The Teacher's Secret (28 page)

A footpath follows the line of the water past a driveway that becomes a boat ramp. On the embankment beside the ramp, there are rows of tin boats. Some are tied up to metal stakes driven into the ground while others are just there, unattended and unprotected. If she knew what to do, and if she dared to do it, she would take one and row it out onto the water.

Instead, she follows the footpath along until she comes to a swimming pool, which is not a pool in its own right, but rather part of the ocean itself. There is only one swimmer in the pool—a large, pale man who swims with long, slow strokes—and Rebecca stops to watch him.

On his sixth lap, he stops for a rest and, leaning his elbows up on the edge of the pool, pushes his hair away from his face. She sees then that he is older than she first thought. Sixty, maybe more. ‘Bit fresh today,' he says.

When she nods, he smiles and waves. ‘Hooroo then,' he says to her.

She's not sure what to say back. Hesitantly, she returns the wave. ‘Hooroo,' she repeats, her voice quiet, self-conscious.

This makes him laugh before he turns away from her to swim to the other end of the pool.

As she watches him go, she lifts her gaze beyond him, beyond the pool, and across to the open water of the narrow bay; so narrow it seems no distance at all to the sandstone plateau on the other side of it. Were it warmer, she might make her way across, stroke by stroke, until, reaching the rock, she would pull herself up on it, turn herself around and quietly look out. That's what she would do, she thinks. And yet the truth of it is that while there are so many things she can do, swimming is not one of them: she would be as capable of crossing the bay as she would be of flapping her way into space. And so, instead, she returns her gaze to the lone swimmer and marvels that, after everything, this is where she should find herself.

Terry

Thirty minutes until lunch and there's a lot of fidgeting going on. Then again, that's how it always is at the end of term, with everyone just itching to get started on the holidays.

Terry's got his back to the class while he writes up the topic for the day but from the corner of his eye, he sees Ethan lunge at Kurt, his fingers wrapped around a sharpened pencil.

‘Ethan Thompson,' he bellows, ‘keep your pencils to yourself or I'll sharpen my own and stick it in your eye.'

Silence then, and things stay quiet until he calls the kids to the rug. When he grabs a dog-eared paperback from his desk and pulls his chair over, they all start to wriggle in anticipation.

‘So,' he says, ‘I think we need a bit of a recap. Can anyone tell me what's happened so far?'

Ethan's hand shoots up. He stretches it up hard, and when he can't reach any higher, starts to groan to be chosen. Terry lets him have it. ‘Ethan?'

‘Well, Mr P, there's these golden tickets hidden inside of some
chocolate bars. And Charlie, he really wants to get a golden ticket so his grandpa buys him a chocolate bar, but there's no golden ticket in it and so Charlie's really gutted.'

Terry's eyes circle the room and land on Jade. ‘And what's the golden ticket for?' he asks her.

She rolls her eyes. ‘For a stupid visit to a stupid chocolate factory.' Terry looks thoughtful. ‘For a stupid visit to a stupid chocolate factory. Thank you, Jade. Anyone else?'

Bridie's voice is thin but insistent. ‘If you win a golden ticket, you get to go to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory.'

‘That's exactly right, Bridie. And as Ethan so ably put it, so far our Charlie has been out of luck, hasn't he?' With that, he starts to read.

Terry lifts his eyes off the page to take a look at the kids. They're quiet now, each of them intent on the story. It's always the same,
whenever he reads to them, they're all little angels. Because in the end, that's what everyone wants, isn't it, to be read a story?

There's a knock at the door. Terry frowns. Marking the page with his finger, he stops reading. ‘Come in!' he calls out, his voice sharp.

It's one of the Thomas kids. The littlest one. Joel. No, Jake. There's that many of them, he has to think about it. ‘Yes, Jake?'

But with the whole class staring at him, the poor kid gets so nervous he can't say a thing.

So Terry tries again. ‘What can I do for you, Jake?'

Looking straight at Terry, the boy spills out the words. ‘Ms Mathews wants to see you in her office straightaway.'

Terry lifts an eyebrow. ‘Is that what Ms Mathews said?'

The boy nods.

Terry tries not to sound annoyed. ‘Thank you, Jake,' he says, making an effort to choose his words carefully. ‘Please tell Ms Mathews that I'm not able to come
straightaway
but that I'll be there once the lunch bell has gone.' And turning back to the class, he opens his mouth to resume reading.

