Fay

by Dulcie M. Stone

  ‘I agree,’ he enthused. ‘Fay’s lost weight. Her skin’s clearer, although she’s still very pale. You’ll see for yourself. There’s no outdoors life as far as we can judge, just school and television.’

  ‘No sport at all?’ The physically fit young woman found this regrettable.

  ‘She refuses. Actually, that’s not quite accurate.’ Rephrasing, he lightly mimicked the jargonese of the file sitting in front of the psychologist. ‘At present Fay Margaret Clark effectively indicates her preference for recreational activities other than sport.’

  ‘So I noted,’ the woman was amused. ‘Effectively indicates? Sounds ominous.’

  ‘Believe me, it’s an improvement we’re happy to accept. The alternative was not pleasant. She very nearly didn’t come back at all.’

  ‘As I’ve also read.’

  ‘As you see, it’s less stressful for everyone if we go along with Fay’s …. effective indication.’

  ‘You permit this, Mrs Ryan?’ The psychologist’s question was simple curiosity; there was no hint of disapproval. ‘You don’t think that perhaps it may smack of giving in to her just to keep the peace?’

  Still ill at ease, Mrs Ryan chose to interpret the psychologist’s question as criticism. ‘Mr Withers is her teacher. You need to hear his reasoning.’

  ‘Right.’ The psychologist looked to Mark.

  Surely Mrs Ryan’s discomfort was “ill placed”? Any criticism this open-hearted young woman might have would almost certainly be clearly conveyed. But it was done. An immediate clarification of his reasoning had become necessary.

  ‘So far,’ he explained, ‘we’re going along with what Fay wants. It’s kind of like treading water. All the work’s going on underneath. On the surface, we’re not making waves.’

  ‘How does that work?”

  ‘Lot’s of pre-planning. Lots of talking between staff working with Fay. As I said, lots of preparatory work to establish a calm surface. Lots of thinking ahead to try to maintain it. For the present, we hope to risk no overt confrontations.’

  ‘You make it sound simple.’

  ‘You think so? Talk to my wife. It’s not at all easy. She’s set on getting rid of Fay’s awful ponytail. She’s got such pretty hair when it’s brushed out.’

  ‘I do see,’ the psychologist laughed. ‘That would be rather difficult to keep quiet about.’

  ‘Mr Withers consistently updates me about his tactics with Fay.’ Mrs Ryan was being careful to protect herself. ‘I’ll be interested in your opinion of the child.’

  ‘Surely.’ Indicating she was ready for action, Miss Evans briskly nodded. ‘So wheel her in ponytail and all. We’ll try to find out what we have here.’

  Leaving the office, happier that maybe Fay would get a sympathetic hearing, Mark returned across the quadrangle to his group.

  At his entry, Ruth, who had again taken charge, looked up. ‘Ready for her?’

  ‘I’ll take her across myself. Do you mind staying in here a while longer?’

  ‘I’ll be glad of the excuse,’ Ruth grimaced. ‘Miss Turner wants me in domestic.’

  ‘I may be a while.’

  ‘It’s okay. Miss Turner can wait.’ Ruth threaded her way through the busy room. ‘Fay! Mark’s waiting for you.’

  Fay turned from the clay model she was fashioning.

  ‘There’s a lady in the office, Fay,’ Mark explained. ‘She’d like to talk to you.’

  She did not answer, but the clay crumpled as her fingers convulsed.

  ‘There’s nothing to be frightened of. She’s just going to talk to you. Maybe she’ll want you to do a few …’

  ‘It’s a test.’ Trixie called from her listening post at Fay’s side.

  Fay’s frightened eyes widened. Searching for safety, she retreated behind the stand on which the model stood.

  ‘It’s all right, Fay. Don’t be frightened,’ he soothed. ‘It’s not that sort of test at all.’

  ‘It is too. I saw her!’ Trixie argued. ‘I saw her come in. It’s one of them tester people, Fay.’

  ‘Trixie!!!’

  ‘What’s wrong about that!’ Trixie was indignant. ‘She’s nice. She is, Fay. She is. Really she is.’

  ‘Trixie!’ Peter attempted to support his teacher. ‘Shut your big mouth!’

  ‘Be quiet!’ Mark’s voice was thunder.

  Behind the model, Fay was rigid.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Peter apologised to Mark. ‘She just won’t keep her stupid mouth shut.’

