Fay

by Dulcie M. Stone

  ‘She said what!!!’

  ‘She said….’

  She held up a silencing hand. ‘I heard you.’

  Sick, he obeyed.

  The office was a hot box; perspiration dripped from him. The principal again turned to the window and the winter.

  He reached for his cigarettes, resisted the temptation. They wouldn’t help. Could Mrs Ryan help? How would she sort this out? What was fact? What fiction? What was Meryl’s imagination? What about the class? He’d left them with Ruth. Were they giving her a bad time?

  Moment’s later, her face unusually pale, Mrs Ryan turned from the window. ‘Did she know what she was saying?’

  ‘Not the rape part, I don’t think. She knows where babies come from. She may even know about sex. A country kid. But rape! I doubt she’d have a clue. You know Meryl.’

  ‘Precisely. She’s something of a parrot. She’s repeating what she’s heard from somewhere. Someone. Unless - could she invent such a story?’

  ‘She could have.’ His head was throbbing. He gave in and opened his cigarette pack.

  She slumped to her chair.

  ‘She could have invented it,’ he repeated without hope. ‘Television. Kids talking. Anything could have set her off.’

  ‘You didn’t question Fay?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t. How could I? I came to you before doing anything.’

  She looked at her watch. Of course. She wanted to know about the glaring time gap, why he hadn’t come from the classroom straight to her. When it came to small inconsistencies, Mrs Ryan missed little.

  He flushed. He couldn’t possibly admit he’d thrown up for most of those missing minutes. ‘I needed time. I guess I was in shock.’

  ‘Understood,’ she nodded. ‘True or untrue, it’s extremely disturbing. I suggest you get Ruth to continue supervising your group. Send Fay to me. You go home to bed. You’re not well.’

  ‘I couldn’t. Really, I’ll be okay. Really…’

  ‘At least take a break in the staff room.’ She was crisp and brisk and totally in control. ‘I’ll send for you.’

  ***

  He was awakened after coffee, cigarettes and, despite his distress, two hours of dreamless sleep.

  ‘Mark?’ Mrs Ryan was at his side. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Better.’ He swung his feet to the floor. ‘I feel like an idiot.’

  ‘No need.’ Folding the blankets he had used, she placed them on the foot of the bed. ‘It’s a comfort to know you’re not perfect, either. When you’re ready, come to the office.’

  In the office he found her composed, calm, and still capably in charge. Outside, the afternoon had turned dark and steady rain was lashing at the window. Inside, the overhead lights were glowing eerily on the blonde furniture and the two women waiting for him. The second woman was Fay’s mother.

  ‘Mr Withers! This is terrible!’ Mrs Clark’s worn face, yellow in the unnatural light, crumpled.

  ‘You must not blame the school,’ Mrs Ryan quickly warned.

  ‘I said I don’t. I already said that.’

  ‘Mr Withers has been very patient with Fay.’

  ‘I know that,’ Mrs Clark acknowledged. ‘My Fay’s such a hard girl. Her dad won’t help neither.’

  Waving him to a chair, Mrs Ryan explained: ‘I’ve talked to Mrs Clark. It seems she thinks Fay has been regressing ever since the social, as we also observed. Whatever happened to trigger that, it seems to have happened then.’

  The athletic young footballer! How could he have forgotten? Except he hadn’t forgotten. It had been sitting there all this time, this uneasiness. He’d felt he was abandoning his group, yet he’d left anyway. He’d left Don making a fool of himself with the girls. He’d left Fay to the cocky young man he’d instinctively mistrusted. He’d chosen to believe what he wanted to believe. No wonder the whole business was making him ill.

  ‘I left early,’ he reminded his principal.

  ‘We’ve been trying to work through it,’ Mrs Ryan nodded. ‘It appears that when Fay’s father went to bring her home, it was still supper-time. Young Joe Adams offered to drive her home after supper.’

  ‘Her dad just let him!’ Mrs Clark was outraged. ‘Just got himself back to the pub and left her!’

  ‘You mustn’t blame your husband,’ Mrs Ryan consoled Mrs Clark. ‘He’s Meryl’s brother. ’

  ‘The men vouched for him,’ Mark agreed. ‘I admit I may have been a little concerned. But Meryl’s brother? After all, it was only to dance with Fay. There was never any suggestion of anyone other than her father taking her home.’

