Rachael's Gift (3 page)

‘In any case, when I queried her about the painting she claimed to know nothing and then broke down in tears. She then declared that her photography teacher, Mr Everett, had been speaking to her suggestively and had tried to touch her inappropriately in the darkroom after school.’

My tongue felt heavy and dry; I tried to find the words, but they didn’t come.

‘As you know, scandal is not tolerated here . . .’ Ms Sheehan continued.

Camille shot me a look, a red flush crawling up her neck.

‘Scandal?’ I managed to squeak out. Sweat trickled down my back. Fuck it. I undid the button on my collar and wrenched my tie away from my neck. ‘Who is this guy?’ My voice cracked.

‘I understand this is a shock, Mr Larkin. The police will be informed and an investigation will be arranged.’

‘Police?’ My head felt weighed down. ‘Is Rach okay? I want to see her.’

I felt Cam’s cool hand on my arm. She nodded towards Sheehan.

Questions swarmed, one after the other: who? what? when? how?

Through the window I could see the garden fill with young girls carrying their schoolbooks and moving from one class to the other. Where was
my
girl? She should be down there now, going to maths or geography or French or whatever and laughing with her girlfriends and thinking about surfing or . . . ponies. But who was I kidding? Rach had long since ditched her Barbies.

‘So what went on . . . exactly?’ I asked.

Sheehan opened a folder on her desk and read from a notepad, ‘According to Rachael, her exact words were, “. . . Put his hand on my bum.” And then, “Tried to kiss me.”’

I couldn’t believe this was happening.

‘I must tell you,’ Sheehan continued, ‘Mr Everett is an upstanding, brilliant and well-respected teacher, with a spotless record. We appointed him six months ago and are lucky to have him. I, too, am astounded by this complaint.’

I felt my cheek twitch.

‘Rachael mentioned she wasn’t the only one, but other students have yet to come forward.’ Sheehan’s eyes shifted from Cam to me. ‘I spoke to Rachael’s other teachers very briefly . . .’ she paused, as if weighing up whether to continue. ‘. . . An interesting picture has emerged. She’s a gifted artist – an exceptional pupil. But they reported some negative social behaviour. You remember when we last talked, Mrs Larkin . . .’

I looked at Cam. What did she mean, last talked? But Cam wouldn’t meet my eye.

‘I suggested several months ago that Rachael see a psychologist.’

‘I don’t believe she needs to see one,’ Camille said firmly.

‘What? Why?’ I said.

Ms Sheehan’s eyes were matter-of-fact, almost dead. ‘She lies, Mr Larkin.’

The vein in my neck began to pulse.

‘That’s ridiculous!’ Camille protested. ‘Rachael’s talented. People get jealous.’

Jealous? I had to check to see if Cam was joking, but she was absolutely serious.

The corners of the headmistress’s lips twitched; she was in her element now. ‘During the class-captain elections there were reports that Rachael had bullied people into voting for her. Regardless, she didn’t win. And before that the librarian, Mrs Furlong, reminded me that she had had to ask Rachael to hand in her monitor’s badge because she’d not been scanning in returned items – students were getting into trouble! She’d been asked three times to correct the mistake.’ As she spoke, she uncapped the end of her pendant to reveal a pen. ‘More than once, Rachael reported Rebecca for smoking behind the toilets, but each time there was no one there. Instead, Ms Fairlight-Smith, the school counsellor, smelt alcohol and cigarettes on Rachael, but she swore that Ms Fairlight-Smith was mistaken and we couldn’t prove anything. All of her teachers have reported similar incidents: that Rachael always offered to help but they then discovered the task had never been done, although she said it had; messages hadn’t been passed on; tidying of the art room had been left; someone’s lunch had not been delivered; when asked to purchase some books from the school bookshop the books never turned up and the money was never seen again. Not to mention the amount of sick days she’s had. One of the teachers actually said she has come to expect Rachael to lie.’

It was hard to hear this stuff. I didn’t know what to think, to say. I was floored.

‘So I can’t ignore the evidence.’ She clipped the pen back in. ‘We had high hopes for Rachael. She can be so charming.’

The bell rang again for the next class. I sat there, inert, still in a fog of indecision and shock and worse, sick to my stomach with this creeping sense of dread: how had this happened?

