The Teacher's Secret (44 page)

At home, she and Emmanuel have stopped discussing it. For what is there to say? The same thing they have been saying to each other for weeks now: that surely the application will be successful. Surely, they will be accepted. There is nothing else to be said; nothing else they can dare contemplate. Indeed, there are times when she even laughs about it. Not a belly-aching sort of laugh, more a laugh of incredulity. For who could have dreamt it: that she, of all people, should find herself in such a dilemma? How has it come to this: that she should find herself on the other side of the world, unable to return to the place that is hers? It is all so ridiculous. So absolutely ridiculous.

And now they are making her wait. There are times when the stress of it threatens to tear her apart; when the stress of it so fills her body that she feels she will burst.

Tell me
, she wants to scream at Mr Robert Parker—that small serious man in that empty room—
just tell me what is happening
.

But she cannot scream at him. Both because that would be unwise and because the correspondence they have received warns them not to contact the Department of Immigration for an update. The processing of an application takes time, they have been advised, and such queries will only further delay the decision-making process itself. So they have not called. Instead, they have waited.

To better manage the frustration of this, Rebecca has taken to humming. Whenever she thinks about the decision and when it will come, she starts a low hum. There is something comforting about this: it slows the anxiety, slows the panic that might otherwise completely overwhelm her.

So this is what she does now as she walks Sebastian to school: she hums.

From the corner of her eye, she notices a car beside them, a car driving more slowly than they are walking. She feels her stomach lurch. Why is that? she asks herself. Why should a car be driving so slowly beside them?

Alarm rises in her when she realises what is happening: they are being followed. Oh God, she thinks, oh God. Fortunately, the school is ahead: the school with its gate and its safety. But they are not yet there and it is still not close enough. Panic engulfs her, a blinding panic that makes her reach out for Sebastian and pull him towards her, so suddenly and with such force that he shouts out in protest, ‘What? What are you doing?'

She doesn't let go. Instead, she clutches him, hissing at him to keep walking, to look ahead and keep walking. Her insistence silences him into obedience. Only then does she dare to glance at the car that is still moving slowly behind them.

As she does, the front window slides down, and Rebecca sees Ethan Thompson sitting in the front seat. Mel's voice rings out from the driver's side. ‘Rebecca, hi.'

Confusion blocks her thoughts. ‘It's Ethan's mother,' Sebastian whispers to her. ‘It's just Ethan's mother.'

She should be able to laugh at herself for being so stupid, for letting herself be scared witless by something so ridiculous. But the fright of it has made her nauseous, so nauseous she can't trust herself to speak. Breathe, she tells herself, just breathe.

‘Hey, Rebecca,' Mel calls. ‘It's me.'

With another breath, Rebecca turns her lips up into a smile. ‘So it is,' she says.

Mel pulls into the kerb to park. As soon as the car is stationary, Ethan jumps out and, running past Sebastian, heads for the school gate. When Mel gets out, she makes a face at Sebastian. ‘Sorry my son's such a dickhead, mate.' She holds up a cigarette. ‘You want a smoke?' she asks Rebecca.

It has been years since Rebecca was a smoker, but now she craves a cigarette.

They need to cross over to the park, Mel tells her. ‘The new one—Ms Mathews—she threatened to arrest me if I lit up within sight of the school gate.'

Concentrating hard, Rebecca tries to slow her breathing. Calm down, she tells herself, calm down, you are fine. You are safe. She manages to turn to Mel with a wry smile. ‘Could she actually arrest you?'

Mel looks solemn. ‘Citizen's arrest.'

Rebecca's eyes widen. ‘Really?'

Mel's face relaxes into a broad grin. ‘Had you, didn't I? I reckon she would, though, if she saw me.'

Once they're in the park, Mel passes her a cigarette and leans over to light it for her. ‘So,' she says, ‘how's it hanging?'

Rebecca is confused. ‘Sorry?'

Mel blows smoke at the ground. ‘How's it hanging? You know, how's it going?'

Rebecca smiles as she inhales. ‘Of course,' she says. ‘How's it hanging.'

Mel looks bemused. ‘And?'

And? For a moment, Rebecca toys with telling her the truth. All of it. To tell her exactly how it's hanging.

Then she thinks better of it. They are here for Emmanuel's work, that's all anyone knows. As for the rest of it, well, where would she start?

She catches herself in time. How's it hanging, that's all Mel wants to know. She doesn't want a life story, she doesn't want some epic.

So she takes another puff of the cigarette, exhales, then gives Mel a smile. ‘I'm well,' she says, ‘really well.'

For the rest of the morning, Rebecca will be rehearsing with the children. She'll take the cast of
The Wolf
while Nina will work with those in
The Bears
. And Mel will spend the time filming so it can all be played back to the children afterwards. It's the best way to show them what they're doing wrong and how they can make it better.

An early hitch—not enough parts for everyone—has been dealt with. Instead of having one narrator for
The Wolf
, there will be three. Three narrators, one Wolf, one Little Red Riding Hood, one Granny and one Woodcutter. That way, all the children get an onstage role.

Today, they're working on the denouement.

Rebecca nods at Kurt. ‘Okay, Mr Wolf,' she says, ‘take it away.'

