Fay Page 5

  Half-heartedly approved by Mrs Ryan, Mark Withers was opening unexpected doors. These geographically isolated, educationally segregated and socially outcast young people were being given the opportunity to learn of the world from which they’d been separated. As well as continuing to learn the self-help and domestic skills designed to help within their own homes, they were encouraged to learn about current affairs, civic affairs and general knowledge. He also encouraged acquisition of leisure skills - craft work, woodwork, art, gardening and anything else designed to fill the segregated hours which other youngsters spent with friends their own age.

  Of the twelve, Peter, who was destined to live a protected life on his father’s farm, was probably functioning at the highest intellectual level; although neither Peter, nor any of the other young adults, had been formally assessed in the Centre. Responsibility for registration for invalid pensions due to intellectual disability was assumed by local general medical practitioners.

  Obviously at the lowest intellectual level was Laura, a twenty-year-old young woman with multiple disabilities; the result of a traumatically mismanaged birth. Severely disabled Laura Fletcher spent most of the day sleeping, and occasionally watching, in her wheelchair. Even though the Centre was ill-equipped and the staff ill-prepared for a young woman with such gross physical and intellectual impairment, her influential family had been successful in bypassing Mrs Ryan’s reservations about her enrolment at age eighteen. Usually, if they attended The Glenlea, people as damaged as Laura were young children who remained for a while in the junior groups, until time and necessity saw them remaining full-time at home or leaving for places unknown. Following totally legitimate initial doubts, based on realistic issues to do with toileting and severe dependence, Laura had been placed in this age appropriate group only because Mark did not object; as did the other staff members.

  ‘Will you take charge of the news this morning?’ Mark asked Peter. ‘I need to spend some time with Laura.’

  Satisfied that Peter was coping, he crossed to the cupboards, collected an assortment of simple puzzles and placed them on the table attached to Laura’s wheelchair. Responding to the sound of the puzzles hitting the metal tray, Laura roused.

  ‘Good morning, Laura.’

  ‘ ’Ullo.’ Laura’s lifeless eyes filled with light.

  His heart jumped. If only…. ‘That’s a good girl! You do remember me.’

  ‘ ’Ullo. ’Ullo. ’Ullo.’ Fixing her eager eyes on his, Laura laughed a throaty chuckle.

  ‘Good girl, Laura!’ It didn’t happen often. When it did, it was like opening a magnificent Christmas present.

  Until inevitably, even as he celebrated, Laura’s eyes began to glaze.

  Quickly, he clasped one of her rigid hands in his. ‘Let’s find out if you remember how to do these.’

  Already lost to him, Laura docilely submitted to his manipulation of her flaccid fingers. It had happened. He’d seen it. Over the long Christmas period, Laura had not forgotten his face. That rare momentary spark of life was what had kept him persevering.

  While he worked, he watched the group. Peter had rearranged the chairs, ushering them into a circle for the morning’s discussion. As temporary ‘teacher-incharge’, he was reading the simplest news headlines and encouraging general discussion. During the summer holiday season there had been car accidents, swimming accidents, a brawl at the local hotel, a major bushfire which had threatened outlying farms, and a transport strike which had seriously threatened export of wheat and some of their families. Peter, who was probably relying more on family gossip than the newspaper, was enjoying himself. The other students, equally relying on gossip from home, were also enjoying themselves, except for Fay.

  At his side Laura was now sound asleep, a guttural snore her only contribution to their ‘lesson’. He made no move to take over from Peter, but remained quietly observing.

  Fay offered nothing. He could not see her face, only her bent shoulders and the lowered head which was absolutely motionless and totally silent.

  ‘Fay’s dad was at the pub,’ Trixie informed the group. ‘He saw the fight.’

  ‘Hey!’ Peter turned to Fay. ‘Was there a lot of blood?’

  ‘She didn’t say,’ Trixie answered.

  ‘Was there?’ Ignoring Trixie, Peter leaned closer to Fay. ‘Was there a lot of blood?’

  Fay’s rigid body flinched from the imminent contact.

  ‘You’ve frightened her!’

  Peter hurriedly retreated. ‘I have not.’

