Mid summer. So far so good. No bush fires. Monica telephoned – a keeping-in-touch contact without news or depth. She tried to maintain Sean’s lessons – reading, writing, basic maths, sitting him in front of the kitchen T.V. to watch educational programs, geographical documentaries, other people, other countries. Sometimes his interest was caught, not often.
Meanwhile the tell-tale stickiness in his pyjamas betrayed his teenage wet dreams. Normal. He either didn’t remember them or they didn’t bother him. Why should they? Farm boys knew farm things. Fran told her not to worry, he’d grow out of it. Would he? What about others like him? What about Bernie Cooper? The sexuality of people with disability? No help. No information. How many mothers knew what she did? Worried as she did? Were as helpless?
They walked often, into the narrow paths deep in the spindly-treed forest, the sounds of bushmen’s axes ringing close by yet unseen. The smell of fresh-cut timber and the screech of buzz-saws, the scent of burning leaves and the wreaths of smoke curling into clear skies.
They circled the farmhouses, watched the animals, the new young calves, the foals, the harvesters and the ploughs. The occasional farmer turned an incurious head and continued his work. Some paused to wave; the woman and the boy had become a familiar sight.
They did not go into town. The new enlightened post-war era – people who were supposed to know better, didn’t. Bigotry was more marked, undisguised in the censorious stares, the averted eyes and even in the saccharine attention of Rory’s clients. No one, nobody, unreservedly accepted Sean, their fellow human with an abnormal chromosome.
The early 1980s. Did they know? Did they care? It seemed that the Bernie Coopers of the world, presentable in appearance yet undisciplined and pugnacious, were more acceptable than Sean. If only they could know him, get past the malformation, get to talk to him, listen to him, know him at work and at play.
Sean going on sixteen. Nothing had changed. No appropriate schooling was available. There was no help. Unless they risked a total change of his life, a change that promised only the complete reversal of all she’d fought for. What had she fought for? She’d fought for nothing more than everyone else took for granted – good health, adequate education, safe home, loving family. And freedom to grow to his individual potential, whatever that proved to be. No more than Beth had accepted as her right, but no less.
She’d thought she’d won it for him. She had, for a time. He still had the good health, the safe home, the loving family and the freedom. Freedom to be himself, to grow, to feel secure, to fight his own battles, to face his own disability, to make his own friends. But his friends had moved on, as they’d had to. He’d felt secure, fought his own battles and, in some way she didn’t comprehend, accepted his disability. He had the freedom to grow but bureaucracy had robbed him of the means to achieve growth. So what had she really won?
Right now, this minute on this late February day, she knew exactly where he’d be and exactly what he’d be doing. He’d be by the woodshed; he’d be compulsively rocking in a desperate frenzy she was not physically strong enough to stop.
The silent phone tantalised. Help was there. All she had to do was dial. But not yet. At lunchtime, she called him and he came, cowed and obedient. She wanted to cry and to never, ever stop.
They ate in silence. He no longer conversed beyond the essential boundaries of civility, except to Rusty who was getting too old for play and seemed to know he wasn’t interested anyway. He ate with finicky delicacy, careful of each crumb, tidily.
Getting up from the table, he helped with the dishes, swept the floor and politely asked, “That all, Mum?”
“Thanks, love. I’ll get the machine out. There’s mending to be done.”
“I’ll carry it for you.”
He set the sewing machine on the kitchen table and set a chair in place. “Can I help?”
“I’m sorry, Sean. Not this time.”
“Will you be long?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure how long.”
“It’s okay.”
“Run along and watch your telly for a while.”
“I can go for a walk.”
“Later, Sean.”
“There’s nothing on telly.”
“Of course there is!”
“I’m sick of it.”
“Sean – I have to have these shirts ready for Dad.”
“It’s okay. I’ll wait.” He started for the back door.
“Sean! Don’t!”
“It’s okay, Mum.”
“Sean!” It’s not okay!
The kitchen door slammed behind him. He was out and away, back to the hypnotic, aimless, defeated rocking of lost hope.
What in God’s name was so bad about him? So unacceptable? What did people fear? Why couldn’t he go to school!
The phone hung on the silent wall.
‘I can’t!’ She left the mending, looked out the window. He’d moved out of sight. But he’d be there. Where else?
‘Please – don’t make me send him away. It will kill him. This is killing him.’
The silent phone taunted.
‘Sweet Mother, help me.’
She left the window.
“Mr Lane – is he there?” She’d dialled automatically and found with surprise she needed to respond to a distant speaker.
“I’m sorry.” Miss Dixon’s voice was achingly familiar. “He’s off on an excursion for the day. Can I help?”
“Is that you, Miss Dixon?” Fate was decreeing she didn’t have to ask the question she didn’t want to ask.
“This is Rita Dixon. Can I help?”
“No – no.” Tears, unfelt, ran down her face. “I wanted to speak to John.”
“May I ask…? Who is this?”
She couldn’t answer.
“Mrs McClure? It is you – Tess? What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry.” She hung up.
