Morning in Melbourne

by Nicole Taylor

  Louise thought about that a bit more. In fact, Camille’s family were quite an intelligent group of individuals. So really, if Camille was slow, it should have been apparent to everyone ages ago, just by the comparison provided by her brothers and parents. But that had not happened. They were used to her lisp and understood her easily. Now she was discussing abstract thoughts about a problem and intellectualising her chosen response to it. Would a slow child be able to do that?

  “Camille, would you mind if we saw a doctor and tried to figure out why you have problems at school?”

  “Would I have to have a needle?”

  Lou laughed. “No – they would just examine you and talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  “I think we should get your ears and eyes tested.”

  “But we have done that already!”

  “I know, but it might be time to do it again.”

  “I suppose,” agreed Camille.

  *

  It was Steph who provided the first clue. The family and Stephanie were having Yum Cha at Foo Long restaurant in Box Hill, to celebrate James’ birthday. She took out a pair of spectacles to read the menu.

  Louise looked up. “I didn’t know you wore glasses, Steph,” she said. “Are you short sighted or long sighted?

  “Neither,” said Stephanie. “I have dyslexia.”

  Louise was surprised. “Dyslexia?” she said. “Both my brothers are dyslexic. I thought only boys could have that.”

  Stephanie shook her head. “No, it occurs equally in both genders,” she explained. “Absolutely fifty-fifty.” Stephanie resumed reading the menu, but added “And it runs in families, so there is an hereditary element to it.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes.” Steph put down her menu to pour herself some Jasmine tea. “But it is okay really, because I get extra time in all my exams since dyslexia is a recognised learning disability.” She sipped her tea and took up the menu again.

  “Well, well, well,” thought Louise.

  And so it was that Camille’s dyslexia was “discovered” and remedied – by a pair of Dolce & Gobana purple tinted spectacles. The diagnostic interview had been a revelation to Louise – and to Camille.

  The dyslexic diagnostician, Marion, showed Camille a sheet of white paper which was covered in German words, typed in black.

  “I know you can’t read this; but I want you to tell me what you see,” she said.

  Camille answered comfortably. “I see all the vines.”

  Marion nodded. “Anything else?”

  “Yes,” said Camille. “The words are shaking but the vines are above the page.”

  Louise was nonplussed. Vines? Words shaking? What?

  But Marion nodded knowingly. She spoke to Louise, whom she could see was becoming quite confused. “Don’t be concerned, Mrs Clark. This is not at all unusual – in fact, this is exactly why we ask the person to look at a page of black writing on white paper in another language – so that they won’t even try to read it. But we have many other diagnostic tests to perform, so let’s get on with it.” She started to rearrange her paperwork, and paused to speak again. “You know, of course, that this is very good news for Camille.”

  “Why would you say that?” asked Louise.

  “Because,” she explained, “dyslexics are not mentally challenged. They are intelligent people who suffer from a reading disability. And we can address and often remedy that.”

  “Oh,” said Louise. “Thank God!”

  When the test was over, it had been identified that Camille required glasses of a purplish-grey hue and she would be able to read black print on white paper. “There are definite clues to dyslexia,” Marion explained. “Because the black words on white paper appear blurry or ‘shaking’ as Camille described them, often the dyslexic reader will attempt to make the word sit still by placing his or her finger under it as they try to read.”

  “But,” protested Louise, “how can that be? Camille has had literacy specialists from the Department of Education assisting her weekly for 4 years. Not just here, in Sydney too! How can they have missed this, if it is as simple a clue as putting her finger under words - something she has always done?”

  Marion shook her head. “You wonder, don’t you?”

  Within one term, Camille’s marks had risen from outright D’s and E’s to straight B’s. She walked tall and smiled at her peers. “I’m so glad I’m not stupid, Mum,” she said, as they read her school report with joy.

  Louise smiled. “You were never the stupid one, darling,” was all Louise would allow herself to say.

  Chapter 4 – New recruit

  “46!” Louise exclaimed in horror as she accepted a glass of her favourite pink champagne from Julia. “I’m going to be 46!”

  It had become a regular thing. At 7pm on Friday night, Jack or Julia would call in at Louise’s house to invite her over for a drink. This always involved so many substantial and delicious savouries that it may as well have been an invitation to dinner.

  Jack and Julia had quickly become Louise’s best friends. Their friendship was like a soft, warm blanket and when she was with them she felt safe and happy. At home, she ran the house and made every decision. At Julia and Jack’s place, she was a welcome guest, privy to whatever was happening in their lives.

  Louise knew that she would not have managed the terrifying process of building her new life as a single, middle aged woman and mother without this wonderful couple who had really become her extended family.

  Jack’s youngest daughter was Camille’s age and if she was spending the weekend with her father, Camille would accompany Lou. Jack’s eldest daughter, Laura, was James’ age, so even he would come from time to time. But James didn’t get along with Laura’s boyfriend, Rick, so usually James and Peter stayed at home.

  “Well, then, there is only one thing to do!” Jack looked excited. “You’ll have to throw a party!”

  “That’s what I thought,” replied Louise.

