Chocolate Revenge

     Between 1968 and 1970 I lived in Claremont, a suburb of Hobart, Tasmania, where my family had emigrated from England. Claremont was a deadly dull suburb whose chief claim to fame was the Cadbury chocolate factory perched on a rise above the treacherous Derwent River. Its chimney and cylindrical pods gleamed across the water like some kind of metal castle. Annually, at the end of the school year, all the schools in the area would organise an excursion to the factory so the kids could follow the process of the chocolate, from cocoa bean to boxing-up. The highlight of this trip was the small sample box of chocolates that everyone was given at the end of the tour.

     There were three boys at the school who each had a malformation of one ear. On the side of each of their heads, in place of a regular ear, they had what can only be described as something resembling a blob of well-masticated chewing gum. Perhaps it was a congenital disorder cause by inter-family breeding: I never found out. These three boys were the terror of Claremont Primary School and were ferocious bullies who reduced younger and weaker children to tears on a regular basis. In retrospect, it seems likely that the boys had formed such a tough carapace of belligerence and spite due to their unfortunate physical condition, but that was of little concern to the legion of terrified tots who cowered in their wake every day of their lives. In the final year of my primary school I took cruel revenge on one of these young thugs. It was the final day of the school year and the sugar-sated children were all returning from the factory with their boxes of chocs, to collect their school bags and meet their parents for the homeward journey. I had not attended this year’s factory visit as my parents had not been able to afford the small excursion fee on this occasion. Instead, I had busied myself in the art room, unsupervised, where I made several large drawings. 

    Some other kids also stayed at school during the excursion, and they could be heard mindlessly yelling as they kicked a ball around on the playing field all afternoon. Throughout the day I had seen Ralph, the biggest of the three blob-eared boys, charging up and down the corridor outside of the art room, and I had dreaded the possibility that he might come in and terrorise me at my work desk; but happily this had not eventuated. I saw him now, outside the window shaking a smaller boy by the arm like a rag doll. Something in me snapped and I resolved to get back at him for the several years of horror he had inflicted on everyone. I stepped into the corridor and pushed past the high-spirited kids, with their choc-streaked cheeks. Someone had discarded an empty sample box on the floor and I picked this up and left the building. Walking to a small flower bed, I scooped up a generous handful of gravel chips, which I dropped into the box. And then I went to find Ralph. He was sitting alone, by the monkey-bars, scuffing his feet in the dirt. He saw me coming and was about to snarl something sarcastic, but he had seen a generous sparkle in my eye and held his tongue, perhaps bewildered that anyone had dared to approach him without fear. 

     “Ralph”, I said, “I know you weren’t able to go to Cadburys today, so I managed to get them to give me a spare box for you. Would you like it?” I proffered the false gift, shaking it gently so that he could hear the ‘goodness’ within. He seemed a bit dumbfounded. His face passed through a variety of stations: from initial anger and mistrust, and then to slowly dawning gratitude, and then enormous happiness. He held out his grubby hand, still bewildered that a comparative stranger would be so kind: it must have seemed like an unbelievable event in his life. As soon as the box left my hand I turned and marched briskly away.

    “Thanks a lot!” he happily called after my retreating back as he fumbled with the folded cardboard latch, “Thank you! Thanks!” I said nothing as I doubled my pace. Seconds later came a horrified scream, filled with all the pain and rage of his eleven years. I had begun to run and I felt a surge of exhilaration as I sped past the small kids along the path. I could hear Ralph’s heavy footsteps as he now charged after me, but after a short while he stopped running. I heard another choked cry of fury and sorrow, and the box of gravel sailed over my head and landed just in front of me. I had made it to the school gate and as I ran I was unable to suppress my laughter, which felt delicious and wicked.