Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.
My time at Wesley College seemed pretty normal right up until I was expelled. Dad went to Wesley, at great cost to his parents, I’m constantly reminded, and so I had to attend under the same stringencyies. Dad, being in the Church, felt that his service to God would provide a discounted entry , regardless of my academic and sporting abilities.
Well, that didn’t work. Not sure if it was because Dad’s God was different to the College’s God or all students were treated equal in God’s eyes.
I was in my third year at the boys only school and had created a bit of notoriety by being a minor wag and conducting a few pranks – dishwashing liquid in the water fountain, graffiti on the newly painted walls – and the like. Even rang up an escort agency to get some intros to girls that might want to come to the upcoming school social.
But the big one that cleared the tuck shop line for me was the bomb hoax. Mr Brown (no relation) had recently terrified Sydney with the threat of a bomb exploding in a mid-air Qantas flight. If the fight went below a certain altitude, then the bomb would detonate. Not sure what the demands were, but I suppose it was cash. The plane circled for hours while a solution was found, and thankfully a solution was found because I can find no historical reference to a bomb in a plane exploding over Sydney in the 1970’s.
Next day I was in the middle of a tedious Thursday afternoon Chemistry lesson. I didn’t hate the teacher, even though he was the deputy principal, I just hated the subject and the formulas and the symbols on the board. My ears did prick up when the teacher reminded us that next Tuesday’s lesson after lunch will be a test. Not sure now why tests warranted such panic amongst students – it wasn’t as though they would be expelled from school. I suppose a test result is passed back to your parents and if they are paying big bucks for sending you to school at Wesley, they will want to see some pretty good test results.
Next Tuesday was nearing, although its imminent arrival didn’t prompt me to work any harder in preparation for the test.
It did make me think of another solution. Something really disruptive, like a bomb hoax. When I mentioned the idea to my best friend since Primary School – Craig Inglis – it was only an idea. But Craig thought that it was worth doing and eagerly gave me the nod of conspiratorial approval.
“Yes,” he said with wide eyes. “Tuesday lunch time. Just ring the police and tell them that there is a bomb at Wesley College.”
He was script writing for me. I needed to earn some commercial benefit from this activity so I added a ransom note to the end of the instruction – something along the lines of:
“If you want to know where it is leave $10,000 underneath the plaque outside the Town Hall.”
I know about the plaque outside of the Town Hall, because my grandfather had his name on it as a founding Councillor. I have only just now realised that that could have given me away to any half astute detective.
I wasn’t thinking detection when I floated the idea, and to prove it I told every boy in the class what I was about to do.
Ring! Ring!
“Is that the South Perth police?”
“There is a bomb at Wesley College and if you want to do know where it is, leave $10,000 underneath the plaque outside of the town hall.”
There, it was done.
I didn’t REALLY think the police would take any notice of such a juvenile voice making such a juvenile threat.
The lunch bell went and we all filed into our classes, mine being the Chemistry test. We perched ourselves on the various stools in the Mildred Manning Science Lab and waited to receive the test papers. As usual I sat in the back row, next to Daniel Sephton and Squeaky Harrison. Tests were very formal and as usual everyone had to receive their test paper before we could start.
It was at this point that a message was delivered to our teacher. The Year Level Coordinator arrived, whispered something to our teacher, and their was a general slumping of disappointed shoulders. My teacher turned to speak to the class.
“Stop what you are doing and listen.”
My heart pounded.
“Some idiot has threatened the school with a bomb and we all need to evacuate now.”
And this was the point of no return.
Every kid in the class turned and stared at me, in wonder, in admiration, with incredulousness.
We were all guided out the door by the school prefects down to the pine avenue near the rear of the school, away from any school buildings and past the bike shed. I didn’t get very far before two prefects pulled me aside and asked that I go with them to the Principal’s office. I knew that the Principal didn’t need advice on how to find the bomb. I knew I was in deep shit.
I was taken straight in to the enormous Principal’s office, book lined, Chesterfield seats and couches, and two policemen. The gig was up and I was nabbed.
Did I? Why did I? Anyone else involved? Is there a bomb? Why? Why?
Who knows what answers I gave, and whether they affected the outcome.
It was the first time I had been driven in a Police Car. No flashing lights, but a sort of notoriety regardless. There was no smell in the car, no smell of doughnuts or coffee. No smell of fear or foreboding. It was blank.
We arrived at the South Perth Police Station and I was ushered to an office. The policeman, large and gruff, displayed no personality at all. His job was to take my statement, and I was only too happy to provide him with the story. I didn’t detect any sympathy for my (successful) efforts to get out of a Chemistry test, maybe he didn’t even get to Year 9, maybe he loves Chemistry.
The recording of the statement really appeared to be a pre-emptor for the real event, which in orders was firstly a dressing down on how I had wasted the time of hard working police officers.
“There could have been a rape going on!”
But the really real event was the arrival of my parents to collect me. When father walked in I couldn’t really tell the mood, even though I had 15 years of experiencing all of his moods, this one had me confused. His face was thunder, but his body was broken. I suppose he apologised to the police and walked me out to the car.
In the car was mother – this was the worst. She was crying and cowered. The cold front bench seat of the Holden added to the unwelcoming welcome that I was receiving from her and Father.
Amazingly, back home, my Dad was trying to understand what contributed to my behaviour. He was trying to get to the reasons why I had abused an opportunity to attend his favourite school.
“It was just to be famous and the centre of attention, Dad.”
And now I was.