Chapter 8: Billy on Parade and the Grey-Faced PM

Yarra has an uneventful ride to school again the following day. She gets into a conversation at lunchtime with three other girls from her class, all talking about Ice Cream Days and Billy Hall.

One girl says, “It’s cover for all the bastards in the world.”

Another says, “I bet it’s not long before some girl in this school gets wedgied on a train or a bus.”

Yarra nods, but doesn’t offer up news that the thing the girl fears has already happened.

A third girl says, “At least the punishments in this school aren’t nearly as bad as what they showed in Ice Cream Days last night.”

Yarra agrees that it was horrible. She really felt sorry for the girl - she looked so upset, and the actor man was really cruel to her.

“I can’t believe they showed close-ups of her ... of all of her bits!” the fourth girl says.

Mr Ullerade doesn’t mention Ice Cream Days, like he maybe hasn’t seen it, or even heard of it yet. She knows he goes to the teachers’ common room - she’s seen him going in there already today. But she doubts he’d have much in common with those others, if they’re anything like that nasty Mr Dickle.

Her new friend from 10+, black-eyed Yulla Cottle, finds her early in the lunch break and sits with her on the grass verge at the back of the playground, close to the brook behind its steel fence.

“We had men in our class today,” she says. “Did you have men in your class?”

Yarra isn’t sure what the girl means by this. She asks, “Men doing what?”

“Putting in wires. Mr Dickle told us all not to ask questions. I shouldn’t even be telling you, really.”

Yarra asks, “You mean, putting in wires for cameras?”

Yulla nods, just a little. “Can I tell you what he said? Except you’re not allowed to say.”

Yarra shrugs. She says, “I don’t tell tales. Who would I tell?”

“Mr Ullerade?” Yulla asks this as a question.

“I won’t tell Mr Ullerade.”

“Oh,” says Yulla. “He says he doesn’t think they’ll get used very much.”

“Mr Dickle? What won’t get used?”

“The classroom cameras. In out ten plus room. He says he’s really annoyed about the cameras. Spy stuff. For snooping. It’s a liberty, he says.”

“That’ll be good, then,” Yarra says. “If he won’t be nasty because of the cameras, then he might stop being mean and giving girls in your class the cane.”

Yulla Cottle says, “He doesn’t just give us the cane.”

“Whatever he uses.”

“He’s got a big drawer full of things.”

Yarra stares at Yulla for a moment.

He says he’s had them for years but the Dirty Reformers stopped him using some of them.”

Yarra asks, “DR?”

Yulla nods her head so her dead straight brown hair dips and lifts. “Then all he could use was his hand and the cane. The Council stopped him using anything else.”

“Kennigwort you mean?”

“Yes because the Dirty Reformers ran it for a bit, and it’s local councils that get to say what things teachers can use in state school classrooms.”

Yarra starts to nod. Yulla is giving her news she didn’t know. She asks, “So, are LC back in Kennigwort, as well?”

“Think so,” says Yulla. “Mr Dickle, he took out some things from that big drawer and told us, pretty soon he’d be able to use them again. Then we’d really be sorry. He had this thing he called a tawse. He made us learn to spell it. He kept snapping it tight and said, that’s how much noise it’ll make on our bottoms.”

“But he won’t get to use them if he says he won’t do it with the cameras in your classroom.”

Yulla says, head down, “Punishment room.”

“What punishment room?”

“The one they’re making.”

Yarra sees a picture in her head of the four girls lined up in Ice Cream Days’ new punishment room. “All the rooms are used,” she says.

Yulla shrugs her shoulders, looking glum.

Then the bell goes for end of lunch, and the girls head off back to their opposite classrooms.

Yarra gets the bus home safely again. They have a family meal in the kitchen. She can tell her younger brother is excited that it’s Tuesday. Tuesday means another Billy Hall. She starts to feel queasy and picks at her food. She’s seen Taudren fiddling with the TV remote, she thinks he’s trying to record bloody Billy Hall so he can wank himself silly to it, later in his room.

