He wasn’t serious, was he?

Our boarding school was built on a ridge line that sloped down to and was surrounded on three sides by the Wilson River. On the eastern side the bank was quite steep. Along that bank was the old dairy, converted into a carpentry room and other storerooms etc for groundskeeping equipment.

In third year (14 years old) somehow, I struck up a casual friendship with Deadger. His claim to fame was being on the cover of a local shooter’s magazine with a wooden stock he had handmade. He and I fiddled around making odd tools, commonly screwdrivers out of scrap nails.

We were sitting round the anvil one afternoon quietly hammering out a flat on a six-inch nail. Past us walks a relatively new student to our cohort, Fred (not his real name). He was carrying a length of thick rope and mumbling to himself. “Where are you going” we called out. “Off to hang myself” he replied. Deadger looked at the rope and said, “not with that knot you’re not” and grabbed the rope.

Don’t ask how two 14-year-olds knew but we quickly tied a proper hangman’s noose in the end of the rope. We handed it back and sat back down, returning to our hammering. After quite a few minutes we looked at each other

– surely, he wasn’t serious? –

stood up and hurried along the riverbank.

As we rounded a bend, we were greeted the sight of a body, hanging from a tree, with one foot precariously hooked on an old fence post, bent over long ago and barely sticking out of the bank. Enough time had passed that his arms were no longer flailing about. His face was beetroot red, eyes closed, resigned to his fate.

I ran down, put his legs over my shoulders and walked up the bank till I got the tension off the rope. Meantime Deadger was clawing at the knot undoing the rope from the tree root. Fred was still breathing, just, but out to it. Racing back to the craft room I grabbed a bucket, filled it with water, returned and threw it over his head.

The shock of the cold water roused him, coughing and spluttering. It was only then I realised the bucket had the remains of grease and oil in the bottom which was now dripping off Fred’s face and hair. He got up and walked off towards the school building. We gathered up our things and followed. Just in time to hear the bell for showers ringing.

We followed the normal shower routine, stripped, grabbed our towels and soap, and joined the line at the bathroom door. Fred was a few boys ahead of us just standing in the queue with a bright red inch wide band of chaffed skin around his neck.

Who knows how word got around but Spud Murphy, one of the dormitory priests pulled me out of the queue and quietly asked me was the rumour true and what had I seen. Pointing to Fred I just said there he is, and you can clearly see the evidence. Spud grabbed Fred and they disappeared.

Nothing was ever said to our group about the event, or even to Deadger and I, no counselling, discussion, or simple acknowledgement. Different times, I guess. Fred was gone for 3 days. Just before he returned Spud took me aside and said that Fred had told his counsellor that I was the only one he trusted. I was therefore nominated to be his companion for the remainder of the term. I had no idea what that was supposed to entail or how I was supposed to act.

Luckily there were only a couple of weeks left in the term. Fred spent most of it keeping to himself. He left at term’s end and I never heard from him again.