Fay

by Dulcie M. Stone

  ‘To be truthful, I’m of the opinion that perhaps it’s too late to turn things around. I really don’t….’

  ‘There has to be something.’

  ‘I wonder? It all seems so futile. She was such a good girl.’

  Echoes of Adele Turner. Was the fault entirely his? Was the principal hinting at just that?

  ‘Perhaps if I have a word with the child,’ Mrs Ryan decided. ‘Perhaps if I can make her understand what’s at stake. She must conform. She really must. Please -send her in before class resumes.’

  He found her in the dining room, sitting at a table apart from her group, picking half-heartedly at her sandwich. From the doorway he beckoned.

  Face lighting up, she came immediately to the door.

  ‘Mrs Ryan wants to see you in the office before this afternoon’s classes. Finish your lunch first. Okay?’

  ‘I’ve finished.’

  He looked deliberately at the half-eaten sandwiches and the untouched apple in

  her lunch box. ‘I think you need to eat it all, Fay.’

  ‘What’s she want me for?’

  ‘You’ll find out when you get there.’

  ‘Do I have to?’ The blue eyes were sullen, the mouth stubbornly set.

  His heart ached for her. So much pain, for whatever reason, and nowhere to escape from it. ‘I’m sorry, Fay. Mrs Ryan is expecting you.’

  ‘Sure.’ Without returning to the table to retrieve the half-eaten lunch or the lunch box, she pushed past him and stomped round-shouldered across the quadrangle.

  ‘Fay…’ He started after her, changed his mind, and beckoned Clem. ‘Would you collect Fay’s lunch box for her, Clem? I guess those scraps should go in the rubbish bin. Do you mind?’

  ‘She’s got a chip on her shoulder the size of a bloody tree,’ Clem grimaced. ‘Dad says she’s just a bloody spoilt brat.’

  ‘Just do it, Clem. Please.’

  Which was part of the problem. Fay was alienating everyone. How many of the others were complaining about Fay to their parents? Mrs Ryan was right. It had to stop - one way or another - any way.

  They were working on simple maths when Fay returned from her interview with Mrs Ryan. She was crying. Their reaction astonished him. Surprised and deeply moved, he watched them leave their work to console her.

  Peter put his arms around her. ‘What did the old bag say?’

  She pushed him away.

  ‘I’m only trying to help!’

  ‘Leave her alone.’ Trixie hugged Fay. ‘She’s upset.’

  ‘She’s upset,’ Meryl, herself upset by the depth of Fay’s distress, reverted to the mimicry she’d almost grown out of.

  ‘I’ll get a cup of tea.’ Clem left for the kitchen.

  The lesson was ended, the room in disarray. Even Laura, anchored in her wheelchair, was taking notice. Sobbing brokenly, Fay was the centre of attention until, eventually, she stopped crying.

  ‘Was she too awful?’ Peter was not at all put out by her rejection.

  ‘I won’t go to no doctor.’ Fay’s raw-red eyes turned to Mark. ‘I won’t go. I won’t.’

  ‘You did faint, Fay. Not just once, either. You know you could be sick.’

  ‘That’s right, Fay.’ Meryl bleated. ‘You could be sick. Mark’s right. You could be sick, Fay.’

  ‘I’m not sick.’

  ‘When I was sick the doctor was lovely,’ Trixie coaxed. ‘You can go to my doctor. He’s gorgeous.’

  ‘I’m not sick.’

  ‘I brought your tea,’ Clem carefully placed a brimming cup and full saucer in front of her. ‘I got a aspirin from Ruth too.’

  ‘Thank you, Clem.’

  Mark watched Fay swallow the aspirin and sip tentatively at the overflowing cup of milky liquid. Amazingly, unlike many groups he’d known, this group had moved immediately to support their distressed member. Openly and ingenuously. No reservations, no undercurrents, just honest caring.

  Seeing Fay’s obvious pain, they’d immediately set aside their justifiable irritation. She was one of them and she was in trouble. The typical cruelty of picking at the open sores of the wounded animal was not for this group. Fay’s suffering bothered them. She was a nuisance, even a ‘spoilt brat’, but her tears disturbed them. It could as easily happen to them.

