To the delight of the Board of Management, for reasons including fiscal, qualifications, experience and public relations, Mark Withers was a novelty. In this budding profession-to-be, a certified primary school teacher was a rare treasure. However, the fact that this particular rare treasure was a male tended to dampen the Board’s enthusiasm. Via the voice of the Board President, they made it clear to Principal Mrs Ryan that Mark Withers could well be a mixed blessing. What kind of a man took on this job? Sure, they’d most industriously delved. The new teacher had legitimate and readily comprehended reasons for seeking employment in a Training Centre for Retarded Children. There had to be a catch. There’s always a catch. Golden apples don’t just fall gently into laps. They plummet – with unforeseeable consequences.
The thirty-eight children were arranged in four groups, each group graded according to age. For the purposes of annual general meetings, public relations, government expectations and general red tape, the first two groups, each of nine children, ranged from six to nine years and nine to thirteen years. Miss Turner’s group was of eight children aged between thirteen and sixteen. Mr Withers’ group of young adults ranged from ages sixteen to twenty-one, when they would leave. In actual fact, none of the age groupings was arbitrary and children were moved about according to readiness, the pressure of numbers on the waiting list, the availability of suitable staff, and any one of a number of other unpredictable contingencies.
Each of the four groups was housed in its own up-to-date home room, and boasted carpeted floors, shiny furnishings, and an abundance of appropriate teaching aids. To each was attached a separate toilet, washroom and kitchenette in the form of a built-in (safety appropriate) cupboard. Adjacent to the two junior rooms was the very large domestic wing. The domestic program was designed, as was the area itself, to train both boys and girls in the skills required by the average housewife – sweeping floors, washing dishes, drying dishes, washing, ironing, preparing meals and cooking. In the domestic wing, each child was allotted time to regularly participate in a different activity, until all facets of the housekeeping program had hopefully been learnt by all students.
That was the goal. The actual outcome frequently came up very short of the mark. The boys often rebelled. With good reason. Their fathers and brothers didn’t have to cook and clean and make beds. Why should they? A more significant defect was the fact that a number of the children would never be capable of managing even the simple task of drying a plate. As for these, so for everything else in this idealistic showpiece.
A cynical exercise in public relations, the domestic area was therefore a telling instance of pragmatic bootlicking. Furnished with the latest in electronic gadgetry, it did very little to actually prepare the students for real life in a real house. Many of the children came from outlying farms, where wooden stoves and outdated domestic equipment were the norm. Moreover, regardless of considerations of each family’s domestic gadgetry, the parents of most of the children would never allow their handicapped child near any stove or iron or kettle – electric or gas or anything else.
Once enrolled, the trainees suffered isolation, ostracism, ridicule, non-acceptance and – irrespective of the success or failure of their training – a lifelong stigma from the mere fact of having attended ‘The Centre’. For Glenlea, as any rural city, never forgot. Despite the fact that it had grown from an overnight stop en route to the gold fields to a population of approximately 13,000, it retained its essential rural nature. In Glenlea, just about everyone knew just about everyone.
In those post-second-world war years, children with intellectual disability found themselves in The Glenlea Day Training Centre, and the others similar to it, following a variety of situations as varied as each Centre, each community, each local Board’s interpretation of the State Government’s definition of its role, and a host of other qualifying conditions. Few children were assessed beyond a cursory test. Most, as it happened, were obviously in the ‘right place’ – according to the prevailing philosophy.
The prevailing philosophy as espoused by the prevailing professional experts? ‘They can never learn academic skills; they are too disabled.’ ‘Teaching academic skills to a retarded child is no different from teaching a dog tricks.’
For Mark Withers, it didn’t sit right. He’d come here with high hopes. They’d been too quickly dashed. Watching Clem’s humiliation yesterday had merely been the culmination of escalating disillusionment. The problem was he’d burned bridges. Another career change, only a year after he’d left mainstream teaching, was not on. For many reasons, mostly to do with his responsibility to his family.
