Fay

by Dulcie M. Stone

  ‘I want to go home!’

  ‘We should take her home, Mr Withers.’

  ‘It’s all right, love. We’ll fix you up at home.’

  ‘Does she need a doctor?’

  ‘She don’t need no doctor. She’s not that bad.’

  ‘We’ll attend to her in sick bay, Mrs Clark.’

  ‘I think not, Mr Withers.’ Mrs Ryan reached for the gears.

  ‘I’ll fix her up at home, Mr Withers. Thanks all the same.’

  This was idiotic. Why stick his neck out? Because that’s what he had to do.

  In the back seat, Fay was making no sound. She was exercising an enlightening level of self-discipline. Obviously, she was betting on her mother winning the battle. There’d been too much melodrama. Sanity should be re-established. His authority needed to be recognised.

  He was blunt. ‘It’s not home time yet, Mrs Clark. If Fay requires medical attention, we’ll call our usual doctor.’

  ‘Her mother must decide.’ Mrs Ryan was chilly.

  ‘I think Mrs Clark knows what I’m talking about.’

  Fay’s mother hesitated for only a second. ‘You’re right, Mr Withers. She ain’t that bad. The teacher’s right, Fay.’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Cut that out!’ Having thought it through, Mrs Clark clearly endorsed his stand. ‘You’ll do as you’re told.’

  ‘Mr Withers?’ Mrs Ryan’s disapproving grip on the steering wheel tightened.

  His response was obliquely pertinent. ‘I daresay you’ll want to tell Mrs Clark what set her off.’ She had to understand its import. Maybe they should have informed the mother of the pending interview with the psychologist. Maybe the mother, who seemed to be both sensible and co-operative, could have prepared Fay and so prevented this farce. For sure, he hadn’t known a thing about the mother; especially that she might actually have been an ally. And whose fault was that?

  The principal’s only answer was silence.

  ‘Fair enough,’ Mrs Clark agreed. ‘I’ll talk to you on the way home, Mrs Ryan. It’s just a few scratches ain’t it? You don’t need me, Mr Withers.’

  He was relieved. ‘We’ll manage okay. We’re not babies, are we, Fay?’

  His answer was the sound of Fay crying, but quietly. No more melodrama.

  ‘It’ll be okay, love.’ Mrs Clark, having asserted her authority and endorsed the teacher’s, held her daughter. ‘It’ll be okay.’

  Still the only response was Fay’s monotonous whimpering. Though less alarming, it was more unnerving. Had he done the right thing?

  ‘Mrs Clark….?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Withers,’ the mother smiled tightly over Fay’s bent head. ‘I go along with you. She’s not a baby.’

  Reassured, he stubbed his cigarette into the car’s pristine ashtray; now we might really find out what we have here.

  Arriving back at the Centre, he settled Fay in sick bay. Docile as a lamb, she offered no further opposition. No opposition, either, when he called Ruth to attend to her wounds.

  He bathed his own torn skin, and returned to Madelaine Evans who was waiting in the office. Her limited time had been wasted; there’d been no outcome at all. After listening to his apologies, she made it clear it would be a long time before there’d be another appointment made for Fay Margaret Clark.

  ‘Which just might be a good thing,’ Mark retorted. ‘It’ll give me time to make up my mind about a few things.’

  Chapter Seven

  Autumn 1975

  The approaching end of the First Term was ushering in the spellbinding autumn of the low foothills. Each morning, Mark Withers drove to the Centre between banks of multi-coloured trees. Each day the mellow sun was warm as a comforting blanket, as only autumn days in sheltered valleys can be. The tantalising scents of summer’s end and the tang of last night’s log fires sweetened the untainted air. Who’d live in the city?

  This was a question that was, as yet, only a rhetorical question. Maybe one day ambition or necessity or some unforeseen twist of fate would ask the question; and demand an answer. Not this morning. This morning, who could ask for more? A stable family, a stable job, a stable community. A beautiful wife who loved him and supported his break from the norm, and uncomplainingly endured the low pay package. No dramas except the minuscule daily eruptions of his students. Life was good. Life was fun. Starting each day was like starting the next chapter of a fascinating book. He didn’t want to put it down. He didn’t want it to end.

