by Sarah Bailey
‘Sounds wonderful,’ replies Amy.
‘I suppose the play won’t go ahead now,’ says Josie. ‘Shame, I have tickets for this Friday.’ She doesn’t really, but she probably would have gone at some point and made Rachel come with her in exchange for a new top or some make-up.
‘It really was very good,’ says Lucy. ‘She did an amazing job with those kids. Rodney Mason and Maggie Archer were incredible. They all clearly adored her. You should have seen the roses they gave her at the end. Just beautiful.’
The timer starts to beep and all three women jump. Amy and Lucy busy themselves with loading the trays of biscuit mixture into the oven.
Josie reaches for another muffin. As she chews, an unexpected image pops into her mind, of Rosalind Ryan in a stark white coffin, eyes open and seductive like the actress from American Beauty, surrounded with bouquets of blood-red roses. She laughs to herself, thinking that John Nicholson would slip quite nicely into the fawning Kevin Spacey role.
Chapter Eleven
Monday, 14 December, 8.41 am
Being back at Smithson High is completely disorienting. It’s not even called Smithson High anymore, a fact I am reminded of frequently due to someone’s eagerness to embrace the rebrand. The words Smithson Secondary College scream out at me from the signs directing us towards the various facilities, and there are stickers with the new logo adhered to all the bins. Wisps of the past are everywhere, but at the same time everything looks new. I’m half terrified that I will see a faded version of my former self running past with a group of childhood ghosts laughing and playing. I have only been back here twice since school finished. Once for Jacob’s memorial service, which still remains the single most difficult hour of my life, and once to arrest a kid I was chasing who had used the school as a shortcut to get to the lake. This time it’s different. This feels slow and bright and real. The heat crackles around us as we walk across the gravel car park, past the old flagpole with the rippling Australian flag and the set of classrooms that everyone used to call ‘The Sisters’.
‘Why are they called that?’ I remember asking my friend Janet, when we first came to the school. She always knew the answers to things because she had two older brothers.
‘Because,’ she said, rolling her eyes, ‘all their paint is peeling, like they’re taking their clothes off, and they’re a different colour at the bottom where it looks like skin. So all the boys say they look like slutty sisters with no undies on.’
Felix’s phone rings. He glances at the screen and says, ‘I need to get this, it’ll be quick.’
I nod and he wanders off. I watch a raven try to pull a burger wrapper out of a bin. Across the car park an overweight woman is struggling with something in her boot.
‘Okay, well, that’s a bit weird,’ Felix says, walking back.
‘What?’ I’m looking up at the old library. The former dark grey has recently been painted a thick rich cream but the same faded poster about the joy of reading is still on show in the window to the left of the door.
‘Rose bought that place outright about ten years ago.’
‘Really?’
‘Yep. No loan, just cold hard cash. She lived there for a few months and then rented it out until she moved back in just over four years ago.’
I kick at a crushed Coke can. ‘Well, maybe it’s not that weird when you consider who her dad is. I’m guessing he gave her the money for it. I mean, what would the place have cost back then? A hundred grand? One twenty?’
‘About one ten actually.’
I throw him a wry smile. ‘See.’
‘You’re like a Smithson property connoisseur, Gem.’
I give him a light kick on the shin. ‘She was nineteen then, so it must have been her dad’s money. We should find out if George Ryan gave all of his children a little kickstart like that.’
‘I still think it’s strange that she lived so frugally,’ says Felix.
‘She did have nice wine though,’ I remind him. ‘And that make-up. And the artwork.’
Another raven eyes us warily before marching over to its mate to join in the bin attack.
‘It doesn’t make sense, does it? I know her teaching salary wouldn’t have been much, but still.’
I like the way the light is cutting across Felix’s eyes, making them glow green. ‘I agree it’s odd,’ I say, picturing Rosalind sitting in the front row of our classes, her face pensive but her gaze playful whenever she caught me looking at her. I’d never been able to figure her out.
