Fay

by Dulcie M. Stone

  ‘But now she’s….’ Heeding Mark’s warning glance, Jenny paused before quickly changing tack. ‘Of course. You do have a big family, Fay. It must be very tiring for your mother.’

  ‘Yes.’ Fay refused to be further drawn.

  ‘I show my mother when I get home,’ Peter re-assumed leadership. ‘I show her things about sun cream and about the diet. I take home the notes you give us, too. Everyone does.’

  The uncomfortable interlude, presumably the result of Fay’s jealousy of Jenny, had ended.

  It proved to be a minor setback. Throughout the remainder of the winter term, Fay blossomed. It was as though some magical instructor had waved his magic wand and performed the miraculous. Her rate of learning speeded up, her academic skills improved so that she could accurately tell the time, make some sense of the simpler articles in the local newspaper, comprehend at least the advertisements in the women’s magazines Ruth brought, and was showing a tentative interest in reading the illustrated story books Mark borrowed from the local library.

  It gave rise to yet another question. Was Fay learning at this accelerated rate because, before the birth of her young brother and whatever had triggered her problems, she’d been learning at an average rate? Could it be that this new development was based on sound lessons instilled when she was in her early school years? Whatever the truth, the resulting self-confidence had propelled her over another major hurdle. Not only was she talking, she was also initiating conversations, vehemently arguing her viewpoint on a range of controversial local matters such as who should be the next City Mayor and, once, even greeted Mrs Ryan without being prompted!

  It wasn’t all good news. On their frequent educational excursions, to the shops and local points of interest, she swiftly backed into the non-communicative shell which experience had taught her was safe. On these outings, watching her steer clear of the locals and watching them, in turn, steer clear of The Glenlea students, Mark bitterly regretted their isolation and segregation from all mainstream activity.

  He consoled himself with evidence of Fay’s progress and the almost certain knowledge that, without The Glenlea, she would be nowhere. Whatever his private opinions on the pluses and minuses of segregated education, no one could deny that in the eighteen months since her enrolment in this Centre, officially restricted to social and domestic training, Fay Margaret Clark had made remarkable social - and educational - progress.

  The fundamental difference between last year and this was that she was patently enjoying the experience of learning. Grasping the new opportunity with both eager hands, she now revelled in new knowledge, asked questions, debated, thought for herself, wanted answers and persevered until she found them. As well, once she perceived the advantage to herself of the challenges of responsibility, he’d even managed to successfully enlist her aid on the roster of ‘teachers’ who worked one-to-one with once-despised Laura. Here, too, she introduced new ideas and developed intriguing ways to extend Laura’s concentration span.

  Even so, in his regular reports to Mrs Ryan, he was careful to stress that Fay was still delicately balanced, that her continuing stable progress was by no means guaranteed. Though he could never tell his principal, he strongly suspected that Fay’s magical improvement was not the result of either heaven-sent intervention or superior teaching, but rather sprang from her precarious schoolgirl crush on him. It was a tenuous and potentially dangerous situation he must try to negotiate. Any precipitate counteraction, any covert attempt to counteract it, could well be disastrous for Fay. Instinct screamed that this teenager was wired to explode. He dare do nothing to trigger the destruction he feared. At the same time, instinct’s voice was seductively whispering that Fay was salvageable, that the risks to his career were worthwhile.

  Except for confiding in Jenny (thank God for Jenny), this was a cross he must bear in lonely silence; one of the uncomfortable stresses of this unusual job. At least there were no further attempts at either assessment by Madeleine Evans or medical examination by the visiting school doctor. There was little to be gained and far too much to be lost. Inevitably, at the regular staff meetings, the decision had to be taken to leave well alone. Time, and Fay’s improving maturity, had to be trusted to do their work.

  ***

  They had reckoned without Jenny.

  Later, looking back, Mark wondered had he been able to foresee the future, would he have acted differently? Would he have not even tried to introduce the subjects Jenny taught? Even though not to do so would have been letting them all down. Or would he have let Ruth, who knew very little about makeup, nothing about safe dieting, and who had no qualifications to support her, continue to muddle along with all its inherent risks? Risks – risks…..

