Fay

by Dulcie M. Stone

  February 1977

  A fiery summer wind ushered in the new school year. He parked his car, paused to admire the astonishing roses and hastened to the office. It was empty.

  There was no sign of the part-time secretary, no sign of Mrs Ryan. In the office, the blue ashtray beckoned. He’d almost quit smoking over the summer holidays, though not quite. For the sake of the baby, he’d not smoked in the house, and outside the house he hadn’t wanted to.

  He’d been off with his family for most of the time. Christmas they’d again spent with his mother. Other than causal exchanges, they hadn’t talked. They didn’t need to any more. They’d arrived at a place which was comfortable for both of them. She adored her grandchildren, took them for walks, spoiled them and asked Jenny when they’d be moving back to the city. Jenny still found her difficult, but the kids didn’t. Their grandmother was different from his mother, the woman who’d had no time to love her family. This woman, though still prickly with adults, knew how to love children. Jason’s early death had freed her to love her grandchildren. Jason would have been happy.

  Once home again, they’d gone swimming, walking, playing in the playground up the road and driving into the cool mountains. So far there’d been no bushfires this summer, thank God. Unfortunately, they would not be too far away. February was a bushfire month and this north-wind day was a bushfire day.

  It was not a good day to be coming back. In the break, he’d managed to nearly give up not only smoking, but also thinking. Now it was over. Because today, even while driving here in the panicky early morning traffic, the rebellious thought processes had re-set themselves back on course. Determinedly, he set the ashtray to one side and unlocked the filing cabinet. He was well into the files when the principal arrived.

  She bustled in, blue-coiffed and confident. ‘Good morning, Mark.’ Over the summer break the bitter woman who was bent on resigning had obviously been relegated to her assigned place - behind the veneer.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Ryan.’

  ‘Ready for the new year?’ She settled into the chair behind the desk as though she’d left it only five minutes ago.

  ‘I guess. Time will tell, won’t it.’

  She chose not to acknowledge his deliberate uncertainty. ‘I see you’re hard at it already. You have several new students. Peter has left, of course. Trixie and Meryl are still with us. Don’s transferred. As you know. Also Miss Turner. Her replacement is already in the staff room.’

  ‘I’ll introduce myself.’

  ‘I see you’ve found the new students’ files too. Well done. Do be sure you thoroughly study them, won’t you.’

  ‘I’ll catch up later,’ he started from the room.

  ‘By the way, your promotion has come through. Congratulations. Up a rung on the ladder.’

  He turned back. ‘I’d like to talk to you about that.’

  ‘You will be Acting Principal in my absence, Mark. That is, officially. With a rise in salary as scheduled. I’m not getting any younger. You are young. Goodness knows what the future holds. You’ll find the experience will be invaluable. You have the world at your feet.’

  So she hadn’t resigned. ‘You’re taking leave?’

  ‘I know, I talked of resigning. I need more time to think it through. I must be careful to do nothing rash. Leaving sounds attractive until you actually confront it. As for a break, long service leave - that’s long overdue.’ She was crisp, as though anticipating argument. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll manage nicely.’

  ‘I’m not so…’

  ‘To work, Mark. To work.’

  ‘First - can we talk? Please?’

  ‘Not now.’ She gestured to the untouched files and the hurrying hands of the clock. ‘There’s much to be done before the children arrive tomorrow.’

  ‘Later? Can we talk later? This promotion. There’s some things I really need to talk about.’

  She tapped unhappy fingers on the closed green covers. ‘Surely you’re not going to reject promotion?’

  ‘I don’t know. I might.’

  ‘Why? Surely you want to get on?’

  ‘It depends.’

  ‘On what?’ Her frustrated fingers were restlessly picking at the covers of the waiting files, her eyes still focussed on the clock.

  He chose not to surrender. ‘I’m not what this place wants. I have too many unresolved doubts. Too many questions.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ She pushed the files to one side. ‘Let’s get this over.’

  ‘I won’t manage just nicely at all. Not even for a short time.’

  ‘Nonsense! You’ve done it before.’