‘Stuff with money is always odd!’ Felix says it sunnily but I know that his family has had huge issues with money. His dad gambled away half the family fortune, leaving his mother with almost nothing. Then his wife, a dentist, was sued years ago when they lived in the UK, which led to them selling their house and moving here. I don’t know the details but Felix told me that they basically had to start over. He doesn’t like to talk about money, which suits me just fine. It’s never been a huge part of my life.
‘Let’s visit George Ryan again,’ Felix says. ‘Maybe he can fill in the blanks. Now let’s go see the principal.’
I nod. A strange shiver of familiarity runs through me as we walk past classrooms. Young faces peer at us from all angles. It’s 8.45 am and students are starting to arrive. They’ve updated the uniform since I left but it’s similar. Midnight blue jumper, a gold-and-blue-checked dress. I can remember the itchy pull of the synthetic fabric on my wrists and neck, the breezy freedom of the summer skirt.
‘Look,’ says Felix, pointing.
Stuck to the side of the brick wall outside the main office is a poster promoting Rosalind’s play.
‘“A modern day reimagining of Romeo and Juliet”,’ he reads. ‘Didn’t Baz Lurhmann already do that?’
I shush him and look at the poster, feeling a deep stab of sadness. It suddenly seems important that Rosalind got to see that first night of her play. Saw that it had all come together and got to stand back and watch the timeless story she loved so much play out. The poster is striking. Two shadowy profiles facing each other with bolts of lightning cutting between them. It strikes me as oddly dark and abstract considering Rosalind’s light and sunny Instagram images.
‘C’mon, let’s go,’ Felix says impatiently.
A trio of young girls walk towards us dressed in a uniform of denim cut-offs, thongs and singlet tops. They are a tumble of tanned limbs, lip gloss and long straggly hair. Short hair must be out, I think, absently running my hand through my shoulder-length tangles. All three have red eyes and the pinched look of grief.
‘Year twelves,’ I mutter, after they’ve passed. ‘They must have decided to meet here even though class is finished for the year.’
‘Yeah. They all look just like Maisie.’
I glance at Felix but his eyes are fixed straight ahead and I’m not quite sure what he is thinking. His daughters are a foreign concept to me; most of the time I can’t believe that they are real. He clears his throat and squares his shoulders.
I straighten too. John Nicholson is coming out of the main office, looking flustered, in a navy shirt and cream pants. His hair is thinner than I remember and his eyes sag a little to the sides. He still has the anxious gait that would have suited a woman far more than a man. His head bobs from side to side, and then he sees us and manages to seem relieved and terrified at once.
‘Gemma. Well. It’s been years. Well.’
He looks at me and an awkward silence falls over us.
‘Well, anyway …’ He trails off. ‘Oh god, what an awful thing this is. I just don’t know what to do. Well. I guess there aren’t really rules for something like this.’ He wrings his hands and then reaches out to squeeze mine.
Felix leans in to shake his hand. ‘Mr Nicholson, I’m Detective Sergeant Felix McKinnon. Perhaps we can speak in your office?’
‘Yes, of course. Susan told me you were coming. I do need to do a press conference with the mayor soon, but I think it isn’t until ten. That’s l
ong enough, isn’t it?’
Felix nods. ‘Yes, that’s plenty of time. We only need a quick chat for now and then we’ll get out of your way.’
‘Okay, well, please, come in here. You’d remember my office, Gemma—it’s still the same really. I’m not one for change.’
We follow him through the school office. A wild-eyed woman is fielding calls at the desk. ‘No, no,’ she is saying. ‘He is not available to speak at present. No, we don’t know anything about that.’
‘Journalists,’ Nicholson tells us. ‘They’ve been calling since early this morning. We have nothing to tell them but they keep ringing.’
‘It’s big news,’ says Felix. ‘It’s cruel, but they are just doing their job.’
‘I suppose you’re right. God, I just can’t believe this.’