Christmas couldn’t come too soon. He’d take Jenny and Robin away, try to think things through, try to work out a way to recapture the enthusiasm he’d felt in his first months at The Glenlea. The enthusiasm he still felt when he wasn’t being compelled to confront Adele Turner’s cruelty, when he wasn’t feeling hampered by the limitations inherent in the philosophy of ‘they can never learn’; a philosophy he’d not fully comprehended during his initial job interview.
Adele Turner was about to leave the staff room when he arrived for morning tea break.
‘Good morning, Miss Turner. You’re leaving already?’
‘I’m needed in class, Mr Withers.’
‘Oh? Aren’t they out at play?’
‘We’re off on our shopping excursion soon,’ she explained. ‘We had an early break.’
‘I hope it’s not too hot. It’s….’
‘I’ll catch up at lunch time, Mr Withers.’ Quickly, she exited the staff room.
Was she embarrassed that he’d witnessed yesterday’s incident? It could well be. After enjoying his brief break he was on his way back to the classroom, when he was alerted by the sounds of violent disagreement. He ran to the open door of the domestic area.
No one heard him, no one saw him. Don was standing in the middle of a mound of broken crockery. His classmates were huddled to one side. Confronting Don, hands on hips and face set with determination, was Clem. Miss Turner was looking bewildered. The argument continued.
‘I won’t.’
‘You will!’
‘I will not!’
‘You’ll pick them up all by yourself!’ Clem shouted.
‘I won’t!’ Don roared.
‘You will!’
Don lunged at Clem. ‘Leave me alone! You’re not the teacher.’
‘Miss Turner! Make him pick it all up!’
‘Bloody hell!’ Don exploded. ‘It ain’t my fault. He tripped me.’
‘No swearing!’ Adele Turner cried.
Mark stepped into the room. ‘I heard the noise. Want any help?’
‘No, thank you, Mr Withers.’
He paused. Adele Turner’s brittle ego was unpredictable.
From the huddled group, Trixie begged. ‘Please don’t go, Mr Withers.’
‘Miss Turner?’ Mark made it clear he was prepared to leave.
She shrugged.
‘It wasn’t Don’s fault.’ Trixie was crying. ‘It was Clem. He hit him.’ ‘I did not!’ Clem’s outrage reached the rafters. ‘You d-did t-too.’ Meryl confirmed. ‘He deserved it!’ Clem roared.
Hearing Clem’s inadvertent confession, Miss Turner turned on him. ‘You did hit him.’
‘He threw the plate at me!’
‘I dropped it,’ Don raged. ‘You tripped me up and I dropped it. You’re a bloody boss.’
‘You’re a liar!’
Don picked up another plate.
‘Don!’ Miss Turner screamed. ‘Don’t throw it!’
The plate was poised in midair, Don’s hand quivering with intent.
‘Don.’ Mark stepped forward. ‘Put the plate down.’
The shaking hand trembled, the plate remained mid-air.
‘Put it down, Don. Then we can talk about it.’
‘It’s my class, Mr Withers. Don! Give me the plate!’
‘Bloody hell!’ Don surrendered the missile.
&nbs
p; ‘No swearing, Don.’
Disgusted that she had in no way acknowledged Don’s surrender, Mark suggested: ‘He’s upset, Miss Turner. He thinks…’
Her authority threatened, Adele Turner turned on her helpful colleague. ‘It’s my class, Mr Withers.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry. I was only trying to help.’
‘You have.’ She crossed to Don and Clem. ‘You’ll both go get brooms and dustpans and sweep this mess up.’
‘I didn’t do it!’
‘Clem!’
‘He broke them!’
‘He made me!’
‘Do as you’re told!’
Neither moved.
‘Clem! Don!’
From the still huddled group, someone giggled. ‘They’re on strike.’
‘Children!’ Miss Turner was apoplectic. ‘You will be quiet. Don and Clem - do as you’re told.’
‘I’m not going to clean up his mess.’ Clem planted his stubborn legs.
