Fay

by Dulcie M. Stone

  ‘Oh! I thought…’

  ‘Newly elected.’ The crisp rat-a-tat of George Dunstan’s speech intensified premonition.

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You want to talk to me?’ It was difficult not to mimic the man’s staccato delivery.

  ‘To business,’ the new president of the board snapped.

  No answer was expected.

  ‘This.’ One pudgy index finger tapped the letter. ‘Letter of demand. From the top, Admin. Orders. Cut academics. Or they cut funds.’

  Cut….?

  ‘You surprised?’

  ‘I’m confused.’

  ‘What’s to confuse?’ George Dunstan resettled himself. ‘You were told, son. It’s what we’re about. Training! You were told. Life skills. Look where it damned near landed us! You saw for yourself. These kids are not up to the high falutin’ stuff you’ve been cramming their heads with. Result? The big wigs have spoken. You stop. Or they stop funds.’

  ‘Can they do that?’

  ‘Believe it, son.’

  ‘There’s some misunderstanding. You can’t mean …. Academics? That’s…’ ‘The three Rs - reading, ’riting ’rithmatic. Cut them out. As of right this minute. Got it?’

  No, he didn’t get it.

  ‘No misunderstanding. You’ve got away with it since day one. You were told. Training. Life skills. No three Rs. Simple as that.’

  ‘I thought I’d proved…’

  ‘Proved! Damned right you proved. Got the bloody law climbing all over us!’

  ‘They can’t do that! Don’t they know how badly these kids want to learn!’

  George Dunstan folded the letter of demand back into its envelope. ‘The Board’s quite clear. Not to say magnanimous, under the circumstances. You’ve given us quite a headache, son.’

  ‘I’m …’

  ‘Your choice. Toe the line. Or hand in your resignation. Think about it.’

  ‘Mrs Ryan…’

  ‘What the hell’s wrong with you? The woman gave you your head. The mess you made! It damned near cost her the job. Grow up, son! These are the rules. Your choice.’

  Deliberately not answering, Mark left the chair and started from the room.

  ‘You intend to answer me, son?’

  ‘I am not your son. I will give you an answer. After I’ve talked to my wife. Got that?’

  ***

  The car tyres burned rubber. The front door key refused to obey his shaking hand.

  The door opened. ‘Mark! What’s wrong?’

  He was home early. The meal was not cooked, the kids were still playing on the sheltered back verandah, but the beer was in the fridge.

  She reached for the bottle.

  ‘Please,’ he threw his satchel at the kitchen chair. ‘Make it whisky.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s over,’ he felt regret. He felt relief.

  There’d been no choice. Even if the impossible had happened, even if he’d decided to sit still and not to challenge, he could never work with the man who demanded obedience. And what if another Fay were to come along?

  ***

  Though the decision had been made the second he’d heard the choice, its true import did not fully penetrate until the dark 3 a.m. hours. Only then, after hours of talking, hours of not talking, and the constant seething undercurrent of disbelief, did comprehension fully dawn. The directive of Head Office Administration, joyfully endorsed by President George Dunstan, was a gross violation of human rights. As criminally reprehensible as corporeal castration, was this castration of the mind; of individual potential.

  The overwhelming reaction to the proposed castration of Don and the hysterectomy of Fay had been blind eyes and inaction. Even so, there had been some protest. Thanks to the anonymous whistle blower, fear of publicity had resulted in the psychiatrist’s transfer.

  Castration of their minds was different. There was no fear of publicity. It would never even make the back page of a newspaper. Even if by chance it did, there’d be totally blind eyes and total inaction. Worse, there’d be approval. Why? Because castration of the intellectual potential of a person labelled intellectually deficient is a merciful act to be embraced!

  The retarded cannot learn, will never learn. Teaching the retarded provokes behaviour problems.

  ***

  ‘It had to happen.’ Over breakfast Jenny was philosophical. ‘It was only a matter of time.’

  ‘Was it right? To come here in the first place?’

  ‘You don’t need me to answer that, Mark.’

  ‘I ran away, didn’t I.’