  ‘A day at a time. I haven’t a clue about all the things you deal with. There’s so much I don’t know.’

  ‘For instance?’

  ‘For instance,’ he answered. ‘I don’t know about the Board. I don’t even know who’s on the Board.’

  ‘I’ll fill you in on what you need to know.’

  ‘Need to know? I’m not sure I want to know.’

  ‘What happened in the holidays, Mark? Did something…?’

  The telephone interrupted. Mrs Ryan lifted the receiver. ‘Glenlea Day Training Centre. How may I…’

  He should leave, but she’d agreed to talk. It was clear she intended to further pressure him. Adele Turner had left. Who else would run the place, even for a couple of weeks, if he didn’t? As for her resignation, if she ever finally decided to do it, the Board would be postponing that until they found a replacement. It could take time. Who would want it? It was a dead-end job. The salary was abysmal, the work heart-breaking, the chances of promotion nil, the limited goals frustrating and the brown-nosing sickening.

  ‘Thank you for informing us,’ she hung up. ‘Good news! That was Social Welfare. Fay Clark won’t be re-enrolling this year.’

  ‘Good news? I hope she’s not in more trouble.’

  ‘No trouble. Not at all. Fay has a job. She’s working.’

  Good news!

  ‘She’s got a job in a nursing home down the line, as a kitchen hand. She’s living with an aunt. She’s been there since before Christmas. So what about a little credit for the Centre, Mark?’

  ‘That’s wonderful! That’s….!’

  ‘Unbelievable,’ she laughed. ‘We did something right.’

  ‘Thank God.’

  ‘It’s a happy ending, Mark. It really is this time.’

  ‘That was Social Welfare on the line?’

  ‘They would have let us know earlier. We’ve been…’

  He interrupted: ‘What about her family?’

  ‘They’ll be pleased, of course.’

  ‘They didn’t let you know?’

  She was surprised. ‘Why would they?’

  ‘Why would they!’ He was shocked. ‘What sort of a question is that?’

  ‘After all we’ve done? Is that it, Mark?’

  How could she be serious? They’d worked their guts out. They’d… He’d… Bewildered, he responded: ‘We did help a lot. I’d have thought her mother at least would have contacted us.’

  ‘It’s a fact of life. A fact of our life, young man. They don’t.’

  ‘Even so…’

  ‘You feel hurt.’

  How did he feel?

  She burrowed into the high stack of files, withdrew one, and pushed it across to him. ‘Fay Margaret Clark. Bring it up to date. Close it off.’

  He didn’t want to open it.

  ‘You have to be happy for her,’ she urged. ‘It could have been so much worse. It’s good news.’

  Was it really good news? He’d never know. Was there more to Fay Margaret Clark? Had those disastrous few years robbed her of a happier future? How was she feeling? Was she happy working as a kitchen hand in a nursing home? Did she aspire to better things? He’d never know.

  Mrs Ryan gently pushed the pen across the desk. He opened the file at the very last page, dated it, and wrote in Fay’s progress to the job. A dead-end job.

  ‘Well done.’ Mrs
Ryan retrieved her pen and the file.

  ‘Perhaps they’ll phone later? Maybe Mrs Clark will call in. I’d really like to hear from them.’

  ‘My dear Mark,’ she was amused. ‘You’re comparatively new here. Believe me, it’s highly unlikely we’ll hear from the Clark family.’

  ‘All the same…’

  ‘You’ve said it yourself. Constantly. The Centre reflects segregation. Once they move on, they seldom look back.’

  ‘Even when we’ve actually helped?’

  ‘They can’t afford it. They can’t afford to let people remember their connection with us. Not if they can prevent it.’

  ‘You put it like that, I guess I can’t blame them.’

  ‘Of course you can’t. It goes with the job.’

  The newly purchased air conditioning had kicked in, the seething summer room was cooling to chill. Yet the principal’s cheeks were inexplicably flushed and her eyes feverish.

  Instinctively nervous, he slipped the unopened cigarette packet from his pocket.

