So now had to be the time. Beth had recklessly opened a door that, if closed, might take a long time to re-open. She dreaded it. She must do it.
“Beth’s right,” she urged. “We’re going to have to talk about school. We should do it now. While we’re all together.”
“Not at the tea table, Tess.”
“Then after tea. We have to make time.”
“Not tonight, Tess. I’m busy tonight.”
“I thought…”
“Not tonight, Tess!”
Sean cringed.
“Daddy’s tired, Sean. Eat your ice cream.” Beth set the plates of chocolate ice cream on the table.
Beth was warning her, as she’d learned to do – leave well alone. The man of the house had spoken. Leave well alone. Don’t rock the boat. Don’t spoil the meal, don’t spoil the children, don’t…not this time!
“Beth’s right,” she steadily reiterated. “He’s old enough to go to school.”
“I warn you, Tess! Back off!”
“Mum…maybe we’d better leave it.”
“You started this.” She turned on Beth. “Don’t stop now.”
“Not in front of Sean, Mum.”
“Why not?” She was abruptly furious. “Because he can’t understand?”
“Mum!”
“Don’t cheek your mother!”
Beth was crying. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”
Don’t rock the boat. Too late, far too late. “You had to bring it up now,” she accused. “We have to talk about it now.”
“That’s enough, Tess.”
“Beth’s right. He should be at school.”
“For God’s sake!”
“Mum…” Beth pleaded. “Not now.”
“Then when?”
“Bloody hell, Tess! The boy’s retarded!”
Beth’s spoon clattered to the floor.
She left the table.
Chapter Eight
The matter of school had to be confronted. The lessons of the past years had to be built on. The isolation and the intense concentration on his health, his learning, his toughness, should not be wasted. They would go either forward, or backward. There could be no standing still. Even should she try, Sean wouldn’t let her. Or Beth. As for Rory, he’d have to learn his own hard lessons – or not. His choice. He too would find out that when the winds of change blew, standing still was impossible, even within the haven he’d successfully fashioned in his business world.
As every Monday, Rory and Beth left the house at eight. This morning was fine, the sky clear, the air crisp, the kookaburras thunderous; there’d be rain again before the week was out. Winter had been kind. The willows were radiant, the wildflowers glorious and the cows dragging full udders in lush green paddocks.
She dressed Sean in his best Sunday suit and open-necked shirt, carefully brushed his thin blonde hair and warned, “Keep your lips closed, love.”
No lolling tongue today, please God.
She locked the front door and descended the steep steps; no pusher today. Though it was merely a half-mile walk to the bus stop, it was too long for Sean. Every few minutes he stopped to rest. Once she suggested going back home. No way. He was determined; he was going to school. They made the bus with less than two minutes to spare. Next time they’d need to take more time. Next time? Would there be a next time?
The school, a freshly painted cream timber building, was set far back from the road. A neatly swept path ran directly from the front gate to the central double doors. On either side were trim, freshly mown lawns. To the right was the school sign, Heatherfield Primary School. To the left, a small garden was ablaze with huge golden daffodils. Everything was reassuringly well kept and vaguely prim yet brightly welcoming.
Convulsively tightening her hold on Sean’s hand, she led him up the shallow steps, through the open doors and into a broad corridor. On the left was a closed door marked ‘OFFICE’ and a long row of windows intersected by two open doors. On the right, were rows of windows and two open doors. At the far end was another set of open double doors revealing a view of a bitumen quadrangle and a small patch of garden. The muted hum of voices, an occasional cough, a soft laugh and the familiar quick thud of pointer on blackboard indicated the presence of students and teachers.
Sean was curious. “Is this school, Mummy?”
“Shhh…” She knocked on the closed office door. Receiving no answer, she led him to an open classroom door. Lit by the light of the sun from the opposite wall of broad windows were low wooden desks in military rows and intent children scraping chalk on personal blackboards. A rotund middle-aged woman on the raised platform, pointer in hand, was supervising spelling. All were involved in their work; no one saw them. Crossing the wide passage, they reached another classroom. Older children were at bigger desks, using pen and ink and writing in workbooks. A grey-haired grey-suited teacher wearing gold-rimmed spectacles was bending over a child.
Seeing visitors, he crossed to the doorway and asked, “Can I help you?”
The curious children stopped work.
Not raising his voice, he ordered, “Get on with it.”
They tittered, but obeyed.
“Sorry,” he apologised. “Can I help?”
“I’m…I…there’s no one in the office.”
“Are you looking for me?”
“Are you the headmaster?”
“I teach as well. It’s a small school, as you see.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise. I’d have made an appointment. I can come back.”
“If you don’t mind?” He anxiously indicated their curious audience. “You can see how it is.”
“I’m sorry. Come along, Sean.”
They were at the top of the exit steps when he caught up with them. “Wait…”
“It’s all right. We’ll phone.”
“Maybe I can arrange something.” Though he was courteous, his attention remained attuned to the sounds from the classroom down the passageway. “Have you come far?”
