The Teacher's Secret

by Suzanne Leal

  When she hears this, an idea pops into Joan’s head. She surprises herself by giving voice to it. ‘I could make you one,’ she says.

  Emily’s eyes light up. ‘For me?’

  Joan ducks her head at the question, embarrassed she hasn’t checked with Nina first.

  But Nina is looking pleased. ‘That’s a lovely offer, Jean—as long as it’s no trouble.’

  Joan shakes her head. ‘It’s no trouble at all,’ she says. ‘I used to be a dressmaker.’

  No trouble is less than the truth and Joan spends hours getting the costume right. In her house, there are no books for children, so on Saturday morning, she walks down to the library and looks through the picture-book section until she finds what she needs. In the book she chooses, Goldilocks wears a simple yellow-waisted frock, and this is what she uses as her model.

  All day she works on it and it is evening before she is finished. Holding the gingham dress out in front of her—pressed now and on a coathanger—she is caught by a wave of delight.

  Without stopping to think, she hurries next door. Only after she has knocked does it occur to her that this may not be a good time to visit: perhaps it is already dinner time or bath time or bedtime.

  As soon as Nina opens the door, these thoughts disappear as a burst of uncontained excitement rushes through her. ‘I’ve finished!’ she exclaims.

  Nina smiles. ‘Come in,’ she says. ‘Please, come in.’

  Joan’s pulse quickens. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Thank you.’

  Inside, she scarcely recognises the place. Shyly, gingerly even, she walks down the hallway of the house she used to know well. Stripped of its wallpaper and painted white, it is foreign to her now: the same shape, the same proportions, but strangely unrecognisable, like an old friend with a new face.

  Nina leads her into the lounge room. When Mr Edwards was living here, it had a brown striped sofa in it; that and a television fitted inside a wooden sideboard. Now the room has a red sofa and two orange armchairs. Little Emily is lying on the sofa, curled up, watching television.

  ‘Look what Jean made for you,’ Nina calls to her.

  Emily’s eyes widen when she sees the dress. ‘Is that for me?’ she asks.

  Joan flushes with pride. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘it is.’

  Although it is almost time for bed, the little one wants to try it on immediately.

  ‘Why not?’ says Nina.

  So carefully, very carefully, Joan slips the dress over Emily’s head, fastens the zipper and ties the bow at the back.

  The little girl is radiant. ‘This is my best dress ever!’ she says.

  Joan’s heart swells to hear it. ‘I’m so glad,’ she says. ‘I’m so glad you like it.’

  ‘Are you going to make all the dresses?’ the little girl asks her. ‘Are you going to do all of them, for everybody in Mummy’s class?’

  The question confuses Joan and she looks to Nina for help. But Nina just shakes her head as though she doesn’t understand the question, either.

  Only when the little girl keeps asking does she step in.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Nina says, looking embarrassed. ‘Jean made a lovely dress just for you. Imagine how long it would take to make a costume for everybody!’

  That’s when Joan remembers. ‘The plays,’ she says, ‘does she mean the costumes for the plays?’

  When Nina nods, Joan again surprises herself. ‘I can make them for you,’ she says.

  She’s nervous and she’s excited. She’s not sure if she’s more excited than nervous, or more nervous than excited. More nervous, she decides. But not so nervous as to back out. The meeting is starting at 7.30 pm. It is not quite six, but already she is dressed and ready. She is wearing a frock she made some years ago. It’s wool crepe, in blues and greens, like swirls of sky and grass mixed up together.

  She’s made a batch of chocolate-chip biscuits to take with her. Once they’ve cooled, she arranges them on one of the good plates and covers them with cling wrap. There’s nothing left to do, then, but wait.

  How slowly the time passes. So very slowly. But it does pass and finally—finally!—it is time to go next door.

  As always, it is hard to leave the house: twice she almost does it, and twice she turns back again. Once to check the oven (it was off) and once to check the heater (it was off, too). It is an effort not to turn back a third time. When she still hesitates, it is her mother who urges her forward. Keep going, she whispers. This is a special night, Joanie love, so you need to keep going.

