She forced herself to focus on what Craig was saying now: ‘Picked up a contract from a company that’s going to build an office block. Starting that in a week’s time.’
‘That’s so great,’ Tamara said. See? A normal answer!
After Craig pulled up in front of the park, Tamara grabbed the lead, the thrower and a tennis ball, then got out and unclipped Whiskey from the back of the ute. Craig wound down his window and she leaned in for a kiss. ‘See you tonight.’
‘You certainly will.’ Craig winked at her, and she smiled back.
Whiskey barked excitedly and tugged at the lead.
‘Okay, okay, let’s go!’
A few minutes later, out on the grass, Tamara took Whiskey off the lead and flicked the tennis ball from the thrower. As he chased after it at a gallop, she revelled in her conventional life, ignoring that pesky voice at the back of her mind.
Chapter 3
Heat radiated from the pavement, and Lauren found herself sweating within moments of walking from the car towards the school. She breathed in deeply then stopped, the smell of gum trees along the school fence bringing back a vivid memory. Laughter and the splash of water, and her dad’s voice saying: ‘Gently does it. When you land a fish, it’s all in the wrist action!’ She smiled as she remembered one of many summer holidays spent with her family and their friends in a houseboat on the Blackwood River. What fun we used to have, she thought, recalling the joy of diving into the cool river and the tug of the line when she caught a small fish. She hadn’t liked to touch their slimy skin, so her dad had been the one to take them off her line and fillet them before putting them on the barbecue.
Lauren wished she could dwell on the memory, but those carefree days were over and she needed to get to work. Inside the school gates, a well-shaded lawn stretched out alongside the line of buildings. Children of all ages were milling about: from young ones struggling to walk under their heavy backpacks, to teenagers lying on the grass, chatting with one another or plugged into their earbuds, a few with books open in front of them.
The Goose was divided into sections. A playground for kindy through to Year Three was right next to the kindy classroom, and a line of trees cordoned off the Year Fours to Eights. In a quadrangle towards the back of the school, the rest of the years were mixed together.
A blast of happy chatter greeted Lauren as she walked out into the younger kids’ playground. Some of her kindy kids were running around and playing, taking no notice of the heat. She stopped beneath a shade cloth to watch them. One group was hanging upside down from the monkey bars while another was kicking a footy. A boy tried to kick the ball and missed, falling flat on his backside. She smiled as she watched him get up and shake himself off, before he ran at the boy who now had the football.
In the split second before he tackled the other boy, Lauren called out, ‘No tackling, Jarrod!’ Jarrod pulled up and stared back at her, eyes wide. ‘They’re the rules,’ she reminded him. The look on his face told her that he hadn’t realised she was there. It made her want to giggle, but she couldn’t. ‘Firm and kind’ was what she’d been taught at teachers’ college—and ‘be consistent’. These were the most important attributes to have when teaching, because they worked. Jarrod jammed his hat further down on his head and got back into the game.
In her mind’s eye, Lauren saw her mentor, Fran, from her first practice teaching block. Fran had warned her: ‘If they think they can get around you, Lauren, they will. Kids have a sixth sense. They spot any weakness within seconds and home in on it.’
Lauren missed Fran. Maybe death was like the famous passage by Henry Scott Holland. Lauren couldn’t remember exactly how it went but it was about slipping into the next room. Of course, the next room didn’t have a door to enter through. And Fran didn’t answer when Lauren needed her to.
‘Where’s your hat, Will?’ Lauren called to another boy.
‘I forgot it.’
‘You’ll need to come and play under the shade. Remember: no hat, no play.’
‘But that’s where all the girls are!’ Will protested.
‘It might help you to remember your hat tomorrow,’ she said.
Will’s bottom lip stuck out as he slunk under the shade and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. Lauren made a mental note to remind his mother to put a hat in his bag: Will never seemed to arrive with one, and Lauren didn’t like the children sharing hats—it was one of the easiest ways to pass nits around.