  ‘The point is,’ Mrs Ryan frowned. ‘What do we do about this?’

  ‘It’s only Meryl’s imagination. Meryl’s….’

  Mrs Ryan interrupted: ‘Fay confirms it.’

  Fay’s mother was crying.

  ‘Sorry, Mark.’ The principal looked to her. ‘With your permission, Mrs Clark?”

  ‘It’s okay. Tell him.’

  ‘Unfortunately, Fay confirms Meryl’s story. As soon as you left the office this morning I drove her home. Mrs Clark came back with me.’

  ‘What did Fay say?’

  ‘It’s not just what she says. She’s missed her period. She blames Joe. She’s deeply troubled. What more do you want?’

  ‘My Fay says she was raped!’

  ‘I’m afraid we only have her word, Mrs Clark.’

  Mrs Clark did not argue. Could it be that she doubted Fay?

  ‘First step, a medical examination.’ Mrs Ryan was at her managerial best. ‘Is she really pregnant? If she is, how to proceed?’

  Were the women so naive? Or just blind? ‘You know it’s possibly a matter for the police.’

  ‘No!’ Mrs Clark was adamant. ‘No police! No way!’

  ‘We have talked about it,’ Mrs Ryan nodded. ‘As you see, Mrs Clark has made up her mind. I’m not so sure. I wonder about what’s best for Fay. You know Fay best. What do you think? We need your…’

  ‘It’s our business!’ Mrs Clark warned. ‘Keep out of it!’

  ‘I merely thought,’ Mrs Ryan was hurt. ‘We’re only thinking of Fay. I thought Mr Withers… He’s done so well with her. She’s…’

  ‘She’s in trouble! That’s what he done!’

  Appalled, Mark looked to Mrs Ryan to defend him. She signalled him to silence; it wasn’t easy. Why wasn’t she defending him? She should be. The only sound was the drumming of the rain on the dark windows. He looked at their reflections in the window, the reflected hands of the gold clock. Jenny would be waiting for his phone call to be picked up.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Mrs Clark broke the awkward silence. ‘I’m sorry. I’m upset. My tongue runs away. You know? Look, I said I don’t blame the Centre. I don’t blame you neither, Mr Withers. Not really. I said that already.’

  ‘You did say that,’ Mrs Ryan chose to ignore the fact that she’d also said the opposite.

  Mark did not reply. The last few minutes had again shaken him. Fay’s mother had blamed her panic for the accusation. Yet was there truth in it? Mrs Ryan had chosen not to defend him. Did this signal that she doubted him? Or had she been using the tactic of silence to elicit the apology?

  ‘The trouble is,’ Mrs Clark complained. ‘I should never have let her come here. They made me.’

  ‘I’m sorry Mrs Clark,’ Mrs Ryan patiently disagreed. ‘I really cannot let that pass. No one made you send Fay here.’

  ‘You reckon!’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s something we won’t agree about.’

  ‘You got that right. The fact is - they said you’d help. You’d be good for her here. Before she came here, she was a good girl. Now look at her!’

  ‘She was raped!!!’ Mark exclaimed.

  Quick as lightning, Mrs Ryan protested. ‘She said she was raped.’

  ‘She’s not a liar.’ He leapt to Fay’s defence. ‘I got it from Meryl too.’

  ‘No police. I said no police.’ Mrs Clark prepared to leave.

&
nbsp; ‘No police,’ Mrs Ryan promised. ‘Unless you give permission.’

  ‘Mr Withers? You promise? No police. Who’d believe my Fay? Against him? A bloke like that? No police.’

  She was right. Who would believe Fay? Who would believe Meryl? He wasn’t sure if he believed them. How could he believe Fay was actually raped? He believed she didn’t lie. He believed she thought she was raped, or seduced. He also knew she was desperate to be loved.

  ‘You do see?’ Mrs Clark begged. ‘You do see, Mr Withers?’

  ‘I do indeed. I promise. No police unless you say so.’

  ‘So I’ll be off.’ She stood, smoothed her crushed coat, gripped her canvas carry-all, and opened the office door.

