The Teacher's Secret (2 page)

Further down from the jail, closer to the water, are clusters of public housing. The flats themselves are rundown and there are always the louts and the drunks—that's a given—but there are worse places to live. Elsie and Len, for example, they've done all right, and out of habit he slows down to look for them. Whenever he sees Elsie walking to school, he'll stop to give her a lift. It gives her a buzz to drive into school with him and he likes to make her happy.

After the flats, the road dips down and swings around past the golf course. Bright green at its best, the summer has brutalised most of the course this year, leaving the edges of it pale and dry. But perched on a cliff, almost falling into the ocean as it does, it's still his favourite place to be, drought-stricken or not. From here, he can see past the rock pool and across to the skinny little inlet they call Brindle Bay. It's not fancy so it's never attracted a crowd, and only on the wildest days does it bring the surfers down from Raleigh. Which leaves it pretty much free for the Brindle Public kids.

The school itself is a block up from the beach, on the corner between the football oval and Brindle Memorial Park, which, years back, used to be a dump. Hard to imagine that now, he thinks, as he swings into the staff car park and turns into what is, unofficially, his space.

He grabs his battered old briefcase from the seat beside him and gets out of the car, slamming the door hard to make sure it shuts properly. He's halfway to the staffroom before, remembering, he turns back. There, on the back seat of the car, is a batch of Michelle's cupcakes: a tradition for the first day back.

The walk up to the staffroom is slower this time, what with trying to balance the cakes and hang on to his briefcase at the same time. Luckily, the playground is quiet. Not for long, though: tomorrow, when the kids start back, the noise will be deafening. He misses them over the summer break, and he's always dead keen to see them all again, to hear what they've been up to. Which is not to say he doesn't appreciate having the first day without them, so he can get ready for the onslaught. Pupil-free day, that's what they used to call it. Until someone in head office decided there was a problem with that—disrespectful to the kids or some such rot—so now it's become a ‘staff development day' instead.

Voices float down from the staffroom. As he reaches the doorway, he pauses for effect, holding the plate of cupcakes in front of him.

When Tania sees him, she starts to clap. ‘It's Michelle's cakes,' she calls out.

Terry feigns outrage. ‘Sometimes I think that's all I am: a courier for Michelle's cakes.'

Tania hoots. ‘Not true, Terry, not true. We love you as much as we love Michelle's cakes.'

Terry puts the cakes down at the far end of the large table that nearly fills the room.

‘Can we have one now, sir?' Tania asks him, her voice a high-pitched whine although, as ever, her eyes are sparkling. She's had some sun over the break—the last of the idiot sunbakers—and her skin is glowing. She reminds him of a hazelnut, everything about her a shade of brown: dark brown hair, light brown eyes, soft brown skin. ‘It's the Koori in me,' she says. ‘That and the wog.' The Koori from her mum, the wog from her dad, who calls himself Italian even though he was born in Brindle.

‘You still shouldn't bake yourself.' That's what he tells her, year in, year out. And he knows that makes him sound like her father but he can't stop himself. ‘None of it's going to save you from a melanoma.'

Tania, though, seems to thinks her heritage gives her some sort of immunity. ‘You burn, I absorb.'

Well, that's rubbish, he thinks to himself, but he lets it go for today. Instead, he shakes his head at her. ‘Ms Rossi,' he says, ‘you know the rules at Brindle Public. Michelle's cakes are not to be eaten before ten-thirty.'

Tania slumps back in her seat. ‘But I'm hungry now, sir. Have some pity—I'm on Year 5 this year.'

He's not budging. ‘Ten-thirty, Ms Rossi. Then you can have two.' Beside her, Belinda is laughing. Terry gives her a wink. ‘Welcome back, Ms Coote.'

He has a soft spot for little Belinda. He knows he shouldn't think of her like that, as little Belinda; she's a colleague and colleagues need to be treated with respect and all that palaver. But he can't help it. She's little Belinda to him and that's all there is to it. And she's a sweetie. She really is. Just what you'd want in a kindy teacher. She's probably not much more than twenty-five—she's only been out for three years—but it's hard to guess her age just by looking at her. Because she's so little and round. Like a dumpling.

‘Good holiday?'

She beams back at him. ‘Terrific,' she says.

