Professor Lawrence’s entertaining key-note address was carefully constructed. Her area of expertise and her experience were confined to kindergarten teaching, to teaching pre-school children. She repeated it … often. Perhaps more often than she’d originally planned. Perhaps as a not very subtle response to the inflexible psychologist.
She even pointedly commented: ‘Coming from interstate, as I do, it occurs to me that most of you here have kindergarten or nursing backgrounds. Indeed,’ she turned to the two women seated behind her,’ your advisers are both kindergarteners.’
Was it true? Even if it wasn’t, why was she here? Why was a kindergarten-oriented professional talking to people who worked, not just with young children, but with adults and teenagers?
She ended to the sound of applause, resumed her place in the line-up on the stage, and listened to directions for morning tea. The room began to empty. From his seat near the door, he inspected the people moving out. There were all shades and types of women, some young, some middle-aged, some motherly, some well-groomed city types. Two men passed, nodded to him and kept moving. Why so many women with kindergarten backgrounds? Why so many ex-nurses and nurse’s aides? Although he’d known about Adele Turner’s kindergarten background and the inexperience of the other staff members, he’d presumed they’d been employed because there was no one else; that it was because of the Centre’s isolation. Not until Professor Lawrence had stirred the pot had he comprehended what was happening. Staff in Training Centres for the Retarded were being trained, and monitored, by people whose area of expertise was confined to kindergartens!
He joined the queue. A couple of young women smiled hello and remarked on the weather. A middle-aged man wearing casual clothes sympathised with what must have been a ‘bloody awful trip down, mate.’
Collecting a cup of coffee, he made for a long table at one side of the huge dining room. Set out on it were clusters of articles for sale. A sign in front of each display denoted the Training Centre from which the articles had been brought.
‘See you found us,’ the man caught up with him. ‘Ted Nelson’.
‘Mark Withers,’ he shook hands. ‘I’m from…’
‘I heard. No adults up there in your place?’
‘Not over twenty-one, no. I’m interested. What is it you do?’
‘Me? Actually I’m here representing our management committee. My son’s in the Therapy Centre.’
‘Oh? I understood this was a teachers’ affair.’
‘Some of us like to keep up. I try to know what the staff’s doing. Give them all
the support I can. God knows they deserve it.’
‘I don’t know about therapy centres. What does your son do?’
‘A bit of this, a bit of that. You know the sort of thing.’
‘Not really. I haven’t seen anything like these.’ He moved along the table. Reminiscent of a country women’s fair, there were exhibits of sewing, knitting, basket weaving, children’s scrapbooks filled with pictures cut from greeting cards.
‘Is this what they do in the activity centres?’
‘Some. They’re for sale if you’re interested.’
‘What do they do if they don’t do this?’
‘Contracts. Our place contracts-out work from a laundry. Stacking and packing. Sorting. That kind of thing. Honest labour. The kids think they’re working.’
‘Is it heavy work?’
‘Not really. Then there’s other contracts. We had a great job last year. Packing clouts for a builder. One lucky bugger cornered the market on packing show bags for the local show. The kids loved that one.’
‘Doesn’t that affect the pension? My class worries about that side of things.’
‘No problem. The kids get a token something. A few bob in some places. It depends. The manager works it out. He…’
‘Got a minute, Ted?’
‘Excuse me. Catch you later.’ Ted disappeared.
He was nearing the end of the display, when a familiar voice interrupted. ‘It would have been interesting to spend time with you, young Mark Withers. Unfortunately, I have to leave.’
‘Professor!’
‘I’m intrigued by your report. Are you actually teaching the three rs?’
‘Trying to.’
‘Tell me about it.’ She led the way back to the empty auditorium.
‘I didn’t realise….’ he prevaricated.
‘My train goes in an hour,’ she interrupted.
There was nothing to lose. Clem’s progress seemed a good place to start. As a person with Down Syndrome, his fascination with maths should satisfy her.
