Fay

by Dulcie M. Stone

  ‘But…?’ There was always a ‘but’.

  ‘I’m a police officer. So I need to ask a practical question. What can be done when the child is both significantly retarded and out of control?’

  ‘Sorry, Constable. You’ve got it wrong. Fay’s a young woman. She’s not a child. She’s not significantly retarded. And I have to seriously question if she’s out of control.’

  Constable Grey raised a quizzical eyebrow, shook her head, and followed Mrs Ryan who had already passed on and was waiting at the open front door.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Late October 1976

  He had chosen to walk to the meeting.

  Jenny saw him off at the front gate. ‘Don’t get too involved,’ she warned.

  ‘I won’t back off, Jen.’

  ‘I know.’ She straightened the collar of his best blue suit. ‘I wouldn’t want you to. Be careful. Please be careful.’

  ‘That’s me,’ he laughed.

  ‘It’s no joke, Mark. If you make enemies, they won’t listen to you. You know that.’

  ‘You don’t mean I should be careful, you mean I should be professional,’ he retorted lightly.

  She knew he was nervous. He’d spent half the night staring up at the play of light and shadow on the ceiling. The other half he’d spent sitting in the darkened lounge room watching mindless T.V. with the sound turned off. He must have slept. It didn’t feel like it. She’d pretended to sleep through it all. He knew better.

  ‘At least try to keep a clear head,’ she urged. ‘Honestly, I’ll be glad when this is all over. Maybe you’ll get some sleep.’

  She was right to protest. Again he’d been shutting her out. Since the meeting with the policewomen, he’d feared what would happen this day. It had to come. Whatever they decided about a Care and Protection Order for Fay, he’d have to accept it. As would the Clark family. He’d never for a moment thought he’d be asked to attend. Why would they want to include him in their discussions?

  ‘I’m sorry, Jen.’ He kissed her. ‘It’s been getting out of hand again, hasn’t it. I’ll be careful. I promise.’

  ‘Go to your meeting, Mark. Don’t let them get to you. Take it easy!’ It was what she needed, to be included in the bad times as well as the good.

  He walked quickly, his warm breath curling in small ringlets of steam on the frosted air. At precisely 9.30 a.m. he crossed the carpeted foyer of the recently built Regional Social Welfare Offices, knocked on the conference room door and entered. Like the foyer he’d just passed through, the large conference room was carpeted, the walls lined with pale timber, and the high ceiling dotted with flush lighting. Against one wall was a stack of plastic chairs, against the opposite wall a pair of long tables. Situated against the wall directly facing the entrance door was a shallow stage furnished with microphone stand, lectern and white board. Placed meticulously dead centre in the room was a huge highly polished timber-topped table, surrounded by comfortably upholstered dining chairs.

  From the comfortable chairs a dozen pairs of curious eyes greeted him. Some he knew, most were strangers.

  ‘Mark Withers?’ At the head of the long table, a small dark-haired man was peering authoritatively over metal-framed bifocals. ‘Thank you for coming. There’s a vacant chair beside Mary. I believe you’ve met.’

  ‘Good to see you here.’ Constable Mary Grey introduced him to the uniformed policeman at her side. ‘Senior Constable Harris is with me today.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you. Mary here tells me you know what you’re doing.’ Jack Harris, a stocky ruddy-faced man, leaned across Mary to shake hands.

  At his side, he felt Mary Grey’s body stiffen. No wonder, the policeman’s arm was pressing heavily against her uniformed breasts.

  ‘Likewise.’ Quickly, he broke the handshake.

  At the far end of the table, on the opposite side, Mrs Ryan gestured a tight-lipped greeting. He should understand that he was still not in favour. He smiled back, warmly. Jenny’s advice was sound. Make no enemies. Make sure that, when the time came, they would listen. If Mrs Ryan ever listened? Right this minute, it wasn’t the point. The point was that, because some time this morning he could very well want others to listen, his warm response to Mrs Ryan’s frosty welcome was vital. The essential foundation of goodwill and trust that underpinned his erratic relationship with his boss needed to be established for any viewers, especially Policewoman Grey at his side.