Of course Miss Dixon had recognised her voice; she had a thousand reasons to. She left the house, the persistent peal of the telephone following her down the back path to the woodshed.
He was, as expected, rocking. But wildly, his head pounding the splintered timbers of the rotting wood!
“Stop that!” She tried to lift him.
His convulsing body was a dead weight.
Rusty licked his cheek.
“Go away!” She screamed.
The dog slunk to his kennel.
Don’t panic.
He rocked, slivers of timber in his hair.
“Sean! Stop it!”
His eyes opened and closed.
“Love – don’t – please don’t.” She struggled to pull him clear of the boards, to rip them away, anything… She removed her blouse, bound his bleeding skull, held him close and rocked with him.
She ached, feeling cold and fear as the sun went down behind the jagged peaks. She felt him leave her, turn inwards.
“Sean! No more no more no more…no!”
Careful.
Do not scream.
Pray.
The shadows lengthening. Sean still, too still. Unconscious? She dared not move.
“Tess!” Rory’s voice. “Where are you? Tess?”
Rusty loped from the kennel.
“Where are you? Tess!”
“Here,” she called. “Behind the shed.”
“Tess…” He rounded the corner. “Jesus!”
“I can’t move him.”
“Sean! What the hell’s going on? Sean!”
“He’s not conscious. I can’t move him.”
“Sean!” Rory lightly slapped him. “Wake up! Sean!”
Rousing, he cringed.
“Don’t hurt him!”
“Get to your feet!”
Sean obeyed.
“Tess…you’re freezing!” Rory took off his jacket. “Put this on.”
Together, they propelled him to the back verandah, up the steps and into the house. She bathed the shallow wound in his bleeding head, removed his blood
ied clothes, fetched a warm blanket and wrapped it around him.
Rory prepared hot chocolate, very strong and very sweet. “Drink it while it’s hot.”
Tiny in the huge blanket, Sean hung his head.
“Do as you’re told.”
He reached for the cup. “It’s hot.”
“Drink it!”
He stubbornly studied his father.
“Drink it!”
He gingerly obeyed.
“Good boy. See?” she praised. “It’s not too hot. It’ll thaw you out.”
Rory frowned. “What’s this all about?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Tell me now! Look at his head, for God’s sake! How did that happen?”
Sean trembled.
“Please,” she begged. “Don’t shout.”
He lowered his voice. “What happened to his head? What’s going on?”
“I’ve told you,” she whispered.
“Who hit you, Sean? Who hit you?”
“Rory,” she intervened. “Please…nobody hit him.”
“Look at him. Who did that?”
Not now. Later. Please wait.
“Talk to me, Tess!”
“I don’t think he knows what he’s doing.”
“Of course he knows. He’s not stupid.”
“No, he’s not stupid,” she said. “It’d be easier if he was.”
Sean’s lips quivered.
She should not have said that.
Sean had showered and changed and was in his room watching T.V. when she eventually asked, “Why did you come home early?”
“Rita Dixon phoned. She said something was wrong. What’s really going on?”
“I’ve told you a dozen times. You saw him.”
“So why phone them? They can’t do anything.”
“I was trying to get John. I give up. I have to find out about special school. Anything’s got to be better than this.”
“You’re prepared to send him off?”
“You saw him.”
“Why didn’t you phone me?”
“Would you have come?”
“I’m here now.”
“Only because…”
“Tess! Don’t start again!”
“Will you tell him you’re not really cross with him? Will you tell him you understand? It’s important to him.”
“What if it isn’t so easy? What if a special school won’t take him? You can’t make promises, Tess.”
“We can promise him he won’t have to spend his days doing nothing.”
“If it’s not too late. He’s not the same child.”
“You blame me.” Was Rory right? Was it too late, even if she could find a special school that would enrol him?
“I’ll talk to him.” He knocked on Sean’s door.
She was preparing tea when Rusty’s excited barking sounded an alert; a car was pulling into the driveway. Alarmed and hearing nothing following her phone call to the shop, Rita Dixon had driven out to check up.
Over coffee, while Rory and Sean talked and watched television together in the bedroom, she explained the crisis, adding, “We’re thinking about sending him off to school. If it means he boards away – I was being selfish. I hope he’ll adjust. He’s always managed to so far.”
“He’s young.” Miss Dixon was relieved. “Teenagers leave home. It’s the way it works.”
“Maybe.” She listened for the reassuring murmur on the other side of Sean’s closed door. “Teenagers generally don’t knock themselves unconscious. I’ve never seen anything like that. It’s terrifying.”
“I have.”
“You’ve seen that?”
Rita Dixon avoided a direct answer. “You have to know Sean’s greatly missed at school. I miss him. John misses him. We’ve spent so many years together.”
Not so readily detoured, she pressed, “Where have you seen it?”
“I’m not sure…”
“I need to know.”
The teacher surrendered. “You are right to fear the institutions. I’m not so sure about less restricted places, special schools for instance. It’s the weight of numbers that…”
“The head banging, Miss Dixon.”
