The Teacher's Secret (5 page)

She writes slowly, her first attempt at each word crossed out then rewritten. Most of the words, even on a second attempt, are misspelt.

‘So,' she says, ‘you'll be eleven this year?' This is what the girl has written—that she'll be eleven on 11 August; that she has a cat at her mum's place; that her dad lives in an apartment where they aren't allowed pets.

Next, Nina hands her a book. It's a simple text, widely enough spaced to make it seem like a chapter book. The girl's reading is stilted and laborious and she baulks at many of the words. She's well behind where she needs to be. Which means that she and Nina will be spending a lot of time together this year.

Terry

A new day, 29 January. First day back for the kids. And, he remembers with a start, Clare's birthday.

Clare.

Oh God.

And although it's been years—decades—she's still crystal clear to him. Even now, he can picture her as if she were right there in front of him: her lithe little body, her light pink lips, the watery blue of her eyes.

Lovely eyes.

Lovely Clare.

It makes him tremble to conjure her up like that. Even now.

Best not to, then.

Best to push her right away again.

So he does. He gets into his car, gives himself a shake and pushes Clare Sorenson back into the far recesses of his mind.

The new term, that's what he needs to focus on now.

And sure enough, he feels it the moment he steps into the playground: the crackle in the air that signals the true start to the school
year. An energetic feeling, that's what it is. That's what's special about it. Because there's nothing better than watching the kids tumble in through the gate and, like magnets, click back into their little posses.

Except for Elsie, who doesn't attach herself to anyone much. Today, she's hovering around the play equipment, half watching the other kids, half daydreaming, one finger in her mouth.

He hears Trina before he sees her. ‘Elsie!' she screams. ‘Elsie!' He follows the sound of the voice and spies her down by the front gate. It's been a while—years—since she last came to school. And she's not looking great. Everything about her is unwashed and her dress, cotton and stretchy at the bodice, has a wet stain down the front. Her feet are bare, her face is grimy and her hair is dry and unkempt.

When she catches sight of Elsie, she starts screaming louder. ‘Come here, you little bitch,' she cries out as she makes her way over to the play equipment. ‘Get over here, you stupid bitch.'

Terry hurries over. Before he can reach them, Trina is already on top of her daughter, her hands lashing out to slap the girl. Elsie wraps her arms around her head and tries to curl herself into a ball. She is shouting now but her voice is hoarse and muffled.

‘Get off her!' Terry shouts, but Trina just keeps going.

‘Trina! Trina, leave her!' This time, his voice is so loud it cuts through, halting Trina in her frenzy.

Elsie is no longer shouting; now she's just crying. Mucus pours out of her nostrils and when she tries to wipe it away, she streaks it across her face instead. Her crying is loud. ‘Mum,' she cries, her voice rough. ‘What was that for?'

Trina, defeated now, has her shoulders hunched forward. ‘Because,' she says, her voice a low growl, ‘you're a little bitch. You've always been a little bitch.'

Elsie doesn't reply at first. Instead she rubs her fingers hard into her nose. ‘Not always, Mum,' she says. ‘I'm not always a bitch, Mum.'

Putting his arm around the girl, Terry presses her to him so that she's facing away from her mother. ‘Go now, Trina,' he says. ‘The bell's about to ring so you should just go now.'

A crowd of kids has started to gather around them. Still holding Elsie, Terry shoos them away with his free hand. ‘There's nothing to see,' he says, ‘nothing to see.'

To Trina he hisses a final warning, ‘I said go, Trina. Now.'

Trina shoots her daughter a vicious glare before she makes her way back to the front gate.

Once she has left, Terry crouches down in front of Elsie and tries to soothe her. When, after some minutes, he stands up, Elsie leans her head into his chest and puts her arms around him. Softly, and with one arm around the girl's waist, Terry strokes the back of her head. They stay like that for a long time—until the girl's shoulders are no longer heaving. Slowly, then, and with a great gentleness, Terry breaks the embrace and, taking Elsie's hand in his, walks her over to the staffroom.

