Girl on the Edge

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Girl on the Edge Page 15

by Kim Hodges


  As time passed by some of the teenagers acquired car licences. They drove to Martin Street, parked on the lawn and bodies sat in the cars or lounged over the bonnets, music blaring and footballs being thrown. A couple of cars were dismantled on the front yard and car bits decorated the front lawn for weeks. Other friends of the eldest twins rode motocross motorbikes without a licence. The adolescent lads with their bikes appeared and friends up and down the nearby laneway joined in the fun. Although the laneway was council land the local police deliberately turned a blind eye. A feeling of recklessness surrounded their home. I deliberately rode my bike past my twin friends’ home to both fill in time, and take note of the front yard goings-on. Also, if I was in our car, my mother often took the long route home, via Martin Street. I waved a hello to the front yard, but never stopped.

  Both sets of twins always had big smiles on their faces, even though the younger twin set were on the periphery of their sisters’ popularity. I never once felt like I wanted to join in. They would be welcoming and inclusive if I turned up to hang out, but I knew I couldn’t brave a visit. I was too awkward and self-conscious of my straight hair, freckles, height and my interest in travel and politics. It ensured I was ill-equipped for socialising in the front yard. I wasn’t groovy, cool or relaxed and I didn’t have the confidence to join in. My younger brothers were not enticed to go there and hang out, as the adolescent crowd was older. My brothers had their own hang-out mates.

  *

  When I was younger, I too constructed ‘us and them’ hierarchies, of polarised poverty and wealth. Did all of the townie kids do this? I tried desperately to make sense of the dichotomies that I had constructed, and been told about, but mostly I was stumped. Greyness and irrational explanations left me unsatisfied and unsettled.

  *

  Considering my unsettled adolescence mind with a bit more hindsight and distance, these are my conclusions. I wonder about my discontentment with Coolah, my life, and my family at that. Was the big ordeal a biological illness, random in its timing and choosing of me? Or did it seek me out to punish me for not being content with what I had? I wish the big ordeal didn’t choose me. Today I have resolved that if it chose me, I didn’t deserve it, not for my adolescent questioning. No-one deserves to endure what I had to.

  chapter nineteen

  RON AND HIS GIRLIE MAGS

  When I reminisce about my school years, Mr Richards, the teacher from Sydney who inspired me to reach my potential, jumps to mind. So does Ron Jones, the local teacher who gave students a free reign to do whatever they liked in his class. Ron excused himself of any of the responsibility that accompanied teaching. Mr Richards, the Deputy Principal, played a significant role in fixing the wrongs that happened in the woodwork room.

  I willingly chose woodwork as a year nine elective, as did the six boys in my class. I project-managed the construction of the best dog kennel in Coolah, and I project-managed the six lads to help out. On its completion six months later, our class rightfully named it BJ’s mansion. BJ was still BJ—he only became PK the following year. BJ’s old doghouse had been a wooden Telecom cable spool, made into a shelter by my father. That house got damp when it rained. I thought that BJ deserved a leak-proof doghouse. The entire secondary school, and many town residents, knew that BJ’s mansion was being built. Seven pupils and one teacher built it, if you could give any credit to Ron Jones. Ron was noteworthy, but not for his woodworking expertise or teaching skills, as might have been expected from a full- time technical arts teacher of more than twenty years. It was for the goings-on in his office.

  Ron’s office had a large wooden door with a glass panel in it, for the purpose of class supervision. Ron could sit at his desk, turn his head to the left, and peer out through it to check on most of the woodworking stations. To view them all, he had to physically get up out of his chair, open the door and look very sharply left. A desk with three drawers, a chair, and a large bookshelf with handful of books and labelled folders—which may have been lesson plans many years ago—occupied his messy office. Ron’s confidence about the subject material gave a false impression as his lack of preparation exposed him. He continually referred to his twenty years of teaching and therefore his hard-earned entitlements. His office was his private sanctuary. Rumour had it that he kept top-shelf liquor in a hip flask, in the right bottom drawer of his desk, and that there was a stash of Playboy “girlie mags,” as they were known.

