The Teacher's Secret (8 page)

Sid is already waiting for him, holding his one golf club, his pockets bulging with golf balls.

‘Sorry for keeping you, mate,' Terry says.

‘I saw you go into the office. Figured you might be held up.'

Terry kicks at the ground. ‘Well, she wanted a word, didn't she?'

Sid nods but doesn't ask for the details. It's one of the things Terry most likes about him, that he doesn't push. ‘Righto,' he says.

Terry could tell him all of it; there's nothing he can't trust Sid with. Over all the years at Brindle Public, that's something he's learnt: that Sid's a good man. So he opens his mouth to say something. Something like,
You know what she wanted?
But just thinking about it is making him feel sick, like there's a rock in his stomach, so instead he stays quiet.

And silence is okay by Sid, too, so it's in silence that they make their way up to the first hole.

It's a dog of a course in a jewel of a position. That's how Terry describes it. The clubhouse needs a paint and an update, and at the moment there's more sandy soil under foot than there is grass. But the greens are still all right. Even when the rest of the country's in drought, still the greens get looked after. Tank water or something like that. Whatever they do to get around the water restrictions.

Terry steals a glance at Sid. He still doesn't get it. They must have been playing golf together for, what, twelve years? Could be even longer. And in all the years, Sid's stuck to the one golf club. Early on,
Terry didn't comment on it; he figured it must be a financial issue, something like that. So before Sid's birthday one year, he passed the hat around the staff and got enough to buy three decent irons and a good putter. Then he topped up the takings himself so they could throw in a golf bag. A bloody good present. That's what he'd thought: a bloody good present. And, to be fair, Sid used the lot for a bit. But within a matter of months, he was back to his old one-iron game. Except that he used one of the new irons instead of his old one. The bag, the putter and the other irons—by Terry's calculations they haven't seen the light of day in eight years. It ticked him off at first, that they'd gone to such a lot of trouble only to have it all gathering dust in Sid's garage, but not anymore. If Sid wants to play with one iron, good luck to him. More chance of yours truly winning the game that way.

Although now, with the sun still beating down and the air heavy and humid, he thinks that Sid might be on to something. Because today's one of those days Terry would rather not be pulling his bag up the hill through dead grass and dry sand.

Baggage-free, Sid is at the first tee while Terry's still struggling to get up there.

‘Come on, mate,' Sid calls. ‘Thought you were supposed to be the youngster here?'

The jibe injects Terry with an unexpected spurt of energy that propels him up the hill to the summit. As usual, it's well worth the effort. Looking straight ahead, with the clubhouse on their left, there's nothing but ocean in front of them. An endless stretch of deep blue water—filled, no doubt, with half a million golf balls.

Today, Sid tees off first. Placing the ball down in front of him, he squints in the direction of the hole and, without even a warm-up, hits the ball hard before straightening up to see how it's going.

Terry watches as the ball lands twenty feet short of the hole. Not bad, he thinks. He decides he'll use a three wood for this one. It'll give him the length he needs. Lining himself up beside the tee, he has a few practice shots. When he thinks he's got it right, he moves over to the ball, pulls back and, carefully, carefully, hits the ball up and over towards the green. When it lands in front of Sid's ball, a smile spreads across his face.

‘It was about Elsie,' he says as they walk over to the hole. ‘She wanted to talk to me about Elsie.'

‘Because of Trina?'

Terry gives a short laugh. ‘You'd think that'd be it, wouldn't you? But no, not because of Trina—because of me. She says I shouldn't have touched her.'

Sid stops short. ‘You didn't lay a hand on her. I saw the whole thing. You didn't touch her. You just told her to leave.'

This time Terry really laughs. ‘Not Trina. Elsie. She said I shouldn't have touched
Elsie
.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘She says I shouldn't have given her a cuddle. It was inappropriate conduct.' Just saying the words brings an awful taste to his mouth. ‘She made me sound like a paedophile.'

‘What'd she want you to do?'

He shrugs. ‘She didn't say. Just told me that my behaviour was inappropriate. In breach of the code of conduct or some rubbish. You know what I should have said to that? I should have asked her what the code of conduct says to do when a kid's falling apart on the first day of school because her mother's just got stuck into her. No, no, better than that—I should have just left it to the bloody code of conduct to sort the whole thing out.'

