Fay

by Dulcie M. Stone

  ‘I hope not!’ He grimaced. ‘One meeting like that is one too many for me.’

  She did not answer.

  He apologised. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not meeting you that’s the problem. It’s the circumstances.’

  ‘Apology accepted. Jack’s waiting in the car.’ She followed Mrs Ryan through the front doorway.

  The foyer was empty, the telephone waiting. About to dial, he heard the door reopen. Mary Grey, twirling her police hat in nervous hands, closed the door behind her.

  He replaced the receiver. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘I’ve asked Senior Constable Harris to wait. We need to talk.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  She flushed. ‘You are right, you know.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘It did work out for the best. This time, as you said. After sitting in there, I have to wonder. What about next time? What about….?’ She paused. ‘I’m not too sure…’

  What was going on? What was this about? Why didn’t she just leave? He took a chance. ‘You want to tell me something. But you don’t know whether you can trust me. Is that it?’

  ‘Not at all. I trust you, Mr Withers,’ the nervous twirling ceased. ‘It’s the town I doubt. It’s a small town. Everybody talks to everybody. My job could be at stake.’

  ‘It’s that bad!’

  ‘You haven’t a clue how bad.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d better not talk to me then.’

  ‘It’s more important than my job. It’s about those three men. The ones who persuaded Mrs Clark to agree to the hysterectomy.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Be careful. They’re powerful men. Their influence is everywhere. Even in the police station.’

  ‘I guess it happens,’ he again started for the telephone.

  ‘Listen to me!’

  Startled, he left the phone. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I told you, I could lose my job for talking to you. Have you any idea what that means?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘You heard the Senior.’

  ‘Jack Harris? He seemed pretty hard.’

  ‘There’s a hell of a row at the Station. Fay’s recommended hysterectomy has polarised us. They’ve actually been fighting.’

  ‘Physically fighting!’

  ‘That’s right. Some of us are going to have to transfer. Think about your family, Mr Withers. Don’t stir up anything. Be careful who you…’

  ‘Mary!’ Senior Constable Jack Harris was beckoning from the open doorway. ‘We’ve got a call.’

  Constable Grey hurried from the foyer.

  Had Jack Harris’s intrusion been deliberate? How long had he been standing, unnoticed, in that doorway? What was it the policewoman had not finished warning him about?

  He decided to walk home. He needed the untainted sting of cold mountain air.

  ***

  Jenny had hot coffee waiting. ‘How’d it go?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ He took the coffee. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Good, I suppose. They’re going to recommend a year’s probation. At last they’ve come to the official conclusion she’ll be able to manage her own life.’

  ‘That’s wonderful!’

  ‘I suppose it is.’

  ‘Why, Mark? Why aren’t you sure? Why are you so depressed?’

  ‘It’s the whole business.’ He rinsed the empty cup in the sink. ‘I’d better get to work.’

  ‘You’re going? I thought you might take the rest of the day off.’

  ‘I can’t. They’re short now. Adele Turner’s off with the flu.’

  ‘You’re not in a very good frame of mind to teach.’

  ‘I need to teach! Give me the kids any time.’

  ‘In preference to what?’

  ‘To those bastards. If this is the new age!’

  ‘Why, Mark? Surely they’ve done the sensible thing. Fay will be cared for now.’

  ‘Her family cares. They always cared. You can’t blame them for what they didn’t know. Why should they be manipulated? Neglected for years. Then bloody well swamped. First one specialist, then another. Different people, different advice. Everyone trying to have a piece of them. No wonder they’re bewildered. On top of that they don’t even know what’s happening behind their backs! Their private life is being bandied around like a bloody grocery list! I felt sick.’

  ‘What about the hysterectomy? What happened about that?’

  ‘Now that is interesting. No hysterectomy. Well, I guess not. They’ll be advising the parents not to go ahead.’

  ‘What’s so interesting?’

