Fay

by Dulcie M. Stone

  The other men were here to support their sons and daughters in the Youth Group, and therefore to show support for The Glenlea Centre. However, talk of The Glenlea and Meryl and Peter, though not unduly uncomfortable, was brief. Inevitably, the conversation soon turned to football. What would this year’s competitions bring? Was he a football man? Sure, he’d followed Carlton all his life.

  ‘That big league game ain’t the same no more. Country footy’s the real deal, mate. Take the wife and kids. Sit in the car. Enjoy the sun. Take a few cans. Watch the game. Best entertainment in the world.’

  Having established a comparatively relaxed rapport with the country men, he felt free to turn his attention to the young people on the dance floor. The energetic Youth Group members had been hard at work. As predicted by the principal, the two groups were happily intermingling. The intervals between dances were filled with laughter and excited chatter from both groups. The social was, on the face of it, a success. And why not? Once people like Meryl and Trixie and Peter and their outgoing friends got over their initial nerves, they became their true enjoyable selves. Once the Youth Group learned to enjoy the enjoyable, they too relaxed. Besides, a few from both groups had met at last year’s social and maybe even before that. Some had met before!

  So what was going on? Why had there been that initial marked uneasiness? Why had there been that frigid silence? Why had he initially felt that the great expanse of floor between them was a divide no one would ever cross? It had ended. The hard working musicians had stirred them up. The music had beguiled them, and the floor had been crossed. Right this minute the floor was a bridge the kids were using. Would it ever be more than a once-a-year token? A pious gesture to the lesser? Stop it, Mark.

  He couldn’t stop it. The habit was becoming ingrained, a curse. He wondered if he should make an effort to move, decided against it, and let the habit win the moment. It was intriguing, a rare opportunity. He’d be a fool to waste it. Observing The Glenlea Centre trainees and their brothers and sisters, he made comparisons with them – the Youth Group, the uninhibited members of the musical group, the parents and the few older church people present.

  Except for the Down Syndrome people, there were very few immediately obvious differences between any of the groups. The stark contrast between the conservative young church people and the flashy musicians was more directly striking than the differences between those labelled disabled and those labelled non-disabled.

  Overall, there was the average mix to be found in any group of young people. There were blondes and brunettes and the usual sprinkling of Celtic red-heads. Some were reserved, others outgoing, some were good dancers, others awkward. A few were notably muscular and obviously keen sports lovers, others were thin and wafery and probably bookworms.

  Closer inspection revealed a few who were different in a distinctive way. One couple, in particular, stood out. Both had unblemished skin, glossy hair, notably straight carriage, expensively unostentatious clothes and a starkly different aura that set them apart. Not surprised, he learned they were from the upper strata of Glenlea society. Listening to the men talk about them, he learned that they were university students home for a vacation. Were they slumming? Or were they genuine church goers who genuinely cared about people like Meryl and Peter and the others?

  Equally atypical, and betrayed by their muddy skin, dank hair, hang-dog carriage and garishly new clothes bought especially for the occasion was a small group from The Glenlea Training Centre. The direct opposite of the suave university students, these youngsters wore the additional label of coming from the ‘wrong side of the tracks’. Their fathers, from the non-farming and non-tradesmen classes, were unskilled labourers. The wrong side of the tracks, where most of them lived, was a row of weatherboard shacks abandoned by the railway-men when government policy cut out trains in favour of road transport.

  Class! In Australia! More subtle than the traditional European notions of class, its boundaries less blatant and seldom overtly acknowledged, the hierarchy of class was irrefutable. The glaring differences between rich and poor and middle class were clearly evident in this room. Most obvious was the difference in the clothes they wore. The upper class people were totally at ease in the beautifully cut clothes that revealed large bank accounts and the difference of uncommon wealth. The middle strata, the farmers and tradesmen and their children, wore their Sunday go-to-church suits and frocks with a measure of discomfort betrayed by fingers that constantly fidgeted at collars and ties and over-tight bodices and sagging stockings. The outnumbered and acutely uncomfortable few from the lowest class, the unskilled labourers and their children, were overdressed to the point of farce. One of these was Fay. As Madelaine Evans had long ago foretold, Fay’s pink dress was loaded with frills and her ponytail tied with pink ribbons.

