‘I’m damned if I know what it means.’ Yet it was both welcome consolation and obscure inspiration. ‘All I know is, I don’t know.’
‘Which gets us to…?’
‘Whatever the stars and the time map are trying to tell me, something else is telling me that maybe the fight’s worth fighting.’
‘So…?’
‘So if you agree - I’ll go back. If we don’t at least try to sort out our personal meaning, our reasons, we might as well just sit here on the beach.’
‘It’s all a bit deep for me.’
‘You!’ Holding her close and feeling the warmth of her body, he treasured the constancy of her love and knew he’d sorely tested it. ‘You’re uncomplicated. No questions. No doubts. You trust.’
‘Trust?’
‘Is it easier for women? You carry a child for nine months. You suffer the pain of birth and all the time you haven’t a clue what will happen to the child or to yourself. That’s real trust, if you like.’
‘Hah!’ She laughed. ‘You want another one.’
‘Only if you promise to have him educated by a caring teacher.’
‘A teacher who sticks his neck out for someone else’s child.’
‘Who risks getting his head knocked off,’ he chuckled.
‘So long as he doesn’t lose it.’
‘I wonder…. Do you think that’s why Mrs Ryan has grown so hard and Adele Turner is so rigid?’
‘They’re afraid of risk? Of doubts?’
‘No stupid,’ lightly, he mimicked Trixie. ‘Of getting their heads knocked off.’
‘It’s not funny, Mark. I worry about you.’
‘I’m sorry. I’ve been inexcusably selfish.’
‘No argument,’ she was very serious. ‘So now you listen to me.’
‘What’s wrong!’
‘If it was just me, okay. It’s the kids, Mark. You’ve neglected them. Me – I can take your dedication and your worrying and wanting to try to change things. Even if it’ll never happen.’
‘It might. It could. I could…’
‘It’s my turn, remember. Even if I doubt you can do anything, you know I’m with you. At least I’ll try. You must understand, I need a life too. My life until they’re older is our children. I will not let you hurt them. Not again, not like this.’
‘Like this?’
‘Like you have on this trip. Like you have for the last month and more.’
He’d hurt her, true. Had he really hurt his children?
‘Robin’s been asking for you. Every day. The baby senses Robin’s distress, it disturbs her. You give your special kids credit, Mark. What about your own? You don’t even talk to them!’
He’d hurt his children.
‘I know,’ she filled the silence. ‘That sounds shocking. It is. I mean to shock you.’
What had he done?
‘Besides,’ Jenny’s gentle laugh tinkled forgiveness. ‘I won’t let you hurt yourself either. Not if I can help it. I’m not cut out to be a widow.’
There were no words.
‘Message sent and received, Mark. Over and out.’ She led him down the steps. ‘Let’s go for a walk on the sand.’
Chapter Sixteen
Late September 1976
He was back. The distant purple mountains were melting into a washed blue sky, the early Spring sun was warming the wide windows, tentative buds were resurrecting the dead rose bushes and delicate green shoots were softening the stark shrubs surrounding the grim quadrangle. Inside the room his students were happy, garrulous, excited. The new term was the prelude to Christmas and to the Christmas thrills of parties, presents, socials, concerts, visitors.
‘Good morning, everyone.’
‘Good morning, Mark.’
‘Did you have a nice holiday?’
‘He went to the beach - it was cold.’
‘Hell! Who goes to the beach? We went….’
‘Holidays are stupid. I’m glad to be back.’
‘Shut up! It’s my turn.’
‘Hey!’ He slapped his hands for silence. ‘One at a time. Okay?’
Once the early morning exchange of news was over they dispersed to their varying activities, most opting for drawing or painting to illustrate a favourite moment from the last two weeks. This was no time to insist on clock-watching exercises to do with timetables and programming and anything that was not spontaneous. Formal lessons could wait until they were more settled. Besides, the most remarkable and unexpected progress often took place in these unplanned times. Bogged down in their boringly predictable lives, the free interchange of news and the joy of sharing new experiences often inspired them to leap up the learning ladder.