  ‘Not one of them wanted to know how in the name of hell it got so bloody close to being done!’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Why should you? I bloody don’t either. Anyone else, there’d be a major enquiry. There’d be alarm bell headlines. There’d be… Jesus Christ! I’m going to school.’

  She didn’t argue, nor remonstrate, nor protest, but softly asked: ‘What’s the answer?’

  ‘I’m damned if I know.’

  ***

  As he entered, Ruth sourly scurried from the room. ‘I should cut myself in half. All I’m supposed to do at once.’

  Everyone was feeling the additional pressure.

  ‘Good morning.’ He greeted his class. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

  ‘Good morning, Mark.’

  They were working quietly. The taped music was playing softly. Ruth had wisely kept the noise level well down. He slid into his place at the desk, took out the roll and quickly checked the entries. Laura was absent, as always each month. Talking about hysterectomies…. Stop thinking…..

  The roll completed, he remained seated. Chin on folded arms, he surveyed his class. The long months he’d spent educating them towards maturity, towards self-determination, self-knowledge, self-discipline, taking responsibility and experiencing the joy of learning were bearing fruit. Even Don had discovered a special gift for clay modelling, a sure incentive for learning a measure of self-discipline. Totally engrossed in his work, he was making a figure of Fay who was sitting, head bowed, reading a magazine.

  Leaving his place, he moved among his students, gradually widening his range until he was beside Don.

  ‘Nice,’ he commented.

  ‘It’s Fay.’ Don’s intense eyes did not waver as he glanced from model to clay. ‘Can I fire it when it’s finished?’

  ‘If you want to. I’ll hold back the kiln for a few days.’

  He moved on. Clem was pouring a mould of wet clay to make a vase.

  ‘Can I paint the glaze on, Mark?’ He too did not take his eyes from the task.

  ‘Sure.’

  He reached Fay.

  ‘Good morning, Fay.’

  ‘It’s afternoon.’ She placed a thin finger on the paragraph she was reading.

  ‘You’re right.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I didn’t realise I’d been gone so long.’

  She resumed reading.

  ‘I see you’re reading about overseas fashions.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘You like pretty clothes, don’t you.’

  ‘Anyone does.’

  ‘Jenny does. Jenny’s….’

  Again an impatient finger marked her place. ‘Mark, do you mind not interrupting? I’ll lose track.’

  ‘Oh! Sure.’

  She turned the page.

  He retreated to his desk. They didn’t need him! Not for now, at least.

  Again he surveyed them, his class. They’d learned independence. They’d learned it was safe to make independent choices, to trust their individual judgement. They’d learned to quietly and productively put their time and energy into constructive achievement or into the pursuit of knowledge – as Fay was doing. When he did tell them the next formal session was soon due, they’d obediently set aside what they were doing and eagerly turn their attention to learning the new things still to be learned or to the planned discussio
n or to whatever he instructed. Unless, and it happened quite often, someone politely requested extra time to complete the job in hand.

  For the moment, in this brief interlude, it was unmistakable. He was successfully educating these ineducable young people. So why did he still feel so depressed?

  Soon the lunch bell would ring, and they’d pack up and hurry off without supervision or direction. They’d eat, play, return, and resume work until later everyone except Laura would read the timetable on the wall and cross to the domestic area for the cooking demonstration Mrs Ryan had arranged.

  He was succeeding; his teaching methods were working. Though, of course, there was much more teaching to be done. There were many more skills to be taught. There was the need for constant stimulation and nurturing of enthusiasm and responsibility. Watching them right now, he knew he should feel vindicated. He’d already succeeded in developing the pre-adult maturity which they were all at this moment demonstrating. It wouldn’t last. It was spasmodic. It depended on a complexity of influences. How could it be otherwise? They were teenagers. The important thing was that each of these young people, irrespective of specific disability, had a foot on the ladder. Each was on the way to attaining the degree of adult independence of which each was individually capable.