True to his word, Nicholson’s office is as I remember it. A faded photo of the school in the eighties hangs on the left wall. Two decades’ worth of school sports days, concerts and theatre shows pepper the back wall. I see a photo of Rosalind leading a kind of dance rehearsal. She is off to the side of the stage, arms outstretched, her smile wide and her eyes sparkling.
‘Please take a seat.’ Nicholson gestures at two uncomfortable-looking chairs and walks around his desk to sit facing us. ‘My goodness. Do you want a drink? Coffee or tea?’
I almost laugh. Everyone we’ve interviewed so far has had impeccable manners.
Felix takes the lead. It’s unspoken but I can tell he thinks that my history with Nicholson might complicate things. ‘We’re fine,’ he says. ‘Now, Mr Nicholson, we need to talk to you about Rosalind Ryan.’
He slumps back into his chair. ‘Yes, of course. Where to start? Rosalind is … ah, was an exceptional young woman.’
His chin trembles and for a moment I think he will cry. A memory crashes into my vision: Rosalind singing in assembly and Nicholson staring at her in wonder. I remember Jacinta White leaning across me to laugh with Janet about it. I feel the itch of my winter stockings and the weight of my long braid. I remember feeling uncomfortable about the way his eyes were fixed on her, not wanting to think badly of the man who had been so good to me after Mum died.
‘Let’s just start with some basics, okay?’ Felix pulls out his notebook and Nicholson visibly pulls himself together. He takes a deep breath and places his palms on his thighs.
‘Okay.’ His voice sounds very far away.
‘How long has Rosalind been a teacher here?’ begins Felix.
‘Four years. And of course she was a student here too.’ He pauses and smiles weakly at me. ‘She was always very bright. Very good at English. She loved anything to do with words. A natural on the stage too.’
The receptionist is continuing to fend off calls outside the door. The sharp sound of the ringing phone is constant. I am starting to get a headache.
Nicholson continues, ‘She had another teaching job before this one, somewhere in Sydney. She had some bad luck there, an issue with the principal. He made some outrageous accusations and really knocked her confidence. Anyway, she decided to come back home. Which was wonderful from my perspective. I was thrilled when she enquired about teaching here. She always was a great kid.’ He shifts his weight and his chair creaks loudly. ‘I knew she would be an amazing teacher.’
Felix asks, ‘What kind of accusations did the principal make?’
Nicholson clutches at his hands again. ‘I’m not entirely sure. I think he felt that she was too close to her students. He totally misinterpreted her style. She was quite upset about it because she was just trying to be a good teacher. She really cared about her students. And they adored her. I’ve actually never seen anything like it.’
Felix looks at me and writes something down on his notepad.
‘Mr Nicholson,’ I say slowly, the words both familiar and strange, ‘tell us about this year. This was Rosalind’s fourth year teaching here, wasn’t it? She must have been close to the other teachers. To you.’
I watch him carefully. He plucks a tissue from a box on the desk and dabs at his eyes. They are watery when he looks back up.
‘We are all close. It really is the nicest bunch of people. I just don’t know what I’m going to say to any of them. Millie Janz, one of the teachers, called yesterday and I could barely speak to her. I’m not sure what to do. Rose is completely irreplaceable. A wonderful girl. And for her to be murdered.’ He sobs briefly and then bites his knuckle, trying to stop. ‘Sorry, sorry.’ Then to me, ‘You remember what she was like, Gemma. You two, the English stars.’
Felix’s shoulder jerks slightly in my direction but I keep my gaze straight ahead. ‘Mr Nicholson, I’m sorry, but just a few more questions and then we’ll be able to finish. Was Rosalind particularly close to any of the other teachers?’
‘Really, we are all close. Rose was shy in some ways but very passionate about certain things. She kept to herself but she was well liked. And as I said, some of the students would do anything for her.’ He pauses. ‘I really don’t know how some of them will cope with this.’
‘Was she seeing one of the teachers?’
Nicholson’s eyes narrow. ‘What, like dating?’ He shakes his head. ‘No, no, nothing like that. I discourage all staff from any romantic relationships.’