  “Who will you invite?” Julia asked.

  Louise wracked her brain. Who would she invite? That was an issue. She hadn’t lived in town long enough to have a collection of friends to call upon; and those she had made were “married friends” who couldn’t decide whose friend they were now.

  “Well, both of you, for a start. And Diana. And Katherine from work.”

  “What about men?” asked Julia. “Do you know any guys?”

  “No, no one I wasn’t married to,” joked Lou. “I’ll have to work on that. After all, I can’t have you and Louis being the only men there!”

  “We won’t mind,” insisted Jack.

  “Besides, I’ve got to start behaving like a single person again. Making new friends is part of my survival strategy.

  *

  Louise parked her car underneath building 8 of the Box Hill Institute campus and made her way to the lift. It was the week before classes were scheduled to begin and despite having received a phone call from Sharon, the Business Programs office manager, Louise had had no contact with her subject co-ordinator, Zoe.

  “Well,” Lou thought, “I suppose I’d better take the initiative here – isn’t that what they always ask you about in interviews?” So she’d called Sharon and announced her plan to come in.

  “Do you have an appointment with anyone?” Sharon had asked.

  “No,” Louise answered. “But I thought I’d like to pick up the textbooks and perhaps see my desk.”

  “Your desk.” Pause. “Right. I’d better put you in to see Paul.”

  “Paul?”

  “He’s the program manager. He can fix you up with a desk.” Sharon sounded tired but helpful.

  “Oh. OK.”

  “See you when you get here.”

  “Thanks, Sharon.”

  As she walked through the building from the car park, Lou observed the students she passed. “Late enrollees,” she thought to herself. They were dressed in a way she rarely saw in such a large group. It
was tantamount to being a uniform.

  For the girls, Lou doubted it possible to show any more bosom or bottom in public and in a daytime environment – a work environment, for some at least. Louise wondered how the male teachers stayed focussed with so much young and abundant cleavage – front and rear – on display.

  The boys, on the other hand, dressed pretty much as her brother had dressed when he went off to technical college in the late 70’s: well-worn blue denim Levi’s; a fitted T shirt displaying some esoteric artwork; some boys even sported a packet of Marlborough Red, an outline of which could be seen in the short sleeve of the T shirt! The shoes were different, though. In the 70’s, the guys had worn desert boots. Now they wore runners, either Nike or Adidas.

  The only things both genders had in common were tattoos, piercings, and outrageous haircuts.

  Louise couldn’t wait to go home and tell James about it. He was at Melbourne uni and she had seen his friends – a dull crowd by comparison. Why such an enormous difference between the uni set and the TAFE students? They were the same age, after all. It seemed inexplicable.

  She arrived at the door to Business Programs and pressed the buzzer. Sharon let her in and waved her through to the central area.

  “Oh, hi,” a nice looking man of about 40 came up to her. “You must be the new accounting teacher,” he smiled. “I’m Barry.”

  “Hi, yes, I must be,” Louise smiled back.

  “Look,” Barry led her towards a row of desks, “if I was you, I’d grab a desk as soon as I could.” He looked around, pointing out names which had been written on pieces of paper and stuck onto the head-height shelf on the wall behind each computer terminal. “Let’s see, we have Linda here; Phil here; aha! Here is a spot!” And he triumphantly led Louise to a computer terminal and chair.

  “Thanks, Barry.” Louise hoped he wasn’t in a hurry and indeed he seemed happy to chat.

  “So,” he said, “where were you before here?”

  “I worked as an accountant with a firm on King St.”

  “Oh!” Clearly Barry hadn’t expected that.

  “What about you?” Louise asked, wondering what else she might have been doing prior to this and hoping Barry’s answer would give her some insights.

  “Oh, this, mostly. I worked in industry a few years ago, but I’ve been teaching here for the past five years.”

  “Oh,” Louise was no more enlightened than previously by this disclosure. “Which industry?”

  “Sorry?”

  “You said you ‘worked in industry’ and I was wondering which industry?” Louise asked.

  “Oh, no, I mean I worked as an accountant. I was a company accountant.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, they don’t know how lucky they are to have real, live accountants working here for this pittance. We could be earning double this amount in industry.” Barry shook his head at the injustice.

  He was a nice looking man. He could stand to lose 10 kilos Louise thought critically, but he was attractive in a casual, clean-cut way.

  “I think it is pretty good money, actually,” Louise said. “And we don’t have to do a Master’s in Education to teach here – which you need to teach in a high school. Too expensive – I’ve spent my education dollar I’m afraid. Now I’m saving up to pay my kids’ HECS!”

  “HELP,” said Barry. Seeing Louise uncomprehending look, he explained. “It isn’t called HECS anymore. It’s now called HELP.”

  “Oh, thanks, good to know!” said Louise.

  Barry laughed. “So, you really think the money is OK?”

  “Yes, I do!” Lou returned his smile. “A full time teacher here gets over $70,000 a year for 20 hours of teaching a week, and all the school holidays off. It’s unbeatable!”

  “But you could still earn a lot more in industry,” Barry insisted.

