“There…” The psychologist’s bony finger pointed. “Your son’s over there.”
Sean was sitting by the long side wall of open windows, alone. No one shared his two-seater desk. Nose pressed to the glass, something outside having caught his interest, he was paying no attention to the story.
Looking up, the teacher stopped reading and called to Sean. Engrossed in the view from the window, he either did not hear or did not want to hear. She called again, more loudly. Still, Sean appeared not to hear.
Miss Clayton ordered Bernie to be still and, preparing to fetch Sean, removed her hand from his shoulder.
Immediately flying across the room, Bernie dived through a window.
“Catch him!” The class roared.
“Quiet!” Miss Clayton shouted.
Desks emptied. Children raced for the closed door.
Opening the door, the psychologist barred their way.
The vanguard milled in the doorway.
“Back to your seats!”
The rearguard advanced, pressuring the narrow doorway.
The psychologist gave way.
Miss Dixon steamed from the opposite room, “Back to your seats!”
Obedience was instant.
Miss Dixon, supervision appropriately restored, ordered Miss Clayton to find Bernie Cooper.
The psychologist barked, “I’d like a word with Sean.”
The class pointed to the open window. “Sean’s gone.”
Sean’s gone! Out the window after Bernie. Like Bernie.
Leaving the ensuing uproar, she found him in the playground with Rusty. “You mustn’t run away like that!”
“Bernie did.”
“You know better, Sean.”
“I saw Rusty. You came back.”
“Miss Forrester wanted to see me.”
“I don’t like her.”
Of course he didn’t.
Rusty was bounding happily, begging Sean to play. Grabbing the dog’s collar, she dragged him to the school fence. There was no way to secure him. “Stay!” she ordered, without hope.
The dog crouched, ready to be off again.
“Stay, Rusty!” Sean gently patted his dog.
The dog sank to the ground.
Together, they re-entered the building.
Miss Forrester called from the office, “A moment, Mrs McClure.”
“Go along, Sean.” She gestured down the passageway to the classroom.
“Sean, too. I want to see Sean, too.”
Together, they entered the unfriendly office and stood at attention before the woman in John Lane’s chair.
“We cannot have this, Mrs McClure,” Miss Forrester berated. “This is a school. Not a circus.”
The psychologist was justified. “Say you’re sorry, Sean.”
At her side, Sean stiffened. Sorry was not an easy word. She sympathised. Bernie Copper was not here. Bernie Cooper was not being asked to say ‘sorry’.
“It’s all right, Sean,” she explained. “Bernie will have to say sorry too.”
Miss Forrester was terse. “Does the child understand what he’s asked to be sorry for?”
Still not invited to sit, she flushed. They should leave. Impossible. She could not afford to antagonise this bureaucrat who held Sean’s future in her hands.
Miss Forrester flipped at the pile of papers on the desk, took a pen from its holder and began to write. Sean’s escapade was being recorded. To what end? Why had she been summoned here in the first place?
“If I may…?” Miss Dixon, having left her class, was waiting in the open doorway.
“You’re very welcome.” The officious pen was set down. “Your input is timely. If you have the time?”
“No problem. I’d already put on a temp for the day.”
“Excellent.”
“First things first.” Miss Dixon was firm. “We should do this without Sean’s presence.”
“Of course.” Miss Forrester’s thin lips pursed discomfort. “You may go back to class, Sean.”
“Close the door after you, Sean.” Waiting until the door was closed, Miss Dixon gestured to the empty chairs. “Sit beside me, Tess.”
Stiff with apprehension, she gratefully accepted the invitation and the undoubtedly calculated intimation of closeness. Thank God for Miss Dixon.
“Right.” Miss Dixon politely took the initiative, “To clarify, if I may…?”
“Certainly.” Miss Forrester nodded.
“As acting principal, I’m here to support Mrs McClure.” Pausing momentarily, she added, “I believe current custom would classify my role as parent advocate.”
