The Teacher's Secret

by Suzanne Leal

  For his fourth lap, he floats on his back and looks up at the sky. It’s a clear sky. Clear and sunny. A good way to start the school year. Yes, he repeats to himself. A good way to start the school year.

  He floats his way back to the shallow end, his head full of nothing much, so much so that he misjudges the length of the pool and bumps his head against the end. It doesn’t hurt so much as knock him out of his reverie. With a bit of a start, he straightens up.

  From over near the pool shower, he hears Ray calling out to him. ‘Bump yer head, did you, mate?’

  When Sid looks up, Ray is speeding down the pathway on his buggy, walking stick poking out of the back. As always, he’s in a pair of board shorts, his calves red and tight from the infection that’s already put paid to movement in his feet. Not that it’s stopped him smoking. Might make me cut down a bit, he says, but buggered if it’s going to make me stop. He’s a rollies man and he rolls them up tightly so they’re as thin as a straw; so thin the filter bulges. That’s another concession to the leg problem: the cigarette filter. Something to keep the doctors off his back.

  ‘The pool take you by surprise, did it, mate?’ he yells. He’s always been louder than Sid.

  Sid puts his hands up on the top edge of the pool and laughs. ‘Lost in me thoughts,’ he calls back.

  Ray parks the buggy in the usual spot: just beside one of the bench seats that’s been concreted into the sandstone that surrounds the pool.

  Getting off the buggy should be a simple enough manoeuvre, but for Ray it’s a bit of a business and he needs more than a minute to manage it. Now, a minute’s not a lot of a time unless you’re watching your big brother do something that should take a couple of seconds, his face screwed up in concentration and in something that isn’t quite pain but looks pretty close to it. That’s when, as always, Sid wants to shout out to him to check he’s okay, to check if he needs any help. But, as always, he stays quiet and carries on like nothing’s wrong. That’s what he’s learnt to do.

  Once he’s off, Ray pulls his walking stick from the back of the buggy and leans on it. He can handle some weight on his feet, but not a lot. Because of the flamin’ gangrene. That’s how Ray tells it. Sid’s pretty sure it’s not actually gangrene, but it’s still not much chop. Still means that his feet won’t work the way they should. Except in the water. They flip along okay in the water. That’s why he likes coming to the pool, no matter what the water temperature is.

  ‘You coming in, mate?’ It’s an offhand question, but Sid times it carefully, waiting until he can see that Ray has got his balance and will be able to get over to the pool without too much drama.

  Ray’s got the script going too. ‘Hold your bloody horses.’

  Standing still in the water is making him cold, but Sid stays put as he waits for his brother to get over to the pool’s edge. It upsets him to watch it—the winch-drag of Ray’s steps—and sometimes he looks away, pretending to check out the headland instead.

  When he’s at the edge of the pool, Ray holds on to the ladder to lower himself down to a sitting position. At the same time, he throws his walking stick aside, so that it clatters on the ground behind him.

  Once he’s finally in, it’s like he’s been reborn. He’s a breaststroke man, not an overarm man, and he never puts his face in the water; he just keeps his head up the whole time, even if there’s a school of sparkling fish swimming right under him.

  Sometimes, they stop at the end of the pool—the far end, not the ladder end—and look across the bay, across Sandy Rock and up onto the headland. It’s a low rise of bush scrub covering loose sandy soil that, at its point, turns to hard sandstone shale. When they were nippers, he and Ray would scour the place for bullet shells left by the shooters after a day on the rifle range. It’s still there now, the rifle range—smack bang in the middle of the headland—and the shooters still come of a weekend, but it’s been a while since he and Ray were up there. No chance for Ray now, but Sid could still do it; have a wander, even take the path all the way over to Raleigh Beach. If he had a mind to, that is.

  And as if he can hear what his brother is thinking, Ray uses his chin to point up to the headland. ‘You been up there lately?’

  Sid gives his chuckle—a quiet, fruity sort of chuckle—and shakes his head. ‘Can’t remember the last time.’

  After a bit, they battle their way back down the length of the pool. Once they get there, Ray flips on his back—face up to the sky, hands out, feet up—while Sid gets out to take a shower. It’s just a wooden post holding up a copper pipe with a shower head at the end of it, but for Sid it’s the best shower in the world: every morning, there it is, all laid out in front of him: a magnificent vista of sandstone, ocean and bush.

  Once he’s rinsed himself, he turns the shower off and reaches for his towel. He has the dressing technique down pat. With the towel wrapped around him, he walks across to the bench where he’s laid out his clothes. Then, checking the towel’s still wrapped tight around his waist, he slides his swimmers down until they fall to the ground. He takes his underpants out from the front pocket of his shorts and manoeuvres them up his legs, all the while making sure that the towel’s still around him okay, that it’s not going to come loose and leave him starkers. Then he does the same with his shorts. Only then does he let the towel drop.

  His shirt he leaves to last. He keeps a comb in his shirt pocket and he runs it through his hair so that his side part is straight and the rest of his hair is slicked down. He’s still got it—his hair, that is—but it’s started to thin out, there’s no denying that. Surprisingly, though, it’s stayed black, although a bit of grey has started to creep up around the sides. Better than Ray, though. He’s grey through and through.