‘Things happen though, don’t they? Are you sure you would know if she was seeing someone? Maybe she would want to keep that kind of thing quiet.’
Nicholson’s lips form a tight line. ‘Maybe, but I’m sure I’d know. It would be hard to hide something like that. Plus, most of the male staff are married or in serious relationships anyway.’
‘That doesn’t necessarily rule out an affair, though, does it?’
Nicholson twists uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Well, I suppose not,’ he says finally. ‘But she was just really into being a teacher. She loved the kids. I don’t think she was in a relationship with anyone on the staff.’
‘Okay. What about the students then?’
Nicholson looks puzzled. ‘What about them?’
‘Well, Rose was a beautiful woman and still young. She could have passed for a girl in her early twenties. Maybe some of the older students were attracted to her. Perhaps she was flattered. She could have crossed a line and things got out of hand.’
Nicholson sighs heavily. Suddenly he looks much older. ‘Sorry, but no. Really, just no. I won’t have that kind of talk about her. Her students cared about her very much. That could easily be misinterpreted, but I know what she was like. Maybe some of the younger boys had crushes on her. But just normal harmless stuff. She was a private person and kept to herself but she was very principled. She had nothing to hide.’
He abruptly lurches to the side and grabs some tissues, dropping his head behind the desk. I look away as he makes little retching sounds.
Felix stands and goes to him, patting him roughly on the back. ‘Can I call someone for you?’
Nicholson sits up, looking dazed. His face is puffy and perspiration begins to trail down his forehead. ‘No, I need to get ready to … talk to everyone. I’m sorry, this is just very hard.’
I nod and Felix keeps patting his back.
‘We will need to gather a lot of information,’ I tell Nicholson. ‘Interview teachers, students and admin staff. We don’t know exactly what we’re looking for yet so we need to cover everything.’
Nicholson moves his head up and down slowly. His eyes are fixed on the desk.
‘I’ll get you some water,’ says Felix, leaving the room.
I stare at my old principal. I remember being in this office after Mum died. Probably sitting in this exact chair while Nicholson talked to Dad and me about the support available and the strategies that would be adopted to make sure things could stay as normal as possible at school. Nicholson has always had kind eyes. They look at me now—two dark brown smudges.
‘Did you go on Friday night, Mr Nicholson?’ I ask.
His breathing is slowly returning to normal. ‘Ah, no. I didn’t, no.’
Felix reappears and places a large glass of water in front of him, catching our conversation. ‘You didn’t go to the opening night of the school play?’
Nicholson fidgets and takes a gulp of water. ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Why not? It would have been one of the biggest events of the year for the school, surely?’ Felix’s voice is light but I can tell he is homing in on what he thinks is an anomaly. ‘Did you have other plans?’
Nicholson looks back and forth between us, his eyes slightly desperate. ‘No, but you see it was all a bit political.’
‘Political?’
‘Well, maybe not political, that makes it sound too serious. But it was a bit awkward.’
‘Tell us what you mean,’ I say.
‘Well, you see it was Rosalind’s idea. To have the play. She was so passionate about putting on a production and last year we couldn’t make it work—there were issues with funding and the head drama teacher had taken ill, so it never happened.’ He pauses and looks at me. ‘You remember, Gemma—the plays were always a winter highlight. Good for the students but also good for the whole community. I wanted to put on a show too, but being principal you have to make sacrifices. Recently sport has kind of won out over the arts.’
‘Right, so this year Rosalind pushed to have the play?’
‘Yes, it was very important to her. The head drama teacher had left and Rose was at me about it as soon as the year started and I said I was sure it would be fine. But then a major camp was scheduled for the year elevens in July, which clashed with the auditions. And some of the other teachers felt like the play created too much competition between the kids. It became controversial.’
‘Okay. So Rosalind was angry?’
Nicholson looks up as if to disagree and then slumps back again. ‘More frustrated, I think. She mentioned bureaucracy more than once and I know she was disappointed in me for not trying harder to make it happen.’