“I’ve seen it in children who are extremely frustrated. Not always disabled children. By no means always disabled children. Some grossly unhappy children become bullies. Others tend to hurt themselves. Self abuse is not uncommon.”
Self abuse is not uncommon. Not only in children.
“I’m sorry, Tess. I wish I could help.”
It must never happen again.
Returning from Sean’s room, Rory reported, “He’s fine.”
The teacher prepared to leave. “So long as everything is all right now.”
“For now,” Rory nodded. “If you’d do one more thing?”
“Anything to help.”
“Can you definitely set the wheels in motion? We’ll get him off to special school as soon as possible.”
“It will have to go through Miss Forrester.” She was apologetic. “John’s off again for a while. He’s still having a hard time adjusting. One wonders. I don’t think he eats properly now his wife’s gone.”
“Whatever you think is best,” Rory agreed. “We’re very grateful.”
The teacher was on the porch, about to descend the steps. With her departure went hope. Involuntarily, she called, “Wait!”
Miss Dixon stopped.
Rory stepped between them.
“Wait! Please wait.” She was unable to surrender so mildly. Pushing past Rory, she walked with Rita Dixon to the waiting car. “You don’t agree, do you?”
“It’s not my place.”
“Tell me! What would you do?”
Miss Dixon looked to the door, to Rory standing guard. “I don’t think I’m the one to advise you.”
“You have to! What would you do?”
“Mrs McClure. Tess. I’ve watched. I’ve watched all these years. I’ve taught Sean. I know – I know how you must feel.”
“What would you do!”
“Tess!” Rory called. “It’s getting dark.”
“I don’t want to come between you and your husband.”
“I’ll do anything to keep Sean here. The thought that he’ll be anywhere near someone like Bernie Cooper terrifies me. If there’s any way to avoid that, I must do it!”
The plump figure about to enter the car stopped. “Actually,” she said, “I’ve been giving it some thought. I didn’t expect there would be any urgency. I can see there is. You’re in trouble now. You want action now. I really don’t know…”
“What?”
“Next year I retire. I’m dreading having nothing to do. I’ve been giving some thought to taking private students.”
“Sean! You’d teach Sean!”
“It’s one possibility. I have to do something. John suggested – you know, kids who need extra tuition. I think Sean could benefit. The problem is it’s three months off.”
“Three months is nothing! Just say you’ll do it!”
“I’m not sure yet, Tess. Don’t go too fast. There are many things to consider.”
“Please – come back – please. Rory! You must listen.”
Back in the house, Rita Dixon outlined her plan. Hours per week would have to be agreed on. Subjects. Goals. Fees. Location. A dozen as yet unforeseen specifics would have to be solved.
“It still leaves him with hours of unoccupied time.” Rory was dubious. “Even if you start it up.”
“I know. It’s the reason I haven’t yet spoken of it. It’s difficult.”
“You’ve already spent a lot of time schooling our son.”
“We care about him, Mr McClure.”
“You’re implying we don’t?”
“Rory,” she begged. “It’s Sean’s whole future.”
He gave reluctant permission. “If you decide to tutor him, I’ll find the money. Though I think you might be biting off more than you can chew.
”
“The basic problem is not Sean, Mr McClure,” Miss Dixon gently chided. “The real problem is other people. Their perception of him. Their expectations.”
“Sean’s retarded. That’s the problem.”
“I disagree. He’s no different from many other children I’ve taught.”
“You exaggerate.”
“Not at all, Mr McClure.”
The week had been a nightmare. Each day she’d walked Sean all over the hills, compelled him to ride his bike with her into town on pointless errands and overseen lessons she was too exhausted to teach. Each morning she’d waited without result for a call from Rita Dixon.
Until, eight days after she’d undertaken to explore the possibilities of enrolling Sean in one of her future private classes, Rita Dixon had telephoned to make an appointment. Sean had been persuaded to watch T.V. in his bedroom and Rory had co-operatively cancelled a pre-arranged meeting in town. The waiting was over.
Arriving punctually at 7.30 p.m., the teacher opened her briefcase, laid a thick file out on the dining table and spread a plump hand across the mostly handwritten pages. “These are Sean’s regular reports from when he started with us. And here,” she opened a second, typewritten, file, “here are the psych. assessments. I’m not supposed to do this. It’s archaic. The rules will change. Meanwhile, you can’t go forward without access to them.”
By the strong overhead light, Rory diligently perused each report before sliding it across the table to her. There was little she didn’t already know. John Lane, perhaps foreseeing a future when parents’ rights would be justly respected, had long ago started breaking the cruelly condescending rules that kept vital information about their own child from parents.
An hour later they’d already agreed on a schedule for the following year when Miss Dixon would be free to start her program. As for the remainder of the year, Sean was to spend Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays working for a small salary in the shop with his father. Having grown up helping with sweeping, tidying, stacking and general cleaning, this was a natural extension they should have thought of themselves. Tuesdays and Thursdays he would stay home, help with the housework, the garden and the animals and update his lessons. Weekends, Rory would spend more time with him.
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