Free Brother Fish by Bryce Courtenay Page B

myself dragooned, powerless to resist the authority that being a justice of the peace gave her. I also knew that she always had to be fierce and must never let her guard down, because being severe was what her job was all about.
    Our association had begun when I was eight years old and in my third year of primary school. My sentence began when my class made its first excursion to the town library. Miss Lenoir-Jourdan made us sit cross-legged on the polished Tassie oak floor where, in turn, each one of us was required to shout out our names which, to our dismay, she entered in a big ledger-type book. We hadn’t even done anything wrong and already we were being tagged and identified for future criminal reference. When it came my turn I called out, ‘Jacko McKenzie, miss!’
    Her head jerked up from the book and, removing her glasses slowly, she glared at me. ‘Jacko? Jacko is not a name, boy!’
    â€˜Yes it is, miss. It’s what I got being christened.’
    â€˜No, that’s not correct. You are Jack, plain Jack. Now you will say your name again, this time correctly.’
    â€˜Jack McKenzie, miss,’ I mumbled, my eyes fixed on my knees. It didn’t sound right, it was as if suddenly I’d been transformed into someone else.
    â€˜So, I see we have a McKenzie,’ she said. ‘The seed that’s widely and carelessly scattered on this godforsaken island.’
    â€˜No, miss,’ I corrected her, ‘we’re not farmers, me dad’s a fisherman.’
    A hint of a smile appeared on her lips. ‘My goodness! Could it be possible that we’ve spawned an intelligent McKenzie at long last?’
    She was wrong again. Being from a fishing family I knew what the word ‘spawned’ meant, but I also knew that Mum had frequently and clearly stated our position on the island. ‘No, miss, four generations of McKenzies and Kellys and we still haven’t produced anyone worth a pinch of the proverbial!’ I said, repeating Mum’s oft-spoken words.
    â€˜The proverbial? I say, what a big word from a small boy!’
    â€˜It means shit , miss,’ I explained.
    All the kids laughed and Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan suddenly appeared to have sucked on a slice of very sour lemon. ‘Silence!’ she shouted. ‘That’s quite enough!’ Then she added, ‘Jack McKenzie, I shall be calling your teacher!’
    Throughout the next day at school I waited in fear for the wrath to come. Here I was only eight and the justice of the peace already had me marked down for sentencing. When the final bell went, our teacher, Mrs Reilly, called as usual ‘Class dismissed!’ But then she added, ‘Jacko, wait back a moment, please.’ This was it, the beginning of the end. I wasn’t sure what I’d done other than be forced to change into a different person, but whatever it was there was going to be no escape. ‘Jacko, you have to report to the town library,’ she instructed.
    â€˜When, miss?’ I asked anxiously.
    â€˜Why right now on your way home, of course. Miss Lenoir-Jourdan is expecting you. I hope it’s a nice surprise.’
    â€˜Surprise, my arse!’ I thought. She’s wrote all our names in that big book and I’m the first to be dealt with by the fierce justice of the peace. When I’d returned home from school the previous day I’d confirmed with my mother that my name really was Jack. If Miss Lenoir-Jourdan knew stuff about me I didn’t know myself, then what else did she know?
    â€˜Ah, Jack McKenzie,’ she said, looking up from her desk as I knocked on the open door to her office. ‘You’ve come.’
    â€˜Yes, miss.’
    â€˜Sit!’ she commanded, indicating the chair in front of her desk. I did as I was told, sitting with my head bowed grimly, clutching the arms of the chair. She continued writing but eventually looked up and removed her glasses, a gesture that