  ‘You have t-too.’ Meryl nudged Trixie.

  His attention was alerted. Peter’s special attention had definitely threatened her. So much so that the girls who’d been with her last year had speedily come to her defence. Even more intriguing was the fact that when Peter had moved closer she’d become incredibly tense. So great was her tension that for a brief moment the white knuckles had quivered, the wide-open eyes had been as devoid of life as Laura’s, and the body and face so impossibly rigid they’d looked as if she’d explode.

  What was happening? For little longer than the blink of an eye, Fay Clark had seemed almost catatonic! Why? Was it fear? Fear of what? Of who? Had she been like this in Miss Turner’s room? What the hell was going on with this girl?

  It didn’t sit right. Why? Scrabbling around in his minimally experienced mind, he questioned his gut reaction to the frozen figure that had been, for a few terrible seconds, Fay Margaret Clark.

  So what was so very different from the other eleven in his group? Obviously her behaviour. What else? He ran critical eyes over Fay’s eleven class mates. The youngsters with Down Syndrome, and Laura in her wheelchair, wore their disability for all to see. For the remainder, there were tell-tale signs – an unusually small head, a certain dullness in the eyes, an awkwardness. Only Peter could walk down the streets of any city without attracting attention; until he was asked to maybe calculate change or answer a complex question.

  Even so, not one of them showed fear. Every one of them was at home, happy and eager to start this new year. Even Laura, for the brief time she’d been awake, had exhibited enjoyment in their session together. Fear had no place in this room. Unlike Adele Turner, he’d worked very hard at creating an environment of trust, an environment where unacceptable behaviour was managed without physical punishment. Trixie and Clem and Meryl knew that. They’d seen him long enough to know, and his students would have reassured them in their own way, that anything he did was calculated to at all times respect the principle of equality of dignity.

  So what was different about Fay? First the abnormal fear. Second, the total absence of any outward sign of disability. Dammit. She looked like any teenager in any school. Even the shyness was not in this context particularly unusual. When no one was pushing her for a response, she looked just a little quiet and not very happy - though not much more than that. When he’d seen her in the play-yard, she’d looked just as ordinary as any teenager anywhere. Indeed, as his own brother had looked. Which meant not a damned thing. Degree of disability had not a damned thing to do with looks. He only had to look at Laura. Wake her up, turn on the light in her eyes, take her out of the wheelchair and she was a beautiful young woman.

  Except, having been around this world a little while, he was beginning to get a sense of a student’s level of comprehension. He only had to listen to Peter right this minute. Peter was instinctively communicating to the new people at what he sensed to be their level of comprehension. Which, he suddenly realised, contained not a single element of the condescension Adele Turner had shown! Good for Peter.

  Fay’s file had been of little help. There was nothing in it to explain what he’d just witnessed. There was nothing in it to explain why she’d not learned at school, why she’d not learned at home with her mother, why she was as she was. Different. What, exactly, had the file said about Fay’s level of intelligence? He wasn’t sure, he’d been paying attention to her record at The Glenlea. On further reflection, he decided the fil
e had said nothing, other than the fact that she’d been rejected by the mainstream secondary school as being in-educable. This, following no formal psychological assessment. There’d also been no report of a possible cause of intellectual impairment. Apparently, she’d been refused enrolment because she couldn’t learn – couldn’t be taught? Not unusual, unfortunately not at all unusual.

  She’d certainly done well at speech therapy. Her file did report that much. What was her level of intelligence? Although formal assessment of the Centre’s older students might well prove to be of less significance than some people thought, in Fay’s case it could well be a critical guideline to what was happening in that bent head across the room. If, as her significant progress at speech therapy hinted, there was even the remotest possibility that she was of higher intelligence than previously thought, there were important questions to be answered. How come she was here? How come she was almost always so cowed? How come he had seen her paralysed with what he could only describe as terror? And how was it that her undoubtedly disabled classmates protected her?

  All these questions without answers did nothing to satisfy his gut feeling, the instinct that he was learning to trust, which told him that this girl was not as the others. So if instinct was reliable, and there was nothing to lose by listening to it, what was special about Fay? What was this difference? Which led to the question – why was she still here? Which, of course, led to the next question – what could he do to find out more about Fay Margaret Clark?

