The Teacher's Secret

by Suzanne Leal

  It is this thought that follows her through the evening as she bathes their daughter, dresses her, reads to her and puts her to bed.

  Only then does she hear Steve’s car pull up outside. As though separated by perspex, she watches him come through the door, smiling as he walks over to kiss her.

  ‘Dinner’s ready,’ she tells him.

  Only once they have started eating does she ask, her tone casual, ‘Where were you today?’

  Confused, he gives her a hesitant, puzzled sort of smile. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Today—where were you?’

  This second time, he takes longer to reply, and his answer, when it comes, is cautious. ‘At work, babe.’ And then a pause. ‘Why?’

  She stops to compose herself. When she is sure she is able to continue, she says, ‘I rang your work and they said you were off sick today. But, you know, I can see that you weren’t home at all today.’

  She wants to wait for him to process this but she can’t stop herself. ‘Are you having an affair with that Sue woman?’

  He licks his lips and starts to shake his head.

  ‘That’s not very convincing.’ This is what she hears herself saying to him. Her composure, her calmness, surprises her.

  Inside, a different voice is raging. A sobbing, desperate voice pleading with him to make it better, to tell her that nothing is happening, that all is well, that they are good, that things are fine.

  She waits for him to deny it, to reassure her that anything she has heard is wrong, has been misinterpreted, is a mistake. She braces herself, too, for righteous anger in his denial, for indignation and fury.

  She gets none of that. At first, he says nothing. He simply sits at the table, his arms on his legs, his hands clasped together, his head bowed. It is a stance that frightens her.

  ‘It’s not like that,’ he says softly.

  She feels panic rising up into her throat. ‘It’s not like what?’

  ‘It’s not like that.’ He raises his head and, for a brief instant, meets her eye.

  She swallows. ‘So tell me what it is like.’ She keeps her voice calm, sympathetic even. Later, she will see this as a mistake, this prompt to tell her everything. Everything she doesn’t want to hear.

  ‘I had this thing for her, you know, years ago. And then, there she was again. I couldn’t help it, Nina. I couldn’t help it.’

  He reaches over and puts his hand on hers. Rather than moving her hand away, which is what she wants to do, she lets it stay there.

  Looking beyond him, past the kitchen table and over to the kitchen bench, she spies a cockroach egg case stuck to the underside of the bench. She’ll need to get rid of it. That won’t be hard. She could simply dislodge it with a fingernail or a knife or even the edge of a piece of paper. Really, she should do it quickly because otherwise she’ll forget about it, the egg will hatch and it will be too late. But she can’t do anything with his hand clamped over hers.

  He starts to sob, making ugly, gulping sounds. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  Terry

  He thought he knew Vonnie’s place well. But it’s one thing knowing where the bathroom is and another thing altogether remembering where she keeps the chopping board.

  They won’t be discharging her until Monday. That’s what the doctors are saying. And that’s about all he’s managed to get out of Vonnie. As to the procedure itself, he’s still in the dark. Women’s business. That’s all she had to say about it.

  It was a no-brainer when she asked him to look after Bridie while she was out of action. He could have just taken the little one over to their place—that was one option—but with her school books and uniform and the rest of it, it made more sense for Michelle and him to just move in instead. It’s not like they haven’t done it before. The first time—it was years ago now—Bridie couldn’t have been more than six, seven at a pinch. It had been a longer stretch that time. Over a week. Another stint in hospital for Vonnie, but for the life of him he can’t remember what for. He can only remember how nice the time had been: how they’d taken Bridie to the movies. That Nemo one, that’s what they’d seen, the three of them. Finding Nemo. And gosh, it had been lovely sitting up in the picture theatre together. Ice-creams for everyone and popcorn to share; Bridie’s eyes had nearly popped at the size of the bucket. Lovely. A lovely day. Even now he smiles to think back on it. They’d both felt a bit sad when the week was up and Vonnie was back again.

  So it’s nice to be doing it again, even if it’s only for a few days.

