‘For sure.’ The brilliant sunlight of Mrs Ryan’s relief illuminated the stormy room.
‘Whatever the case, that was then. This is now.’ Belatedly attempting to gain lost ground, he chose to ignore the sunlight. ‘I believe she’s holding back.’
Mrs Ryan’s frown threatened renewed thunder.
‘Why would she?’ Miss Turner clucked impatiently. ‘She’s had every chance. Every chance. She shows no signs of anything other than this indicates.’
‘It’s a problem,’ he soothed. ‘As you say, Mrs Ryan, Fay is patchy. There’s also this other problem … is it possible she’s holding back?’
‘I do hear you, Mr Withers,’ Mrs Ryan reluctantly conceded. ‘I also hear Miss Turner. Suppose you are right, suppose she is holding back as you say … it’s too late. Your suggestion is no longer important. She’s not here.’
‘She doesn’t have to come,’ Miss Turner pointed out. ‘There’s no law.’
‘Her mother is furious.’
‘Such a good girl. We never had a moment’s trouble before this.’
‘Hang on!’ Again leafing through the file, he located a remembered entry. ‘There! Something’s going on. Listen to this - After an unsuccessful trial period at home mother was persuaded to accept placement for Fay at the Glenlea Day Training Centre for Retarded Children. What happened at home with Mother?’
Locating a following entry, Mrs Ryan read aloud: ‘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.’
Miss Turner flared. ‘It’s the opposite now! No excessive shyness now! She’s speaking up all right! She won’t do as she’s told.’
‘Progress indeed.’ Despite his attempt to repress it, his irreverent chuckle escaped.
‘If you call that progress.’ Miss Turned saw no reason for levity.
‘Enough.’ Mrs Ryan retrieved the file. ‘This is getting us nowhere.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Ryan.’ Miss Turner faltered.
‘Mind if I smoke?’ He reached for his cigarettes.
Mrs Ryan pushed the sparkling blue ashtray at him. Miss Turner, making her point, pulled her chair clear of the smoke’s range.
He closed the pack. ‘Sorry, I forgot about your sinus.’
‘You were about to suggest something?’ Mrs Ryan eyed the gold-handed clock.
‘Two things,’ he responded. ‘Firstly, I seriously question the validity of these assessments.’
Their combined gasp was to be expected.
He eased the file from Mrs Ryan’s hands. ‘May we try another look?’
‘Surely.’ Again she eyed the clock.
He set the open file on the desk. ‘There were a couple of things happening concurrently. She had an unusually early onset of menstruation. At age ten. You would also be aware that, according to these, this was just after her young brother was born.’
‘The youngest, yes.’
‘Until then, Fay had been the youngest child. In a sizeable family, yes.’
‘The youngest resenting the new-born,’ Mark nodded. ‘Classic, of course. Come to think of it, when we started talking about Robin, Fay really got upset. I wonder was it actually Laura who upset her?’
‘You’re saying Laura’s like a baby? To Fay, I mean.’
‘I’m damned if I know what I’m saying. Excuse me.’ Again, he apologised. ‘This whole business is very upsetting,’
‘Not to say confusing.’
‘You are referring to the incident that triggered this behaviour?’ Mrs Ryan was thoughtful. ‘Her rejection of Laura.’
‘Would the family appreciate she was jealous?’ Miss Turner interjected.
‘If indeed she was jealous,’ Mrs Ryan retorted. ‘It’s a big family. Unsophisticated. Not to put too fine a point on it, the family is of the lower socio economic class. These are concepts beyond their experience.’
He winced. Although this was an idea that grated, it was also possible that the principal’s point could have some relevance to Fay’s plight. Families such as Fay’s had almost no knowledge of even paperback psychology. Besides, even if they did at some level recognise the problems new babies brought to family stability, mothers of large families had little time to attend to matters they thought time would inevitably heal. Careful to steer clear of implied discrimination, he blandly argued: ‘Fay probably didn’t expect a rival. A new brother, a baby.’