  Except, there was a looming problem. Though he tried not to rock boats, to stay quiet and enjoy this novel experience, it was becoming increasingly impossible. Other questions were multiplying, issues were becoming more complicated and, if there were solutions, they seemed remote. The result was that there was a widening gap between what he was supposed to do and what he believed needed doing.

  Was it true that his students would never - never ever - become anything more than who they were right at this moment? Certainly there’d be no future prime ministers here, no ground-breaking medicos or scientists. Yet he had to ask – did kids with intellectual disability have to settle for absolutely no future? Did the psychologists and teachers have to fold their hands and happily assert that not one of his students could one day be a shop assistant or a postman or a tradesman? Or a farmer? As for becoming a parent! No way! Not according to anyone he’d so far ever met who worked with these young people who wore the label of retardation. No one foresaw future parenthood, not even for young men like Peter. So what about sex? God forbid. The Centre’s trainers weren’t ready for even the most delicate discussion to do with sex education for ‘the children’. What would the future bring?

  Initially handicapped by their disabilities, and further handicapped by the fact that they were not accepted by the community, his students were condemned to lifelong imprisonment in the strait-jacket of society’s expectations – and fears. Sometimes, in the deadly quiet of the night, the aridity of their pre-determined future brought tears no one would ever know about. Retarded people never married, never had children, never knew the joy of sex or even the pain of unsupervised adventure. The lucky ones, those few who got to go to a training centre like The Glenlea, lived in over-protected cocoons. Didn’t they? He had to hope that maybe there would be exceptions. Maybe Peter? Would Peter, the farmer’s son, marry and have children and have a life? He had to believe it was possible. Common sense screamed it was possible.

  Meanwhile – he had his own situation to consider.

  Sitting with his students in the early morning group discussion, he announced: ‘Jenny won’t be in for classes from today on. The baby’s due soon. So she won’t be coming any more.’

  He’d delayed the announcement until the last possible moment. They all loved Jenny, they’d miss her. With good reason. Not only had she taught invaluable lessons in hygiene and health care, she’d also brought life and colour and humour into their lives. Importantly too, with Jenny’s help, he’d been able to instigate discussions about essentially feminine things. The girls, particularly, would miss her.

  At his announcement, there was an uneasy shifting of bodies. They were unsure how to respond. Or had they not understood?

  He repeated. ‘Jenny’s going to have the baby soon, so she won’t be coming to teach you any more.’

  ‘Why not?’ Farm-bred Peter was the first to respond. ‘She can bring the baby with her.’

  ‘Not a little baby, stupid.’ Trixie jibed.

  ‘We’ll see,’ Mark interrupted their inevitable argument. ‘Maybe later. When the baby’s bigger.’

  ‘We’ll be sorry,’ Clem was unhappy. ‘Jenny’s a good teacher. My mum says she’s better than Miss Turner.’

  ‘That’s not very nice, Clem.’

  ‘So what? It’s true.’

  ‘It’s not polite,’ Trixie, not unusually, was in a belligerent mood with almost everyone. ‘Don’t you know better?’

  ‘It’s true,’ Clem grunted.

  ‘Jenny’s
a good t-teacher,’ Meryl nodded. ‘I’ll miss her too.’

  ‘Not me,’ Fay declared.

  Every eye turned to Fay.

  She said no more.

  The shocked silence proclaimed the group’s disbelief. Had they heard right? Had Fay actually said she wouldn’t miss Jenny? It was impossible.

  Uncertain how to proceed, Mark decided to let whatever was about to happen take its course.

  Clem was the first to recover. ‘Shut up, Fay! Tell her to shut up, Mark.’

  ‘That’s awful, Fay!’ Trixie quickly followed his lead. ‘Tell her that’s awful, Mark!’

  ‘That’s awful, Fay. T-tell Mark you’re s-sorry.’

  Fay made no response.

  ‘Jenny’s good to you, Fay.’ Trixie’s small fists clenched, preparing to attack. ‘You’ll miss her too. Say you’ll miss her too!’

  He prepared himself to head off a physical assault on Fay.

  The other students were restless, unsure, waiting for the teacher’s intervention. Still he waited.

