Fay

by Dulcie M. Stone

  Guiltily, he recalled his misgivings at the social; his recognition of the class system and the daunting evidence of it. He remembered with shame that, despite his concern for both Don and Fay, he’d left. Don had returned unharmed, unless his cocky belief in his attractiveness to pretty girls was cause for alarm. Don was intellectually disabled. He was not physically disabled. Nor was he, as far as anyone knew, sexually disabled. Unless someone helped him, his liking for pretty girls could prove to be a future problem. Would someone do anything before he got into serious trouble? It was a matter which could very well be a cause for future concern. It was not as urgent as Fay’s current behaviour.

  He talked to Mrs Ryan. ‘I think the social gave Fay a glimpse of what she’ll be facing when she leaves us. Mixing with all those different young people – she’s probably realised what a big break it’s going to be for her.’

  ‘It could well be.’ Mrs Ryan was leaning on the low fence surrounding the quadrangle. ‘She got a good look at what it might be like for her out in the real world. Though I always did think her hopes were unrealistic. She probably thought she’d just walk out of here and cope.’

  ‘It’s a strong argument for…’

  ‘Not now, Mark.’

  The principal was right. This was not the time to argue the pluses and minuses of inclusion into mainstream education for kids like Fay. Right now, it was Fay who was the concern.

  ‘This discussion belongs in the office.’

  ‘Of course. Except…’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We’re out here watching the play,’ he pointed out. ‘I thought you could see for yourself.’

  ‘Point taken,’ Mrs Ryan’s blue rinse nodded as, together, they watched Peter attempt to involve Fay in a game of hand-ball.

  ‘To be honest, I really don’t understand. Look at her. Suddenly – out of the blue – she’s given up again.’

  ‘Not exactly out of the blue, Mark. You yourself date it back to the church social.’

  ‘A social? I’ve been over it and over it. It’s just so hard to put this drastic deterioration down to that night. I have to wonder… Did you notice anything? Was there something that happened? I thought she was okay. She was dancing. Happy. At least I thought she was.’

  ‘She was. She mixed well. Once she got over her first bout of nerves. No, Mark.’

  ‘I give up.’

  ‘Why? Why now? Has anything else happened?’

  ‘Not a damned thing. That’s the problem.’

  As they watched, Peter walked away in disgust. Meanwhile Fay, alone and ignored by the others, slumped on the edge of one of the garden seats.

  Mrs Ryan clucked disapproval. ‘Doesn’t she attempt anything?’

  ‘Not unless I insist.’

  ‘Would she play now, if you ordered it?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘It simply will not do. She can’t spend the rest of her life waiting for someone to tell her what to do.’

  ‘I’m very worried. She’d come so far. Until that night, she was on the way. She was making real progress.’

  ‘You’re not blaming yourself!’

  ‘How can I not? I did persuade her. She believed me. I really thought the social would be a good experience.’

  ‘Of course you did. It’s a step that had to be taken.’

  ‘She wasn’t ready. I should have known.’

  ‘Really Mark!’ Mrs Ryan lost patience. ‘You must stop this. She’s your student, not your daughter! As for this constant self-reproach! It’s simply not healthy. It’s not wise.’

  ‘I try not to.’

  ‘Perhaps you should try harder.’

  ‘Poor Fay – she’s a loser. Every time. Something happens every time.’

  ‘This has to be the end of it. We’ve done all we can. You’ve done more than you should. Of course there’s no point in taking up more of Miss Evans’ time on her now.’

  ‘Even so, if you don’t mind, I’d like to discuss Fay with her.’

  ***

  ‘If she’s permitted to stay here, you’ll have to start all over again,’ Madeleine Evans advised him. ‘If it’s not too late. She’s so much older. More set into this pattern – whatever it really is.’

  ‘If only we hadn’t sent her to that social. If we’d started her off with something less threatening.’

  ‘I understand you did.’

  ‘The excursions, yes.’

  ‘The social was a natural progression, Mr Withers. It’s never triggered such havoc before?’

  ‘Not that I’ve heard of. It’s very well supervised. The Youth Group has an excellent reputation. They plan ahead. They’re a great bunch.’