He knows she's single and he's always waiting to hear if there's someone on the horizon. Not that he'd ask her, not straight out like that, but Tania gives him an update every now and then. It always astonishes him how women talk. About everything. Nothing too
personal, nothing too intimate to share with the sisterhood. And he's surrounded by them. Everywhere he bloody looks, there they are, the sisterhood again. Not that he minds being the only man on staff.
Just me and the girls
, that's what he says.

There's a small kitchen area in the staffroom and before he sits down, he makes himself a cup of coffee. ‘Anyone else?' He turns to do a head count, but there aren't any takers. Nor is there any sugar. He makes a mental note to pick some up during the break. Without it, the Nescafé's bloody awful, but at least it's hot.

He sits down between Belinda and Tania, with Helen and Elaine opposite him. ‘So here we are again.'

Helen gives him a dry smile. ‘Least I get to escape next year.'

She's been threatening to retire for years now. ‘Really?'

‘One more year,' she says, ‘that's all I've got in me. Then I'll cash in the super and take off travelling.'

Himself, he's never had the travelling bug. In all the years, he's never wanted to leave Jinda—or Brindle, for that matter. ‘How long's it been for you then?'

Helen taps the table with the back of her rings. ‘If I make it through this year, I'll be up to twenty-five.'

‘Twenty-five.' He makes a whistling sound through his teeth. ‘That's some sort of anniversary, isn't it?' He elbows Tania. ‘Help me out, will you, love? Twenty-five years—what sort of anniversary is that?'

‘Silver, Terry. It's silver. I can't believe you don't know that.'

Terry nods at Helen. ‘See, love? Silver. We'll have to get you a silver tray or a watch or something to mark the moment.'

But Helen just shakes her head at him. She's let her hair turn grey and now she reminds him of a sparrow. It's the haircut as much as
the colour: flicked back and layered so that it looks like she's growing wings at the side of her head. Her clothes are sparrow-like, too, all browns and beiges, without a splash of something to brighten them up.

Beside her, Elaine Toomey is almost the polar opposite. A real fashion plate. Today she's in white trousers and a loose silvery top. As always, her hair is long and blonde, even though, after Helen and Terry himself, she'd be third in line for the prize of longest-serving teacher at Brindle Public.

She's brought her coffee with her, takeaway from downtown Henley—eight kilometres north of Brindle but a world away—because she's still not convinced that anyone in Brindle can make a decent brew.

He watches her cradle the cup in her hands as she takes a sip. ‘How is it?' he asks her.

The resumption of their morning ritual makes her smile. ‘Perfect,' she says in a soft cultured tone that's out of place in this little enclave where, for the thirteenth year running, she'll be taking the Year 1/2 class.

His eye on the empty doorway, he leans across to her. ‘So,' he says, his voice a stage whisper, ‘have you seen her yet?'

Elaine purses her lips and, her eyes also on the doorway, pretends to shush him.

He turns to the rest of them. ‘Anyone seen the new boss yet?'

‘Acting boss.' That's all Helen says. The others look blank. They know her name—Laurie Mathews—and they know she's come not as a school transfer, but straight from head office, from some management position. Policy or something.

Checking his watch, Terry raises an eyebrow. ‘Well, by my reckoning, she's late.'

That makes Belinda titter but Tania just rolls her eyes. And as though it's all been scripted, that's when they hear footsteps coming down the hallway. Quick, heeled footsteps. Regular, not rushed, not tripping up in haste. Click, click, click, click, click, click, stop. And then, there she is, in the doorway.

God, she's young. That's his first thought. So young that, for a split second, he wonders whether she's a student teacher. But her face is set with a look of authority that immediately puts him straight.

She's wearing a suit, which is odd, given that the last person to wear a suit to Brindle Public was the pollie who popped in a couple of years ago to talk to the kids about Anzac Day. Or Remembrance Day. He can't remember which.

Like the pollie, she's fully kitted out. Only she's in a skirt, not trousers. She's got the suit jacket buttoned right up although it's still the middle of summer. Christ, she's even wearing stockings. If he could get away with it, he'd lean over to Tania and whisper to her,
Think she's missed her stop, don't you?

The woman's eyes flick around the table. There's space for her to sit close to the door but instead she walks right around the room until she's at the head of the table, just where the cupcakes are. For a minute, Terry thinks that's why she's chosen that spot—so she'll be closest to the cupcakes. Instead, without a word, she reaches over, picks them up and takes them over to the kitchen bench.

