The Good Teacher

by Richard Anderson

  ‘But someone’s career could be ruined.’

  ‘I don’t think so. The people at the department told me they’re driven crazy by little schools like Stony Creek. The principal really would have to murder someone for them to get rid of him.’

  After he’d gone, she stood at the drinks fridge staring at the brands and wondering what it all meant. Did that mean he thought Jennifer caused the fire? Was he right to think Brock’s position was safe? If she believed Detective Johnson, then Jennifer was fibbing at the very least. At the worst, she was needlessly jeopardising Damien and Julia’s future education.

  JENNIFER

  When she saw that the text on her phone was from Brock, she threw it across the garden bed and it disappeared into the matting of plumbago. She had been doing her absolute best not to think about him.

  She attacked with vigour the couch grass insinuating itself among her jonquils and daffodils. Of course he would be trying to make contact. They hadn’t had sex since Andy found out. Before the meeting. For the action to cease so abruptly would have confused him. It certainly confused her hormones. To compensate, she had increased her physical activity to the point that she was barely making it through dinner before she fell asleep. She tore at the root base of another clump.

  The meeting had gone well and everything was on track—as long as she could stay away from him. Andy was being nice, but she could feel his eyes on her and wondered if he kept the binoculars close by when he was out in the paddock.

  She finished weeding the garden bed and reached in to retrieve her phone. As she pulled it out she thought it couldn’t hurt to check the message. She would have to let him know it was all over, finito, anyway. A text would be the simplest way. She held her phone with shaking hands and clicked through to his message.

  It didn’t beg for her body (as she’d perhaps hoped it might). There was no love sonnet. It didn’t even mention her absence. All it said was: ‘Investig over. me guilty. Dept. happy 4 me to stay. Official.’

  Jennifer threw the phone again, this time down the lawn towards the jacarandas, sat down and began to sob. Why was everything going wrong? She had it all set up. She had survived Andy’s detection and she had incited the support she needed from the parent body. Her ‘duty of care’ line had gone down well in the meeting. She’d had her fun and drawn a line in the sand. But now this. Why was she being punished? Because now all she wanted was one more time. One more time with Brock to convince him to forget Stony Creek and move on. One more time for her to erase that scratching, clawing need. Minutes ago she had been fighting the good fight and now she was back begging for one last hit. She threw herself on the kikuyu and began thrashing away at it, pushing her mouth into the runners to muffle her screams.

  Eventually she sat up, brushed her hair back and looked around. Madison was still at school. Andy was in the paddock somewhere with the men. Perhaps no one had seen. She dried her eyes with the back of her hand, wiped the grass away from her mouth, then walked down to pick up the phone. She keyed in the message: ‘Don’t tell anyone. We had a deal. You’re leaving.’

  First things first. If he accepted this then everything was fine. If not. She sat down again and waited for an answer. When it arrived it said: ‘Why?’ She immediately dialled his number.

  ‘We had a deal. You said you’d take the rap and leave. I think you’ve been paid very well for your part of the bargain.’ The concept of ‘bargain’ sounded terrible as it came out of her mouth.

  ‘But I’ve taken the rap. Guilty as charged. No one—’ he coughed and in the little gap she heard much more than a cough, ‘—knows about us and your reputation is intact. There’s no issue.’

  She was beginning to shake.

  ‘Are you still there, Jennifer?’

  She put the phone back to her mouth and word by isolated word she asked: ‘Who. Knows. About. Us. Brock?’

  ‘What do you mean? No one.’

  ‘Who knows and how do they know?’ She knew her voice was vicious. It was his turn to be quiet on the line.

  Eventually, he cleared his throat. ‘Sarah Howard. I’ve got no clue how.’

  ‘You told her.’

  ‘I swear I didn’t.’

  Even as he said it, Jennifer remembered that look in the meeting. Sarah knew back then. But how? ‘Pervert.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘She must have looked through the window at us. That’s the only way she could know.’

  ‘She said she didn’t. She said she could see it on our faces.’

  ‘Oh god.’

  ‘I don’t think she could have seen us unless she was doing a commando raid on the classroom or my house … or on the car.’ Some of his certainty faded.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. She knows and that means you can’t stay.’

  ‘I’m going to think about that.’

  ‘No, you’re not. You’re going to do like you promised.’

  ‘We could keep going the way we are. I could keep my job and we could keep what we’ve got.’

  ‘We’ve got nothing, Brock.’ She let the words hang. ‘I promise if you don’t leave of your own accord I’ll tell my husband.’

  ‘Okay.’ He ended the call.

  Was that an okay in agreement or an okay-if-that’s-what-you-think-you-can-get-stuffed? She couldn’t guess. She shook the phone violently, hoping it might tell her.

  MACK

  Mack decided that it was up to him to do something. He had heard nothing from Andy and Andy was the sort of person who would normally have done something by now. It was possible that Jennifer could solve the problem, but there was a large risk she might solve it in a way that wasn’t to Mack’s liking.