  A few late-comers found seats. The chairman at the table’s head gestured to a young woman at his side to begin recording in her notebook, then tapped the table for silence. ‘For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Lou Martin - Regional Services. Co-ordinator. Perhaps if we start by introducing ourselves?’

  As each in turn indicated their name and interest in the case, Mark took care to concentrate. His knowledge of each person’s specific role and interest in the matter at hand could prove to be very important. Senior Constable Jack Harris reported that, as a senior officer and long-time resident of Glenlea, he’d been assigned the duty of accompanying Constable Grey. Because those in charge didn’t quite trust the young policewoman? Having listened to her in Mrs Ryan’s office, it was a legitimate question.

  In addition, there were three of Lou Martin’s staff whose exact roles were not clearly stated, and a consultant psychologist whose affiliation was a mystery which no one bothered to question. Maybe those present presumed it was so obvious it didn’t require clarification? It could well be. He’d already seen enough to decide this mob spent more time in conference rooms with each other than they did out there in the work force. Bitter, Mark, bitter. He mentally chided himself and again reminded himself of Jenny’s warning.

  The final group, whose hands-on experience gave reason for a little optimism, was made up of a representative of the local Honorary Probation Officers’ group, the professional Probation Officer, and a representative of the Volunteer Family Welfare Society.

  In all, there were twelve people seated in the sterile meeting room, each with their notebook or file or diary ostentatiously in place on the polished table top. There was no family doctor, nor any mention of an apology for his absence. There was no family member, nor any mention of an apology for their absence. For sure they’d not been asked. Yet no one was questioning their absence or the absence of an apology. A question in itself. Maybe they blindly accepted whatever was served up to them by Lou and his three?

  Was this how it was always done? At this elevated level he had no experience. Whatever the case, he had to wonder - what the hell was he doing here? What were they expecting of him? He should be with his students. Then he recalled Constable Grey’s welcoming smile. She knew his feelings, and she was happy he was here. So maybe she had reason to hope that the front-line battle could be won in what he was already perceiving to be the austere climate of an administrative back room?

  ‘Okay folks! Let’s get down to it. We’re here to discuss the Fay Clark case. First off - has anyone any particular point they’d like to start with?’ Lou Martin’s attempt at informality was laboured, his heartiness false.

  Why did the chairman feel the need for effusive informality? Was it discomfort, or clumsy condescension to the lower ranks - the two police, the non-professional volunteers and this inexperienced hands-on teacher? More likely condescension. He’d estimated Lou Martin as not a man to feel discomfort in any situation, least of all this one. If so, what about Mrs Ryan? Indifferently certificated female principal of a suspect facility in a suspect and not yet professionally endorsed branch of child care, where did Mrs Ryan fit in Lou Martin’s world?

  No one responded to the chairman’s invitation to make a particular point. A few, preparing for a long session, squirmed into a variety of comfortable positions. It was apparent that, though he’d asked for someone to open proceedings and though he seemed to be seeking informality, those accustomed to his methods were dutifully awaiting Lou Martin’s lead. It was equally apparent that those not accustomed to Lou Ma
rtin’s methods were waiting and watching and learning and playing safe. As he was.

  ‘If there are no comments?’ The chairman happily scanned the respectfully silent table. ‘We’ll get right along. To clarify the Clark’s situation - a big family. Father’s a labourer. Mother cares for finance, children, etcetera etcetera…. He’s the breadwinner. Spends his free time typically - mates, booze, sport.’

  Someone grunted: ‘What’s new?’

  Lou gestured to the record keeper to cease work.

  He could not detect who’d interjected, but guessing why was too easy. Despite their diversity, approximately half of these people were of the Glenlea minority. Imported from city-based bureaucracies, they were office-bound technicians and consultants of the type who professed to disdain mateship, amateur sports and booze. Endorsement of the chairman’s scorn for the interests of Fay’s father could have come from any one of them. Or even, sadly, from one of the township’s own condescending snobs.

