The Teacher's Secret (9 page)

Terry

Wednesday morning is assembly time at Brindle Public and, as usual, the national anthem—both verses of it—kick off the proceedings. But even though the words are right in front of them—up on a board to the left of the stage—still only a quarter of the school gets them right, and by the end of the second verse just about everyone's given up the ghost. It's the highlight of Terry's week to see just how wrong they can all get it.

When that's done, Laurie walks up to the lectern and waits for the post-anthem noise to die down. Terry can't remember the last time the lectern was used. In fact, he can't even remember having seen it for, what, ten years or more? He wonders where she could have found it. In the music room? The storeroom? God knows. Anyway, there it is, smack bang in the centre of the stage, and there she is, right behind it.

‘Good morning, students,' she says.

‘Good morning, Miss Mathews.' And although they answer in singsong unison, most of them falter over her name.

‘Last week,' she tells them, ‘I noticed that a lot of students were not wearing full school uniform. And as I look around me now, I can see that many of you are still not wearing full school uniform.'

When she says this, Kurt elbows Cody in the side and gives him a low victory sign. Theirs is a loose interpretation of the uniform requirement. Instead of black leather lace-up school shoes with white socks, Kurt is wearing his old favourites: a pair of battered white Volleys that have begun to split at the sides. As usual, he wears them straight, without socks. Sometimes Cody turns up in thongs, but today he's wearing a pair of his brother's Nikes. Whenever he has them on, he struts around like he's the king of cool, although privately Terry thinks he looks ridiculous flapping around in shoes four sizes too big for him. But Nikes are Nikes, whatever the size.

‘You should all be proud to be students of Brindle Public School. And you should show pride in your school by wearing your full school uniform. So from now on, I expect you all to come to school dressed appropriately—and that includes the proper footwear.'

Terry swallows a smile as his eyes sweep the room. Of the hundred and sixty kids sitting there—give or take a few—he reckons maybe thirty are wearing black leather school shoes. Good luck, lady, he thinks to himself.

Himself, he's all for having a uniform—it keeps things easy and it stops the playground from becoming a fashion parade—but as for doing army checks to make sure it's all to regulation, well, he'd say that's going too far.

And the uniform chat is all she's got for the kids on this occasion, so then it's over to Terry to MC the rest of the show. Unclipping the microphone from the side of the lectern, he walks right up to the front of the stage.

‘Good morning, Brindle Public,' he says, using his stage voice.

As the kids start to reply, he takes another step forward, then pretends to take another, one that will send him tumbling off the stage and into the sea of faces in front of him. His foot in mid-air, he puts a hand behind one of his ears. ‘Can't hear you, Brindle Public.'

The kids are laughing now but they don't say anything until he counts them down. ‘One, two, three: good morning, Brindle Public.'

This time the kids scream it out. ‘Good morning, Mr Pritchard!'

He steps back. ‘That's better, Brindle Public. Sounds like you might be ready for a bit of music then?'

It's a Brindle Public tradition, the assembly singalong, and something Diane and he used to do together. This year, for the first time, he's flying solo. Pointing the control button at the back of the stage, he waits for the projection screen to unroll until, finally, it completely covers the left-hand side of the stage. With the press of another button, lyrics cover the screen; one more button and crackly music fills the hall. The kids start to nudge each other. He's chosen a goody: Diane's favourite and probably the school favourite, too.

Over-excited, some of the kids come in too soon, shut up, then try again. Feigning disappointment, Terry shakes his head and, with another press of the button, cuts the music.

Let's give it another shot, Brindle Public,' he cajoles them. ‘“Blame It on the Boogie”. From the top.'

When the music starts again, Terry sing-speaks into the mic to keep them all together. Mostly it's a mess, but God, it makes him laugh. Shame about the other stuff, but there's still a lot to like about Mr Michael Jackson.

As the chorus approaches, there's a build-up of momentum, then an eruption of singing and arm-waving and sitting-down dancing.