  Outside, is it very dark, and with the porch light still out it is difficult to see properly. And only once she’s shut the door behind her does she realise she’s forgotten to bring a torch. For a moment or two she swivels on the spot, turning back then forward, back then forward.

  Don’t worry about it, love, her mother reassures her. You haven’t far to go and the streetlights are on.

  This is true. The streetlights are on and they throw just enough light for her to make her way across to Nina’s. To save time, she could simply cut across the lawn—it is the quickest way there—but tonight it feels more official, more appropriate to use the footpath.

  When she gets there, she presses the doorbell then steps back to wait. She hears nothing: no footsteps, no voices. Perhaps, she thinks, she has made a mistake. Perhaps it is the wrong night. Perhaps it was last night. Perhaps she’s missed it.

  Steady on, Joanie, her mother warns her. Give the poor girl a moment.

  It is good advice, for now there are footsteps coming down the hall. Then the door opens and there she is, Nina herself, all dressed up and looking beautiful.

  ‘Hi,’ she says. ‘Thanks so much for coming.’

  Joan presses the plate of biscuits into Nina’s hands and follows her down the hallway. There are two doors on the right. Both of them are closed but as they pass the second one, Nina pushes it open. ‘I told Emily you’d be in to say goodnight,’ she says. ‘She wants to show you something.’

  Tucked up in bed, the little girl grins up at her. ‘Look,’ she says, ‘I’m wearing my new dress.’

  When Joan looks closer, she sees that this is right: Emily is dressed for bed in her Goldilocks costume.

  ‘Do you think I look lovely?’ she asks.

  Joan nods. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘I do.’ Oh, the joy of it; the joy of looking at that lovely little face smiling up at her.

  Nina taps her on the arm. ‘Come on, Jean,’ she says, ‘I want to introduce you to the others.’

  There are two women sitting in the lounge room. One of them is vaguely familiar but it is the other one Joan can’t keep her eyes off. A black woman! A black woman—black as the ace of spades—right here in Brindle. Joan can’t help marvelling at her. And then the woman is standing up to greet her; standing up and stretching a hand out to her. To her surprise, the woman’s palm is light—not white, but so much paler than the rest of her. How strange, Joan thinks, how strange, and quickly she glances at her own palm to check whether it, too, is a shade lighter.

  The black woman is talking to her. ‘I’m Rebecca,’ she’s saying. ‘It’s so lovely to meet you.’

  Joan would not have expected her to have a voice like that. Such a beautiful voice; the sort of voice you’d expect to hear on the radio. Yes, she thinks to herself, that’s what it is: it’s a radio voice. A wonderfully rich radio voice and when Joan replies, ‘It’s lovely to meet you too,’ her own sounds thin and scratchy.

  ‘Rebecca’s son is in my class,’ Nina tells her. ‘Mel’s son, too.’

  Mel is the other woman. The two of them, Mel and Rebecca, are sitting together on the red sofa. On the coffee table in front of them, there’s a plate of lemon slice. Nina sets Joan’s biscuits beside it.

  Mel leans in to look at them. ‘Chocolate chip?’ she asks, and when Joan blushes and murmurs that yes, they are, Mel pats her stomach and says she can’t wait to try them.

  From the front of the house comes the sound of the doorbell. ‘That’ll b
e Sid,’ Nina tells them as she hurries to answer it.

  Moments later, the sound of a man’s laughter echoes down the hallway. It’s a good sound, throaty and infectious, and Joan is curious to see who it is. When he steps into the lounge room—Nina right behind him—Joan can’t believe her eyes.

  It’s him.

  The lovely man from the bakery; the lovely man from the library. He’s here, in Nina’s house.

  How can that be?

  Nina introduces him. ‘This is Sid,’ she says. ‘Sid Charlton.’

  And when he looks over at Joan, he smiles. ‘Nice to see you again,’ he says.

  Joan feels her face burn with embarrassment and pleasure. He remembers me, she thinks; how lovely that he should remember me.

  ‘Jean is a dressmaker,’ Nina explains. ‘She’ll be making all the costumes.’

  When he hears that, Sid gives a low whistle. ‘My word,’ he says, ‘that’ll be a job and a half.’