  ‘I was only trying to help.’ Trixie theatrically scrubbed at the easy tears running down her face.

  ‘Trixie is right about one thing, Fay.’ Setting the model stand to one side, he placed a comforting hand on her arm. ‘Miss Evans is a very nice lady.’

  Fay shook off his hand.

  ‘You really must come along, Fay.’ He tried again. ‘Mrs Ryan is waiting for you too.’

  She was a block of stone. No movement, no expression.

  His heart sank. So much for staff talking to staff. How could he have foreseen Trixie’s intervention? So much for treading water and calm surfaces, for non-confrontation. All gone in a mini-second. He’d already told Miss Evans that confrontation was a risk he was not yet ready to take, that Fay was teetering on a precarious knife edge. Instinctively dubious about this move from the start, he intensely resented being pushed into this corner. The problem was that he was being left with no choice. The Board wanted their answer. Mrs Ryan wanted her answer. Miss Evans was waiting for his return – with Fay.

  Maybe his doubts had somehow communicated themselves to Fay? Possibly? No, not just possibly; probably. She was more perceptive, more intuitive, than any of them thought. That had been his proposition from the very start of all this. It was therefore highly likely that his present distress was adding to Fay’s terror. Damn the bureaucrats. So now here they both were – boxed in with no escape. Himself and Fay.

  ‘I’ll go with you Fay,’ Trixie offered. ‘You’ll see. She’s really nice.’

  He looked to Fay. ‘If Trixie comes?’

  The offer struck a receptive chord. Her anxious eyes searched his face.

  ‘Please, Fay.’ Thanking God for Fay’s trust in Trixie, he cleared a path. ‘Don’t be frightened.’

  Trixie took her hand. ‘That’s a good girl.’

  A hypnotised manikin, Fay permitted herself to be led from the room. His anxiety increasing at every tentative step, he shepherded the two teenagers across the quadrangle until, reaching halfway, Fay came to life – and balked.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he soothed. ‘Trixie will stay with you.’

  Praying they’d soon reach the other side of the empty playground, he took her free hand. It was slow going, every step drawing them nearer the office, every step a question – would Fay keep going? Would Trixie stay quiet and patient? Would some unexpected intrusion again tip her over the edge?

  Into the building, down the passage, Fay still skittish but docile, Trixie still silent. Until, as the three of them arrived at the reception desk, Fay’s grip on his hand tightened and her long nails bit into his flesh.

  Mrs Ryan’s effusive smile greeted them. ‘Ah! There you are. Come along, Fay. I’ll introduce you to Miss Evans. Thank you, Trixie.’

  Trixie tried to free her hand. Fay held her fast.

  ‘You must let Trixie go back to class, Fay.’ Mark ordered.

  ‘I’ll be there when you come back,’ Trixie promised. Freeing her hand with difficulty, Trixie started back down the passageway.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Withers. I’ll take you in, dear.’ Mrs Ryan reached for Fay.

  Abandoned by her friend, Fay was cowering behind her teacher.

  ‘Go with Mrs Ryan, Fay.’ Willing himself not to show the pain, he tried to free his hand; Fay’s nails were drawing blood.

  ‘She’s scared.’ Trixie turned back to help Fay.

  ‘On your way, Trixie!’ Mrs Ryan commanded.

  ‘But Miss!’

  ‘Trixie!�
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  Trixie scuttled out of sight.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Withers,’ Mrs Ryan again reached for Fay.

  ‘Perhaps if I come in with her?’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Mrs Ryan scolded. ‘Fay - come along at once.’

  Fay’s nails dug even deeper.

  ‘Come, child.’ Mrs Ryan’s voice rose. ‘You will do as you’re told.’

  Fay was whimpering, her body rigid.

  ‘Mrs Ryan…’ Mark began.

  ‘Mr Withers!’

  Useless to argue. Yet impossible to obey. Still whimpering, Fay was holding him in a vise. He tried to prise her loose. ‘Fay. You must let go…’

  ‘I won’t go!’ The whimpering became a scream. ‘I won’t go!’

  ‘Do as you’re told, child!

  ‘I won’t go!’ The screams rose. ‘I won’t go! I won’t go!’

  The psychologist came from the office. The secretary left her desk.

