home by the ageing Canary yellow Renault 12 parked in the driveway. He could hear her sewing machine in the bedroom; the sound reverberated against the prefabricated house.
The tin walls were a meter high, topped by louver windows that refused to close, allowing in the dust. The roof was red corrugated sheets of asbestos.
Cut into each of the bedroom walls were cumbersome air-conditioners that ran twenty-four hours a day. Without them, the house would be nothing but a giant convection oven.
Instead of the restful sounds of the African night, the family slept to their incessant drone. The houses were built by previous governments as temporary accommodation for the civil servant.
A cold shiver ran down Toby’s spine. (Was it the drop in temperature or the day’s events?)

Temba announced supper the minute Toby’s father arrived.
(Tonight, Dad is home at seven pm, other nights it could be later - sometimes not at all.)

He was always happy to see his father but resisted the urge to run over and give him a hug. He kept his feelings to himself as did the rest of the family.
Supper was served in the dining room on a scratched, dark wooden table; either side sat a plate of steaming sausage and mashed potatoes. Austere in accompaniment were four sets of lacklustre stainless steel cutlery and a couple of battered Sterling Silver
salt and pepper pots.
A lone caked jar of Colman’s English mustard decorated the centre piece.
Regardless of the incapacitating heat, there was no provision for refreshment - a hangover of British ancestry.
‘No liquid until the food on your plate is finished.’
He couldn’t imagine anything sillier in this environment. (Old habits die hard.)

Mealtimes were never grand affairs; the purpose was to consume, not to socialise. Food enough to sustain and of a quality that was edible, any more would be pointless and extravagant.
Temba was restricted to a menu of six to seven bland dishes. All English fare, ranging from beef stew, Shepherd’s pie, to fish fingers and Sunday roasts. It didn’t much bother Toby, the bush supplemented his diet.
After dinner, the family retired to the lounge. Patrick O’Malley turned on the radio tuning into the evening talk shows.
Susan settled into her favourite chair with a romantic blockbuster from the local library. They all looked the same and this one was no exception. The obligatory picture of a soppy woman in the arms of a man chiselled from stone.
Toby tried to read a few lines but couldn’t fathom out what his mother saw in them. Far too sedate for his liking. (Anyway, reading is for girls.)
Bored, he took a lethargic walk down the passage to his sister’s room.
Toby wished they had Television. The rich boys gave rundowns of the previous night’s viewing, to an enthusiastic audience of have-nots, at break the next day. Each one tried to curry favour in the hope of being invited to stay over. It was common for kids to give up a week’s tuck for the privilege.
Chantelle bossed her dolls around in her bedroom. Lined up against the wall she scolded them vociferously. Her pursed lips and scowls enough to make even the bravest cower.

“What are you doing?” Toby interrupted.

“Nothing, stupid. What do you want here, Toby.”

“Nothing, stupid.” He turned about, not up to one of their infamous battles.

Chantelle had just turned seven, four years younger than her brother, whom she adored. She wished sometimes she had a sister to play games that didn’t involve violence and rough and tumble.
She gave him a withering look, flicked her long unkempt blonde hair and returned to her game. (Idiot. Always looking for trouble. He is so frustrating, doing and saying silly things.)

The dolls bore the brunt.
By 8.30pm, Toby decided to go to bed. At least the room was cool. Tomorrow would be an early start and there was plenty afoot.

Chapter Two
A sweet chorus broke the hush of daybreak, heralding the impending arrival of the sun.
Toby flicked off the air conditioner which clanked to a peaceful rest. He tore open the curtains and greeted the first rays, breathing in the fresh air, to shake the hangover of another claustrophobic night.
Within minutes, a golden fireball rose above the horizon. A field of diamonds burst from the lawn from the touch of new light on the dew. A time creatures quenched their thirst for the impending showdown with the elements.
Toby’s father tended to the final touches of his uniform, a splendid Colonial outfit, pompous and impractical.
Meticulous shoes and long khaki stockings folded at the knee. Khaki shorts, a grey cotton shirt and mirror polished belts criss-crossed his torso, multi-coloured medal ribbons festooned his breast. A peak cap and the three bars of an Inspector completed his persona.
Toby watched from a distance, wondering whom his father would help today. He had promised to take him along one day. (When will that day arrive? I must keep training in the kopjes.)