  Joan’s palms are beginning to sweat. ‘But I love sewing,’ she says.

  The five of them are a committee: the Year 6 play committee. Nina herself is the producer, Rebecca is the director, Mel is in charge of photography, make-up and set design, and Sid is in charge of props. Joan has a title, too: costume designer. Costume designer. She’s the costume designer.

  They have three months to get everything ready. This is what Nina tells them. She sounds anxious but Rebecca tells them not to worry: all they need to do is stay focused. Rebecca has experience in production work, Mel explains; she used to be on television.

  Television—she’s not radio, she’s television. Of course she is, Joan thinks: her voice is a television voice and her face—so smooth and perfect-looking—is a television face, too. There is something magnetic about her. Something that draws the eye, that makes it hard to look away. So Joan doesn’t look away. She tries to listen, too; she tries to concentrate on what’s being said. But there is a lot to take in—a lot of information about scripts and rehearsals and spreadsheets and timetables—and after a while, she finds herself fading.

  Sid is sitting across from her and when she looks over at him, she sees that he is fading, too. This comforts her: she’s not the only one getting tired. He must feel her glance on him, for quickly he straightens up again.

  When the meeting itself is over, they all stay for coffee. Sid reaches for one of Joan’s biscuits. ‘These are beaut,’ he tells her, ‘just how I like them.’

  Later, when he stands to leave, he offers her a lift home.

  She blushes and shakes her head. ‘I’m just next door,’ she tells him.

  So he walks her home instead. On the way, he starts to tell her a bit about himself, and a bit about the work he does at the school. Suddenly, Joan wishes she lived further away, streets away, a much longer conversation away.

  When they get to the door, he waits for her to let herself in. But without the porch light, she can hardly see a thing. She certainly can’t find the right key.

  When she does find it, she struggles to fit it in the lock. ‘Could do with a bit of light here,’ he murmurs.

  ‘The globe’s gone,’ she tells him, shamefaced. ‘I wanted to change it but I can’t get the old one out.’

  When, finally, she has managed to get the door open and turns to thank him—for keeping her company, for walking her home—he leans slightly towards her. For a moment, for the very smallest of moments, she thinks he might kiss her.

  He doesn’t. Instead, he straightens up, pushes a hand through his hair and tells her that he’d best be off. And so, with a wave and something of a smile, he makes his way up the pathway and over to a car that is parked just before Nina’s house.

  She watches from the doorway until he is in the car and has driven off. When she closes the door behind her, she leans against it. ‘Sid,’ she murmurs to herself. ‘His name is Sid.’

  Sid

  At the hardware store, he has a quick look up the aisles for Terry. When he’s sure the coast is clear, he hurries to the end of the aisle where Jim keeps the light globes. He picks out a few of them, a mixture of bayonet and screw fittings, and has them cradled in his arms when he hears his name being called. He turns, and one of the boxes falls out of his hands. He hears the glass shatter as it hits the ground.

  ‘Hey, you!’ the voice is calling. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ It’s Terry, of course.

  Sid tries to laugh. ‘Just destroying the joint.’ In truth, he’s cursing himself for being so clumsy.

  Terry picks up the box and gives it a shake. ‘Faulty stock, by the looks of it,’ he says, as he hands Sid a replacement. ‘What do you need all these for, anyway?’

  ‘Stocking up for school,’ he lies. It’s not a good lie, though, and he waits for Terry to ask him the obvious question: why he doesn’t just order them through the school, along with everything else.

  That’s not what he asks. ‘What, in the holidays? Why don’t you wait until next term?’

  And when he mumbles something about wanting to keep on top of things, Terry doesn’t pursue it, he just nods.

  As they walk down to the register, Terry is quiet at first. Finally he asks, ‘So how’s it going at school?’

  Sid hesitates. ‘All right,’ he says cautiously. ‘Not much to report really.’

  ‘What about the kids?’

  ‘Good, pretty good.’

  Terry nods slowly. ‘So, she’s shaping up all right then, is she?’

  Sid isn’t sure what he means.

  ‘The new one,’ says Terry, and this time there’s an edge of impatience in his voice. ‘The new teacher. Is she doing all right?’

