by Kylie Ladd
‘I’m going to go wash up,’ said Nell, rising from the table.
‘Don’t, Mum,’ said Skye. ‘We’ll do it.’ At first Arran assumed she meant her and Hamish, then realised she was looking at him.
‘Good idea,’ said Hamish, reaching back into the box of photos. ‘I’m going to sit here and go through the rest of these with your mum. Come on, Nell,’ he said. ‘We’ve seen Arran’s shot—now find me Skye on Skye.’
‘How’s she doing?’ Arran asked once he and Skye were alone in the kitchen. Skye ran hot water and soaked the plates, just as she had always done when they were growing up. To Arran’s disgust, their parents had never bought a dishwasher. They were trying to keep their lives simple, they said. People didn’t need all the things they thought they did, the appliances and the multiple cars and the glossy magazines. At the time Arran had thought them hopeless hippies, but in the last few years he’d started to come around.
‘She’s OK. She’s pretty tough, and she keeps herself busy. It’s still only been six months though. It’s gotta hurt.’ Skye scrubbed at a dish, her wrists wreathed in bubbles. ‘It hurts me.’
‘Yeah,’ Arran mumbled. There was nothing more to be said.
‘But look,’ Skye continued, ‘I got you in here because I wanted to talk about something else. A boy, in my class at school. I’m worried about him.’
‘Why?’ Arran dried the plate she’d just handed him.
‘He’s Iranian. He only came here about three years ago, but I don’t know how, or why. He just seems kind of sad and lonely. He’s skinny too. I thought your agency might be able to help.’
‘Is he living with his family?’
‘Oh, yes. I’ve seen his mum twice now, at pick-up, and he’s spoken about his dad. I think there’s a younger sibling as well.’
‘Are they asylum seekers?’ asked Arran. ‘They can’t just be homeless or poor or something. We’re only funded for asylum seekers.’
‘Zia’s talked about his house, so they must have one, but I’ve no idea about the asylum bit,’ Skye admitted. ‘I tried to find out, but he didn’t tell me much.’
‘Then I don’t think I can help you,’ said Arran. ‘Sorry, Skye, but it’s not sounding all that bad, to be honest. Zia—is that his name?—has a home and his family; he’s attending school and he speaks English. That’s far more than most of my caseload.’
‘I guess,’ said Skye, looking dejected. ‘I just wanted to help him. He seems so young, so utterly out of his depth, you know? We’re designing this mosaic, and I have to keep making the other students include him in what they’re doing.’
Arran laughed. ‘That’s not actually grounds for intervention by a social worker.’ When she didn’t respond he took pity on her and added, ‘Look, if you’re that concerned, why don’t you speak with his teacher? He or she will know more about the situation and whether anything needs to be done. Chances are Zia’s fine. Fine enough, anyway,’ he amended. ‘And if he isn’t, there’s also a good chance he’s already on our books, or someone else’s.’
‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’ Skye pulled knives and forks out of the water. ‘And that’s a good idea, to talk to his teacher. I need to thank him, anyway, for fixing my cut.’ She peeled off her rubber glove and held out her hand for inspection. ‘See? It’s all healed. Hamish has even said I can do backflips again.’ Arran reached for the cutlery as Skye began wiping down the sink. ‘Don’t tell him,’ she said casually, ‘but I never actually stopped.’
5
It was raining outside. Not a heavy rain; more a mist that clung to hair and glasses without quite making it to the ground. Skye glanced out of the art-room window as she cleaned up after her class, and was reminded of Scotland. It was like the sea fog that had rolled in over Edinburgh while they slept in the kombi at a lay-by on the edge of the city. What had the locals called it? She paused, holding the broom still until the word came to her. A haar. That was right. ‘Haar, haar, haar,’ her father had said when they awoke, becalmed in the grey haze, unsure which direction they were even pointed in. ‘It won’t be very funny if we have to sit here all day.’ But the mist had gradually lifted, like a curtain going up. Skye was the first to spot the castle hovering in the distance, grey ramparts glinting wetly in the weak morning sun. Funny, she hadn’t thought about that trip in years, not until her mother had pulled out those photos the other night. She’d like to go back and see it all again—the castle, the Inchkeith Lighthouse in the Firth of Forth, and the island she was named after. They’d made another trip to Scotland when she was fifteen, but she hadn’t appreciated it then. By that stage she just wanted to stay in the same school for more than one or two terms at a time, like normal people did. Arran had felt the same way. They’d sulked about it, she remembered, seething all the way from Tullamarine to Heathrow, speaking only to each other and not to their parents. When Charlie had finally noticed, about an hour before they were due to land, he’d laughed and told them they’d thank him for it one day. And he’d been right, she thought, recalling the castle gleaming in the Edinburgh dawn, but he’d died before she’d had the chance to tell him.