They’re both in their seats before seven PM. Her dad’s got the telly on FIRST! though, for now. It’s the man with the bow-tie, who steeples his fingers, Jott Daltum. And he’s got actual Prime Minister Vickles on.

When Yarra sits down, warily, on her end of the sofa, the talking heads are on about some boring stuff she doesn’t care about.

Then the bow-tied man asks, “Prime Minister, if I may, and apologies for lowering the tone...”

The sour-faced Prime Minister grunts, then sniffs as he tips his head back.

Daltum continues, “There’s been rather a row about what was, until recently, referred to as the in-flagrante broadcasting rules. The rival commercial channel - though one must feel distaste to bring such a thing up - seems intent on nose-diving its general moral tone. Popular’s chief executive confirmed on last week’s Media Matters that, under his direction, the channel is making it deliberate policy - to quote him directly - to ‘sex up their output.’ He spoke of a new strand in the traditionally cheerful, light-touch Ice Cream Days which will explore your government’s apparent policy, stated on this very programme just last week by Home and Education Secretary Joinard, of expanding the punishment options available to teachers in, specifically, senior girls’ schools.”

The Prime Minister’s prematurely aging, dour grey face barely moves as he speaks. His voice also seems to lack all inflection. He says, “Yes well, one believes in Democracy. The Cabinet voted, and whatever one’s own opinion, that general policy is, in principal, approved. Secretary Joinard will, as is his habit, bring forth a new white paper in the fullness of time.”

Jott Daltum dips his head and narrows his eyes. “My question, Prime Minister, is twofold. Firstly, are you and your government comfortable with Popular’s policy of sexing up their output? And are you personally comfortable with such sexing up being conflated with, as critics have said, a sadistic exploitation of an ingenue actress - Jemmy Skiddles has barely turned sixteen. I was required to view the scene in question for the purposes of this interview. She was stripped from the waist, bent double and caned a dozen times, with long sections in close-up and repeated in slow motion. Some views were, I regret to say, exceptionally graphic, clearly staged with shock and titillation to the fore.”

The gray-faced man’s expression has turned sourer than before, even though it was sour already. He says, “Yes Mr Daltum, I do hear the point you so forcefully make. I have not watched this regrettable scene.”

“But you do think it regrettable. By your words now.”

“My people have briefed me, Mr Daltum. And I must say, you are sounding rather like, um, Brallerd Weeks? Everything distasteful is wrong and must be stopped - I believe this might paraphrase the man’s general point of view. But my comment to you is that Popular is an independent broadcaster which, given our manifesto position, we as a government are unlikely to censor. To do so would be hypocritical, I fear. Nor, may I add, are we responsible for the Popular channel’s editorial choices.”

Daltum steeples his fingers and says, “If you may please indulge me for a moment, Prime Minister. Popular are, in their own words, sexing up their output. But in one prominent strand, this sexing up is expressed in a sexually graphic, nothing-left-to-the-imagination punishment of a school-age actress, depicted in school uniform, and punished by her class teacher in what appears to be a school. Your own government, in the form of Secretary Joinard, said just last week on this programme, that teachers would be given more powers to punish their schoolgirl charges as they please. And that recording of all schoolgirl punishments is to proceed as planned. But, as Mr Joinard put it, ‘concerned voting citizens with sufficient stated cause,’ might be allowed to view such records themselves. Some may consider that your government itself may well be, ‘sexing up its output.’”

The stiff Prime Minister now looks cornered and angry. He says, “I think you’ll find that every last school camera and recording drive was ordered and purchased by the last DR government! We merely look to use their staggeringly expensive outlay in the best way we can think of.”

“With respect, Prime Minister, DR intended all such recordings to be viewed by an Educational Oversight Committee only. You will be making them available to as yet undefined members of the public concerned with school policy - even, Mr Daltum hinted, parents of such schoolgirls.”