Looking back to the playground, Lauren frowned as her eyes rested on Dirk Anderson, the only child by himself. Lauren would have loved to talk to Fran about him. He was sitting under a tree in the sandpit, grasping handfuls of sand before letting it run through his fingers. He repeated the action many times over, his head down, taking no interest in what was going on around him. When Zoe, Dirk’s mother, had dropped him off out the front of the Goose the previous morning, she’d clearly been in a hurry, calling out to Lauren that he wasn’t feeling very well before racing off. Zoe had been saying the same thing off and on for the past few weeks. Dirk didn’t look any better today.
Lauren felt a fizz of annoyance. He would be much better off at home, in bed, being looked after by his mum, but she knew that wouldn’t happen. She’d seen it all before. Parents would often bring sick children to school so they could go to work, to lunch, or do anything but stay home all day with their child. When it became obvious that a child shouldn’t be at school, Lauren would phone the parent and hear comments like: ‘Are you sure you can’t keep her there until the end of the day? I’m at work. You’ve got a sick bay, right?’
Just as Lauren was about to call out to Dirk, she saw one of the most sociable girls in the class try to engage him in a game of chasies—but Dirk shook his head and remained in the sandpit. Worry churned in Lauren’s stomach. He was changing, this little boy. It had been subtle at first but recently the difference in him had become clear. When Dirk first started kindy, he’d been such an outgoing, cheeky, mischievous child, and now he was withdrawn and quiet, avoiding eye contact and trying to make himself inconspicuous. He looked pale, tired and apathetic.
Lauren had been wondering if there was trouble at home, but it had only been a couple of weeks and she didn’t want to seem like a panic merchant. Viruses could knock kids around for months!
Hoping her instincts were wrong, she put her hat on and walked over to him, greeting a couple of other children as she went. Squatting in front of Dirk, she handed him a bucket and spade. ‘Hi Dirk,’ she said gently. ‘Looks like you could build a sandcastle with the pile you’ve got there.’
The little boy muttered hello but didn’t reach out to take the offered toys.
Lauren felt her unease grow. ‘Your mum said you aren’t feeling well. Do you have a runny nose? Does your head hurt?’
Dirk shook his head and didn’t meet her eye.
Digging into the sand, Lauren filled the bucket and held it out to him so he could tip it upside down and start making a castle. Apparently without interest, he took the bucket and put it next to where he sat.
Lauren glanced at her watch and saw that it was about time for the bell to sound. ‘You come and tell me if you want to lie down or need anything, okay, Dirk? I’m here to help you,’ she said. When he gave a small nod, she touched him lightly on the head and got up, ready to pull the children into organised chaos.
The bell sounded, and with screams of delight the kids ran to their classroom door and scrambled into two rows. Lauren watched as Dirk just shuffled towards the line, hanging back from the group, his eyes on the ground.
‘So, Fran, what do you think about him?’ Lauren muttered. Sometimes it made her feel better to express her concerns aloud. She imagined Fran putting on her wide-brimmed straw hat and pushing it down over her wild grey curls. ‘Well, lovie,’ she might begin, ‘Dirk seems a bit troubled.’ For now, though, Lauren could only observe his behaviour, take notes and hope for the best.
Walking over to stand in front of
the wriggling children, she smiled at their eager faces and bright eyes. They were anticipating the fun they’d be having today.
Through the classroom window, she could see Joy, her teacher’s assistant, setting up easels and paint. Leading the children inside, Lauren told them to sit on the carpet.
‘Good morning, class,’ she said.
‘Good morning, Mrs Ramsey,’ they chorused.
‘Don’t forget Mrs Clark over there. She’s setting up the painting for later on.’ She gestured to Joy, who held a bottle of paint in one hand and a fistful of brushes in the other. Looking like a typical grandmother with her short grey hair tucked behind her ears and her sensible shoes, she put down the paint and waved to the children.
‘Good morning, Mrs Clark.’
‘We’ll start with news first,’ said Lauren. ‘According to my roster, it’s Jacob’s and Dirk’s turn.’
