Fay

by Dulcie M. Stone

  ‘Going to be a long summer.’ He opened his car door.

  ‘Been a wet winter.’ The stranger exited the Mercedes.

  He climbed behind the wheel, started the motor.

  ‘Hey! Hang on a minute! You’re…’ The stranger was at his side. ‘Don’t prompt me. Withers? Mark? ‘

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘The teacher. Great to meet you at last, son.’

  Was this another parent?

  ‘Heard a lot of good things about you. George Dunstan.’ The bald head and the bulbous eyes invading his car were presuming friendship.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’m on my way…’

  ‘Another minute won’t kill you,’ the head made no attempt to remove itself. ‘Nice to see, finally meet you, son. We’ll catch up. Your boss is in the office?’

  ‘Yes. But she’s interviewing…’

  ‘Great! Running late! Thought I might’ve missed them.’ The head retreated.

  As he engaged the gears and again prepared to leave, George Dunstan locked the black Mercedes and stomped towards the unlocked front door.

  Who was George Dunstan? Whoever he was, either intruder or legitimate visitor to the meeting in the office, he was one hell of a confident little bastard.

  ***

  After a restless night, he’d made toast and tea and left the house before Jenny and the children were awake. It was a morning to prepare himself with the soothing comfort of the walk. It wasn’t happening. Striding through the almost deserted streets and the heavy-leafed trees and, to the outskirts, the blue sky was heavy with premonition.

  Either because a storm was brewing, or because his instinct for trouble was jammed in top gear, the morning’s beauty was without comfort. Each laboured step took him closer to something he knew he did not want to know. It had started with meeting Don’s father, and begun to gather inexorable momentum with his principal’s late phone call. She’d phoned home after tea last night, requesting his early presence at the Centre without giving a clue why. His restless nightmares had predicted more problems.

  She ushered him into the office. Summer blue short-sleeved dress, coiffed blue-rinse, subtle makeup and subdued caution were all in tact. If her night, too, had been restless – and having seen George Dunstan on his way to the office he’d wager it had been – no one would ever guess it.

  In front of her, centre front on the immaculate desk, was a file. The name tag was as expected – Donald Baldock.

  ‘Thanks for coming in early, Mark. It’s as we suspected.’

  ‘What is?’ He eased into the opposite chair.

  She opened the file. ‘You are to be congratulated on your record keeping skills. Mr Baldock was most impressed. So clear and so concise. Well done.’

  He pulled the file closer. ‘Have I left something out? Did I miss something?’

  ‘It’s as I said – excellent. Mr Baldock was….’

  He slammed the file shut. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘There’s a …’ She averted her eyes.

  ‘What’s Don done?’

  Her careful composure crumpled. Her hand on the closed file was shaking, a fine film of perspiration was coating her upper lip. ‘I’m sorry, Mark. I can’t do this.’

  Shocked, he sympathised. ‘You’ve had a bad night too. Can I get you something? A coffee? Tea?’

  She shook her head. ‘A minute. Give me a minute. If you don’t mind.’

  ‘I need one anyway.’ Leaving her to recover, he went to the staff room, made two coffees and returned.

  The desk-top was empty, the filing cabinet locked. She accepted the coffee. ‘You’re very kind, Mark.’

  ‘There’s more trouble, of course. I don’t know how you do it. It’s a hell of a job – your’s. There’s a rumour you’re resigning at the end of the year?’

  ‘It’s gossip.’ She was sharp.

  He’d stepped too close. He’d seen more than she wanted to reveal. If she intended to resign, it was not his business. ‘I’m sorry. You know how rumours catch on around here.’

  Not answering, she sipped the hot coffee.

  Whatever this was about, he had to let it run its course. It was true. Hers was one hell of a job. Who did she confide in? The golf-playing husband? Adele Turner? Did she have a friend who listened? Even if she did, this stuff was dynamite. This stuff? How did he know that? Where had it come from, the certainty that it was more of the same?

  ‘Actually, Mark,’ she set the half-empty mug on the desk. ‘The rumour’s not without foundation.’