  Fay’s hold on Mark was unbreakable. He ached for her. If only…

  ‘Mr Withers! Release her!’ Mrs Ryan cried.

  Useless to try to explain that her panic made her too strong for him.

  Firmly closing the office door behind her, the psychologist retreated. The secretary and the principal moved to help him.

  ‘She’s hysterical.’ Taking careful aim between the flailing arms, Mrs Ryan lightly slapped Fay’s terrified face.

  The sharp snapping crack of flesh on flesh was more token than blow. Fay froze.

  Sick, Mark watched.

  Fay did not move, nor make a sound.

  Catatonic? Again?

  From outside, the whine of a truck coming down from the mountains sounded ominously loud.

  Responding to the abrupt cessation of sound outside her door, Miss Evans again emerged from the office.

  ‘No…!!!’ At sight of the psychologist’s reappearance, Fay broke from her trance. ‘No….!!!’

  Caught off guard, the adults were momentarily helpless.

  Fay raced across the foyer and out the front door.

  ‘She’s running away!’

  ‘Catch her!’

  Speeding after her, they heard the blare of a horn and the screeching of tyres.

  ‘She’s on the highway!’

  Bursting through the front gate, Mark was confronted by a timber truck braking to a halt. There was no sign of Fay.

  ‘Did you see a girl?’

  At the wheel, the driver was grey. ‘Bloody hell! What’s going on? I bloody near killed her!’

  ‘She’s running away. Which way?’

  ‘Out of town. Out…’

  ‘I’ll get the car!’ Mark prepared to race for the parking lot.

  ‘No time! I’ll drive you.’ The driver hefted him into the truck’s cabin. ‘She’s headed for the bush.’

  ‘God!’ As the truck wheeled a half circle and gathered speed, he clung to the dashboard. ‘Where is she? I can’t see her!’

  ‘She was really moving.’ The driver peered ahead.

  ‘There!’ Mark pointed at a figure in the distance. ‘There! She’s turned off!’

  ‘She’s heading for the river!’ The driver pulled to the side of the highway. ‘I’ll tell the Centre. You’re going to want help with that lunatic. What about the police?’

  Easing through the barbed-wire boundary fence, he raced across the recently scythed razor-sharp grass stubble. It tore his trousers and slowed his run. Pausing to roll them up, he ran on. The searing pain of his ripped skin was agonising. He couldn’t stop again. Fay was gathering speed. Could she swim?

  ‘Fay!’

  She turned, saw him, veered off into the neighbouring paddock. Again he cleared barbed wire, and swung through into the grazing paddock. The summerbrown grass was smooth and slippery, the startled cattle scuttling in all directions. He ran quickly, gradually overtaking her.

  ‘Fay! Stop! It’s me!’

  She stopped, turned again, screamed: ‘I won’t come back!’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘I’ll kill myself!’ She ran on.

  She was heading for the river!

  Across his path loomed a herd of cows. Slithering gingerly, he ran around them. He’d never catch her. ‘Fay! Don’t!’

  Suddenly she stopped. A cow was galloping straight at her.

  Turning, she ran screaming back towards him. ‘Help! Help!’

  He raced to meet her.

  She hurled herself at him.

  He braced himself to take her hysterical weight.

  They fell together onto the cushion of slippery turf.

  ‘It’s all right. It’s all right.’ He struggled to his feet, trying without success to pull her up with him.

  Panicky as a drowning swimmer, arms wildly flailing, she fought against him. ‘The bull will get us! The bull will get us!’

  Confronted by the screaming, the confused cow skidded to an abrupt stop, wheeled, and trotted off back to the herd.

  Fay clung to him.

  ‘Sh. Sh.’ He stroked her dishevelled hair. ‘It’s only a cow. See. It’s only a cow. It hasn’t even got any horns.’

  Sobbing, she buried her head against his chest.

  ‘Sh… Calm down, Fay. You’ll make yourself sick.’

  Slowly, she quietened.

  He was afraid to move, partly because his over-taxed heart was still thumping, partly from fear of further upsetting her. She was as unpredictable as a summer storm. Anything was possible.

  From the highway he heard the sounds of timber trucks and an occasional car. In the paddock the cattle were resettling, munching fodder or sleeping in the shade of the few trees. He’d have to do something. What?

  ‘We have to go, Fay. They’ll be worrying about you.’

  She clung more tightly.