Cam spoke up. ‘It doesn’t mean her story’s not true.’

Sheehan leant back in her chair. ‘Mr and Mrs Larkin, I just want you to be fully aware of all the facts.’ She tapped the pendant against the edge of her desk. ‘Please understand an investigation could make things very difficult for Rachael.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘A full investigation involves informing the Joint Investigation Response Teams (JIRT), which is the joint department for the police and community services and then also the New South Wales Ombudsman. A statement will be required from Rachael for the police to proceed with the investigation and to determine whether there are potential criminal charges. After we have the go-ahead from the JIRT, we will conduct our own investigation using a team of lawyers. All of Rachael’s personal items – letters, emails, social media accounts, etc . . . will have to be made accessible to the investigators. If the case becomes a criminal one, she will be asked to testify in court. Both parties will be suspended for their own protection. Rachael’s peers and other teachers will naturally make assumptions – although we try our utmost to contain this – and she will most likely be the source of endless gossip. It will not only extend to this school but other schools in the community and the community itself. If you want to put Rachael through that, only for there to be no sustained findings, then let’s continue.’

I sat there dumbfounded; Camille also seemed to be frozen.

‘There’s another option,’ Sheehan said quietly, when we didn’t respond. ‘Rachael could choose to go to another school.’

I looked at Camille, was this a joke? ‘Sounds to me like you just want to sweep it under the carpet. Save your reputation.’

Sheehan held her hands up. ‘Very well then. The police will be in contact.’

Camille’s hand covered her mouth; I squeezed her arm.

Sheehan stood up. ‘We’ll also be following up the missing painting – of course.’ She paused by the door. ‘Please follow me.’

She led us through the reception to the boardroom, but when she opened the door we were confronted with twelve vacant chairs and a bare mahogany table – the room was empty. Sheehan marched out to the receptionist, who responded weakly, ‘She said she needed to go to the loo.’

*

The engine revved loudly as I swerved round the bend, taking my anger out on the brakes. I didn’t know what to think. Sheehan’s remarks were out of order. Who did she think she was? Calling my kid a liar. And bloody Rach – typical Rachael throwing a disappearing act. And was this guy really a sleazebag? Was Rach telling the truth? Did they have a pervert roaming the school halls? Christ. A migraine began to push at my temples.

Camille gripped the door handle. ‘Slow down,’ she said. But I didn’t care. We’d been driving for thirty minutes now. We’d tried to call Rach’s mobile, but it rang out. I scanned the footpaths but knew she wouldn’t be on the street. She wasn’t on land right now, but she’d wish she were when I got my hands on her.

‘I felt like a bloody fool in there.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Right.’

‘I didn’t think . . .’

‘You can’t keep me in the dark.’

‘Just watch the bloody road!’ she yelled and I slammed on the brakes. The car behind me hit the horn and I stuck my fist out the window.

‘Do you have to?’ she said, shaking her head.

The lights changed, the car in front began to move off and I put the Ford into gear. ‘How could she just run off like that?’

‘She’s upset, Wolfe,’ she said. ‘She’s scared!’

‘This is bullshit, Cam.’

‘For God’s sake!’

‘Why can’t she sit down and talk to us like a normal person for once?’

I drove on in silence to our favourite beach, slowing the Ford and cruising down the boardwalk; I craned my neck to get a good look at the line-up. Seagulls swooped and swirled, the sun was at its peak, glaring hard and bleaching out the colours, all except the sea.

Way out on the horizon, I saw a line of black figures bobbing up and down in the swell. I’d barely stopped the car before I’d ripped my clothes off, stepped into a pair of boardies and grabbed my board from the boot. I ran off towards the shore, leaving the Ford in the middle of the street with the keys in the ignition. ‘Wolfe!’ shouted Camille, but I ran on. I knew she’d be out there.

There was a strong offshore wind and the swell was ripping right and left. Camille’s voice behind me: ‘Wolfe, go easy!’ But she was lost to the wind.

I stood on the shore, squinting. White heat hammered down. Clear water kissed my ankles. There was a bunch of them, ten, maybe twelve drifters, about fifty metres out the back. A three-setter came rolling in and a few of them raced like crazy for the first one. They were blokes, mostly, so it was easy to spot her.