  ‘At the time, you needed to.’

  ‘I don’t need to run away any longer?’

  ‘Not now. No more running away. Go back. Get on with your career. Use what you’ve learned here.’

  How come he was so lucky? ‘I promise,’ he vowed. ‘Whatever happens, I won’t let these years be wasted. Or your sacrifice.’

  Jenny’s tinkling laugh was warm. ‘Sacrifice? The kids and I will miss the valley.’

  Epilogue

  The New Millenium

  In this new millennium, bureaucracy still stifles progress, intolerance too often reigns within a framework of pseudo tolerance and bigotry’s fortress remains virtually impenetrable.

  And yet, in this dark landscape, there are islands of hope. There are also places

  where past lessons inform present practice and encourage a happier future.

  ***

  Beach Haven Primary School: 2002

  The file is central.

  Its stiff green covers are edged with a metal strip. Inside is a wad of thin pages, closely typewritten, mottled with red-inked notations, curl-cornered yellowing pages at the back, fresh pages crisp and smelling of new ink at the front.

  Very soon the file will be re-placed in its nook in the steel cabinet. Within, it is the past, the present and the predicted future of ten year old Jonathon Matthew Mills. Written with the authority of the omnipotent, it sets out date of birth, family pedigree, degree of intellectual disability, pre and post-natal medical history, educational history, as well as current physical, intellectual, social and domestic ability, observed patterns of behaviour and assessed potential. Also noted are the teaching techniques whereby the predicted intellectual and social potential will be achieved. In addition, it lists past, present and calculated future emotional reactions of Jonathon Matthew Mills in a variety of situations and to a variety of activities. It is comprehensive. It has been written by a wide-ranging mass of professional people.

  The file is closed.

  ‘Keep it up to date.’ The principal taps the file, closes it.

  ‘Of course.’ The teacher responds.

  ‘Any further questions?’

  The file is raised, poised between principal and teacher.

  ‘Not yet.’ The teacher looks at the file. ‘If you wouldn’t mind – I’d feel easier if I could consult it every now and then.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  The file is lowered and, with an audible click of metal on metal, is firmly replaced in the green metal cabinet.

  ‘You may get the key when you require it.’ The principal locks the filing cabinet.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’ll be ready for him tomorrow?’

  The teacher stands, walks to the door, looks back at the filing cabinet. ‘The file -it said he…’

  ‘Don’t worry so much.’ The principal reassures. ‘I’m sure you’ll be happy here with us, Miss Gibson.’

  ‘I hope so,’ the young woman answers.

  ‘Any problems - don’t hesitate. My door is always open.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Renee Gibson prepares to leave.

  The principal looks at the clock. ‘A word, Miss Gibson?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘It’s not the Bible, you know.’

  Renee Gibson is bewildered.

  ‘The lad’s file. Don’t take it all as Gospel, Mi
ss Gibson.’

  ‘In what way, sir?’

  ‘That’s up to you. You’re new. You’ll learn. The kids will teach you. Listen to the kids.’

  Renee Gibson is confused.

  ‘As I said,’ the principal again smiles reassurance. ‘My door is always open. I’ll catch you in class in about half an hour.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Mark Withers, Principal of Beach Haven Primary School, watches his newest staff member exit the room. The filing cabinet, conscientious guardian of each student’s most intimate details, squats on the far side of the cluttered office. It’s not the Bible. But it is essential. Especially for new teachers fresh from studies and green as grass.

  He calls through the open door. ‘You there, Betty?’

  The receptionist calls back. ‘I know! No phone calls for an hour.’

  ‘Except in…’

  ‘Emergency! Got it, Mark!’

  He takes his pack of cigarettes from his pocket, fiddles with the seal, shoves it back in his pocket. Betty’s got a nose like a hound-dog. She’s got a mouth too. Jenny will know before the day’s out. Besides, he doesn’t need one just yet.