  ‘Use it.’ She pushed the ashtray across the desk. ‘It will help.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he firmly re-pocketed the pack. ‘I’ll hang out as long as I can.’

  ‘Of course. The staff will be expecting you, the new teachers. Tell them I’ll be along with the list of new students in about half an hour.’

  ‘Are you going to tell them anything about last year?’

  Her head snapped up. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘We have two new teachers. Untrained teachers.’

  ‘Trained,’ she corrected him. ‘Trained within the Centre system.’

  ‘Trained within the Centre system,’ he mocked. ‘Trained trainers.’

  She pushed back from the desk. ‘There’s work to do, Mark.’

  ‘I think the new staff should be warned, at the very least.’

  ‘Warned?’

  ‘You do remember Fred? At the meeting?’

  ‘The meeting? You ask too much. There are so many meetings.’

  ‘It was the meeting where they discussed Fay’s future. Remember. There was…’

  ‘That meeting? Really, it was too long ago. How can you expect me to recall it?’

  ‘I’ll do it for you. Fred said…’

  ‘Is this necessary?’ She was finally out of patience.

  Of course. The flushed face and the feverish eyes; she was determined to control extraordinary impatience. She wished him and his questions out of here. Maybe, soon, he’d grant her wish.

  Because he had nothing to lose, nothing to gain, and because it had to be pursued, he asked: ‘You do remember Fred?’

  ‘I remember Fred!’ She was furious.

  ‘Fred said they breed like rabbits! Do you remember that?”

  ‘You go too far!’

  ‘Not far enough. No bloody well near far enough!’ ‘Mark!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Of course he was sorry, sorry about bigotry and intolerance and…. ‘Truly,’ he prevaricated. ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘Your point is?’

  ‘The new teachers need to know. There are a lot of Freds out there. Tell them.’

  ‘Or you will?’

  Would he? Could he? To what end? You had to be personally confronted with it to believe it.

  ‘I thought not,’ she answered his silence. ‘Tell them I’ll be along shortly.’

  ‘About that promotion,’ he advised. ‘I think you’ll agree. I shouldn’t accept it.’

  ‘I strongly suggest you discuss it with Jenny. Your wife has a singularly level head.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good.’ She re-bent over her work.

  Behind her, through the broad windows, he saw the wind-blown roses and the whipped leaves of the summer-burned trees and the scudding white clouds ripping the bronze sky. When would the bushfires come? How much havoc would they wreak this year? Nostalgically, he recalled the distant blue Pacific and the peaceful azure of the empty northern sky. He remembered the terrible loneliness of his doubts.

  ‘Mark?’ Their eyes met. He saw only the impersonal inspection of his principal. ‘You will give this matter serious consideration?’

  ‘I will. Thank you.’ He opened the door. ‘I’ll say hullo to the new teachers.’

  Chapter Twenty-two

  June 1977

  It had always been inevitable. Ever since his job interview. It had been in the interrogators’ bland questions, in their pleasure at netting such a fine catch and in their smug certainty that he’d come to heel. Equally, it had been inherent in his initial unquestioning acceptance of their limitations, in his pleasure at escape to the bush and in his flight from the ghosts of guilt. Escape. It said it all.

  Until he’d learned that, sooner or later, he was going to have to choose. Stay and obey and wither? Or leave and challenge and grow? Unless there was a middle road?

  When the time for choice came, the subject of the choice and the manner of its presentation was to leave no middle road.

  ***

  Winter was already in the mountains, the clouds heavy, the streets icy and the morning drive hazardous. Exiting the car, he traversed the short distance between the car park and the front door. The acrid aromas of wood fires borne on freezing winds intermingled. It was going to be a long winter. Robin was hoping for snow. His wish was going to be granted.

  At the sound of the closing front door, the principal, already at her desk, looked up from intense concentration on her stack of green files, nodded and waved him on. She was preparing for the arrival of the newly appointed psychologist. Bertrand Meadows was Madelaine Evans’ replacement. The Centre had been polished and preened and primed to the nth degree. In the classrooms, children’s work and teachers’ timetables were on display, the trainees were dressed in their Sunday best, the heaters working overtime and the programs adhering to the requisite strict guidelines.

