The Teacher's Secret (17 page)

Before he can protest, she's bustled him into the house and has him sitting down on the sofa. Soon there's a cup of tea and a plate
of cream biscuits in front of him and she won't let up until he's had three.

Bridie sits on the floor between them, her face lifted to catch their conversation as she nibbles at the edge of her biscuit.

There's school to talk about, and Vonnie's health, and how the summer has been. Only then does he ask after Trent.

Vonnie's face falls. ‘He's okay,' she says, trying to keep her smile. She starts to say more but stops. Instead she takes hold of the chain around her neck and twists it round and round her finger. ‘Remember when he was just a little tyke?'

Terry nods. It's how he always remembers Trent: sitting on the mat at the front of the classroom, hair cut in a number one like a little thug. He'd been warned about him. How he was out of control. How he wouldn't listen. How he was aggressive. And yet there he'd been, sitting down in front of him, good as gold.

Afterwards, people said they weren't surprised.

Bollocks. That was Terry's answer to the bloody psycho-experts. Bollocks. Everyone can be a genius after the event.

Terry glances at Bridie. ‘You know that, don't you? That I taught your dad when he was in Year 6?'

‘My dad's class, it was the first class you ever taught at Brindle.' There is a quiet edge of pride in her voice.

‘My word it was, Bridie, and there he was sitting in front of me, and you know, your Nan here, she'd given him such a short haircut I wasn't sure if he had any hair at all.'

He's told her this before, he's sure of it, but she laughs and laughs like it's the first time she's heard it. Even Vonnie manages a whisper of a smile. ‘It's his birthday next week,' she says quietly. ‘He'll be thirty-one. Can you believe it?'

He can't really. But that's always the way with his old students. He's always astonished that they grow up instead of just staying put.

‘Thirty-one,' he says. ‘Wish him a good one for me.' He keeps his voice low and casual and Vonnie nods, her fingers tight around her teacup. She's old, he realises suddenly.

‘Vonnie,' he says now, ‘there's something I've got to tell you. About Bridie's glasses.'

When he explains, Vonnie's face doesn't register any emotion. ‘What do they cost?' she asks. ‘The new ones.'

Terry shrugs the question away. ‘Angelo's a mate of mine. He gave me a good deal. It's all fixed up. They've just got to be picked up. I can take her up after school tomorrow if you like—check they fit properly.'

‘You can't go paying for them, Terry.'

‘It was my fault the glasses got broken, so it's up to me to sort out a new pair.'

‘They're purple ones, Nan,' Bridie pipes up. ‘Really nice purple ones.'

‘They look really nice on her, Vonnie.'

Vonnie gives him a rueful smile. ‘Thanks,' she says, ‘the old ones had just about had it anyway.'

Terry turns to Bridie. ‘So what's say you wait for me after school so we can pick them up? Give your nan a bit of a surprise when you come home with them, hey?'

Bridie wraps her arms around her knees and smiles up at him. ‘Okay, Mr P,' she says.

As soon as he hears the clicking of heels behind him, he knows it's her.

‘Terry,' she calls out, ‘Terry.' He pretends he hasn't heard her and keeps walking. ‘Terry,' she repeats, her voice becoming sharper.

Slowly, he turns around, feigning surprise that she should be there, right beside him. ‘Laurie,' he says. ‘I didn't hear you.'

Her face is red from having chased him halfway across the playground. ‘I need to have a word with you.'

With quiet deliberation he pulls up the cuff of his shirt to check his watch. It's 8.45 am. Another fifteen minutes until the bell rings. ‘Okay,' he says.

‘A private word,' she says, ‘in my office.'

Christ, he thinks, must we? He loathes the tête-à-têtes in her office. ‘Can it wait until lunchtime, Laurie?'

She shakes her head. ‘I'd like to see you now, please, Terry.'

As he follows her down to the admin building, a tune gets stuck in his head. It's the Oompa-Loompa song from
Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory
and it won't go away. It's still ringing in his head when she starts on him.

‘Look, Terry,' she says, ‘I'm not going to beat around the bush. I saw one of the students getting into your car yesterday.'

They are both sitting down in her office, only suddenly she's a whole lot bigger than he is. Which is odd, given that he's taller.

Laurie breathes in hard through her nose. The intake of air is so strong her nostrils flare. ‘Terry, I said that I saw a student getting into your car yesterday.'

Terry cocks an eyebrow. ‘And?'

She drops her chin down a notch. ‘What do you mean,
and
? Did you or did you not transport a student in your car yesterday outside of school hours?'

Terry looks bemused. ‘Yes, Laurie,' he says, mimicking her clipped speech, ‘I did transport a student in my car yesterday. Bridie Taylor, to be exact.'

‘You realise that this is in contravention of the regulations?'

He looks just past her to the window behind her desk. From where he is, he can see out to the playground and over to the gum tree in the middle of the front yard. It's an enormous thing now, yet he remembers when it was first planted. A couple of blue wrens are hopping around on one of its branches. They used to be everywhere, until the bloody Indian mynas ran them out of town. Good to see the little critters finally making a comeback.

‘Terry?' Laurie's voice is sharp and impatient.

He forces himself to look at her. ‘Sorry?'

