Hard words and fruit bombs

by Claire

“Oh indeed, Ollie’s a genius, I am so often delighted by his quick wit and the breadth of his academic understanding that I quite want to cry.”

Mr Thrumbole was prone to such slimy and hyperbolic flights of praise, especially in the direction of wealthier families such as Ollies. In actual fact Ollie was never much more than averagely bright. He contributed only a little to class discussions and when he did his offerings were plodding. The child in Mr Thrumboles class who would in fact have earnt the praise that Ollie received, was Terry. However, his family were not wealthy or influential, beautiful or famous. Terry’s dad was a handyman who had done some small jobs for Thrumbole and had done them efficiently, quietly and cheaply. Thrumbole didn’t let that stop him complaining and withholding payment. On seeing Terry’s father at the parents evening, Thrumbole fixed his steeliest stare of disapproval and proceeded to list all of Terry’s very many faults.

“He is a know-it-all and far too quick to answer. He disagrees with me when I point out his failures. He goes off on fanciful tangents which transgress from my clearly demarcated pathway of learning. He is not an easy boy at all and needs to quieten down and stand back if he is to have any success.”

Terry’s father relayed this information to Terry later that evening. In doing so he did not make any judgement or offer advice, he merely passed on the message, ruffled Terry’s hair and switched on the TV.

Terry fumed and ruminated. He envisaged Thrumboles oily hair slicked against his sweaty scalp, saw the blubbery lips opening and closing all slathered in spit and Vaseline, spewing forth obsequious compliments to everyone but him. The injustice cut deep. Had he only known it at the time, Thrumboles words were the making of Terry, they were the itch he always needed to scratch, the tension in his bladder that spurred him on and which made him determined to succeed – which he most certainly did. He did not quieten down and stand back at all.

But at the time he was wounded and used his intellect for revenge. The next morning he made a detour to his Grandmothers garden on the next street. It was fruit dropping time and Granny had a plum tree, with over ripe fruit fallen around its trunk. Terry gathered a handful of the fat purple plums and took them to school. At the end of the day he hung around near the gate and waited for Thrumbole to get in his car. The playground was thronging with children and staff as Thrumbole, always the first to leave, turned his ignition. At which point there was a great fruity bang and a sooty mulch flew out of the exhaust and plastered Thrumboles car and the passing Deputy Headmaster.

Thrumbole was a quieter and more pensive man after the plum bomb. Even now, whenever faced with criticism or doubt, Prime Minister Terence Sandford reminisced on that day with a tingle of adrenaline and renewed determination.

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