  ‘It’s not my business. I shouldn’t have pried.’

  ‘I do leave you to run affairs at times,’ she smiled. ‘It may very well be your business. To be truthful, retirement has been on my mind. Though I won’t be doing it just yet, I have to admit the year’s end always causes me to wonder. Each year the pressures seem to multiply. How much longer can I do this? Walk the tightrope between parents and staff and the Board and everything else.’

  ‘Where does Mr Dunstan fit in?’

  ‘George is on the Board. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I met him. Last night, when I was leaving.’

  ‘He keeps in regular touch. He’s been most supportive.’

  What kind of support? In the car park last night, he’d been memorably obnoxious. Why had he been at the office last night? To support Mrs Ryan, obviously. Was it he who frequently phoned the office at the end of the day? What had he to do with her phone call last night? Was he about to turn up this morning?

  ‘You’re still the best person for the job.’ He decided to keep silent about his dislike of George Dunstan. ‘The Board has to know they won’t find anyone to fill your shoes quickly.’

  She flushed, while the single remaining tell-tale sign of the stressful night was the fine film of perspiration on her upper lip. ‘Thank you, Mark. Even though you know that’s not true. Not true at all.’

  ‘I assure you…’

  ‘Let’s get to business.’ She held up a peremptory hand. ‘You will have heard Don’s father. It’s a police matter.’

  ‘How serious is it?’

  ‘It’s difficult to know. There are conflicting reports. A neighbour phoned the police. She saw Don stalking a group of ten year old girls. She says he followed them to the park. She says he perved on them.’

  His heart sank. He’d predicted it, and done nothing to prevent it. What could he have done? ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You know very well what it means, Mark.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ It wasn’t true. It could be true. ‘You know Don. He likes girls. He likes looking at girls. Girls like him. He’s popular. Have you seen his model of Fay? It’s very…’

  ‘I haven’t finished,’ she interrupted. ‘Don was masturbating. In public. He was seen by an elderly couple in the park.’

  Shit!

  ‘I know,’ she nodded. ‘It’s shocking.’

  ‘What about…?’ It had probably been inevitable. It shouldn’t have happened. ‘You said something about conflicting reports.’

  ‘It seems the little girls didn’t see him do it. The neighbour saw him follow them. The couple in the park saw… the act.’

  ‘Was he watching the girls at the same time?’

  ‘That’s why it’s not clear. The neighbour saw him follow the girls into the park. He could have been going for a walk or to play on the swings. He often does. The couple saw him masturbating. The girls saw nothing unusual. By the time the neighbour and the old couple got together, two and two made four. At least for them. It’s all so woolly.’

  ‘How come they even got together?’

  ‘Apparently they’re friends.’

  ‘Gossip and prejudice having a day out? Or true?’ He was arguing with himself.

  How would they ever know the truth? Was truth ever black and white? Don was hyperactive. He loved to walk in the park and swing on the swings. He was also a growing boy, growing into a man. Sexually growing. His growth was physical.
His brain was a toddler’s brain. So far to go. So many hurdles. So many lessons to be learned by so many people. They would not be learned quickly or easily. Maybe they’d never be learned.

  Maybe the old couple and the neighbour were bigots looking for targets. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe Don had committed a crime. Maybe Don was an innocent doing what he had to do. It was still a crime. One thing was for sure. The parents of those little girls had to be worried. The perverts were out there. This time the night wanderer was Don. Had he deliberately misread Don’s liking for girls? True or false, the furore over Fay’s plight had scarred him. He’d learned there was not a damned thing he could do about any of it. He’d shoved his fears into the back of his mind and locked the door.

  ‘So it became a police matter. And so…’ Mrs Ryan was unable to go on.

  Poor woman, she had to be even more frustrated than he was. More importantly, hers was by far the greater responsibility.

  ‘And so….’ She re-began, and again stopped.

  ‘I’m not sure how I can make it easier for you,’ he offered. ‘Can you manage a day off?’