  ‘I know you’re scared,’ he consoled. ‘But it’s over now. There’s no danger.’

  Raising her head, she looked at the somnolent cattle. ‘They’ll chase us.’

  ‘Not if we move very slowly.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘There’s no choice. You know that.’ If only he could free himself.

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  At least she was talking. ‘What about if we rest a while?’ Locating a small hummock, he eased her to the ground.

  What was happening back at the Centre? Had Mrs Ryan called the police? She wouldn’t. It wasn’t necessary, but how could she know that? Each distant sound of a passing car or truck alerted him. Was someone coming to his aid? Gradually, as he made no further attempt to urge her forward, Fay’s grip loosened and the pain of his torn skin intensified. Were her wounds as painful as his? He did not try to talk, anything he said could very well trigger more trouble. Whatever assistance came, it was going to be a harrowing few minutes. As it was, he dare not even close his eyes. There was no way to predict what she’d do next.

  Fay was still softly crying when he eventually saw the distant figure of a woman running towards them. ‘We have to go now, Fay.’

  ‘No!’

  He started up.

  ‘I’m not going back!’ She refused to move.

  ‘Your legs need attention, Fay. So do mine.’

  ‘I don’t ….’

  ‘Fay! It’s Mum! Fay!’ The cry carried across the paddocks. ‘Fay!’

  ‘Mum!’ Reacting immediately, Fay raced towards her mother.

  Catching up, Mark fought for breath.

  ‘Mum! Don’t make me go back. Don’t make me go back!’

  ‘There, love.’ Mrs Clark comforted. ‘No one’s going to hurt you. Are they, Mr Withers?’

  ‘You were quick.’ Now that it was over, he was shaking. ‘Thank God!’

  ‘They phoned the neighbour. She drove me out.’

  He reached for his cigarettes, fumbled a light. ‘I need a breather.’

  Together, Mrs Clark half carrying Fay, they negotiated a path back across the cowpadded grass, struggled through the barbed wire and made it back to the front gate.

/>   ‘Your neighbour had to get back.’ Mrs Ryan, whose powder blue Volvo was parked in the drive-way, was waiting. ‘I’ll drive you home.’

  As Mrs Clark eased Fay into the safety of the back seat, he climbed into the empty front seat beside his principal. ‘I’ll come with you, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Are you all right, Mark?’

  ‘A bit shaken. I’ll bathe my legs. That grass is vicious.’

  ‘Fay’s legs are scratched too,’ Mrs Clark said. ‘When we get home, we’ll put some antiseptic on them.’

  ‘Yes, that would…..’ He heard his own voice. Send her home? It was the path they’d agreed on. Don’t rock Fay’s boat. Be careful. She’s not ready for confrontation. Look where that had got them. If they kept this up, it was possible she’d really do something drastic. Maybe even actually dive into that river she was racing for. Was it time to call a halt? Could he risk calling a halt? Could he risk disagreeing with these two women? Especially Mrs Ryan. If he got it wrong, whichever decision proved to be wrong, there’d be hell to pay. Either way, there was unacceptable risk.

  Wait! Fay hadn’t finished up in the river. When the ‘bull’ had attacked her, she’d turned – and run to him! She’d trusted him to save her! She could have gone either way – to the river or to him. She’d chosen him. Significant. The girl was in trouble. She wanted not to be. She wanted out. She’d trusted him to rescue her. So where to now?

  Making up his mind, he turned to Mrs Ryan, already starting for the highway leading to the Clark home. ‘Would you pull up? Please?’

  She pulled over, leaving the motor idling. ‘You should attend to those wounds, Mark. Perhaps we’d better take you back?’

  ‘I agree. We should go back.’ He turned to the back seat. He’d not met Fay’s mother before. She seemed to be what he’d expected. A middle-aged comfortably plump housewife, she hadn’t even stopped to remove her serviceable apron when she’d raced to Fay’s assistance.

  ‘I’m sorry you got hurt, Mr Withers. You look after yourself. Fay’ll be all right now.’

  ‘Lessons are not over for the day, Mrs Clark. We have a first aid kit. We can fix up Fay’s scratches at the Centre.’

  ‘Mr Withers!’

  Fay screamed. ‘I want to go home!’

  ‘It’s all right, love.’ Mrs Clark soothed. ‘We’ll take the teacher back first.’