  With Jenny as instructor, there were risks for Fay’s progress. Although Ruth had been an adequate stand-in during Jenny’s absence, it had unfairly cut her time in the other class rooms. Okay for a few months, it could not be a permanent arrangement. As for the easiest option, no action, it would not only let them all down, it would be cowardly. No action in this important area would be a backward step that bowed to safety at the cost of significant progress. It wasn’t in his nature, nor Jenny’s.

  Voluntary instructors with his wife’s qualifications, knowledge, sensitivity and expertise were rare in any arena. As experience had already shown, in Glenlea they were non-existent. Jenny was the exception, there really was no choice. Despite her close relationship, and their vulnerability to accusations of family over-involvement, the other students were very fortunate to have Jenny as a teacher. Any doubts about the wisdom of Jenny working with Fay surely had to be outweighed by the benefits of her work with the others?

  Contrary to popular belief, hindsight held only disadvantages. There was no comfort in the many sleepless nights that told him it didn’t have to happen as it did. Until, much later, objective reflection led to the conclusion that the course of Fay’s story was all but inevitable. If the trigger had not been her intense feelings for him, and her consequent jealousy of Jenny, her desperation would have discovered some other dramatic outlet. Given Fay’s grossly unhappy past, it should have been predictable that any future happiness could only be bought at great cost.

  The one unanswered question was whether, with foreknowledge, he would have had the courage to risk these particular consequences. Would he, had he known, have recommended Fay’s transfer to another teacher? Or Jenny’s withdrawal? Or anything other than what was actually allowed to develop?

  Chapter Eight

  Melbourne

  Winter 1975

  ‘Come in out of the rain.’ His mother was at the open front door. ‘Hurry!’

  Grabbing his case, he locked the car and raced for the shelter.

  ‘I’ve got hot chocolate ready.’ She led the way to the kitchen. ‘Your bedroom’s ready. Leave your things…’

  The bedroom was always ready. She’d prepared it for him and Jenny and the children. A big room, it contained a double bed, a narrow single bed for Robin and a cot for the baby. They’d stayed in it at Christmas, before she’d bought the cot. He hung his wet overcoat behind the door, located the cardigan in his case, and went to the kitchen.

  ‘How was the trip?’

  ‘There’s snow on the mountains.’

  ‘You should be home with your family.’

  True. He reached for the hot chocolate. He’d left straight after tea. Whoever had arranged for a teacher conference on The Queen’s Birthday long weekend hadn’t considered long drives that wound through dense unlit forests on twisted roads covered in ice. There’d been no choice; it was this weekend or no meetings with people from other Centres for ages. Mrs Ryan had suggested it. Jenny had insisted he not miss the opportunity. The Board was paying petrol reimbursement.

  ‘The traffic heading for the snow didn’t help.’

  ‘Lights in your eyes?’ She looked at the clock. ‘When did you leave?’

  ‘Over two hours ago. I stopped for a while. I needed a break. �
� He left the table. ‘I’ll phone Jenny. She’ll be worried.’

  ‘I phoned when you were changing.’

  ‘Oh…’

  ‘Did you want to talk to her?’

  ‘Of course I did.’

  ‘It’s late, Mark. The children were asleep. She said to tell you goodnight.’

  ‘I really want to talk to her, Mum.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ she indicated the phone on the kitchen bench. ‘I’ll be in the lounge if you want me.’

  Starting for the telephone, he changed his mind. She was right, of course. It would only disturb the children.

  He followed her to the lounge room. The wood fire was aglow and the room was cosy, but the lights were bright as day. She was standing by the mantle, a framed photo of Jason in her hands.

  ‘You’re right,’ he admitted. ‘I didn’t phone.’

  She did not answer. She didn’t even turn around. Had she heard him?

  ‘Mum!’ He called again, louder.