  Except now he can feel himself starting to get frustrated. He’s checked the cupboards, but it’s not there. It’s not on the draining tray, either, and it’s not in any of the drawers.

  Finally, he gives up. ‘Poppet,’ he calls out, ‘can you tell me where to find the chopping board?’

  He doesn’t have to call out twice; Bridie is quick to emerge from her bedroom. ‘Nan normally puts it on top of the microwave,’ she says. The microwave, an early model—maybe the earliest model ever—sits on a corner of the kitchen bench. When he looks more closely, he sees that Bridie is right: that’s exactly where the chopping board is, right there on top of the microwave.

  ‘Funny place to stick a chopping board,’ he says. ‘I mean, say all that radiation somehow made its way up there? Think what would happen to the chopping board. It’d get completely zapped, wouldn’t it?’

  Terry smiles as she considers this. Gee, she looks pretty with the new glasses, he thinks.

  ‘I’ve never seen a chopping board get zapped by a microwave, Mr P,’ she decides. As always, her voice is as soft as a whisper.

  ‘Well, Bridie, my friend, there has to be a first time for everything now, doesn’t there?’

  She’s not sure if he’s being serious so he gives her a wink to help her out. ‘You know,’ he says, ‘I had a hankering for bangers and mash tonight, something easy, being Friday night and all. What do you think?’

  Bridie agrees. She likes sausages, too.

  ‘I was thinking,’ he says, ‘that if we get a move on now, we should have it all ready by the time Mrs P gets home.’

  It’s an effort to remember to call her that, but Bridie won’t call her Michelle, so Mrs P it is. Everyone else calls her Michelle: she’s never been one to stand on ceremony, especially at the surgery. He’s biased, of course, but he thinks Michelle would have to be the perfect medical receptionist. She clever, she’s organised, she’s nice to the patients and always seems to know when someone needs a bit of a pep-up or a bit of TLC, even if it’s just a smile and a squeeze of the hand. His only gripe is that she always has to go beyond the call of duty. Like now, for example. It’s already a quarter past six, long past her knock-off time, but she’s still there. Some crisis or other. Yet again. But, love, he keeps saying to her, you’re the receptionist. Can’t you leave it to the doctors to sort out their after-hours crises? But it’s like talking to a brick wall, isn’t it, because whatever the circumstances, you can rest assured that Michelle will always go the extra mile. Which means they’ll be eating late tonight. Late, at least, by Bridie and Vonnie’s standards; they’re usually done and dusted by six-thirty, and both in bed by eight.

  Bridie’s a good little helper in the kitchen, and she’s a whiz with the peeler—even the blunt old thing Vonnie has—so he lets her take care of the potatoes while he strings the beans.

  ‘I thought we could catch up with your dad tomorrow.’ He tries to keep his voice casual. ‘When we finish up at the hospital, that is.’

  Bridie keeps peeling. ‘You mean after we visit Nan?’

  He nods. ‘That’s what I was thinking. I mean, we won’t need to stay at the hospital long—your nan will be home in a couple of days anyway—so it’d give us the rest of the day then, wouldn’t it?’

  She nods but doesn’t look up. ‘All right,’ she says.

  It’s a quiet time, then, between them. It would be good to have a bit of music but there i
sn’t a radio in the kitchen.

  ‘You want me to tell you a bit of a story about your dad?’

  That piques her interest—he knew it would—and straightaway she looks up. Her expression, though, is guarded.

  He smiles to reassure her. ‘It’s a good story,’ he says, ‘a funny one.’

  ‘About my dad?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘it’s a funny story about your dad. You want to hear it?’

  She’s stopped peeling now. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘I want to hear it.’

  ‘All right,’ he says, ‘so you know I taught your dad when he was in Year 6, but did you know that I was also his housemaster?’

  She shakes her head: she didn’t know that.

  ‘He was in Bradman House—just like you are now—and in those days, I was Bradman’s housemaster, and your dad, he was one of our best runners.’

  This seems to surprise her. ‘Nan said he played footy.’