  It’s a great office. Comfortable. Untidy desk, dishevelled book shelves and a couple of comfortable chairs for visitors. The man he took over from ten years ago had apparently been pretty inflexible. Not that anyone ever said, or even hinted. He’d read the relief in the faces of the kids, the staff and, eventually, the parents. Of the old school, the man had still proved to be a hard act to follow. New brooms are employed to sweep clean. He’d found sweeping clean hadn’t been so cut and dried. Disputes had been inevitable. It had taken half the decade to win general approval. They’d been hard years, nerve-racking years. No surprises there. He knew about hard years and nerve-racking times. In the quarter of a century since he’d left the Glenlea Training Centre, he’d learned to accept that. Back in the mainstream, he’d gradually upgraded his credentials and established his credibility.

  Until now, nearing the end of his career, his authority is unquestioned. A whole working lifetime it’s taken. He’s considered a specialist in integration or inclusion; or whatever other piece of jargonese the bureaucrats decide to invent to describe what he does best.

  Poor young Renee Gibson. The kid’s got it all ahead of her. Fresh from Uni, a bookworm, how long before she learns to learn from the kids, the parents, her peers? Time will tell. He looks at the clock. Time. How much more time are they going to give him? The bureaucrats? Or God, for that matter.

  His eyes rest on the filing cabinet. Memories of The Glenlea weigh heavily. Trixie keeps him in touch. Her letters, once handwritten, now e-mailed, are irregular. Sometimes he wishes she’d stop. He answers because he must, but irregularly. The Centre is still there, still doing much the same job. He’s never been back, never wanted to. Mrs Ryan has long gone. Retired soon after he left, died following a stroke soon after that. Both Trixie and Clem live with their partners. Fay is happily married with two grown kids. Peter’s helping his brother run his father’s farm. He’s happily married with a brood of his own. Meryl’s grown into a responsible woman. She hasn’t married. She’s the primary carer of her crippled widowed mother. There’s no word of Don. No word of Laura. What about Laura? The memories weigh.

  There are no excuses, there never will be excuses, for the planned butchery of Fay and Don. Or for the butchery that probably happened but was never uncovered. It stays, as George Dunstan and Fred and the people like them intended, buried deep. Though Fay reportedly does not wear its scars, he does. The scars are indelible.

  Jenny has finally come to understand. It was not accident that Jason’s disability had caused his mother to neglect her family. It was not accident that he’d fled to Glenlea, that he’d agonised over his desertion of his mother and his brother, that he’d learned from the kids at The Glenlea, that Constable Mary Grey had confided in him, that George Dunstan had been elected to the seat of power. It was not accident that he’d fled again – from Glenlea. Fate had work for him. How else would he ever have arrived here, in this blessed place?

  Leaving the office, he starts on his morning rounds. Every morning, except when derailed by some red-tape intervention, he says hello to every class in his school of nearly four hundred kids. Partly for their sake, mostly for his own. This is where it is. This is what it’s about. His lodestone, his foundation – the children whose lives are temporarily in his hands. The children whose lives he is steering on a history-changing course. He is teaching them joyful acceptance of what others label ‘difference’. High falutin’ Mark! Come off it. Get in there and just do the job.

  ‘An hour, Mark.’ The receptionist warns. ‘Don’t forget the meeting after…’

  ‘Got it.’ He strides from the reception area, opens the door into the school grounds.

  The sun beats on his bare head. It’s going to be a stinker. Not that it will stop the kids. The staff are going to be flat out checking hats are on heads. Hot days they run amok. Why not? It’s a great lay-out. Lawns and trees and flowers and places to run and a football oval and places to sit and places to climb and a small outdoor amphitheatre.

  Stepping into the welcome shade of a block of classrooms, he hears footsteps running to catch up.

  ‘Hey Sir! Wait up!’

  ‘Liam!’ He turns to welcome the eleven year old. Everyone, every teacher and every child in the school, knows that voice; cocky and secure and confident and happy. Well, usually happy. The kid has a temper. Just as well, he’s going to need it.

  The boy draws level. ‘How ya goin’ sir?’

  ‘Fine, Liam. Fine.’