Skye checked her watch. Lunchtime had started ten minutes ago. He should be in the staffroom by now; she needed to finish up and get over there herself. All morning she’d felt an uneasy sensation in her stomach, one of anticipation. Today she was going to speak to Ben Cunningham. She was only at the school one day a week, and Arran was right: she needed to check with Ben that someone was looking out for Zia. Rowena had let him work with her group again during the morning’s class, but only grudgingly, and probably because she knew she’d be made to anyway. The boy had barely spoken for the whole two and a half hours. When Skye had asked him if he’d brought in the picture of the mosque he just shook his head, and shrugged when she suggested that maybe he could do so next week.
Perhaps she could ask Ben to remind him, Skye thought as she hesitated outside the staffroom door. It was ridiculous, the impulse to knock and wait, a hangover from her own school days. Back then, a visit to the staffroom could only be bad news: an injury in the playground, or a summons from the teacher who wanted to talk to you about that incident in English. She’d never been a great student. Perhaps that was why she still didn’t feel comfortable mixing with teachers, Skye reflected, hadn’t yet managed to drop casually onto one of the staffroom couches and complain about her day. She couldn’t blame Nell or Charlie, either. Always being carted off somewhere different hadn’t helped her studies, of course, but even when she was in the classroom her thoughts were elsewhere: stepping through a beam routine, or mentally rehearsing her front flyaway. Her interest in art had come later, after the knee injury; the teaching had followed when she couldn’t make a living from her art. To her surprise she loved it, though there were days when she still felt like an impostor. What was someone like her doing behind a desk?
‘Are you right?’ asked the vice-principal when Skye finally stepped through the door.
‘I’m, um, looking for Ben. Mr Cunningham—5C’s teacher,’ she stuttered, glancing around. None of the faces were familiar to her. None of them knew who she was.
The vice-principal did her own quick survey of the room. ‘He was here earlier. Can’t see him now, though.’ She consulted a roster taped to the back of the door. ‘He’s not on yard duty. Have you tried his classroom? Maybe he’s in there.’
Skye shook her head. ‘No, but I will. Thanks.’ She backed out of the room and hurried across the playground, shielding her hair with her hands. This sort of weather always made it kink. She should have tied it up.
Ben was sitting at his desk, tapping at a laptop, a half-eaten apple beside it. He looked up as she came into the room, then smiled. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘It’s Skye, isn’t it? The one I have to thank for that lovely long break from nine thirty till twelve every Thursday.’
‘I was looking for you in the staffroom,’ she said, realising, belatedly, that it sounded like an accusation.
�
��I had lunch in there, but then I had work to do,’ he replied. ‘I can’t concentrate with all the chat about who won the footy tipping, and which kids were fighting in the playground.’ He peered down at his screen and grimaced. ‘To be perfectly honest, I also didn’t want the rest of the staff seeing that I still hadn’t finished my lesson plan for next week—particularly when, as I said, I’ve had all morning without my class.’
‘What were you doing instead? Playing World of Warcraft?’
Ben laughed. ‘Sadly, I was actually working on the lesson plan,’ he admitted. ‘I’m hoping I’ll get quicker once I’ve had a bit of practice.’
Skye was immediately sympathetic. ‘I know what you mean. It’s hard being new, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’ Ben nodded slowly, then grinned. ‘Especially since the school disabled World of Warcraft on their laptops.’