  It’s hard to know what sort of answer he’s after: if he just wants to hear that Nina’s not a patch on him or if he’s looking for an update.

  ‘I’d say she’s going okay,’ he ventures.

  Terry considers this for a moment. ‘But what’s she been doing with them?’

  At first he keeps it vague. ‘Oh, the usual, I’d say.’

  Still, Terry keeps at him. ‘Anything in particular?’

  ‘Well, they’re rehearsing a couple of plays for the Year 6 show,’ he offers.

  Terry sucks at his top lip. ‘Good,’ he says, his voice stiff, ‘good to hear. Which plays?’

  It’s this question that does it. It’s this question that fills Sid with a feeling of such pride he starts tripping over his words in his rush to tell Terry all about it. To tell him that they aren’t just normal plays, they’re rap plays; that there’s a committee, and he’s part of it. And not just part of it: he’s in charge of props. Plus they’ve got themselves a proper director—who used to be in television, he adds casually. They’ve even got a costume designer who’s a professional.

  ‘Her name’s Jean,’ Sid tells him, and saying her name out loud makes him feel so good he says it again. ‘Jean,’ he says. ‘She’s Nina’s neighbour. Nina, the new teacher,’ he clarifies. ‘Nina Foreman.’

  Only then does he notice that while Terry’s lips are still fixed in a smile, the rest of his face has fallen. ‘Everything sounds good, then,’ he murmurs.

  That’s when Sid kicks himself for having been so thoughtless, for having gone on about it so much. For having said anything at all.

  ‘Things aren’t bad,’ he says, trying to play it down. And that’s the truth of it: things aren’t bad at the school. It could even be said that things are good, despite all the trouble, despite everything.

  A silence follows, and for the first time since they’ve known each other, it isn’t an easy one.

  In the end, it’s Terry who breaks it and who says, in the voice of a man who has other things to do, ‘How about I leave you with Leonie, then? She’ll pop everything through for you.’

  Sid nods and, without speaking, the two of them make their way down to the front of the shop.

  Standing at the register is a woman with a name tag that says Hello, I’m Leonie. Terry gives her a wink. ‘Watch out for him, won’t you, love?’ He
nods in Sid’s direction.

  The woman laughs as she starts to ring the items through.

  ‘See you, mate!’ Terry calls out in a jovial voice.

  Sid tries hard to match his tone. ‘See you, Terry!’ he calls back, his palms clammy. ‘See you soon.’

  In the daylight, the house looks different: brighter and more welcoming. Welcoming enough to give him the confidence to walk up to the front door and ring the bell.

  He hears the lock click before the door opens a fraction.

  ‘Hello?’ she asks, her voice guarded.

  Her wariness makes Sid nervous and he hastens to explain himself: that he just popped around to take a look at the porch light, to see if he can’t fix it.

  When he’s said all that, the door opens wider and there she is, right in front of him. She looks nice, he thinks, in a green dress that’s just about the colour of her eyes.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ she says softly.

  This makes him feel chuffed. ‘It’s a pleasure,’ he says, ‘a real pleasure.’

  He’s brought a stepladder with him and she stays at the door, watching, as he climbs up it. ‘Water’s starting to warm up again,’ he tells her, trying to make conversation. ‘You swim much?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Not much.’

  He makes a clicking sound with his tongue. ‘That’s no good. Because, tell you what, it’s God’s own country over here and we’ve got to take advantage of it. The rock pool, for example. From now through to May, it’s beautiful. Especially if you’re down there early.’

  He throws her a quick look, keeping hold of the side of the ladder so he won’t lose his balance. ‘Come down one morning. You won’t regret it, I promise you that.’

  She nods and says she’ll think about it. It’s all the encouragement he needs. ‘How about Tuesday, then?’ he says, trying to sound casual. ‘If you’re free, that is.’

  But this suggestion seems to alarm her and his heart sinks to see it.

  ‘No pressure,’ he says. ‘I just thought it might be nice.’ He tries for a light-hearted tone, but his voice just comes out hoarse.

  She looks up at him, then, her eyes shy and her face suddenly crimson. ‘I can’t swim,’ she blurts out. ‘I’ve never learnt.’