‘You’re both at fault.’
‘Clem’s a bloody boss.’ Don’s fury was unabated.
‘Don! Don’t swear!’
‘Bloody hell!’
‘Right!’ Miss Turner shrieked. ‘It’s the strap, and no excursions for a week.’
‘Shit!’ Don bent to pick up the shards.
‘Be careful, Don.’ Clem stayed his hand. ‘You’ll cut yourself. I’ll get the brooms.’
Shaking, Miss Turner retreated to her desk.
‘Are you all right?’ Mark eased to the side of the distressed woman.
Scrabbling into the desk drawer, she produced a long thin strip of leather.
‘I did tell Don we’d talk if he surrendered the plate, Miss Turner.’
‘I’ll have you remember, Mr Withers,’ she straightened. ‘This is my class. They will obey my orders.’
Mark did not answer.
Heedless of the listening ears, she raised her voice. ‘Without firm discipline, Mr Withers, we are lost.’
About to respond, he saw the watching faces and the listening ears and the excitement. The group’s attention to the argument between Don and Clem had given way to the infinitely more unique excitement of an anticipated confrontation between two teachers.
He left the room, crossed the vacant quadrangle and entered the sanctuary of his own quiet classroom.
Chapter Three
Late December 1974
The file was on the desk. Isolated. Set apart from the other papers pushed to one side, from the books on the nearby shelves, from the green metal cabinet which housed its fellows, from the chairs and from the principal and the two teachers. The file was the central focus of the office. Within it was the life of Fay Margaret Clark - the past, the present and the predicted future.
The file’s stiff green covers were edged with a metal strip. Inside was a wad of thin pages, curl-cornered yellowing pages at the back, fresh pages crisp and smelling of new ink at the front. Both typed and handwritten in a variety of styles, its pages were mottled with red ink notations and universally written with the authority of the omnipotent. The file set out date of birth, family history, category of disability, prenatal and postnatal medical history, educational history, as well as physical, intellectual, social, domestic ability and potential. Also noted were the teaching techniques whereby the predicted potential would be achieved. In addition, it listed past, present and predicted future emotional reactions of Fay Margaret Clark in a variety of situations and to a variety of activities.
The file was closed.
‘Is that it?’
‘Yes, Mr Withers.’ The principal, Mrs Ryan, nodded.
‘I’ve been keeping it up-to-date.’ Miss Turner reported.
‘As I’ve noted,’ Mrs Ryan frowned. ‘There doesn’t appear to be much progress.’
‘It depends. She has a larger vocab. More words.’
‘Does she understand them?’ Mark asked.
‘It’s hard to say. She still speaks only in answer to questions.’
‘What about speech therapy itself?’ Mrs Ryan queried.
Miss Turner brightened. ‘That has gone well. Much clearer diction. The lisp is almost eradicated.’
‘You didn’t write it in?’
‘I wasn’t sure. If she’s to be with Mr Withers next year?’
‘You think perhaps we can take her off therapy? There’s the waiting list to consider. And, of course The Board has limited funds for these extras. Your opinion, Miss Turner?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Miss Turner flushed.
‘I think perhaps we can let Fay’s therapy go.’
‘So she will be moving up next year?’
‘It’s why I asked you both to stay late today. If I think she’s ready, she’ll be moving into your room, Mr Withers. There’ll be others to move up by then. We’ll have to recoordinate all groups.’
‘I’d be sorry to lose her,’ Adele Turner’s sorrow was not mere lip service. ‘Fay’s a good girl.’
‘Not like the others?’
‘Actually, no. She’s nowhere near as demanding. No trouble at all. Though, really, I do have to say the others aren’t so bad. Except…’
Mark reached for the file. ‘May I…?’
‘Of course.’
Pulling the file across the desk, he opened it. ‘I see the family resisted placement here.’
Mrs Ryan indicated a red notation: ‘Until the primary school refused to keep her any longer. As you see, she was fourteen at the time.’
