‘That’s what she thinks,’ Meryl scoffed. ‘I heard different. Her mum told my mum….’
‘Okay!’ Imitating his teacher, Clem sharply slapped his hands to reassume control. ‘We’ve had enough of that. We’ll change the subject. We have to talk about the social.’
The annual social. Last year he’d had to stay at home with Jenny. This year he planned to attend. They were all looking forward to it. Full marks to Clem. This would satisfy everybody.
‘Why?’ Fay demanded. ‘We don’t have to talk about the social just because you say so.’
Alerted, Mark looked up.
‘I’m the chairman! That’s why!’
‘So what? I want to talk about work.’
‘We’ve talked about work,’ Clem glared.
‘We have not.’ Fay was adamant. ‘Not properly we haven’t.’
‘We have so.’
‘We have.’
Mark rapped his table.
‘She knows I’m chairman,’ Clem pouted. ‘It’s up to me. I was just trying to get off it. Who wants a job anyway? You can’t have a job and the pension too.’
‘Yes, Clem…’ Mark began.
‘I don’t want no pension!’ Fay interrupted. ‘I don’t want no pension. Can’t he get that through his thick head?’
‘That’s rude!’
‘Apologies to Clem, Fay.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised, but immediately added: ‘Who wants a stupid pension? You should want a job.’
‘We talked about that enough,’ Clem ordered. ‘So let’s talk about something else.’
‘Excuse me,’ Mark set down his pen, closed the file of reports, and again joined
the circle. ‘If you don’t mind, Clem, I think it might be wise to talk this through.’
‘That’s okay, Mark,’ Clem waved condescending consent. ‘You’re the boss.’
‘Perhaps Peter can help us with this,’ Mark suggested.
‘How?’ Peter was at a loss.
‘You are going to work on the farm for your father. Will you be paid a wage?’
‘Dad says I have to stick at it first. For an allowance.’
‘I guess an allowance is a kind of wage?’
‘Not as much as the hands get.’
‘I see. So what will your father do if you do stick at it?’
‘It’s like this – if I like it and I can do it all the time, like the hands, then my dad says I’ll be paid like them.’
‘What about your pension? Past a certain cutoff point, if you work full-time, for instance, you’ll lose your pension.’
‘That worries me.’
‘Wouldn’t worry me,’ Fay glowered.
‘Why not, Fay?’
‘I want to be me own boss.’
‘You can be, with a pension.’
‘Yeah! They give it to you. You don’t earn it. It ain’t the same.’
‘Suppose you don’t get a job. You’ll need the pension,’ Mark persisted. ‘You can be the boss of the money, at least.’
‘No way. Mum’ll get it.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Peter don’t get his. His dad gets it. That’s how the pension works. Mum’ll get it.’
‘Sure. She’ll be entitled to it for food and board. But she’ll allot you a share of it. Your mother’s very fair, Fay.’
‘Yeah. Like now. She’ll still dish money out like it’s to a little kid. I work, I get it. Then I give her the food and board money. That’s what people do. See?’
Possibly, he did see. Whether it was pocket money or pension, it was usual for the parents to control the money of their disabled children; irrespective of their age. His mother had controlled Jason’s pension. It had been necessary. But not all disabled pensioners were as handicapped as Jason had been. Until this second, he’d never looked at it from the Fay’s point of view. What about the others in this group?
He asked them. ‘Has anyone anything to say about what Fay thinks?’
The discussion widened. He discovered that Peter, farmer’s son and accustomed to the insecurities inherent in his father’s way of life, welcomed the pension as a stable bulwark against the vagaries of unpredictable nature. A stark contrast with Fay, who perceived dependence on the government handout invalid pension as a personal indignity. It was a throw-back notion left over from the Great Depression. His own grandparents, compelled to rely on government handouts, had frequently expressed their shame. Even his mother, although she could never manage without it, retained a vestige of the mentality that perceived reliance on ‘the pension’ as cause for shame. It was not too much of a stretch to think that Fay’s parents, too, would feel the same.