  ‘Say you’ll miss Jenny!’ Clem’s deepening basso thundered.

  Fay fixed steady eyes on him, pointedly turned away, and asked: ‘Who’s the new teacher, Mark?’

  ‘I’m talking to you!’ Clem cried.

  ‘Shut up!’ Fay hissed.

  He had no choice. ‘That’s enough. Settle down.’

  Immediately obedient, as always, they sat in silence awaiting his further direction. Even so, most were restless and uneasy, Clem and Trixie were sullenly steaming and Fay was feigning disinterest.

  This had to be pursued or it would fester all day. As he did in moments of only the most extreme necessity, when total teacher control was essential, he waited for absolute silence. There was not even the faintest sound of an impatiently shuffling foot, when he softly asked: ‘Why won’t you be sorry to get a new hygiene teacher, Fay?’

  She did not answer. Why? Was it because, like all of them, putting her thoughts into words was difficult? Or because she was being deliberately uncooperative? Either was a possibility. Or both? With Fay, he still hadn’t a clue.

  He repeated: ‘Can you tell me why, Fay?’

  ‘’Cause she loves you,’ Trixie’s giggling explanation was immediate. ‘She’s jealous.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Fay was on her feet. ‘Shut up!’

  ‘Fay! Sit down!’ He could not risk another flight.

  Heart in his mouth, fearful of what she would do, he watched her obey his order.

  The group’s reactive laughter was the measure of their confidence in his authority over Fay.

  ‘You’re her hero,’ Peter jeered. ‘You rescued her from the bull.’

  The laughter crescendoed.

  Rigidly embarrassed, Fay dragged her chair back from the group circle. But she remained seated.

  He was in a corner, there was nowhere to hide. They’d forced him onto risky ground. Quite innocently, they’d brought into his classroom the controversial issue that was to adversely affect male teachers long into the future. Though he could only vaguely suspect its future pitfalls, he immediately recognised the quicksand into which his naïve students were leading him. Acutely aware of the risks, he was also keenly aware of the needs of his students. Though not ignorant of possible consequences, he made the choice. He chose to attend to their needs, to cast personal safety to the winds.

  Knowing that he must, for everyone’s sake and for the wisest of reasons, also choose each word and each action with the utmost care, he removed himself from physical proximity. Leaving his place in the friendly semi-circle, he went back to his desk in the front of the room. Then he called for silence.

  The laughter stopped.

  Dryly, he proclaimed. ‘It’s perfectly natural to love someone.’

  ‘Not her teacher!’

  ‘Not so loud, Trixie.’

  There was a shifting of uneasy bottoms on the plastic chairs. Good. They’d got the message. This was no laughing matter.

  He repeated. ‘Loving is natural. You all know that. We all love other people in our lives.’

  ‘That’s not the way it is, Mark.’ Peter was respectful.

  Trust Peter. There was to be no easy escape. ‘I do know what you mean,’ he conceded. ‘It’s still natural, Pete.’

  ‘You can’t love a teacher like that.’

  He’d made the choice. There was no going back. ‘Why not, Pete?’

  ‘Because it’s a teacher.’

  ‘Oh? I thought a teacher is a person.’

  Peter was confused. ‘I didn’t mean…’

  ‘It’s okay, Pete. You know, when I was at school, I loved my lady teacher. Then I grew out of it. That’s what can happen.’

  ‘Strath!’ Clem was profoundly shocked. ‘That’s not nice!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘’Cause teachers…..because…..’ Clem shook his head.

  ‘Because t-teachers are old.’ Meryl was thinking for herself.

  ‘Oh yes!’ Welcoming the timely relief, Mark laughed. ‘I am a very old teacher.’

  ‘You’re not THAT old,’ Peter protested.

  ‘He’s too old for me.’ Linda tittered. ‘My boy friend’s not even twenty.’

  ‘You ain’t got a boy friend!’ Carol argued.

  ‘I have so too.’

  For a few moments he let the widening discussion ride. Although he knew nowhere near enough, he knew that this discussion was not usual. He also knew it was healthy. Kids with limited intellectual ability were talking, in the classroom, about love affairs – real or imagined. It was healthy. Did they talk about these things at home? Or only among themselves?