  Though he’d already learned to appreciate their compassion, it was his most compelling experience of it. Less than half an hour ago, Clem had called Fay a bloody spoilt brat. Yet here he was, with his classmates, rushing to offer solace. Clem’s compassion, Peter’s refusal to take offence, the overwhelming concern shown by each of the group whose patience she’d sorely tested … how had these ‘unteachable children’ learned this remarkable forbearance?

  Was it that Fay’s classmates were unselfishly responding to what they knew to be genuine distress? Were they responding to, empathising with, emotions they knew better than their teachers? Were they, at a deeper level of human instinct, indeed more perceptive than their teachers? Could they feel that she was not merely a spoiled brat after all? That something was really amiss? Or were they just too naïve, too handicapped, to get the point that Fay was bent on causing trouble?

  He had never before felt so out of his depth. There was so much he did not know. He suspected there was much many people did not know. When it came to first-hand knowledge of acute stress, these kids probably knew more than most. The fact that they couldn’t find the words to communicate this did not prevent them from actively demonstrating it. How many people in the nominally normal world would even begin to comprehend, as they did, that Fay was not ‘bad’ but ‘sad’? There was also their enlightening suspension of judgement. They had unselfconsciously taken a full turn, accepted what they had previously not accepted. No false pride. No egotistical excuses for their spectacular change of heart. Instructive!

  Much later, after everyone had settled down, he again asked: ‘How do you know you’re not sick, Fay?’

  ‘Because I know.’

  ***

  Within the week, Mrs Clark had telephoned to report that Fay was now eating well; there would be no need to insist on a medical examination. Mrs Ryan informed Mark Withers of the call; it had already been entered into Fay’s file.

  Neither from the principal nor the other staff was there any comment. The effect was known - Fay had arrived at the Centre unconscious. The cause was not so clear ’ Fay’s mother thought it was no breakfast. Was she right? Was that why had Fay arrived at the Centre in a coma? He had to wonder. The question remained. Whatever their cause, what had triggered the end of the spells? Had they been psychological, or physical?

  If psychological, the trigger to end the spells could have been the attention of her classmates and their outpouring of sympathy and understanding. It could just as readily have been the threat of the doctor being called in. Or a combination of the events of that day.

  If physical, the spells could have ended simply because her mother had ordered her to eat breakfast. Or they could have ended because she’d recovered from some undiagnosed passing infection. Or because of a combination of both. She could have stopped feeling too sick to eat. Much more important was the niggling question – were Fay’s dramas over?

  Chapter Ten

  November 1975

  Fay Margaret Clark was nearing the end of her second year at The Glenlea. Her reports showed no change, neither progress nor deterioration, since the winter traumas. In class she conversed, participated, paid bland attention to lessons, inevitably maneuvered herself close to Mark Withers, inevitably maneuvered herself as far as possible from his wife. However each Friday afternoon, for the entire period of time spent on Jenny’s hygiene lessons, she stayed in the classroom.

  She did not again arrive in a coma.

  Even so, it was a stalemate. Unless something changed, further education and growth in personal development appeared doubtful. Fay was past the age of compulsory attendance at school, any school. She was free to opt out. The fact that she had not left was
food for thought. From her mother’s point of view, Fay’s continuing attendance at The Glenlea was readily understood. Fay at home, idle and purposeless, was not something any mother would want. Besides, even if she did help around the house, she’d almost certainly demand constant praise for even the tiniest effort. Poor mother. From Fay’s point of view? He had to agree with his students. Fay’s continuing crush on him all too graphically explained why she stayed here.

  More trouble had to come, it was just a matter of when. Even when she conformed, the mere fact of Fay’s presence in the class room was subtly disruptive. An aura of unease that was almost tangible enveloped her. He’d never before encountered it. But then he’d never encountered anyone, child or adult, as intense as Fay. It left him, at each day’s end, frustrated and exhausted.

  The effect on her classmates was equally distressing. There was a general aura of prickly unrest that could explode between any two at any time and for any, or apparently for no, reason. Coming in the wake of their recent remarkable sympathy for Fay, it was doubly unsettling – and confusing. It was like holding classes on the top of a reportedly extinct volcano that your gut told you wasn’t extinct at all. Every sense screamed that some sort of eventual eruption was inevitable. It was just a matter of when.