  ‘And I’m assured nothing of consequence happened?’

  ‘Mrs Ryan says no.’

  ‘Precisely. So I have to wonder. Is it that Fay invites drama? Again – I have to ask you. Don’t you feel she’s over-reacting?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe. She’s so up and down. And yet? I’m damned if I know any more.’

  ‘Of one thing I am sure,’ the psychologist counselled. ‘You must not blame yourself. It’s not professional. Nor is it wise.’

  ‘You’ve been talking to Mrs Ryan,’ his laugh was bitter. ‘If there was any hope, I wouldn’t mind so much. You don’t hold out much hope at all.’

  ‘I didn’t say exactly that,’ she pointed out. ‘Sure. She’s older. More set. Though in many ways she’s still a baby. She’s had comparatively little life experience.’

  ‘Comparatively?’

  ‘Compared to other kids her age. You know that. There’s probably a lot more growing to do. As I said – start again.’

  ‘You also said it may be too late.’

  ‘That’s the pessimist speaking.’

  ‘What would the optimist say?’

  ‘Don’t give up. Where there’s life, there’s…..’ Her grey eyes were clouded.

  ‘You’re as confused as the rest of us!’

  ‘Not exactly. In times like these, there are tried and true procedures.’

  Of course. In Madelaine Evans’ world two and two made four, black was black, white was white, and uncertainties had no place. Perhaps. Because he’d seen the momentary glimpse of uncertainty in those usually certain eyes. ‘So tell me what to do,’ he pressed.

  ‘Patience, Mr Withers. First – have patience with her.’

  ‘What’s second?’

  ‘Acceptance.’

  ‘Not so easy,’ he retorted.

  ‘Agreed,’ she smiled. The discomforting moment was over. ‘I really don’t know why you’re asking me. You’ve done both. Your patience has been admirable. Your acceptance clearly demonstrated. You must try to keep going. I know it’s heartbreaking. I know she’s very demanding.’

  ‘You know Mrs Ryan doesn’t believe she should be here.’

  ‘She has a point. For many reasons. Most importantly, you’ve demonstrated that she is educable. She can learn. And quickly too. Certainly Fay Clark does not fall within the middle or lower brackets of intellectual impairment.’

  ‘You say you’re sure of that. You’ve never assessed her.’

  ‘The reports speak for themselves.’ She gestured to the file, closed, lying innocuously on the blonde-timbered desk between them.

  ‘So I guess we’re looking at some kind of emotional disturbance.’

  ‘Surely,’ the young woman acknowledged. ‘Given her history, it would be no surprise. Any healthy young girl, given the pressures Fay’s experienced, would be out of balance.’

  ‘You don’t think it could be something else? A mild autism, for instance? Or…’

  ‘How can I? I got a quick look at her. Once.’

  ‘I wish I had more experience.’

  ‘Mrs Ryan has. Years of it. Autism, as such, has just never been a question.’

  ‘Though it could be?’

  ‘Until Fay allows one of us to assess her, we can rule nothing out. My money would be on your principal. She’s been around long enoug
h.’

  ‘So…?’

  Madelaine Evans sighed. ‘The real question is – why in the name of God did she ever get to the stage where she had to come here?’

  ‘She wasn’t up to school. That’s what the referral said. You can’t blame anyone.’

  ‘We’ll never know the truth of that. She’s been seriously mismanaged. Yet when Mrs Ryan threatened to expel her, she straightened herself out. That took courage. Strength of character.’

  ‘She did so badly want to be independent.’

  ‘Exactly. The question is, where to from now? Would the threat of expulsion work the same magic again? If not – how, by what means, can we persuade her to try again?’

  ‘Poor kid. I wish we could get her to a psychiatrist.’

  Alerted, the psychologist riffled through the file. ‘Surely a psychiatrist was consulted? When she attempted suicide?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘I noted it wasn’t in the file. I just thought….It’s the hospital’s domain… I presumed they’d have at least looked at her on those grounds. Potential suicide?’

  ‘A psychiatrist has never been mentioned. Not at any time.’

  ‘Isn’t that unusual?’

