‘Did she say why?’
‘No. And she wouldn’t go to the infirmary. So I collected some bandages and slipped them into her schoolbag. She didn’t say anything, but I think she knew it was me.’
‘Did you report the incident?’
‘No, but after that I kept an eye on her. She joined the drama club. Over time she grew to trust me. We talked.’
‘What about?’
‘She was having problems at home with her father.’
‘What sort of problems?’
‘Do I have to spell it out, Mr O’Loughlin? I encouraged Sienna to see the counsellor. And when she didn’t want to see a therapist, I helped convince her.’
‘She trusted you?’
‘I guess.’
‘Why was that?’
He blinks, suddenly angry. ‘Maybe I was willing to listen.’
‘Did she tell you she was being abused?’
‘No. I just knew it. You teach for long enough and you learn to recognise the signs.’
Resting the hoe against the fence, he picks up a rake and begins smoothing the soil, breaking up the larger clods and creating channels for drainage. Across the fence, a neighbour is pegging her washing, the whites, sheets and towels.
Gordon returns her wave.
‘Sienna needed my help. I wish I could have done more.’ The words seem to catch in his throat.
‘Did you know that Sienna was pregnant?’
Ellis pauses for a moment, the rake suspended in mid-air. Tension ripples across his shoulders. Then he exhales and shakes his head.
‘I know she had a boyfriend.’
The neighbour has finished with her washing and is calling her dog. ‘Here, Jake, c’mon boy. C’mon, Jake.’
Ellis is staring at me now, resting the rake handle on his shoulder.
‘Did Sienna have a crush on you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You admit it?’
‘It happens.’
‘It doesn’t worry you?’
‘On the contrary - I take it as a compliment. It’s a sign that I’m doing my job pretty damn well.’
‘Doing it well?’
‘You’ve got to understand the process of teaching. If I do my job properly I can change the way a student thinks about himself or herself. It’s a process of seduction, but it’s not about sexual conquest. It’s about creating an interest and a passion where none previously existed. It’s about getting students to want something they didn’t know they wanted.’
‘You make them fall in love with the subject?’
‘I make them feel excited, energised, provoked and challenged.’
‘So you encourage crushes?’
‘Yes, but not to feed my ego. Instead I turn the focus back on the student. I encourage them to use their new-found curiosity and passion, to run with it, indulge it, let it take them places . . .’
‘And what happens when a student sexualises their crush?’
‘I take a step back. Let them down gently. Sienna didn’t get a crush on me because she wanted to be with me but because she wanted to be like me. I brought out her best. I made her feel special. This has nothing to do with physical attractiveness. It’s a meeting of minds.’
He makes it sound so obvious that nobody could dispute his logic. He’s a passionate teacher, possibly a brilliant one, but what adolescent girl knows the difference between seduction and persuasion, love and infatuation?
‘Did you know Ray Hegarty?’
‘We met once or twice.’
Ellis looks at the garden with a weary smile. ‘If I don’t get these planted soon, we won’t have vegetables for the summer.’
A sharp gust of wind scatters his words.
‘How is Sienna?’
‘She’s traumatised.’
‘Is the baby . . . ?’
‘She miscarried.’
He nods sadly and raises his eyes to the pearl-grey sky. ‘That may have been for the best.’
Something rises in my stomach. Burns. I swallow hard and find myself saying goodbye, retracing my steps across the lawn to the side path.
Out of the corner of my eye I notice the garage again and the sports car.
‘What sort of car does your wife drive?’ I ask, turning to Ellis.
He gives me a wry smile. ‘Natasha’s not really interested in cars. They just have to get her from A to B.’
‘So what does she drive?’
‘A Ford Focus.’
19
Sometimes we know things even if we don’t know we know them. Maybe all we have is a fluttering sensation in our stomachs or a nagging sense of doubt or an unexplained certainty that something has happened.
Call it intuition or perception or insight. There is no sixth sense - it is a simple mental process where the brain takes in a situation, does a rapid search of its files, and among the sprawl of memories and knowledge it throws up an immediate match, a first impression.
That’s why on trivia nights it’s often best to go with the first answer that pops into our heads, because that initial thought is based upon a subconscious cue; a knowledge that cannot be articulated or defended. Ponder the same question for too long and our higher brain functions will begin to demand proof.
The trick is to train your mind to pick up the cues. Trust your first response. My gut tells me that Sienna Hegarty didn’t kill her father. My gut tells me that she’s protecting someone. My gut tells me that Gordon Ellis knows more than he’s letting on. My gut tells me that there was something between them - teacher and student - a friendship that crossed a boundary.
For the past four days I have wrestled with this problem, going back over the details of Sienna’s interview and Ellis’s reaction. Another image keeps coming back to me: Gordon Ellis on stage during the rehearsal, looking into the eyes of a teenage girl, putting his finger beneath her chin, tilting her face towards his. She wanted to be kissed . . . wanted to surrender . . . he wanted control.