His smile was beautiful, Skye found herself thinking. It lit up his whole face: that olive skin, his even teeth, the eyes that were just like hers. In the fortnight since she’d seen him she’d wondered if she’d dreamed that up, but there they were, like looking into a mirror: deep brown and slightly slanted. Someone had once told her that her eye shape was a genetic anomaly called an epicanthic fold. Arran had the same thing, but Skye had never noticed it on anyone else before now. She thought of pointing it out to Ben, but stopped herself. This was supposed to be about Zia, not Ben’s eyes.
‘Sit down,’ he said, pushing his computer to one side. ‘Did you need to see me about something?’
‘Yes,’ said Skye, pulling up a chair. ‘Zia. I’m a bit worried about him. He barely says anything in class, and he doesn’t seem to have any friends.’
‘Hmm.’ Ben leaned back in his seat. ‘The not saying much might be to do with his English. He’s only been in Australia for a few years, you know.’
‘Yeah, he told me, but he actually speaks very well, doesn’t he? I think there’s something else. I questioned him about his home, and he just shut down.’ It was warm in the classroom, Skye thought. Humid. She could feel her hair curling wildly around her face, the moisture on her skin.
‘His family were refugees, I know that much,’ Ben said thoughtfully. ‘From Iran, I think.’ Skye nodded. ‘Zia’s been here at the school for a few years, and there’s another son, in one of the lower grades. I spoke to his father at the parent-teacher interviews at the beginning of the year. His mother didn’t come in.’
‘What did he say?’ asked Skye, then added, ‘If you can tell me.’
‘You’re a teacher too.’ Ben smiled. ‘I can tell you, but there wasn’t much. The English again. I know he wanted more tutoring for Zia, but the resources just aren’t there.’
‘How are his marks?’
‘Not great, but not awful,’ said Ben. ‘That’s the problem, if you know what I mean. On paper, he looks OK. But I agree with you, Zia keeps himself to himself.’ He shrugged. ‘I just assumed it was the cultural stuff. Maybe I could teach him how to play footy.’
‘If he’s been here a few years he should have already picked that up.’
‘You’re right.’ Ben sighed. ‘Yeah, you’re right. I should have realised that.’ He looked up, straight into her eyes, and started slightly. He’s noticed, Skye thought, and dropped her own gaze to her lap in confusion. The air seemed to grow suddenly heavier. A clock above Ben’s desk ticked; outside, children shrieked and laughed.
‘What does he do at lunchtime?’ she asked. ‘Have you seen him?’
Ben shook his head. ‘I’m only on yard duty once a week. I can’t actually remember ever spotting him in the playground.’ He stood up and crossed to the window, peering out. ‘He’s not on the oval now. That’s where most of the grade five boys hang out.’
‘Library?’ Skye suggested. ‘Or maybe he’s with the grade six boys. They’re closer to his age.’
‘Yeah, maybe. I hope so.’ Ben sat back down and looked across at her cautiously. ‘I feel bad now. I don’t really know much about Zia. He’s quiet, but he does his work and stays out of trouble, so I just thought that was how he was, you know? And it’s no excuse, but I’ve been so busy . . .’
‘I know,’ said Skye. ‘Believe me, I’m often glad I only do this one day a week. Five days of having to be so organised and keeping my eye on everyone would do my head in. And look,’ she went on, somehow wanting to reassure him, though she had originally come to him for reassurance, ‘it’s probably nothing. Maybe Zia is just quiet, and it stands out in art because no one’s ever quiet there.’ Maybe, too, she thought abruptly, he was homesick. She still remembered how she had hated being pulled out of her own life to traipse across the globe with her parents whenever the whim had taken them. Still, she always knew she would eventually return. How did anyone ever adjust to the permanent loss of a homeland?
‘No, I’m glad you brought it up,’ said Ben. ‘I’ll keep a closer eye on him. Maybe we can talk again in a few weeks? Compare notes.’
He was looking at her intently. Studying her, Skye thought, as if he might be tested on it afterwards. Self-consciously, she put her hand to her hair to smooth it down.
‘Hey, how’s the injury?’ Ben asked. ‘All better? Is there a scar?’
‘It’s fine,’ she said curtly, eyes fixed on his.