  ‘Not out here. Apparently the hospital has limited access. City-based psychiatrists attend an outpatient clinic on a rotating system. They tell me a patient can see as many as three different consultants in as many visits.’

  ‘I know how that works. It means every second of the delegated time is taken up just getting to the starting point of actual consultation.’

  ‘Exactly,’ he agreed. ‘So the patient just repeats their story each time and…’

  ‘And gets no help?’

  ‘That’s what the grapevine tells me.’

  ‘The bush telegraph.’ The blonde head nodded.

  ‘I guess the hospital staff figured requesting a consultation would be a waste of time. Firstly, because Fay would have been at the end of a long waiting list. Secondly, because even if she got it, she’d have been on the roundabout. And anyway….’ He stopped. It didn’t matter.

  ‘Go on….’

  ‘It makes no difference. The fact is there was no psychiatrist.’

  ‘If it doesn’t matter, you might as well tell me what it is.’

  Why not? Nothing made a difference. ‘Don’t you get it? She’s from The Glenlea Centre for the Retarded!’

  Madelaine Evans was shocked. ‘She attempted suicide!’

  ‘That too is in doubt.’

  ‘Whatever it was, it was a call for help. Whichever way it’s interpreted.’

  ‘I only know there’s no record of any psychiatric consultation.’

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ the psychologist was justifiably sceptical. ‘You’re telling me that Fay Clark never saw a psychiatrist. That because of the way the system is structured it would have been wasted effort even if she had. You’re telling me that real help is virtually impossible?’

  ‘As things are now, that’s what I’m telling you.’

  ‘Even in cases of attempted suicide!!!’

  He flushed. It was evident where this straightforward woman was heading. She was trying to make him feel personally responsible. Too late. He already felt it.

  The intense grey eyes were scornful. ‘Lost for words, Mr Withers?’

  She had no right. Things were not black and white, there were shades and shadows. As for any local bias because Fay attended the Centre, he’d said it. He couldn’t prove it.

  ‘I guess it’s a matter of perception,’ he found himself defending the indefensible. ‘We are in the bush. It’s highly likely the hospital staff think a prevented suicide is a successful treatment. They’d also have been fully aware of the pointlessness of referral to a visiting psychiatrist.’

  ‘You’re telling me the Centre left it at that!’

  He frowned. ‘You’ve talked to Mrs Ryan. It was decided it was a play for attention.’

  ‘You disagree?’

  ‘You have to understand. It’s been difficult. Working with Fay has been difficult. I had to - I needed - to trust the judgement of others.’

  She was thoughtful. He wondered – had she understood? Had she been told about Fay’s teenage crush on him? Should he tell her it was on Mrs Ryan’s advice that he’d had to be scrupulously professional. Best not to go down that road. The woman was a psychologist; she’d know infinitely more than he did about the minefield of male teachers and teenage girls.

  ‘So,’ Madelaine Evans summed up. ‘No psychiatrist for one of two reasons. No psychiatrist requested for reasons of pressure on the criminally inadequate system. The second, for reasons we can only guess at, no one believed it was a genuine attempt at suicide. I see.’

  ‘How genuine does trying to suicide have to get?’ He felt the bile of disgust rise in his throat. ‘She very nearly took her own life.’

  ‘I’m getting old,’ the psychologist softened. ‘I’ve seen too much. The poor child chose a mighty drastic way to get attention.’

  ‘Right on,’ he agreed. Despite her shortcomings, he liked her. ‘As Clem would

  say.’

  ‘Cheer up.’ Re-closing the file, she leaned back. ‘Let’s hope time will be on your side. Stick to your guns, Mr Withers. Try not to allow Fay Clark to settle for less than her best, eh?’

  ‘There’s just one more thing.’

  ‘What is that?’ She glanced impatiently at the pile of waiting files.

  ‘If you have time, could you see her in class? Just a casual visit?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll make time.’

  ‘She might learn to be less afraid of you if she sees you in a familiar place.’

  ‘Worth a try, yes. I’ll be in when I get a break.’

