The next day, of course, Forfar was right back at it. Most of his mischief took place during Father Sargeant’s afternoon English class. In the opening minutes, Forfar did whatever was necessary to get a rise out of the school chaplain.
If stretching out on the bench so he was practically lying down didn’t draw a sharp rebuke then he would adopt a different approach, that of the overly eager student.
In the midst of Father Sargeant’s patient efforts to extract an answer from one of the less gifted members of the class, Forfar would wag his arm enthusiastically, snapping his fingers, and hiss “Psst, Sog. Pssst, Sog” just loud enough for those around him to hear.
It was usually distracting enough to get a reaction, perhaps a mildly sarcastic put down along the lines of “I’m not interested in hearing from you today Forfar, thank you.” But that would only open the door to the rejoinder, “But, Sir” at which point Father Sargeant would get annoyed.
Forfar had won another round.
Over and over he tested the priest’s patience and all Father Sargeant ever did was glare, his nose and mouth twitching furiously. A smile never seemed far from his face. Only once do I remember Father Sargeant losing his cool. It was a classic run-in and by the time it was over the whole school knew about it.
The day was one of those first really warm, sunny days of spring that seem to take forever to arrive on the Canadian prairies. All you felt like doing was getting outside, maybe going for a walk, or just soaking up the glorious warmth of the sun.
A favorite outing on those days was taking a canoe up Cook’s Creek for a swim in the nearby lake. The only requirement was that the steersman had to be someone with steersman accreditation. That meant finding a senior boy willing to steer. And, of course, there was never any excuse for getting back late.
These trips were usually organized on the spur of the moment, meaning quite a bit of time would be wasted rounding up enough people for a crew. Another problem was that nobody ever seemed to have a watch. They would rely on the school bell, an old Canadian Pacific Railway gong, that could be heard for several miles. For these reasons Forfar was inviting trouble when he hastily rounded up a crew and set off across the river.
Five minutes into the sleepy calm of Cook’s Creek everyone began to feel uncomfortably hot. The tangle of willow, shrubs, and marsh grass along the banks created a cozy cocoon through which the canoe glided. About the only one doing any paddling was steersman Jim McKay who had too much pride to let the boat zigzag off course.
Nobody paid much attention to his attempt to get some help with the paddling, least of all Forfar, who kept shifting in his seat as he removed various pieces of clothing in an effort to cool down. Eventually, he realized there was only one solution.
Without warning, he was on his feet and had one foot on the gunwale. And just so there wouldn’t be any mistake about his real intentions, he gave an extra kick as he lunged into the water. Everyone screamed something different as the boat turned turtle. They were all cursing Forfar. He loved the abuse and the more they complained the more he mocked them.
In short order, McKay and a couple of others had swum the overturned canoe to shore and were attempting to right it. Others followed with the paddles and any gear they could grab. Needless to say, Forfar found himself on the receiving end of a few not-so-good-natured kicks. They were soon underway again, stripped to their underwear, jeans and shirts draped everywhere in hopes they would dry in the sun
At the lake, McKay denied Forfar a second opportunity to dump the boat by doing it himself. As they were surfacing someone asked if anyone else had heard the bell.
“Ah, shit,” blurted Forfar, realizing he was about to put himself into more trouble than intended.
“Sog’ll have my nuts if I’m late for his English class.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that,” replied McKay with not a trace of sympathy.
McKay had a spare first period. So had three others and a fourth said it didn’t matter because his master Mr. Davies would understand the delay.
Forfar found their lack of concern unsettling. Nobody seemed to be in a hurry. His pleading for a little more speed fell on deaf ears. And everyone was taking way longer than necessarily putting on their wet clothes.
Once underway they made good time returning to the school and soon had carried the boat up onto the lawn in front of the school. Forfar threw off his life jacket and, still barefoot, made a beeline for his locker. He grabbed his English books and was on his way into the dining room for class.
His eye caught Father Sargeant’s glare as he was attempting to slip in unnoticed. A bull in a china shop would have caused less commotion. Before he had sat down by the windows Father Sargeant broke his silence.
“Forfar,” he barked, his entire face twitching furiously. Forfar hoped Sog might be in a good mood and would let him off.
“I won’t have you in my class without shoes. Go put some on,” he demanded.
Forfar couldn’t believe his luck. No questions about where he was, why he was late, nothing. With a nod of gratitude, Forfar dropped his books, jumped up on the bench, and disappeared out the open window.
Father Sargeant stood there speechless, his eyes following the figure lumbering across the front lawn. The rest of us didn’t even try to suppress our laughter. Father Sargeant cast a disapproving scowl our way before resuming his surveillance out the window.
We could see Forfar had only gone as far as the canoe before turning back, shoes in hand. To our amazement, it was clear he planned to come back in the same way he went out. This was getting more entertaining by the minute.
After all, how did someone his size propose to climb through a window that stood nearly five feet off the ground? It was as if his sole reason for living was to drive poor Sog mad.
First came the shoes, landing with a thump on the bench. Then came two hands, clinging tenaciously to the inside ledge as his arms attempted to haul the rest of his body over the top. The operation was of course more difficult than he anticipated and it took nearly a minute of grunting and groaning before enough of his body was through the window and he could stop kicking his feet on the outside wall. Finally, he was through. But it wasn’t until he had swung his legs under the table and was about to sit down that Father Sargeant snapped.
“Get out,” he said quietly but firmly, barely suppressing his rage.
Forfar still had his shoes to put on so there were no immediate signs he was complying. When his head emerged from under the table he stood up and sheepishly walked past Father Sargeant’s menacing gaze. It would not have been unusual if he’d received a sharp cuff on the back of the head as he walked by, but not this time.
Just before reaching the door, he caught sight of the school cook, grinning from ear to ear. The cook couldn’t get enough of Forfar’s antics. Every time he got into trouble he won his way a little further in Charlie’s heart. And that meant more privileges in the kitchen.
As Forfar went by Grant Odleifson slouched against the dish cabinet along the back wall he dawdled long enough to deliver a parting shot. He reached across with his right arm and cuffed the air over Odleifson’s head, outrageously mimicking the very person who was breathing down his neck.
Father Sargeant had already grabbed the stretcher and was running across the dining room when his first scream rang out.
“GET OUT!”
It was quickly followed by several more as he chased Forfar down the hall. Forfar had been caught flat-footed and only just managed to dart up the stairs ahead of the stick-flailing school chaplain.
Despite the 33 years difference in age and physical condition the gap between them never widened. And Father Sargeant was hard on his heels as they pounded along the second-floor hall and through into the stone building.
Doors flew open as they went by, masters and students curious to determine the cause of the commotion. Father Sargeant’s battle cries had become less frequent but were just as feverish. At this point, his screams had become a command to go to the office.
Forfar had tried to assure him that was where he was going but he didn’t dare stop. He didn’t feel he would be out of danger until he was actually within the confines of the headmaster’s office. He arrived there only two steps ahead of his pursuer.
Father Sargeant regained his composure remarkably quickly. There was no need for interrogation. He simply said, “Bend over.”
Forfar offered no resistance. Eight swats later they were both back in class ready to resume the English lesson.
Richard de Candole has been working in British Columbia and Alberta as a reporter and editor for over 40 years. Toughest School in North America is about his five years as a student at St. John’s Cathedral Boys’ School in Selkirk, Manitoba from 1962 to 1968. Richard lives with his wife Wendy in Qualicum Beach, British Columbia.
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