Fay

by Dulcie M. Stone

Sharp distrustful eyes weighed their answer. ‘You reckon I shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘If you are being straight with me, then stay.’ He must ruthlessly control his emotions. If there was going to be any point to this ominous discussion, he must keep his head.

  The uneasy silence lengthened. Just as he needed to be sure of her, so did she have good reason not to trust him. His caution had alienated her. She’d come all this way because she’d trusted him. Now she had to rethink. Was there really no one else?

  Outside, a truck lumbered past. How long since that pivotal day when he’d rescued Fay from the ‘bull’?

  She heard it, heard the stuttering roar of the labouring engine as the unseen driver began the ascent to the nearby foothills. Did she, too, remember the helpful farmer and the melodramatic chase across the paddocks? Did she remember she’d had reason to trust him that day? She was not a woman to forget.

  Reacting to instinct, he ended the silence. ‘So why the hysterectomy, Mrs Clark? The real reason. When we both know there are alternatives?’

  ‘She’s at risk!’ The locked face opened. ‘He raped her! He gets off scot free! My Fay pays the price! It ain’t fair! It ain’t fair Mr Withers!’

  About to argue – rape or seduction – he didn’t. The argument was irrelevant. Even if it was seduction, it was the rape of innocence. ‘There are alternatives. Surely, they can’t actually intend to perform such radical surgery? A hysterectomy? Do you think…? Could there be a misunderstanding of some sort?’

  ‘I ain’t stupid, Mr Withers.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ he apologised. ‘It’s just so… I can’t believe…’

  ‘Nothing wrong with me eyes and ears, neither. I heard what I heard. What they say is nothing else is certain. According to them, it’s the only way she won’t run the risk again. Anything else has risks.’

  ‘Risks. Sure. But they’re extremely remote. There’s absolutely nothing, no grounds, for a hysterectomy! Not unless there are medical grounds.’

  ‘I told you. Nothing wrong there. They even said that.’

  ‘Then there can be no legal grounds.’

  ‘She’s slow, Mr Withers. We both know that much.’

  ‘We don’t both know that. I still…’ Careful!

  ‘I don’t know who to talk to, Mr Withers. Everyone says different things. I can’t get me head round it. Never to have kids! They want to stop my girl having kids! She’s raped and she’s at risk! Sweet Jesus!’ ‘You said you’d just come from a lawyer.’ ‘It’s legal. The surgeon sent me - the lawyer okayed it.’ He was alerted. ‘The surgeon? Who was that?’ ‘Me doctor sent me to him. He’s a specialist.’ ‘He lives here? In Glenlea?’

  ‘Sure. You don’t just go. You have to be referred, you know?’ ‘The lawyer was satisfied with this? You only needed the specialist’s recommendation?’

  ‘Lord no! It wasn’t just him. It was the bloke from Melbourne too. He started it.’

  The man from Melbourne. Who could have influenced both the local consulting surgeon and some local lawyer? ‘This Melbourne doctor – he was a doctor?’

  ‘I guess. One of them fancy big shot doctors. Like that Miss Evans, only different.’

  ‘Do you mean a psychiatrist?

  ‘That’s it. That’s what they said.’

  ‘What about his name?’

  ‘Does it matter?”

  Does it matter! ‘What you’re saying is that the lawyer, after talking to the surgeon and the psychiatrist, told you this hysterectomy is legal?’

  ‘If I signed the paper, yes.’

  ‘Why did you sign it?’

  ‘That’s what they said. They said it was the best thing for Fay. That’s what they reckon. A hysterectomy will be the right thing. That’s what this bloke reckons.’

  ‘How can a hysterectomy be the right thing?’

  ‘Their story is she’d have no periods no more. She’d be safe.’

  He needed to be absolutely sure he was hearing this correctly. ‘The three of them? The city psychiatrist, the lawyer, and the surgeon?’

  ‘That’s what happened, Mr Withers.’

  It defied belief. ‘I’ll be honest with you. I have to say, I don’t understand.’

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘Are you sure you…..? Of course you are.’

  ‘You don’t believe me. Feel free to check. We ain’t got nothing to lose.’

