As ever, she intrigued him. Somehow, through it all, through the ups and the downs and the traumas and the dramas, Fay seemed to hang on to her centre. Whatever that meant. And yet… Watching these two together, both labelled ‘less’, one more ‘less’ than the other, he sensed he was watching something exceptional. Each, for very different reasons, was an enigma.
The essential Laura would almost surely never be accessible. Her handicapping condition limited communication; except for the moving evidence of the essential Laura that was in those happy eyes that loved Fay. As for Fay. Would she ever show herself? As so often before, he found himself wondering - what was going on in that attractively groomed, but stubbornly secretive, head?
At morning tea, as the students were leaving, he called her back.
She waited, on guard.
‘I wanted to talk to you.’ He indicated the chair beside his desk.
‘Yes, sir?’ Obeying, she sat only on the chair’s edge. Prepared for flight? Signalling rebellion? A deliberate ploy to unsettle him? Who could know? He knew no more about her inner world now than he had ever known.
Uncertain and ill at ease, he feigned the composure he did not feel. ‘You’re looking very well, Fay.’
Immediately her eyes brightened and she settled back into the chair. ‘I been trying - like Jenny taught us.’
He, too, relaxed. ‘I must tell Jenny how nice you look.’
‘I ain’t seen her in ages.’
‘Haven’t. I haven’t seen her…..’
‘I haven’t seen her,’ she comfortably parroted.
‘You’ve lost a lot of school time this year.’
‘I know.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘No.’
‘Fay.’ He stopped, waited, and decided to continue: ‘Fay - do you want to keep coming to the Centre?’
She lowered her gaze.
‘Fay?’
She shook her head, the curls bobbing just above her shoulders.
‘You aren’t afraid of me, surely?’
‘I’m not.’
‘Why don’t you tell me the truth?’
Again the shaking head, the fine tendrils of hair hiding her eyes.
‘Fay, you know you don’t have to come here. You’re past school leaving age.’ Again he waited, and finally added: ‘You know, Jenny and I both believe you will benefit from staying just a little longer.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Why not call me Mark, like your friends do? It used to be okay. Remember? We have been through rather a lot together. There’s no need to be like this.’
‘Like what?’ Was the innocence feigned, or real?
‘I think you know what I mean.’
‘Can I go now?’
‘If you want to.’
She stood, carefully pushed the chair to one side, and quietly left the room.
He needed to try again; he wasn’t sure why. Except his gut was again telling him to persevere. Waiting until just before bus time and, while the group was cleaning up, he called her to one side. ‘Let’s take a walk outside.’
Exiting the class room he moved into the empty quadrangle, and sat on one of the wooden benches. She followed, but remained standing.
‘You don’t intend to talk to me?’ He looked up at her.
‘I am talking to you.’ She answered in the same even and dutiful tone she’d used since this morning when she’d first arrived.
‘I’d like to help.’
‘I don’t want no help.’
‘Oh?’
‘I can look after meself.’
‘Do you intend to come back tomorrow?’
‘Mum says I got to.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘No.’
‘Fay, do you know about…..’ He stopped. The small non-committal face was
daunting. Should he just let her go?
He couldn’t. Conscience, prompted by instinct, demanded he speak. Even if she refused to listen, she would know he’d tried. She would know he’d tried. Was that it? Was she testing him to discover if he’d given up on her? As almost always, this girl was a closed book. Which was okay, just so long as she was okay. Was she?
Looking up into her shadowed face, he saw only polite patience. Nothing else. She’d shown much more life when she was working with Laura. What was this about? One way to try to find out.
‘I have to tell you, Fay,’ he was deliberately forthright, ‘I’ve talked to Mrs Ryan. She tells me Miss Evans is away. Remember Miss Evans? She won’t be coming back. They’re sending a social worker to work with you.’
She stubbed the polished toe of one of the new shoes into the gravel surrounding the cement paths. Her intention was clear; there was to be no opening of that closed book, and there was to be no co-operation with him.