Patrick O’Malley made an impressive figure, six-foot tall, thick blue-black hair and matching deep Irish eyes.
Being the member-in-charge’s son filled Toby with pride. He loved the respect the position commanded, despite the poor remuneration.
Toby opened the garden gates and waved to his father, who was too busy on the police radio to acknowledge.
Dejected, Toby traipsed into the house.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
There were two alternatives to get to the school. By mine-sponsored bus that ran half-hourly through the village or a three kilometre walk across country.
The direct route took Toby through the town’s revered golf club; a curious place guarded with vigour from the rampant mine children. Crossing took enormous planning, and a fair degree of luck.
The green’s keeper and henchmen patrolled the course, on the look out for any transgression.
Toby and colleagues experienced a number of narrow escapes, resulting in desperate flights across the fairways. The bush, on the far side their refuge. The narrowest section was risky, too close to the clubhouse. The safer, wider section offered better prospects.
The initial stage of the crossing required a doubled over sprint to the first safe haven, a deep bunker that broke their fall as they swallow-dived from several meters away. There they lay motionless, face down, catching their breath, every orifice filled with soft white river sand.
Not bothering to dust off, they ducked toward a rocky outcrop, the sand pouring from their beings like Haley’s comet. For the final stretch they hyperventilated, then hurled themselves to the far side.
Toby ensured he never attempted the crossing alone, capture was unthinkable. He often wondered about organising a grand crossing, each boy for himself, like the wildebeest migration of the Serengeti in Kenya. The idea met with little gusto.
Alan waited for Toby on the corner of the road leading down to the golf club. His thick mop of unruly dark curls wafted in the breeze. Toby smiled, wondering if they would ever find a product to keep that hair in check.
He was thicker set than Toby with a clear dark olive skin, better suited to the climate.
They took a thin dusty path into the bush, avoiding the clubhouse. Alan found the going difficult; he was not as light or sure-footed. One false step would spell disaster. A cocktail of loose debris and vicious wag n bietjie bushes made the terrain treacherous.
The two friends peered through the undergrowth of the course’s perimeter. To their left, a tractor offered no immediate threat. To their right some distance away, a couple of golfers were about to tee off.
They decided to chance it. Alan whooped and took off like a flustered warthog, startling Toby who followed suit. With little grace they dived into the halfway bunker, attempting to regain their breath and remove what looked like a bad case of dandruff.
The dull thud of a golf ball landed a few feet away. Panic set in, both boys exploded from the hideout and bolted to the next point of reprieve, a stone obelisk. Hysterical with laughter, they gasped
lungfuls of air then tackled the final leg, mindful that the golfers
might be onto them.

“That was cool. Bloody close though, hey?”

“For sure. Check what I’ve got.” Toby held up the brand new Dunlop golf ball.

“Shit, what the hell are you doing with that?”

Toby shrugged. “Dunno, seemed a good idea at the time.”

Horror etched in Alan’s face, “Get rid of it, NOW.”

“But we can get 50 cents for it at the caddy shack.”

“Bugger the 50 cents, what about those golfers?”

Toby turned to see two peculiar dressed men scouring the fairway followed by a caddy gesticulating in their direction.
Without a second thought Toby grenade-lobbed the ball back toward the bunker and disappeared into the undergrowth.
Some mornings dozens of kids congregated either side of the kopjes. Those already across, sat and watched from the natural amphitheatre as their fellow gladiators ran the gauntlet.
Capture incited intolerable teasing. Those caught, worked off their punishment at the clubhouse, washing dishes, cleaning the pool or
worse still, collecting golf balls from the driving range.
Close to school the boys crossed a deserted piece of land intended as playing fields. Despite numerous attempts by the grounds staff, the area remained a glowing wasteland. After the rains Sulphur deposits rose to the surface, killing everything.
This mystical land oozed puss from boils that emitted smells of pungent boiled eggs from its eggshell surface. A by-product of prehistoric forests reduced to fields of bitumen

“Catch.” Toby threw Alan matches.

