Meanwhile, outside school, my mother was working hard. She was aware of the social divides that existed across the country. She had made documentaries that addressed a diverse range of issues faced by Australians in the seventies. Her frosted hair in a long fringed bob, she would front up to people, microphone in hand, and because they trusted her, they would talk. Now in her new job, she became completely immersed in the lives of others as she and the other commissioners took evidence in tiny outback towns and major cities. When I asked her what that meant (and I didn’t ask her often about her work, I was far too absorbed in my own life), she told me that it was a matter of getting people to come forward and speak about themselves and what mattered to them. ‘And then, when we have heard their stories, we have to make a series of recommendations.’
The evidence she heard came from gay men, lesbians, pregnant teenagers, battered wives, women who’d had terminations, parents who cared for children with disabilities; no one had ever wanted to hear their stories before, certainly not the government. It seems amazing, in these conservative times, that we once had leaders who genuinely wanted to know how people lived and encouraged them to express their differences. There was a breathtaking optimism to this, a belief that an entire social fabric could be altered with extraordinary speed, a faith that everyone was along for the ride. It didn’t last long.
At the end of our first year at Opportunity Class, it was clear that the end of this era was on its way. The Whitlam government was in trouble. Sitting on the edge of the brown woollen armchair, my mother watched the news on our large colour television. She tried to explain what was happening. There had been scandals involving members of cabinet, problems with financing ambitious social plans, and it was becoming clear that the conservatives were poised, ready to pounce.
In a few months, the government would be dismissed in circumstances that would divide the country. The commission report would become a casualty of the change in political leadership. Leaked to the press, it would be sensationalised and trivialised. My mother would be spat upon as we waited in supermarket queues and I would not understand why people we didn’t even know would tell her she had no morals and shouldn’t be bringing up children. But as I lay on my stomach on the seagrass matting, I had little interest in her attempts to explain the situation. Too busy writing my latest novel or play, the country’s politics were unimportant. If trouble was looming, there was little I could do, even if I had cared.
Despite the news reports, when we returned to the classroom at the start of our second year, Mrs Davis’s belief in the great wave of change overtaking the nation was unshaken. She had visited China during the summer: ‘As you are probably aware, our Prime Minister, Gough Whitlam, has re-established diplomatic ties with China.’
We all looked at her blankly.
‘Does anyone know what this means?’
Only Timothy put up his hand. ‘My father thinks Gough Whitlam is a communist.’
‘I am not interested in what your father thinks, Timothy. I am interested in what you think.’
Timothy was not perturbed. ‘Communists take away your freedom. Everyone has to be the same. They jail people if they say anything against the government.’
‘That’s one interpretation,’ said Mrs Davis. ‘As part of one of the first group of Westerners to be allowed into the country, I have, shall we say, a vantage point not enjoyed by your father. Communism is about equality. Sharing the wealth.’ She wrote the last three words on the board and underlined them. ‘Think of our society.’ She turned to face us. ‘Some of us are born into money and privilege and it gives us an enormous headstart. Others have to work long hard days in menial jobs. They will never have much, nor will their children. Communism is about shaking this up. Turning it on its head. Making it fair,’ and she raised her voice to emphasise this last word. Timothy had his hand up, but Mrs Davis was ignoring him. ‘I was particularly impressed by the ideas behind the Cultural Revolution.’ We didn’t know what she was talking about. We were a group of middle-class eleven-year-olds at a school on Sydney’s lower North Shore. Communism had not touched our lives. But we listened dutifully.
‘The Cultural Revolution was a time of great upheaval. It was a time of challenging every perceived idea and value, of questioning; with the peasants having just as much right, if not more, to question the intellectuals, than the intellectuals did to question society.’
She looked at our expressionless faces. ‘I would like to try something here in the classroom. An idea that I took away with me. I would like you to rule yourselves.’ She waved her hand around the room. ‘To come up with your own ideas for solving your own problems. To question what we are doing and to determine solutions that work for you.’
The plan was simple. We were going to form a re-education group. Four of us would be selected by our classmates. The group was to be the funnel through which ideas would go to Mrs Davis. It would also be a forum for other students to air their grievances and problems. It would choose when it met. It would set up its own rules.
‘Who would you like to nominate? Who will be your cadres?’
Melanie was the first to be nominated and seconded, and she accepted the post graciously. Donovan, our genius, was next. Anyone who could do complex algebra and logarithms could surely solve the problems of an eleven-year-old. Pick me, pick me, I thought, and I knew I was in with a chance. I had made a real effort to seem sensible, good and nice – it was a new act that I was trying on and one that I would continue to refine for many years, until I eventually learnt how little joy it brings. But then it appeared to be working in my favour, and my best friend Sally finally nominated me. Jason, a bright-eyed boy with boundless energy and enthusiasm, was the last to be selected.
We had our first meeting straightaway, while the rest of the class continued with their lesson. ‘If there is a problem you feel you cannot deal with, you must call on me,’ Mrs Davis told us. We all nodded in mute understanding.
As she turned to leave, Jason voiced what we had all been wondering. ‘So what is it that we are meant to be doing?’