  He’d chosen to take the risk. And here he was. He felt unusually privileged. Meanwhile Fay, still sitting at a distance, was having no part of it. They’d laughed at her, and she remained embarrassed.

  Into a momentary lull, he injected. ‘One day Fay will have a boy friend too. Someone her own age.’

  Trixie’s incredulous eyes were huge saucers. ‘You’re not going to go crook at Fay?’

  ‘Why? There’s no reason.’ He smiled, endeavouring to please both factions. No matter what the cost to himself, he must still try to reassure Fay. He must try not to risk her fragile progress. Yet it was essential that he also retain the confidence and respect of his class.

  ‘He’s not going crook,’ Carol decided.

  ‘That’s right,’ he agreed. ‘It’s very nice when someone thinks enough of you to like you a lot. Everybody wants to be liked.’

  ‘I go along with that.’ Clem was comfortably magnanimous.

  ‘Okay?’ he asked.

  As they happily settled, Fay eased her chair back into the group. So far so good. Preparing for the lesson to come, he began to gather his papers.

  However, needing the last word, Peter was not yet done. ‘I’ll still miss Jenny.’

  Quickly, Fay snapped: ‘That’s because you love her!’

  Astounded, Mark met her triumphant eyes. Unpredictable as ever, she’d found the perfect counter to their accusation against her.

  He chuckled: ‘Touché!’

  ‘See!’ She turned on Peter. ‘So there!’

  Amazing. Fay seemed to have understood, if not the actual French word, its meaning. Who knew? With Fay anything was possible.

  ***

  The second term started quietly. The little ground lost over the two-week holiday was quickly regained and the group settled into its established pattern. Peter was overall leader who tolerated Trixie, Trixie dominated the females, Meryl was beginning to develop a separate personality, Clem was arbitrating and maturing into a strongly positive person. And Fay? Fay was still an enigma.

  Jenny’s baby, named Tania, had been born early in the holidays and was already at home with the family. The class, who had happily approved the infant’s name, was looking forward to meeting her later in the day, and wanted to know ‘Is Robin coming too?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The boys were cleaning away their craftw
ork and carrying chairs and tables to the centre of the room. The girls were returning from the kitchen with a pot of tea, cups and saucers, and a platter of savoury biscuits they’d prepared for their visitors.

  When the family arrived, Jenny wheeled in the pram, lifted her face for Mark’s kiss and bent to the baby. The group crowded around, talking, admiring, laughing, greeting Robin who was showing off his new sister, leading Jenny to a seat, watching as she selected a biscuit and sipped the tea Linda had poured.

  Gradually the excitement leveled off. The baby was asleep in the pram, and Robin was sitting on his father’s knee. The students were telling Jenny how much they had missed her and bemoaning the fact that, because there had been no volunteer willing to take over her job, Mark and Ruth were inadequate hygiene instructors.

  ‘It won’t be long before I’m back,’ Jenny promised. ‘Tania’s a good baby. Once winter is over. I won’t bring her out in the cold.’

  ‘You got a babysitter for Robin,’ Peter argued.

  ‘He was older. I don’t like leaving a tiny baby with someone else.’

  ‘Besides,’ Mark explained. ‘Jenny’s breastfeeding Tania.’

  ‘Ooh!’ The anticipated reaction, despite being country kids.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ he remonstrated. ‘You know better.’

  ‘It’s because they don’t understand.’ Clem excused his friends.

  ‘We do t-too!’ Meryl was indignant. ‘My Aunty, she b-breast feeds her b-baby.’

  ‘My mother didn’t.’ Fay had seated herself next to Mark.

  ‘Some do. Some don’t.’ Jenny watched Linda top up her tea. ‘How old is your little brother now, Fay?’

  ‘Six.’

  ‘Of course. I should have remembered. He started school this year. Does he like it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That must leave your mother with more free time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll change her mind? Maybe come to our classes?’

  ‘No.’

  Jenny looked an unspoken question to Mark.

  ‘Fay hasn’t asked her,’ he answered.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I asked her one time,’ Trixie informed them. ‘I asked Fay’s mum, didn’t I Fay? She reckoned she was too busy.’