‘It is in strict contravention of the regulations to be alone with a student outside of school hours.'

Not this regulatory crap again. ‘What are you talking about, woman?' He knows his voice is raised now, but he doesn't care. ‘I took the child to get her glasses fixed.'

Not a flicker from her. ‘Did you have her parents' authorisation to do that?'

He leans back against the chair and folds his arms on his chest. ‘Bit tricky that, in the circumstances. I presume you've had a look at her details.'

Laurie colours as she leans into her laptop.

That's it, he thinks suddenly. It's the chair. She's got herself a new chair: one of those spacey new office chairs that look like they're made of miniature chicken wire. She must have cranked it as high as it can go. That's why she's suddenly towering over him.

He watches her frown deepen as she rolls the computer mouse
up and down the pad. ‘Her grandmother,' she says finally, ‘she's the one with custody, is that right?'

His arms still crossed in front of him, Terry nods slowly.

‘And her parents? There's nothing on file about them.'

‘Her mother died when she was a baby.'

‘And her father?'

Terry lifts his shoulders. ‘Dunno.'

Laurie's hand hovers over the mouse as she stares at the screen. ‘And the grandmother, did she authorise you to take Bridie to the optometrist?'

Terry scratches the side of his mouth. ‘She's fine about it. It's just up the road.'

‘That's not what I asked, Terry. What I asked was whether she gave you written authority to transport her ward to the optometrist?'

He lets out a loud sigh. ‘No, Laurie, Bridie's grandmother did not give me written authority to transport Bridie to the optometrist. I did it because the kid was distraught and she didn't want to go home to her grandmother with broken glasses. And I had to get her a new pair because she can't see a bloody thing without them.'

‘Terry, you need permission. It's a child protection issue.'

Not this rubbish. He hasn't got the time or the patience for this bloody departmental gobbledygook. ‘What do you mean it's a child protection issue? What do you think I was going to do with her? I took her to the optometrist to get her some new glasses. What's to protect her from, for God's sake? Has everyone gone mad? There's nothing complicated about this, Laurie. The child needed some glasses. I arranged it. I took her back home to her grandmother. Then I went home. End of bloody story.' He stands
up. ‘And now, Laurie, very sorry to break up the party, but I've got a class to teach.'

He's mid-sentence when the home bell rings. Kurt stands up, ready to grab his bag and run, but Terry keeps talking, all the while eyeballing him back into his chair. Only when the boy is sitting down again does Terry break off. ‘We'll finish this off tomorrow, 6P. Off you go.' And he smiles as they stampede out to the foyer to get their bags and take off.

There's a stack of marking to do so he settles himself at his desk to get started on it. He's making headway when he looks up to find Bridie sitting at her desk. She is sitting there quietly, hands clasped, just watching him.

‘What are you still doing here?' he asks before he remembers. He can't believe he'd forgotten.

‘Sweetheart,' he says to her softly, ‘have you been waiting for me all this time?'

He gathers his papers, bundles them into his briefcase then claps his hands together. ‘Right,' he says, ‘what's say we go and pick up those new glasses right now, then?'

Laurie

It's the part of the day Laurie likes best: when the bell has gone, the playground has emptied, the telephone has stopped ringing and everyone else has gone home. That's when she can get stuck into the paperwork and finally make some progress.

Not that she'd say it openly, but it's strange being back in a school after two years in head office. There's something messy about a school. Everyone always wants something—the children, the staff, the parents. Lately there's been a constant stream of them outside her office, ready to be called in, ready for Laurie to deal with the next thing and the next thing and the next thing. None of it ordered, everything just thrown at her. Just like the office she'd inherited: a shambles. God knows how Diane Thomas managed the filing. Laurie's tried to find some pattern but she's yet to discover it. Reorder, that's what she has to do. Reorder, refile, rearrange. This is Laurie's forte. It's what she was known for at head office: her attention to detail, her sense of order. The systems guru, that's what they called her, and that's what she likes to call herself. Privately, of course.

She often wishes she could be back there. That's a funny thing, considering she hadn't even wanted the job at first. In the end, it was the newness of the work that had convinced her: a new unit—the Child Protection Unit—formed to apply new laws, new policies, new procedures. It would be, they told her, a new way forward in child protection. She would be its pioneer. She liked the idea of that.

And she'd been rigorous with the work. When a complaint came to her, she was meticulous with the evidence, the documentation, the recommendations. She had them all in her sights: those who pounced without warning, those who bullied quietly and those who began with favours and worked their way in from there.

They were all bad eggs, the lot of them. They all needed to be caught early and dealt with quickly.

Who could argue with that? Who could possibly argue with that?

Brad Hillier from Legal could.

Brad was the swaggering sort of man Laurie couldn't abide: the rugged, kayaking type who'd always been part of the in crowd. It was there in everything he did: the way he wore his hair—too long for a lawyer, curling as it did over his collar; the way he leant back in his office chair as though lounging on the beach; the way he held his head to the side as she spoke, appraising her, it seemed, appraising everything about her.

All of it made her contemptuous of him. So why, then, did he also make her nervous, when she was the deputy director of the Child Protection Unit and he was just a legal officer?