  He was comparatively new to this. Maybe he’d meet many more like Fay. And yet? There was something. She’d flinched away from Peter, yes. She’d been momentarily ‘catatonic’, perhaps. And yet… And yet… And yet he could be jumping at shadows. He could be seeing what was not there to be seen. So fleeting had been that second of terror that he had to wonder - was he reacting more to imagination than observation?

  ‘I’m sorry, Fay. Truly.’ Poor Peter, he’d turned back to Fay. Her attitude was bothering him.

  ‘Leave her alone!’ Trixie chided. ‘You only make it worse.’

  It was true. In response to Peter’s apology, though no longer rigid, Fay was again hunching more deeply into herself.

  Mark saw the lowered eyelids flutter, the tightlipped mouth whiten, and two clown-red circles stain her full cheeks. Whatever the truth of his imagination and of Fay Margaret Clark’s condition, he must confront the most important problem. How in the name of God was he supposed to teach this terrified rabbit of a teenager?

  Leaving Peter to continue the news session, he objectively inspected her. Dressed in a faded blue loose-fitting sleeveless cotton frock and summer sandals, her build was average for her age. A little too fat for good health, her pasty skin was blotched with acne. Her dingy brown hair, tied by a skinny blue ribbon, had been tightly yanked from her high brow into a severe ponytail that fell onto the nape of her neck. Between the lowered barrier of the shadowed eyelids was a furry fuzz, yet the eyebrows themselves were slimly arched. Her small fists were clenched under her rounded chin which, despite the blurring of puppy fat, called attention to the essential symmetry of her oval face.

  As he watched, the eyelids were momentarily raised. Two blue eyes, direct as summer skies, met his. Then, quickly, the eyelids again fell.

  Startled, he questioned what he had seen. Had he actually seen what those eyes, for the most fleeting of moments, had revealed?

  The alertness! Was that it?

  Again he felt oddly uneasy, even threatened. Why? Quietly, he called: ‘Fay!’

  She started to turn away, back to the group.

  ‘Fay!’ He sharpened his voice.

  Peter stopped talking about the news.

  ‘Do you mind, Pete?’ he asked. ‘I have a question for Fay.’

  Fay’s clenched fists tightened.

  The class, responding to the renewed tension, watched. Long schooled in hearing the unspoken, recognizing undercurrents, anticipating eruptions, and enveloping themselves in the safety of disinvolvement, they suspended all sound and movement.

  Leaving Laura to her snoring, Mark moved forward. ‘Fay, I was wondering if you’d like to join our makeup classes?’

  The shadowed lids quivered, but that was all.

  ‘Mrs Withers - my wife Jenny - comes in on Fridays.’

  The group, as one, relaxed. Mark was back on the job, news of Jenny’s continuing involvement was welcome. Tension fled the room. Except for Fay, who inched closer to Trixie.

  ‘Jenny’s great.’ Peter happily reported.

  ‘Thanks, Pete. Good job. I’ll sit in for a while. Okay?’ Mark drew his chair into the circle. ‘Carol, would you tell Fay about the makeup classes?’

  The over-weight teenager with Down Syndrome joyfully turned to the four new students. ‘It’s like this, see. Jenny comes on Fridays. In the afternoon. She shows us how to put on our makeup and stuff. And how to eat good.’

  ‘Carol’s gone off her diet at Christmas,’ Peter was disgusted.

  ‘Jenny will go crook.’ Jamie, a wiry lad also with Down Syndrome, warned. ‘You just wait.’

  His friend Harry, who might have been his twin, pushed him. ‘She will not! Jenny will not go crook!’

  ‘She’ll tell her off.’

  ‘She won’t. Don’t talk like that.’

  ‘She don’t like fat people.’

  ‘She likes me.’ Her joy so quickly squashed, Carol’s wail was pitiful.

  ‘Of course she does,’ Mark placated. ‘Jenny will help you keep your diet, Carol. Okay?’

  ‘Great! Okay!’ Carol glared at Peter.

  ‘Everybody eats too much at Christmas. That’s what Christmas is for, stupid.’