Taking out the daily roll, he selected Clem’s assistance to fill it in. Still no Fay. Mrs Ryan had said she’d be back for the new term.
At the lunch break he asked her.
She shook her head. ‘Not a word. The bus called at the house, but Mrs Clark just waved the driver on.’
‘Is he going there tomorrow?’
‘It’s a bit awkward. It’s an extra twenty minutes out of his way. If they were on the phone I’d contact them.’
‘What about the neighbour?’
‘Only for emergency calls, Mark.’
‘Do you want me to drive out and ask about it?’
‘Absolutely not. We can’t press them. It could be misconstrued as touting for business.’
‘It could also be considered a sign that we care.’
‘Risky, Mark. In this instance – risky. If the family has decided to keep her home, that’s that.’
‘You’d rather she didn’t come back.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘She has a way to go yet, Mrs Ryan. Further progress is possible. I’m sure of it.’
She was happily smug. ‘We may never know.’
The students had left for the day. He was preparing tomorrow’s work when Ruth knocked on the door. ‘Phone, Mark.’
He inspected the room, decided he could postpone the rest of the preparation, locked the door behind him and crossed to the office.
Mrs Ryan handed him the receiver. ‘It’s Mrs Clark. She insists on talking to you.’
‘Mrs Clark?’
‘Is that you, Mr Withers?’ She was shouting. She was not accustomed to telephones.
Mrs Ryan tapped him.
‘Mrs Clark - do you mind? Can you hang on a minute, please?’
‘I have to go,’ Mrs Ryan whispered. ‘Got an appointment. Don’t let her go on too long. If it’s vital, phone me at home tonight.’
He returned to the phone. ‘Sorry, Mrs Clark. I’m free now.’
‘I want to talk to you.’
‘All right,’ he repeated. ‘I’m free now.’
‘No - talk to you!’
‘Yes. All right. Go on.’
‘No. I mean - see you.’
‘Tonight? I’ll drive out later.’
‘I’m in town now. Got the bus. I can be there in ten minutes.’
‘I was on my way home.’ It was after four-thirty. ‘Tomorrow I’ll…’
‘It’s important, Mr Withers.’
Damn it, Jenny was expecting him to take the kids to the park. ‘In that case, Mrs Clark, I’ll be here.’
‘You’ll be alone?’
‘You want me to be alone?’
‘If it’s all right with you.’ Despite the shouting, Mrs Clark sounded uncharacteristically meek.
‘Of course, Mrs Clark. I’ll wait here.’
He hung up. The holidays were barely over and here he was again, making it more difficult for his family. He’d had a choice. He could have chosen to disregard the urgency in Mrs Clark’s voice, to put her off until school hours tomorrow. As he knew he should do. Get out of the place and go home, as Mrs Ryan had done. Sensible. Wise. Healthy. Also safe. His past had betrayed him. Before he could think clearly, he’d reacted.
When he telephoned, Jenny was justifiably annoyed. She extracted from him
a promise to take the kids to the park tomorrow night, and hung up. Dammit! He lit a cigarette. The term hadn’t even begun! Jenny knew, as he knew, he’d reacted before thinking. What had changed?
It was done. So he must do it properly. Sitting in the cushioned comfort of Mrs Ryan’s chair, contemplating the red glow of the cigarette tip in the gathering shadows of the curtained room, he wondered - should he see Mrs Clark in here? Or should he return to his own room?
He examined the office, the blonde polished timbers and the blue leatherette, the heavy blue curtains covering the windows, the spotless cream walls, the precious gold clock and the stiff black and white sketch of an early Glenlea cottage. He turned to the book shelves arranged with alphabetical precision, more than a hundred books – psychology, teaching, social studies, crafts, a dictionary, a thesaurus, a medical encyclopaedia, a guide to drugs, as well as associated reports and newsletters. He looked at the floor beneath his feet, covered in thick mottled carpet designed for heavy wear and hushed feet.