For the kindergarten kids, and for anyone else who's forgotten, Terry mimes out the actions: a half-circle for sunshine, hands stretched out for moonlight, twinkling fingers for good times and a bit of arm- and hand-twisting for the boogie.

By the end, it's bordering on a fiasco, and for Terry, there's always magic in that. So he lets them go for a bit until he calls them back to order.

‘Steady on,' he tells them. ‘Steady on.' Then he waits for the place to quieten down before he hands the mic to Laurie so she can sign off and send the kids back to their classes.

Laurie carries the microphone back to the lectern and tries to push it back into the holder. Once she's got it, she yells into it, her voice so unexpectedly loud it makes even Terry jump. ‘Students,' she says, ‘your behaviour is unacceptable. You are not in a school disco, you are in your school assembly and I expect you to show some respect for your teachers and for your school. From now on, during assembly, I will expect only to see and hear quiet singing without any actions. At your disco you can dance, but at your assembly I expect more appropriate behaviour.'

The student body stare up in astonishment. Beside her, Terry struggles to keep his expression neutral. He can't trust himself to look at her, and staring down at all the little faces in front of him will only make him more irate. Instead, he chooses a point at the far end of the hall and keeps his eyes fixed on it.

Laurie keeps talking but he doesn't hear any of it. Only when the kindergarten kids stand up and file out of the hall does he register that the assembly's over and he should get off the stage to retrieve his class.

He mulls over it as he walks the kids back to the demountable.
A year of it, he thinks. How the hell is he going to manage a year of this woman?

Back in the classroom, Kurt sticks up a hand. ‘Mr P,' he asks, ‘how come we aren't allowed to do the actions at assembly anymore?'

Terry considers how to answer that one.
Because Laurie Mathews is an uptight upstart with no sense of humour.
His lips twitch with the urge to blurt it out.

‘Ms Mathews thinks it makes you too rowdy. She thinks assemblies should be quiet, genteel affairs.'

Kurt keeps his hand up. ‘What do you reckon, sir?'

Terry pulls at his ear. Bugger it. ‘Actually, Kurt, I really like songs with actions,' he says.

A murmur ripples through the class as Cody shoots up his hand. ‘So, Mr P, does that mean we can still do actions at assembly because you're in charge of singing and that, or does that mean we can only do them when Miss Mathews is away?'

Terry cocks his head to one side. ‘I'd say that's a watching brief at this stage. That's what I'd be saying.' And there's no follow-up on that, even though he's pretty sure none of them knows what he's talking about. He makes a mental note to explain it next lesson:
a watching brief—something to look out for when you've got no bloody idea what's going on.

Nina

As she turns into Colin's street that afternoon, Nina sees Jen's car parked outside the house. Good. She loves Steve's sister as much as she does his dad.

The two of them—Colin and Jen—are sitting at the kitchen table. When Colin sees her, he stands up to give her a kiss. ‘Sit yourself down while I make you a cuppa,' he says.

Nina gives him a hug before she turns to Jen. ‘Hi, stranger.'

Jen's face crinkles up. ‘Hi, yourself.'

In the backyard, Emily is playing with Jen's little girl, Yvette. With only fifteen weeks between them, the cousins could pass for twins.

As Nina slips into a seat beside Jen, Colin says, ‘So give us the update.'

Nina laughs. ‘The update?' she says. ‘Not much—I think that's the update.'

On the kitchen table is a pile of cork coasters. Colin puts one in front of Nina then places a cup of coffee on top of it.

‘There you go, love.' As always, the coffee is instant and, as always, he has added sugar to it, even though Nina only takes milk. Still, there is a comfort in sugary coffee when Colin is the one to make it for her.

‘How's the boy?' This is what he always calls Steve.

Nina nods as she false sips on her coffee so it won't scald her tongue. ‘Good,' she says, ‘he's good. The new job's going well as far as I can tell.'