  There were other enlightening differences, not only of manner and dress and confidence. There was speech. The upper class affectation of English-style speech as spoken by the landed gentry and the resident professionals had little in common with the rough salt-of-the-earth speech of the descendants of the gold-miner country Aussie. There were as well the more subtle indicators of class structure, evident in skin tone and hair gloss and smell. The upper class, irrespective of any guessed-at financial status, wore understated perfumes and after-shaves that would have communicated their class to a blind man. On the other hand, the poor, irrespective of their actual attention to cleanliness, wore the distinctive odour of poverty. Most ludicrous of all was the discovery that should he lift his eyes no further than their shoes, he’d speedily locate the wearer’s place on the class ladder! It wasn’t ludicrous, it was tragic.

  Yet to find this wide range, where the children of landed gentry, tradesmen, farmers, labourers and unemployed were intermingling in such a small social gathering was not usual. Nowhere near usual. Was it their church which had brought them together on this singular occasion? Or was it their combined concern for the less able members of their community? The former, he would guess. Maybe, to be optimistic, it was a little of the latter.

  It was additionally interesting that the men here in this group by the door were all of the solid lower middle class, the men misguidedly tagged the typical Aussie; the men who spoke straight-to-the-point language and who wore thick-soled serviceable footwear with their Sunday-best blue suits and striped ties and tight collars.

  So where was Fay’s father? Fay’s mother? Where were the few parents whose children came from the poorest section of the town? Where, for that matter, were the parents of the cultured gentry? Surely, in these parents, the differences between Australian ‘upper’ and Australian ‘lower’ would be grossly apparent. Was that why these two groups of parents had chosen to be absent? Could it be that, in their dramatically opposite way, they knew they wouldn’t fit? Could it be that the uncomplicated middle men, the farmers and the tradesmen, were the most at ease at a ‘mixed’ social event?

  Questions. Too many questions. Too few answers. Too much imagining. Too much thinking. Too much introspection, Mark. Stop it.

  Not surprisingly the hostess girls were working more strenuously than the host boys to maintain enthusiasm. They permitted no Glenlea student to sit for too long. Eventually one of the hostesses would introduce a partner from the Youth Group and the isolated student would be drawn into a dance or a conversation. Though the atmosphere was momentarily reassuring, it was leading to still more questions. Again he wondered. Would these people, too, go their separate ways after the social? Of course they would. Only a fool would expect anything else. But why did they have to go separate ways? Didn’t the things they have in common outweigh the things they did not?

  Trixie and Meryl and Linda, Clem and Jamie and Harry – they were all dancing and laughing and, in between dances, sitting with their new friends. Even Don. Don’s attendance had been the subject of prolonged discussion and hours of dispute. Both Mrs Ryan and Adele Turner had worried - should Don be allowed to attend the social? Was he ready?

>   Ready? What were they talking about? Even if Don wasn’t ready to come out into this small corner of his world that wanted to welcome him, they had no right to forbid him. Permission to attend belonged to Don’s parents. No, the job of his teachers was to prepare him, and to assist him to have a fun night with his friends. In any case, the more pertinent question was – was the world that wanted to welcome him ready for Don? Frenetic and rebellious, talkative yet not easy to understand because he spoke so quickly, Don stood to gain more than his Centre friends from this novel experience.

  Watching Don, sitting between two Youth Group girls, chattering and laughing and gesticulating in his irrepressible way, he was at first worried. Until he observed that the girls seemed to genuinely like him. Which was fair enough. What was not to like about Don?