Sid tips his head to the side. ‘She was pretty upset, wasn't she? Elsie, I mean. And she gets a hard time of it anyway, even without Trina turning up again. I'd say you did the right thing, Terry.'

They are up on the green now, and as Sid talks, Terry pushes the toe of his shoe hard into the grass, so hard he makes a hole in it. ‘I've got to tell you, Sid, I didn't see that one coming. You know, I'd have thought she'd be thanking me for a job well done, that sort of thing. Could have knocked me for six when she started having a go at me. I sure as hell wasn't expecting that. Merit certificate maybe, but not a bloody ticking-off.'

This makes Sid laugh. ‘Tell you what, I can't get you a merit certificate but I can buy you a beer when we finish. That cheer you up?' Terry gives him half a smile. ‘Long as I get a chance to whip you first.'

As they head over the rise towards the next hole, they see a couple of kids coming their way. One's carrying a bucket and, every now and then, the other one bends down to pick something up from the ground. A golf ball, that's what it's got to be. The club pays kids to collect them. Not a bad little earner for the sharp-eyed. He can't see their faces—they're too far away for that—but their gait gives them away: Kurt with his shoulder-first stride, his tough little body moving like a tank, and skinny little Cody with his running walk, jumping around like a rabbit on the headland. Terry stops to watch them. He's still watching when Sid, ahead of him now, turns back to give him a shout to hurry on. At the sound of Sid's voice, the boys look up. And as soon as they catch sight of Terry, they start running over to him.

‘Mr P, Mr P!' Cody shouts, his voice shrill. ‘We already got fifteen balls. Already!'

Terry smiles. ‘Good work,' he says, but Cody's still got more to tell.

‘We reckon we'll get thirty, minimum. Dad says they're everywhere, golf balls that just get left here.'

Terry hadn't noticed Scott, but there he is, behind the kids, his walk long and slow, his eyes on the ground. He stops when he catches up to the kids but says nothing to Terry. Nor does he meet his eye. It's odd, but Terry's used to him.

‘Scott,' he says, ‘doing a bit of golf-ball salvaging?'

Scott focuses his bloodshot eyes somewhere between Terry's nose and his mouth. ‘Boys wanted to have a go at it. I'd said I'd give them a hand then take them for a late surf.' He pushes a hand through his hair, which is long and blond and curled stiff with salt.

‘Great day for a surf,' says Terry although, really, he's got no idea. All he knows is that it's not raining, which has to be a good start.

Scott keeps playing with his hair but doesn't answer. There's an earthy, sweet smell about him. It's the way he always smells. A few years ago, Terry mentioned it to Tania, just in passing. He can still see the astonishment on her face.

‘Don't tell me,' she'd said. ‘Don't tell me you don't know that smell.'

When he'd looked blank, she'd burst out laughing. ‘Dope, Terry, that's the smell. That's what dope smells like. And that's what Scott smells like, because he's always stoned.'

Now he smiles at his naivety, and Cody looks up at him, curious. Terry gives him a wink. ‘Here's a lesson, Cody boy: you're never too old to learn something new.'

But Cody's got no idea what he's talking about and Terry's not about to clarify it. Besides, it's already late and they'll need to make
a move if they're to get a surf in, so they keep walking, the three of them, Kurt in the lead, Cody scrambling after him and Scott loping behind, as though there's a cushion of air between him and the ground.

As he watches them go, it occurs to him that maybe Scott's too stoned to be driving the kids around. And if he is, what's he, Terry, to do about it? While he's deciding whether to chase after them or just let them go, Kurt circles back so he can join Scott, who slings an arm over the boy's shoulders. They keep on walking then, Scott and Kurt side by side, Cody a bit in front, and soon they're too far to catch anyway.

Sid gives Terry a shout to get a move on and Terry hollers back, ‘Hold your horses, I'm on my way!'