“Thanks, hope it works.”

They crouched and scratched the sallow surface, careful to collect the purest powder.

“This’ll do.” Toby filled the box of matches with the fine yellow residue.

“Me too. Quick before school starts.”

“Okay, okay.”

The boys each struck a match and put the boxes down.

“You ready?”
Alan nodded, noticing Toby’s freckles become more prominent. They slid the lighted matches in with the others and ducked to safety.
“Doesn’t look likes it’s gonna work, Tobes?”

“Maybe.” Disappointment crossed Toby’s face.

The boxes burst into the air with a flash of blue flame.

“Shiiittt, did you see that, man?” Alan danced with delight seizing Toby in a wrestling grip.

“You’re strangling me, idiot.”

“Sorry”

Toby stood up and re-composed himself. (Twit doesn’t realise his own bloody strength.)

The school buildings, like most governmental structures, were barrack fashion. Red face brick, white steel windows and a roof of red corrugated asbestos sheeting.
Coltown had too small a population for a secondary school, so they sent their pre-teens to boarding schools.
From outside his classroom he heard a cacophony of shrills and laughter, the excitement evident. (Is it only me who’s afraid of leaving home?)
“Settle down and take your places. Children.”

Each day Toby chose a different desk, so he could examine the graffiti. He aspired to find the earliest one, perhaps from the previous century, his best dated back to 1902.
The teacher handed out A4 forms. “These are for your parents to complete and return by tomorrow. Remember, any delays will reduce your chances of going to the school of your choice. In order of preference please. Boys, indicate which of the armed forces you intend serving your national service.”
A nervous torrent of adrenalin knotted Toby’s stomach once more. (Why is everything changing - ending? Why must I leave home? I don’t want to join the army. Even my body’s changing.)

“Toby” “TOBY, are you with us?”

“Y... yes Ma’Am.” The noise of the classroom refocused his attention. He resisted the urge to follow the sun radiating through the doorway.

“What’s that SMELL?” a faceless voice whined, reducing the class to hysterics.