Colin makes a clicking sound with his tongue. ‘Well, he's got you to thank for it, hasn't he, love? Getting him through all the study and the rest of it. More than I managed when he was at school, I can tell you that much.'

Nina smiles. ‘It was worth it, wasn't it? He likes the job and the pay's almost double.'

‘Like I said, love, and it's all thanks to you. The best thing that's ever happened to him, that's what you are.'

Pleased, ridiculously pleased even, Nina repeats the words to herself.
The best thing. The best thing that's ever happened to him.

Out in the backyard, the girls are getting louder. Jen starts to rise but Nina puts a hand on her shoulder. ‘I'll go,' she says.

The dispute is over a Barbie doll: that much is clear. The girls have one each but now the argument is about whether they should swap. Emily's face is determined, her fat little fingers clenched around her doll, so focused on the argument she doesn't notice her mother until Nina is right beside her.

‘Mummy!' she cries when she sees her. ‘Mummy, you're back!' The doll forgotten now, she lets it slip to the ground as she flings her arms around Nina's legs.

Nina lifts her daughter up into her arms. ‘Hello, my darling.'

Emily wraps her arms tight around Nina's neck and nuzzles into her ear. ‘Hello, my mummy.'

While Emily is distracted, Yvette bobs down to grab the doll.

Trying not to smile, Nina holds Emily even closer so she won't see what's happened. ‘Let's go home,' she whispers.

Emily keeps her head burrowed into Nina's shoulder. ‘To see Daddy?' she asks.

‘Soon,' Nina tells her, ‘soon.'

In the car, Emily squirms as Nina tries to fasten the seatbelt. ‘It's too tight, Mummy,' she says, ‘too tight.'

Nina checks but it's not too tight. Giving it a bit of a fiddle, she pretends to adjust it. ‘Better?' she asks.

Emily nods. ‘Better.'

When they get home, there's a message on the answering machine. It's Meg, wanting to see when they're free for dinner. They're good friends, Meg and Paul, and it would be nice to catch up.

Nina is in the shower when Steve gets home. Turning the water off, she wraps a towel around herself and hurries out to greet him. Emily is already in his arms, clinging tight to him. ‘Daddy's home,' she says.

Nina reaches over to kiss him. ‘We need to be out by seven,' she reminds him.

A slight frown crosses his face. ‘It'll be all right,' he says, ‘we've got heaps of time.'

That's not true, but she doesn't want to push it. Instead, she heads off to get herself ready. Her dress is new and she's pleased with it. It's
a simple style, black, almost to the knee with capped sleeves and a scoop neck. There are black fishnet stockings to go with it—the fine ones, not the tarty ones—and her jewellery, as always, is silver: a chunky beaten necklace with matching earrings and bracelet.

She has ironed Steve's shirt and left it hanging on the wardrobe door beside the tie she's chosen: the blue one with a shot of green through it.

But later, when he's showered and dressed, she sees this isn't the tie he's wearing. Instead he's wearing the Simpsons tie someone gave him: rows and rows of yellow-skinned Barts running across a red background. As she opens her mouth to say something, the doorbell rings.

It's the babysitter, Josie, but to Nina's surprise, she's not alone. With her is a boy Nina has never seen before—more than a boy; a man, really.

‘Hi there,' she says to Nina, flicking her hair in the man's direction. ‘This is Nathan.'

Nathan smiles and offers Nina his hand. It is then she sees he has piercings running right up his ear. Startled by this, she fumbles the handshake. When she hears Steve's footsteps coming up behind her, she turns to him for help.

‘Steve,' she says, her tone pointed, ‘this is Nathan. He's come to babysit with Josie.'

She wants him to go into bat for her, to say to Nathan—man-to-man style—that perhaps it would be better for Josie to babysit without him, seeing as he's a stranger to them, and no one wants a stranger minding their child. But Steve just puts out his hand and gives the boy—the man, the stranger—a loud clap on the arm. ‘How you doing, Nathan?'