  Yet would their lives, in the end, be any different from Fay’s? Would their families, when trouble came, fair any better than Fay’s family? Would they suffer not only the stigma but the gross interference? Was that the price they paid for this specialisation? If the families of these kids had been given the whole picture, would they knowingly have agreed to pay the price?

  What if the night wanderer picked up by the police had been Don? Or Clem? Or - God! If those three men had so easily manipulated Fay’s mother into consent of a hysterectomy, what dreadful surprises did they have in store for the parents of wayward boys? What were the hidden secrets of the boys who’d suddenly left The Glenlea Day Training Centre for the Retarded? Wait! Wait!

  Constable Mary Grey’s hesitant warning echoed - ‘you haven’t a clue how bad it is! Was this it? How did the pubescent boys cope? Who taught them to come to terms with the physical demands of their maturing bodies? Growing men with children’s brains? What happened if, for whatever reason, they stepped outside society’s boundaries? There was so much he’d taken for granted, so much he did not know, so much he did not want to know. Could not afford to know?

  He shuddered.

  Was Fay’s story the tip of a very ugly iceberg? What was Don’s future? Frenetic Don, scatterbrained and already showing signs of strong sexuality. Every chance of Don wandering! What about Clem? Responsible and strongly moral, stubborn and bright and mature. What were Clem’s sexual feelings? Who the hell knew? Then there was Laura, who stayed away one week in four because her periods were floods. No chance of Laura wandering. What about…

  Stop it! Listen to Constable Mary Grey. ‘Think of your family. Don’t stir up anything.’

  Would he? He searched the happily intense faces of his busy class. How far out on a limb would he have gone for Fay? He’d already made enemies. Senior Constable Jack Harris wouldn’t forget. How many windmills would he in future tilt at for any of these youngsters? Or others like them?

  The lunch bell rang. Don paused, patted a last piece of clay into place, threw a wet cloth over it, and left. His mates followed. Fay did not move, except to turn another page.

  ‘Fay.’

  She seemed not to hear.

  ‘Fay!’

  She looked up, finger automatically marking the page.

  ‘Didn’t you hear the lunch bell?’

  ‘I’m nearly finished.’

  ‘You can finish after lunch.’

  ‘I’ll take it with me.’ She turned down a corner, closed the magazine and started to leave.

  He followed her. ‘Did you see Don’s model of you?’ He was curious about her reaction to it.

  ‘It’s out of proportion.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘The nose is too long and the back is too small for the front.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s how Don sees you.’

  She passed through the door. ‘Don doesn’t know any better.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I think so.’ She continued on her way.

  He watched her circle the quadrangle to enter the students’ dining room. Then he took the alternate path which led to the staff room.

  Chapter Twenty

  Early December 1976

  It was an anticlimax, but healthy and infinitely welcome. Driving to work, he revelled in the unlimited freedom of cloudless summer skies, the scents and colours of the heavy-leafed summer trees and the glory of the cabbage-size roses in the Centre’s front garden. Since the terrible meeting, each day in the classroom had been a total delight. For the last six weeks, he’d been left alone to teach. Just teach! No dramas, no undue excitements, just the thoroughly satisfying and entirely agreeable occupation of teaching kids who wanted to learn.

  Perhaps the major dramas were over, perhaps next year would be okay. Fay would leave, new students would arrive. They’d bring their own excitements, but surely not the devastation that had so seriously threatened his mental health.

  Meanwhile Mrs Ryan was talking about hanging up her hat, resigning to spend more time with her husband, playing golf and holidaying and relaxing. Good luck to her. She’d earned it. As for the actual trigger which had set this in motion, he neither knew nor cared.

  Jenny had suggested a connection between the Evil Trio, her label for the still unchallenged surgeon, lawyer and psychiatrist, and Mrs Ryan’s golf-playing husband. Given the town’s golfing clique of the elite, it was an interesting notion. Though not of interest to him. He was a teacher.