As for the rest of the group, most not yet receiving the pension, they seemed to be on the same pocket money arrangement as Fay. For the present, they were happy enough with the dependence of family management of their money. Except family members, one way or another, managed much more than their money. They managed their entire lives. Was it this deeper dependence which Fay had the perception to resent?
As it was currently for Fay, would it eventually be for the others? Would their complacency with the status quo last? What would happen in their maturing years? Would they settle for the parental, or family, management of every aspect of their lives – of which money management was merely a symbol? An important symbol, for sure. Yet the tip of a treacherous iceberg.
Most of the people in this group could well be capable of a significant degree of independence. Some with support, some without. Would Trixie opt for a partpension once she started earning money at her mother’s shop? Would Clem, so keenly aware of right and wrong and personal worth, settle for being managed in the same way as his toddler brother, or some future nephew or niece? What about the evolving initiatives for employment training for disabled people? What about the dignity of risk? What about the medical advances of this new age which saw people with disability living longer? What about educational advances?
The safe, secure, predictable and traditional world was rapidly changing. In the traditional world, people with lesser ability had always been dependent. In the traditional world, the more able people had unquestioningly accepted responsibility for the weaker members of the tribe. It was as it always had been and, they presumed, always would be.
Here in the bush, the questions were still more or less theoretical. Meanwhile, new government policies and initiatives were beginning to directly affect every aspect of their lives. In a future that was already a theoretical proposition, the families of these kids, and eventually the people with disability themselves, would be compelled to think through their responses to changing ideals and changing principles. It was as yet the theoretical future. Here was the present, here was today.
He decided to stay well clear of the minefield of future problems. ‘If I remember correctly, it was Fay who wanted to talk about work.’
‘Right on,’ Clem conceded, ‘but I want to talk about….’
‘I haven’t finished,’ Fay again interrupted.
‘You have something else on your mind, Fay?’
‘Sure. What about Don? He reckons he’s got plenty of time to think about jobs.’
‘I have too,’ Don flared. ‘I don’t want one anyway. I’m not clever.’
‘Don’t you see?’ Fay’s face was alight with excitement. For whatever reason, this was touching a nerve. She wasn’t about to let Clem change direction. ‘That’s why you’ve got to practice now! You’ve got to learn to work. You can learn all sorts of things.’
‘If you want a job,’ Don parried.
‘Stupid! I do. ’Course I do.’
‘Yeah, but I don’t.’
‘I do. I told you.’
‘Okay,’ Clem’s patience was at an end. ‘What I want….’
‘Shut up!’ Fay fired. ‘We haven’t finished.’
‘We have so too.’
‘Is that why you decided to be good, Fay?’ Peter was uncharacteristically pugnacious. ‘What a
re you talking about?’
‘You being good. Is it because you want to get a job? I know you’re up to something.’
Mark gasped. Was it too soon? Was Fay’s emotional equilibrium ready for Peter’s attack? It could well be thin ice.
From Don he heard a thin whistle of in-drawn breath.
Trixie mouthed a wide-eyed ‘Ooh!’
Clem’s mouth clamped tightly shut.
Meryl stammered: ‘That’s nasty, Peter!’
The others recognised the potential for trouble and stayed unusually quiet.
Peter was suggesting Fay’s reasons for reformation were superficial, that she’d revert to troublesome behaviour once she learned enough to get a job. Why was he doing it? Could it be that he resented her growing confidence? Or was it her attitude to the pension that bothered him? It wasn’t fair. Even the fact of her selfless work with Laura gave it the lie. Would Fay defend herself?
Even before Peter had finished his statement, Fay had begun to withdraw.
The silence lengthened. Don squirmed uneasily.
He must do something. But what? ‘Peter….’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ Peter relented. ‘I didn’t mean it. I was just teasing.’
‘Can we please talk about the social?’ Clem begged. ‘We have to….’
‘Clem! Be quiet!’ Fay had recovered.
‘I’m talking, Fay,’ Clem retorted.
‘No you’re not. I am.’ Though she spoke softly, she spoke with an authority that demanded more than obedience.