A female silhouette carved left and right on a pink and yellow board with a pair of wolf’s eyes on the tail – the board I’d made for her. She sailed through the water, cutting a fine line – so damn elegant; if I hadn’t been so pissed, I would have been in awe. She passed others who crashed out, but then she looked to the shore and froze. She’d seen me. She sank down off the back of the wave and disappeared between the peaks.

I waded in, cold water splashing my thighs. I strained to spot her between the blue and white marbled chop, until finally the dark mass of the back of her head popped up. She lay flat on the board, chest down, riding the crest forwards, away from the beach, shucking out to the line-up again.

You wanna chase? I’ll give you a bloody chase.

I slammed down on my board and hot-tailed it after her. There was a rip and the waves split, bombing both to the left and to the right; a strong current ran against me and I had to work twice as hard to catch up. The waves charged towards me. I took a deep breath and duck-dived underneath and felt the force of their weight belt over my back. Two or three times I went under until I cleared the inside.

Rach had reached the boys and was sitting upright, straddling her board, feet dangling.

‘Hey!’ I yelled, paddling harder, still a few yards away.

She turned to face the horizon, hoping in vain for the next get-out clause.

In the distance, a capper, slow and mushy, a real lame puff hardly worth the effort, pootled towards us.

‘Wait!’ I yelled, but she sidled away.

The water sucked back. Rach paddled furiously, but she’d stuffed her timing and it lifted and bellowed out, flaccid, beneath her. I rose on its belly to the lip and came slapping down on the other side.

I recognised a bunch of old mates. Was that Clippo in the distance? Muscle-bound biceps covered in ink slunk away in the opposite direction and disappeared out of view. I was seeing him everywhere.

‘How’s it garn, old man?’ It was Chaz. He held his palm in the air for a high five but I left him hanging and paddled by Mattie, Gull and Davo. I’d made most of these guys a board or two at some time or another and smoked a joint with them occasionally, but I didn’t like my kid hanging out with them.

Rach gave me a dirty look. Four blokes and the ocean stood between us. She swivelled around, searching for her next ride, finding only a lull.

‘Rach, yer old man’s got it in for ya!’ shouted Chaz. ‘Doesn’t remember skippin’ school hisself!’

‘Stay outta this one, Chazza,’ I said.

I heard some low whistles and catcalls.

‘Stop running, Rach.’ I was close enough now I didn’t have to yell. ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’

‘Jesus, Dad. Leave me alone!’

‘Bellio! My chariot has arrived!’ someone whooped, pointing to the army rising on the horizon.

The swell rolled in, growing larger and gaining speed. Four fat bombers came in fast. We clocked each other and I knew the one she was waiting for: the last and the biggest. Up and down we went as the first three flowed beneath us. We stared each other down. I’d taught her everything she knew: I knew what she would do even before she did it herself.

Rach crouched down, her eyes small slits, turning towards the shore. It was on.

She ran her arms through the water, pumping her shoulders hard. The pull drew her backwards, sucking her upwards, gaining speed, until she grabbed both sides of the board and jumped up to standing. I was further down the line and took off quickly, the curl chasing me. I ripped left and right, dragged my hand in the water. Suddenly she was underneath me. The crest began to crumble. I ran out of room. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ But she had snaked me. I couldn’t push my daughter out of the way and before I could dive off myself, our boards slammed together. We lost traction and tumbled into the whitewash.

A mountain of water crashed over us and we were caught inside, churned about in a fierce cycle. Something kicked me in the side; it was her foot. We toppled over one another. Our boards banged, wrestling against their ties, my lungs bursting for air. Eventually I came up spluttering, the ripcord pulling on my leg, my board twisting in the froth.

Rach sprang up about a foot away. ‘You fucked it up!’ she coughed.

‘No, you fucked it up,’ I said, grabbing her wrist. ‘That was fucking dangerous what you did.’

‘Let me go!’ She pulled her arm away.

‘What the fuck’s going on, Rach?’

Her face screwed up and then resumed its mask.

We were caught in the boneyard. The water became shallow, the suction so strong it pulled our legs from beneath us and we looked up to see the body of a wave hovering above. We held our breath and dived underneath as it crashed over.

We came up for air. Rach gasped, ‘You wouldn’t understand.’