  Though something had to happen, the explosion hadn’t anything to do with Fay’s behaviour. It happened the minute Peter opened the morning newspaper. He shouldn’t have been surprised. After last night’s television news, he should even have been prepared. Yet he wasn’t even anticipating it, not until Peter opened the paper. Then it was too late.

  The mood was as already as prickly as cactus when Peter read the twelfth of November 1975 headline: ‘WHITLAM SACKED BY GOVERNER-GENERAL.’

  ‘Serve him right!’ Trixie gloated. ‘It’s about time!’

  ‘Take that back!’ Clem roared.

  ‘I’m reading!’ Peter cried.

  ‘Mr Fraser’s my favourite.’ Meryl begged, ‘Read it out, Pete.’

  At his desk, Mark prepared to intervene. The group had followed the blocking of supply and the political dramas of the last year. There’d been an occasional unpleasant disagreement between Clem, who was vociferously pro-Whitlam, and Peter whose family followed the Liberal Party. But yesterday’s news, when Australian Governor-General, Sir John Kerr, sacked Prime Minister Gough Whitlam and commissioned Liberal Party leader Malcolm Fraser to form an interim Government pending an election, was dynamic. Even the most apolitical of families would be talking about little else.

  Again Peter started to read: ‘Mr Whitlam condemned the actions of Sir John Kerr. He said…’

  Clem interrupted: ‘Nothing will save the Governor-General.’

  ‘That’s not what he said!’

  ‘I heard him! On the radio! That’s what he said!’

  ‘He said about saving the Queen. I heard it t-too.’

  ‘Mr Fraser’s best.’

  ‘Shut up, stupid!’

  ‘I’m reading!’ Peter tried to regain control. ‘Whitlam’s had it, Clem. Get used to

  it.’

  ‘Take that back!’ Clem leapt from his chair.

  Mark dived, but not in time. Peter and Clem were wrestling, the class in uproar when Ruth, hearing the shouting, ran to his aid.

  It had taken the rest of the day to settle them down.

  ***

  ‘I’m afraid she’ll have to go, Mark.’ It was their weekly consultation. Sitting on the far side of the unusually cluttered desk, Mrs Ryan was scrutinising Fay’s thickening file.

  Ashamed of his reaction, he felt only relief. It really would soon be over. Despite his concern for Fay, he was happy to be relieved of a burden that was at times intolerable.

  Happy to emphasise the point, she stabbed a bony finger at the pages of the open file. ‘Look! Your reports! She’s the same! Uncooperative! Week after week! Months! As I have repeatedly told you, the waiting-list situation is worsening. There are far more deserving cases.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘At least six can be classified as extremely urgent.’

  ‘All for my group?’ Six new students, strangers, would be half the class. How would the other half react?

  ‘Not exactly,’ her glance wavered. ‘It’s not the point. This building will accommodate just so many. Already we are overcrowded. Every position is vital.’

  ‘She’s nowhere near the Centre’s compulsory leaving age.’ In fairness to Fay, he must put her case; not his own.

  ‘We are aware of that, Mark.’

  ‘We take young people up to twenty-one. Peter…’

  ‘Correct,’ her tired face hardened. ‘Should they prove themselves worth the opportunity of an extension.’

  ‘I take it you don’t think Fay’s proved herself worthy of an extension?’

  ‘Again correct. I think Fay Clark’s taking up both the time and the resources that should be used by a less demanding child, a young child. She’s marking time at our expense. She’s wasting our time. She’s also depriving a young child of a chance.’ She paused, seemed to make up her mind, and forcefully added: ‘Also, I have to tell you, I believe she’s exhausting her overly patient teacher.’

  He looked up, feeling the colour suffuse his embarrassed cheeks. Dammit. He was as skittish as a teenager.

  ‘Contrary to your belief, Mark, I am not blind.’

  She’d said it with not a hint of humour, or even compassion. It was a warning. Mrs Ryan would put the mental health of a staff member before any consideration for one of her students. It was a declaration. Any argument would not be listened to.