  Where was Laura? Who had decided she should not be here? Had anyone decided? Of course not, it had merely been taken for granted. In all the rush of preparations, he’d presumed that the invitation to the whole class meant just that – the whole class. It had not once occurred to him to question whether this included Laura. Tonight, of course, it was obvious that for Mrs Ryan the whole class meant just the opposite – the whole class minus Laura. Enlightening! Disheartening. There was still so much work to do. He imagined her here, now. She’d be taking it all in. From her wheelchair she’d be enthralled. Next time….

  Inevitably, his eyes returned to Fay. She, alone, was a cause for real concern. Only for Peter would she move. Until Peter coaxed her onto the floor she stayed glued to her seat. At the approach of a stranger, she stiffened and lowered her head until the stranger walked on to find an inviting face.

  So far advanced, yet still so far to go. She’d made her stand. She’d vowed to take charge of her own destiny. She’d done it without any idea of how difficult each new step was going to be. Wanting to help, he knew he shouldn’t.

  Eventually Peter crossed to him. ‘Mark, can you do anything with Fay?’

  The football conversation halted.

  ‘Why?’ Meryl’s father asked.

  ‘She won’t dance with no one else.’

  ‘It’s her first social, Peter. She’ll come around.’

  ‘I thought if you had a dance with her, Mark.’

  ‘It’s not the point, Peter. The point of all this is to make friends with new people.’

  ‘I know.’ Peter frowned. ‘I hate to see her sitting alone.’

  ‘Besides,’ Peter’s father drawled, ‘you want to be with Tina.’

  Peter blushed. He’d taken a liking to Tina.

  ‘Tina’s in the Youth Group,’ the farmer explained.

  ‘In that case,’ Mark reluctantly surrendered. ‘I’ll take care of Fay for you.’

  ‘No need,’ Meryl’s father offered. ‘I’ll get young Joe to look out for her. He’s pretty good with the girls.’

  ‘Specially good,’ Peter’s father sneered.

  Alerted, Mark asked. ‘You think maybe I’d better do it?’

  ‘Too late,’ Peter’s father observed.

  Already Meryl’s father was crossing to a handsome muscular young man in the middle of the dance floor.

  ‘Don’t worry, Pete,’ Peter’s father told his son. ‘He is Meryl’s brother. He’ll take care.’

  ‘But Dad!’

  ‘Go on to Tina, Pete,’ his father urged him. ‘Don’t worry about Joe.’

  Peter left.

  ‘You and Peter don’t sound too happy about Joe,’ Mark was worried. ‘Should I head him off?’

  ‘He’s okay, I reckon. Just me – old-fashioned, I reckon.’

  ‘What about Peter? He’s not too keen, either.’

  ‘Like I said. He is young Meryl’s brother.’

  ‘All the same,’ Mark persisted, ‘if there are any worries?’

  ‘It’s all right, teacher.’ Another of the group reassured: ‘Joe’s in our team. Plays a good game. Good kid.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’

  ‘No worries.’

  No worries. They should know. They were here because of their children. If they weren’t worried, why should he be? Looking across the room, he saw Mrs Ryan and Miss Turner happily watching the dancers. They weren’t worried either. Was he falling into the habit of jumping at shadows that were not there? Almost certainly. It had been a difficult term. Mrs Ryan had warned him. Burn-out was a risk he should be wary of.

  Settling back, compelling himself to strictly objective observation, he saw that the social was in full swing. The fathers were happily swapping yarns and predicting the next season’s weather. The mothers were happily preparing the supper of hot party pies and cream-sponges and cordials in the kitchen. The enthusiasm of the band on the high stage was infectious and all the kids, even Fay who was dancing with Joe, were happily socialising. Equally reassuring was the fact that Mrs Ryan and Miss Turner and Reverend Morris were supervising – apparently also happy. He wasn’t needed here. Jenny needed him at home.

  Leaving the fathers, he squeezed onto the narrow seat between Miss Turner and Mrs Ryan. ‘I thought I might leave. If you….’

  ‘By all means, Mark.’ Mrs Ryan beamed. ‘As you see, all is going very well. It just takes a little while.’