‘Fourteen? And still at primary school?’
‘They’re very flexible in the country schools, Mr Withers.’
‘Very kind,’ Adele Turner added.
Mark was confused. ‘It must have been very uncomfortable for her. Couldn’t she cope with secondary school?’
‘They refused to accept her.’
‘The family actually tried?’
‘To the point of the mother becoming a nuisance, I believe.’
‘They could have obtained educational exemption.’ Checking, he scanned a fresh page. ‘Why didn’t they?’
‘Actually, they had it. Eventually the mother came to us.’ Mrs Ryan flipped a few pages. ‘Here – it’s entered.’
The two heads, principal’s and teacher’s, bent over the file: ‘After an unsuccessful trial period at home mother was persuaded to accept placement for Fay at the Glenlea Day Training Centre for Retarded Children.’
‘Does it state anywhere why the trial period at home was unsuccessful?’
‘Of course.’ Mrs Ryan read from the report: ‘Due to Fay’s excessive shyness and general inability to perform simple domestic tasks mother found her full-time presence at home caused undue stress.’
‘With such a large family, one can understand.’ Miss Turner had been too long silent.
‘Nevertheless,’ Mrs Ryan added, ‘the mother remains unhappy about her being with us.’
‘Does she cooperate? I mean, does she encourage Fay to follow up Miss Turner’s lessons in the home? Does the mother work with us?’
‘Not really, Mr Withers.’ Mrs Ryan sighed. ‘It’s all been in our corner. As usual. I did think, once we demonstrated we were teaching self-help skills, domestic skills –just a couple of times we’d see more of the mother. It’s not unusual. It goes with the territory, I’m afraid.’
‘To be fair,’ Miss Turner put in, ‘Fay’s mother does come in occasionally. They have no transport. She has to catch the bus.’
‘I haven’t seen her,’ Mrs Ryan frowned.
‘It’s mostly lunchtime. Just… just a couple of times. You were in the office. She came through. She asks about the speech therapy.’
‘Does she still think Fay shouldn’t be here?’
‘I think she’s happier about that. Even if only to have time at home alone. Time to herself. I gather Fay clings. You know?’
‘Surely she sees some improvement?’
‘Not really. Fay’s still so frightened. It’s seems to be ingrained.’
&nb
sp; ‘Oh!’ Mark was alerted. ‘Frightened of what?’
‘Everything. Anything. The smallest thing.’ Miss Turner looked to her principal for help.
‘There’s nothing wrong at home, Mr Withers,’ Mrs Ryan quickly added. ‘Not at all. There’s no cause to suspect impropriety as such. That’s been thoroughly investigated. It would appear to be as simple as all those years of failure at mainstream school.’
‘I have to agree,’ Miss Turner mourned. ‘Bad memories I would think. And now - unfortunately - she hears me having to chastise the other children. It can’t be helping. It’s a problem. But unavoidable.’
‘This matter of the speech,’ Mark pressed. ‘Is there anything else? Anything specific I would need to know?’
‘Specific?’ Miss Turner considered the question. ‘In what way?’
Careful, Mark. ‘Something that’s a little hard to define,’ he smiled. ‘Something that might not be so readily explained in a written report?’
‘There is something!’ Adele Turner looked surprised. ‘Mrs Clark thinks any small improvement may be because Fay’s not teased so much.’
‘As you say, Mr Withers,’ Mrs Ryan, too, felt the need to be considerate of Miss Turner’s feelings. ‘It is difficult to convey in a formal report.’
‘Precisely,’ Miss Turner beamed. ‘If anything, the child is overprotected here. Mrs Clark and I didn’t go into it. Well, I couldn’t, could I? I couldn’t very well tell her Trixie’s always talking for Fay.’
‘Anything else?’ Mrs Ryan’s face was inscrutable.
‘This one,’ Miss Turner flipped through the file. ‘I suggest you pay attention to this in particular, Mr Withers. Fay’s attitude to other people.’
‘What about it?’
Fay Page 2