  Nor anything to gain by lying. Fay’s mother was not a liar. ‘I believe you. Of course I believe you. I don’t… I can’t believe there are men like this!’

  ‘You don’t? My Fay’s slow, Mr Withers. That’s it. End of story. Don’t you get it?’

  The black coffee was churning in his empty stomach.

  ‘You don’t get it at all,’ she was forthright. ‘How could you? You ain’t been around too long, not in this job. The fact is - she might have kids. Something like this happens again, she might get pregnant. See? That’s their thinking. What if she gets pregnant?’

  She was right, he hadn’t been around long enough. ‘The rape? In your mind there’s no doubt it was rape?’

  ‘For sure. No doubt. He told his mates. He’s proud of it. The bastard.’

  Of course, true or false that blonde Adonis would happily lie to enhance his image with his bigoted mates. Again, he stepped away from it. ‘Fay’s otherwise healthy?’

  ‘Like I told you, my Fay’s sound as a bell. It’s this psychiatrist bloke they called in - he says she’s emotionally disturbed.’

  ‘Emotionally disturbed? Is that what he said?’ Whoever this mysterious psychiatrist was, Mrs Ryan would be interested in his diagnosis.

  ‘I know exactly what he said, Mr Withers. I know what it means. I’ve had to learn a whole lot lately.’

  ‘You’ve had a hard time.’

  ‘What’s new?’ It was said entirely without bitterness, it was life as she knew it.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I still don’t see how I can help.’

  ‘So that’s it. That’s what they think. Fay’s sick in the head as well as retarded.’ Reaching for her sodden handkerchief, she stuffed it back into her bag. ‘Who wants more retarded kids in this world? Not them blokes, that’s for sure.’

  She was probably right. He’d read more than he wanted to know about the work of the genetic engineers who would shape the world according to their questionable ideals.

  ‘Maybe it’s for the best,’ Fay’s mother sighed. ‘The truth is maybe she won’t never be able to look after kids. Though God knows I know a lot worse than my Fay who manage okay. Depends on how you look at it. Still, I’m getting on, too. I won’t always be around for her.’

  ‘What happened after the consultant from Melbourne left?’

  ‘That bloke left his notes with the surgeon who’s going to do the operation. He called me in. The lawyer fixed it up. I signed the papers this afternoon.’

  He felt sick. It was incredible. Whatever the truth of Fay’s encounter with Meryl’s brother, this outcome was incredible. He needed fresh air, sanity. Leaving the blue laminex table, he threw open the staff-room window. The sun was low, the sky streaking from red to purple, the mountains blackening, the evening birds chirruping in the trees.

  ‘Mr Withers,’ she begged. ‘I did right? Signing them papers? I did right. Didn’t I?’

  His determination to keep his emotions in check was losing the battle. ‘Why did you have to come to me? It’s already done.’

  ‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘No. It ain’t done. Like I said – it’s why I come to you. There I am, sitting in the shelter, waiting for the bus back home. Then it hits me! What I did was sign away my girl’s right to have kids, just like that. Because those bastards are scared of what kind of kids she might have! I been bulldozed, ain’t I?’

  ‘It’s not for me to say.’

  ‘You did say,’ she reminded him. ‘You was shocked out of your skin.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have…..’

  ‘All the same - you did.’

  �
��All right, I did. I was shocked. I am shocked. That’s me. I’m a teacher. Those men are experts. You should listen to them.’ What was he supposed to say?

  ‘Those bastards don’t care about my Fay. They hardly even said hello to her. She’s not worth being civil too, even.’

  ‘You must not let me influence you, Mrs Clark. You cannot.’

  ‘I been bulldozed. I should of known better.’

  Of course she’d been bulldozed. She knew it. Given time, she was quite able to think it through. She would have to arrive at her own decision. He could help her get to it. Closing the window, he went back to the table. ‘Does Fay understand about all this?’

  ‘She says she don’t want no kids anyway. She’s young. She’ll get over that.’

  ‘So she does understand.’

  ‘Of course she understands. She ain’t stupid.’

  ‘What about your husband?’

  ‘He leaves things to me.’

  It was as he expected.

