The Teacher's Secret (23 page)

Bridie is all agog now. ‘What happened?'

‘He suddenly petered out, that's what happened.' He shoots her a look. ‘You know what it was like?'

She doesn't.

‘It was like one of those battery toys that suddenly runs out of power. That's exactly what it was like. What's going on? I thought to myself. Maybe he had a stitch, maybe that was the problem. But it wasn't that at all.'

‘What was it?' she asks. ‘What was it, Mr P?'

‘I'll tell you what it was: it was typical Trent, larrikin that he was. When I looked harder, I saw that instead of leaning forward, he was standing upright, as straight as a soldier. And instead of pushing his legs out behind him, to give himself more speed, he was lifting his legs high up in front of him, so high I thought he'd be able to touch his chin with his knees. You know what your rascal dad was doing, Bridie?'

She looks completely mystified.

‘He was showboating—legs up, head up high with a goofy smile on his face—he was showboating for the school. So instead of winning the race by a couple of metres, he pulled in third. I was ropeable, I was absolutely ropeable. And do you know what he said?'

‘What, Mr P? What did my dad say?'

It kills him to hear her little voice; so eager, so thirsty to know more about her dad—her silly, silly dad. If he's not careful, it'll even make him teary. Pulling himself together, he makes a pantomime of his face: eyes large, eyebrows raised, mouth pursed. ‘This is what your father said:
Well, Mr P
, he said,
I still got third
and
I cracked the whole school up.
He pointed over to the stands and, sure enough, all the kids—all the kids in the whole school—they were laughing and pointing at your dad. And you know what I thought?'

Bridie shakes her head.

‘Cranky as I was—and disappointed as I was for him, and for Bradman as well, I suppose—there was a part of me that admired him, too, for just getting out there and giving a performance for the school. Because, you know, that was the other thing about your dad. He was quite the performer. It wouldn't have surprised me if he'd become an actor. Wouldn't have surprised me if I'd seen his name up in lights.'

Charisma, that's what he had, bucketloads of charisma. And for a moment Terry loses himself thinking about it; thinking about Trent, all grown up and walking the red carpet. It wouldn't have been a stretch, not really. Not then, not looking forward like that.

He can't bear thinking about the rest of it.
Trent
, he says to himself,
Trent, you stupid, stupid boy. What were you thinking? What in God's name were you thinking on that day?
Because if ever there was a day to take back in a life, that was the one.

But enough. Enough of Trent. Enough of all of that. It's already quarter to seven and Bridie will be starting to flag.

‘Tell you what, love,' he says, ‘since we're running a bit late, why don't you whip in and have your shower right now?'

Once she's gone, Terry reaches into the fridge for a beer and sits down to drink it.

Vonnie keeps the curtains closed but Terry likes to keep them open so he can look out onto the garden. It's pretty at night, lit up by the streetlights. He keeps his eye out for Michelle, too. The bus drops her at the top of the street and she just needs to walk down the hill to get to the house. It's safe enough, that's not a problem, even if it's already dark before six now.

Which reminds him: he'll need to switch on the porch light so she doesn't trip up. There are a couple of steps up to the porch and it's like guesswork without the light on.

No sooner has he settled back on the lounge when there comes a cry from the bathroom. Leaving his beer on the coffee table, Terry hurries over. ‘What is it?' he calls through the door. ‘What's the matter?'

Bridie's little voice is muffled. ‘The hot tap—it's stuck, Mr P, it's completely stuck.'

God, he thinks, she'll bloody scald herself if she can't turn the tap off. So he opens the door and rushes into the bathroom. There's no screen or curtain to cover the shower recess and when she sees him there, she covers her body and turns away.

‘I'm not looking, love,' he says, ‘I'm not looking. I just want to turn off the tap so you won't burn yourself.'

‘I can't turn it on, Mr P, I can't turn it on at all.'

Immediately, he relaxes. ‘So the water's too cold, love, not too hot, is that the problem?'

