by Kim Hodges
*
The situation with Ron and the Department of Education was still months away. Meanwhile Stewart had revelled in the power that he had held in the prestigious position of being the first spy lad. He was always eager for the spying rotation to complete its cycle, so he could have his turn again. As he was daydreaming about blonde women, flesh, long legs and large breasts, rather than paying attention to the overhead fan, poor Stewart got up from a crouching position on a workstation bench and hit his head on the fan, which was on high. The noise was so loud, my body jolted, and I looked up to see blood flowing down his face and between his hands. A lad raced to turn off the fan, another to Ron’s office. He banged on the door and Ron came out to race him off to the office. The lads decided against a magazine viewing session, due to the circumstances, and it having been Stewart’s turn. Ron came back without Stewart.
“Stewart will be OK. The cut wasn’t so bad; it was just that the head bleeds a lot. The office lady is putting a bandage on his head. We’ve phoned his mother,” said Ron. “I have to fill in an incident form and I need you all to agree that I was in the woodwork room, not my office, at the time Stewart was injured.”
We all nodded in agreement. Although I knew that it was the wrong thing to do, it was also the easiest thing to do. I selfishly thought about continuing with my project and the free rein Ron had given me. No other woodwork teacher would have given me that much freedom was how I justified myself. We all carried on, cautiously. Ron stayed in the room for the remainder of the lesson. Fifteen minutes later, Stewart appeared, with a huge bandage around his head, and an ice pack on it. “I was told to come and wait here until my mum comes and picks me up, so I can get my school bag too,” he said. Naturally the fans were now off.
“Good luck mate. Hope you get a few days off school,” said a classmate.
“I’ll take over the roof panels, while you’re gone,” said another.
“Thanks,” said Stewart.
His mother eventually arrived. He was home sick for the rest of the week. After this incident Ron was around in the woodwork room a bit more.
*
Ron had low expectations of his students. Each class was left to fend for itself. Ron oversaw, gave direction, and provided advice and expertise only when his students requested it. I never laid eyes on a textbook, nor a slip of paper—nothing that resembled curriculum or theory. Luckily, this suited me, as my completed projects were brilliant! I was one of Ron’s success stories. There were only a couple. He did brag about me. I believe he viewed other students as dim and lacking initiative; it was of course nothing to do with his lack of interest in teaching.
BJ’s mansion did get finished. It was big with a sloping roof and painted in bold colours. The class and Ron were so elated. Photos were taken and an article was written up for the school newsletter. The school principal visited, congratulated Ron, and shook every student’s hand. “It’s an outstanding achievement of team work and one good teacher,” Ron boldly said.
After the backslapping was over, a lad asked: “How will we get it out?”
“Out the window, I suppose,” I replied.
A boy walked over and opened the window. We all realised at once that BJ’s mansion was bigger than the window-frame. Someone reached for a tape measure to confirm that BJ’s mansion had to be dismantled. Ron showed us where we needed to pull it apart. I just looked at him. Couldn’t Ron have advised us earlier on getting BJ’s mansion out the door? We were all so caught up in the project and the spying plan that not one of us gave it a thought. The next week we split the mansion and carried the two halves to a trailer. My dad arrived in his lunch hour, tied it down, and drove to Oban Street. We reassembled it at home and BJ never again felt a drop of rain. Neither did PK.
And finally, Ron was gone at the end of year ten.
*
In retrospect I now realise that the eagerness of the lads supporting the spying plan was for a perve, rather than the ethical foundation that I had supported it from. I was on such a moral crusade for Ron to be made accountable that I didn’t realise the lads’ motivation at the time. Similarly, Ron must have been torn when his students knocked on the door while he was totally engrossed in the content of the girlie mags. He kept students waiting for as long as he could, whilst he read the newspaper and sipped alcohol from his teacup.
chapter twenty
BEFORE THE BIG ORDEAL
At fourteen years of age, I had developed my own ideas and interests. They were not reflected in my year nine and ten electives. Home Science and Textiles and Design were chosen instead of the History and Geography electives I wanted. My mother chose them for me. The form had to be signed by a parent and the parent who signed forms in our family was my mother. She knew what was right for me, once more. A one-term taster of history had bored the life out of me and extinguished any flicker of interest I might have had in history. The teacher lived up to his reputation as super, super boring. The geography taster I had really enjoyed, inspired by the teacher and by the links with my desire to travel. My mother was, however, determined to, “Steer you in the right direction for life after school.” In her eyes, cooking and sewing were valuable skills to assist me in obtaining a good husband down the track. Again, it was easier to give in and agree with her.
Home Science, creating food and eating it in class time, was fun and I used those skills once I left Coolah. The Textile and Design class was boring. I spent an entire term making a linen tablecloth and a second term hand-embroidering it. The needle and thread were so finicky to use, torturous, but I endured. I put so much work into that tablecloth that my family never used it. It was too good to use, so it sat on the top shelf in our linen cupboard with all of the other linen that was too good to use. With only three girls in the class, the teacher was constantly watching over us. I felt exposed with nowhere to hide. I also felt numb and detached from my teacher and my two fellow students, who all appeared to like this craft. For two years my brain was under-utilised in this subject. It could have been put to better use in another subject.
