Dad finally settles on a song on one of the golden oldies stations. I recognise it, one of those songs that comes up at the barbers or in the supermarket. Something about a man in a rocket.
Dad rests back in his seat. His window is down, and he’s humming along to the song. ‘He used to be good once, Elton John.’
‘Uh-huh.’ I kind of know Elton John. Bald, crazy glasses, a big poof.
‘Madman Across the Water. I had that album when I was a teenager, played it to death. That one was alright and Tumbleweed Connection was good too. Then they all turned to shit in the eighties.’ My dad is sneering as he says this. That’s what he always says: everything turned to shit in the eighties.
I can’t relax with Dad in the car. I know he’s watching me out of the corner of his eye, even now, pretending he’s just listening to the music, looking out of the window. My father has been driving since he was twelve, he knows how to drive any car, any truck, how to pull them apart and put them back together, how to drive in the fog and in the wet, in a tropical storm, how to navigate the sea of the Hume Highway and the ocean of the Nullarbor Plain. Mum says Dad doesn’t drive, he flies.
So his compliment glows for me, a spark from the centre of my stomach, but it doesn’t make me less anxious. It makes me more conscious of every gear shift, every use of the brake and clutch and accelerator. I wish we were out of the city on the open road, where I could really show him how I am learning to control this machine. Except I’d want to be on the open road on my own.
It is a week before Christmas and I can’t speed or fly in the bumper-to-bumper traffic cluttering up Glenferrie Road. It takes an age to get from one traffic light to the next.
‘Steady, mate,’ says Dad. ‘We’ve got plenty of time. We’re not going to be late.’
I realise he’s dreading this as much as I am.
When we finally cross Riversdale Road and are gliding down towards school he switches off the radio. I turn left into the small street that runs along the bottom of the college. Dad lets out a long whistle.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he splutters. ‘It’s fucking enormous.’
This is the first time Dad has even seen my school.
‘Wait till we get inside,’ I say, carefully inching into a parallel park between a new Mercedes and a black Pajero. I want to make it in one effortless glide, the perfect park. Dad can’t help it, his hand is pressed flat to the dashboard. I turn the wheel in one smooth motion and the Datsun finds its place. Trust me, I want to say to him. Can’t you just trust me?
He doesn’t speak as we walk up the long cobblestone drive and enter the quadrangle. The flowers have lost their spring bloom. Emptied of students, the grounds look even bigger, and the sense of space overwhelms me. My father remains silent as we pass the imposing bluestone walls of the chapel.
‘What’s this?’
On the far side of the quadrangle, the red-brick sports centre is lined by scaffolding along its length; there are ladders, ropes, and sheets of blue tarp. A group of workmen in fluoro orange vests are sitting on their haunches, having a break. They take no notice of us.
‘It’s the sports centre — they’re extending it,’ I explain, sensing my father’s disapproval. He opens his mouth to say something, then decides against it. But he does snort, a loud derisive sound from the back of his throat. Not for the first time this morning, I wish that it was Mum who was with me, that my old man hadn’t come anywhere near this place.
‘How can I help you?’ Mrs Marchant is behind the reception desk of the administration building. She is old, nervy, with a wrinkled neck, her thin-rimmed spectacles sitting precariously on the bridge of her nose. Her fingers keep flying over her keyboard as she awaits our answer.
‘We’re here to see Mr Canning.’ My father’s voice sounds loud, rough. Aussie.
The old lady keeps typing as she asks, ‘And do you have an appointment?’
‘Yes. I’m Neal Kelly.’
She stops typing, takes off her glasses, squints at us, then smiles warmly. ‘Hello, Danny,’ she says. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Mr Kelly.’
I am astonished that she knows my name. I’ve done my best to disappear over the last two years at this school. But then it dawns on me that she knows me from back when I was winning medals for the school, when I was someone. I don’t reply. I cross my arms and wait.
Principal Canning appears distracted as he ushers us into his office. His desk is massive, the size of a billiard table, carved from stained wood. One wall is full of bookcases, made of the same wood, right up to the ceiling. But I don’t take in the titles of the leather-bound volumes. I am too conscious of my father, who seems as nervous and ill at ease as I feel. We stand silently in front of the desk, both of us with our hands clasped behind our back, as if awaiting punishment. It is almost comical, my father’s diffident anxious stance: as if he’s expecting detention.
‘Please, sit.’
Dad sits heavily in the leather chair and it squeaks, just like a fart.
‘Mr Kelly, thank you for coming.’ Principal Canning turns to me. ‘And I’m glad you could make it too, Dan.’
I take a seat. But I don’t answer, I know this isn’t true.
It was my mother who took the call, that first week of the holidays. She had agreed, said of course she would come to the school, she was only too happy to discuss my future. But when she told Dad about the phone call, he said that he would be the one going, and that I’d be going with him.
Mum had replied, ‘No, they just want us — they want to talk to the parents. They haven’t asked Danny to come along.’
Dad had been firm. ‘It’s about his future, isn’t it? If it’s about his future he should be there. He’s coming.’
Mum told me all this yesterday, when I was whingeing about having to go back to school, whining that school was over, kaput for me, that I never ever had to set foot in that place again. In a tone that brooked no argument, a rare reproach in her voice, Mum said, ‘You are going along, Danny. Your father insists. It’s about your future — both of us think you should be there.’
‘Mr Kelly,’ Principal Canning begins.
‘Please,’ my father interrupts, ‘call me Neal.’
I wait for Canning to offer his first name, but he doesn’t.
‘Very well, Neal. I know this situation is a little out of the ordinary as the VCE results are not released for another few weeks but I wanted to canvass the possibilities for young Dan’s future.’ Principal Canning is looking straight at my father as he speaks; he doesn’t once look in my direction. ‘Of course, the results could surprise us all, but I spoke to Dan after he sat his exams, and I have spoken with his teachers, and I’m afraid that the likelihood is that he has performed below standard in his examinations. Even if Dan passes it will be a bare scraping through at best.’
For the first time he turns to me, his eyes steady and clear, boring right through me. ‘We are not being unfair, are we, Kelly?’
My father stiffens. He doesn’t like that I am being called by my surname.
‘No,’ I answer gruffly, my arms slipping behind the chair. I can’t keep my hands still.
‘So is that why we’re here, is it to be told to fuck off, thanks very much, we don’t want Danny anymore?’
I have to give it to him, I have to give it to Canning. He doesn’t cringe, or even seem affronted by Dad’s obscenity. But he does sigh and lean forward on the desk.