The Teacher's Secret (29 page)

The second page is a computer printout with a soft watermark in the shape of a shield. Below it is Terry's full name and his date of birth. Underneath are details that make the bile rise in his stomach.

So, he thinks, it's not finished, after all. After all this time, it's come to get him.

He drops the letter into his lap and turns his head to the side, so he doesn't have to look at the words, so he doesn't have to look at her.

The room is quiet but noise from the playground comes in through the window behind her. It must be playtime already. Funny, he didn't hear the second bell ring.

He clears his throat. ‘So,' he says, and his voice comes out phlegmy, ‘what does that mean? Now. What happens now?'

Her voice is crisp but the words are rushed. ‘You'll need to retire or take leave.'

‘What do you mean?' His mouth, suddenly dry, makes it hard to swallow. ‘I've got to get back to the kids.'

She shakes her head. ‘You can't go back to the kids, Terry.'

‘Eighteen years. I've been here for eighteen years.' His voice is low and hoarse and when he feels a prickling at the back of his eyes, he realises, with horror, that he's about to cry.
No
, he shouts to himself. Not here. Not in front of her. But it's already too late for that.

The expression on Laurie's face softens. It is pity, he realises with
a shock. She is looking at him with an expression of pity. ‘I'm sorry, Terry, but you'll have to go straightaway.'

At first he doesn't comprehend what she is saying. Only slowly does it dawn on him. That he is being asked to leave. Immediately.

‘I can't,' he says, and there is a note of panic in his voice. ‘My bag. My things. I've left them all in the classroom.'

‘Don't worry,' Laurie tells him, her voice surprisingly soft. ‘Irene's sorting that out now. Your briefcase is being brought down to the office. Anything else will be sent home to you.'

‘What's happening?' he cries. ‘What in God's name is happening?'

Laurie looks down at the desk. He watches her throat move as she swallows. ‘I'll arrange for your class to spend the afternoon with Tania,' she says.

As he leaves, he passes Irene at her work station. When she looks up, he brandishes the letter at her. ‘You knew about this, didn't you?'

Her face turns an unhappy shade of red as her eyes flick over to the letter then down to the floor.

‘How long have we known each other, Irene? Fifteen years? Sixteen? You could have warned me. You could have let me know what was coming.'

Keeping her eyes down, the woman says nothing. Tears drip down onto her keyboard.

When he sees this, he feels ashamed of himself. ‘That was unfair, love,' he says as he puts a hand on her shoulder. ‘I'm sorry. I'm sorry.'

She shakes her head but says nothing. And so, without another word, he leaves her, and the office.

Back in the playground, he hears Ethan calling out to him. ‘You want to play footy with us, Mr P?'

When Terry pretends not to have heard him, Ethan tries again, bellowing as he runs across to him. ‘You playing, Mr P?'

The letter is still in Terry's hand. Folding it up, he sticks it in his shirt pocket. Squeezing his eyes tight, he takes a deep breath. ‘Mate, can't think of anything I'd rather do than thrash you all right now. Unfortunately, there's a bit of a problem I've got to sort out at home.'

Ethan's face drops. ‘It's not Bouncer, is it?'

Terry rubs the boy's back. Despite all the swimming, he's still such a little thing: he can feel the shoulder blades sticking out from under his shirt. ‘No, mate. Nothing wrong with Bouncer.'

Ethan looks relieved. ‘That's good, Mr P. Glad Bouncer's okay. And, Mr P, my mum told me to remind you about the show—you know, the Year 6 show. If you want any help with it.'

The back of Terry's eyes start to sting. ‘Listen, mate,' he says, trying hard to keep his voice firm, ‘can't stop right now.'

The moment he gets into the car, Terry feels his body sag. It's all he can do to start the engine and get moving.

How strange to be returning home in the middle of the day. When he turns the key in the lock, there's a galloping inside the house that becomes a scratching and a whining at the door. And as soon as he pushes the door open, Bouncer's wet, sniffing nose buries itself in his hand.

They make their way to the kitchen, man and dog, Bouncer jumping around in circles, beside himself.

It's lunchtime, Terry remembers then. In the fridge he finds leftover bolognese to have on toast. But when the toast is done and the meat reheated, his stomach turns at the thought of it. So he leaves
it on the kitchen bench, walks into the lounge room, falls into an armchair and starts to shake.
What now?
This is the question that pulsates through him. This is the question that promises to bring him undone.

Later that afternoon, he hears Michelle's voice float down the hallway. ‘Hello, Bouncer boy, hello, Bouncer boy, boy, boy.'