The boy doesn't move. ‘Ms Mathews, she said straightaway.'

Terry doesn't look at him. ‘Yes, Jake, I heard you.' It's an effort to keep the irritation out of his voice. ‘But I won't be able to come down to see Ms Mathews until after the lunch bell has gone.'

It's too much for the boy this time and although he loiters at the door a little longer, eventually he turns around and leaves the room. Only then does Terry return to the story.

And before he's finished the sentence, the lunch bell rings. No one moves. No one jumps up to grab their lunch, no one stands up, no one calls out. They all just stay seated, waiting for him to keep going.

But Terry decides not to give it to them, not even that one sentence that will set their minds at rest. No, instead he'll make them wait. Then, as a surprise, he'll read for longer on Friday.

School rules stipulate that all children sit in their classrooms to eat their lunch quietly. Only after they have finished eating are they allowed outside to play. It's a new initiative, brought in under Laurie's leadership. Occupational health and safety, she reckons.

Terry guffawed when she came up with that one.
Occupational health and safety to make them eat their lunch at their desks? You've got to be flaming joking.

The reason students were to eat their lunches in the classroom instead of out in the playground, Laurie advised, was so they wouldn't choke.

So they wouldn't choke? Choke on what? A cheese sandwich?

Well, he wouldn't be having it. He wouldn't be following some ridiculous directive to keep the kids inside at their desks when they could be outside in the fresh air. The way he got around it was a masterstroke. Even Tania agreed the outside classroom was an act of genius.

So every day, now, as soon as the lunch bell goes, his kids and Tania's all sit down on the lawn—aka the outside classroom—to eat their lunch. It's also a chance to catch up with Tania and have a bit of a chat.

Except for today. Because today, he has to report to the tin-pot dictator.

Irene, the school administrator, is at the computer when he walks into the office. Like Terry, she's been at the school forever.

‘Don't they give you a lunch hour anymore?' he asks her.

Normally that would make her laugh or at least smile. Today, she does neither.

‘You okay, love?' he asks her, the
love
out before he can stop himself. It's another thing he's been told not to do: no loves, no darlings,
no sweethearts, no dears. In terms of inappropriate behaviour, it seems to be up there with having sex with a colleague. So he's going to have to bite his tongue next time. But for now, he just tips his head towards the principal's office. ‘She in?'

Irene nods. ‘She's expecting you.'

‘Is she just?' Pulling a face, Terry waits for a reaction: a smile or a raised eyebrow or something. But she gives him nothing at all.

‘Everything all right?' he asks.

She scratches the side of her nose. ‘So-so,' she says, without meeting his eyes.

It's unlike her to be curt, but he doesn't want to pry, so he just gives her a smile. ‘Better not keep her waiting then, hey?'

He taps on the door and, without waiting for an answer, turns the handle and pushes it open.

Laurie frowns as she looks up from her desk. ‘Oh, Terry,' she says. She doesn't ask him in so he finds himself stuck in the doorway, waiting for an invitation to approach. God, he hates being part of the hierarchy game. With Diane, it had never been an issue: he'd just bowl on in, take a seat and start talking.

This one, she'd like him to dip his head before he enters the sacred space. Young enough to be his daughter and here she is expecting the
yes, ma'am, no ma'am
routine. Well, she won't be getting it from him, that's for sure.

‘I'm told you wanted to see me,' he says, the words already angry in his mouth.

Laurie extends an arm. ‘Take a seat, Terry.'

Now he's been asked, he'd rather not, quite frankly. He'd rather stay standing, hear what she's got to say, then take off back to the kids. But he wants to make this quick so he does what he's told.

‘Thanks for coming, Terry.' Sitting forward in her big chair, she passes him a letter. ‘I've received some correspondence from head office,' she says.

He takes the letter but, rather than looking at it, holds it loosely in his hand. ‘What is it?'

She doesn't answer him; she just tells him to read it.

He's nonplussed by the request. ‘What, now?'

When she nods, he gives a grunt as he feels in his pocket for his reading glasses.

The letter itself is hard to read—the ink is light and the font small. He frowns as he tries to work it out. It's addressed to Laurie.