Between him and the door through which his visitor would enter, was the principal’s wide blonde desk. It had been cleared of all impedimenta, except for the waiting blue glass ashtray. Formidable. Formidable, too, was the unhappy memory of the mother’s last experience in this forbidding room. He wanted no part of that to taint this coming encounter – whatever it was about.
Making up his mind, he crushed his cigarette in the immaculate tray, an instinctive act he instantly recognised for what it was – a provocative signal of rebellion Mrs Ryan would confront in the morning. He made no move to remove it. If his consent to an appointment with Mrs Clark proved to be cause for censure, then tomorrow he would face it. Tonight, he was about to do what he’d chosen to do – stick his neck out for someone else’s child and risk getting his head knocked off.
Leaving the office, he locked it and went to wait in the front lobby; wide-windowed, blue-curtained, thick-carpeted. On the walls were prints of traditional paintings by renowned conservative Australian landscape artists. On the narrow reception desk was a tall vase of golden daffodils. Into his mind surged sudden recognition of the stark contrast between this elegant, and almost always hushed, entrance and the bare boards and churning life of the average mainstream school. This contrived place was so self-consciously atypical in so many not very subtle ways, it was downright offensive. How could a down-to-earth woman like Fay’s mother possibly feel comfortable in here? No wonder she was almost always in a belligerent frame of mind by the time she entered the equally daunting office?
From his post inside the entrance, he watched her turn through the high front gate, negotiate her determined way past the budding roses, and start up the shallow steps. As she was about to ring the bell, he opened the front door. ‘Mrs Clark. Come in.’
‘It’s good of you to wait.’ She was out of breath, her face flushed, and her hair dishevelled. ‘I came straight from the lawyers. I got a lift…’
‘Oh?’ About to close the door, he hesitated. ‘Are you sure you shouldn’t be talking to Mrs Ryan?’
‘No.’ The sharp blue eyes revealed nothing. ‘It’s you.’
‘I see.’ He did see, rather too clearly. What now? What was the woman doing with lawyers? How could it possibly concern him? Careful, Mark. Uncertain of the wisdom of continuing without a witness, he looked at the locked door of the office. He should at least telephone Mrs Ryan.
‘I won’t take too much of your time, Mr Withers,’ she promised.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Clark,’ he started for the office. ‘I really think it best if I…’
‘You said you’d be alone.’
‘This lawyer…’
‘I need help, Mr Withers.’
Again uncharacteristic. This distressed woman was no beggar. Cursing his self-centred caution, he apologised. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think. You must be worn out. Would you like a coffee while we talk?’
‘That’d be nice.’ Following him into the staff room, she watched as he plugged in the kettle before setting out two cups and saucers, then tentatively asked: ‘Except, I don’t take to the coffee much. Would you have tea?’
‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. A tea bag okay?’
‘Anything…’
‘Sit down. Please.’ He gestured to the heavy-duty blue-topped table, surrounded by its matching blue chairs.
‘Thanks.’ Her fists were ruthlessly clenched atop the laminex.
Belatedly, he recognised her habitual tactic to maintain control. Those painfully clamped fists were betraying her. The self-assurance conveyed in the direct eyes, and the brusqueness, was undermined by those eloquent fists. Fay’s mother was about to fall apart. Her extraordinary anxiety was contagious. His apprehension deepened. What was he getting himself into?
Whatever it was, it was clear she really did need help. ‘Mrs Clark, are you all right?’
‘No.’ Sudden tears ran down her cheeks. Releasing one fist, she fumbled for a handkerchief. ‘No, I’m not all right.’
Moving to console her, he saw her stiffen. Of course, any physical sign of sympathy would only further embarrass her. Turning away he busied himself locating biscuits, a plate, the rarely used tea bags.
Until at last, from behind him, she said softly: ‘I’d like that cuppa now, Mr Withers.’
He set the two cups of tea, the sugar, the milk and the plate of biscuits on the table between them. ‘Better now?’
‘A bit.’ She dabbed at swollen eyes, added milk to her cup and pushed the untouched sugar across the table.
‘Tea look okay?’ He pulled out a chair, and sat down. ‘Is it too strong? I wasn’t sure…’
‘Thanks. Look, I’m sorry to be a trouble.’