She listened without further interruption.
‘I wish you could see Clem,’ he ended. ‘He’s leaping ahead.’
‘No dire behaviour problems?’ Her friendly round face crinkled with laughter. ‘You’ve been warned, young man.’
It was not amusing.
‘Sorry,’ she was contrite. ‘That’s just me. I find the whole business absurd. But then, I find a lot of things absurd. When do you go back? Today? Tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow. I plan to visit a couple of Centres.’
‘Do.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’ve overstayed!’
‘I’ve talked too much.’ She should have been mingling with her audience.
‘Not at all,’ she started to heave her bulk from the chair.
Assisting her to her feet, he cleared a path through the chattering women. Interruptions of farewell and thanks impeded their progress. The psychologist was waiting by the exit door. Preparing to return to the women, Mark stepped back.
‘Before you go,’ Professor Lawrence held his arm. ‘A word…?’
‘Of course.’
She leaned closer. Very softly, she whispered. ‘Do try to hang in there. It’ll be worth it. If you can.’
Quickly, she turned away.
***
‘You’re back early.’ His mother opened the door. Tea’s not ready yet.’
‘It’s okay, Mum. I don’t feel like it yet, anyway.’
‘Rough day, son?’
He hesitated. If only he could talk about it.
‘I’ve got a beer in the fridge. I set the fire in the lounge…’
He watched her stride back to the kitchen at the end of the passage. She even walked like a man. Cruel, Mark. Cruel. Why not? He’d had a cruel day. A bloody awful day. He’d had to sit and listen to the dour psychologist lecture about classifications of retardation and dry as dust theories that had nothing to do with real life and real people. He’d listened to his offsiders talk about training that wasn’t too far removed from potty-training for babies. As trainers of the young children, Judith and Fran would have been interested. Laura’s mother might have been interested. He’d had to acknowledge, not only that the two advisers knew what they were talking about, but that it was also part of the job.
It was by no means all of the job. In the conference workshops, where he’d anticipated some kind of recognition of the potential of kids like Clem and Trixie and the others, he’d had to listen to women talk about how to bake a better sponge, how to knit a longer scarf, how to plant a bloody onion! Cruel, Mark. They meant well. They bloody knew no better. Did he? Did he know better?
Leaving his satchel, coat and tie in the bedroom, he went to the lounge. She’d already lit the fire. She’d have chopped the wood herself, stacked it, and set the fire that was now blazing brightly. She hadn’t even let him light the damned fire. Like a man. A tough capable man, a doting mother, all wrapped up in the one person.
Leaving the light off, he fell into the capacious chair by the blazing fire. Its heat burned his face. Good. The fire of reality might counteract his rage. The flames subsided, his anger fled. It was comforting, sitting in the unlit room, the only light the glow from the fire, the only sound the drum of steady rain on the iron roof. Rain on the roof, huge fires, his father… His eyes closed.
The clink of glass on glass roused him.
�
�D’you want to be alone?’ His mother set glass and opened bottle on the table at his side.
‘Why don’t you pour yourself one, Mum?’
‘You don’t mind?’
‘Why should I?’
‘You just seem so down, Mark. I don’t want to intrude.’
‘It’s your house, Mum.’
‘And yours when you need it,’ she retorted.
There it was again, the reminder of times long gone. And yet, she was oddly diffident. Usually, she wouldn’t have asked for permission to stay. ‘I’d like the company, Mum.’
‘I’ll turn the oven down. I’m not ready to eat yet either.’
He wanted company, he needed company. But friendly company. If only he could talk to Jenny…
Returning, she asked: ‘What about the light, Mark?’
Prompted by the remnants of anger, he was tempted to repeat that it was her house. He said instead: ‘It’s pleasant the way it is. Don’t you think?’
Sitting in the opposite chair, she poured her beer and looked thoughtfully into the heart of the flames. The play of flickering light and shadow on her pale face, masking the lines of age, highlighted its perfect contour and the large intense brown eyes. She must have been a beauty, once. Before Jason, before marriage.