  ‘Not exactly, Trixie. Christmas is not just for eating,’ Mark corrected.

  ‘I go to Church Christmas,’ Linda offered. ‘We sing and everything.’

  ‘What about the makeup classes?’ Trixie ignored Linda.

  He returned to Carol. ‘Okay, Carol. It’s okay now. You can go on. Tell the new people what it’s about.’

  ‘Like he said.’ Showing no sign of distress, Carol continued as though there had been no interruption. ‘After we’ve properly cleaned our faces, then she gives us lessons in skin care and stuff. Sometimes it’s hair. Sometimes it’s nail polish. Stuff like that.’

  Clem was aghast. ‘Struth! I ain’t no sissy.’

  ‘You’ll like it,’ Peter explained. ‘The boys learn how to eat so they don’t get fat and they don’t get pimples.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘He will t-too, won’t he, Mark?’ Meryl glared at Clem.

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Clem folded stubborn arms and glared at his new teacher. ‘I ain’t no sissy.’

  ‘Of course you’re not.’ Mark again turned to Carol. ‘Tell Fay about your mothers coming to school.’

  ‘Mums and anyone can come too.’

  ‘Anyone?’ Trixie was incredulous.

  ‘ ’Course, stupid.’ Peter seemed to have taken a dislike to Trixie.

  ‘She’s not st-tupid.’ Meryl defended her friend.

  Trixie ignored them. ‘Tell us about the mums, Carol.’

  ‘Jenny says she likes helping everyone to look nice. My mum don’t come much. She’s too busy.’

  Trixie was excited. ‘Mine’ll come all the time. She likes me to look pretty.’

  ‘Huh!’ Peter jeered. ‘She don’t half like herself.’

  Satisfied that all was going better than he had a right to expect, Mark leaned back. Again all were participating, the new students were finding their niche, the others – mostly – were encouraging them to find it. Despite the appearance of animosity the banter was basically friendly and without malice; it was a way to enjoy the cut and thrust of words and the interchange of opinions so rarely permitted.

  As before, Fay offered nothing. As before, he could not see her face, only her bent shoulders and the thin ponytail on the nape of her neck, and the lowered head which was absolutely motionless and totall
y silent. Though now he believed she was not only listening, she was also fully comprehending every word. He again intervened: ‘What do you think, Fay? Would you like to tell your mother, so she can come too?’

  No answer. It was as though she had not even heard.

  ‘Fay?’

  ‘I’ll tell her mum.’ Trixie was her helpful self.

  ‘Fay?’ Hoping his unspoken reprimand would communicate itself, Mark ignored Trixie.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Subtlety lost on her, Trixie eagerly repeated. ‘I live near. I’ll…..’

  ‘Trixie!’ He heard the abrupt impatience in his voice, was sorry about it, and did not regret it. This had to be done ’ quickly. In this new year, declaration of standards and expectations of acceptable behaviour had to be clear. There had to be no room for doubt about what he expected of Fay.

  ‘But, sir!’

  ‘Trixie once and for all when I ask Fay a question, I expect Fay to answer it.

  Not you. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Trixie’s eyes filled with easy tears.

  Softening his tone, he gently explained. ‘Surely you can understand, Trixie? You are her friend. Fay has to learn to speak for herself.’

  ‘She won’t, sir. She can’t.’

  ‘I think she can. She won’t while you keep doing it for her.’

  Trixie scrubbed at her wet cheeks.

  Mark fetched a tissue from the box on his desk. ‘No sulks, eh? Dry your eyes. Okay?’

  ‘Ye- e-s.’

  ‘No sulks?’

  ‘No…’ She remained doubtful.

  Moving to the centre front of the room, he waited until each in turn was quiet and looking to him, before firmly saying: ‘This is our very first day together. I want to make one thing very clear. No one speaks for Fay. We want to help her. The way to do that is not to speak for her. So she either speaks for herself - or she misses out.’

  He paused, allowing for their thinking time. Like the prolonged heartbeat between action and reaction in an unexpected emergency, they needed just that little bit longer to absorb a complex instruction. Not that this was essentially complex. The problem was that their caring about Fay, their wish to protect her, complicated its acute simplicity.