The Teacher's Secret (20 page)

But how can she say that, how can she look him in the eye—a stranger, really—and say to him,
I'd like to be your friend?

Mel

Well, it's a bloody miracle but somehow she manages to pile them into the car by nine and tip them outside the front of the school by seven minutes past.

The moment they're out of the car, a sense of wellbeing fills her and, sinking back into the seat, she closes her eyes to relish it.

A loud banging startles her upright and when she opens her eyes, she finds Ethan's face pressed hard against the front window, his tongue licking up against the glass. She considers pressing the button to lower the window, and wonders whether it would take his face down with it. Instead she just looks at him until, losing interest, he pulls his tongue back into his mouth, moves his face back and opens the door.

‘Forgot my lunch,' he announces.

‘I left it on the bench for you.'

He shrugs. ‘But I still forgot it, didn't I?'

She could whip home and grab it—it wouldn't take her more than ten minutes—and normally she would, but today she doesn't
want to. She just doesn't want to. Instead, she rifles through her wallet until she comes up with six dollars.

‘Get a lunch order,' she tells him.

His eyes light up. ‘Like, anything I want?'

She raises an eyebrow. ‘Knock yourself out.'

He's cheering then, cheering and doing the dance they're all doing: the wiggle-your-bum-while-you're-pretending-to-stir-an-enormous-pot dance. It cracks her up to watch it and takes everything she's got not to laugh out loud. Because it's not a laughing-at dance, it's a cool dance. She checks her watch. ‘Twelve past nine,' she tells him, ‘which means you've got three minutes to get your order in.'

Mid-stir, he stops dancing and, clutching his money, hightails it back into the school grounds. She's happy when he turns back to wave at her. Not that she shows it. Instead, she just flicks her hand up to hurry him on.

Once he's out of sight, she turns on the engine, does a U-turn across the double yellow lines and drives over to the headland. There's a car park at the start of the headland and this is where she parks. It's in the middle of nowhere, really, which is why it's never full but also why it's never completely empty. Because there's always one other car there. Years ago, it used to be Adam's old ute. Today, it's a campervan, curtains covering the windows so whoever's inside can pretend they're not actually in a car park. A brave move, Mel thinks, to spend the night there and risk the after-dark hoons who burn up and down the road then do donuts in the carpark itself. Better just to rock up in the morning when the idiots are sleeping it off. That's when the council workers turn up with their coffee and their egg-and-bacon rolls to watch the sun come up over the water. Because it really is a cracker of a view: straight out to sea and across the bay to Brindle itself.

Although she often doesn't, today she locks the car and, camera in hand, heads over to the wire fence that runs the width of the headland. Attached to it is a sign warning that
Access is prohibited
and
Trespassers will be prosecuted
. Beside the sign, a large hole has been cut into the fence. Mel thinks of it as community action: there are a lot of people in Brindle who are handy with boltcutters. On the other side of the fence, a dirt track leads through the scrub. It doesn't matter if it's only just rained or if it hasn't rained for days or even weeks, for some reason the track is always muddy.

Further on, the scrub dissolves into an enormous expanse of sandstone, flat sheets of it that stretch into cliffs along the water. They are gentle cliffs, though, gentle cliffs that step slowly into the water instead of plunging straight down to it.

Other cliffs, sheer ones, both frighten and fascinate her, and for the same reason: because the closer she comes, the more they seem to call her over, over and over towards the edge.

With these cliffs, it's not the same. Instead, they seem to protect her as she makes her way to the edge; an edge that isn't such a hard edge after all, an edge that's more like the top of a hill, one she can approach, one she can lie down on, part of her leaning over it as she points the camera down, right down to the water so that both the steps of sandstone and a line of blue will fill the frame. It'll make a good card, she thinks. Particularly now that the sun's soft in the sky and the light's good.

Looking north, the land curves out towards the heads. Still lying on her belly, she aims the camera across the water and over to the coastline. Just as she pushes the button, a shot of white spray pushes through the flatness of the water.

‘Look!' she cries out, to no one. ‘Oh, look!'

Her first whale for the season, and it's not even June! For June's when they start to arrive, when they make their way up north to mate where the water's warm. Mel loves that: loves that they'll travel so far for a root. Except for the poor females who managed to get knocked up the year before; they've got to haul themselves up the bloody coast again just to give birth. And it's not like it's a daytrip. It must be thousands of kilometres. When Mel was pregnant, especially towards the end, it was all she could do to get herself out of bed let alone swim some sort of ultra-marathon.

The sea is still now. She lowers her camera—it's too far away to get a decent picture anyway—but she keeps her eyes focused on the water. And then, suddenly, another spray of water shoots out into the sky. Not just a spray—there's something more, there's something black in front of her. He's breaching, her whale is breaching, up and up, he's breaching. And it's just for her.

Then he's gone again. Completely gone. But there will be more, so many more, up the coast through winter then down again in spring. It's a thought that makes her happy, that always makes her happy, year in, year out.

To her right, the sun has lit up the hillside of Brindle houses. Quickly, she snaps it and then again. The hillside cards are her most popular—the locals get a kick out of seeing their own houses on a card. She has time for only a couple more shots before she scrambles to her feet. It's past ten already and she'll need to start heading back so she won't be late for work.