The back of her head moves up and down. He lets his eyes scan the length of her body. And what a beautiful body it is, he thinks to himself. Such a lovely little thing. His finger wrapped around the hot tap now, he gives it a wrench.

‘There you go, love, done. Probably needs a new washer. I'll see if I can pick one up over the weekend.'

A couple of minutes later, she's calling out again. Because there are no towels. So he grabs her one and, sticking his hand through the door, leaves it on the edge of the vanity.

Then he returns to the lounge room, retrieves his beer and settles back on the sofa to enjoy it.

Laurie

When she looks up from the screen, she's surprised to find it dark outside. And when she checks her watch, she sees that it's already ten to seven. There's enough work to keep her here all night but suddenly she's feeling hungry. It's Friday night and on Friday nights, she rents a DVD from the video store and gets Indian from the takeaway shop next door. And now she's craving curry and pappadams. So she switches off her computer, picks up a folder of papers to go through over the weekend and makes her way to the car.

There are a couple of ways to get home to Ashton, but Laurie always turns right up Hart Street then onto the main road that leads her out of Brindle and towards the city. To get to school in the morning, she simply does the trip in reverse: down the main road that runs all the way to Jinda, left down Hart Street, then along the coast until she hits the school. On a good day, she can be there in twenty minutes.

Bridie Taylor lives in Hart Street. Hers is a pleasant-looking house, though the front garden needs some work; there are weeds in
the lawn that need to be dug out and dandelions have sprung up on either side of the front steps. Sometimes, Laurie sees the girl playing there by herself. Perhaps this is what has piqued her interest. Laurie is an only child, too.

Lately, when she has been driving past, Bridie has begun to lift her hand up in a wave. The first time, this had surprised Laurie. In truth, she'd felt caught out. It hadn't occurred to her that the child would notice her, just as she had noticed the child. And so, to begin with, she hadn't waved back, not that first time, and not the second time either. The third time, although she didn't wave, she did give a nod. But now she waves back. Once or twice, she's even been tempted to give her a toot. This is something she has resisted; she is the child's principal, after all, and distance is important in such a relationship. So she never toots, she only waves.

This evening, when she drives along the water, the bay is black and beautiful and, above it, the moon is full and high. If she wasn't so hungry, she might even pull up and look out at it for a while. Instead, she turns into Hart Street. And as she drives along the street, she looks across to Bridie's place, lit up by the towering streetlight in front of it.

Tonight, however, what she sees gives her such a jolt it makes her sit bolt upright, swerve into the kerb and pull on the handbrake.

His car—Terry Pritchard's car—is parked outside the little girl's house. After dark and he's at the child's house on a Friday night. What the hell is he doing there?

Hurrying out of the car, Laurie walks across the road so quickly she is almost running. She raps hard on the door.

Almost immediately, the door flies open and there he is, in the doorway. When he sees her, he jumps. He literally jumps. ‘What are you doing here?' he blurts out.

What is
she
doing there? Well, that's hardly the question, is it? Behind him, she can see into a lounge room. Sitting on the coffee table is an open can of beer.

‘Where's her grandmother?' she asks him.

Immediately, his faces falls. It's all the answer she needs. Clearly, the grandmother is not here and he is alone with the child.

Sure enough, she's right. The grandmother's in hospital, that's what he says. She's in hospital and Terry is minding the fort.

‘Vonnie needed someone to look after Bridie,' he tells her, but he's stuttering and stammering so hard she can hardly make out what he's saying, ‘so I put up my hand.'

She can feel the heat rising inside her. ‘Surely, that's not your job,' she says. ‘Surely that's something for her family to do.'

‘Sorry?' he says, frowning hard as though he hasn't understood a word she's said.

She repeats herself very slowly and very clearly. ‘I said, her family should be looking after her, not you, Terry.'

He licks his lips before he answers her. It irks her to watch it.
Don't lick your lips at me
, she wants to snap at him. She forces herself to stay quiet.

