Fay Page 4

  ‘I should hope not! I find Miss Turner an excellent teacher. Her behaviour modification techniques. Her patience. She has comprehensive knowledge of each of the children in her group. She is scrupulous in her attention to detail. She is adept at introducing innovative programs. She…’ She stopped. Then, deliberately lowering her rising voice, Mrs Ryan apologised: ‘I’m sorry. Of course, if you have legitimate doubts, I should know about them.’

  Too late. The unspoken had been heard. The principal’s lengthy praise of Adele Turner’s attention to required formalities and accepted training techniques, her rising indignation and embarrassment at her temporary loss of composure, screamed disapproval of him. She was not about to consider, let alone welcome, anything he might have to say about her favourite teacher’s management of Fay Margaret Clark. As for his growing disapproval of her treatment of Clem, and of those like him, this was definitely not the time.

  Bowing to superior experience, to her shaky pride, and to recognition that his own ideas were as yet more intuitive than rational, he again backed off. ‘Of course I can have no doubts about Miss Turner. She’s very experienced in this work.’

  ‘As you say, Mr Withers.’

  ‘As you say, Mrs Ryan,’ he mimicked. ‘Miss Turner has given Fay every chance.’ Again too late, he heard the snide sarcasm in his own voice. Dammit! Now she’d really blow a fuse.

  It didn’t happen. Obviously too jaded to recognise his inadvertent slip for what it was, Mrs Ryan contentedly ushered him to the door. ‘You’ll see, Mark. Fay’s a good girl. You’ll see.’

  ‘A rare teenager.’ In this context, sarcasm was okay.

  ‘Exactly.’ She smiled tired appreciation.

  Closing the door behind the earnest young teacher, Mrs Ryan returned to the file, and compulsively opened it. The man wasn’t a fool. So what were his doubts?

  She looked at the clock; it was late. As of their own volition her fingers began to turn the pages. Was there something they had missed?

  Chapter Four

  February 1975

  The room was as he’d left it yesterday, preparation day. He’d started the day on a high note. Following an ominous call to the office, he’d been told by Mrs Ryan that his proposed two-year review had been brought forward. The Board was most happy with his work, as was she. He was to be re-classified as a permanent staff member, with a rise in salary and access to accompanying benefits. A small rise and benefits well short of mainstream teaching insurances and long service leave benefits. Nevertheless, it was a significant indication that things were getting better. On the way home last night, he’d bought a celebratory champagne to share with Jenny. Conscientiously considering the welfare of the expected baby, she’d barely touched the wine.

  Poor Jenny. She was worn out. The Christmas trip down from the mountains to the city’s humidity had been particularly difficult. They’d had to stay the first few days with his mother. She’d furnished an enormous bedroom in her new house especially for them. Christmas dinner had been a disaster. His mother had played martyr in the kitchen, his sisters had argued, their husbands had got drunk, their children had screamed through the house and Robin had hidden under the table. They’d escaped to Jenny’s parents on the other side of the city before Jenny and his mother had a confrontation. Though they’d never yet had an all out row, it simmered. Jenny had come home utterly exhausted. No wonder.

  During the holidays the Centre building had been thoroughly cleaned, the Centre garden beautifully maintained, the equipment in the quadrangle repainted and the Centre bus thoroughly overhauled. The bus, a sixteen-seater whose narrow wheelbase saw it precariously sway around sharp country corners, brought trainees in from both the township and the smaller outlying farms and hamlets.

  In Mark’s classroom, the blackboard had been repainted, the blue plastic chairs and the laminex tables had been scrubbed, the serviceable mottled carpet had been cleaned and the windows washed. He’d spent most of the preparation day putting colourful posters and pictures on the walls. He’d also placed word recognition flash cards in every relevant position. Thus, on the door was a placard with the typed word ‘DOOR’, on each window the word ‘WINDOW’ and so on around the room. He hated it, but that was what the principal wanted to see. Besides, even though he hated it, he had to acknowledge it had its uses. Especially when the toilets were appropriately labelled MEN and WOMEN. At least those labels were not BOYS and GIRLS – which would really have been the pits.