In the few seconds since Peter had challenged the reasons for her newfound cooperation, and her initial reaction of withdrawal, something remarkable had taken place. What?
No one moved and no one spoke; even Clem was stunned. They’d feared, as well they might, that the sullen withdrawal would be followed by fireworks and tantrums. They’d been wrong.
‘I’ve made up my mind,’ Fay stated. ‘I’m going to leave here and I’m going to get a job. What’s more, I’m going to leave home.’
‘Struth!’ Don’s was the only voice.
‘Thank you, Clem,’ Fay smiled. ‘I’ve finished. You can go on.’
‘You can go back to your work, Mark.’ Clem happily signalled. ‘We are going to plan our social.’
From his post at the desk, he watched. What had gone through her head in those minutes when she’d seemed to revert back to her former self? Had she been deciding whether Peter was truly teasing? Had she worked out that Peter could have been disturbed by the discussion? Had she been thinking it through?
He’d never know. He’d never know the thought process that had led to this astonishing result. Whatever it had been, she’d raised her head with new confidence. She’d thought about it and she’d decided to work. To be independent. To make her own decisions. To be herself, and to owe no one. Equally important, if not more important, was her decision to defiantly announce her plans for the future. In spite of Peter’s doubts, Fay had made a momentous choice. She’d chosen not to blindly heed the opinions of others. She’d chosen to trust herself, to trust who she was and what she was.
Was it all too quick? Only weeks ago she’d been unbearably disruptive. Mere months before that, she’d been a mouse. Was this just another of her phases? Would it last? How could it last?
Wait! Think about it. Consider. Fay had been in this building for over two years. He’d learned enough about her to know that those observant eyes had been watching and learning from her very first day. This latest step was the result of over two years of all that watching and learning. Quick? A sudden move? No way. This had been over two years in the making. Good for Fay.
Chapter Twelve
May 1976
The Centre trainees, together with their teachers and a few family members, were seated on stiff chairs on one side of the hall, the boys and girls of the St John’s Youth Group on stiff chairs on the opposite side. Between them was the vast expanse of scrubbed pine floor-boards and nervous silence. The interruption of an intermittent smothered cough served only to intensify the silence and deepen the pervasive unease. From the adjacent kitchen came the low murmur of women’s voices and the clang of cutlery; ordinarily a comforting sound, tonight an ominous overture to the anticipated discomfort to come.
‘The Band’s late,’ Mrs Ryan frowned. ‘This is a bad start.’
‘Not to worry.’ Reverend Morris, who’d crossed the floor to welcome the guests, smiled easily. ‘Once the music starts they’ll loosen up.’
‘They were booked for seven o’clock. Do you think they’ve forgotten?’
‘You really mustn’t worry,’ the Reverend reassured. ‘It’s a little earlier than our church socials. They won’t forget. Our Youth Fellowship is most reliable.’
‘I wish they’d talk or try to mix or – anything.’
‘Do you like the decorations?’ He sought to distract her. ‘The young people worked very hard on preparations. They do want your people to feel welcome.’
‘They’re very pretty.’ She eyed the balloons and streamers and the large ‘Welcome to Glenlea Training Centre’ banner. ‘We’re sending a letter of appreciation.’
‘You’re very kind. You did send one last year.’
‘As well as the time before that. It’s simple courtesy to register our appreciation. Your young people move on. We seem to see new faces every time we’re here.’
‘It is indeed unfortunate.’ The cleric’s benign face darkened. ‘Maintaining interest in youth fellowship is a constant headache. We nicely accustom one group to entertaining your young people, and then we lose them. Which means, of course, we have to break in…..Ah! Here they are!’
Through the wide double doors came the musicians. Six young men, wearing blue glitter tights, red shirts and high red boots, were loudly calling for assistance to carry in their electronic equipment. Following their directions, the members of St John’s Youth Group fetched drums, guitars, amplifiers, electronic gadgetry and helped set them up on the stage.
From the stiff seats on both sides of the hall swelled a restrained murmur of anticipation. The instruments in place, the musicians ready, the lead singer stepped to the microphone.