‘You've seen the records, Laurie,' he says. ‘The mother's dead, the father's AWOL and the grandmother's a widow—where exactly is the family to look after her?'

He's lost the stammering now. Now he's back to his usual arrogant self. Well, two can play at that. She pulls herself up so she's standing very tall. ‘There must be someone,' she says.

He crosses his arms in front of him. ‘That's right, Laurie,' he says, ‘there
is
someone—there's me.' His tone is so patronising she could slap him.

‘So you thought it would be a good idea to move in with one of your students without telling me? Is that what you're saying?' She speaks as calmly as she can.

It gives her some satisfaction to watch his face turn red. ‘Well, Laurie, that's not how I'd describe it,' he says, ‘and quite frankly, I don't know what you're insinuating. All I know is that I've been helping out a family that needed a bit of support.'

She doesn't flinch. Instead, she keeps it very cool. ‘Well, Terry,' she responds, ‘I'm astounded that you didn't speak to me about this. As your principal, I have a right to be informed of situations like these.'

She can't believe his reply: ‘I wasn't aware of that.'

That's when she explodes. ‘What do you mean you weren't aware of that? Surely you're familiar with the departmental guidelines on protective practices?'

He just stares at her.

‘And you're aware of the policy on home visits, aren't you?'

Slowly, he shakes his head at her. ‘Laurie, you're not listening to me,' he says. ‘I'm not visiting her, I'm looking after her.'

As if that is an answer. ‘Well, that just makes it even more inappropriate.' She's trying hard not to shout now. She's trying as hard as she can. ‘That just makes it completely inappropriate.'

At that moment, a voice rings out from behind her. ‘What's inappropriate?'

Laurie swings around to find a woman standing in front of her. Before she can say anything, Terry steps in. ‘Michelle, love,' he's saying, ‘this is Laurie Mathews. Laurie, my wife Michelle.'

It's as if they've all just met at a cocktail party. Laurie is dumbfounded. The woman—Michelle—gives her a smile. ‘Would you like to come in?'

Caught off guard, Laurie just stares at her. ‘No,' she says, ‘I won't stay. I just needed a word with Terry.'

Michelle keeps smiling. ‘If you're sure.'

She is sure. She's absolutely sure. Absolutely sure that she wants to get the hell out of here. If she doesn't, she'll throttle Terry Pritchard. So she turns around and marches back to the car. But her hands are shaking so much she can hardly manage to open the door, and once she's inside, she has to try twice to get the key in the ignition. Keep it together, she tells herself, just keep it together. All she needs to do is turn on the engine and start driving home. Then she can decide what to do next.

The audacity, the sheer audacity of the man: that's what she can't believe. How is she supposed to deal with someone like that? How can she be expected to supervise a man who shows nothing but contempt for her and who openly defies departmental guidelines?

And what in God's name has he been doing with that little girl?

And what was he doing drinking beer there, at night, alone, in her house?

She should have called the police. That's what she should have done. And if his wife hadn't turned up, she would have. She'd have called the police on him, then and there.

Now, as she makes her way home, she wonders whether she shouldn't have done it anyway. Whether she should have just called the police and been done with it. Wife or no wife.

Too late now.

But not too late to put in a call to the unit. And this time, she'll be insisting that Lucy Carboni take her seriously.

Nina

In bed that night, the night of his confession, Steve clings to her like a baby. She lets herself be held, lets herself be moulded to his body shape, lets herself be gentle with him. He sleeps before she does, well before she does.

In the morning, he is the one to wake her. Gently, his hand on her shoulder. But she won't be woken easily and it takes some time before she can manage to keep her eyes open. He brings her a cup of tea and when she sees this, she gives him a small, sleepy smile. He smiles back, but his smile is wary. It is this that jolts her out of her half-sleep, reminding her that despite the tea, things are not okay.

She starts when she sees the time—it is already after eight. It takes her a moment or two to remember that it is not, in fact, a school day; that it is Saturday. And yet Steve is wearing his suit.

‘You working?' she asks, her voice still thick with sleep.