  Rounding the desk, Mrs Ryan rushed to follow her.

  ‘I’ll get meself home. Thanks.’

  Starting after them, Mark fell back. Mrs Clark had made up her mind.

  After closing the front door, Mrs Ryan returned. ‘She’s gone off in that pouring rain. Wouldn’t consider letting us drive her.’

  Again he started up. ‘I’ll…’

  ‘Leave it, Mark.’

  ‘Surely….?’

  ‘She’s got her pride.’

  ‘She’ll catch her death!’

  ‘You really must stop worrying,’ she urged. ‘Someone will give her a lift. You know how it is.’

  Though he was learning, he certainly did not yet know how it was. ‘What about the police? Do you agree with her decision?’

  ‘She’s determined. No police.’

  ‘I can understand. All the same, I can’t believe it’s as easy as that to let it go.’

  ‘We hear so much these days about the difficulty of proving rape,’ Mrs Ryan sighed. ‘Mrs Clark will be all too aware of the trauma of court action and the whole sordid business. That’s even when the poor girl has no other problems.’

  ‘Still - if she is pregnant. She’s under age for one thing.’

  ‘You know,’ tiredly, she resumed her place behind the desk. ‘I really do doubt the rape part of it. According to her mother, she missed a period. One. Given all this drama, it’s not at all unusual. To be perfectly honest, that poor mother only has Fay’s word for this. We’ll have to wait.’

  ‘What about Meryl?’

  Mrs Ryan didn’t answer. There was no need to.

  ‘I do understand,’ he argued. ‘It’s a mess. All the same, I know I’d be on the doorstep of the police. How can they stand by and do nothing! They’re not going to even tackle Joe!’

  ‘Which would seem to indicate they too have reservations.’

  ‘Just look at Fay! Something happened. We all know it. Meryl knows it. The whole group knows it. Her mother for sure knows it.’

  ‘Whatever IT is,’ Mrs Ryan was bitter. ‘Even if they ever do find out something definite, it’s going to be kept quiet. They’ll deal with it in their own way.’

  ‘In their own way? Is that how it works? You’re expecting Fay’s dad’ll work him over in a back lane? A lot of good that will do.’

  ‘If that happens it’s their way of protecting Fay.’

  ‘Protecting Fay! What about counselling? What about support? They’ll fix it all by covering it up?’

  ‘What else is there to do?’

  ‘I get it! You actually hope they will! You hope they’ll cover it up!’

  ‘That’s not fair, Mark. I’m concerned for Fay. Think about the effect on her if this becomes public knowledge.’

  ‘You’re concerned for your damned Centre!’

  ‘Mr Withers!’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I do apologise.’ He was shaking. ‘I’m strung out.’

  For answer, she again went to the rain-streaked window and looked out at the restricted view.

  ‘Honestly,’ he spoke to her rigid back. ‘I don’t know what I’m saying. I really am sorry.’

  She turned, her eyes in shadow. Though it was impossible to know what she was thinking, she spoke softly. ‘As I said earlier, Mark. You are not well. All this has not helped. I accept your apology. All the same… Please… I suggest you think carefully about what you do in term holidays. Take your family away somewhere. Switch off from work. Put all this out of your mind.’

  ‘If it was that easy.’

  ‘You’re going to have to find a way to make it that easy. You can’t live their lives for them. You really cannot afford to become so involved. Not if you want to survive in this profession.’

  He was surprised by her unusual gentleness.

  Returning to the desk, she fidgeted with the papers of Fay’s file. ‘You do know you’re partly right. The Centre must be protected.’

  ‘You are right, too,’ he conceded. ‘I’m not sure I belong here.’

  She closed the file. ‘Do make it clear to Meryl. She must understand she’s not to talk to anyone else.’

  ‘I’ll talk to her.’

  ‘Right away, if you please.’

  He did not leave.

  She located a pen, opened another file and started to write until, responding to the fact that he still had not left, she set the pen aside: ‘Is there something more?’

  ‘I really am sorry,’ he repeated. ‘You’re right. I’m becoming too involved.’

  ‘Agreed. I did hear you. I was hoping to postpone this.’

  ‘I need to hear it.’

