10. Exile
When Michael got home that afternoon, he was all-but shocked to see his mother waiting for him. She never did that, she was always home well after he returned, as a consequence of the 9-to-5 leveller. Michael had left his confrontation with Gunn in the cluttered Macalister environs, all but winked at Mr Munroe as he left, knowing fully well that he had the upper hand in this fight. If not on a practical sense, then morally. The duumvirate he’d departed were left stunned by his actions and words, the strength of character, confidence and purpose this child seemed to have. Few things rankled the decades-weary academic like having someone younger than your shoes defeat you with logic.
‘What exactly have you been playing at?’ Sylvia asked him the second he walked in through the front door.
‘Playing at?’ he responded, momentarily flustered by this sight, his mother, angry, which he had not recalled in many years.
‘I got a phone call from Mr Munroe today. You’ve bloody well been suspended from school.’
Fuck ‘em.
‘Suspended? Those fuckers!’
Sylvia turned on her heel.
‘And this language! I have no clue where that’s coming from.’
Michael followed her into the living room, while Sophie peered at the scene, triumphant, from the kitchen.
‘Sylv… Mum,’ he corrected himself, taking the weight of the moment in. This was all new, all the while being old. His brain was having trouble organising the event in front of him. Much of what he’d experienced was calm and familiar, he’d remembered most of it in one way or another. If not exactly as it was, then at least in its general sensory flavour. He was never suspended from school. He never raised his mother’s ire like this.
‘Tell me what he said.’
She thumped her frame down on the sofa, and flicked her hair off her face. She was upset at him, and the circumstance.
‘Dreadful day, I tell you. Aside from the usual nonsense I have to deal with from Janine, there’s this phone call I get about an hour and a half ago, and it’s Mr Munroe, and he tells me that you had a meeting with a Mr Macalister and your history teacher, at which you apparently displayed ‘impertinence and insolence’. Basically that you were a cheeky bugger, and that you’ve been placed on an informal suspension pending a behavioural review.’
‘A behavioural review? Christ, what is this shit? They’re not even pretending to not be Kafka-esque.’
Sylvia blinked twice. She had no idea what had possessed her ‘little man’ of late.
‘Either way, you’re out of school until they decide you aren’t, and I think that you’d better start working on your apologising skills because I’m not going to let this happen. What did you say?’
‘It’s a rort, Mum. Bloody scam. My teacher, Mr Gunn, he fucking hates me. No idea why.’
‘Language!’
‘Sorry. Sorry.’
He was livid. He sat next to her on the couch and took a few breaths.
‘He just hates me. Got some personal grudge against me for some reason, I don’t know it for sure. Always did. So we do this essay in class, and it’s a standard, but shittily-worded question about ancient Greece. I answer it, pretty standard stuff, and because I use the word ‘agrarian’, this old fart thinks I’ve cheated. Hauls me into a meeting with the deputy head, demands that I use it in a sentence, I do, and he’s left there just sitting on his wrinkly old balls.’
Sylvia’s lips tightened as she stifled a laugh. She looked away for a second, as though the curtains had suddenly become fascinating. Michael leaned back on the sofa and did his best to comprehend the enormity of this bullshit. Sylvia composed herself, turned back to him, blinking ever so slightly.
‘Agrarian?’
Michael nodded. ‘That’s all there is to it. Simple word, used correctly, Gunn gets worked up and when he falsely accuses me of cheating and I call him on it, this is the end game.’
Sylvia took his little hands in hers.
‘If you promise me you didn’t cheat I’ll be behind you on this.’
He looked at her with a thousand yard intensity.
‘I promise.’
In her eyes, Michael saw the unending, unconditional love that he remembered so well and missed even more. She believed him, and it was a relief. But there was more to the moment than that – their history, their bond, their connection was in that moment. In that glance, shared in, through and beyond those eyes. The fact that she was going to be suffering and eventually dying from cancer was painful beyond description, and it was all he could do not to break down in tears then and there. He wanted to tell her, but there was no preventative measures she could take. He’d even speculated that the stress of knowing might send her off even earlier.
Sylvia stood up and walked to the kitchen, as Sophie scurried out of it.
‘I don’t know what Clive is going to make of all this. Seriously. Just you wait til your father gets home.’
Michael smiled.
‘Easy on the clichés, there Sylvia.’
*
When Clive arrived home later that evening, the conversation was less understanding. He was a man of an old-fashioned sensibility. If Michael had been suspended from school, it was in all likelihood because of something Michael had done wrong. To his ethos, the faculty were probably right 99% of the time, and a bit of a belting never hurt anyone. It took a great deal of consternation, furrowed brows, tsk-tsking, head shaking and talk of the ‘thousands of dollars on your education’ before the calming yin (Sylvia) could steer his raging yang on the right path.
‘This is going to be your mess to fix, my son. If this Mr Gunn has in fact just got a bone to pick with you, that’s one thing. But you need to be diplomatic. You’ve obviously done something to get his goat, so you’ll need to smooth things out.’
‘It’s … I swear I’ve done nothing to him, he’s just an old prick.’
‘Well, that kind of language won’t help matters either. You realise this? Even so, you’ll need to make things better. We’ll be behind you, but it’s up to you to sort it out. Your mother’s right about that.’
Sylvia nodded, conceding ground there.
‘Look,’ Michael began. ‘I’m not apologising. To him, to anyone. To you, sure. Sorry, Dad. I’m sorry that I’ve gotten suspended, but I promise you it’s not because I’ve done anything wrong. They’ve basically booted me for being too smart, which from an academic place like that… it’s just richer than shit.’
The potty mouth was now sailing over Clive and Sylvia’s heads.
‘Well,’ Clive said, sipping from his gin, ‘you’re going to have to start tomorrow morning. No slacking off, this isn’t a holiday for you.’
‘Agreed,’ said Sylvia. ‘This is costing us money.’
It was an interesting point to leave the discussion on. Michael went to bed that night, orchestrating a plan of attack. It wasn’t going to work appealing to the better angels of their nature. Wellings didn’t seem to be rich with concessions to logic or reason. It was an established old school, in every sense of the word, but at the same time was one ruled by public relations and finance. There were generations of fathers and sons who called the place home, but in an evolving economic landscape, there was only so far the place could maintain its hallowed existence and well-fed coffers based on generous donations from the alumni. New business was required, and like any kind of place who relied on business, if you hit them in the hip pocket, that’s where most of the bleeding would happen.
Wellings was a ship being held afloat by reputation, ego and money. The three things were inextricably linked. It was going to take a few phone calls.