  After deliberately fiddling with the papers in front of him, Lou nodded to the young woman and continued: ‘Mother’s the primary carer.’

  Again he heard a snide, though less clear, comment from the unseen speaker.

  ‘In good time, Fred.’ Lou chided the interrupter, and went on: ‘Other Clark children - normal, for their situation. No outstanding problems. Until we come to Fay. Intellectual measurement - arguable.’

  What measurement? Mark leaned forward.

  Mrs Ryan frowned a warning from down the table.

  Lou, all the while scrupulously consulting his notes, forged ahead. ‘Fay’s emotional status - bordering on seriously disturbed. Reasons not known for sure. Psychological? Pathological? There’s the reported rape, not proven. Question - was she mentally disturbed prior to this incident? Medical history – as in your reports. The most recent are related to the emotional state. Straightforward illnesses as such – the usual childhood events, measles and the like. Otherwise nothing of note. General health at this present time – average. Small build but fit enough. Sexually active. As to promiscuity – again not proven.’

  At his side Mary Grey started to speak.

  ‘If you don’t mind, Constable Grey.’

  ‘I was going to….’

  ‘May I finish?’

  She reddened, nodded, and fidgeted with her unopened notebook.

  ‘Thank you.’ Chairman Lou’s unhappiness with the police was evident. ‘No one has yet demonstrated that Fay Margaret Clark’s behaviour consists of anything more outrageous than that of any other pubescent lass with a boy friend. The fact that she sneaks off in the small hours is not peculiar to her alone. Times have changed. Standards are not what they once were. Perception of the norm has shifted. Views about that, of course, are sharply divided. The truth is that times have changed. It behoves us, as a responsible group, to take this into account when we make our final recommendations.’

  Around the table, though there was an uneasy shifting of protesting limbs, no one interrupted.

  ‘However…’ Pausing for dramatic effect, Chairman Lou splayed manicured white hands across the polished table top; a judgemental gesture bordering on the ludicrous.

  The man was a caricature, a joke in exile from some big city back room. The problem was that his business here was serious, and his influence over the local bureaucrats considerable. Mark found himself vacillating between downright outrage and cynical amusement. For how much longer could he, or for that matter any one of the restless others, sit in obedient silence?

  ‘However….’ Unchallenged, Lou pompously ploughed on. ‘In fairness, I must add - rumour is rife. It is also certain that the child is beyond parental control. Regardless of the actual nature of her nocturnal adventures, it seems clear her family has no power to effect a change. Something has to be done. So much is apparent. But what? Anyone care to start?’

  Though the splayed white hands continued to dominate the table, and the message of supreme authority was reflected in the pugnacious bifocals, this time he seemed to be genuinely inviting input. Yet it was also quite clear that the chairman’s studiously even-handed summary had been a calculated warning - think before you speak.

  The secretary, pen poised, prepared to record the anticipated discussion. An abrupt veil shrouded the collective faces. No one cared to be first, not even the unseen Fred.

  ‘Come along,’ Lou exhorted. ‘This is the time to speak up.’

  Mary Grey nudged Mark, who shook his head. He needed more time to gauge their mood, and to ascertain the import of that ominously poised pen. It was safe enough to let off steam in an informal setting. Here, it was to go on the record. Here, whatever he actually did say would be set in stone. Somewhere, there was a filing cabinet waiting for it! Jenny’s warning rang clear.

  Still no one spoke. Until, from down the table, a throat was noisily cleared and a voice dry with age rasped: ‘I’m afraid I’m a little uncertain as to the reason for my presence here.’

  ‘Oh?’ Adjusting the bifocals, Lou looked to the speaker. ‘Surely, Tim, as representative of Voluntary Family Care you would wish to be consulted in this case?’

  ‘We’ve been helping out all along. We fail to see what more we can do.’

  ‘We all agree, Tim. Your organisation does admirable work. Admirable. However - if that’s your thinking, Tim….’

  ‘Mr Martin!’ The old man’s response was harshly formal. ‘Our function is to provide food hampers. To afford financial assistance in crisis situations. As you know, we also raise funds for the Annual Scholarship for disadvantaged children.’