“We walked in to the bus. We live a way out. At the end of McKenzie’s Track.”
“My goodness! That’s quite a hike! I’ll work out something. Do you mind? I’ll be a minute. You might like to wait in my office?”
Sean sat on one of the chairs opposite the cluttered desk; she took the other. So far so good. No sign of a lolling tongue, just keen interest in what was happening. From the passage came the thunder of boots on bare wooden floors, excited young voices and the overriding directions of a woman. Sean started from his chair.
“Sit still, Sean.”
Restlessly focused on the open door, he obeyed.
“Sorry to be so long.” Hurrying in, the headmaster settled behind his desk. “We’ve combined the two groups. We can, when necessary.”
“I’m sorry,” she said yet again. “I should have made an appointment.”
“Not to worry.” His broad smile was warm and genuine and as welcoming as the daffodils in the front garden. “It’s a small bush school. Two classes, two teachers. Well, correct that. One teacher and a jack-of-all-trades principal. I even get to mow the lawns.”
“I didn’t mean to trouble you. I won’t take much of your time.”
“There’s no hurry.” He sat on the edge of his chair, fingers entwined amidst a clutter of scattered papers. “Take your time.”
He was speaking to her, but his eyes were on Sean whose attention was firmly fixed on him.
She explained. “He’s school age. I’ve come to enrol him.”
Indirectly responding, he leaned forward, “What’s your name, lad?”
“I’m Sean.”
“Hello, Sean. What’s your surname?”
“Sean McClure.”
“Good boy.”
She nodded.
“Would you like to come to school here, Sean?”
Sean put his finger in his mouth.
She flushed. “He’s probably a bit overwhelmed. He’s never seen so many childre
n before.”
“I have to ask, Mrs McClure. Does your son know what school is?”
This, his first vocal acknowledgement of Sean’s condition, seemed to be straightforward and without guile. If so, it was rare. How to respond?
“We’ve talked about it often,” she confided. “He knows what children do at school, Mr…?”
“Sorry – Lane. John Lane.” He returned his attention to Sean. “Have you thought about it, Sean? Now you’ve seen us – would you like to come to school here?”
Sean removed his finger from his mouth and grunted, “Uh uh.”
She flushed. Sean was letting her down.
“Mrs Clure…?” The headmaster was uncertain.
“He understands, Mr Lane. He’s ready for school. He wants to start next year.”
“In that case,” the kind eyes behind the gold rims were wary. “I will need confirmation. Psychology reports. Medical history. That kind of thing.”
“I don’t…I’m not sure. I’ll need time.”
“Then why don’t we start with you telling me about young Sean here?”
Her churning stomach responded. Once again, she was supposed to talk about him in front of him, as though he wasn’t present, as though he was an inanimate lump of meat. Not fair. Sean had let himself down. Not answering, she looked firmly to Sean.
“Of course.” John Lane immediately reacted. “How old are you, Sean?”
“I’m six,” Sean answered, not clearly but clearly enough. “My birthday is June.”
“What about brothers and sisters?”
“There’s Beth. That’s all. Just Beth.”
“How old is Beth, Sean?”
“She goes to high school. She’s sixteen.”
Nodding approval, she happily added, “Beth was at school in Melbourne. We’ve not been living here that long. Where we lived, kindergarten wouldn’t take him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. As you may have already learned, Heatherfield has no kinder. The nearest is in Roland.”
“We don’t need kindergarten any more. We’ve been working very hard getting ready for school at home.”
“What do you learn at home, Sean?”
“Beth’s books from school.”
Proudly, she expanded, “He’s well into the first John and Betty book.”
“Well done, Sean,” he smiled approval. “You’ve been working very diligently.”
“Sean’s ready for school, Mr Lane.”
The bell rang, followed by renewed drumming of feet along the passage and the sounds of laughter from the playground.
“That’s morning break.” John Lane looked at his watch. “I’m okay for the next twenty minutes.”
The office window, overlooking the playground, was suddenly filled with crossed eyes and lolling tongues. A red-haired boy poked out his tongue. Sean replied in kind.
“No, Sean!” She was aghast.
John Lane threw open the window. “Off! Off to your play!”
The woman teacher’s face, framed in the window, took the place of the retreating children. “Sorry, John. I’ll keep them out the back.”
Sean left his chair to join the headmaster at the window.
“Sean – come back.”
He appeared not to hear.
“He’s okay to keep watching.” Closing the window, the headmaster resumed his place behind the desk. “Don’t worry, Mrs McClure.”
“They should know better.” She was shaking.
“They should?” He was gently forthright. “They’re children. They’ve never seen anyone like Sean before.”
“They’re lucky.” She should not have come here.
“Please…” His eyes were on Sean, whose face was pressed to the window. “Don’t misunderstand. We have a couple of kids with problems. As I think you saw for yourself. Bush schools can’t pick and choose, you know. Nor, I guess, can bush parents.”
“There’s no Catholic school.”
“As you’ve discovered. We do have religious instruction classes, if you wish.”