  ‘You’re not going to say, are you?’

  ‘I can’t. I wish…..I can’t!’

  ‘Reckon not,’ she nodded. ‘Still, I do know what you think. Even if you won’t say – on the record.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have …’

  ‘You should. Believe me. Thanks for waiting back.’

  ‘There is one thing.’ He was tentative. ‘The psychologist - the regular one, Miss Evans – she’s become familiar with Fay since she’s been here. She has a lot of sympathy for her.’

  ‘Would she help?’

  ‘I believe she’d give you sensible advice.’

  ‘Can you get her?’

  ‘When is the operation?’

  ‘A month, they said. I got to watch her extra careful for a month. Then they’ll do it.’

  ‘Watch her with extra care? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Well -see - if she gets pregnant there might be a bit more bother with an abortion.’

  ‘Pregnant? I thought there was no question about that.’

  ‘No, there wasn’t. Not when it happened at the social. It’s….’ Mrs Clark averted embarrassed eyes. ‘Guess I better tell you the lot. She gets out nights. Climbs out the window. Goes off. God knows.’

  Why had she kept this from him? It more satisfactorily explained why the specialists had recommended the hysterectomy. It made a difference. Or did it? He did not know what to do, what to say.

  ‘Look, Mr Withers,’ she cried. ‘I done me best with Fay. But that girl’s not the same. Not since Joe.’

  ‘Something should have been done. She should have had counselling. She should have…’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ she interrupted. ‘It’s too late. The damage is done. It’s like Joe was telling the truth. She goes out looking for it now.’

  No wonder there’d been no charges against Joe.

  ‘That’s the real reason she don’t come here. She sleeps all day.’

  ‘This has to stop! All of this! All of it! The whole thing! Joe Turner should be made to pay for what he’s done.’

  ‘We’re way past that. Way, way past. What’s going on with Fay’s the problem now. I tell you, Mr Withers, I’m desperate.’

  ‘Is that the only help the doctors will give? A hysterectomy? She’d really feel free then.’

  ‘She does now.’

  ‘Why not the Pill? Or - there are other…. My God! I don’t believe this!’

  ‘They reckon she’d forget to take it.’

  ‘Surely they’d trust you to monitor it. You are her mother.’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘What was their answer?’

  ‘I guess they’re not too taken with me, neither.’

  He heard it. He believed it. Why couldn’t they believe this woman? They didn’t have a clue about people like Fay’s mother. Or Fay, if it came to that. It did come to that. What did they know about Fay and people like Fay? What did they know about people like Peter? As for Clem and Trixie and Laura and their friends - with remarkably few exceptions, the specialists actually knew almost nothing of the behind the scenes lives of these kids. They’d learned from books. They fitted the people to the theory. Theory first, people following.

  As for Fay’s mother and those like her - he was only beginning to appreciate that they were living on-the-brink lives every second of every day of every week of every year. Year upon year upon year. No exceptions. No grand holidays by the sea.

  How could he convey his humility in the face of Mrs Clark’s courage and loyalty? How could he tell her he still had this uncomfortable feeling that Fay’s behaviour was not wanton, but desperate? How could he convey his instinct that Fay, the real person, had not yet shown herself? To anyone.

  Even to her mother? Was it possible that Fay’s mother, equally unable to put some thoughts into words, was thinking about Fay’s true potential? About what the mature Fay, given time and encouragement, could really achieve? She’d reared a large family. She knew about teenagers. She knew the difficult times ended and the fruitful times began.

  There were so many things he wanted her to understand, so many things he wanted to understand about her. Instead he lamely told her: ‘I do wish I could be of more help.’

  ‘At least you listen, Mr Withers.’

  Not good enough, nowhere near good enough.

  ‘I gotta go.’ Gathering her handbag, she made for the door.

  ‘I’ll drive you home.’

  She started across the hushed foyer. ‘I’ll catch the bus. Thanks all the same.’

  ‘It’s no trouble.’ He needed to do something, anything. For his own sake. ‘Besides, you’ve got to walk into town for the bus.’

  ‘I’ll be….’ She turned back, met his worried eyes, and relented. ‘Well, okay. Drive me to the bus.’