They drank in silence. It was a rare, unique moment. A word, any word, could destroy it. Unless…?
‘Can I tell you something, Mum?’
‘Of course.’ The glowing brown eyes, so quick, so alert, so hurt, waited.
‘Today at the Conference….’ He paused. What was he doing? He’d been beguiled by the warmth and the soft light and the beer.
‘What is it, son?’
‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter.’
She turned away.
Of course she turned away. He heard himself. He saw himself. Walking, running, away from those wounded eyes. He was going to do it again. Run away. He was going to leave her alone with her pain. He could have stayed. He could have…
She set her empty glass on the table. ‘I’ll get tea….’
‘They laughed at me, Mum.’ He felt the tears running down his face.
‘I’ll get another bottle, son.’
The fire had died down and the room was almost totally dark when she came back. Not speaking, she poured two fresh beers and threw a log on the fire.
‘Sorry about that,’ he apologised.
‘Who laughed at you, Mark?’
Who? Just about everybody. How to answer? ‘The other kids, Mum.’
‘Because of Jason,’ she nodded. ‘I thought so. You never said.’
The past was past. Leave it there. ‘They laughed at me today too…’ The words, free at last, flowed quickly and easily.
He told her about The Glenlea. He told her about Clem and Peter and Trixie and Fay and the others. He told her about Laura. He told her why the psychologist’s ridicule had so deeply distressed him, of his belief that his students could learn more than people believed, of the kindergarten standards and the professor’s encouragement.
He didn’t tell her about the dreadful childhood years when he’d been ridiculed because he had a retarded brother, or discuss what it must have been like for his father and his sisters. He didn’t explain the frustration and hurt and envy of her love for Jason that had made him run away. He didn’t talk about the tormented teenage years before, for reasons he still wasn’t sure of, he’d finally decided to become a teacher.
He didn’t ask why she’d not sent Jason to a Training Centre, or try to find out if she’d been too ignorant or stubborn or scared to let him have even that kind of chance. He didn’t attempt to question the choices she’d made and why she’d made them; to ask why she’d coddled Jason, smothered him, lived only for him.
He couldn’t risk the words that would hurt her. How could he? His mind’s eye saw, alongside his mother’s once beautiful face, the figure of Fay’s mother cradling her child in the back seat of Mrs Ryan’s blue Volvo.
Reaching across, she took his hand. ‘It hasn’t been easy, has it?’
‘Not for any of us, Mum.’
‘So….’ She released him. ‘Where to from here?’
‘Like the professor said. Stay the course, I guess.’
‘If you must, son. But do be careful….’
Chapter Nine
Glenlea Spring 1975
It was spring. Crops leapt from rich russet soil, birds dived on luscious shoots or wheeled in ecstatic blue skies, kookaburras eagle-eyed the ground for food from atop judiciously selected lookouts, and the brilliantly coloured parakeets began their annual retreat to the coolness of the high mountains. On the farms young lambs danced, calves nuzzled new mothers, and frisky foals played on emerald lawns safeguarded by immaculate white fences.
In the township tiny leaves were uncurling to form leafy umbrellas on winter-rested trees, spring flowers were blossoming to brilliant displays in proud gardens. Like the trees and the flowers turning to the burgeoning warmth and light, the old folk were gossiping at front gates, rocking in ancient chairs on ancient verandahs or ambling to the shops. In the main street, traders were freshening winter-jaded signs and preparing for an influx of tourists on their way to the mountains. Mark had to wonder - how long would it be for before the Town Council or the Traders Association decided to update? It was inevitable. Soon a grand new supermarket would replace Smith’s General Store, the single story shops would give way to a grand plaza, the old timber movie house would be replaced by a flashy theatre complex. And how long would it be before MacDonald’s replaced Fred’s Fish and Chips? Chain-store commercialism followed the tourists as surely as money followed a good harvest.