  Again she was deaf to him. Which, really, was as it should be. Even when Jason was alive, she’d given only Jason her full attention. Everyone else, husband, family, close relatives had come second. Poor Mum. Loaded with love. All of it for Jason. Well, almost all.

  Stupid, Mark. Stupid.

  Not just stupid, man. Selfish. He should know better. It had been no picnic, not for any of them. Especially her.

  She set the photo back in its place.

  He ached for her. She seemed so fragile. Yet the strength was there still, the steel of the strong will that had kept Jason alive for so long. Amazing. He should detest her. How could he? She’d given Jason her life. She’d given him every single ounce of her energy, and more. There’d been nothing left. Except the odd crumb. It had killed his father. Left a widow, she hadn’t even had time to grieve. Jason had left no time for grief. Until two years ago.

  She turned from the photo.

  ‘You’re right,’ he repeated. ‘I didn’t phone.’

  ‘I’m going to bed.’ She switched off the glaring overhead light. ‘What time do you want breakfast?’

  ‘You don’t have to do that, Mum. I’ll manage.’

  ‘I’ll be up. You know that, son.’

  There it was. It had to come, the reminder of the past, the incessant pressure on his guilt button. He could have helped more. He could have shared the vigil on the nights Jason didn’t sleep. He could have made the early mornings bathing and dressing and breakfasting Jason easier. He could have partied less and kept them company more often. He could have stayed in Melbourne. Of course she’d be up. She’d be up at dawn. As she’d been through all Jason’s nineteen years.

  He couldn’t let it go. ‘You should sleep in these days, Mum.’

  She did not answer. Why would she? There was nothing to say.

  Not a bloody thing to say that would bring him back. Or change the past. Or…

  ‘Mum…’

  She’d already turned away.

  ***

  The traffic into the City was Saturday morning hysterical. He hadn’t allowed enough time for it. By the time he arrived, people were streaming into the large central hall. A line of speakers were sitting in chairs on a raised dais, a small blonde woman holding a sheet of paper was inspecting the room. He’d missed the prelecture cup of coffee. A pity. It would have been a way to get a feel for what was to come, to maybe meet a few people.

  Quickly, he sat in an empty chair at the back of the room and surveyed what he could of the crowd. Among about two hundred women he saw only a handful of men. The women were of all ages, young to elderly. The few men he could see looked to be middle-aged.

  The small woman walked to centre stage, placed her sheet of notes on the lectern and rapped it gently. The chatter slowly diminished. She made no move to repeat her call, just waited patiently. It worked. Each small group, becoming aware of the silence around them, silenced the next in line. The respect they had for this woman, whoever she was, pervaded the room.

  ‘Thank you. For those who are new here, my name is Jacqueline Murray. I am currently president of the Centre Teachers’ Association.’ Her voice, too, was small. The accent was suburban Australian. She was unpretentious and, seemingly unremarkable. ‘Firstly, let me say how much we appreciate the effort you all have made to be here this weekend. In your own precious time, most of you without financial reimbursement of any kind.’

  A murmur of approval endorsed the point. So they were thinking about their poor working conditions.

  ‘We will get to that this weekend. Meanwhile, there are more important things.’ Turning, she introduced the line-up. The departmental psychiatrist and the chief departmental psychologist were men, the two supervisory advisors were women. There was also the principal of a suburban Centre. Each nodded, smiled or waved, and settled more comfortably into their chair.

  She introduced the fifth, the key-note speaker. A plump middle-aged woman, a former kindergarten teacher, she was currently a lecturer at an inter-state university.

  ‘Professor Lawrence has asked me to take a little of her allotted time to introduce each Centre to her,’ Jacqueline Murray went on. ‘I ask you to be brief and to the point.’

  ‘What specifically does she want to know?’

  ‘I can speak for myself.’ The professor chuckled. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard that before!’

  A round of applause was her answer. This weekend was going to be worth while. Thank you Jenny – and the Board.

  The professor continued. ‘I’m interested in the location of the Centre, the number of children – or children and adults. And…yes… some point that may mark you as developing along individual lines?’

  ‘We’ve done this before. So again for those who are new, select a spokesman, keep it short. Jane?’