“Understood.” Miss Forrester’s practiced eyes did not blink. “Does the child run off often?”
“Not Sean. No. Never, to my knowledge.”
“Mrs McClure?” The professional eyes queried.
“He never runs away. He loves lessons. He had to be distracted. He’s usually kept away from distractions. He’s never sat by the window.”
“He was sitting by the window?” Miss Dixon was surprised.
“It seems his teacher has little choice.” The psychologist authoritatively tapped the files. “It’s very apparent. From my observations, I have to conclude that Miss Clayton has been placed in an invidious position. She has no option. Though Sean may be easily distracted, he reportedly does not disrupt.”
She quickly reacted. “You’re talking about Bernie Cooper.”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss another child. The rules of confidentiality…”
“I’m not blind!” To hell with rules! “You’re not just here about Sean! You’re here about Bernie too!”
The psychologist was unfazed. “I shall be advising that Sean is inappropriately placed.”
“How can you say that? Sean’s done very well here.”
“As you say, Mrs McClure. In the past, he has done well. Nevertheless, I have to inform you – time is up. Starting next month he will no longer be accepted within the primary school system.”
“On what grounds?”
“His age, Mrs McClure.”
His age. Thirteen last birthday. Small for his age, but growing. Already years older than the children in his class, except for Bernie.
“You need to understand the consequences,” Miss Forrester was merciless. “In a class so much younger, he’ll soon not only be out of place, he’ll look out of place. Very much so. You risk him becoming the object of unseemly ridicule. Do you want that?”
She looked to Miss Dixon, Sean’s long-time friend.
“If John…” Miss Dixon quickly corrected herself, “if Mr Lane were here…”
Miss Forrester quickly interjected. “Mr Lane is not here.”
They were to be abandoned.
“I’m sorry, Tess.” Miss Dixon discarded formality. “John was planning to break the news himself. He wouldn’t have wanted you to hear it like this. Sean’s outgrown us. These children didn’t grow up with him. They’re not like Todd and his friends. He’s so much older. They know it.”
“He’s not a nuisance.”
“Not the point, Mrs McClure.” Miss Forrester retrieved control. “My formal recommendation will be special school.”
“There’s no special school here!”
“Nor in Roland.” Miss Forrester pointed out. “Distance is a minor problem. He’ll be a boarder. He’s quite well adjusted. There’ll be no…”
“I’ll never do that!”
“It will be for the best.”
“Why can’t he go to secondary school?”
“You have to be joking.”
“His friends are there.”
“Secondary level subjects? There’s no way your son can cope.”
“He could cope with some subjects. He could cope.”
“Such as?” Sarcasm curled the thin lips.
“Woodwork, he’s good at woodwork. Music. Art. Sport. He’s not up to advanced English and Math. There’s got to be other things. Social studies.”
“Come now, Mrs McClure. High schools aren’t structured for children with learning difficulties. Be realistic. Your attitude is doing your son no good. Further mainstream education is quite out of the question.”
“Think about the special school,” Miss Dixon pleaded. “They do teach the things you’re talking about.”
“What’s happening to Bernie?” she countered.
Miss Dixon looked to the psychologist, who shook her head.
“I need to know about Bernie!”
Miss Forrester clucked disapproval. “I see no relevance.”
“He’s more of a problem than Sean.”
“Which means what?” Miss Forrester was out of patience.
There was nothing left to lose. “You’re penalising Sean because he has Down Syndrome!”
“Not fair, Tess.” Miss Dixon defended the psychologist. “There’s no bias. What we’re advising is a result of tests. I would have to predict that Bernie, too, will be recommended for special school placement.”
“Harriet will never do that!”
“We haven’t yet met,” the psychologist reprimanded. “However, like every mother, I would think Mrs Cooper will want the best for her son.”