  Now Ray’s pulling himself up the ladder. With a twist, he plops himself onto the edge of the pool and, gripping one side of the ladder, pulls hard until he is standing up. His hand still on the ladder, he bends over to grab his walking stick then lumbers back to the bench and the buggy. When he gets there, he takes his towel, gives himself a cursory wipe down, then reaches over for his T-shirt. When he’s got it back on again, he dips his hand into the front basket of the buggy to fish out his cigarette.

  Now it’s getting late, and it’s time for Sid to go. It’s only a ten-minute walk to the school and he goes straight there. There’s no reason to go home first; the school is close enough that he can nip home for lunch so there’s nothing he needs to take with him.

  Officially, he’s the general assistant—the GA—but for everyone there, he’s just Sid. Diane calls him an institution. He supposes that’s because he’s been there longer than anyone else. Longer than Diane and Helen, and Terry, too, for that matter. And that’s only counting his working time; that’s not counting all the years he went to school there. Ray says that in all his life, Sid’s never moved outside a five-hundred-yard radius: house, school, shops, pool. That’s an exaggeration, of course; for years he worked on building sites, laying bricks all around the place, until it started playing havoc with his back. Luckily, he came across the job at the school.

  He’s always there well before the bell goes. He uses the time to walk around the place and check what needs doing. Most of the kids say hello, just a passing hello as they’re running around doing their thing, whether it’s chasing each other or kicking a soccer ball or playing handball with a tennis ball—that’s been the big thing for the past couple of years: handball. He likes watching it all.

  Now he can see young Melinda Saunders coming in through the gate, her boys in front of her, heading for the play equipment. Young Melinda, already a mother of two. And doesn’t it just seem like yesterday that she was in school uniform herself? Dark-haired, blue-eyed little thing that she was, pigtails flying as she’d run for the equipment, the same way her boys do now. Of course, the equipment’s changed, hasn’t it? When one of the Lumsden boys broke his arm flipping down from the climbing frame, well, that was the last straw. First the frame itself came down, t
hen the slippery dip that was so steep it was more like a roller-coaster, and finally the roundabout. That was the one that puzzled him. How was the roundabout a danger to the kids? The momentum, that’s what someone told him: with a couple of kids pushing, it could go so fast that a kid or two might fly off if they weren’t holding on hard enough.

  Sure the kids needed to be a bit careful, but by gosh they had fun. There’s not the same sense of excitement on the new stuff, even if Melinda’s boys still manage to whip up a storm on it. When Ethan first tried his balancing stunt on the new monkey bars, he couldn’t have been more than nine. Elaine was on playground duty, he remembers that much. Sid watched her face go white when she saw Ethan, standing right up there with his hands in the air. Then her voice got so husky she couldn’t even order him down. In the end, Sid had to go over there himself.

  ‘Good job,’ he called out to the boy. ‘How about showing me how you get down again?’

  When he got no answer to that, he tried a different tack. ‘Can’t you do it, mate? Can’t you get down, is that the problem?’

  That wasn’t the problem; even then he had Ethan’s measure and he knew that, more than anything, the boy needed to prove himself. Just as he’d hoped, Ethan had started to climb down, bending slowly until he was close enough to grab on to the bar before, with a flourish, he dropped down and jumped off.

  You had to admire the kid’s agility. He got that from his dad, Adam. Adam Thompson. One of the local builders. A nice-enough fellow, too. Friendly. One of the parents who always takes the time to say hi when he comes to pick up the boys. And when they come to school together, Adam and Melinda, for assemblies or concerts or what have you, he’s got a nice way with her, holding her hand or linking arms. Things are good between them, that’s pretty clear. It makes Sid happy to see it, even if it is strange to think of young Melinda Saunders as a wife and mother. Not that she’s even Melinda Saunders anymore, of course. She’s Mel Thompson now.

  For a moment he watches her, before he heads over to the little stand-alone building everyone just calls ‘Sid’s place’. It’s not big—most of the building is given over to storage, which leaves him only the front room—but it’s enough for his needs. A workbench spans the width of the room, the wood thick and weathered and gouged. Sid keeps his tools directly above the bench, each tool on its own hook. On the wall opposite the bench he hangs his brooms, and in the corner there’s a table pushed up against the wall with a chair on either side. On the table is a tin Sid fills with the chocolate-chip biscuits they sell at the bakery.

  His little place is tucked in between the school office and the car park. To get there, he has to pass by the back of Diane’s office. There are two windows—one behind the desk, another to the side of it—and whenever Sid walks by, he tilts his head to check whether she’s there. If she is, he always gives her a little wave.

  That’s what he does now: he tilts his head up to check if she’s there. When, instead of Diane’s shock of dark hair, he sees a head of blonde hair, his head jolts back in surprise. It takes him a moment to remember. It’s still only early, so he can’t even blame it on a busy day. Silly old codger, he tells himself.

  He wonders where Diane is now, what corner of the world. She gave him the rundown before she left but there were that many places, she lost him halfway. She’ll be having fun, wherever she is, that’s one thing he can say for sure.