All the females in year ten were highly encouraged to attend a course organised by the school. The instructor of this six-week course was a beautiful, slightly framed woman with perfect make-up from somewhere other than Coolah. This after school “Elocution” course was to prepare us for getting a job down the track. My mother insisted on my attendance. Again, to attend felt easier than resisting. The first week we all had to walk with books on our heads with tall straight postures. This was the way we should walk normally (without the book of course). In the second week the instructor showed us how to walk briskly with small steps and told us never to run if we were late, as this was unfeminine. I was perplexed as I had never, ever walked with my back this straight—I was taller than everyone in my year and needed to stoop a little. Also, the years I spent running made running normal if I was late, rather than taking little, dainty quick steps. The course was cancelled before the third week because the instructor had been in a car accident. I and the three other girls were relieved. My enquiry revealed the instructor was uninjured. I felt relieved for her too, but glad she had been in a car accident so I could be let off this torturous hook.
*
There were only twenty-two students in our year ten class. Thousands of sixteen year olds were sitting the same examinations in the region and across the state. Comparisons were limited to just the other twenty-one students in our class. A teacher occasionally informed our class that an entire state, called New South Wales, was also studying for the School Certificate exams. Many students laughed at that, it was simply too much to comprehend. I felt nervous, but excited at the prospect of being measured against all of New South Wales. Nonetheless, I had striven to do well so I could leave the town. Many students in my class were content to cruise and be average, or below average. Those few students who were leaving school at the end of year ten behaved as if they were just filling in time. I excelled in my School Certificate examination a
t the end of year ten. Therefore I knew that I was on par with other students in the state.
I had developed a fascination with the idea of travel. The books I read had generated this interest. I wrote to Qantas Airlines and the criterion for becoming an air hostess stated I needed to be tall and bilingual. Towards the end of year ten, I enquired about learning a language as an elective for year eleven and twelve, so that I could become bilingual. The teachers’ responses were all the same—the school was without a bilingual teacher. The only way to learn a language was to enrol in a language subject by correspondence. The two years of study had to be completed by audio, post and written material. Teachers couldn’t help me with subject content, translations, pronunciation, or preparation for assignments and exams. An allocated teacher would oversee my enrolment, liaise with the correspondence school and ensure that the study material arrived. The deputy principal told me that the difficulties of completing a language by correspondence, even for a self-motivated and self-directed student like me, were great. I decided against it. The dream of being an air hostess with Qantas Airlines faded rather quickly.
I was a better than average student who strove academically to improve my subject knowledge and my grades. I was always in the top three students in each subject in year ten. My mind pondered new and exciting possibilities. I was Sportswoman of the Year, every year, up till the end of year ten. The hours of foot pounding on the common land had paid off. I won every school running award in the female categories; even at a fifty per cent running pace effort I could have won those awards. But I always ran at one hundred per cent effort. I was competitive and smashing school records became my goal.
Ten students left at the end of year ten. I could account for all of them. Hairdressing, beautician, electrician and plumbing apprenticeships had been snapped up by some as a golden opportunity, in Coolah or in nearby communities. A couple were employed on their fathers’ farms. Some students signed up for unemployment benefits, until a work opportunity came along. I viewed a four-year apprenticeship as being like a prison sentence to be served in this western region of New South Wales. Creepy Wayne did not make it to the end of year ten as his entitlement to social security benefits got the better of him. He relocated out of the family home into a caravan in the backyard and lived there for the next decade. I deliberately crossed the road if saw him afar in the same street. When I had imagined that completing year twelve would give me more options, I turned out to have been so very wrong.
**
Alison Elliott was renowned for being kind and also very good teacher. Alison was the netball coach for both the secondary and primary school teams. I held the star netball centre position. My athleticism, speed and agility all served me well on the netball court. As my coach, we struck up a respectful rapport. Alison took seven students and one parent to a two-day netball event in Tamworth, where we represented Coolah Central School at an event held at Oxley High School. Alison had organised for the entire team to stay at her parents’ home to keep excursion costs down—none of the families had much money to spare. We all slept in the Elliot family rumpus room. Alison slept in her old bed from her teenage years. Her parents were welcoming and kind. Tamworth was just over a two hour drive from Coolah, with a population of over thirty thousand. As a regional centre, the town served a farming demographic and folk from some other nearby townships. There were four high schools in Tamworth back then. One was the Agricultural Public School but the one that interested me was called Oxley High School. It had a very good reputation. On this visit, I paid close attention to the netballers from Oxley High School. I asked a few questions of the girls my age between games of netball. I chose a time when no-one else was around to hear or to distract us. The Oxley High students appeared to be more outgoing and confident than us Coolah kids. Country bumpkins we were. I thought about whether they had acquired these traits from Oxley High School, from residing in a bigger town, or maybe from their families. There certainly seemed to be more choices and opportunities for students of Oxley High School, compared to Coolah Central. I wanted to be a part of those opportunities. I also gained the impression that the education level and expectations differed greatly for the girls at that school compared to mine.