She's still sobbing quietly when they get there. The door is closed and Terry hopes to God that Laurie isn't in there so he won't have to go through the rigmarole of explaining what's happened and what bloody form needs to be filled in. Because it's Elsie, what they really need to do is to keep head office right out of it. Give the kid a bit of TLC and leave it at that.

He's in luck: only Tania and Belinda are in the staffroom. He gives a tiny shake of the head so they won't ask what happened—not now, not while Elsie's there—and they don't. Instead, Tania rubs Elsie's back while Terry looks for something he can use to clean the girl's face.

He can't find any tissues, but there's a roll of paper towel in a metal dispenser near the sink. He rips off a length of it, wets it under the tap so it won't be too harsh on her skin and starts to clean her face. Any other eleven-year-old would resist, but Elsie lifts her face up to make it easier for him. Slowly, then, her tears subside. Thinking that it might be helping—his wiping her face—he goes back to the sink, takes a fresh piece of paper towel, wets it with warm water and again runs it over her skin. ‘Shush, love,' he whispers, ‘it's okay now, it's okay.'

A moment later, the bell rings. Although it's not a bell anymore. Now it's a recording that gets played through the loudspeakers. With Diane in charge, it was always going to be the Stones and, in a show of hands in the staffroom, ‘Jumpin' Jack Flash' won by a vote. Every morning, Terry has a little smile as he watches the kids hurrying to the sound of those bad boys. This morning, his smile is smaller than usual, but that's not surprising. Bloody Trina.

Just when things had finally been sorted out; just when Family Services had agreed that even if Len wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, it didn't mean he couldn't look after his daughter—and this happens. All the work he'd put into it—his work, Diane's work—and now this. He'll kill Trina if it unravels now. If it all gets dragged up again, he'll come after her with an axe. It's been a lesson, though, and this is the lesson he's learnt: sometimes it's better to fly under the radar and keep Family Services well out of the picture. With any luck, Trina'll take off again and never come back.

Enough of that. He turns to give Elsie a wink. ‘Come on,' he says, holding out his hand. ‘Let's go.'

Outside, there's mayhem in the playground.

‘Last year's classes,' Terry calls out. ‘Lining up in last year's classes.'

Running the length of Terry's old classroom is a balcony that looks over the morning assembly area. It's a good place to address the school, provided the PA system works. Terry calls it the Diane Thomas soapbox. But today, Laurie's up there instead, in a suit again. Grey this time, instead of black. Still must be stinking hot, he thinks. His shirt is short-sleeved and already he's sweating.

Bringing the microphone up to her mouth, Laurie starts to speak. But no one can hear a word she's saying. Stifling a smile, Terry climbs the stairs to give her a hand. Sure enough, she hasn't switched the thing on. Granted, the button's on the bottom of the mic instead of at the side, but still. He turns it on for her, gives it a tap to check it's working, then hands it back. She says thanks but shoots him a half-hostile look, like it was his fault all along. And that's enough to make him want to yank out the cable on his way back down the stairs.

‘Good morning, Brindle Public,' says Laurie, and this time, because she puts her mouth so close to the microphone, it emits a sharp whistling sound. ‘My name is Ms Mathews and I will be the acting principal while Ms Thomas is on leave this year.'

The announcement gets the kids whispering to each other, although Terry's got no idea why. Diane must have warned them thirty times that she'd be away for the year. Still, it seems the penny's only just dropped.

And then it's over to the main game: all students are to go with their old teachers, who'll talk to them about their new classes.

So far, so good, until Terry starts to lead his class up the stairs and over to the demountables.

‘Mr P,' Kurt calls out, his voice already deeper than it was last year. His hair, thick and dark, sits neatly over his ears after what, to
go by past experience, might well be his only haircut for the year. ‘Mr P,' he repeats, ‘where we going? We're going the wrong way.'

‘Yeah, Mr P,' Ethan chips in. ‘This is the wrong way.'

Terry turns around. ‘Let's just say there's been a couple of changes since last year. Can't tell you just yet—I'll explain once we're there.' At least that makes it sound exciting. And sure enough, they fall silent as they follow Terry up the stairs, past the hall and over to the demountables.

‘Here we are, ladies and gentlemen,' he announces as they enter the vestibule. ‘Find a hook—don't fight about it, remember it's only a hook—hang your bag on it then go and sit on the rug.'