Because they're still waiting on a real bed to use, they have to make do with nothing. So Kurt just lies down on the floor. Elsie, who is Granny, also lies on the floor, but just behind Kurt, which would be fine if he didn't keep flicking her elbow with his finger while they wait for Little Red Riding Hood to arrive. Jade, who has been waiting in the wings, takes her time. As she struts onstage, it is clear—yet again—that she is not the demure Little Red Riding Hood Rebecca has been asking for.

‘Nervous, Jade,' Rebecca calls out to her, ‘you're supposed to be nervous. You've come to see Granny but there seems to be something wrong. So you're looking nervous, all right?'

Jade gives her a big, happy smile. ‘Sure thing.'

Rebecca turns her attention to Bridie, who is standing to one side of the stage. She looks so pale Rebecca thinks she might be ill. ‘Are you all right?' she asks her.

Bridie gives her a tiny smile. ‘I'm okay,' she murmurs.

‘Good. Now this part of the play is quite dramatic,' Rebecca tells her. ‘You're one of the narrators, so you have to show that to the audience. Do you think you can do it?'

The little girl looks unconvinced.

‘Bridie?'

Bridie opens her mouth to answer but says nothing.

Rebecca tries again. ‘Bridie,' she says, ‘are you ready to try it now?'

This time she gives Rebecca a quick nod. With a breath in, she shuts her eyes, pauses, then pushes out the first of her lines. Her voice, when it comes, is quiet and shaky.

‘A bit louder, sweetheart,' Rebecca says. ‘Just a bit louder.'

Biting her lip, the girl gives another nod before she tries again. This time she is slightly louder.

Rebecca nods. ‘Well done,' she says. ‘Much better.'

The girl smiles but later, after the rehearsal has finished, she comes to Rebecca in tears. ‘I don't think I should be a narrator,' she whispers.

Rebecca has to bend down to hear her properly. ‘Why not?'

‘Because I'm not very loud and I'm not very good and sometimes I think I won't be able to remember all my lines.'

Rebecca slips an arm around her waist. ‘Listen, we can get you a microphone, so having a soft voice isn't a problem. And not thinking you're very good isn't a problem either because we're still rehearsing. Everyone feels like that when they rehearse. And if you forget your lines, I'll whisper them out to you. Okay?'

The girl nods but her eyes stay solemn.

Rebecca pulls her closer. ‘It'll be fine, I promise.'

When she leaves the school to walk home, there is a lightness inside her she scarcely recognises.

It's because of the children, she thinks. Because they're doing so well. Because—barring the odd hiccup—with each rehearsal they are improving. And today, especially today, when Sebastian stood up on stage—so tall and so confident—she thought she would burst at the sight of him. Her son, her beautiful son—Narrator No. 1—who is doing so well. Her son, who has new friends. Her son, who, so quickly, has become part of this small school. How it comforts her to see this.

She smiles, now, to think of it, and doesn't stop when she bumps into Mrs Davies from down the street. Only recently have they begun to speak. Before that, the old lady had simply ignored her. Out of shyness, Rebecca had assumed, though she had seen her greet others.

Over time, Rebecca had become so irked by the slight, she made it her mission to wear the woman down. So she began to call out loud, cheery greetings each time they crossed paths.

After a week she received a grunt in reply; after a fortnight a mumbled
good morning.
That night, she had laughed to Emmanuel about it.

He had found it less amusing. ‘Why push it? What does it matter if a woman on the street fails to greet you? Why does that matter?'

‘It matters,' she replied, her lips tightening. ‘It matters that people in this country lift up their heads to greet me when I greet them. It matters.'

Buoyed by the small victory, she began to ask questions of the
woman. Just simple ones, like ‘Beautiful day, isn't it?' or ‘Strange weather, hasn't it been?' until, finally, the woman gave in. One day she gave Rebecca her name; the next, details of the cold she hadn't managed to shake.

Today, it is Rebecca who has something for her: an invitation to the Year 6 show.

If she is surprised by the invitation, Mrs Davies doesn't show it. ‘See how I go,' she mumbles.

‘You should come,' Rebecca tells her. ‘I'm the director.'

The woman's expression changes. ‘
You're
the director?'

Rebecca nods.

‘Can you really do that sort of thing, the directing sort of thing?'

She holds her head high. ‘Yes,' she says, ‘I can.'

The woman is interested now. ‘Is that what you did back there?' she asks. ‘Were you a director?'

An accurate answer would be too complicated, so Rebecca just inclines her head.

The woman takes a good look at her. ‘A director,' she says. ‘Fancy that.' There is grudging admiration in her tone and Rebecca finds herself gratified by it.

She gives the woman a proud smile. ‘Yes,' she says, ‘fancy that.'

She is still smiling when she stops to check the letterbox. Usually it is filled with junk mail but today, caught between a flyer for a pizza outlet and one for cleaning services, is a letter. It has an official look about it and she sees it has been sent by the Department of Immigration. Her stomach lurches, both with fear and anticipation, and quickly she takes it inside with her.

Only then does she dare to open it. Her hands shake as she pulls at the envelope.

I'm sorry to inform you.
These are the first words she sees.
I'm sorry to inform you.