  This new one, she’s a different kettle of fish. Too young to be in charge, but too serious to be so young. A funny combination.

  He watches her through the window, frowning at the computer screen. Already she’s made big changes to Diane’s office. All the kids’ paintings that were stuck to the wall have gone. The lot of them. All that’s left is clean, white walls.

  He’s still peering in when Laurie Mathews flicks her head up from her computer—it reminds him of a rabbit, she does it so quickly. Just as quickly, her eyes meet his and she jumps—fair jumps out of her seat—like she’s spied an axe-murderer. To try to settle her, he smiles, raises a hand and mouths hi. When he does that, there’s an immediate change in her expression. Now she’s not looking frightened anymore; now she’s looking annoyed, so annoyed his hand freezes in a half-wave and his smile fades.

  She’ll take a bit of getting used to, this one.

  Terry

  The end of the day and Terry’s in his own world as he makes his way down to the car park, briefcase swinging against his side. It’s Kurt he’s thinking about mostly, and why the hell Sean got it into his head to move himself overseas when he’s got two young boys. If now’s not the time they need their father, well, when is? One thing he knows for sure is this: a holiday twice a year isn’t going to cut it once the novelty wears off. He wishes he’d known about it beforehand. Then he’d have kicked some sense into Sean’s head. Or at least given it a shot. Too late now, though, by the sounds of it. Strange how much can happen over the holidays.

  He’s so busy mulling it over he doesn’t hear her at first and starts when he finds her right there beside him.

  ‘Can I have a word?’ she asks.

  He’s got to be at the club at four and it’s already quarter to, but it’s clear that ‘no’ isn’t the answer Laurie’s looking for, so he gives her a nod and waits for her to speak.

  ‘I thought we could have a talk in my office,’ is what she says.

  His body sags. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got an appointment at four,’ he says. The word appointment is a good one. Makes it sound like it’s something pressing, something urgent.

  She starts to walk towards the admin building. ‘It won’t take long.’ He falls into step with her. This would be the moment to start up with a bit of small talk, he knows, but he can’t be bothered.

  When they reach her office, she closes the door behind them. She takes a seat behind the desk and offers him one in front of it.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about the incident this morning,’ she says.

  He looks at her blankly.

  ‘The incident with Elsie Burnett.’

  He can’t believe it’d already slipped his mind. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘of course.’ She’ll be wanting to thank him for stepping in. Not that he expects thanks. He always keeps an eye out for Elsie.

  ‘You’re aware of the departmental regulations in relation to physical contact between teachers and students?’

  He stares at her, not sure what she’s getting at. ‘Sorry?’

  She leans back. He seems to have upset her but he’s got no idea why. Her voice is more clipped this time. ‘Departmental regulations prohibit physical contact between teachers and students. You’ve been teaching for a long time, Terry, surely you must know that.’

  He’s still not sure where this is going.

  ‘Your conduct with Elsie this morning—it was inappropriate.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your physical contact with her was inappropriate.’

  Now it’s his turn to get upset. ‘What are you trying to say, Laurie? That I shouldn’t have comforted the child? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I’m not saying you shouldn’t have comforted her. You just shouldn’t have touched her the way you did. It’s in breach of the department’s code of conduct.’

  That does it. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ He can hear his voice rising. ‘I gave the kid a cuddle. Her mad, drug-addled mother had just lashed into her in front of the whole school—and on the first day of term, no less. Unsurprisingly, the girl was distraught. Wouldn’t you be? She didn’t need me to stand back and tell her it would be all right—because, let’s face it, Laurie, it’s not going to be all right, is it? She didn’t need me to give her some bloody meaningless platitude. She just needed a cuddle, for Christ’s sake. And if you’re waiting for an apology for that, then you’ll be waiting a while.’

  He grits his teeth as he makes his way to the car park, so angry he can’t think. On autopilot, he starts the car and drives to the golf club.

 
; He could drive right up to the clubhouse but, as usual, he parks down the bottom where he can look through the scrub and across to the rock pool. God’s own country, and it’s still a secret.

  He turns off the engine but makes no effort to get out of the car. His heart is beating double speed. He can feel it popping its way through his shirt. He’ll be on his way to a heart attack if it doesn’t slow down soon. And he’ll be blowed if he’s going to have a heart attack on her account.

  Your conduct was inappropriate.

  God, just thinking about it makes him want to punch something.

  Lady, he should have said, I was a teacher when you were still at school, and I think I can judge what’s appropriate and what’s not. How dare you question my conduct? How dare you? That’s exactly what he should have said.

  He’s still cursing as he wheels his golf bag up to the clubhouse. But he can’t let it spoil his game. On that score he’s adamant: he’s not going to let it put him off his game.

  Sid is already waiting for him, holding his one golf club, his pockets bulging with golf balls.

  ‘Sorry for keeping you, mate,’ Terry says.

  ‘I saw you go into the office. Figured you might be held up.’

  Terry kicks at the ground. ‘Well, she wanted a word, didn’t she?’

  Sid nods but doesn’t ask for the details. It’s one of the things Terry most likes about him, that he doesn’t push. ‘Righto,’ he says.