‘People want to help, Fay.’
‘Yeah!’ Cynicism twisted her pretty mouth.
It was the first sign of emotion, a sadly unwelcome one.
‘Very well.’ He pushed himself up from the bench. ‘I know you’ve had a bad time. If you don’t want to talk to me, surely there’s someone? There must be someone. Fay – you need to trust someone.’
Not answering, she turned her back. Her small green dignified figure was achingly alone.
‘Will you talk to the social worker, Fay?’
Though she did not turn, her answer rang clear. ‘No!’
***
The month’s grace before the proposed hysterectomy was nearing its end. In the classroom nothing was different. There were the good days, the bad days and the downright unbearable days. On the best days, the entire group raced through new knowledge and soaked up new ideas and co-operated with everybody. On the unbearable days, everyone gave everyone else a hard time and he was at his wits end to maintain even the pretence of patience. Most days were somewhere between, pluses and minuses mixed with the lows of impossibility and the highs of brilliance. Every day was unique. Every day, anything was possible. Every day was exciting and boring and rewarding and full of doubt and boiling over with escalating frustration.
There was no further contact with Mrs Clark. As for Fay, though she worked and played with her classmates, though she was happiest when working with Laura, she seemed to go out of her way to avoid close contact with him. Fair enough. Okay. Even thank goodness. Yet in his head, constantly, was the sad echo of her statement - ‘I can look after meself.’
Therein lay the crux. She really believed that she could manage on her own, that she needed no one. It was the foundation on which she had constructed this new and outwardly attractive image. Yet inevitably, maybe even tragically, it had to have been built on head-in-the-clouds self-deception. No one could manage on their own. What would happen when that lesson, too, had to be learned? Would she survive it?
***
It was mid-morning when Mrs Ryan sent the urgent message via Ruth: ‘You’re to go to the office at once. I’ll watch your class.’
‘Trouble?’ He collected his jacket and prepared to leave.
‘Police.’ She closed the door behind him.
Sheltering his head from the spring shower, he ran to the shelter of the administration wing and knocked on the office door.
‘Come in.’
Two uniformed police, both women, were standing by the window. From behind her desk, Mrs Ryan introduced him. The taller of the two, Constable Grey, held an open notebook in her hand. Constable Murray, her companion, was patently ill at ease.
‘Mr Withers is the child’s teacher.’ Mrs Ryan explained. ‘Please - all of you, sit down.’
‘Mind if I take off my jacket?’ Mark placed the damp coat on the back of his chair.
The young policewomen, after formally removing their hats and setting them on the desk, sat at his side. Opposite, overlooking the hats with their symbolic insignia, was the principal.
The office seemed over-crowded, the uniforms out of place and overtly threatening. Who had committed what crime?
‘It’s Fay Clark.’ Mrs Ryan informed him.
Why was he not surprised? ‘What now?’
‘It seems they’re going to try for a Care and Protection Order.’
‘Hell! Sorry!’ He quickly apologised.
Mrs Ryan waved a limp hand at the policewomen.
‘We were cruising last night,’ Constable Grey, pen poised on the open report book, was the spokesperson. ‘This morning, actually - after one - we found her in the park with a young man.’
‘She’s out of control. Something has to be done.’ Mrs Ryan seemed not unhappy.
‘She’s at school today.’ Mark was wary. It was obvious the principal saw yet another opportunity to finally be rid of her problem student. ‘She never said anything.’
‘Would you expect her to?’
‘Not really.’ Of course he wouldn’t expect Fay to say anything. Especially lately.
Satisfied her point had been made, Mrs Ryan looked to Constable Grey.
‘Mr Withers,’ the constable’s pen hovered over the blank page. ‘You may have noticed that she was very tired?’
He shook his head. ‘Not at all. There’s nothing different at all this morning. Nothing undue. She’s as she’s been every day lately. Very cooperative.’
‘She must be worn out,’ the policewoman was sympathetic. ‘We had her at the station till three this morning. It took that long to get her name and address out of her.’