I can see Ellis’s eyes travelling from the girl’s dilated pupils over her flushed cheeks, down her exposed neck, across her under-defended body. Was it the look of a practised manipulator or a committed teacher? Was it a predator’s leer or a harmless piece of theatre?
It’s Saturday morning in Bath. I’m sitting in Café Medoc, overlooking Pulteney Bridge and the riverside path running north past the Bath Library arcade. The weir is downstream, turning brown water into foam. Ducks paddle above the falls as if waiting for a ramp to be delivered.
Annie Robinson takes a seat and puts her brightly coloured hippy shoulder bag at her feet. She’s wearing a quilted jacket over a shirt and thin woollen tights.
‘I didn’t think you’d call me, Joseph O’Loughlin.’
‘Why?’
‘You looked so embarrassed when you last saw me.’
‘I wasn’t embarrassed.’
She laughs. ‘I seem to remember you didn’t know where to look.’
Coffees are ordered. Delivered. Spooning foam from a cappuccino, she holds the spoon in her mouth.
‘You don’t give a girl much notice. Normally, I wouldn’t agree to a date when someone rings me on the same morning. Did someone else stand you up?’
‘It’s not really a date,’ I say, and then backtrack. ‘I mean, I wanted to see you socially, but I didn’t think of this as one - a date, I mean . . .’
Again she laughs, her eyes dancing.
‘Don’t worry, Joseph O’Loughlin, I won’t be offended if we don’t call it a date.’
Annie seems to find my full name amusing. ‘So tell me,’ she says, ‘since we’re two friends meeting socially - what do you do for a living?’
‘I’m a clinical psychologist and please call me Joe.’
‘Is that what your wife calls you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I shall call you Joseph. Do you have a practice?’
‘Not any more. I lecture at the university. Part-time.’
She nods as though satisfied. ‘D
o you find the weekends are the hardest?’
‘Hardest?’
‘Being alone. When I’m at work it doesn’t matter because I’m busy, but the weekends are lonelier.’
‘How long has it been?’ I ask.
‘Three years since we separated. Ten months since the divorce. I held out hope until the very end. How about you?’
‘No divorce yet.’
‘Oh, I thought, you know . . . I didn’t realise.’ There is a squeak in her voice.
‘Were you always a school counsellor?’ I ask, trying to rescue her.
‘I used to teach history. My father said it was the perfect subject because there was always more to teach.’
‘Even if it repeats itself?’
‘Because we never learn.’
She smiles and a dimple appears on her left cheek, but not the right.
The sun has come out. Reaching into her bag, she takes out a pair of sunglasses.
‘That’s a very colourful bag.’
‘My ex-husband gave it to me when we were still married. It was stuffed full of lingerie, most of which was totally obscene and not sexy at all. Don’t even try to get me out of my good old Marks and Spencers striped pyjamas.’
‘I wouldn’t try.’
She feigns surprise. ‘Am I that undesirable?’
‘No, that’s not what I meant. I just . . . I mean . . . I wouldn’t force you out of them . . .’
She laughs prettily and then convinces me to share a slice of ‘death by chocolate’ cake because a ‘true gentleman would share some of the guilt’.
‘So why did you call me, Joseph?’
‘How well do you know Gordon Ellis?’
‘Why?’
‘I’m interested.’
She licks her spoon. ‘We were at college together during teacher training - back in the days when we were young and committed to the cause.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Too handsome for his own good.’
She says it in such a matter-of-fact way that I feel a twinge of jealousy.
‘Is he popular?’
‘Very. Particularly with the senior girls - he sets their little hearts aflutter. Some of the really presumptuous ones pass him notes or make excuses to rub up against him. Gordon has to be very careful.’
‘Has he had problems?’
She looks at me doubtfully. ‘Why are you so interested?’
‘I think Sienna Hegarty has a crush on him.’
‘She wouldn’t be the first or the last.’
‘What if it went further than that?’
Annie’s head tilts to one side. ‘Sexual misconduct - are you making an accusation?’
‘It’s a hypothetical question.’
‘A dangerous one. Rumours spread very quickly. Careers can be ruined.’
‘This is just between us.’
She toys with her earring, rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger.
‘The school has procedures to deal with sexual misconduct.’
‘Internal procedures?’
‘Usually. Most incidents rarely get beyond a harmless crush and misplaced affection.’
‘And when it does?’
‘The school accepts responsibility. The teacher is quietly suspended, sacked or transferred without any fuss.’
‘Or damaging publicity.’
Annie doesn’t disagree.
‘Maybe you don’t remember being at school, Joe, but classrooms are like sexual petri dishes, full of hormones and sexual tension. I’ve had my share of admirers. When I was at school I fancied Mr Deitch, who taught English and PE. We used to go and watch whenever he was on the track because he wore Lycra running shorts just like Linford Christie. He had an impressive lunchbox.’
‘I get the picture.’
She laughs. ‘Did a teacher break your heart too?’
‘Miss Powell - she taught French and had done some modelling in Paris. I saw her shopping one day and made up a story about how she’d been buying sexy underwear. My mates were so jealous. Anyway, the story got back to her and she sent me to see the headmaster. I had to write an essay on why women shouldn’t be treated as sex objects.’