The grey man’s face now seems a darker shade of grey, and his voice, at last, has found some inflection. He says, “No, Mr Daltum, to concerned voting citizens with sufficient stated cause! You admitted so yourself!”

Jott Daltum answers in the calmest of tones. “Granted. But Quade Esmont, Popular’s Chief Executive, seems to think that gives every citizen the right, whether they wish it or not, to see an under-age actress graphically, gratuitously caned in-flagrante. And, your own government having swiftly dispensed with the ten PM watershed, immediately after 7PM.”

The Prime Minister fumes, “I’m sure the young lady got - no more than is common practice for - whatever rule she is purported to have broken!”

“Attempting to start a school strike, Prime Minister.”

“Well, there you have it! That sort of behaviour is the very reason we may soon vote to expand the punishment options available to teachers! You make my point for me!”

“She was given twelve strokes of the cane,” says Daltum in an even tone. “On her bare behind. The previous DR government passed a law limiting the number of strokes to six. And only over knickers or underpants. Ice Cream Days appears to be jumping the gun, Prime Minister.”

“A television show. Not real life, Mr Daltum.”

“But since it is a television show, I presume that means you are happy with Popular conflating the idea of canings of schoolgirls with titillating entertainment, Prime Minister?”

The Prime Minister’s greyness is darkening further. A fleck of spittle has appeared at the side of his mouth. He shouts, “Popular is not the issue here!”

“Yet it is the subject of my question.”

Jenger Vickles shouts, “We do not censor! Only DR wants to censor! It is the natural state of our constitution, Daltum - unwritten! Established over many, many decades!”

“An unwritten rule, it seems, which the rival channel seem intent on writing by precedent.”

“Yes, well, be that as it may, neither I nor my government intend to interfere. It is not, I put to you, in our established sphere of competence.”

Daltum’s voice is calmness itself. “So they can simply broadcast whatever they want?”

Vickles blinks, his long, dark-grey face now looking rather haunted: he’s been backed into a corner.

“That is not my place to say.”

“Yet, your title is Prime Minister. Can you confirm that they may broadcast anything they wish without thought or fear of consequences?”

“I’m sure they know there are boundaries, Daltum.”

“They say they are striking while the iron is hot. Pushing against boundaries as deliberate policy. On the back of LC’s super-majority.”

Vickles seems to think for a moment. “Well then it’s what the people voted for, isn’t it? They voted a solid no to DR’s creeping censorship.”

“I ask again. Popular are, then, free to broadcast anything they wish, at any time of day?”

Vickles pauses. He flares his nostrils, purses, and frowns. “Yes. Under that line of questioning, Daltum. The answer must be yes.”

“Prime Minister, thank you.”

Jott Daltum turns his face - a mixture of grimly serious and smug, now - to camera, nodding subtly as his programme’s titles roll.

Yarra’s dad switches channels to Popular.

Taudren, Yarra’s brother, is fidgeting. He changes his position, bringing his feet up underneath him. He says to Molcum, “That man said they can keep on doing it, didn’t he?”

“He’s a smart man that Jott Daltum,” says Molcum. “Making Vickles admit that!”

Taudren’s face is shiny-bright. “But the bow tie man thought it was wrong. And so did the Prime Minister man, but the bow tie man got him to say it’s alright, Dad, didn’t he? So he’s made it that they can, which wasn’t what he wanted.”

Molcum Corkle turns his head to his son. “Jott Daltum might well think it’s wrong, son. But what he wanted was to get Jenger Vickles to say he thinks it’s right.”

“But that ... why?”

“So if people start to think it’s gone too far, they can point to Vickles and say, look, he told them they could do it, didn’t he? So it’s his fault. Politically.”

“Politically.”

“The government. The ones who always make up all the big rules.”