“You think I don’t! I’ll give you this. Maybe in Bernie’s case it’s for the best. I wouldn’t know. His parents must decide. But Sean has learned all he knows out here in the real world. He’s always stood up for himself. He’ll learn to deal with this, too.”
“My recommendation stands.” Miss Forrester closed the file.
“We’ll see,” she threatened. “When Mr Lane comes back. We’ll see then.”
John Lane returned a month later. Grey and emaciated and withdrawn and grieving for his lost wife, he was virtually unapproachable. Appeal to him would be a cruel intrusion. Although he resumed his duties, Miss Dixon remained de facto principal. Even though his former teacher continued to plead Sean’s cause with the distant bureaucrats, Heatherfield Primary School was eventually compelled to give formal notice that time had caught up. Distraught, she couldn’t disagree. Both logic and respect for Sean conceded that he no longer belonged at primary school.
One last concession was granted. Sean could stay on at school until the year’s end, with a brutal non-negotiable condition. If any other child should be educationally disadvantaged because of him, no matter what the nature of the disruption, Sean must immediately leave.
Miss Dixon, empathising, confided John Lane’s bitter comment, “Another way of saying if he’s teased too much, he pays the price.”
At least she’d been given time to prepare Sean. There was no time to wallow. Plans were needed. So what next? The high school in Roland had been ruled out. Any secondary school willing to enrol someone like Sean would be far away, if such a place existed. For Sean there was no formal educational step to climb. He was also too young to get a job, even supposing one could be found. How to fill the long lonely days?
There was an interim bonus. Bernie Cooper disappeared overnight. Though Harriet Cooper remained nominal president of the Mother’s Club, meetings were held in the secretary’s house and Harriet was an absentee. Gossip circulated news of Bernie’s immediate transfer to a distant special school. Heartbreaking for Harriet and Joe. Bernie was their only child, the child of middle age.
Speculation on his parents’ reaction was rife, rumour rampant. To be near their son, they were selling up and leaving. They were going to bring him home and employ special full-time help. Joe had gone political, lobbying at federal level for additional finance, at state level attacking the Education Department. Harriet was suffering a breakdown. No one had seen any of the three. What their actual reaction was, no one knew. Rumour flourished.
In the classroom, Sean was again seated centre front where he paid attention, concentrated and reportedly ignored any teasing which the children, deprived of Bernie’s presence, attempted to turn exclusively on him.
His general knowledge – of nature, social structure, history, anything that related to the story-telling he loved, was near equal to his junior class-mates. Though his reading plateaued, he wrote beautifully, even when he did not fully comprehend what he was writing. Simplified by the introduction of decimal currency, maths needed for basic transactions was no problem, although his academic mathematics remained well below par. Meanwhile the teasing, militantly policed by ever-vigilant Miss Dixon, significantly decreased. Everything promised the last few months of his schooling to be trouble free.
“Come in, Mrs McClure. We’re on to general business,” the secretary of the Mothers’ Club, sitting with the president and the treasurer, invited from the table by the louvre windows. Harriet was back and this meeting was again in her home.
Squeezing into the narrow space Fran had saved for her in the crowded back room, she formally apologised.
“We must keep on, ladies. We all have commitments.” The secretary rapped the table. “As you were informed in the phone-around, we have special business to discuss today.”
“Everything all right?” Fran whispered.
“Flat tyre. Have I missed anything?”
“We’re getting to it now,” Fran answered. “She phoned me not to miss today. Something’s going on.”
The phone call must have been very persuasive; Fran seldom left Cathie. A riffle of whispers circulated the unusually crowded room. The secretary did not end it. Nor did the president.
“What’s going on?” she whispered.
“Shhh,” a near neighbour warned, “Mrs Cooper’s not well.”
Alerted, she turned her full attention to Harriet. Though shadowed by the background light from the louvres, Harriet’s deterioration was startling. She’d lost a lot of weight. Her face was thin, her neck scrawny and the frock around her formerly full breasts was falling in loose folds. Slumped in the presidential chair, she seemed bewildered, as if wondering what strangers were doing in her home.