‘Was she….? Was the young man….? This fellow. How …?’
‘You’re asking why we picked them up.’
‘I guess so. Fay’s…’
‘Well known to us,’ Policewoman Grey explained. ‘As a client here at the Centre.’
‘They tell me the police are fully aware of Fay’s problems.’ Mrs Ryan smiled appreciation. ‘They keep an eye out. Just as well. She’s at risk, as you know, Mr Withers.’
The new self-assurance, the new outward face of Fay Clark. Did this explain it? Was she being taken advantage of? Or was she just a kid enjoying her freedom? Was the unnamed young man Meryl’s brother, the fellow who’d supposedly raped her? Or was he someone taking advantage of the reputation Fay was acquiring? Or was the association with the young man a healthy teenage romance? At one in the morning?
‘We can’t be sure what they were up to.’ The policewoman answered the question he had not wanted to ask. ‘It seems she has a history of promiscuity.’
‘She’s out of control,’ Mrs Ryan sighed.
‘That’s not fair!’ he blazed.
‘It’s not the point.’ Constable Grey quietly admonished.
Constable Murray shifted uneasily.
‘What is the point, Constable?’ Mrs Ryan was displeased with Constable Grey.
The young policewoman was equal to the principal’s antagonism. ‘The child’s retarded. That’s the point, Mrs Ryan.’
‘That’s debatable too!’ How dare they? Fay was being discussed like a piece of meat, and the principal had started it.
‘Mr Withers!’ Mrs Ryan was livid.
‘I’m sorry.’ He apologised because he had to. ‘I’m very concerned about Fay.’
‘As are we,’ Constable Grey set pen to paper. ‘Is there something you’d like on the record, Mr Withers?’
Ignoring the principal’s obvious irritation, he rapidly outlined the basics of Fay’s story.
‘She’s unpredictable,’ Mrs Ryan summed up. ‘A night at the Police Station might be just what she needs to straighten herself out.’
‘I must disagree,’ Mark protested. ‘The very last thing she needs is a night with the police. What she does need is encouragement. She needs understanding. She needs constructive help.’
‘A Care and Protection Order would do that,’ the policewoman explained. ‘She’d be placed in a home or a hostel where she can be properly supervised.’
‘Away from her family?’
‘Naturally. If the Court should agree she’s better away from them.’
‘She won’t see it that way.’ Fay’s mother most definitely would not see it that way.
‘That’s usually the case. Most of the girls rebel at first, unless they’ve actually been ill-treated - and sometimes even then.’
‘That’s the absolute last thing Fay is – ill-treated. Her mother…’
‘No one is saying she is. Even so – it’s not uncommon for these low socio-economic families to find they can’t control a wilful child. They haven’t the skills to manage them. Take them away, place them in the care of trained people, both family and child generally finish by agreeing it’s been for the best.’
‘I wouldn’t know. All I know is that this is a caring family. No mother could do more than Fay’s mother. Whatever Fay’s up to, she’s certainly not the worse for the love in that house.’ He continued to make no attempt to disguise his anger. It was more than time to speak out.
‘Love is not always enough,’ Mrs Ryan stated the obvious.
‘If you’re trying to say Mrs Clark is a helpless doormat, you’re way off the mark!’
Constable Grey flushed. Constable Murray looked bewildered.
Only the faintest tightening of Mrs Ryan’s thin lips betrayed her increasing displeasure. ‘Whatever the truth of that, Mr Withers, it’s not relevant. You can’t possibly believe sneaking off to midnight rendezvous with a young man is acceptable behaviour. If you care for the child, you’ll agree this proposed action is for the best.’
‘She’s nearly seventeen! She’s not a child! She’s a teenager!’
‘A retarded teenager, out of control. One dreads to think…’
Damn the woman. She knew the word retarded was falling into disrepute. Why was she so content to use it with the police? She could have put them right. She was enjoying this! He must restrain his outrage. There was more at stake here than use of a word, even a very significant word.