Back at the car park, the campervan has moved on. In its place is a prison van—one of the big ones, one that can fit a whole army of inmates in the back of it. Not that any of them would be able to see out of it, not with the tiny slits of windows so high you'd have
to be King Kong to be able to sit down and look out at the same time. They've got benches rather than car seats inside, she's been told, so they can fit more inmates in, so they can squash them all in the back, close the door and be done with it. She's not sure if they shackle them, too. You'd think they would, just to be on the safe side. Which begs the question: what's a prison van doing parked here in the middle of nowhere? On the patch of grass that separates the car park from the water, she finds her answer: two prison guards are sitting on a rug, both of them tucking into burgers. If they're hoping to hide their identity, it hasn't worked: their sloppy joes do little to disguise the light blue collared shirts and dark blue trousers that scream prison guard. They don't seem too bothered, though; they just seem happy to be munching on their burgers.

What a photo, she thinks. Seriously, what a fantastic photo: the picnickers, the van and the water—perfect.
Lunch at Brindle
, that's what she'd call it.

Back in the car, she finds a bag on the floor of the front seat. When she looks inside it, all she sees is blue. Then she remembers: the school hats. Of the twelve school hats she found at home in the hat basket, only two of them were labelled
Thompson
.

So it's back to school and up to lost property. Hers is a weekly trip and never in vain. Today there's an added satisfaction: today, she won't just be taking, she'll also be giving back. Today, she'll be saving the necks of ten students in the doghouse for losing their hats. Today, too, her own spoils are good: a jacket, two lunch boxes, a drink bottle and a pair of sports shorts. She's popping them into her bag when she hears a familiar voice behind her.

‘I'm thinking of a new name,' he says. ‘Lost Property—it's a bit bland, don't you think? I was looking for something with a bit more
pizazz: something like the Ethan and Josh Thompson Property Department.'

Mel turns to find Terry Pritchard just behind her. She hesitates before she speaks. ‘Oh,' she says finally. ‘Hi.' Even now, it's an effort not to call him Mr P. Not that he was ever her class teacher, but still.

Call me Terry
, that's what he's told her. And she wants to, she really does, but she just can't manage it. And so, as usual, she calls him nothing at all.

‘Or maybe we could go a bit wider,' he offers. ‘Maybe we could call it the 6P Property Department.'

She laughs when he says that and he laughs, too. ‘So, been out and about, have you?' he asks.

When she looks confused, he points a finger at her breasts. Slightly perturbed, she claps a hand to her chest.

‘Oh,' she says, ‘the camera.' She'd forgotten it was still hanging around her neck. ‘I went up to the headland to take some shots.'

He gives her a wink. ‘For the next batch of designer cards?'

She thinks he's being sarcastic so she doesn't answer.

‘Saw some beauties for sale up at the cafe,' he says. ‘Far as I can tell, they seem to be going like hotcakes.'

She pulls a wry face so he'll clock that she's on to him, that she knows he's just having a go at her.

‘Really,' he says, his voice softening, ‘they were walking out of the place. I reckon you might be on to something there.'

This time he doesn't sound like he's making fun of her. This time he sounds like he's being serious. As she shoots him a look to check, a little part of her lights up with the thought that he might be right, that it might be more than just her own quiet hope: that perhaps she
is
on to something.

‘You know,' he says, ‘I've started to worry you'll be too busy to keep helping us out here.'

Mel is the closest thing Brindle Public has to a school photographer. For years now, she's been photographing school events. She sees it as her school service; it's what she does instead of covering books for the library or selling ice-blocks on ice-block day. Sports carnivals, presentation days, performance nights: she's at all of them, snapping away.

Embarrassed now, she shakes her head. ‘What about the Year 6 show?' she asks him. ‘Do you want me for that?'

It isn't just a question, it's also a reminder. Each year, Year 6 does an end-of-year show. For the school, it's the highlight of the year; for Year 6, it's their major performance and farewell concert in one. But so far, she's heard nothing about it.

Terry pulls on his lip. ‘The show? Got to be honest, love, I haven't even turned my mind to it what with everything else happening. I s'pose I should get a wriggle on now, shouldn't I?'

Mel gives him a half-smile. ‘Happy to help out,' she says.

It was never part of her grand plan to be a house cleaner but it does have its advantages: it's cash in hand, it's flexible and, surprisingly, it manages to provide her with enough job satisfaction to keep her going. Not always, of course. Sometimes, it just pisses her off. But that's more the people than the work itself.

Over the years, she's managed to establish some ground rules to make sure things work the way she wants them to.

First of all, she's a one-man band. For a while, she paid another woman to help her out, but she ended up spending too much time checking up on her and that gave her the shits.

Second, she doesn't bring her own equipment. Either they supply it or they find someone else to clean the house. Because there's nothing worse than hauling a bloody vacuum cleaner and a bucket full of bleach and floor cleaner and window cleaner and the rest of it out of the car boot into the house and back again. So she doesn't do any of that. She just tells them what she needs, even if it means they've got to buy a new vacuum cleaner, new brooms, whatever. And if they don't like that, well, it's the same deal: maybe they'd be better off with someone else.

Third, she doesn't negotiate on rates: thirty dollars an hour, take it or leave it. Most people take it because they know she's good. She gets in, gets the job done and gets out again. Every now and then, there's someone who'll get a bit picky, who'll greet her at the door to point out a bit of dust she missed the previous week. Mel handles complaints as any professional would: she listens, she nods, she rectifies the problem then gets on with the rest of the job. The next day, she texts to advise that, regretfully, her workload is such that she will no longer be able to assist them. She always wishes them the best of luck before she signs off. Yes, good luck. Because they'll be needing it to find a replacement who's better. As for her, it's all win-win: she gets rid of the arseholes and only keeps the people she likes.