  This morning, eager to get on with the job, he’d arrived early. In the summer hot staff room the other teachers, too, had been eagerly anticipating the new year and the new students. The news of his graduation to permanency had been greeted with applause, even by Adele Turner who looked a good half dozen years younger after her break.

  What would this year bring? What were the new people in his class like? How would his new status actually affect his relationship with the other teachers? With Mrs Ryan? With the mothers and fathers who, until now, had known his post was temporary, that he could at any moment just leave, or be told to leave? How much longer would he be able to tolerate Adele Turner’s abuses? Had they actually been the result of end-of-year exhaustion or something less excusable? Had he been exaggerating because of his own weariness? They were all reasonable questions. Last night Jenny had asked some of them. This morning, though he was realising there were many new questions, one was paramount. Was this to be his career?

  At the sound of the bus driver tooting his habitual warning signal at the front door, Mrs Ryan exited her office to meet it and the staff room cleared. Crossing the searing quadrangle, he followed the trainees into his room and waited for everyone to place hats and lunch boxes and various impedimenta in the lockers lining the far wall which led to the toilet block. He was starting this new year with eight people he’d taught last year, plus four promoted from Miss Turner’s group - twelve in all.

  Most of the group, a third of them with Down Syndrome, were accepted as falling within the range of moderate to mild intellectual disability. That is they were assessed as, or guessed as, having an I.Q. of between 35–65 according to the International World Health Organisation criteria. Although a rare few children in the Centre had been formally assessed, for the majority it was as yet mere guesswork. Though the reasons for inadequate assessment varied, many had to do with a complexity of explanations encompassing distance, finance, and imperfections of a system in the throes of debilitating birth pains.

  Like his fellow staff members, Mark Withers’ task was to attempt to prepare each trainee for his or her future. This future, with no perceptible dissent, was assumed to be a lifetime of dependency. Dependency, if not on family, then on some form of institutional care. The task, as defined by bureaucracy, was to train these ‘eternal children’ in domestic and social skills according to the assessed, or guessed, potential of each.

  So simplistically stated, it was not simple. Complicated by a minefield of ifs and buts and maybes and what-ifs having to do with specific people, it was further complicated by fiscal restrictions and idealistic qualifications and administrative stipulations and parental expectations. At the same time, intricately woven into these were each teacher’s, and each student’s, self-doubts and insecurities – many having to do with the uncertainties inherent in this emerging and frequently suspect fledgling profession.

  And so it went - ad infinitum. It didn’t bear thinking about, so he usually tried not to think about it. It was far too complex, too daunting, too discouraging and altogether too negative. By the end of last year, he’d already decided that his task was to just get on with the job, to do his best and to try to inject some fun and enthusiasm into the process. Within this framework, his essential goal was simple. It was to conscientiously try to serve the individual needs of each student. Simply stated, it was never going to be easy. Because it had the potential to cause considerable conflict. First, of course, was his use of the word ‘student’. Apparently nowhere else, not even within The Glenl
ea Centre, were the trainees referred to as students. A habit ingrained in his primary school years, he’d used it unconsciously. Until Ruth had drawn his attention to it. Since then he’d been especially careful in the office. He was not into rocking boats. Nor, apparently, were his fellows. Their attitude seemed to be - why bother about a tiny word? Child. Trainee. Student. Who cared? It was the happiness of the place, the smooth running of the place, the acknowledged achievements of the place that were important.

  Some of these youngsters, as some of those who had left last year at age twenty-one, would remain at home, their training at an arbitrary end. A few might transfer to sheltered workshops and hostels in the city. A very lucky few might gain menial employment. Peter, a farmer’s son, could be certain of a productively happy life on the farm with the possibility of marriage and children in his protected environment.

  Right now was not the time for self-doubt or reflection. Sitting in their prearranged semi-circle of chairs, their bright young faces, rested and brown and eager after the Christmas holidays, were waiting for his lead. At least these kids wanted to learn - an unexpected bonus not always enjoyed by mainstream teachers.