‘Good evening boys and girls!’
A few subdued voices responded. ‘Good evening.’
‘Louder!’
‘Good evening!’
‘Great!’ A roll of the drum. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Yes!’
‘Louder!!!’
‘Yes!!!’
‘Don’t sit there! Dance!’
Obediently stalking the people from The Glenlea, the nervous members of the Youth Group spread out to capture unprotesting partners and sedately escort them onto the dance floor. Soon, sober faces and unsmiling eyes and leaden feet were stolidly moving to the incongruously frenetic beat of drums, guitars and electronic gadgetry.
The Reverend happily escorted Mrs Ryan to her chair. ‘You see?’
‘Sorry.’ She cupped a hand to her ear. ‘I can’t hear.’
‘It’s going well,’ he theatrically mouthed, and left to join the women in the kitchen.
Miss Turner took his place.
‘You’re looking pretty tonight,’ Mrs Ryan shouted.
‘Thank you.’ Miss Turner, comfortably blind to the wooden faces and the awkward feet that spectacularly betrayed the artificiality of their supposed enjoyment, looked out over the young couples. ‘They make me feel so old.’
‘It’s good the Youth Group bothers.’ Mrs Ryan had to lean close to be heard.
‘Yes.’
‘Too noisy for talk.’
Miss Turner nodded.
Mrs Ryan frowned. Though the social was colourful, loud, and well-meaning, it was, for the present, disappointing.
The dance ended and the couples returned to their separate sides of the hall.
‘It’s dreadfully awkward.’ Miss Turner lamented. ‘They still sit apart.’
‘It’ll pass,’ Mrs Ryan promised. ‘You watch. They’ll
gradually feel more at ease with one another. Then they’ll be sitting together.’
‘I do hope so.’
‘Mind if I join you?’ Crossing the floor, Mark Withers gestured to the empty chair beside Mrs Ryan. ‘Jenny sends her apologies. We couldn’t get a babysitter.’
‘Bad luck. Ruth and Judith wanted to come. They couldn’t make it, either.’
‘Probably just as well,’ Mark commented. ‘I often wonder if teachers would do better to stay away from these kinds of things. Let the kids work it out without us.’
‘Except for our responsibility to the parents.’
He scanned the room. ‘There don’t seem to be many parents here.’
‘Most of them dropped their children off. They’ll be picking them up at ten.’
‘A few mothers are helping out in the kitchen.’
‘No fathers?’
‘A couple.’ Mrs Ryan indicated an area near a distant side-door. ‘They seem to have established their usual conclave as far as possible from the action.’
‘Near the escape hatch.’ Mark laughed. ‘Perhaps I’ll sit with them.’
As he moved to join them, each open country face closed. Newcomers were suspect and judged acceptable, or not acceptable, only after years of testing. As for professionals, especially teachers who were predictably itinerants, they would never be entirely trusted.
‘Hullo.’ He made no attempt to sit. ‘Mind if I sit in?’
‘You the teacher?’
‘Yes.’ He knew they knew it, but bowed to the ritual.
‘First social.’ The implication being – where were you last year?
‘In Glenlea – yes. Last year my wife was ill.’
‘Gonna be here long?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Ain’t you in that history club thing?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Guess you’ll be hanging around a while.’
‘Sit down, son.’
An empty chair was shoved across to him, and he sat.
‘Smoke?’
‘Thanks.’ Though his own were in his pocket, he accepted a cigarette from a proffered pack.
They asked about the pregnancy, the baby, Robin. His answers established a common bond. Although most of the men were parents of the Youth Group, a few were parents of trainees from The Glenlea. Two were parents of students in his group. Peter’s father, the farmer, was stocky and ruddy and wind-burned and wary eyed; gradually, as he listened to the teacher talking easily with his friends, his eyes grew less wary. The other parent, Meryl’s father, who seemed to have accepted his daughter’s disability with simplicity and warmth, actually invited general conversation about her progress at The Glenlea Centre. He shouldn’t have been surprised, everyone found Meryl lovable.
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