Back at Coolah Central, sometimes a group stayed behind after school for a twenty-minute game of basketball. On one of those days, as I borrowed a basketball and returned it to the storeroom, I walked past Alison’s classroom. She was diligently working back to finish her tasks, which was noteworthy. She and Mr Richards were the only teachers who stayed behind well after the bell. On subsequent occasions, I had initially waved, then I began to pop my head in to her classroom to say hello. Longer conversations followed. I eventually developed a strong rapport with this kind and friendly teacher. She probed me about my aspirations and what direction I was heading in; I shared my hopes with her. I confided that I wanted more competition and more choice of subjects for my Higher School Certificate. Alison agreed that that would be good. I shared with her my desire to travel overseas and have an interesting career. I told her I was definitely moving out of Coolah—I wanted a life, not a marriage. We talked about the differences between Oxley High School and Coolah Central School that I had noticed. She pointed out the benefits of completing year eleven and twelve at a larger school. Soon I was dropping in to see her twice a week.
“Call me Alison,” smiled Miss Elliott. I tried to do as she asked, but the name in my mind would not form on my lips. So Alison remained nameless, like so many others, due to my upbringing, which had so emphasised that respect for adults required the use of their last names.
“Have you thought about attending school in a town like Tamworth?” she asked me one afternoon.
“I’d love too. I think it may suit me a lot better than Coolah Central School. But I don’t think my parents will allow it,” I replied.
She nodded, acknowledging the likely truth of this. “There is no harm in trying,” she said.
I was unsure what she meant by this, but I clung onto a sense of hope. Where there is a will, maybe there is a way. Maybe my mother would surprise me and succumb to my wishes. For the next week, I fantasised about saying goodbye to my family and everyone in my class, and Coolah. I was in a happy state of feeling adventurous and excited. The notion of the possibility of a bigger school had taken hold: more students, more choice, more competition, more opportunity, more of everything. I imagined it and loved it. But I reserved a spot in the back of my mind for disappointment, as I knew that in reality my mother would probably not allow it.
One afternoon Alison told me that she had taken the initiative and asked her parents in Tamworth if I could board at their home and attend Oxley High School. They had agreed. Alison expressed her view that I had qualities and strengths that would be better nurtured outside of Coolah Central. I was so excited at the prospect of living with kind people and being enrolled in a competitive school. I thanked her for her efforts. Of course we both understood that it would only happen if my parents allowed it. I was elated at this prospect of my dreams coming true. As I walked home I smiled all the way. When I entered my street, the good feelings started to disappear. The reality of having to ask my mother’s permission sank in. Would she let me go? I hoped so, but deep down I kept a space open for “no” to be the response, ready for disappointment. Our night-time domestic routine was too busy, so I waited for the best chance to gain a positive outcome. On a morning, two days later, my mother was at the clothesline. She had been calm all morning. Her yelling had been contained for more than a day, so I approached. I had prepared my speech, over and over, in my head. I felt so tense, but knew I had to say it.
“Mum, as you know, I want travel and have a good career and do lots with my life. Coolah School is so small. There are only a few of us actually going onto year eleven next year. I feel I need more competition, to do well in the Higher School Certificate, and I also want to learn a language. I’ve been talking to Alison Elliott after school and she said
that Oxley High School is a really academic high school and that I would probably do much better in a bigger school. Her parents have agreed to me boarding at their home in Tamworth from Monday to Friday. I could come home on weekends. I really want to go to a bigger high school,” I said. I felt relief—I had finally stated my wish, in a calm and controlled voice.
“No you can’t. If you are going to do the Higher School Certificate you will do it here under my roof, with your own family,” she said.
“Please, could you talk with Miss Elliott? I feel things aren’t going to go so well for me at Coolah Central School,” I begged her.
“No! I am the boss of you while you’re at school and until you reach eighteen. You’ll stay at Coolah Central. Students can do well wherever they go to school. It’s up to you how well you do,” her firm reply was clearly final.
“Okay.” There was no point pursuing it and fighting for it. Fighting on meant risking an emotional battering and bruising that might hurt me deeply. I surrendered, my resilience not enough to sustain me in extending this encounter. Deflated, the spark for life extinguished, I walked back inside, closed my bedroom door, and sat motionless on my bed. The prospect of two more years in Coolah somersaulted in my head. As a teenager, I had no choice and no say in such matters. Inside me, the resentment towards both parents brewed for weeks, skewing any logical thinking. No discussion around a table for me. I wanted my choice to be considered, rather than a parent’s word always being final.
*
To this day, I still reflect on that moment in my life. I had an inkling that the next two years were not going to be pleasant, but I was unprepared for how just unpleasant they would turn out to be. One term into year eleven, something changed. I became sick for the rest of the final school years. Was this illness and despair because I felt no sense of belonging in Coolah, at school or anywhere else? Did I encourage or create it? Was there some correlation between not fitting into my community and what had happened inside my body? Was my illness triggered by the fact that I had wanted out of Coolah so badly? Was it some kind of payback for me resisting and not having succumbed to the expectations placed on me? Why did the illness choose me and not someone else? Was it my fault, or merely random? Why did I get so ill? The only certainty was that my questions would remain unanswered.