“Does that mean you’ll take him?”
“He’s of school age. Certainly we’ll take him. You’ve obviously been working very hard together. Sean is obviously ready for the next step.”
“What about the tests? You said…”
“The department will most certainly be making arrangements. Meanwhile, we can get started.”
“What about the children?”
“Don’t be too hard on them. At least their reaction is healthy. Honest. They don’t keep it a secret. We can deal with it. I wouldn’t worry too much. From what I’ve seen of him, Sean seems capable of holding his own.”
“He hasn’t mixed much.”
“Do you want him coddled, Mrs McClure?”
She should not have come here.
“Do you want to enrol Sean for next year, Mrs McClure?”
Sean’s face was still pressed to the window.
“I don’t know.” She was confused. “I’m sorry. I really hadn’t fully appreciated what the actual situation would be like. I’ll have to think about it.”
“Of course.”
“We’re going now, Sean. Say goodbye to Mr Lane.”
Sean did not move.
“Sean!”
He turned from the window.
“We’re going now, Sean.”
“No.” Sean turned back to the window.
The headmaster watched.
“I’m sorry,” she flushed. “He’s not often like this.”
“I’ll leave you. I’ll be outside with the kids.” His eyes were gentle. “Take your time, Mrs McClure. If you want me – call.”
“Thank you.” Embarrassed, she turned away.
“I do know it can’t be easy. Please…take your time…” At the door, he nodded towards Sean. “You’ve got a bright child there, you know.”
Tears threatened. She willed them away.
“I’ll go.” Quickly, he left.
Was this when it would all go wrong? Did Sean have to grow up with the children outside the window? Did he have to learn to fight back? Did he have to leave the safety at the end of McKenzie’s Track? Had they moved so far from rampant bigotry only to have to confront it now, in this world of strangers where there was no Monica, no Katherine? Had they fled from family, from uncritical love, to come up against the same brick wall still? Having built a haven of rare safety, the challenge was coming from their children. From Beth. And from Sean.
She’d just had a terrifying glimpse of the future. Did she really have to do this? Yes. Because at home Sean was asking for more than she could give. Today he’d made it clear he wanted to be here. He could cope with school lessons. He could probably cope with the bullies, too. Was this to be the price after all? Why couldn’t he just be happy?
And that was the problem. Already he wasn’t happy. He wanted what Beth had wanted, had the right to want. Play with other children, education with other children. He felt equal. She’d brought him this far feeling equal, acting equal. She had no more right to close this door than she’d had to send him away ‘for his own good’ as a baby.
Equal? Equal wasn’t so simple, so simplistic. When would the proposed tests be done? What would they conclude? Demand? Advise? Would the benevolent headmaster prove to be as capable as he seemed to be? What if he was transferred? Was the other teacher also benevolent and capable? Were the two of them talking about Sean right now? What would they tell the other children? What would they tell the other parents?
Would the other parents see what she saw? A bright alert child who wanted to learn and who wanted to play with their children? Or would they see what she also sometimes compelled herself to see: a six-year-old with the body of a four-year-old, a six-year-old with the marked features of a labelled disability. Would they see the label? Or Sean? Would they want to see Sean?
John Lane had said he’d enrol him for next year. Straightening, she dried her eyes.
From his post Sean chuckled
and called out to the children who could not hear him.
She went to the window. “Time to go home, Sean.”
He turned. “I want to play, Mummy.”
“You can, love. Soon. Let’s go outside. We’ll say goodbye for today.”
The excitement of telling his father about school saw him through the tiring walk to the store. He rushed in yelling, “Dad! Dad!”
“He’s in the office, Sean.” The new assistant, comfortably middle-aged and motherly, introduced herself. “I’m Valda.”
In the office, Sean was already gushing unclear words.
Rory was worried. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”
“I can play, Dad. I can play. He’s got red hair! Dad…”
“Slow down, Sean…”
“I can play, Dad…”
“Sean! Be quiet!”
“I can play!”
“Be quiet!”
Sean sulked into the single comfortable armchair.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming into town?”
“I hadn’t made up my mind.”
In the armchair, Sean was already asleep.
“What’s wrong with him?” Rory worried. “What’s he yelling about? Is he sick again?”
“He’s not sick. He’s tired. We walked a long way.”
“What the hell are you talking about? What walk?”
Carrying a tea tray, Valda was knocking on the open office door. “I thought your wife might appreciate a cup of tea. There’s a glass of lemonade for Sean.”
Closing the door after her, Rory poured two cups of tea.
The small neat office was restful. Outside the open window was the busy buzz of spring flies, the measured plod of a horse-drawn farm wagon, the chugging of a tractor and the reassuring smells of manure and eucalyptus and sawdust, marred by only the faintest whiff of petrol. Not immediately answering, she sipped the tea.
“Should I wake him?” Rory indicated the chilled lemonade.
“Let him sleep.”
“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”
How would he react? Appearances were important. Though he’d closed the office door to exclude Valda and Tom, Sean was asleep. He wouldn’t yell.
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