Terry listens as she makes her way down to the kitchen: another murmured word to Bouncer, a humming noise to herself, the jingling of the keys as she throws them on the key dish on the kitchen bench. Only then does she notice him.

‘God, Terry,' she cries, ‘you scared me. I thought you were staying back to finish the reports.'

He shapes his lips into a smile. ‘Changed my mind.'

She looks confused. ‘Why, you sick or something?'

He shakes his head. ‘No, love, I'm fine. Just changed my mind.'

Michelle raises an eyebrow. ‘Well, that's a first for Mr-can't-get-me-out-of-the-school-even-when-it's-holidays.' She spies the chicken on the bench. ‘What's this?'

‘Made a bit of a marinade. Honey and soy. Thought I'd put them on the barbie.'

Michelle lifts the bowl and, giving it a swish, peers through the cling wrap. ‘Good for you, chef man.' She rests a hand on his back. ‘Cuppa?'

He nods. ‘A cuppa sounds good, love.'

She has to raise her voice to be heard over the kettle. ‘How was your day, then, apart from the early mark?'

He shrugs. ‘You know, nothing special.'

‘Elsie okay?'

He shakes his head. ‘Getting there. The reading's coming on, so that's something.'

‘Good. That's good. You've done some great work with that girl, you really have.'

He doesn't trust himself to answer her. Instead, he sticks his head in the fridge, eyes blinking hard so they won't give him away, and comes out with a couple of zucchini. ‘I'll put these on too,' he mumbles.

Michelle has a cup of tea in each hand. She sips one, grimaces, then hands it to him. ‘This must be yours.' He follows her into the lounge room and joins her on the sofa.

‘What's with the thinking ahead for dinner?' she asks him. ‘You trying to butter me up for something?'

His laugh is forced but she doesn't seem to notice. ‘Don't you trust me to do something nice once in a while?'

‘Well, you're hardly Mr Metrosexual, are you, love?' Her hand is soft on the back of his neck and he has a sudden urge to curl up in a ball and, like a child, bury his head in her lap.

‘Metro-what?' he asks, but his throat is tight and he has to cough before he can get the words out.

‘Metrosexual. You know, Mr Can-do-it—in the kitchen, in the laundry, in the bedroom, in the garden. Mr Metrosexual can do a bit of everything.'

Terry pretends to ponder that while he tries to compose himself. ‘Think you're right, love. I really don't think you've married a Mr Metrosexual.'

Michelle rests her head on his shoulder. ‘Don't think I'm after a Mr Metrosexual. You'll have to do.'

But will I? It is a new thought, and one that makes his stomach turn. Will I still do? Even now?

She knows nothing of it. Nothing at all. Because he's never spoken about it. Because it's never come up. Because he thought he'd never have to think about it again. Because he thought it was over.

The phone rings and, as usual, Michelle leaps up to get it.
Let it go
, he always tells her.
If it's important, they'll leave a message. If it's not, they'll hang up
. But she never listens.

She's a long time on the phone, which isn't so unusual, but when she comes back to him, she is pale and her face is creased with confusion.

‘What's happened?' she asks, her voice panic-stricken. ‘What's happened?'

Hearing her makes him sit bolt upright.

‘What do you mean, love?' He tries to keep his voice steady, but it comes out shrill.

‘That was Tania,' she says. ‘Laurie Mathews told her you won't be coming back to school.' Her face crumples. ‘Terry, what's happened? What's going on?'

Joan

Joan is in the kitchen when she hears the commotion. She hurries to her bedroom—the one room that looks onto the street. When she draws back the curtains, she sees a large removalist's truck, the words
Quality Removals
written on the side in pink and black letters. The back of the truck has folded down to form a ramp to the road. Out of it comes a household's worth of furniture: a lounge suite, a dining room suite, a washing machine, a dryer, beds, a refrigerator, a sideboard, a couple of chests of drawers, a bookcase. Who, she asks herself with a flutter of excitement, is moving into Mr Edwards' house?

The next morning, as she is buttering her toast, Joan hears voices in Mr Edwards' garden. She stops, mid-action, the knife in the air, and listens. There is a woman's voice and a child's voice. A girl, she thinks. She can't make out the words, only the melody of their voices. Funny to hear a young voice in Mr Edwards' garden. Before,
there had only been the sound of his transistor radio, the volume up loud as he pottered around.

Hearing these new voices makes her feel happy. There is a family next door, she thinks. A family.

As she finishes her breakfast, she tries to imagine who they might be. They will be a family of four, she decides. An older boy and a younger girl. They will have friends over and the house will come alive with the noise of children playing. And Joan will sit on the porch, on the swing seat, and she will listen to them.