News time was always fraught with danger—as a teacher you just never knew what you were going to hear. About three years ago, a little girl had stood in this very room and said: ‘My mummy and daddy had a big fight last night. Daddy came home from work, and Uncle Rod and Mummy were in the bedroom. He was very, very angry.’ She’d sat down looking so pleased with herself.
Fran had told Lauren about many a news time gone wrong but the worst had been memorable: a mum had been in the classroom, doing ‘mother’s help’, when a student had got up and said that his mother had hit his father the night before. The man had been the helper mum’s brother.
Of course, news time could also be a lot of fun. Kittens and puppies made for a great show-and-tell—well, except when they piddled inside.
Today, Lauren said, ‘Jacob, you can go first.’
The boy got to his feet, grinning with delight. ‘Last night my sister brought home her new boyfriend. Dad said he’s her third in three weeks! I thought he was nice because he kicked the footy with me. Any questions?’
No one said anything, so Jacob flopped to the floor.
Lauren was aware of Dirk fidgeting and looking uncomfortable.
‘Dirk, it’s your turn,’ she said kindly.
He stood up, then looked at the ground as he spoke. ‘The ambulance drove into our driveway yesterday. It had the flashing lights going. They were cool. Any questions?’ Then, without waiting, he sat back down.
One of the other boys reached over to him. ‘Was the siren going? Was it loud?’
Dirk shook his head.
‘Well, class, I think that wraps up news time this morning,’ said Lauren. ‘Now we’re going to paint something starting with the letter . . . G! Who can tell me a word that starts with G?’
Hands flew into the air again.
‘Grown-ups!’ one child yelled.
‘Grapes!’ said another.
‘You’re right! So, shall we start painting?’
‘Yes!’ shouted the kids.
One by one the children got their painting smocks from the art supply room, put them on and went back into the classroom where the easels were set up in two rows. A couple of children struggled with doing up the velcro at the back of their smocks, so Lauren went to help. As she straightened, she noticed Joy helping Dirk with his velcro. He pulled at the sleeves and then reached for a paintbrush.
As the children painted, Lauren walked around and looked at their artworks. ‘What are you painting, Kia?’ she asked.
‘My backyard. I like playing on the swing.’
‘And what starts with G in your painting?’
‘Green grass!’
‘Great job.’
Joy cleared her throat to get Lauren’s attention. As she turned, Joy nodded over at Dirk. Lauren wound her way over to him to see what he’d drawn: an ambulance with round black wheels and red sirens.
Lauren needed to see his face, so she walked to the end of the row and down the other side, and positioned herself in front of him. He was staring at the page, lips pursed in concentration. She was about to comment on his painting when a large green blob accidentally dropped onto the page from his brush. He stared at it as if he was confused, then he frowned. Reaching up, he tore the paper from the easel and screwed it into a ball. Paint now covered his hands and he rubbed at them. ‘Damn it!’ he said loudly.
Well, now, there was an adult comment. He must have heard his parents say that. Lauren wanted to giggle at such a grown-up phrase coming out of a little boy’s mouth, but she couldn’t. And, really, none of this was a laughing matter.
‘What happened, Dirk?’ she asked softly.
‘I messed up my painting,’
‘That’s okay, I can get you another sheet of paper. Maybe we should get your hands washed first, though.’
He looked up at her, and she was immediately struck by how pale his skin was against the black painting smock. She wanted to pick him up and cuddle him. To take him home and put him to bed. She wanted to help him. That was her job. She’d always had an overwhelming need to make children feel special and important, to make them feel wanted.
Taking a deep breath, she put her hands on his shoulders and nodded at his paint-splattered hands. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up, hey?’
Lauren caught Joy’s eye and indicated that she should keep the other kids busy, then directed Dirk towards the storeroom. There was a large trough where the class would go to wash their hands. Turning on the taps and handing Dirk the soap, Lauren reached down to roll up his sleeves, first those of the smock and then the striped shirtsleeves underneath. With the heat today, she’d been surprised to see him in a long-sleeved shirt. Still, if he hadn’t been feeling well . . .
She stopped, shocked to see purple bruises on his wrist. They seemed fresh.