‘Can I see?’ He stretched his own hand across the space between them. Skye’s instinct was to pull away, to get up and flee the classroom. The wound, she thought absurdly, was personal. She didn’t want him scrutinising her flesh. If he touched her something might happen.
Suddenly there was a loud crack of thunder. The squeals from the playground rose an octave, then descended into a babble of voices and running feet as heavy rain began to fall. There was the smell of wet bitumen, and the door to the classroom banged open. Children poured in, steam rising from their newly drenched uniforms.
‘Wet day program. Great. There go the lesson plans,’ said Ben. Skye rose and walked away without replying. At the door she glanced back and found he was still watching her as 5C tumbled around him.
The afternoon session with her other grade five class couldn’t go quickly enough. Normally Skye enjoyed her work, but for once she found herself constantly glancing up at the clock, willing the hands forward, towards three. It wasn’t her students’ fault. They were engaged and interested; they didn’t even laugh all that long when she knocked a tray of tiles to the floor, but conscientiously dropped to their knees and began picking them up without being asked. No, it wasn’t them, thought Skye. It was her. Ever since lunch the heat had been growing. Heat in her stomach, her chest; heat snaking down through her body to pool between her thighs. She excused herself and got a drink of water; she looked out of the window and made herself count the puddles on the netball court. Nothing helped. The heat grew.
Maybe she was coming down with something, Skye told herself, pressing her hot cheek against the misted glass. Maybe she should skip the Y tonight, head straight home and let Nell put her to bed. Her mother would enjoy that; she hadn’t had anyone to fuss over since Charlie died. She closed her eyes and tried to distract herself . . . Nell running her a bath or making her a cup of tea; Nell shaking drops of lavender oil onto her pillow to help her sleep, the way she had when Skye was a child. Yet even as she lingered over the details, Skye knew she had to go to work. There was only one way to deal with this ache.
‘Miss Holt, our group have finished. I think everyone has, actually.’
Skye’s eyes sprang open. She took a deep breath and turned around, hoping she didn’t look as flustered as she felt. ‘I was just watching the rain,’ she said hastily. ‘Water is so important to us, isn’t it? It would be nice to have a river or something like that in the design.’
The class regarded her impassively. She’d been thinking nothing of the sort, and she couldn’t help feeling that they knew it. She cleared her throat. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Who’s ready to share their design with the class?’
A few hands went up, but the bell rang before she
had a chance to choose one.
‘Ohh,’ complained one of the more artistic children in the front row. ‘We really wanted you to see ours. Can we show you?’
Skye glanced again at the clock, but only so it appeared as if she was considering the request. She already knew the answer. She had to leave now if there was going to be time. ‘Next week, Ellen.’ She smiled. ‘I promise you can go first.’
Even so, it seemed to take the class an age to pack up. Hurry, Skye urged them silently as they dawdled at the sink and carefully folded their smocks. When it seemed as if Ellen was going to stay at her desk until each of her Derwents was arranged chromatically, Skye scooped up the pencils and thrust them at her.
‘Sorry, you’ll have to do that in the hall. I’ve got an appointment.’ She felt herself blushing again at the lie. She snapped off the art-room light and began running through the school towards her car, splashing across the playground without even noticing that her feet were getting wet.
Hamish looked up as she charged into his office twenty minutes later. ‘You’ve made good time,’ he said. ‘I think that’s a personal best.’
‘Shh,’ said Skye, turning to shut the door. It had no lock, so she pushed a chair against it.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked. ‘You’ve got a class in fifteen minutes.’
‘Ten’s all I need,’ said Skye, unbuttoning her jeans. She eased them down her body, then kicked them into a corner with her underwear. ‘Lie down, Jess, and don’t look.’ The dog complied obediently. Skye pushed Hamish back into his chair and sat on the desk in front of him. She smiled lasciviously, then slowly opened her thighs. Hamish groaned, though more out of frustration than desire.
‘Jesus, Skye. Why now?’ he protested, resolutely remaining in his seat. In response, she spread her legs further apart and reached around to clasp his buttocks, pulling him upwards to her, then slid her fingers into his shorts. He resisted for only seconds more, sighing as she drew out his cock and rubbed it against her.