  *

  In the year before the creation of BJ’s mansion I had completed the first two terms of “Working with Wood” and the last two terms of “Working with Metal” as did all year eight students. I had designed a wooden lamp with beautiful curves down the base. I liked the feeling of turning wood, making chunky things and having a tangible piece to take home. I went to the woodwork room numerous times before school to sandpaper the lamp base into shape and meet my deadline. That is, if Ron remembered to turn up early with the key to let me in. I even made a lampshade cover in my own time. My dad helped me to wire up the lamp so that I could run electricity through it. My art piece, the wooden lamp, created entirely by me, sat on the desk in my bedroom. I felt a sense of achievement.

  Ron really let us go. “Design something and then just get on and make it. Ask for help if you need it,” he said to the entire class. Ron assured us he was in his office if assistance was required. My metal project was to construct a metal coffee table. It was quite elaborate. The frame was made at school. The final tiling on the table surface needed to be completed at home. It was the most time consuming and elaborate piece of my entire year. The table sat in our table tennis room. Again, I felt proud every time I walked past it. I was Ron’s keenest student, able to meet the deadlines, and female, so he took more interest in my projects than the other students. He knew my projects always came to fruition.

  “You’re the class pet, Ron’s favourite,” some classmates teased me.

  I nodded my head, it was true. So what? I deserved it. According to Ron I was very good at woodwork and metalwork and this was reflected in my school reports.

  Ron was enthusiastic with students who had chosen this subject as an elective. His enthusiasm lasted two weeks then it dropped off significantly, as his urges took over. Ron, with his dark moustache, and dark hair that he combed over the bald spot on his head, was in his early sixties and playing the waiting game of retirement from teaching. Last year, he had talked about retiring in two-anda-bit years’ time. Now, Ron was counting down the months, weeks and even each day. The wall calendar in his office showed a new black cross each month.

  On our first day of year nine, Ron gathered his flock of seven around a workstation. He said “You have the first week to think about your design. You can make anything you like, so long as it’s made of wood. Firstly, you’ll need to draw it. Here’s the butcher’s paper, rulers and pencils. You need to show me your design, and I’ll say yes or no to it. If I say yes, then I’ll make sure all the correct materials are here for you. Then you just get on and make it. You can ask for help when you need it.”

  I felt so happy with such a broad scope. My imagination ran away with exploring design options for BJ’s dog kennel the moment he finished his sentence. Other students sat there stunned. Some students were puzzled. “What will I make?” I heard one student say. I joined many sheets of butcher’s paper together and started to draw BJ’s mansion in proportion. By the third day, my drawing was well into the design phase. Some students were still scratching their heads. Ron left his office in the third lesson, and walked over to look at my drawings. Ron praised me for the design with nods. I was the only student who had drawn a design.

  “What about the theory in this class?” a student asked.

  “You can learn the theory as you go. No textbook or notebook is required. Only some white paper, pencil and rubber for you to design whatever you want to make,’’ he said smugly.

  “Is there a test or exam at the end of term?” said another.

  “No test
s or exams,” said Ron.

  “None at all?” asked a third, seeking clarity on what he had just heard.

  “Not one. You’ll learn everything you need to know through practical application,” he replied. The seven of us were so rapt that we had chosen woodwork—no theory at all.

  “You have only two more days to decide what you’re making. Draw it up with correct measurements, then come and see me. I’ll be in my office,” he said.

  I continued my elaborate design on white butcher’s paper with a pencil. Soon, the Friday was upon us. The six lads had continued to ponder something interesting to do, but they were scratching their heads. I was busy, so busy drawing, but their predicament was disturbing me. A couple of lads looked quite pathetic. I felt I needed to rescue them. Bewilderment was written all over their faces; how did she get so far along with this idea and the drawing?