Quietly, he repeated: ‘As I’ve already said, her intellectual ability is debatable.’
‘Can we get back to the point?’ Constable Grey tried to regain lost ground.
‘Before we do,’ he pressed, ‘tell me. Who gets to decide all this? Who has the final say?’
‘I have to apologise for my staff member,’ Mrs Ryan was careful to avoid eye contact. ‘Fay has caused us all much heartache. You can see Mr Withers has become rather too involved.’
He should have foreseen it. True to form, Mrs Ryan’s primary loyalty was to the Centre. He was learning more difficult lessons. If he really wanted to speak out for Fay and her family, he must at all costs try to persuade these policewomen of his objectivity. Why? Why was sterile objectivity so important? What was so special about pontificating without feeling? What about empathy? In these circumstances, sterile objectivity was impossible.
He must try. He must try to convince them that his concern for Fay and her family, though not free from personal concern, remained strictly professional. He cared as a concerned professional, not as a family friend. It was true. For all his agonising and involvement, he’d never for a moment considered his relationship with Fay and her mother in any other way. He was Fay’s teacher. No more. But no less! Therefore, within this professional parameter, his anguish and outrage at the doubly prejudiced treatment of the Clark family was entirely justified.
It was unmistakable. The proposed intervention in the life of the Clark family was doubly prejudiced on two counts. First count was the bigotry attached to Fay’s recorded disability – a client at ‘The Glenlea’. Second was the bias arising from the stated perception of the family - a low socio-economic family. The family had to be doubly stuck on the bottom rung of the unacknowledged hierarchical social ladder. Not much hope of a fair deal for the Clarks in the township of Glenlea.
Making the essential effort, he calmly refuted his principal’s accusation. ‘I can assure you, I have no personal interest in Fay, or her family. My interest is totally professional. It is my professional opinion that someone is obliged to present the family’s case.’
>
‘Of course.’ Policewoman Grey sympathised. ‘I understand, Mr Withers. You are worried for your client. So are we. To answer your question - it’s the Magistrate who makes the final decision about these matters. He does this only after listening to professional advice. After careful consideration from a variety of experts. People like yourselves. The psychologist. The social worker. Perhaps the family doctor. It may be that he’ll decide the child only requires the supervision of a Court-appointed probation official. In that event she would live at home.’
‘You’ve been very patient with us.’ Mrs Ryan’s formal smile was tight. ‘We do appreciate this. You will understand. Mr Withers is needed back in class.’
Not so fast! There was more to find out. ‘What about the other matter?’ he asked. ‘It may have a bearing. Do you know about the operation?’
‘The hysterectomy? Yes, we know about that.’ Policewoman Grey closed her notebook.
‘You go along with it?’
She prevaricated. ‘It’s not for me to say.’
‘Is it legal?’
The policewoman hesitated.
‘It’s a fair question,’ he observed.
‘I’m sure, given the people involved, it has to be legal.’ The policewoman was choosing her words carefully. ‘Three men, each highly reputed. Each considered a specialist in their profession. Their combined recommendation for a hysterectomy would not have been made lightly.’
‘I take it you have a different opinion?’
‘Mr Withers!’
‘She has an opinion. Don’t you?’
‘You overstep!’ Mrs Ryan was furious. ‘It’s not a fair question.’
‘Fair!’ His rage, indifferently held in check and harshly tested, finally boiled over. ‘What the hell is fair about any of this!’
‘This interview is over.’ Abruptly leaving her seat, Mrs Ryan opened the office door and gestured dismissal to the astonished policewomen. ‘May I thank you again for your patience.’
The two uniformed women obediently gathered hats and notebooks and edged towards the foyer. In the doorway, Constable Grey turned back.
Still seated, Mark looked up.
‘To answer you, Mr Withers,’ the young policewoman’s face was very earnest. ‘As a private person, I do have an opinion. I totally abhor the proposal to inflict this operation on Fay Clark. As do some of my colleagues.’
Fay Page 25