‘You poor boy.’
‘It wouldn’t have happened to a girl.’
Mock surprise. ‘You’re blaming me now.’
‘No. Never. But tell me, how do you guard against it - teenage crushes?’
‘I avoid meeting students outside of school or having them in my car. I don’t play favourites. I avoid situations where I’d be alone with a particular student. I don’t accept gifts or give them. I avoid physical contact. I leave the classroom door open. I don’t write notes or emails that could be misinterpreted.’
‘It’s a minefield.’
‘Yes and no.’
She runs a finger around the top of her coffee cup. ‘I can usually tell when a student has a crush on me - the lovesick looks and excuses to stay late or arrive early.’
‘And then what?’
‘I find a way of distancing myself. I let them down gently. I maintain the boundaries.’
Annie raises her eyes and holds her gaze on mine. I can feel myself blink and colour come to my throat.
‘Is that why you asked me here - to talk about Gordon?’
‘Yes and no.’
‘Oh well, as long as you’re paying.’ She laughs gaily. ‘You wouldn’t even recognise Gordon if you saw photographs of him as a kid.’
‘Why?’
‘He was a real Billy Bunter. Overweight and short-sighted with crooked teeth and a face like a pizza.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I once met his mother. She came to college to make sure he was looking after himself. She had photographs of Gordon as a youngster. You’ve got to give him credit for remaking himself. He lost the weight. Got his teeth straightened. Worked out. It helped that he grew to be six-two.’
‘Did you know Natasha?’
‘Who?’
‘Gordon’s wife. She must have been around.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Gordon said they met at school. I thought she must have been around during his college years.’
Annie shakes her head.
‘He had loads of girlfriends at college. He went out with a friend of mine, Alison, for about three months.’
‘Did you date him?’
She shrugs. ‘He’s not really my type.’ She pauses. ‘You’re very nosy, Joseph. Are all psychologists like that?’
‘We’re interested in people.’
‘Are you interested in me?’
‘Of course.’
It’s the right answer. Suddenly she stands and suggests we go for a walk. Crossing Argyle Street, we follow Grand Parade through Bath City Park. Annie hooks her arm through mine. Her shoulder bag swings gently against our hips. It’s nice to flirt and banter with a pretty woman. Julianne and I used to be like this, teasing each other, making observations, righting the wrongs of the world.
‘So what made you decide to become a counsellor?’ I ask.
‘It’s probably the same reason you became a psychologist. I wanted to make a difference. Why did you decide to lecture?’
‘I’m not really sure. I’m not certain that psychology can be taught.’
‘Why?’
‘Clinical work is very instinctive. It’s about listening to people and sharing the burden. Making them feel as though someone cares.’
‘What made you give it up?’
‘A really effective psychologist is someone who commits. Who goes into the darkness to bring someone out. Years ago I told a friend of mine that a doctor is no good to a patient if he dies of the disease, but that wasn’t the right analogy. When a person is drowning, someone has to get wet.’
She pauses and turns to me.
‘You got tired of getting wet?’
‘I almost drowned.’
We have reached North Parade. Canal boats are moored on the opposite bank. S
omeone is cooking on deck, dicing carrots and tipping them into a bubbling pot on a gas burner.
‘Thank you for the coffee and cake, Joseph.’
‘I hope you didn’t have too far to travel. I didn’t even ask where you lived.’
‘Are you inviting yourself home?’
‘No, not at all . . . I was just . . .’
She’s laughing at me again.
‘I’m glad that I’m such a source of amusement.’
‘I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you at dinner.’ She says it quickly. Nervously.
I take too long to answer.
‘Don’t let me push you into anything,’ she says. ‘I’m not usually this forward.’
‘No. I mean, yes, dinner would be great.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure. It’s just that I haven’t been invited to dinner by a woman since . . . since . . .’
‘Maybe you should stop counting.’
‘Good idea.’
She pecks me on the lips.
‘So it’s dinner. How about Monday night?’
‘Sure.’
And then as an afterthought, she says, ‘About Gordon Ellis and Sienna . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll try to find out if anyone complained to the school.’
‘Thank you.’
20
Charlie has a football game for her district team. Watching teenage girls play a competitive team sport is completely different to watching boys. There is no diving, feigning injury, flying elbows or cynical fouls. Body contact tends to be completely accidental and should one of the girls get injured twenty-one players will stand around her asking, ‘Are you OK?’
Charlie is getting less interested in football as she gets older. There seems to be a moment in adolescence when girls abandon sport as being either too sweaty or too much like hard work. Maybe they discover boys. Why can’t they discover schoolwork?
I wander along the sidelines, occasionally yelling encouragement, which Charlie hates. I’m also not allowed to dissect the game afterwards or comment on how she played.
Julianne comes along sometimes, which is nice. She chats to the other mothers, sipping thermos coffee and rarely following the action unless a penalty is being taken or a goal has been scored.
Bleed For Me (joseph o'loughlin) Page 15