‘Oh, these look a bit sore,’ she commented before she could stop herself, knowing she wasn’t allowed to ask straight out how they’d happened. A teacher could never put words into the mouth of a child: the child had to tell you himself.
Dirk nodded but said nothing.
She washed his hands and dried them on a towel before asking, ‘Would you like to paint again? Or perhaps you could do some drawing with pencils.’ She led him out of the storeroom and over to another section of the classroom that had a set of tables covered in butcher’s paper and coloured pencils. Dirk sat without speaking and picked up a pencil. This time he drew a sun in the corner of the page and scribbled the sky with a blue pencil. Nothing at all to do with the letter G.
Lauren was writing up notes at lunchtime when Joy approached her. ‘Is it just me, or have you noticed a change in Dirk’s behaviour recently?’ she asked.
Lauren put her pen down. ‘No, it’s not just you.’
‘What do you think it is?’ asked Joy.
‘I’m not sure. I think . . .’ Lauren’s voice faded as she tried to think of what Fran would say. Maybe: ‘Circumstantial evidence doesn’t equal real evidence.’ Yep, that’s exactly what Fran would have said.
Lauren told Joy about Dirk’s bruises. ‘We need to keep an eye on him,’ she said. ‘I started to keep notes last week when he kept falling asleep during story-time. The more I think about it, I reckon Dirk’s been withdrawn for at least a month, but I’m loath to go rushing in and do anything official until I’m certain. Those bruises . . . they could be anything. Kids accidentally bump into things all the time.’ But Lauren knew her words sounded feeble.
‘Let’s organise a chat with his parents,’ Lauren said, her mind ticking over. That’s definitely what Fran would have done. ‘If you haven’t got the information, you can’t make informed decisions,’ she’d told Lauren on more than one occasion.
Joy nodded. ‘That’s a good idea. And are you going to talk to Hamilton?’
‘Not yet. I don’t want to bother him before I know more.’ Lauren sighed. ‘I think it’s time to talk to the school psychologist, so I’m going to see Holly. And I’ll try to have a quick chat with Dirk’s mum this afternoon when she comes to pick him up.’
The staffroom was unusually quiet when Lauren found Holly behind t
he bookshelf in the corner, poring over a psychology paper. ‘Light reading,’ Lauren said with a laugh as she pulled over a chair and sat down.
Holly looked up, then took off her glasses, blinking a couple of times. ‘Oh, it’s you! Sorry, I can’t see past my nose with these new things. Everything’s blurry. They’re just for reading.’ She waved the paper at Lauren. ‘Bullying in schools.’ She pushed her mousey-coloured hair off her face.
Lauren always thought Holly was extremely pretty in a conservative psychologist sort of way—large black-rimmed glasses and a solemn expression—but when she smiled her face was transformed.
‘Anything new to report?’ Lauren asked.
‘Every year, all the experts come out with new and often conflicting ways to handle different situations. It’s keeping my skills fresh and up to date.’
Lauren smiled sympathetically. She dug into her bag and pulled out a Tupperware container full of last night’s chicken curry. After swallowing her first mouthful, she said, ‘I need your opinion on something.’
‘Professional or otherwise?’ Holly asked, putting down the paper and concentrating on Lauren.
‘Professional.’
‘Shoot.’
‘A boy in my class keeps being brought into school even though his mum says he’s not feeling well. I’ve noticed recently that he’s quiet and withdrawn, then today I saw bruises on his arms.’ She pointed at her own wrist. ‘He was the only child in the class wearing long sleeves on such a hot day.’
‘I see. Do you know much about the family?’
‘A little. His father is some highfalutin’ international businessman. I get the impression he isn’t home a lot. And his mother, Zoe, is a stay-at-home mum. His records say that he’s an only child. That’s all the information I have.’
‘Have you spoken with the mother yet?’
‘I plan on trying to catch her at pickup this afternoon.’
Holly sat back and stared at Lauren. ‘What are you thinking? Abuse?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know. The bruises looked to large to be made by fingers . . . but I’ve never seen bruises made by fingers, so I can’t be sure. And why the long sleeves?’
The Missing Pieces of Us Page 3