She ached for the pain Bernie’s mother had to be suffering. Regardless of rumour, she should have foreseen this. She, of all people, should have expected it. Whatever the reason for the special meeting, there was no way to make things easier for the president. The room was heavy with sympathy, yet no one could help.
The tension in Fran’s body was palpable. Even Fran, so newly acquainted with the phenomenon of a less-than-perfect child, couldn’t help. For each, though the pain was the same, the cause of the trauma and its consequent management was necessarily individual. But Harriet had neither other children nor the consolation of a temperate husband. Or did she? Who knew the intimacies of another’s marriage?
“Ladies…” Harriet’s pitifully muted voice climaxed the suspense. “You are aware of my situation. Today’s meeting has been convened to resolve matters arising.”
The secretary begged. “You don’t have to do this, Harriet. We can do it.”
“Thank you, no.” The president’s wasted body stiffened. Two clown-red spots dyed her cheeks. “I shall do this myself.”
A tentative whisper of approval interrupted.
“I’ll be brief.” Her voice firming, Harriet levered herself upright. “My son has been relocated to a new school. The situation, therefore, leaves me no choice. I hereby formally tender my resignation from the Mothers’ Club. An election is required. A new president will be elected. Denise has the necessary forms. We will close nominations two weeks before the December meeting.”
Fran shivered.
Harriet Cooper sat. The secretary poured a glass of water, which Harriet firmly pushed to one side. The secretary looked to the treasurer, who shook her head. The secretary fiddled with the vacant nomination forms. The air was brittle, as though the slightest sound or movement would fracture the president’s composure. No one seemed able to act or speak.
Something had to be done.
“If I may…?” She stood up.
Harriet Cooper answered, “Please, Tess.”
“I think most of you know my son will be leaving too. I will als
o be resigning.”
“Me too,” Fran echoed. “Todd is going to Roland High.”
In the front row, a young woman, one of the new members who’d joined at the beginning of the year, raised a hand.
“What is it, Jill?” Harriet invited.
“I don’t understand. I know I’m new. Some of us new ones – we thought this school accepted…”
“Not now, Jill.”
“Have a heart, Jill.”
“Shhh…”
Harriet intervened. “Please, Jill. Continue.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“Not today, Harriet.”
The mothers were uneasy.
“Let’s get on.” Denise took up her pen. “Arrangements for the election are as…”
“I haven’t finished.” Jill was quietly obstinate.
“There’s really no point,” Denise answered.
“Mrs Cooper?” Jill Burton ignored the secretary.
“Time is of the essence. We can’t have the children waiting. We really need to press on,” Harriet urged, but added, “unless this is important?”
“I believe it’s important,” Jill insisted. “I’m afraid we don’t understand.”
“How may I clarify?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs Cooper.” Despite the apology, Jill was forthright. “We’re new. For most of our group this is a new experience. We need to understand why you’re accepting the department’s ruling without objection. You’ve let them expel your son and you’re doing nothing! Maybe we’ve missed something?”
The small cluster of new young mothers murmured approval.
“Not today!” Secretary Denise bellowed. “Leave her alone!”
“It’s all right, Denise.” Harriet was equal to the challenge. “If the young women feel so strongly, may I suggest one of them nominate for the presidency?”
“You’ll want a secretary, too.” Denise slammed shut the minute book.
“Me, too,” the treasurer echoed.
“Ladies!” Harriet sharply rapped the table. “I must make certain matters very clear. I totally agree with Jill. I thoroughly agree. Times change. We have failed to change with them. I have failed to change with them. If I had my health, I’d fight tooth and nail for my son’s rights. I’d find a way…” Pausing for only a moment, she continued, “However, I no longer have the strength required and today is not the day for this discussion. The meeting is closed.”
Autumn Music Page 17