“You kids know very well what it is, so let’s not go down that one, today.”
A change in wind direction caused the sulphur field’s odour to drift school ward, wreaking havoc on classes. This time it helped abate the nervous tension.
````````````````
Toby didn’t feel like going into the hills that afternoon. Disconsolate, he pondered a lethargic dust devil in the shimmering haze as it tried to cross the tarmac.
He decided to visit Temba. They had a two-roomed house at the far end of the O’Malley’s one acre garden, shared by his wife and three children.

“Howzitt, Mr Toby, want some lunch?”

“Nah.”

“One of them days, huh?”

“Why can’t things just stay the way they are, Temba?”

Temba’s face took on a serious look. “Change and life are the same. Better or worse”

“For worse, more likely. I have to go to boarding school soon and choose what to do in the army.”

Temba blew through pursed lips. “How can they ask young boys to fight their wars?”
A rhetorical double-edged question that left Toby wondering to which little boys he referred. He let it go, as did Temba, not wishing to get into one of their political parleys.

“Come, join us for lunch.” Temba smiled broadly again.

“Thanks, but what about mum?”

“Don’t worry she’s shopping and then going to the library.”

Toby took a seat on one of the tree stumps. Temba disappeared into the house in search of his wife. He felt sorry for them, their tiny dwelling and meagre lifestyle, yet envious of their closeness.
Their house consisted of a roofed fireplace that divided two rooms, soot discolouring whitewashed walls.
The rooms were identical. A tin door and a bare globe hung from ceilingless corrugated roofs. The ablutions, a showerhead over-looking a long drop, a chain flushed the toilet.
Toby cheered to the comforting smell of maize meal cooking over a wood fire. The pungent aroma of green carbolic soap wafted from the laundry on a makeshift clothesline. The surrounding bare earth shone from unremitting brushing by a homemade straw broom. Temba changed out of his white uniform into shorts and T-shirt.
“Come, Mr. Toby, let’s rest and talk a bit. My wife and daughter will prepare us men food.” Temba chose the largest in the circle of tree stumps and sighed. “Ahiees it is not easy being a man these days?”

Toby nodded, looking past him at his son, Sipho.

“What you doing here?” Sipho asked

“Your Dad invited me. Why?”

“Thought your parents didn’t like you coming here?”

“They’re not me. Are they?”

Temba interjected, “Sit beside me, son, and let’s enjoy ourselves.”
Sipho glared. In two minds what to do. “Ok, father, but because you wish it.”

Temba controlled the conversation, careful to avoid sensitive subjects.
Toby, aware of Sipho continual scrutiny, wondered what his problem was. (Does he blame me for his family’s situation, or is there something more to it? Perhaps it isn’t even personal. Still, Sipho has no right to make me feel uncomfortable. It isn’t my fault. Is it?)
Temba’s wife brought mugs of sweet tea with the baby strapped to her back. “Hi, Mr. Toby. How you?”

“Fine, Precious, how’s baby?”

“Sharp thanks.”

Custom dictated she served Temba first, and then guests, the children and finally the woman.
“When you are finished, wash up for lunch.” She smiled at Temba who returned her adoration.

“Quiet, woman, can’t you see the men are busy?”

Precious chuckled and began chatting to herself while preparing lunch.

Temba gave an impish grin. “If we men don’t stick together the world will be run by woman”

They agreed, suspecting that it may already be too late.
````````````````
Toby recalled the rare occasion when his parents went out of an evening, sneaking from the house and joining Temba’s family for supper.
A sumptuous affair of boiling cast iron pots filled with lashings
of fluffy corn meal and heaps of flame grilled brisket. Enormous enamel bowls placed in the centre of the tree stumps filled the air with appetising aromas of exotic spices.
They rolled handfuls of corn meal in their fingers dipping it into the thick Peri-Peri sauce. A spice introduced by early Portuguese settlers, ground from small hot, Bird’s-eye chillies.
Idle chitchat consummated the furore. Temba’s side-splitting belches, followed by an appreciative rub of his belly announced the end to proceedings.
Wife and daughter cleared the dishes and brewed further mugs of hot tea for everyone, except Temba.
With regal poise, he accepted the first carton of traditional beer [an opaque beer fermented from sorghum and corn] and prudently adhered to the bold letters on the side of the milk carton ‘SHAKE SHAKE’. This prevented sediment and mouthfuls of sour, cold porridge. Tipping back his head, he drank with gratification. The low slung canopy of stars silhouetting him against the night sky.

“That’s better,” he announced wiping his cream moustache with the back of his hand. Looking skywards, he launched into ancestral fables and myths, each one becoming more outlandish.
“That’s no fire, boys. I want FIRE.”

The flames mirrored the dramatics and growing props of empty cartons. Eventually the alcohol brought about the final curtain.
Everyone sat mesmerized, the silence broken only by the spitting
embers of cherry coals. Good from evil epitomised in the warmth of the fire and chill of night.
Toby looked through his fringe to see the whites of Sipho’s eyes looking back at him.
`````````````
“Mr. Toby, you must be getting home, your mother is returning.”
Precious shook Toby by the shoulder. Lunch was over, washed and packed.

(How long did I sit here?)He sauntered back to the house in time to see the canary pull into the drive way. (How does he know Mum will arrive within a few minutes, a kind of sixth sense or something?)

“Hi, Mum.”

“Not now Tobes, I’m busy. Ask Temba to take the shopping out of the car.”

Temba was already on his way, uniformed and at a trot, no mention nor acknowledgement to Toby.
~~~~~~~~~~~
“Here Dad, you must fill these in for tomorrow.”

Patrick O’Malley didn’t respond until the adverts. “What is it, boy?”

“Forms, for high school and national service.”
“Well, have you decided yet?”

Toby shrugged his shoulders.

“Typical. This boy of yours is so indecisive.” He glowered across the living room at his wife reading.

“He’s your son too,” she retorted without looking up.

“Fine. Get me a pen and let’s settle this.” He snatched the pen and peered through his reading glasses. “For starters you might want to consider the police force? You don’t want to skive by joining some poxy regiment – do you?”