  He did not leave.

  ‘Is there something else, Mark?’

  ‘No… no… not really…’

  ‘You worry too much. Is it Fay? As you see, she’s mixing well enough now.’

  How could he tell her about the misgivings of Peter and his Dad? He couldn’t. The misgivings were shadows quickly dispelled by the reassurances of the other men. Down to earth men. Sensible men. Besides, Mrs Ryan was expecting him to be overly protective of Fay. Anything he said would be quickly dismissed.

  Instead he prevaricated. ‘Well no. Actually, I was concerned about her at first. She seems to be doing okay now. It’s Don I still wonder about. The girls are making a bit of an idiot of him.’

  ‘I noticed,’ she laughed. ‘Don’s having a wonderful time. Go home to your wife, Mark. That’s an order.’

  Happy to obey his principal’s order, he exited the Youth Group dance.

  Chapter Thirteen

  What had they done? Fay had gone to the social a happy confident young teenager. She’d returned to the Centre an unhappy child. Overnight they’d gone almost back to base, not too far removed from where they’d been when she’d moved into his classroom eighteen months ago. Far from being ready for life outside home and Centre, she’d been devastated by the experience. No one, not her mother, not her friends, not her principal, and certainly not he would have anticipated just how badly affected she’d be. Previously tested only on the small excursions to places chosen for their friendliness, places like the general store and Peter’s farm, her hard-won confidence had totally vanished.

  Yet she had advanced, she had shown that the potential was there. At least this time her backward leap had to at least contain the seeds of hope. Didn’t it? It was exhausting. Back to base, and trying to think of yet another way to persuade her to again step onto the upward ladder she’d started to so successfully climb.

  Except – could the retreat to abnormal shyness, appalling insecurity, frightening isolation and the reluctance to even speak be pointing to another possibility? Could Mrs Ryan’s earlier suggestion of pathological emotional instability be well-founded? Could Fay Margaret’s spectacular announcement of independence have been yet another abnormal symptom of serious mental illness?

  Or had the social compelled her to confront her difference? She’d have seen what he’d seen. She’d have seen the beautiful clothes and the self-assurance of the Youth Club youngsters. Even the simple fact of the difference in clothes would have been a contrast she’d find hard to cope with. Especially the difference in clothes? She’d have been proud of her new pink dress and the pink ribbons in her hair. She wouldn’t have understood just how crass they were. Until she’d seen that suave young woman from university. Then, she’d have seen. She read the magazines, she knew elegance. Even
so it wouldn’t have been until she’d seen the difference, live and in the same room, that she’d have seen herself.

  How could it possibly be that simple? Where Fay was concerned, nothing was simple. He was learning more hard lessons. He was learning his own limitations. He was bumbling along a new road with no signposts. Unless he surrendered to the signposts of the bureaucrats whose signs read ‘Stop’ for no logical reason. Unless he tried, yet again, to find help in the complexity of articles and books that crammed Mrs Ryan’s book shelves. Literature that generalised. Literature that, at least so far, had helped not a whit with Fay Margaret Clark. Should he be reading not psychology, but psychiatry? Was that what was going on? Was Mrs Ryan right? This was not a place for emotionally disturbed people?

  Because the fact was that, regardless of the reasons for it, Fay’s post-social behaviour was identical to the behaviour of her early days at The Glenlea. The painfully constructed foundations of trust and mutual respect had collapsed. They might never have been built. Either they’d been built on treacherously shifting sands, or Fay was bent on self-destruction. Emotionally disturbed? He didn’t know enough, nowhere near enough.

  For the first week, he’d hoped that it was temporary. It just wasn’t possible that so much effort had been so speedily lost. Surely she’d quickly recover? She didn’t. Not in the first week, not in the following month. Finally he had to admit that it wasn’t temporary. Since the social, Fay was no further advanced than when he’d first known her. Maybe she was worse. What had he done? Naively challenging the evil of bigotry, he’d sent an ill-prepared Fay into the front line.