Once they're all inside, Terry drags his chair across so he's sitting in front of them all. ‘As you can see,' he says, ‘I've been given a new room.'

Kurt puts up a hand. ‘But it's not your room, it's Ms Coote's room.'

Terry gives his hair a scratch. He can't have nits already, surely; not on the first day back. ‘Good point, Kurt,' he replies, ‘and nice observation. It has indeed been Ms Coote's room for some years now. But this year we've swapped.'

‘Your old room's much better than this room, Mr P.' Ethan is sitting beside Kurt. He doesn't raise his hand, he just calls out.

‘Hand up, please, Mr Thompson, otherwise it'll all descend into chaos before the day is done.'

Ethan shoots up a hand and keeps on talking. ‘The other room, it's heaps better. For one thing, it's got a balcony.' He's a freckly kid, is Ethan, and he talks with his face scrunched up so tight he seems to have his eyes closed. Brindle is league territory and Ethan and Kurt are the school's star players. Kurt because he's built like a brick and Ethan because he's fast.

‘That's correct, Ethan, it does have a balcony.'

‘So why did you swap then, Mr P?' It's Jade this time. For a kid who mostly zones out in class, every now and then she's spot on with her questions.

He stops to think about it.
Ms Mathews made me
isn't going to be the most helpful answer, even if it's the honest one.

‘Well, because Ms Coote's class will be a big one this year. And Ms Mathews thought it would be better if Ms Coote had some more space.'

‘So Ms Mathews made you swap?' Cody sits just behind Kurt and Ethan, his little head peeping out from between them. He's thin and wiry and small, his hair bleached close to white from a summer spent, no doubt, on his surfboard.

Terry shakes his head. This is one of those times when lying's the only way to go. ‘No. It was more an agreement.'

Cody leans forward, a hand on each of his mates' shoulders. ‘I wouldn't've agreed, Mr P,' he says, his voice earnest. ‘I would've just said,
This is my room and I'm going to keep my room
. That's what I would've said.'

‘Me too,' Ethan calls out. ‘I would've just stayed.'

Time to move on, Terry thinks. ‘So, ladies and gentlemen,' he says, ‘today I'm going to be telling you about your new classes.'

A nervous ripple passes through the group. He could draw it out a bit, call them out name by name to keep the suspense going, but what for? Best just serve it straight up.

‘So,' he says, ‘here's the news: I'll be your teacher again this year.' He watches as they digest the information. Kurt is the first to react, punching the air with his fist as he lets out a whistling, ‘
Yes-s-sss
.'

The rest of them are quieter. Cody nods his head like one of those dolls on a spring and Ethan just looks pleased. Behind him, Jade leans back on her hands and gives Terry one of her lazy grins. Even though she's not yet twelve, she's as sassy as an eighteen-year-old. Out of school uniform, you'd think she was fourteen, fifteen even. Already she's a head-turner. Her hair, naturally a very light brown, has lightened with the summer, and there's a new smattering of freckles across her nose.

Beside her, Bridie doesn't do or say anything. She just stays as she is: cross-legged on the rug, her hands in her lap. Only when Terry gives her a wink does she venture a tiny smile, her eyes big and watery behind her thick glasses.

Elsie is sitting right in front of Terry and, like a big puppy, she jumps up and runs to him, falling over him with her arms outstretched. A few of the kids snigger, but they're all used to Elsie.

‘So then,' Terry says, once he's sent Elsie back to the rug, ‘welcome back to Brindle Public, 6P.'

That's all he says, but it's enough to send a buzz across the classroom.

‘And now, 6P—' he repeats the word deliberately, to keep the excitement up, to highlight the elevation it represents, this rise to the top of the ranks of Brindle Public School ‘—we're going to start the new year with some holiday news. Each of you will stand up and tell us, in a couple of sentences, something good about the holidays.' With exaggerated movements, he takes a stopwatch out of his trouser pocket. ‘You know the drill: one minute on the stopwatch and I'll give you a warning when you've got ten seconds left.' It's a technique he's been using for a couple of years now—ever since Anthony Longman wouldn't shut up.