Nina

Marina Cincotta is Nina's best friend, and having her at Stenton Public is one of the school's drawcards—especially on Wednesday mornings, when they both have an hour free. They catch up in the staffroom; Nina makes the coffee while Marina stretches out along a row of vinyl armchairs. Today, she's wearing a rainbow-coloured kaftan. Her hair, wild and dark and long, is out, and curls down past her shoulders.

‘So, how's cranky Steve?' This is what Marina always calls him—because he always sounds cranky on the phone.

The criticism would rankle if it came from anyone else, but because it's Marina, Nina just laughs. ‘Fine,' she says, handing her friend a mug of coffee. ‘He's fine.'

Marina sits up to drink it. ‘The big new job going okay?'

‘I think so. The money's good at least.'

‘Got to like a man who brings home the bacon.' She winces as she swallows. ‘Did you put any sugar at all in this?'

‘Three,' Nina says. ‘I shovelled in three teaspoons of the stuff.'

Peering into the cup, Marina looks unconvinced. ‘The thing is,' she says, ‘I need a bit of a sugar kick to recharge me. I'm still recovering from the weekend.'

Nina gives her the once-over. ‘A good one?'

Marina stretches her arms in front of her. ‘Let me tell you, Nina Ballerina, the drought has broken!'

Nina laughs. ‘Meaning?'

‘Meaning, party on Saturday night and there he is: tall, blond, great abs,
great
shoulders—I thought I was hallucinating. But no. Turns out he's hosting the party for a mate of his who works with Cheryl—that's how I got the invite—so there I was, in his house.'

‘And?'

‘And what?'

‘What happened?'

Marina takes a deep breath. ‘Well,' she says, ‘there's this spa in his backyard—no pool, just a spa—and a whole lot of people start stripping down to their undies and jumping in. Mr Shoulders gives me this look and says,
So, you coming in?
Apart from hello, that's the first thing he's said to me. Then, right in front of me, he whips off his T-shirt and his jeans and there he is, in his boxer shorts.'

‘And?'

‘And I'm only wearing a G-string under my dress, aren't I?' She says this loudly—too loudly—then lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘And I'm not going to be stripping down to my G-string at some party. So I say to him,
I'll come in if you get me a pair of boxer shorts like yours
. He gives me a smile like that's the weirdest thing he's ever heard, but then he disappears upstairs somewhere and, sure enough, when he comes back, he's got another pair of boxers in his hand.'

Nina claps a hand over her mouth. ‘Tell me you didn't.'

But Marina's eyes are dancing. ‘So, I go into the bathroom, strip down to my bra and undies, put his boxer shorts over my undies and off we go. Next thing, I'm sitting in his spa drinking champagne. After a bit he turns to me and says, straight up,
You got a boyfriend, you got a husband?
I'm not sure how to answer so I just say,
No boyfriend; I used to have a husband
. He clinks my glass and says,
Cheers—I used to have a wife
. And when I ask him how long it's been, he says,
The van just left
. Which is witty, right? So I drink a bit more champagne and stay the night.'

Nina laughs in disbelief. ‘With him?'

Marina smiles. ‘Yep.'

‘The whole night?'

‘Yep. Breakfast and everything. I figured it was time to go when he told me his ex was about to come over to—get this—pick up the rest of her stuff.'

But Nina doesn't get it. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Just what I said: to pick up the rest of her stuff. Because it turns out he wasn't being funny: the van really had just left, just before the party.'

Nina wraps both hands around her coffee mug. ‘So he'd been separated for less than a day?'

‘Ten hours.'

‘No way.'

‘Yep. Ten hours.'

‘And?'

‘He gives me his card—a merchant banker, can you believe it?—puts me in a cab, gives me a kiss and says,
I'll call you
.'

‘And?'

Marina shakes her head. ‘Not so far.'

‘It's only Wednesday.'

‘I know. Apparently the rule is if they haven't rung by Thursday, they won't be ringing.'

‘And then?'

She gives a bit of a shrug. ‘You move on, baby, you move on.'

‘Just like that?'

‘Where's the choice?'

Nina's eyes widen. ‘I couldn't do it. I just couldn't. All that waiting for the call, wondering what's going to happen. It'd kill me.'

Marina gives her a lopsided smile. ‘Lucky you've got cranky Steve then, hey?'