  ‘I told you, Mark. The police…’

  Of course, she’d have so many things to arrange. Worried parents would need reassurance. Don’s parents would need counselling. Don would need counselling. So okay. Except… Mrs Ryan’s acute distress had not abated. Those averted eyes would not meet his. What was she not telling him? ‘Mrs Ryan? What’s really going on?’

  She looked up. The shadowed eyes were dark. ‘I’m sorry, Mark. I’m afraid I can’t tell you. Don’s father…’

  ‘I would like to help. As a friend. Anything,’ he pleaded. ‘You have to talk to someone.’

  ‘As a friend?’ She made up her mind. ‘It’s about Don’s father.’

  ‘Has this anything to do with that fellow Dunstan?’

  ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘Because he was here last night. With you and Mr Baldock.’

  ‘Don’s father needed the Board’s advice.’

  George Dunstan’s advice. George Dunstan’s support? What role was that man playing in all this? Whatever this was? He could not ask, not directly. As a member of the board of management George Dunstan was not only his boss, he was hers too. Was that compounding her distress? Quite possibly. Probably.

  ‘George had nothing to do with it,’ she was defensive. ‘He took no part in Mr Baldock’s decision.’

  ‘What aren’t you telling me?’

  Still vacillating, she shook her head.

  ‘Fair enough.’ He stood up. ‘It’s time I left.’

  She looked at the gold hands of the presentation clock. ‘I must apologise. I’m afraid the habit of mistrust is ingrained. We do have a few minutes.’

  ‘It’s a waste of time. I have work to do.’

  ‘Sit down, Mark.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘You’ll probably be in this chair soon enough. Sit down.’

  He obeyed.

  ‘It’s as you suspect,’ she admitted. ‘Mr Baldock has been advised as Mrs Clark was. There’s to be an operation. Don’s father has consented.’

  ‘You’re talking about some sort of medication.’

  ‘I said operation. I mean operation.’

  The surgeon!

  ‘They’re proposing castration, Mark.’

  They can’t do that.

  ‘Mark?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mark. There’s nothing we can do. Nothing. It’s as good as done. In their view, there’s no choice. Don’s retarded.’

  ‘That’s what George Dunstan was here for? To talk to Don’s father?’

  Her reply was indirect: ‘I have to tell you… George says the police have actually come to blows over this.’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Policewoman Grey had warned him it wasn’t over. She’d warned him it was ongoing, whatever it was.

  ‘It seems some police agree with the specialists. Others disagree. Both sides feel strongly.’

  ‘What specialists?’

  ‘The same men who advised Mrs Clark.’

  Was there a conspiracy? What else could he think? The fact that it was ongoing, that it was being talked about behind closed doors, that not one word had reached the public’s or the newspaper’s ears, left only one conclusion. There had to be some sort of cover-up. The three – the psychiatrist, the lawyer and the surgeon – must have friends in the town’s most influential places. In influential places like the Board of Management of the Glenlea Training Centre?

  Instinctively, he thought of the meeting in Glenlea’s conference room. Why did George Dunstan remind him of the grossly bigoted Fred? Peas in a pod? Or just his own prejudices? It was, comparatively, irrelevant. What was relevant was that if the Freds of the world could be part of a decision making process such as that had been, it wasn’t too much of a stretch to believe they could also be on the management board of a place like the Glenlea Training Centre.

  If there was a conspiracy, God knew how deep it went. How far did this shocking conspiracy penetrate into the community’s legal, medical and social systems? No wonder Mrs Ryan was disturbed. Her husband’s connection with the golfing elite, the lawyers and the doctors, suggested a dark explanation of her contemplated resignation.

  ‘I’ll leave you alone, Mark.’ Closing the door behind her, Mrs Ryan exited the office.

  He made no attempt to follow her. He heard the squeal of the bus’s brakes, the shouts of children on their way to class, Mrs Ryan’s customary welcome. She did not come back. He fished the red pack from his pocket, drew the blue ashtray towards him, and lit a cigarette.