A Popular ident is running to silence. It’s the girl on the treadmill in super-slow-motion, with her breasts going up and down inside her clingy tee shirt. Taudren calls, “Mum! It’s starting in a minute!”

“Your mum might not want to watch Billy Hall,” says Molcum.

“We can see her getting all embarrassed,” says Taudren. “You said it makes it better. Yarra’s watching too, aren’t you Yarra?”

She doesn’t give him any reply. She’s decided to watch it so she’ll know what evil things to expect on the bus. Fore-warned is fore-armed.

“Come on, Mum, it’s starting!” Taudren calls again.

“Yeah, come and sit down, Laz!” Molcum adds, nudging his son. “Take the weight off your feet for a bit!”

Lazabel comes in then, bearing a tray of steaming drinks, just as the post-ident adverts get going. There’s one about going in the Army as a job, then the dog food one where the dog pulls his mistress’s knickers down. Yarra had been shocked by the advert when she’d first seen it on a big display outside. This time, it’s barely made her blink. Compared to Billy Hall and Ice Cream Days, it seems so safe and innocent now.

Billy Hall starts where he left off last week - swooning in a dream. Till a Sergeant-Major character is screaming in his ear.

Hall is in mis-matching military kit. He salutes several times, sticking out his tongue and pulling gurning faces.

The red-faced Sergeant-Major shouts, “Corporal Hall, you are responsible for these-hyah recruits, are you not?”

The camera cuts back to show Hall’s usual crew of misfits. There’s the toothless man and the lank-haired man, both standing in very unmilitary poses. Behind the men are the usual group of half-dressed girls, with the massive-breasted, tiny-waisted Jeneela Clooper right in the middle.

The sergeant-major shouts again. “Look at this sorry outfit, Hall! What a terrible shambles! You better buck them up, and quick, or you’ll be on a charge, Corporal! Now, get this lot trained up and fully fit, you horrible, horrible, horrible man!”

The silly-voiced, bimbo announcer girl, whose ill-treatment Yarra had reacted to, when they’d pushed a shiny ball gag right in her mouth, minces up to Hall. She’s dressed in a sexual fantasist’s distortion of a female military outfit, with cut-off khaki shorts pulled tight up her bum crack, then bare legs, then great big army boots. In the other direction, her buttoned-up jacket barely covers her breasts. Hall sticks his tongue out and gurns to the camera. Then a second girl comes into view, marching in an awkward parody march. The girl is impressively curvy, with a shelf-like bubble butt which bulges right around a pair of too-tight khaki shorts. Her waist is not so slim as Jeneela Clooper’s, but her breasts are, if anything, even more spectacular. The girl is also an amazon - she towers over Hall. As she marches on the spot, huge breasts bouncing inside her jacket, he turns and shuffles backwards till the top of his head is being slapped on either side by these great big balloon-like things.

Then the Sergeant-Major grips Billy by his collar and shouts, “This recruit’s army clothing does not appear to be a proper fit, Hall! For starters, Corporal, hows abouts you gets her dressed in a decent set of proper-fitting togs?”

The first set of sexy gags shows Hall, his male partners, plus the two new girls - the bimbo and the amazon - in a set like a clothes shop filled with purely khaki kit. Included in it is underwear dyed green. The toothless man starts stripping the bimbo announcer girl, while Hall visually orders the amazon to strip.

The gags are then all about the toothless man dressing the announcer girl himself, trying to get her generous c-cup breasts into bras which are clearly too small for them.

Taudren giggles at the elf-like look on the toothless man’s face.

“Eh-heh, I can see where this is going,” says Molcum.

The amazon girl strips her khaki shorts off. She’s wearing normal white knickers, which cut up into her bottom at the back but are big-knickers-style over-large at the top. Hall riffles through a rack arranged with khaki shorts. The first pair are comically over-large, then they go slowly down in size to visually smaller and smaller pairs, till the last pair is no bigger than a match box. Hall looks to camera, sticks his tongue out, and picks out one of the smaller pairs.