  ‘We know that, Tim.’

  ‘To be clear, Mr Chairman,’ the forthright old man was not about to be belittled, ‘this present situation does not fall within our charter.’

  ‘As you will, Tim. We merely thought…..’

  ‘Matters of this present kind are for other folk.’ The geriatric bones creaked to their uncompromising feet. ‘We are not social workers of the professional ilk. Nor do we pretend to be. We have no expertise in this matter of teenage delinquency. We do not wish to be mistaken in this.’

  ‘I do understand, Tim. So what do you want us to do?’

  ‘I wish you to record our objections. If you will kindly record these, I propose to immediately withdraw. Indeed, I find myself astonished at the invitation to participate. Had I known of, or even guessed at the actual subject matter of this meeting, I assure you I would not have been present.’

  ‘We sent out no specific agenda because……’

  ‘Sir! Your reasoning is irrelevant.’ The old man shakily reached for the felt hat and diary he’d previously set before him on the broad table, put the hat on his grizzled head, and lifted his thick coat from its place on the back of the chair.

  Quickly leaving his seat, Lou moved to his aid. Brushing the chairman aside, Tim struggled awkwardly into the coat, squeezed the diary into the pocket and started to button it with clumsily arthritic fingers. Taking their cue from the old man’s rebuff of the chairman, no one else offered to help. Though the entire tortured operation seemed to take hours, the embarrassed silence was uninterrupted.

  As the last button was shakily secured, Lou, having returned to his place at the head of the table, repeated: ‘I assure you, Tim. We do understand.’

  ‘I will receive a copy of the record of objection in the mail?’

  ‘Surely. Unless you care to stay as an observer? You could…’

  ‘I think not. If I may be excused?’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry you don’t see it our way. We thought, knowing something of the family’s circumstances… We thought you would offer valuable input.’

  For answer Tim, whose painstakingly achieved upright stance and proud military bearing belied the signs of advanced old age, strode from the room.

  Mark fought a strong compulsion to follow him. With his acute perception of his own role, the old man’s declaration typified the alarming division between conceptions of the ‘old’ welfare system and the
emerging ‘new’ as Mark was beginning to understand it.

  Whereas the old, despite its undeniable shortcomings, knew its limitations and seemed conscious of the necessity to respect the dignity of its recipients, he was less certain of the new. Could it be that they were less scrupulous? The old man knew he was out of his depth; he left. But these people? These, he had still to learn about.

  Yet another uncomfortable silence followed the old man’s dignified exit. It was significant. Why had the old fellow silenced them? Were they ill at ease in the presence of the old man’s physical frailty? Were they embarrassed by his quaintly old fashioned behaviour? Or discomforted by his disapproval? Could it be that he’d caused some to be even a little more conscious of their own limitations?

  There was another possibility. Maybe some felt as he did. Maybe some felt the same compulsion to leave? Maybe they, too, were reviewing their own role more intensively than usual? Whatever the reasons for the prolonged silence, the stately old man had touched a nerve.

  A wave of Lou’s arrogant hand was dismissive. ‘Pity, he could have contributed. We will get on…’

  The shifting of resettling bodies turned relieved eyes back to the chairman. The bifocals fixed on an earnest young man whose attention still lingered on the closed exit door. ‘Brian! Perhaps if we start with the psychological report?’

  Startled, the psychologist turned around. ‘I’m sorry. Was that…?’

  ‘If you please, Brian.’

  Shuffling the papers in front of him, the young man confessed: ‘I had some difficulty. The girl was uncooperative. Although I would concur with the teacher’s assessment. Her comprehension is average for her chronological age. Obviously, she rates at a higher level of intelligence than was previously determined. Her actual potential, for reasons which will become obvious, has been effectively masked.’

  ‘Let’s have the reasons, Brian.’

  ‘Surely. Educationally disadvantaged from pre-school years onwards. No kindergarten, no reading at home, for example. No stimulation within the home.’