The new Centre bus, bought with a grant from the Whitlam Government’s alleged bottomless pit of dollars, negotiated its snug way through the narrow lanes and across rickety bridges as magpies, sparrows, cockatoos, blackbirds, starlings, and a myriad others skittered with practiced wings from its path. Stopping at farm gates and isolated houses, it circled the valley before picking up children in the township. Passing through the town centre, it finally turned onto the mountain highway and headed for the Training Centre.
Jenny’s return to Friday afternoon classes coincided with the commencement of Third Term. Despite her protestations, she’d managed to find a capable babysitter. As a result, because the baby was now being partially bottlefed, she was able to safely leave the two children at home. Arriving immediately after lunch, she started the lesson with a general discussion which freed Mark to work with Laura. After praising their diligence with maintenance of diets and high standards of personal care in her absence, she opened her makeup case. ‘Today I thought we’d do a proper makeup on Meryl right from a face mask through to pretending she’s going out. Maybe she’s going to a dance, a pretend dance. You remember you need to wear your makeup just a little bit heavier at night.’
‘What about the boys?’
‘You don’t want to watch?’ She laughed the tinkling laugh that had first attracted him to her. Looking up from his place beside Laura, their eyes met. It was as it should be, and rarely was. Sharing responsibility, sharing interests, sharing the joy of watching the progress of these very special kids - how many partners had it so good? All said in a single glance that even the most alert spectator would scarcely have seen.
Jenny laughed again. ‘Don’t tell me the boys don’t want to see how the girls apply makeup?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘You shouldn’t talk to Jenny like that.’ Clem, of course, monitoring correct behaviour.
‘Sorry, Jenny.’
‘It’s okay. I was joking. I thought you fellows might like to go outside and do some exercises until your turn.’
‘Not for makeup!’
‘For a talk about acne pimples.’
‘My mum says exercise is good for pimples.’
‘She’s right. So out you go. We’ll talk about it when you come back.’
‘I’ll go with them.’ Mark le
ft Laura who, her brief attention span having already been exceeded, was asleep.
‘Thanks.’ She turned to the small group of girls.
‘I’ll take over Laura.’ Fay was already leaving the group.
Knowing the tight-rope he walked, Jenny looked to her husband for guidance.
‘Laura’s all right, Fay,’ he headed her off. ‘She’s had enough for now. She’s tired.’
‘I want to help Laura.’ Fay stood her ground.
‘Jenny’s come especially. You like learning about makeup.’
‘I know about it. Ruth showed me.’ Still she stood, open-faced and unflurried, at ease and not at all concerned about consequences. It was clear. She had no intention of taking further part in Jenny’s class.
‘That’s okay.’ Taking her cue from a silent signal from Mark, Jenny took over. ‘Except, if you stay with us you’ve got a chance of winning the lovely giveaway kit I’ve brought. The chemist said I could give one away every month.’
‘I don’t want it.’
‘You might not get it,’ Jenny smiled. ‘I’m going to have a lucky number competition. One of the boys might like it for his mother.’
‘I’ll win it!’ Trixie was entirely sure of the result of the lucky draw.
‘You might. We’ll see.’
‘I want it.’ Already wearing a pale blue protective makeup cape and seated in the chair out front, Meryl was impatiently awaiting the start of the delayed demonstration.
‘Fay?’ Still reluctant to begin without her, Jenny again looked to Mark.
‘I got to go to the toilet.’ Abruptly brushing past them, Fay left the room.
Jenny reddened.
‘Take no notice, Jenny,’ Peter advised. ‘She’s a screw loose.’
‘Peter!’ Mark admonished.
‘It’s damned well true!’ Peter had had enough. ‘Just forget her, Jenny. She likes to upset people.’
‘I’m sick of waiting,’ Meryl reached to untie the cape.
‘All right, Meryl.’ Jenny retied the cape and began the lesson.
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