  Someone had to confront the teacher and explain to him what he was jeopardising and help him see past his animal desires. Hopefully, as a man and someone who cared about people, he would understand and pack his bags. The only person who could do that was him, but how to get there? He couldn’t ask anyone to drive him for obvious reasons. He had walked the distance before in a group for some charity but he was too old now and the prospect of lying in a table drain because of a collapsed knee or swollen ankle was too humiliating.

  He didn’t have a licence, but he still had a car parked in the garage round the back. He had fought them hard to keep it for a circumstance just like this. It was a while since he’d had a go at it, and he couldn’t see the road very well now, but at other times he’d managed to follow the line where the grass met the gravel on the edge of the road. Surely he could still do that?

  His strategy was to try to arrive at the school before the school day finished and the kids were picked up. He didn’t want to be on the road to Stony Creek when the school traffic was coming his way. It was only ten kilometres, but if he gave himself an hour, it should be more than enough time. If there was something wrong with the car or he couldn’t see well enough to make the distance then he would still have enough daylight to get there and back. If something went wrong he might have to call Andy for a lift home, but once the job was done that would be all right.

  He picked up a water bottle, a hat and a phone, and made his way down the steps and out to the back shed. The four-wheel-drive he’d had when Celie was still alive had a light layer of dust, but the duco was good and the tyres in full tread. It started first go: a sign that things were going to go well. He carefully backed the car out of the shed, getting out only once to check that he wasn’t going to collide with his house or the clothesline. He reversed out through his gateway and swung round facing the main road. At this rate, he would be there early and he’d have to wait outside the school with the parents wondering what he was up to.

  He pulled out to what appeared to be the edge of the road and sat listening with the windows down. He wouldn’t be able to see anyone coming, but he was confident that he’d be able to hear them. If someone came across him now they would surely stop him. They wouldn’t change his mind (he would try again another time) but he knew, whoever they were, they
could create such a fuss that he’d never get to where he was going without an escort and a marching band.

  He wiggled a finger in his ear nervously, but he heard nothing and smelled nothing so he put the car into drive and edged out onto the road. Nobody ran into him or came swerving past as he guided the machine onto the side of the road and followed the line provided like he was a full-size, very slow slot car. The gravel was thick and crunchy on the edges but it was a good feeling to be driving again. He’d spent so many years driving, and driving a great deal, to suddenly give it up had been strange and debilitating. Now to be in control again, to feel the power in his hands and below his foot, was exhilarating. He wished it was a manual so he could enjoy the sensation of the gears linking in to one another.

  He was moving along nicely, increasing in confidence, when he scraped the first tree. It was only a sapling and he just brushed some fine lower branches, but it was enough to unseat him and cause him to reef the steering wheel to one side and spear him out into the middle of the road. He pulled over to the side to calm himself, hoping no one was right behind him or about to appear over the rise he knew was just ahead. He got out and felt along the side of the vehicle. No dents. And his mission was still on track. He got back in, braced himself and set off again, guessing he had about seven kilometres to go.

  And then there was a guttural sound behind him. It was a fair way off, probably a small truck, but closing rapidly. Up ahead, he thought he could make out a gap in the box trees on the roadside. He had no way of knowing if he had time to make it but he held his nerve and when the gap became reality, he steered into it and stopped. It wasn’t long before the truck sped past in a roar of sound, kicking stones and dust at him while the driver hooted the horn and probably waved a hand. Sounded like Jack Burgess’s little truck, moving bulls from farm to farm. No problems there. He waited until the sound became a faint drone and set off again. Further down the road, he encountered a black cow that was unimpressed by him and equally disconcerted by the idea of moving. Mack expertly drove around her, leaving neither of them upset by the interaction.

  Now that he was on his way again and moving nicely, he realised that apart from random cattle and hurried trucks he didn’t really need to be able to see to drive this road. He knew it so well: every lump, every camber, every contour. The trees were larger in places but the potholes were the same and the gravel no different. He could shut his eyes now and know there was a slight bend to the left about to come into view.

  ANDY

  Of course the bloody schoolteacher was making noises like he didn’t want to go. The department didn’t want to push him and he was beginning to like the deal he had. Probably thought he could eat his cake and have it too: teach at the nice little school, enjoy the support of the parent body and root Jennifer on the weekends. Some people couldn’t take a hint.

  When Jennifer told him what the department had said, white-faced and picking at her fingernails, he thought he might ring and tell him to be gone by the morning or he’d stick a shotgun up his ringhole. But he could see his wife reading his thoughts and realised it wasn’t what she wanted, which was strange because what she was going to have to do would be much more painful for the teacher: ‘There’s another alternative,’ he said.

  She looked at him, eyes beginning to water, and then down at the floor. She nodded. At least she’d told him. It showed which side she’d chosen to be on.

  ‘I think I’ll tell him first, before I put it to the school council, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘There’s a school council?’

  She nodded again. ‘Disbanded. We’ll have to reactivate it.’

  She could tell him if she wanted. It was the threat that held most power. If the schoolteacher was going to fight it then that was a different problem. But he would know the community would take Jennifer’s word on something like this.

  ‘Whatever you think. Just don’t blow your advantage.’

  ‘What if he decides to fight me on it? Take it to the department or court or something?’