Thankfully we had Melanie. With her long blonde hair neatly brushed into two pigtails and a school uniform that was always clean and ironed, she never looked less than perfect, but it was her certainty in her own ability that I envied most. When we were asked a question she was always the first to put her hand up, if there was a task to be done, she volunteered; she was always confident that she was capable. ‘I think we should discuss whether there’s anything we would like to see changed,’ she suggested.
It seemed ridiculous that we could have any real power. Surely no one was actually going to listen to us? We didn’t really know what we wanted, so we confined ourselves to the small. Perhaps a few more excursions? Maybe the odd film at lunchtime?
Just as we were about to call the meeting to a close, there was a knock on the door, and we looked at each other, surprised. If it had seemed ludicrous to think that we could make suggestions about our education, it seemed even more ridiculous that anyone in the class would actually want to talk to us. But it appeared someone did.
Shane came in and sat nervously in the spare seat that made up our circle, looking down at the ground as we asked him what he wanted to discuss. Scratching the top of his knee, he eventually told us it was his projects. ‘I can’t get them finished on time.’ His voice was so soft I found it hard to hear him.
‘Is it because you find the work difficult?’ Donovan asked.
Shane shook his head. After his mum had left, he had to help his dad every night. By the time he’d made dinner and got his brothers to bed, he was just too tired. None of us had known that Shane didn’t have a mum. Single-parent families did exist. I knew that. But no one ever spoke about them. There was concern in Melanie’s expression as she asked him whether he missed his mother. I turned to look at her, wondering whether she was as grown up as she would like us to believe, or simply good at putting it on.
Shane shrugged.
‘Have you talked to your dad about this?’ Melanie asked.
He shrugged his shoulders again.
‘Maybe you could get a housekeeper,’ I suggested. We had one. I wanted to be helpful like the others.
Shane didn’t even look at me.
Melanie took charge again. She thanked Shane for talking to us and said that it would be best if we discussed this alone. We would call him back and let him know what we thought.
‘God, imagine not having a mother,’ she said after he left. Her huge blue eyes welled up with feeling. ‘Now I feel terrible I didn’t ask him to my birthday.’
‘I think we should tell him to talk to Mrs Davis,’ Donovan suggested.
We called Shane back in. He scratched at a scab on his elbow, not looking up as Melanie delivered our verdict.
When I told my parents about the group, I don’t think they really understood what it was, or what the approval of my peers meant to me. Probably some brief mention of the fact that it was an idea Mrs Davis had picked up in China would have pleased them, my mother in particular. I was getting a good progressive education, one that was in keeping with the changing times. If I had gone into detail, they might have seen it as some kind of group therapy run by kids for kids. But I don’t think it was just my parents who didn’t really understand what we were doing; I’m not sure that we did either. Mrs Davis thought the group was important and that was enough to give us (Melanie and me in particular) a certain smugness about our new position. We used secrecy to reinforce our status, rarely discussing our meetings with anyone else in the class, no matter how ordinary the problems we discussed.
The dilemmas ranged from what to wear to a birthday party to how to get the library to make sure all the good books hadn’t been taken out before our class had its turn. After our encounter with Shane, Alana was our only other serious case. A pale overweight girl with red hair whom no one liked, she was in tears because everyone teased her, Timothy in particular. As she admitted to her distress, I wondered how she could be so rash. Don’t let them know, I wanted to tell her.
Melanie dealt with her firmly. Perhaps she was a little self-obsessed, she suggested. Alana sniffed and wiped her eyes. Had she ever considered that being a cry-baby only added fuel to the fire? Alana reached for a tissue and nodded. I felt uncomfortable with Melanie’s words (having been on the receiving end of Timothy’s cruelty), but I didn’t speak. There was also a small part of me that wondered whether Melanie was right. Maybe people like Alana (and I had to include myself in this category) deserved what they got? There were always going to be Timothys. No one else could stop them from making you miserable.
I look back at how I felt and my thoughts are mixed. I was perhaps not so foolish in accepting the inevitability of cruelty. But it is not easy to stand up to people like Timothy, who are always ready to leap on vulnerability, and children do not have the necessary wisdom and compassion to help each other find the strength they need. We were all fighting for our own place, unable to look much further than our own skins. The re-education group was never going to be of any real help. At best, we were ineffectual. At worst, there was a danger this ineffectuality would increase the pain of those who had the courage to speak but were left with no promise of change.
Fortunately, true requests for assistance did not happen often. The number of students who came to see us dwindled further. Melanie and Jason gossiped while Donovan and I tried to make conversation. So we were surprised when Melanie called an urgent meeting.
Sarah knocked on the door. ‘I want you to do something about Sam. He keeps trying to kiss me.’ She grimaced. ‘And I’m not the only one.’ Melanie confirmed her best friend’s complaint. ‘He’s done it to a few of us. It’s disgusting.’
The rest of us didn’t know what to say. ‘Does he know you don’t like it?’ I asked feebly, remembering the game of spin the bottle.
Sarah rolled her eyes. ‘What do you reckon?’
