Читать книгу Mordialloc - James Maclean - Страница 10

‘Is that party still on at your place for end of year break-up?’ challenged big Glen Harkin, as he sauntered past Floyd in the school yard. Kenny altered his gaze. ‘The word’s out. Nobody likes a bullshit artist.’

‘Abso-bloody-lutely!’ came Floyd’s reply. ‘It’ll be the biggest thing since Christmas, and that does include the pudding!’

‘Yeah, well if it’s anything like your last one … ’ grinned big Glen menacingly. Then he leisurely made his way off in the direction of some frightened looking kid in the distance.

This was it; their final day of contact at St. Stephen’s College. A last chance for the class of ’88 to fire off a few final lies. Goodbyes, so longs and good riddances; empty pledges of eternal friendships to guys you’d hardly spoken to in six years. All the while wondering where you’d all really be 10 years down the line.

The solid comfort of solid brick and mortar, conforming to a plan, another cog in the machine, being told when to work and when to eat; traditions framed through indoctrination, it was all at an end. The bell was tolling for the final time and the cold, hard, unforgiving realities of life were about to beset them all.

‘What the hell are you even inviting that big goose for?’ shot Kenny. Glen was safely out of range. ‘You know the bloke’ll get off his face and then nobody will be safe; I’m talking men, women and children!’

‘Don’t be an old woman!’ replied McGuinness. ‘You can’t label the guy forever because of a few wild incidents! Granted he’s about 6’2”, probably tips the scales at about 220 and he’s on a church sponsored anger-management program. We go back a long way though. For guys like that, loyalty’s the key. Well, loyalty, and the fact that if I didn’t invite him he’d probably crash anyway. I wouldn’t look very loyal then, now would I?’

‘Yeah, well, I’ve known him for at least as long as you have,’ whined Kenny. ‘Why the hell does he hate me so much?’

‘He doesn’t hate you, he just doesn’t like you much. Anyway, just forget about it!’ Floyd rolled his eyes to the thick cumulus clouds gathering overhead. His mind was already on other things. It was going to rain and it was going to rain hard.

He surveyed the surrounding school yard; the high cyclone mesh fences and freshly marked sporting grounds. The buildings were a uniform deep red brick, in stark contrast to the rich green playing fields. This was a school with a focus on performance, both in the classroom and on the track, and it was a prison. Six years earlier his parents had been peddled that familiar rhetoric; that tired old line of “turning boys into men,” but it was a lie.

The reality, the truth, was a little more sobering. If you hadn’t measured up; in the classroom, on the sporting fields, or even in the P. E. showers for that matter, making the transition was always going to be tough. Floyd’s performance, on reflection, hadn’t been overly disappointing, just unremarkable. The comparisons right from day one had been unforgiving. From there, moving beyond the shadow of his older brother, the great Douglas McGuinness, was never really on the cards.

There were no illusions of any great prison break. He’d done his time. He’d done it hard, but done it fair. He was going to walk out the front gates, sentence served, no remissions. Thankfully, a single decent rain shower was all it would take. Just one decent shower to wash away any trace. It’d be like he’d never set foot there at all.

‘Come on, what is it? Try me!’ challenged Kenny. His school blazer was too small, some sock was visible through a split in his shoe. Kenny had made several efforts to like Glen in the past. He’d looked long and hard for any positive attributes of substance. The popularity of the rude oaf though, it still baffled him.

McGuinness turned, sizing up his best friend. He took a moment to finish his daydream.

‘Covering your exams when the guy’s purposely sat beside you; what were you thinking? Then asking him, however stupidly, to stay away from your older sister. You’re lucky he didn’t flatten you on the spot. It’s pretty obvious you just don’t respect what he stands for.’

‘Stands for!’ repeated Kenny belligerently. ‘I’d love to know what he stands for, please enlighten me – what does that clown stand for?’

‘Are you crazy, man? The bloke’s living the dream!’ replied Floyd, sorry he’d opened his mouth. ‘First pick in the football and cricket teams, always got a dollar in his pocket and a nice bird on his arm. Tell me, what’s not to respect?’

‘Big man with his old man’s wallet.’ responded Kenny, rising to the taunt. ‘The guy’s a twit. Parading around the school yard with all his dickhead mates hanging on. He’s always trying to play the big hero by picking on kids, and showing off; why would you bother?’

‘I actually think he runs a pretty smooth operation … ’ countered Floyd thoughtfully, before adding, ‘then taking into account your thick eyebrows, hook nose and lack of sporting ability; he’s also still convinced you’re Jewish!’

Kenny cringed. What a mistake that had been; mentioning his rather vague family history, especially to a half-wit like Glen Harkin. His Grade 6 teacher, at the time, had been very impressed with his presentation ‘Where did I come from?’ His A grading had come at a price though. Shit, where did he come from? Well what the hell did it matter anyway?