‘Be that as it may, this family wouldn’t even think of a negative reaction.’
The principal’s bias was appalling. He came to the family’s defence. ‘I disagree. Families such as these! They are usually pretty high on down-to-earth common sense!’
‘Mr Withers! Who guessed what is immaterial. Look at the facts. The arrival of a baby brother, a rival for parental love, followed by the onset of atypical behaviour. This is our area of concern. Not all this unsubstantiated conjecture about class and common sense. As an explanation for Fay’s intellectual deficiency, the jealousy idea doesn’t hold water. As an explanation of problem behaviour? As you say, it’s classic.’
‘Attention seeking,’ Miss Turner’s complacent eyes approved.
‘Most interesting,’ Mrs Ryan mused.
‘What about earlier?’ Miss Turner was troubled. ‘It can’t be simple jealousy. She must have been failing before the new baby. Assessments are not the general rule within mainstream schools. Not unless there’s a pressing reason.’
‘Not even then,’ Mrs Ryan scoffed. ‘Given the difficulty in getting specialist staff to come this far, you’d have as much chance of winning the lottery.’
‘There must have been grounds to even request an assessment, let alone have it done. I wonder….?’ Miss Turner was not to be put off.
‘Does it matter?’ Mrs Ryan’s impatience grew. ‘She wasn’t assessed by departmental specialists. It seems to have been some sort of touring psychologist. It’s questionable at best. And it’s history. So does that matter now?’
‘It matters because Fay believed it!’
‘We don’t know that.’
‘She’s not stupid. She’d have seen what the teachers thought about her. In any case, she was in trouble, one way or another. She still is.’
‘You’ve got that right.’ Mrs Ryan had heard enough.
‘She should never have been sent here!’ Surprising himself with his passionate outburst, he shakily reached for his cigarettes, regretted his mistake, and quickly withdrew his hand.
‘We’ve heard enough.’ Typically indirect in her response to his anger, Mrs Ryan buttoned her jacket; a sign she wished the discussion to be terminated.
Miss Turner welcomed the signal. ‘I really have nothing more to offer.’
‘Of course,’ Mrs Ryan excused her.
Mark apologised. ‘I’m sorry. You’ve been kept late because of me.’
‘I do hope she comes back. That’s the main thing, Mr Withers.’
The opening of the door admitted the intensifying murmur of distant homeward bound traffic.
‘I shouldn’t be keeping you either, Mark.’ Mrs Ryan watched Miss Turner pass by the window on her way to her car. ‘I’m afraid we have no choice. We really must arrive at some solution. If the Board…’
‘Do you hope she comes back, too?’
‘Who else can give her the personal care we do?’
‘You’re right. There’s nowhere else right now.’ He closed the file.
‘I’m curious, Mark.’ Mrs Ryan placed the file in its locker. ‘What really brought you into this segregated area?’
‘You know why I’m here.’
‘Your brother.’
‘It’s in my records, Mrs Ryan.’
‘Forgive me. I have to wonder…’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not my business.’
It wasn’t her business. Yet it was. How was she supposed to trust his management of Fay if she didn’t trust him? If she had reservations about his motives for being here? ‘Yo
u’re right,’ he smiled. ‘Nothing’s that black and white, is it?’
‘Not in my experience. You don’t mind?’
He did mind. He also needed her trust. ‘I’m listening.’
‘You’re a qualified primary school teacher. Rare in this area. Facilities are grossly inadequate. Staff are ill-trained at best. There’s no career structure.’
‘I did try for a job at the primary school.’
‘Because you want your children reared in the country.’
‘Both of us do.’
‘But you no longer even try for a job at the primary school. You seem content to stay here.’
‘It’s complicated,’ he admitted. ‘The life suits us. Jenny loves it.’
‘I know. However the Centre is an ostracized world, Mark. So why settle for it? Our young people are outcasts.’
This, he could not let pass. ‘Your question is my answer, Mrs Ryan.’
‘You stay here because the children are outcasts? Is that what you’re telling
me?’