“I was thinking of the SAS,” Toby retaliated. He watched the disbelief creep across his father’s face. (That ought to shut him up.)

“You were? You do?” Patrick O’Malley recouped. “Well, I suppose it’s not a bad choice. What do you think, Mother?”

“That’s nice Dears.”

“What do you mean ‘that’s nice?’ Our son’s decided to join the most elite armed force in the country, the Special Air Service and all you can say is ‘that’s nice’ – I ask you?”
Patrick O’Malley continued. “Well, if that’s your choice my boy, who am I to stand in your way?”

Toby grinned. His father looked proud. “I thought I would try for Cranberry College too.”

Patrick’s eyebrows lifted higher. “Are you sure? Cranberry is over five hundred miles away.”

“I know, but it is the best school in the country.” Toby hoped to impress again.

“Good boy, perhaps you are a chip off the old block, after all,” he said leaning forward to embrace his son.

Toby returned the hug, an over whelming sense of well being permeated the eleven year old. He felt safe, secure in his father’s arms, satisfied he had pleased him. They sat discussing the future, sharing a rare moment of intimacy.

“Well, my boy, this country needs every man to do his bit. It is our duty to stop the communist backed infiltrators terrorising... Ah! I want to listen to the end of this programme.”
He turned off their closeness as easily as he turned up the volume on the radio.

“Thanks, Dad, see you in the morning.” Toby tried to give his father another hug.

“Bloody idiot doesn’t know what he’s talking about” Patrick threw up his arms in frustration at the voice on the radio, knocking his son aside.

“’Night Dad, ’night Mum.”

Neither responded.

````````````

Christmas, Nineteen seventy-four came too quickly. Usually Toby couldn’t wait for the end of school and the long summer holidays.
Boarding school loomed with the ever-approaching New Year. The last day of school saw parties, farewells and address swapping.

“Toby. Your turn to see the Headmaster.” His teacher smiled from behind her desk. “You can’t go in like that. Come here so I can fix you up.” She faked annoyance.
“You’ll have to buck up your ideas at Cranberry College, that’s for sure,” tucking in his shirt and returning his socks to below the knees. “Just look at the state of those shoes,” she murmured.
Toby buffed a shoe on the back of his sock, breaking away from the mothering octopus at the first chance.
He lingered outside the headmaster’s door before knocking. This time he wasn’t in any kind of trouble, but remained anxious.

“Enter. Close the door behind you. Ah! Tobias, it’s you. Is it?”
The headmaster smiled. “So, it is time for you to leave us?”

Toby noted a certain sadness in his voice and the darker than usual circles beneath his eyes. (He looks older.) “Afternoon, Mr. Potts, sir.”

They chatted of the past, of ambition and of expectation until the headmaster brought the session to an end. “Well, Tobias, a small piece of advice. Do the best that you are able, keep your head down and mind your business.”
In Churchill fashion, he stood up from behind his desk, grasped his lapels and gazed out of the window. “Be a Chameleon, my boy. Be a Chameleon. Blend with your surroundings, until such time you are ready to stand up and be counted.”

Toby sidled toward the door, his movements breaking the man’s pensiveness. He thrust out a hand in farewell. “Good luck, my boy.”

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A brown envelope marked ‘On Government Service.’ awaited Toby’s return from school, the day before his twelfth birthday. He sat on the edge of his bed shaking. (Should I open it or wait for the Mum and Dad?)

The deafening buzz of silence made him reach across to turn on the air conditioner. The shrill blast of the telephone distracted him.
“O’Malley’s. Hello.”

“Did you get your letter? Mine arrived today. Guess where I’m going. I can’t believe it.”

The line went dead.

(Bloody fool’s so excited he’s gone clean off his head.)Toby replaced the phone and dialled Alan’s number. “Are you mad? You didn’t give me or yourself a chance to speak?”

“Sorry man, I just can’t believe that I have been accepted at
Cranberry. How ‘bout you?”

“Haven’t opened it yet.”

“You say I’m mad yet you haven’t even looked at yours. Hold on, I’ll be there in five.”
The line burred in Toby’s ear. This time it brought a smile to his face. He had to admire Alan’s enthusiasm.