  ***

  It was late afternoon before Madelaine Evans found time to cross from the office to the classroom. When she entered, some were painting, Meryl and Clem were working on their weaving, Don was enthusiastically hammering at a woodwork project and winning critical glares from the group – a reaction he was exploiting with mischievous enjoyment.

  Fay, oblivious to the noise, was typing.

  Entering quietly, the psychologist moved gingerly between the splattering paints.

  Mark met her as she took her place beside Fay. ‘Do you remember Miss Evans, Fay?’

  Fay stopped typing.

  ‘Please go on.’ Madelaine Evans smiled. ‘You type very well.’

  Fingers frozen above the keys, Fay did not move.

  ‘Please, keep going.’ Drawing up a chair, the psychologist sat at Fay’s side. ‘I’d love to be able to type.’

  ‘I’ll leave you.’ Mark turned to quieten Don.

  ‘You remember me, don’t you, Fay?’ Gently, the psychologist tried to elicit a response.

  Minutes later Fay was still sitting, like a wooden doll, mute and uncooperative. Mark watched from a distance. Maybe Madelaine Evans was seeing a mute doll who’d surrender to sensitive pressure, but he saw a brick wall. Fay had no intention of surrendering her mistrust of the psychologist.

  It was difficult. Should he intervene? Or let it play itself out to whatever was going to happen? What was the psychologist expecting of him? More importantly, what was Fay expecting of him? She was his student.

  The problem was still unsolved when he was startled by Miss Evans’ raised voice: ‘Answer me, Fay!’

  Problem solved, he moved to intervene. ‘You are being very rude, Fay.’

  ‘It’s my fault.’ Miss Evans stood. ‘If Fay doesn’t want to talk to me, that’s her business. I’m sorry, Fay.’

  ‘Nonsense. Fay’s being quite rude.’

  ‘I’m still sorry. I’d have liked to talk with you, Fay. Time’s run out. I’m already running very late.’

  ‘Miss Evans is trying to help, Fay,’ he made a last effort. ‘Don’t be afraid.’

  Muttering incoherently, Fay lowered her head.

  ‘I can’t hear.’ Mark leaned closer.


  Fay scrubbed angrily at her eyes.

  ‘Don’t cry, dear.’ Miss Evans placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  Cringing, Fay cried. ‘Don’t you touch me!’

  ‘Fay! You will apologise to Miss Evans!’

  Fay said nothing.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Withers.’ The psychologist stepped away. ‘I cannot help you here.’

  Her words fell into a totally silent room. All activity had ceased. The group was waiting. What would Mark do? Fay’s refusal to obey his order to apologise had boxed him into a corner. His authority was being questioned. As teacher he had no choice but to follow through. At the same time it was imperative that Fay be given a choice.

  ‘Fay,’ he ordered. ‘You will apologise. Or leave the room.’

  Fay’s reaction was immediate. She covered the typewriter, tucked each corner of the plastic cover into its precise position, shoved back her chair, pushed past teacher and psychologist and exited the room.

  ‘Trixie!’ He called for help. ‘Trixie! Look after Fay!’

  Dropping her paint brush, Trixie ran after Fay.

  ‘You see?’

  ‘I do see.’ The psychologist was obviously shaken. ‘No wonder you find it hard to cope. Seventeen – a bad age for anyone.’

  ‘Not quite seventeen.’ As though that made any difference.

  The group resumed activities. Mark escorted the psychologist to the vantage point of the open doorway, from where he could see Trixie escorting Fay to the dining room. Trixie knew what she was about. They’d surely find a volunteer ready with sympathy and tea.

  ‘There’s significant trauma there. Have you talked with her family?’ Madelaine Evans was again her professional self.

  ‘I see her mother. I talk to her. She sees nothing different. Fay’s Fay. She does admit that for a time there was some improvement. Now it’s – I told you so, she’ll never change. Fay’s Fay.’

  ‘Yet,’ she was puzzled. ‘There was that happier interval.’

  ‘At least it leaves her here for a while yet. Who knows what’s ahead of us?’

  ‘I really do have to get back,’ Madelaine Evans was concerned. ‘I just don’t like leaving you with this. It’s… it’s…’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he consoled. ‘It’s nothing you did. Anything can trigger her off.’