  “Can I work with you on it?” one lad asked.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  I was glad for any assistance, as my drawing became more elaborate and complex.

  “Could I also help?” asked another lad.

  “Yes,” I said. I looked at the other four lads just standing there watching. I decided to take charge. I asked the other four lads if they would also like to work on BJ’s mansion.

  “You all know BJ really well. All of you can work on this doghouse project if you want to. I want to make the perfect kennel for him, with a sloped roof and the corners done correctly. Then seal it from rain and finally paint it bright colours, if there’s time. It’ll be this high,” I outlined with my hand, about one metre from the ground. They were all listening intently.

  “I could oversee and manage it and give you all tasks. We’ll finish it more quickly if we all get in and work on it,” I proposed. The idea of project-managing was appealing. Everyone nodded. “Finally, an idea and a plan,” I thought to myself.

  “How about I ask Ron if he will let us all work on it together?” I asked, and I watched the lads nod their heads. As I knocked on his door, Ron promptly closed the newspaper and came out to see me.

  “Could you come over here, please Mr Jones?” I said. The six lads were standing around a workstation where my drawing covered the entire bench. Ron walked up and looked at the drawing, appearing pleased.

  “Is there a possibility that all seven of us could work on one project together? I’ve drawn up a dog kennel for BJ and it’s so much work. I won’t be able to finish it by the end of term two on my own, and I want to do it properly.” Everyone was anticipating his response.

  “Is that really what you all want to do?” he asked, looking at one lad at a time.

  “Yep,” said one lad.

  “Yes,” said another lad.

  “Alright, it’ll be fun,” said a third lad. The other three nodded their heads.

  “Yes, you all can,” replied Ron. “You can delegate the tasks. You can all ask for help along the way. This project needs to be finished two weeks before the end of term two,” he said looking at me.

  “Okay” I said.

  “Well, all of you get on with it!” He bellowed.

  We nodded and everyone crowded around my drawings. I decided to make BJ’s mansion even larger, now there were seven of us involved. The sloping roof already enabled the rain to drain away. I added hinges on every corner, to strengthen the structure. BJ’s mansion was to be sealed so that not one drop of water would rot the wood, or get inside the doghouse to wet his bedding. I was very happy, but very busy.

  *

  My project-managing commenced. “Knock on the door and ask for help as you need it” said Ron, as he retreated to his private sanctuary, his office, and let us be. All seven students made a pact in week two of the term. We would discover if Ron was actually hiding in his room to read girlie mags and swig alcohol from a hip flask or not. We all agreed that the truth had to be uncovered—it was well overdue. We owed it to the entire school. The six boys conjured up an elaborate spying plan, lasting an entire term. The lad who elected himself the “spy leader” instigated the pact. This lad certainly had more nous than I had given him credit for. I was very impressed with them all. They stayed focused on BJ’s mansion in between spying on Ron. I supported the spying plan, ethically. If our teacher did spend time on these activities in our class time, then that was simply wrong. As the project-manager of BJ’s mansion and six lads, I had no spare time to partake in the actual spying, but I verbally supported my fellow classmates’ actions, observed them, and smiled as Ron’s behaviour patterns were investigated.

  The spy leader was so clever. He trained all six lads to be prepared; always have a tool in your hand and always have a sentence formed on your lips, so that if Ron sensed something, and jumped out of his room, he was greeted with a question about woodwork. In week three of term, the spy leader set up at a workstation towards the back of the room, to enable a clear view without being too conspicuous. He checked that Ron was sitting at his desk, immersed in the “newspaper.” A lad walked by Ron’s door and reported back that the newspaper was being moved around on angles that would have actually increased the difficulty of reading it. Why would someone read a paper sideways? This was suspicious.

  “You’re on, Stewart,” said the spy leader.