  Jane, in the front row, began the reports. He listened with interest to each spokesperson. All were women. The Centres represented came from all over the State. Some, like The Glenlea, had similar numbers and were for children. Some catered for adults in activity or therapy centres. Particular signs of individuality were evident in reports of adventurous trips or unusual sporting prowess or development of art or music. A couple ran a kind of opportunity shop staffed by clients and staff. ‘Clients’. It was a new word. One worked closely with St Vincent de Paul in sorting out used clothing and goods; the spokesperson was proud of their contribution to charity.

  As each report ended there was subdued applause and, occasionally, a comment from the departmental psychologist who’d left his chair to stand beside the chairwoman. It was an intriguing move. Why had the man done it? He was taller by a foot, dark and dignified and dour and commanding. Not only a psychologist, but also obviously a figure of authority. Was he trying to counteract the plump professor’s attempt to lighten the mood? If he was, it was working.

  The jargonese grew more appalling, the sycophantic reports more sickening. This man was the voice of bureaucracy? A cock among the hens? Nasty, Mark. Why not? It fitted. The room was full of women, insecure women looking for direction. And then there was this man – the expert. A powerful expert.

  It was barely fifteen minutes later that they arrived at the back row. What could he say? What would Mrs Ryan want him to say?

  ‘Next,’ the chairwoman invited.

  ‘Mark Withers. From the Glenlea Centre.’

  ‘Mrs Ryan was in touch, Mr Withers. We do appreciate your special effort. Let’s hope you find the time worth it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Quickly he reported the necessary facts.

  ‘What about individuality?’ Professor Lawrence leaned forward in her chair. ‘We expect individuality from a mountain man.’

  Laughter rippled through the audience. The chairwoman clapped. The dour man frowned.

  How to answer? Answer the delightful professor’s request for something unique.

  ‘My group is aged from fifteen to twenty-one. There are twelve students. There’s the usual program – life skills. Social excursions. Self-help.
As for individuality? My wife…’

  The chairwoman beamed encouragement. ‘Mrs Ryan tells me your wife’s doing an excellent job. Of course, most of us have similar programs.’

  The professor sat back. The chairwoman was already looking to the next expected report.

  He’d come here with questions. He didn’t want to be brushed off. ‘We also do reading and maths. One of the favourite subjects is simple mental arithmetic.’

  ‘You what?’ The psychologist stepped in front of the chairwoman.

  ‘We do maths and….’

  ‘My goodness, young man!’ The psychologist guffawed. ‘What do you do? Wave a magic wand?’

  Laughter shook the auditorium. The advisers sniggered. Professor Lawrence frowned. Mark shuddered.

  ‘No answer, Mr Withers?’ Quieting the audience, the psychologist was merciless. ‘You are new to the field. We need no more from you at present.’

  ‘Let the young man go on, Arthur.’ The professor smiled gently in Mark’s direction. ‘He interests me.’

  ‘Sorry, Professor,’ the psychologist was unyielding. ‘You requested individuality, not ignorance. We’ve listened to some excellent examples of innovative programming. Good work, people….’

  The audience murmured dutiful approval.

  The professor, assessing the reaction, made no further protest.

  Allowing the moment to continue before resuming, the psychologist continued: ‘Mr Withers is out of order. Training Centres do not teach academics. Retarded children are incapable of academic learning. Attempts at teaching academic material are counter productive. Serious behaviour problems are inevitable. We’ve heard all we want to from the young man.’

  He’d already been told. Bureaucracy decreed that retarded children cannot learn academics. He disagreed. It wasn’t the point. Not yet. He didn’t know enough, nowhere near enough. So why had he put his head up? Why had he risked their ridicule? Because the plump professor had tempted him? The truth. But only part of the truth. The actual truth went much deeper.

  He must keep his head down, at least for now. To do otherwise would not only be a disservice to The Glenlea and Mrs Ryan, more importantly it would be a disservice to his students. Heaven knew what that dour head would think up if he insisted on arguing.