Oi
, he wants to call out,
oi
. He can't believe she's done that, just up and moved his cupcakes without even a
mind if I pop these over on the bench?

She sits down at the table, opens her laptop and turns it on. Only then does she address the group.

‘Good morning,' she says, ‘I'm Laurie Mathews. I'm looking forward to being your principal for this year.'

‘Acting,' Terry mumbles under his breath.
Acting principal
.

Across the way, Elaine's smile is nervous. ‘I'm Elaine,' she says, ‘Elaine Toomey. On behalf of our little school, I'd like to welcome you here.'

Laurie nods. ‘Thank you, Elaine,' she says. ‘It's good to be here.' Her voice is louder and lower than he would have expected, and he wonders if that's a learnt thing or natural. He pictures her, then, as a ten-year-old, with a booming voice that's loud enough to knock you flying. The thought of it tickles him and he glances at Helen, to see whether she's with him, to see whether she's thinking what he's thinking. But she's already off somewhere else, her eyes glassy.

And well might she dream the hour away, because that's how long Laurie Mathews takes to go through all the bloody departmental facts and figures. Relevant stuff, he'll give her that—enrolments and funding and budgets and the like—but he's never really been interested in the numbers and now, quite frankly, he just wants her to finish up so he can head off to his classroom and start getting ready for the little rats. Year 6, it's not an easy gig, even if it's only a small class this year.

Thinking about them makes him lose track, so when Laurie Mathews hands him a sheet, he's got no idea what it's all about. Holding it out in front of him, he rears his head back, trying to read it. But it's no good. Without his glasses, he can't make head nor tail of it. It's just a piece of paper with a whole lot of rectangles all over it. And he can pretend all he likes that he's still in his thirties, but it's the eyes that make a liar of him. To think he used to have 20/20 vision. Hawkeye Pritchard. Could have been a pilot if he'd wanted. Not anymore, though.

But even with his specs on, none of it makes any sense.

Laurie keeps quiet until everyone has a sheet. Funny how the room stays silent while they wait for her. Normally, it's non-stop chatter. Especially after the holidays when there's so much to talk about. But not today.

He sneaks a look at Tania, who's frowning at the sheet. She leans forward to say something but Laurie gets in first.

‘As you can see,' she says, ‘this is a diagram of the school, to show classroom allocations for the year.'

Terry lifts his head up. He's had the same classroom for years. When he takes a closer look at the diagram, he strains to find his name. When he does, he snorts in disbelief. She's put him in one of the bloody demountables, right up at the top end of the school. It's the last place he'd have chosen.

‘There's a bit of a problem with your diagram,' he says, holding the sheet up in front of him.

Laurie tilts her face towards his, another tight smile on her lips. ‘I'm sorry . . .' her eyes flick down to her computer screen ‘. . . Terry. What's the problem you've found?'

The tone of her voice—cool but with an edge to it—gets him even more agitated. ‘The room in this diagram,' he says, ‘is not my room.'

She nods her head slowly, as if to agree with him, as if to concede that there's been a mistake. ‘Given that yours is the smallest class, Terry,' she says, ‘I thought it was better to give you the smaller demountable and Belinda one of the larger fixed classrooms.'

At this, Belinda flushes bright red and shoots Terry a grimace.

He's started to colour too. It's like he's been sideswiped. Keep it calm, he counsels himself, keep it calm. It's not Belinda's fault. She didn't ask for it.

Although they've never actually been articulated, there are a few unofficial rules at Brindle Public. One is about the classrooms. If you're one of the new teachers, you get whatever classroom is left over. The longer you've been at Brindle, the longer you've had to work your way up the ladder to classroom heaven. There's no dressing it up: Terry has been at the top of the ladder now for the best part of a decade. And for each of those years, he's had the pick of the rooms—one of the old wooden ones that runs along the side of the school, with a balcony at the front. Nice and light and, with the windows up, enough of a breeze to keep the temperature manageable, even in February. Clean white walls that he paints himself at the end of each year. His canvases, that's how he thinks of them. Ready to be covered with next year's paintings and collages and projects and mobiles. It's his room. And everyone knows it. Whatever this new one says, everyone knows it's his room.