  Stewart’s mission was to get close to the glass panel on Ron’s door and to view the newspaper. He stood there, back against the wall, and then shuffled ever so carefully over to the office window. He turned his head sharply to the right. I watched his eyes pop open wider and wider and a smile formed on his face. In his hand, he held a bit of wood with a nail half in and half out of it, woodwork question ready in his head, just in case. Stewart was transfixed. Seconds became minutes and he seemed unable to move. He just stood there with his eyes staring. Then Ron seemed to sense something. He snapped the newspaper closed. Stewart quickly moved back, retreating to his workstation, just in the nick of time. As Ron swung the door open, no-one was there. He looked at us all, busily working on our project. Was Ron reading the newspaper or was it a cover for a girlie magazine? We all had to wait, for Ron’s inspection to end, before we would find out from Stewart.

  Ron relaxed, nodding at what we had all been up to. He did a lap around the workstations, and consulted with me, “How is it going?”

  “Everyone has been delegated a job and they’re getting on with it,” I smiled at him.

  “Great,” he said, as he retreated to his office.

  Stewart was so excited he could barely wait for Ron to return to his office before he shared his findings. Yes, he had seen a naked girl in the newspaper— with his own eyes! Stewart enthusiastically described the girl, as a “blonde-haired woman with giant breasts.” I used an electrical tool, deliberately, to drown out the conversation between the lads. In week four of term another opportunity presented itself.

  “I’m ducking up to the main office. Everyone keep on working,” said Ron.

  Our smiles and nods assured him. The spy leader nodded to the “watch lad” who would wait outside the classroom and warn us when Ron was coming around the bend. All of the lads were determined to see the girlie mag for themselves. With the watch lad in position, the spy leader gave the nod for two lads to go into the office. I could see their eyes bulging. They, too, turned the newspaper at odd angles. Smiles appeared on their faces. They were transfixed, as Stewart had been. I assumed it was a girlie magazine. I kept on working on my project, but I could see and hear the watch lad come running back. The spy leader ran up and said, “Put it away, Ron’s coming—you’ve got thirty seconds.” The two boys shuffled the newspaper, obviously trying to place it on the table exactly as they had found it. Then they scurried off to their stations, picking up their tools. It was exactly as they had practiced.

  Ron appeared. We looked the same as when he had left us. He returned to his office and resumed reading his paper. We all hoped that the wrinkles in the paper would not give anything away. This time he read the newspaper the right way up, with his door open. He w
as probably studying the form guide, horseracing being his second passion. The two lads subtly walked around the stations, informing everyone that they had seen the naked girls with their own eyes, like Stewart. And it was worth the risk! This fact, not rumour, left the woodwork room and spread through the entire playground. As I cruised around the playground in my lunch break, I too was asked to verify the truth of the matter. I said that I had not actually seen the girlie magazine, but that the lads had. It was true. By week four every lad in the class also wanted viewing rights to the girlie magazines. Every time that Ron left his room there was a line to go to Ron’s office. The lads went into the office excited and they left it even more excited. They also located the hip flask and sniffed it, and Ron’s teacup. Both had an odour of liquor. Alcohol was being poured into that teacup. After all six lads had been in Ron’s office, the cycle started again. Turns were taken. I personally did not want to see for myself. Even then, it did not seem ethical to me for men to view images of naked women like that. Also, I was so busy working on my project. I accepted my classmate’s behaviour as being inquisitive rather than sexist.

  *

  Ron modified his behaviour, as the rumours roared loudly in both the schoolyard and the staff room, but he gradually relapsed into old habits. Ron apparently had made promises to the principal of Coolah Central School, which were not kept. The principal eventually turned to the Department of Education for help. The Department forced Ron to sign written agreements in relation to his changing his ways. Ron was a willing signatory, but, like an addict, Ron would lose his way, slipping back into familiar behaviours again and again. The Department commenced disciplinary action; there were more meetings, and then a final warning. This time everything had been documented. Ron still believed he had the right to use his room as his private sanctuary, but the Department disagreed. The disciplinary process of “early retirement” for teachers was a lengthy and costly one. Procedures were followed and documentation needed to be exact. The Department of Education eventually won.

 

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