Camels Are for Life

By Adrian Brookes

Sometimes, as a teacher you get a suspicion you really have helped someone on their way, if not done some outright good.

Fifth-year English was the first class of a Friday afternoon. They were a good bunch on the whole, and we’d often have an end-of-the-week laugh. A good bunch after a good lunch meant I could allow myself to go in feeling cautiously relaxed; and on this particular Friday they were looking up expectantly from their desks, a promising start.

‘Right. Take out last night’s homework. We’ll read one or two.’ I scanned the faces as they got it ready. ‘Tobias.’ He was a good Friday afternooner. Tobias gave an anxious double-take.

‘Sir?’
‘Read out your homework. “The Camels…” Everyone else listen carefully. I want some good, constructive comments.’ Tobias tilted up his exercise book, lowered his eyes to the page and began. After his first sentence I held up my hand. ‘The camels made a detour around the igloo?’ He flicked a crafty glance across the room, though I didn’t catch who to.

‘Yeah, well that’s it, sir. Not an igloo as such. An eeglú. Spelt like this. Stress on the second syllable.’

‘Not an Eskimo’s house?’

‘No sir,’ he scoffed, confidence rising, ‘not one of them. An eeglú.’

My look of patient irony, ‘All right, what’s an eeglú?’

‘It’s a word from an ancient Near East language. Yerrki, a dead language, sir.’

General chuckles of anticipation, bright eyes keen for my reaction.

‘A dead language?’

‘Yes sir. Been dead a while now, sir.’

‘Then how do you know eeglú was a word in… what, Yerrki?’

‘From reconstruction, sir, from cave paintings.’ A collective burst of merriment. There was something about this kid, this Tobias; just the wacky, good-natured pluck of him that got a teacher to laugh off what he wouldn’t stand for in another boy. He had the class’s whole attention. Got it easily, which was more than I could do.

They were all big grins, most still eying me to see how I’d take it. And yes, I thought, I’ll play my part. There was no defiance in them, and Friday lunch still felt good. Tobias shot another glance across the room. This time I caught it. It was Mia. Her eyes were shining, egging him on.

My tone of patient indifference. ‘So, let’s get this clear. You’ve reconstructed the pronunciation from a cave painting?’

‘In National Geographic or somewhere, sir. More than one painting, to make sure, and peer reviewed.’ He waved a hand at his rapt audience.

My wry look, mostly to stop myself grinning. ‘And your explanation?’

‘Yeah, come on, Tobes!’ and suchlike calls, suppressed at a look from me.

‘It’s the people in the paintings, sir, the shapes of their mouths. There’s a woman talking to a man, and by the way she’s got her mouth you can tell she’s saying, “Eee”…’

A tumult of voices. ‘She’s just seen a mouse: eeeeeeh!’ ‘No, she’s singin’ to ’im: ee-ay-ee-ay-o!’

‘And then in the next painting she’s got her mouth like this…’ he bunched his lips together, ‘like she’s saying “glú”.’

‘She’s underwater, glú, glú, glu!’ ‘No, she’s blowin’ ’im a kiss!’

‘So it can only be eee—glú, sir.

‘And an eeglú is… what?’

‘Well, she’s sort-of waving at the man, like as if to say, “See you when you get home,” so it must be where they live.’

‘Their cave?’

‘Nah, not a cave. More like… a humpy.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah, you tie your camel outside. It’s your humpy.’ Hoots and hilarity. I sensed him absorbing the energy of the room. Order finally restored, I caught a glimpse of his exercise book, laid flat.

‘Hey, show me.’ He closed the book and held it up. ‘No, your homework. Show me where it is.’ Another glance at Mia, perhaps this time for moral support. Opening the book page by page, he flicked through his previous work and came to an opening of blank sheets. ‘Well? Where is it?’

‘It’s in my head, sir.’

‘Haven’t you written it down?’

‘Er… I… no sir.’

‘It was homework, to be ready for this class. You made out you were reading it from your book, but the pages are empty.’

‘Oh, but if I look at the paper it gives me inspiration, sir. If I focus hard, I can sort-of picture the words coming up on the page, and then I can read them. It’s the way I work best, sir.’

I reached for the book. ‘You can picture the words on the page?’

‘Yes sir.’ I held his eyes and slowly turned the blank pages to the class. Again, they collapsed in laughter. With him, not me. ‘So I thought I’d give it as a verbal presentation, sir, seeing as it’s how I do things best.’

‘The instructions were very clear. You were to write two pages. Excuse?’

‘Just I’m best at verbal presentations, sir.’

‘Right. Failure to do homework. No excuse. You’re to report to this room immediately after school this afternoon.’

‘What, detention, sir?’ He looked genuinely dismayed. ‘I…I’ll do it between classes and bring it to the staff room. Can I do that, sir?’

‘You’ll come here this afternoon after school. You’ll do it then and do it properly.’

‘Do it… You mean, the same story, sir?’

‘You haven’t got a story, though, have you? All you’ve got is a lot of smart answers about camels walking round igloos that aren’t igloos.’

‘I’ve got a good story, sir. It’s all in here,’ he said, tapping his head.

‘See, sir,’ Mia burst in, ‘it’s not fair. He has got a story. Just ’cause he didn’t write it down. It’s not bloody fair!’

Tobias looked at her in grateful surprise. The class went quiet. Swearing at a teacher was over the red line. There was a collective pulling in of heads. My thunder-scowl to convey the anger it deserved. ‘And you, Mia, will also report here after school for not minding your language.’ I let the pair adjust to their plight. Meanwhile it came to me that Mia’s talent was art. The last thing I wanted to do was squash Tobias’ creative exuberance, and this might be a good complement. Besides, I felt okay about giving the kid a break.

‘What do we have to do in detention, then, sir?’

‘You, Tobias, will write the story: “How the camels made a detour around the eeglú and I discovered how to speak fluent Yerrki from studying cave paintings.” And you, Mia, will do the cave paintings to go with the story.’

Well, I should have seen it coming. He wrote his story in Yerrki, supposedly, all blobs and squiggles, though when I challenged him to read it to me he gave a word-and-grammar-perfect recitation. She’d found some coloured chalks and covered the blackboard with convincingly-styled stone-age pop art, its images perfectly matching his story. On their release, instead of them grabbing their bags and hoofing it for the exit, I found them lingering, unwilling to disengage from their joint creative project.

Fifth form ended and the years moved on. Last April I went to see Tobias at the comedy festival, drawn by the rave reviews. An excellent verbal presentation, Tobes,’ I said afterwards. ‘Brilliant show. Congratulations! Is Mia around?’

‘No, she’s got an exhibition in Sydney. “Paintings of the Outback”. The Australia Council funded her to go on a camel trek. No, true! I’m going straight up there after I finish the shows here.’

He had one of the twins with him; the other was with her.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Adrian Brookes grew up in the English West Midlands but has lived most of his life in Victoria. Since his earliest schooldays he has always enjoyed writing, and has turned out, over the years, numerous articles, stories, reports, songs, verses and English lessons. He likes writing stories with an air of mystery or a sense of the ridiculous, and is trying to work out how to blend both aspects.