  The one exception was Mark Withers’ class. He’d sympathised with Mrs Ryan’s plea to try not to rock the boat. How could he not? Right from the day’s beginning, when the newspaper was being read and discussed, through simple word recognition, spelling, reading and basic arithmetic lessons, to after-lunch social awareness discussions and personal choice activities, his program had broadened far beyond the requisite strict guidelines. To attempt to play the game and pretend otherwise was not even remotely possible.

  Poor Mrs Ryan. She’d had to agree. In Mark’s room, although the word recognition words and educational jigsaws were on display, there were also books and magazines and newspapers and word games. There was the typewriter and the measurement charts and the easels and the pottery and the displays of handmade illustrated story books and colourful paintings. There were no greeting card pasting books and no kindergarten puzzles. Impossible to change overnight.

  He’d been anxious. But the time for playing the training centre game was long gone. His students had been leading him down a new path for too long. There was no going into reverse. Whatever would be, would be. The most likely course would be that Mrs Ryan would manage to steer the new psychologist in other directions.

  At morning tea time, Mrs Ryan introduced Bertrand Meadows to the staff. A quiet grey man wearing a quiet grey suit, he ruffled no ones feathers. A few words to each of the teachers, a glance out at the wintry quadrangle and he returned to his appointments in the office. The children’s pictures, the teachers’ timetables, the disciplined programs and Mark’s innovations were unsighted.

  It was as it was. In a way, Mark was disappointed. Not for himself, he certainly did not want more ridicule. But surely someone in authority should see Clem enjoying his arithmetic, or Meryl writing her stories. Surely someone should see, at the very least, a person with Down Syndrome comprehending - and loving – academic learning. The disappointment was momentary. Rocking boats was for the unwise and, almost certainly, would have resulted in problems for his program and his students.

  At the end of the following day, Mrs Ryan farewelled the new psychologist as he took himsel
f, his files and his Ford station wagon off on the journey back to his base in the city. The quiet grey man had interviewed ten children and their families – a record. He’d also talked at length with the principal, dined with the recently elected office bearers of the board of management, and was reportedly generally impressed with everything he did see. No problems.

  No problems for Mark Withers either. He’d spent the following weekend end playing with the kids and sitting with Jenny by the roaring wood fire at night. No problems until on Monday morning, as he was passing through the foyer, Mrs Ryan waylaid him.

  ‘Mark! How was your weekend?’

  ‘Great. Winter has its compensations. How was your’s?’

  ‘Nothing special…..’

  ‘I hear the new psych. was impressed.’

  ‘Did you? Word travels fast around here.’

  It was becoming uncomfortable, making conversation, holding him here for no apparent reason. It was also not usual. At least on a Monday morning, when she knew he had a thousand things to be done at once. Especially when she, too, had a thousand things to attend to.

  He started to move on.

  ‘I have a request, Mark.’

  ‘Sure. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Any chance of staying late today? I know you like to be home with your family.’

  ‘Sure. No problem. I’ll catch you then.’

  ‘You could be held up a while. Maybe you’d better telephone home.’

  He phoned at lunch time. No problem, Jenny was used to it. His kids would be in their pyjamas, his tea in the oven, and a chilled beer would be in the fridge.

  At the day’s end, he crossed the freezing quadrangle and knocked on the closed office door.

  ‘Enter!’

  It was a man’s voice. Premonition struck. He opened the door. Sitting at the principal’s desk, the overhead light polishing his thrusting bald head, was George Dunstan. There was no one else in the room.

  ‘Mrs Ryan told me…’

  ‘Mark!’ His flabby white hand stretched across the desk. ‘Sit. Sit.’

  ‘Mrs Ryan….’

  ‘She won’t be needed for this, son.’

  What was the obnoxious little man doing here?

  ‘George Dunstan. Remember.’ The flabby white hand settled atop a typewritten letter on the desk, the flabby round body settled back in the principal’s blue leather chair and the bulbous eyes flashed. ‘President of the Board.’