  ‘He doesn’t have it in him. He knows the kind of public opinion he’d be up against. Mind you, if you had some evidence of some sort, it’d probably help.’

  He knew he was pushing the limit. All she’d actually told him was that Brock had grabbed her. How could you have evidence of that? Then her face registered a recollection. She must have something she could use. He really didn’t want to know what.

  She was gone now, after saying: ‘I’ll talk to him.’

  Since their conversation in the car, he’d been happy with his decision. He’d waited for her to blurt out that she couldn’t stop, needed to be with him et cetera. But thankfully it didn’t happen. There’d been no word of confession or packing of bags or plea for forgiveness either. She had just been quiet and wary of any conversational territory that strayed close to the topic. He was certain that the longer it went on the more she’d become cemented to her family’s side of the battle. His punt to offer Jennifer a way out had worked and even with the latest development looked like it would go on working. He didn’t want the advantage he had over her; he didn’t need it. He just wanted her orbit to swing back in with his.

  There had been the usual round of spraying and fertilising interspersed with the dramas in his marriage. But he was feeling calm and in control, and beginning to lose the fear he had felt when he had first seen her. Now he was even starting to question whether she had really been that passionate. It was probably the light or just one time when, coincidentally, she happened to be particularly libidinous. When he looked at her now she was the same Jennifer she had always been, if a little chastened, and he wasn’t trying to be smart about that.

  He had cattle to move out of the watercourse, so he took the four-wheel bike and rode down in among the gullies. The grass was still lush and some rogue cattle had found their way in through a weakness in the creek crossing. It was always the way. The smarter cattle figured out how to access better feed and were always fatter and back in calf earlier. He figured it was an evolutionary thing: the smarter, more adventurous animals did better and passed on their genes more regularly.

  Whizzing along in the tall grass, the wind in his face, he rather proudly considered himself one of the smarter animals in his own herd. He was pleased with how clever he’d been with Jennifer. She had strayed and he’d provided her with a safe way back, without shaming or blaming. That was management. If you kept a cool head and a clear mind almost any problem could be solved. What did they say? No such thing as problems, only challenges.

  He tried not to think what physical evidence she might have against Brock.

  JENNIFER

  Jennifer looked at the old coat hanging up in the garage alongside much smarter and more expensive oilskins and winter jackets. It looked like trouble (and it was), as if it inveigled its way into the big time through the secret it held. She put her hands in one pocket and closed her eyes. Her fingers found a broken tap fitting and a short piece of garden hose. She checked the other pocket and there it was: a crusty little parcel that she had forgotten about, neatly folded. She put it back where it was, repulsed and relieved.

  She had evidence of something, but of what? She had to be able to put forward a believable story of harassment or assault or attempted rape or …

  A tissue didn’t say anything. She had to assemble a plausible story to go with it. There had to have been an incident and Brock had to have at least exposed himself or how else would she have the contents of the tissue? So somewhere he must have tried to force himself on her, she must have resisted, and he’d arrived at his own logical conclusion: on her skirt. The fact that she had kept the sample in the tissue did look suspicious, as if she’d deliberately set him up, but at least, in that case, she could tell the truth: she’d cleaned it up and forgotten about it (or couldn’t stand to go near it again).

  But would anyone believe that Brock could or would force himself on Jennifer? No. Would they believe that Jennifer kept it s
ecret, never showing any sign of hurt, shame or desperation? No.

  Her mind was tumbling with possible and improbable alternatives. She decided to take a walk in the paddock, past the endless, lush waves of wheat, until she came up with a good story.

  The tissue set its own time frame. It didn’t allow her to go to him now, rip her clothes, and come running out of the schoolhouse screaming and sobbing. Maybe it happened in a car when she was giving him a lift? Perhaps in his house at that first meeting? Possibly the fire and all that followed stopped her reporting it and overshadowed her own needs?

  But the story had to be more than just plausible, it had to be workable on all levels. It would be good to have support from another quarter. Maybe she could convince Ian, as repayment for his poor behaviour, to pretend he witnessed her distress? Sarah wasn’t around at the time so she couldn’t contradict him and it wouldn’t be asking a lot, would it?

  The black soil was soft underfoot, stoneless and weedless. The wheat shooshed thick and green around her as if to say there was nothing there that could possibly distract anyone from finding a solution to a complex problem like hers. She padded on, not rejecting even the completely outlandish: he had attacked her in the playground, he had broken into her home, he had sprayed the room with his fluid, but always returning to a basic ‘forced himself on her in the car’.

  She thought about the night of the fire and her reaction. That would be good cover for the distress she would have been suffering if all this had been real.

  And then she remembered Sarah’s face at that meeting: that look of shock and maybe disapproval. She felt the fresh air rushing through her lungs and the blood pounding at her temples. Sarah Howard would provide the authentication she needed. It was genius.

  She gave a little skip and a whoop in the air. A large, indifferent, black-haired feral pig trotted across the path only metres in front of her, followed by half-grown, multicoloured suckers. Normally they would have unnerved her, but today she smiled at them and gave them a little wave. Today of all days, she could share her paddock with a family of pigs.