  They drove in silence. There was nothing more to say.

  At the bus stop, he asked: ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you home?’

  ‘No.’ She got out, closed the car door, leaned through the window. ‘Thanks again.’

  ‘Do you still want me to get in touch with the psychologist?’

  ‘If you reckon it’s worth it.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘All right. Send a message home with Fay. I’ll make sure she goes to school regular.’

  ‘You do understand I’ll have to tell Mrs Ryan about all this.’

  ‘I don’t want her to know.’

  ‘I can’t request a special visit from the psychologist without giving my reasons.’

  For answer she shook her head. ‘Mrs Ryan’s not to know. Maybe we’d best just get this thing over.’

  ‘No!!!’ The bus was pulling into the terminal. ‘Mrs Clark, please! Promise you’ll do nothing until you’ve talked to the psychologist.’

  ‘If you feel that strong.’

  ‘I do. Believe me, I do.’

  ‘It’s a promise. But don’t you tell no one else.’

  ‘I’ll have to.’

  ‘Mrs Ryan, then. Only what you have to. Not all of it. No one else. No one.’

  He watched her hurry to the bus and heave her tired body up its steep steps.

  Incredible! He turned the car for home. It was not possible. None of it. What would Jenny say? He could not tell her, he’d promised.

  Profoundly agitated, he pulled into the kerb, parked the car, and began to walk. His stomach churned and the bile of undigested coffee filled his mouth. From the corner hotel came the raucous sounds of farmers and workers relaxing and the sour stench of stale beer. He went in and sat at an isolated table near the toilet. It was the only free place and he dare not go home until he’d settled down.

  A waiter quickly discovered him.

  ‘Whisky. Scotch,’ he ordered.

  ‘Straight?’

  ‘Make it a double.’

  The whisky, smooth and strong, cut through the bile and settled his rebellious stomach. The stink of beer and sweat and urine, the coarse laughter and shouting, the jostling of bloated bellie
s and work-hardened muscles - usually abhorrent -embraced him in the security of anonymity. This was safe. This was sane. This, despite its deafening vulgarity, was free of drama.

  It was a dreadful fact. The truly theatrical, the actual dramas, the insane injustices and the inhuman inequalities were taking place in the hushed and deceptive offices these people seldom even saw.

  Chapter Seventeen

  October 1976

  ‘Good morning, Fay.’

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Mark,’ he smiled.

  ‘Mark.’ She took her place in the discussion circle.

  ‘It’s good to have you back, Fay. We all missed you.’

  ‘We did all miss you, Fay.’ Trixie confirmed.

  ‘We did too,’ Meryl echoed.

  ‘I know why she was away,’ Don sniggered.

  ‘We’ll get on with our talk.’ Mark ordered. ‘No smart alec remarks from you, Don.’

  They knew; not so slow.

  The discussion ended, they started to move around the room. The noise roused Laura. Her eyes lit up and settled on Fay. ‘Good girl! Good girl!’

  Immediately, Fay detoured.

  ‘Good girl! Good girl!’ Laura laughed. She’d evidently missed Fay very much.

  Fetching a jigsaw from the cupboards, Fay set a chair beside Laura’s wheel chair, opened the box and let the pieces clatter onto the table. Delighted at the sharp cascade of sound, Laura laughed aloud.

  ‘Good girl,’ Fay laughed. ‘Good girl Laura.’

  He was watching a small miracle. As the two worked happily at solving the simple jigsaw, he inspected Fay. She was wearing a soft green woollen dress, stockings, and freshly polished shoes. Her figure was trim and neat, her skin clear, her eyes as bright as Laura’s and her glossy hair attractively styled and curling around her intent face. Fay Clark was blossoming.

  Whatever she was doing on those night-time escapades, it was agreeing with her. Or could it be that the counselling she’d received, or even the friendships she’d made outside her usual circle, had reinforced her lofty ambitions? Whatever had happened, whether it was the trauma of the events after the social, the resultant extra attention, the night-time escapades or - even - her mother’s unusually overt demonstrations of love and affection, Fay was a blossoming butterfly. The ugly cocoon had been shed. At least visibly.