  ‘D’ya have a good weekend? Tell ya what. We went to Luna Park. You been to Luna Park? Tell ya what…’ Liam is away, talking twice as fast and twice as loud as anyone else in the whole school. Though he can probably be heard right out front in the car park, under the spell of the boy’s magic, Luna Park comes to life.

  All the while the two, principal and student, are walking together towards Liam’s classroom. Each has his hands clasped behind his back, each is striding out. Except, whereas the principal’s polished shoes firmly pound their determined path to their destination, the boy’s light feet seem scarcely to touch the ground. Like the fast flowing words, the enthusiastic feet dance.

  Pausing outside the classroom door, Liam draws breath. ‘So! What did you do on the weekend?’

  ‘You really want to know, Liam?’

  ‘I asked ya, didn’t I?’

  ‘You did. A good five minutes ago.’

  About to open the door, Liam stops, and looks up at the tall figure of his principal. ‘You’re taking the piss, ain’t you Sir.’

  ‘Who? Me?’

  ‘Yep! You, Sir.’ The pixie face is alight with fun and the amazing green eyes afire with the shared joy of teasing.

  ‘Come see me at lunch time, Liam. I’ll tell you all about my weekend.’

  ‘It was that good! Not as good as Luna Park, I bet. Why don’t ya go to Luna Park? Tell ya what….’

  Mark opens the door and together the two, school principal and year six student, pass into the classroom. Immediately silent, Liam moves as quickly and sinuously as a cat to his place. From around the room there is a rustle of recognition. Liam has completed his remedial reading lesson in the library. Liam is back.

  His teacher, after nodding to Liam, exhorts the class to welcome the principal and continues with the spelling lesson set out on the blackboard. As is his habit, Mark takes a low chair at the back of the room, and surveys the class. He sees twenty-four entranced kids listening to their skilled, witty, caring and committed teacher. He sees the teacher’s effortless empathy and the attention given to the specific needs of each separate child.

  Mark Withers wonders, where else in the whole wide world would Liam be so cherished? He reflects on years of intensive tests, reams of notes in that voracious green file waiting for more, and the fact that the kid can honestly read about a hundred words – and
that’s being generous. Yet, remarkably, Liam wears no label. For all the effort, no one can find one. Liam’s delightful brain is wired to no identifiable pattern. Lucky Liam? Lucky me, Mark decides, for the privilege of knowing him and being welcomed as his friend.

  Interestingly, two seats away is a label – Jessie has Down Syndrome. A couple of seats across is Francis; label – autistic spectrum disorder. At the front of the class in his wheelchair is John; label – cerebral palsy. Next year Jonathon Matthew Mills – label Down Syndrome - will be in year six. As well as…

  Next year. What will become of Liam next year? Plans are in hand. He’ll be going to a remarkable secondary school. Miracle of miracles, he’s actually located a school that promises to continue this fascinating work with Liam – developing the kid’s truly amazing ‘gift of the gab’. It’s a promise only. Teachers move on, things change. There are no guarantees. But Liam’s doubly lucky. His parents are strong. They will continue to provide knowledgeable support for this very special very gifted, but differently gifted, child. Uniquely different, uniquely gifted. Everyone here knows Liam is indeed gifted.

  It hasn’t always been so. Liam started school in the era of the retired principal. Unresponsive to the earnest efforts to teach him, he was punished for the disruptive behaviour of incessant chatter. He became a shadow, a sitting in the back of the class unco-operative shadow. Unlabelled and unhappy, Liam didn’t fit. He faced a bleak future.

  Everyone had reckoned without incoming Principal Mark Withers. The lessons long ago learned at The Glenlea have not only transformed Beach Haven Primary, they’ve rescued Liam. The downcast eyes have lifted, the shadow has vanished and Liam’s exquisitely unique joy of life has blossomed.

  As he often does, Principal Mark Withers wonders - how many other Liams are out there? So many challenging kids, labelled and not labelled, to be nurtured and cherished and spurred on to be the very best self of which they are capable of being.

  His errant mind returns down the years, past Don and Fay and Laura and Glenlea, past his own children and Jenny and the sedately contented life they have eventually made together and stops beside his mother - and his brother. If only…