  He reached for the file. The principal watched him study it without comment. Leafing slowly, conscious of her critical supervision, he studied times and dates, compared events, checked and rechecked both old and recent entries. Surely here, in this now comprehensive document, he would find some clue to Fay’s problems?

  In the older entries there were no new clues; they were as they always had been. From the more recent entries he could draw only one conclusion. It was Jenny; it had to be Jenny. It had to be Fay’s jealousy of her. Stop Jenny’s lessons and Fay would pick up. Objective reading of the file could leave little doubt. Without the regular distraction of her teacher’s wife in the classroom, Fay would not waste her energy in displays of jealousy.

  Simple. Dismiss Jenny, and Fay would miraculously start to learn again. Or would she? Simplistic solutions were rare. Besides, even if she did start to learn, there’d be a price to pay. It was inevitable. The entire matter of her crush on him was way out of control. Whatever was done, she’d take it personally. Dismiss Jenny, and Fay would presume she’d had a personal victory. She’d feel in control of the program – not a healthy move. Dismiss Jenny, and the group would suffer. Jenny was by far the best teacher for the job. Send Fay out of the room during Jenny’s presence, and she’d feel betrayed – consequences unknown, but frightening to contemplate. Keep to the status quo? Not on. Mrs Ryan was seeing to that.

  ‘Mark?’

  He jumped. ‘I was thinking.’

  ‘You did explain about the child’s feelings for you.’ She’d read his mind.

  ‘It’s not unusual - she’s at the age.’

  ‘They are still strong?’

  ‘It’s not unnatural.’ Even though he’d quietly confronted it in his classroom, it had to be openly discussed in this office. To be cornered into it by the rigid woman who was his boss was disconcerting.

  ‘It’s not unnatural, Mark,’ she agreed. ‘Nor is it unusual. If this is what is going on here, if this is what is wearing you out – it has to stop.’

  ‘I guess it’s a hazard of the job.’ He needed to defuse the issue, for many reasons. The main reason, at this moment, was in fairness to Fay. ‘I guess I should be used to it.’

  ‘In primary school!’

  He flushed. ‘When I was a student teacher, the kids were not so much younger than me. Some girls mature early. Anyway, teenagers generally turn to the football
heroes.’

  ‘Apparently not Fay. She doesn’t seem to be growing past it at all. Her feelings are gravely affecting the situation in your classroom. Which brings me to another relevant point. How does Jenny feel about all this?’

  ‘Not good. She believes Fay’s behaviour won’t change. Even if she doesn’t come in to give the special lessons. She believes she shouldn’t deprive the others because of Fay. Jenny has this feeling, this insight – she believes Fay will always find something to react adversely to. I have to agree. Her intensity is abnormal. Even for a teenager.’

  Mrs Ryan grimaced. ‘So what is normal for a teenager?’

  ‘Ab-normal?’

  The tension evaporated with the comfortable sound of her appreciative laugh. ‘Nevertheless, Mark,’ she sobered immediately, ‘maybe we should make sweeping changes. At least to see us safely through to the year’s end. Could we, perhaps, return Fay to Miss Turner’s group?’

  Back to the ill-balanced reliance on ‘the file’? Back to condescension and inflexibility and low expectations? Back to being called a child? Not possible.

  Mrs Ryan attempted humour. ‘You’re thinking again, Mark.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She was right, he was again taking time to come up with a response that would convince her. ‘It’s really not possible to send her back to Miss Turner. She’s well past that stage. We’d lose her for sure.’

  ‘Which might be the solution. She must go at the end of the year.’ Although the intermittent moments of levity seemed past, their legacy of trust was reassuring. ‘I do really have no choice, Mark. Unless there is a significant change in attitude.’

  ‘It’s just so awkward,’ he admitted. ‘I find it very difficult to be objective.’

  ‘I think you’re well on course,’ she smiled. ‘The welfare of the group cannot be jeopardised for the sake of a single student. I do agree. Jenny’s generous contribution is of immense importance.’

  He let his hand rest on the scattered pages of the open file; it had not helped at all. Nor, despite her obvious good will, had his principal.

  ‘Perhaps I’d better have another little talk with her?’ Mrs Ryan suggested.