  Louise frowned. Why did Barry keep saying ‘in industry’ like that? Accounting was a profession, not an industry! “I don’t know about ‘industry’,” she said, “but I’ve been working as a CPA tax accountant for quite a few years and in order to earn that sort of money I’ve had to work from 8 till 6 five days a week, with only 4 weeks leave. I often had to bring work home and never got paid overtime.”

  “Really?” Barry was surprised.

  “Really!” Louise assured him. “And I have a specialty – as well as tax, I was auditing self-managed super funds. The only way a CPA earns more than that is to become an accountant in a large company and work your way up the corporate ladder into a management role, or become a partner of a public accounting firm, and who wants to do that?”

  Barry blinked. “Well, I was earning much more than what I earn here.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “The hours. I need to be there for my daughter. I’m a single father.”

  “Oh!” Louise was surprised. Single working mothers were a dime a dozen, and had been for 20 years. But single working fathers? Still a rarity.

  “Where is your wife?” Louise thought that since he raised the subject, he must want to discuss it. The only situation in which she could imagine a nice man like Barry becoming a single working father was if his wife had died. He didn’t look the type to have married a drug addict or an incompetent; and the fact that he described himself as a ‘single father’ indicated that he had custody of his child.

  “Oh, she lives nearby, with her new husband,” Barry explained. “Her mother and sister live near us, too.”

  “So how come you have custody?”

  “Shared custody.”

  “Oh! I just thought, when you said ‘single father, that you had full responsibility for her.”

  “No, just every other weekend.”

  Louise knew that there was no point in pursuing the conversation. Barry had one child; he only had her on alternate weekends; and he had had to reduce his workload to cope. Wow. They definitely had nothing in common.

  But she couldn’t help liking him despite all this. Barry was nice. There was something refreshingly wholesome about him. So what if he wasn’t a hero? Who said he had to be?

  “Well, I’ll bet that keeps you busy,” she said.

  “It sure does!” Barry’s good humour was irrepressible. “Look,” he fished around in his pocket and produced a mobile phone. “Give me your number and I’ll see what I can do about rounding up some teaching resources for you. You won’t get any help from anyone around here.”

  “Teaching resources?” Lou didn’t understand.

  “Yeah, you know – online solutions manuals, example test dvds for each subject – that sort of thing.”

  “That would be wonderful, Barry. Thank you.” Lou’s gratitude was genuine.

  “We have to look after each other in this place,” said Barry. “Catchya later!”

  “OK, thanks.”

  Chapter 5 – Teacher’s pet

  Louise’s first class was the Advanced Diploma in Accounting. This was the final semester of a two-year program, at the end of which the students could apply for admission to the degree. The subject was cost accounting. There were 22 students, 10 of which were international students for whom English was a new, second language; two hearing impaired students; and a girl whose psychological evaluation had been included in Louise’s roll.

  She entered the room and smiled nervously at the students. The international students had grouped themselves at the front, and although no one returned Louise’s smile, they looked attentive. One student rose and approached Louise. The remaining 10 did not acknowledge the teacher’s arrival at all.

  “I’m Jo,” said the girl. She had short, discoloured (or was that coloured?) hair; a tattoo on her forearm where it could be displayed all year round; a ring in her eyebrow and a stud in her nose; and she wore army fatigues and combat boots. Louise recognised the outfit as the modern homosexual woman’s protest against feminine fashion and socio-sexual stereotypes and stood up straight so that her cameo brooch became her armour.

  Being only 160 cms tall,
though, it didn’t really work out because the student, Jo, was tall and strongly built.

  “I’m schizophrenic,” she declared, “and I may miss some classes.”

  “Yes,” Louise retrieved the paperwork she had been given on Jo. “I see that you have a recognised learning disability. I will ensure that you are given extra time in the exams and a separate room.”

  Jo blinked. “I may not be able to do all the work on time.”

  “Oh, well, what should we do about that?” Louise was puzzled.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” Louise tried to explain. “The set work is to prepare you for the exam. If you don’t do the work, you won’t be able to do the exam, unless you are repeating the subject and you already know it all.”

  “The other teacher just gave me the answers.”

  “Oh!” Louise shook her head. “I won’t be doing that.”

  “Why not?” Jo was no longer weakened by her disability. Now she was confronting.

  “Because the publisher particularly asks that we not distribute the answers to students; and because at work, there are no set answers – only problems.” Louise looked at the girl and saw a frightened bully – frightened by the prospect of work; bullying because that was how she conducted her passage through life. She sighed.

  “Let’s just get to know the topic a little bit first, Jo, and sort out our issues as they arise.”

  “I’ll have to speak to the course co-ordinator,” she said sulkily.

  “Me, too,” agreed Louise.

  Jo sat down, turned to the class and announced “She doesn’t give out the answers.”

  The whole class instantly became silent. Louise smiled at them again. “Hello,” she started. “Welcome to –“

  “What do you mean, you don’t give out the answers?” This was shouted by a tall 20 year old youth sitting in the back row. Even the international students were grumbling to themselves now.

  “Well, there are no answers at the jobs you’ll be doing. But we are going to learn the methods to solve-“