  ***

  At lunch time, after an uneventful morning with his group, he was recalled to the office.

  ‘There’s good news.’ Mrs Ryan pushed Don’s file across the desk. ‘I’ve brought it up to date. There’s to be no operation. The father recanted.’

  ‘Thank you, God!’

  She tapped the file. ‘I’d be pleased if you’d bring the classroom report up to date.’

  ‘Sure. After the kids leave.’

  ‘At once, if you will. Don’s leaving. His family need this today.’

  There was nothing more to say; absolutely nothing.

  ‘There’s more news,’ she went on. ‘One of the police, I really have no idea who, has reported the psychiatrist’s actions to his employers. He’s to be transferred to an institutional post.’

  Of course. Transfer the bad egg to a place where no one cares what he does. Don’t punish.

  ‘No comment, Mark?’

  She had every right. He should not be making it more difficult for her. He made the effort. ‘I guess that’s some sort of victory.’

  ‘A great victory for Don,’ she sighed. The bitterness was there, and the cynicism.

  He made a further effort. ‘What about the other two, the surgeon and the lawyer? They live here. There’s no guarantees they won’t find another tame psychiatrist.’

  ‘I very much doubt it. As I understand it, the psychiatrist was the linchpin. There won’t be another one willing to take such a risk. You’ll see.’

  ‘It’s not good enough.’

  ‘You think I don’t agree! Face facts, Mark. These men are from long-established Glenlea families. They’re powerful people.’

  ‘Untouchable.’ Damn them all.

  ‘You’re a dreamer, Mark. Think back to Meryl’s brother. His crime against Fay, whatever in truth it was, was infinitely more serious than Don’s reported crime. He proved to be untouchable.’

  ‘Because he’s not intellectually disabled!’

  ‘Oh, Mark. If only it were that straightforward. It never is. Meryl’s family has powerful connections. They would have used them.’

  ‘I didn’t get that idea. I met the Dad. He seemed okay.’

  ‘He probably is. Like most of us, family comes first.’

  ‘Not good enough. There has to be more.’

  ‘A dreamer, yet not a f
ool.’ The principal’s smile, so hardly won, was warm.

  ‘There is more, isn’t there?’

  ‘A hypothetical, Mark?’

  ‘If that’s how you want to do this.’

  ‘It is.’ She was very firm. ‘There’s a small community. In it, there are big people and there are little people. If the little people kowtow to the big people, they are rewarded. If they don’t kowtow to the big people, they are punished. Are you following me so far?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Now it gets complicated. Because the big people in this small community have to kowtow to even bigger people, and these people live in big communities. Thus the pattern repeats itself, little people kowtowing to big people, up to the very top. A pyramid of power, if you will. So the ultimate power lies with the biggest people in the biggest community. Meanwhile, the littlest people in the littlest community have to kowtow to everyone. Why? Because there’s no one lower than they are. Because they exercise no power at all.’

  Convoluted, but he was beginning to understand. ‘Politics?’

  ‘The big wide world of political influence. Who has it and who hasn’t. Who whispers in whose ear, and why? What is their particular agenda?’

  ‘I’d hate to be in the shoes of the policeman who blew the whistle on the psychiatrist.’

  ‘Precisely. So now you understand why I have no choice. I must resign.’

  ‘Because your husband’s powerful connections make it impossible for you to do your job as you’d like to. To defend the little people here. People like Fay’s mum and Don’s dad.’

  ‘Keep to the hypothetical, Mark.

  ‘Hypothetically, then. I have a question.’

  ‘Ask it,’ she invited

  Would she answer? It wasn’t in her character, as he knew it. Except he was discovering he didn’t really know too much about her. Was this hypothetical her way of communicating a dilemma she was finding increasingly intolerable? She’d opened this door. He must honour her confidence.

  ‘What would happen,’ he asked, ‘if some members of the local training centre board had powerful connections?’

  Her answer was immediate. ‘The principal of the training centre would be effectively silenced. The principal would be impotent.’

  Chapter Twenty-one