  Terry nods. ‘That’s true, but to be good at footy you’ve got to be a good runner as well.’

  How curious it is, he thinks, the whole gene thing: that Trent’s daughter should be the spitting image of him looks-wise, but nothing like him in terms of the physical know-how. And didn’t he have it in spades? Quick, agile, strong, Trent was the whole package.

  ‘Anyway, it was the school athletics carnival and your dad, he was a red-hot sprinter—the best in Bradman, probably the best in Year 6. So when the twelve-year-old boys were called up for the hundredmetre race, well, everyone in Bradman had their hopes set on your dad winning the race. That’d mean five points for Bradman and we needed those points to have any chance of winning the carnival. So your dad, he lines up with the rest of the kids, the starting pistol goes and he’s off like a shot. I’m up by the finish line and I watch him come, faster and faster, and he’s at the head of the pack. You beauty, I think. And there’s only fifteen metres left, less even, when it happens.’

  Bridie is all agog now. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He suddenly petered out, that’s what happened.’ He shoots her a look. ‘You know what it was like?’

  She doesn’t.

  ‘It was like one of those battery toys that suddenly runs out of power. That’s exactly what it was like. What’s going on? I thought to myself. Maybe he had a stitch, maybe that was the problem. But it wasn’t that at all.’

  ‘What was it?’ she asks. ‘What was it, Mr P?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what it was: it was typical Trent, larrikin that he was. When I looked harder, I saw that instead of leaning forward, he was standing upright, as straight as a soldier. And instead of pushing his legs out behind him, to give himself more speed, he was lifting his legs high up in front of him, so high I thought he’d be able to touch his chin with his knees. You know what your rascal dad was doing, Bridie?’

  She looks completely mystified.

  ‘He was showboating—legs up, head up high with a goofy smile on his face—he was showboating for the school. So instead of winning the race by a couple of metres, he pulled in third. I was ropeable, I was absolutely ropeable. And do you know what he said?’

  ‘What, Mr P? What did my dad say?’

  It kills him to hear her little voice; so eager, so thirsty to know more about her dad—her silly, silly dad. If he’s not careful, it’ll even make him teary. Pulling himself together, he makes a pantomime of his face: eyes large, eyebrows raised, mouth pursed. ‘This is what your father said: Well, Mr P, he said, I still got third and I cracked the whole school up. He pointed over to the stands and, sure enough, all the kids—all the kids in the whole school—they were laughing and pointing at your dad. And you know what I thought?’

  Bridie shakes her head.

  ‘Cranky as I was—and disappointed as I was for him, and for Bradman as well, I suppose—there was a part of me that admired him, too, for just getting out there and giving a performance for the school. Because, you know, that was the other thing about your dad. He was quite the performer. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d become an actor. Wouldn’t have surprised me if I’d seen his name up in lights.’

  Charisma, that’s what he had, bucketloads of charisma. And for a moment Terry loses himself thinking about it; thinking about Trent, all grown up and walking the red carpet. It wouldn’t have been a stretch, not really. Not then, not looking forward like that.

  He can’t bear thinking about the rest of it. Trent, he says to himself, Trent, you stupid, stupid boy. What were you thinking? What in God’s name were you thinking on that day? Because if ever there was a day to take back in a life, that was the one.

  But enough. Enough of Trent. Enough of all of that. It’s already quarter to seven and Bridie will be starting to flag.

  ‘Tell you what, love,’ he says, ‘since we’re running a bit late, why don’t you whip in and have your shower right now?’

  Once she’s gone, Terry reaches into the fridge for a beer and sits down to drink it.

  Vonnie keeps the curtains closed but Terry likes to keep them open so he can look out onto the garden. It’s pretty at night, lit up by the streetlights. He keeps his eye out for Michelle, too. The bus drops her at the top of the street and she just needs to walk down the hill to get to the house. It’s safe enough, that’s not a problem, even if it’s already dark before six now.

  Which reminds him: he’ll need to switch on the porch light so she doesn’t trip up. There are a couple of steps up to the porch and it’s like guesswork without the light on.