‘Is something wrong with Fay? She hasn’t been here.’
‘She’s coming back tomorrow.’ Again, her eyes filled with tears. ‘Sorry. I don’t cry easy.’
‘Sometimes it’s good for you.’
‘Not me. I don’t cry easy.’ She drained her cup. ‘Guess I was a bit stretched. I been going since breakfast. Ain’t ate nothing.’
‘Would you like another? I boiled the kettle again in case.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You should try to eat, too.’
She pushed the biscuits away. ‘You’re a kind man, Mr Withers. I just couldn’t.’
He placed the second cup of tea on the table. ‘Do you feel like talking now?’
‘It’s hard…..’ She hesitated. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t be bothering you with this.’
‘Try me.’ From his own pit of anxiety, he dredged up a smile. Even though it was the absolutely last thing he felt like doing, this woman needed it.
‘Look - I know you care about Fay. Only thing that brought me here. But you’re a teacher. I guess the doctors know best.’
‘She is in trouble!’
She flushed. ‘Not that way. No, that’s true enough. She never was pregnant.’
‘Is she improving? We haven’t heard a word.’
‘She don’t talk about it.’ She paused, made up her mind. ‘They’re going to make sure she don’t get pregnant. They’re going to do a hysterectomy.’
‘Jesus!!!’
Her head snapped up.
‘I’m sorry. You shocked me. I’m sorry.’
She ignored the apology. ‘You don’t reckon they should.’
Careful!
‘You don’t reckon they should.’ For Fay’s mother it was enough; the teacher had screamed his outrage.
Alarmed, he tried to undo the damage. ‘Mrs Clark - you know I can’t express an opinion about this.’
‘You just did.’
What to answer?
‘Look,’ she reassured. ‘I won’t say nothing about what you think. I know how to keep quiet. What you think don’t matter to them anyhow. I just come to get it clear in me own head. I just don’t know who else to talk to.’
Damn the woman. Even if she kept her word and told no one what she thought she’d heard, why did she have to lay thi
s on him? ‘This… this operation. Are you sure? It could be a medical problem. She could…’
‘It’s to stop her having kids, Mr Withers. Plain as that.’
‘You said….’ It was impossible. ‘You said it’s already arranged.’
‘They’ve arranged it. Sure.’
‘How can they do that?’
‘It ain’t too late. I can change me mind.’
‘I have no experience.’ Lamely, he attempted to repair the damage. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Clark. I really am. You have to understand, you’ve come to the wrong person. I’m not qualified. You said it yourself – I’m a teacher, not a doctor.’
Her face closed. Yet she didn’t leave, and she didn’t argue. Instead, as he’d too frequently seen Fay do, Fay’s mother shut her outer door and disappeared inside herself. She was sitting there, opposite him, saying nothing, doing nothing, apparently not even thinking. The room reeked of her disappointment.
He could not do this. Through his reluctant mind flashed the holiday conversation with Jenny, the criticism of the system, the scathing condemnation of the cowardly teachers who were too scared to fight for the children, his own doubts. Forget his own doubts! They were no longer what it was about. The costs of speaking out could be catastrophic, not just for himself but, infinitely more importantly, for his family – his children. Jenny had made her views on that very clear.
He needed time. ‘Excuse me…’
The cold blue eyes turned to him.
‘I’m sorry about all this, Mrs Clark.’
‘You want me to go.’ She did not move.
‘No. No. Please wait. I need to think a minute.’ Leaving the table he poured his untouched tea down the sink, made himself a strong black coffee, and resumed his place.
‘You should have said.’ Her comment was without emotion. ‘You don’t like tea. You don’t have to be polite with me, Mr Withers.’
‘It’s not that. I have tea sometimes. But right this minute…’ The solid block of mistrust in the other chair wasn’t even listening. Enough! ‘Mrs Clark! Why?’
She was startled. ‘What?’
‘Why the operation? What’s really going on?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Of course you understand.’ It was time to call a halt.
Fay Page 23