Jason, who sometimes played with Sam, looked the most uncomfortable. ‘I don’t really know if we can talk to him. I mean what do we say? Why would he listen to us?’
Donovan reminded us that Mrs Davis had always said she would be there to help us if a problem was too difficult for us to deal with alone, and as soon as he spoke, we all latched onto the idea with relief. She came immediately, sitting down in the circle and telling us we were absolutely right to call on her if we needed her, she would do what she could, and she looked around the room, her gaze stopping on Sarah. ‘Perhaps it would be best if you explained what’s been happening.’
Sarah’s assurance vanished. ‘It’s just Sam,’ she eventually said. ‘He kisses us – the girls, that is – and we don’t like it.’
‘It’s true,’ Melanie added. ‘It’s happened to a few of us.’
Mrs Davis tapped her frosted pink nails on the armrest of the chair. We wondered whether she was cross with us for wasting her time, but she quickly put our doubts to rest. ‘This is indeed a serious problem.’ She stood up and began to pace the room. ‘I’m very glad you called me.’ Her vehemence surprised me. I hadn’t really considered Sam’s actions to be worthy of such a response. ‘Georgia,’ she said. ‘I want you to go and call Sam in. I will speak to him now.’
The classroom was noisy. Everyone was taking advantage of Mrs Davis being out of the room. They stopped as soon as I opened the door and then continued when they saw it was only me. Sam was flicking elastic bands at another boy. ‘Sam,’ I said, my voice too soft. ‘Sam.’ I had to say his name again before he turned in my direction, grinning. ‘You have to come with me. To the re-education group.’
‘What for?’ The grin was still there, but his eyes darted quickly from me to the door.
‘We just need to speak to you.’
As he followed me out, I heard Timothy snicker. ‘She won’t pash you – she’s frigid.’ My cheeks burnt. I hated him.
Sam stood at the entrance to our meeting room, looking nervous.
‘Sit down,’ Mrs Davis commanded. ‘I have heard some very serious allegations.’ She paused. ‘And I am deeply distressed.’
Sam was white. I dared glance at him only once, quickly averting my eyes before there was any chance of him seeing me looking at him. ‘You have been making unwanted sexual advances towards the girls in this class.’ She sat upright as she pointed her finger at him. ‘And I would like to hear your response.’
‘I haven’t.’ He looked up, squirming in his chair, unable to do anything but deny the accusation.
‘That’s not what I’ve been told. Your behaviour has been the cause of several complaints, and quite frankly, I see no reason not to believe them.’
‘But I didn’t do it.’ The words caught in the back of his throat.
‘You did,’ Sarah said. ‘You’ve done it to me, and Melanie and Louise. You know you have.’
Sam told her it was just a joke, she knew it was. ‘Besides, you kiss people. You play spin the bottle.’
Mrs Davis turned to Sarah.
‘In the classroom, at lunchtime.’
‘That’s not true.’ Sarah’s face was red. Mrs Davis looked at Melanie, who confirmed her friend’s lie.
I waited for her to turn to me. I didn’t know how I would respond. But Mrs Davis was once again focused on Sam. ‘How dare you treat this as a joke.’ In the silence that followed, Sam sat back in his chair, his body now limp. ‘You know what will become of you?’
He shook his head, he was crying.
‘You will be a rapist. Do you know what a rapist is?’
He shook his head again.
‘It is a man who forces himself upon women.’
He sniffed loudly.
‘And that is precisely what you have been doing.’
He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out.
‘And do you know what happens to rapists?’
He didn’t.
‘They go to jail.’
Mrs Davis stared at him for a moment. ‘You will st
and out in the corridor for the rest of the afternoon, and if anyone asks why you are there, you will tell them. Say it.’
‘I am here so that I will not be a rapist.’ We could hardly hear him and his nose was running with snot.
‘Now get out of my sight.’
Sam shut the door behind him and Mrs Davis came back to her seat. She sighed heavily. She had to save him from himself, from a future in prison, she told us. We had been wise and responsible in bringing the matter to her. She hoped she would never have to deal with anything like that again. We all filed out of the room. We could see Sam standing alone at the end of the corridor but we didn’t look at him directly.
We only held one more meeting of the re-education group. Donovan said he didn’t see much point in continuing. Students weren’t asking to see us, and he was tired of missing out on lessons. Exams for selective high school entrance were looming; we all agreed. Melanie explained our decision to Mrs Davis, who seemed to understand. The experiment had worked well. We could always re-form if there were a call for our services again. She thanked us all for the responsible job we had done and took us back to class. She clapped her hands for silence. ‘Unless there are any objections, the re-education group has informed me that it will, for the moment, cease to exist. I’m sure you would like to thank the members, your cadres, for the role they have played in creating a harmonious environment.’ As we stood in front of the class, my eyes met Sam’s for one brief moment. Quickly I looked away.
Six months later we finished the year. I tried for a scholarship to a private girls school and I didn’t feel confident. I didn’t know how to answer any of the maths or grammar questions. My basic science and geography were little better. I gave up and turned to the composition, spending most of the two hours writing a story about a ghost. I came out and told my parents that I hadn’t done well, and that I was very sorry.
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