  No sooner has he settled back on the lounge when there comes a cry from the bathroom. Leaving his beer on the coffee table, Terry hurries over. ‘What is it?’ he calls through the door. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Bridie’s little voice is muffled. ‘The hot tap—it’s stuck, Mr P, it’s completely stuck.’

  God, he thinks, she’ll bloody scald herself if she can’t turn the tap off. So he opens the door and rushes into the bathroom. There’s no screen or curtain to cover the shower recess and when she sees him there, she covers her body and turns away.

  ‘I’m not looking, love,’ he says, ‘I’m not looking. I just want to turn off the tap so you won’t burn yourself.’

  ‘I can’t turn it on, Mr P, I can’t turn it on at all.’

  Immediately, he relaxes. ‘So the water’s too cold, love, not too hot, is that the problem?’

  The back of her head moves up and down. He lets his eyes scan the length of her body. And what a beautiful body it is, he thinks to himself. Such a lovely little thing. His finger wrapped around the hot tap now, he gives it a wrench.

  ‘There you go, love, done. Probably needs a new washer. I’ll see if I can pick one up over the weekend.’

  A couple of minutes later, she’s calling out again. Because there are no towels. So he grabs her one and, sticking his hand through the door, leaves it on the edge of the vanity.

  Then he returns to the lounge room, retrieves his beer and settles back on the sofa to enjoy it.

  Laurie

  When she looks up from the screen, she’s surprised to find it dark outside. And when she checks her watch, she sees that it’s already ten to seven. There’s enough work to keep her here all night but suddenly she’s feeling hungry. It’s Friday night and on Friday nights, she rents a DVD from the video store and gets Indian from the takeaway shop next door. And now she’s craving curry and pappadams. So she switches off her computer, picks up a folder of papers to go through over the weekend and makes her way to the car.

  There are a couple of ways to get home to Ashton, but Laurie always turns right up Hart Street then onto the main road that leads her out of Brindle and towards the city. To get to school in the morning, she simply does the trip in reverse: down the main road that runs all the way to Jinda, left down Hart Street, then along the coast until she hits the school. On a good day, she can be there in twenty minutes.

  Bridie Taylor lives in Hart Street. Hers is a pleasant-looking house, though the front garden needs some wo
rk; there are weeds in the lawn that need to be dug out and dandelions have sprung up on either side of the front steps. Sometimes, Laurie sees the girl playing there by herself. Perhaps this is what has piqued her interest. Laurie is an only child, too.

  Lately, when she has been driving past, Bridie has begun to lift her hand up in a wave. The first time, this had surprised Laurie. In truth, she’d felt caught out. It hadn’t occurred to her that the child would notice her, just as she had noticed the child. And so, to begin with, she hadn’t waved back, not that first time, and not the second time either. The third time, although she didn’t wave, she did give a nod. But now she waves back. Once or twice, she’s even been tempted to give her a toot. This is something she has resisted; she is the child’s principal, after all, and distance is important in such a relationship. So she never toots, she only waves.

  This evening, when she drives along the water, the bay is black and beautiful and, above it, the moon is full and high. If she wasn’t so hungry, she might even pull up and look out at it for a while. Instead, she turns into Hart Street. And as she drives along the street, she looks across to Bridie’s place, lit up by the towering streetlight in front of it.

  Tonight, however, what she sees gives her such a jolt it makes her sit bolt upright, swerve into the kerb and pull on the handbrake.

  His car—Terry Pritchard’s car—is parked outside the little girl’s house. After dark and he’s at the child’s house on a Friday night. What the hell is he doing there?

  Hurrying out of the car, Laurie walks across the road so quickly she is almost running. She raps hard on the door.

  Almost immediately, the door flies open and there he is, in the doorway. When he sees her, he jumps. He literally jumps. ‘What are you doing here?’ he blurts out.

  What is she doing there? Well, that’s hardly the question, is it? Behind him, she can see into a lounge room. Sitting on the coffee table is an open can of beer.