  He walked to the front of the room. ‘Good morning, everyone.’

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  He smiled welcome. ‘I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas?’

  A chorus of mixed responses, all apparently in the affirmative, was his answer.

  ‘What about you, Mark?’

  ‘We had Christmas dinner in Melbourne with my Mum. Then we came back here.’

  ‘I went to the beach.’

  ‘We went to Sydney. All that way!’

  Following a few moments of interchanged information, he observed. ‘I see we have four new people this year.’

  ‘Terry and John and Beverley and Fred aren’t here.’

  ‘That’s right, Linda,’ he acknowledged Linda’s help. ‘They’ve left. Remember? We talked about it. So now we have these new people to take their place.’

  ‘I miss them.’ Linda glared at the newcomers. ‘Why can’t they still be here?’

  ‘We all miss them, Linda. But we’re going to be nice to the new people, aren’t we.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Come now, Linda,’ he coaxed. ‘We want to make the new people happy to be with us, don’t we? You remember when you were new. Fred was very nice to you. Remember? Do you remember how shy you were?’

  ‘Why can’t Fred….?’

  Thoroughly outraged, Clem interrupted: ‘I’m not shy!’

  Thankful for the distraction, Mark turned to him. ‘You’re not? That’s good. Linda will tell you what we do here. Then you can help her.’

  ‘Don’t want to.’ Linda glowered.

  ‘Not even if I let you take charge of the roll?’ Last year Terry had been responsible for the daily attendance roster. ‘Now Terry’s left, you’ll have to add the new names. Do you know how to write them?’

  ‘ ’Course I do.’ Her unhappiness immediately dissipating, Linda took Clem’s hand. ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’

  ‘Can I do it too?’ Trixie asked.

  ‘Perhaps.’ He watched the two Down Syndrome students, Clem and Linda, huddle over the ledger. So easily persuaded to become amiable collaborators rather than enemies. If only….

  ‘Can I?’ Trixie persisted.

  ‘We’ll start a daily roster to take turns.’

  ‘Miss T-Turner did it herself.’ Meryl pointed out. ‘She said we were not – not….’

  ‘Reliable,’ Trixie finished for her. ‘She said not reliable. It means - it means we don’t do it right.’

  ‘No it don’t.’ From the other side of the room, Peter expanded. ‘It just means you might make mistakes sometimes. Anyway, we do it ourselves in Mark’s room. Mistakes happen sometimes, don’t they, Mark.’

  ‘We do lots of things ourselves.’ Mark agreed. ‘Mistakes are okay. If you try hard, and still make mistakes anyway, then we’ll work together to fix them. So before we go any further, let’s meet Meryl and Trixie and Fay.’

  ‘I know them. I seen them in the play yard.’ Followed by a courteous queue, Peter crossed the room to shake hands with the new students.

  ‘I’ll tell you all the names.’ Mark introduced each in turn. ‘Don’t expect to remember them all.’

  Peter grinned broadly at the new young women in his classroom.

  ‘Once seen, never forgotten.’ Trixie ostentatiously ogled him. Peter was tall and self-assured and handsome.

  ‘I won’t forget him t-too,’ Meryl echoed.

  Fay did not look up.

  ‘You going to shake hands?’ Peter confronted her.

  Head still down, she clasped both hands on her lap.

  ‘She’s shy,’ Trixie left her own place to speak for her friend.

  ‘She’s shy,’ Meryl followed Trixie.

  ‘Okay!’ He joined the group by Fay’s desk. ‘I’m Mark.’

  ‘I thought you was the teacher.’ Trixie frowned.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘He’s Mr Withers.’ Meryl volunteered.

  ‘That’s right. I’m Mark Withers. So I’m Mark.’

  Surrounding the incoming four, his students of last year’s class were expectantly silent.

  Trixie’s eyes were saucers. ‘I can’t call a teacher that!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know.’ She blushed.

  ‘What did you call Miss Turner?’ Mark asked.

  ‘Miss Turner. ’Course.’