‘Do they always have to be outcasts?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Surely changes are possible?’
‘Out here? In the bush?’
‘Out here,’ he parried. ‘In a small school. In a small community. Just maybe a small community is the ideal place.’
‘To do what? Precisely? Ideals are all very well, but I have to say your ideals sound very much like pie in the sky. What about everyday goals? Please, Mark. Be specific.’
‘Specifically? I want to teach kids like Fay. Kids like Clem – and the others here. I think here I can maybe do something.’
‘Teach?’ The elegant eyebrows raised. ‘Are we talking about formal education!’
‘I believe these kids can learn. They can benefit from the educational experience.’
‘As distinct from training? Is that it?’
‘Training is for animals to perform tricks.’
‘What about the cost to you? To your family? The price is high, Mark.’
His cigarettes were in his hands. He hadn’t even known he’d reached for them.
‘I don’t mind if you smoke.’ She pushed the ashtray across the desk.
‘It’s habit. It helps me think.’ He left the cigarette unlit. ‘There’s nothing special to it. I saw my brother grow up. I want to work to promote better teacher training. I want to demonstrate the untapped potential of these kids. I want people to know what I know.’
‘Which is?’
‘My brother was a person too.’
‘So now? After the debacle with Fay? Are you still of the same mind?’
‘Of the same mind about education? Yes. As for whether it can happen here? I’m not so sure. This isn’t the real world. The costs here are high – in every way.’
‘You’re not just talking about money, are you?’
‘On the list of costs, money is at the bottom of the ladder. Once these kids put a foot across our threshold, they’re labelled mad kids from The Glenlea.’
Though her face remained impassive, the knuckles on Mrs Ryan’s clenched fists were white. It was the single telltale sign of her distress. She was hearing her beloved training centre labelled a mad-house by a staff member.
How had he got here? What had he done? ‘I am sorry. I didn’t mean…’
‘Of course you did. So let’s hear it. Your solution. In a perfect world, what would you do about Peter? And Fay, if indeed you are right about her?’
‘What would I do? That’s just it. I don’t know! At school Fay was teased. Ostracised. Here, it’s the same. It’s the same! Ostracism. She’s stuck with a lifelong label. I don’t know! I don’t know…’
The jangling telephone interrupted. Mrs Ryan reached for it, listened to the caller, and suggested: ‘I’ll be a few minutes. Why don’t you take a break?’
He closed the office door behind him. The late afternoon sun was still high above the summer roses, their scent soothing. Adele Turner would already be in the haven of her own home. He should be too. What was he doing here?
No wonder Mrs Ryan was putting him on the spot. He’d thought he’d known what he was doing. He hadn’t a clue. He’d pushed Fay too hard. Everyone knew it, especially the students. He lit the waiting cigarette.
Mrs Ryan was right. He should go back to what he knew. There were other country towns, other country schools. The point was that other country schools were not so close to his mother, or to Jenny’s family. They’d looked at the map, and they’d read the vacancy ads with care. It hadn’t been a quick decision. In the end, he’d applied for teaching jobs in schools located in the low hills that climbed quickly into the mountain ranges. An hour’s drive and he could be with his mother, another ten minutes and Jenny could be with her family. It was ideal. Except he’d hadn’t got any of the jobs. It came down to try for the Centre or stay in the smog. He’d tried for the Centre. Had this been his destiny all along? Stop it, Mark.
He was out of his depth. He’d talk to Jenny.
‘Mark!’ Mrs Ryan was beckoning from her office window.
Reluctantly he left the roses and the scents and the sun and returned to the cloistered office. ‘I’ll get my things and go,’ he offered. ‘It’s late.’
‘Good idea.’ She did not argue.
He was at the front door, when she said. ‘We must try to work together, Mark.’
‘I’m sorry about before. I didn’t mean to…’
‘Forget it. It could be my fault. I’ve been thinking. We should arrange for you to go off to the next workshop or seminar that comes up. It would help clarify a few things for you.’
Reward or punishment? Or carrot?