  ‘I’m not sure you belong here either, Mark. As a matter of fact, I’m not sure you belong in any training centre. You may have to give consideration to leaving this field.’

  He started to lever himself from the chair.

  ‘Not so fast!’ She held up a warning hand.

  What now?

  ‘You need to know this, too,’ she confessed. ‘I’m not sure I belong here either. I may well decide to retire soon.’

  It was a confidence he did not want to know. ‘You’re being very hard on yourself.’

  ‘Not at all,’ she was very serious. ‘Today has been impossible. I’m not sure how many more days like this I can tolerate.’

  Of course, she wasn’t doubting the Centre itself, just her ability to manage it. ‘You’ll change your mind after a good holiday,’ he consoled.

  ‘We’ll see,’ she turned again to her work. ‘As for you, Mark. I most strongly advise you to put everything to do with work on hold for the time being. Take a

  break. Relax. This is not the time for momentous decisions. For either of us.’

  ***

  A week later, though they saw neither Fay nor her mother, Mrs Ryan reported the news. Mrs Clark had telephoned. Fay, though no longer a virgin, was not pregnant. Meanwhile the story of the rape, true or not true, had spread as quickly and as mercilessly as country gossip always spreads. Mark avoided the staff room, by-passed the visiting parents, dodged contact in the quadrangle, and maintained contact only with his family and his students. After the initial flurry of conjectural comments on Fay’s continuing absence, she seemed to have been forgotten.

  Just before the term holiday, Mrs Ryan informed him that Mrs Clark had telephoned again. Fay would be returning at the commencement of the new term.

  ‘It’s over, then?’

  ‘Precisely. It’s all over. Forget it, Mark.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can.’

  ‘You have no choice.’

  ‘What about Fay?’

  ‘Of course. Whatever happened, she was traumatised. So we’ll have to wait and see.’ As before, the principal softened. ‘Mark - run along. Enjoy your family. Your break. You’ve earned it. You need it.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  September 1976

  Blue dome of cloudless sky, blue arc of endless sea, froth of lazy waves spilling onto white sand at his feet. No sound. None, except for the barely audible murmur of the surf. No noise, not of traffic, nor people nor birds nor animals. No movement, save the movement of the slow whispering waves.

  His skin warmed by the high-standing sun at his back, he was acutely conscious of his own insignificance. He was nothi
ng more than another speck of sand on another tiny beach washed by the Pacific, itself irrelevant in the infinity of sky and space. Who cares?

  He fell asleep, and woke, and slept again and, as he had for the past ten days, woke and idly pondered for a brief moment only. Why care? Why live? Why tilt at windmills that would never surrender? And slept again.

  Jenny knew the precipice on which he teetered. Her forbearance had been remarkable. Often leaving him alone, she’d frequently driven the children to the distant coastal town for shopping trips and visits to the marina. Once home, tired out, she’d tucked them into bed early then moved quietly about the lonely cottage they’d rented. She’d spent her free time reading, knitting and sleeping until he left his retreat by the sea and took his place at her side in the narrow double bed with the skinny mattress and the threadbare blankets. Even then, she’d not asked questions but answered his need with her body and her silent compliance with his unspoken plea for solitude and time.

  There were four days left. Yet still, like some ancient seer, he sat looking out over the sea and bathing in the healing warmth of the northern sun. He did not want to go back. In the magnificent infinity of time and space what was one man, one family, one school, one student, one - anything? Who cares? Why care?

  ‘Mark.’

  Around his bare shoulders he felt the softness of Jenny’s arms. He leaned against her.

  ‘Mark…’

  He stroked her sun-warmed hair.

  ‘The children miss you. I miss you.’

  His hand stilled.

  She removed her arms. ‘I’ll take the children down the coast a way. There’s better swimming half a mile down.’

  His hand fell.

  She walked away.

  His eyes followed her; she’d been supremely patient. ‘Jenny!’

  She paused, turned back, her face carefully composed.

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  Later, when the children were asleep, they sat on the porch. The shadowed light from the cottage was behind them, the sound of the restless sea in front, the stars brilliant in the low sky and the chink of glasses companionable as he poured another beer. They were cocooned in a safety zone of their own making; warm and secure and bland and wholesome.

  He broke the silence. ‘We should talk.’