  ‘What was her other name?’

  ‘Miss.’

  ‘No I mean her other name. Her first name.’

  The four newcomers, even Clem who’d suspended operations with Linda in order to listen, were bewildered.

  ‘Like,’ Mark tried again, ‘like you are Trixie Forrest. You are Meryl Adams. You are Fay Clark. And there is Clem. And Linda.’

  ‘See!’ Peter explained to Trixie. ‘Mark don’t call you Miss Forrest.’

  ‘I’m a kid.’

  ‘You’re a young lady,’ Mark pointed out.

  ‘I’m sixteen.’

  ‘I’m twenty-eight.’

  ‘You’re old!’

  ‘Twenty-eight’s not old.’

  They shifted uncomfortably.

  His attention centred on Fay, still head down and white-knuckled hands tightly clasped. ‘You’ve got older brothers, Fay. Do you call any of your brothers Mr Clark?’

  Fay gave no indication that she’d heard.

  ‘ ’Course she don’t.’ Clem scoffed. ‘It’s her brothers!’

  ‘What do you call them, Fay?’

  ‘She calls them their names.’ Trixie answered.

  ‘I asked Fay.’

  ‘She won’t tell you.’

  ‘No?’ He hesitated, then soon continued: ‘Anyway, it’s the same thing. I’m Mark.’

  ‘You’re not her brother.’

  ‘You’re teacher.’

  ‘Forget it,’ Peter sighed. ‘He’s Mark. Let’s work. I’m sick of talking.’

  ‘Okay.’ Mark chuckled. ‘Take your places. We’ll go through the Glenlea Times.’

  The new year had commenced. Mrs Ryan had given permission for him to encourage his class to use his given name only in the middle of last year. She’d given it reluctantly, very reluctantly, and for a trial period only. She’d added a condition. If, at any time, there was any indication that this novel innovation was causing a reduction in the respect due a teacher, or was resulting in class misbehaviour, the experiment would be immediately cancelled.

  He understood, fully. Whichever way you looked at it, this was a major step. Also potentially risky. Although he’d always been convinced of its fairness, he was less certain of its wisdom. He’d waited until he was more certain he was on the right track, and until Mrs Ryan trusted him to the degree necessary to allow the experiment, before he’d actually put it to her.

  He could have just let it go. What was the difference? Mr Withers? Or Mark? A
very few might say ‘not much’. Most, at least most of the teachers he knew, would be adamant; his dignity as a teacher demanded the respect of formality. Mr Withers, please! He disagreed. Sure his dignity was important, respect was important, if he was to maintain control of the group. What about the dignity of these young adults who’d spent all their teenage lives being talked down to as though they were very little children? They were no longer little children, not even young children. They were young adults. One telling way of conveying his respect for them, a rare courtesy in their lives, would be by the simple strategy of using first names for all.

  Why was it important that they know he respected them? Because he wanted them to understand that respect went both ways, that just as they had a duty to respect the teacher, so the teacher had a duty to respect them. Because he wanted them to learn in a mature climate that actively promoted equality of dignity. It was worth fighting for. First step, therefore, was the simplistic strategy of first names. Quickly and easily communicated, he conceded that its deeper subtleties left it vulnerable to serious abuse. The fact that Peter, and last year’s students, had not abused it but understood and wanted to explain it to this year’s students was cause for optimism.

  Teacher and students working together as equals to achieve the same goals, that was what it was about. With this partnership of learning as its foundation, he’d designed their program to take it into account. As a result, last year’s group had decided that each day’s timetable should start with looking at the local paper and the imported city papers. Some of the articles Mark read, a few simple pieces were read by Peter whose family had taught him to read a little, while pictures – especially sport’s pictures - were enjoyed by everyone.

  Though no one except Peter could actually read, recognition of significant words was encouraged. By stimulating interest in local, national and international news, the students were getting a sense of the importance of words. It didn’t end there. Awareness of the world beyond their own home and township was extended by general, and occasionally lively, in-depth discussion. Surprisingly, their interest in events political sometimes overshadowed even the local football.