Chapter Six
Fay’s rebellion did not last. A visit to her home by Trixie and her mother, followed by a conciliatory letter from Mrs Ryan to Mrs Clark, who still did not want Fay at home, and Fay was back at the Centre.
From his post in the classroom, Mark watched her leave the entrance block and start across the quadrangle. Nothing had changed. He saw the hang-dog unkempt appearance, the distance she kept from the other children, Trixie’s approach ignored. The mouse was back. It was as though the fiery teenager behaviour had never happened. It had, and he shouldn’t forget it. He must tread very carefully.
‘Good morning, Fay.’ He greeted her as he always did.
‘Good morning.’
At least she had answered, but that was all. No additional comment from her. No pressure from him or from her classmates.
At nine-thirty, he watched her slide into her place in the morning circle.
Unfolding the newspaper, Peter started to read the headlines. ‘No rain expected for some time. Local man …’
Clem interrupted: ‘I have something to say.’
‘Don’t interrupt!’ Trixie cried.
Peter looked to his teacher for direction.
‘It’s up to you, Peter,’ Mark responded. ‘You’re the one reading today.’
Peter hesitated.
‘It’s important,’ Clem stood his ground.
‘Okay. If it’s important,’ Peter refolded the paper.
Looking across the circle to Fay, Clem formally announced. ‘Everyone says it’s nice to have you back, Fay.’
The group applauded.
Fay lowered her head.
Reopening the newspaper, Peter completed reading the second headline. ‘Wounded Vietnam soldier home at last.’
‘That’s Dougy McNabb!’ Linda cried. ‘My dad knows him. My dad says the war was terrible. Dougy was…’
Again Clem interrupted: ‘They shouldn’t have gone. Doctor Cairns said…’
‘Clem!’ Peter was cross. ‘You can’t keep interrupting.’
‘I can when it’s important.’
‘The news is important. I’m reading it.’
‘Doctor Cairns is important. Mister Whitlam says…’
‘Clem!’ Mark left his post at the desk.
He had a problem. Peter ha
d been assigned to read the news headlines and to lead discussion. But Clem was trying to limit the discussion to politics. Considering the sensational political climate, it was understandable. Did Clem know of the accusations about the Deputy Prime Minister’s affair with Junie Morosi? Of course he did. Clem was staunchly Labour; Gough Whitlam could do no wrong; Jim Cairns was practically a saint.
His problem was that Peter, as a farmer’s son, followed the Opposition. Did politics belong in this room? They were reading the news. Right now, politics was headline news. Born in the post-Hiroshima era, these kids were growing up in sensational times. Vietnam, Watergate, Astronauts, Cyclone Tracy, Whitlam, Cairns, Snedden, Fraser, Bob Hawke…. Television had brought the world into their lounge rooms and politics into their lives. Every meal-time discussion was full of the latest controversy, everyone had a point of view. Families were divided, the Centre staff had banned politics from their casual conversations.
Curious, he asked: ‘Peter? Do you mind if we follow this through?’
Peter looked pointedly at the clock on the wall above the desk.
‘You’re right,’ Mark conceded. ‘It’s time to get to work.’
Trixie disagreed. ‘I want to talk about it.’
‘My uncle’s a soldier,’ Meryl added. ‘I want t-to t-talk too.’
‘See – Peter?’ Clem was triumphant. ‘It’s important.’
What to do?
Fay offered nothing. Her bent shoulders and lowered head were absolutely motionless and totally silent. Yet now he knew she was listening. If she had strong views, there was no way of knowing; not yet. It was nearly ten o’clock. Time to get on with today’s allotted lessons. He must not waste it. These first hours of her return to the Centre were precious.
He made up his mind. ‘I agree. If you want to talk about these things, we’ll set a special time on the timetable. What about a regular discussion meeting?’
‘What about the news?’ Peter was disappointed.
‘That stays the same, Peter. You read the headlines, talk about things. Then if there’s something special, you discuss it at the weekly meeting.’
Fay Page 7