  Mrs Ryan’s closed office door was the first intimation that the calm hiatus might be about to end. At this time in the afternoon, it was extremely unusual. Always, when the kids climbed onto the bus to go home, the office door was open and she was there waving farewell. She saw it as one of her primary duties. Unless she was away from the building, no matter what else was happening, or who might be left to wait in her office, that farewell wave at the end of the day was important. It was a signal. Teachers, students, parents watching from waiting cars, and visiting personnel should understand that each student was special, and that the principal’s paramount concern was the well-being of the children.

  Today the office door did not open.

  He asked about it in the staff room. ‘Where’s Mrs Ryan?’

  ‘In the office. Why?’

  ‘I wondered. She usually tells me if she’s off to a meeting somewhere.’

  ‘She’s got a visitor.’

  ‘That’s odd.’ Fran commented. ‘She didn’t come out to say goodbye. It’s got to be someone important. Who is it?’

  ‘Not a clue,’ Ruth answered. ‘She asked for coffee and biscuits. She met me at the door. I couldn’t see.’

  ‘It’s probably one of the mysterious Board members,’ Mark laughed. ‘I know what they’re doing! They’re arranging Christmas bonuses for us.’

  ‘Pigs might fly.’

  It was no more than a laughing matter. He was passing through the foyer on his way home when the office door opened.

  ‘Mark!’ Mrs Ryan was startled. ‘I thought everyone had gone.’

  ‘I’m the last. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Right.’ Stepping back, she prepared to re-close the door.

  Behind her the visitor, having left his chair, was persistently trying to edge past her. His intensity demanded immediate attention. Small and dapper, he was refusing to bow to her attempt to close the door.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Mark.’ The principal was making it clear the visitor was not his business.

  For which he was immensely grateful. Enough of drama and intensity. He was on his way home to Jenny and the kids and peace of mind. Thank you Mrs Ryan. He was obediently moving on to the front door when the dapper man in the n
avy blue suit barred his way.

  ‘Tom Baldock. Don’s father. You have to be Mr Withers. I’m so pleased I’ve caught you.’ Hand outstretched for the obligatory handshake between gentlemen, Don’s father looked not at all pleased. ‘You’re Don’s teacher.’

  The fact that they’d never met was not unusual. Meeting the mothers was usual, meeting the fathers happened less often if at all. How did he handle this? His increasingly practiced gut was telling him this was shaping up as something he did not want to hear about. Certainly not right on Christmas. He looked to his boss for help.

  ‘Mr Withers has to get home to his family, Mr Baldock.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Hastily backing off, Don’s father was ridiculously cowed. “I am sorry. Of course…’

  What had Mrs Ryan done to the nervous little man behind that closed door? Go home Mark. It’s nearly Christmas. You’re going to make it to the end of the year okay. Just don’t rock the boat again. Whatever this is about, get out of here.

  Smiling apology, he again started for the front door. Don’s father was trotting obediently back to the office.

  Mrs Ryan was attempting to soothe him. ‘You really must leave it to us, Mr Baldock. Don’t worry. It’ll work out, you’ll see. Just give me time. Don’t do anything! Nothing! Can you do that?’

  ‘I do worry! What about the police?’

  Mark’s hand, already turning the door knob, convulsed. Involuntarily defying good judgement, common sense, political wisdom and gut-wrenching premonition, he turned back.

  Too late. The office door was closed. It was not his business.

  He stepped into bright sunshine. The sky was cloudless, the scent of the roses strong on the clear air, the whine of passing traffic inviting. He’d soon be home. He’d take the kids to the park. The baby’s first Christmas would be memorable. Robin would be old enough to get a thrill from Santa’s visit. What was Don’s father doing in the office? He wracked his brain. Don hadn’t done anything unduly unusual. There’d not been a whisper. Jenny would welcome him home on time.

  He reached his car, inserted the key in the door lock.

  A black Mercedes pulled into the car park. A bald head thrust itself through the open window. ‘Great weather!’