Tony: The banana

[set in one “house” of a boys’ boarding school – an evening in term-time – “settler” was the lowest position of authority which a senior boy could hold]

“Who drew on this banana?” asked Mason in distress.

The evening “preparation” period should have started, but there was no sign of the settler on duty.  A lively commotion held sway in the junior houseroom - not unusual for this time of day, with the evening meal just consumed, and no great desire to sit around in silence.

The main door of the houseroom opened, and Rawlings, the settler, entered.  A general chorus of giggles from the junior boys accompanied Rawlings wherever he went, and tonight was no exception.  He strolled forwards and set a chair beside the table-tennis table, on which he deposited some books.

“What’s going on here?  Some sort of trouble?” he asked languidly.

“Mason’s banana has been, er… defaced,” said Stewart.  “It’s unacceptable.”

Rawlings examined the banana.

“It portrays part of the human anatomy,” he observed, after turning the object this way and that.

“Ah, but which part?” a voice chimed in.

“That,” answered Rawlings, “should not require much thought.”

“Is it still edible?” asked Mason, wistfully.

“We’ll preserve it,” said Rawlings, emphatically.  “Perhaps the artist responsible will come forward?”

He cradled the banana carefully in his hands, and placed it on the table next to his books.

“Right, to work!” he uttered, dramatically.

A number of sighs were heaved, and with much thumping of books on desks, and clattering of pens, junior prep was begun.  A silence descended at last – too studious a silence to endure very long: a brooding atmosphere of concentration and virtuous thought.

At what point the operation to retrieve the banana was conceived, no-one could establish precisely.  The banana lay there, enticingly uneaten, behind Rawlings’ head, as he sat back in his chair, reading a large colourful book on the Russian ballet, periodically prodding his nose with the knuckle of one finger.

Any great subtlety might not have been expected from boys of this age, but, as things turned out, Rawlings was easy enough prey.

“You’re good at spelling, aren’t you, William?” Peverel enquired very meekly.

“My name is Rawlings during study periods,” was the measured reply.  “What is the word?”

“’Claustrophobia’.  Does this look right to you?”  Peverel took the neatly-written exercise book from his desk, and walked over to Rawlings, who sat casually sprawled on his chair, his eyebrows raised in a look of mild enquiry.

Peverel showed him the book.

“Does it look right?” he asked.

“No.  There are too many ‘o’s.”

"Too many ‘0’s?  O…. dear!” Peverel spoke deliberately slowly.  Another bout of giggles broke out – meanwhile, Mason, creeping on pointed feet, slipped quietly behind Rawlings’ chair, and expertly lifted the banana from the table with one hand.

“How many ‘o’s should there be?” pursued Peverel, mellifluously.

“As many as required,” answered Rawlings obstinately.  “Who’s got a dictionary?”

At this point, the main door of the houseroom opened, and Charlton, the housemaster, appeared.  He was in what was generally known as his “evening mood”, nonchalantly holding a pipe in his hand, and gazing with observant eyes around him.  He suddenly smiled, and walked towards the table where Rawlings was sitting.

“I left the book in your study, William,” he said, mildly.

“Thank you, sir,” answered Rawlings, rubbing his eyes slowly.  “I look forward to reading it.”

“Everything going smoothly here?” Charlton enquired, gazing at the quiet, studious faces.

“I think so, sir.”

Rawlings, remembering the banana, searched the table closely with his eyes.  He stared severely at Peverel, who was still beside him.

Charlton raised his eyebrows.  “Anything wrong?”  he asked.

“Just the question of some spelling, sir,” Rawlings answered wryly.  “The number of ‘n’s in ‘banana’.  I think a dictionary should resolve the matter.”

“Very well.  Keep up the good work.”  Charlton puffed on his pipe for a moment – then, as was his wont, he nodded briefly, and strode off quickly, looking neither to right nor to left.  The rich aroma of fine tobacco rose in a cloud behind him.