The Teacher's Secret Read online

  Terry pretends to give it some serious thought. ‘I’d say you’re already in Year 6, Elsie. That’s what I’d be saying.’

  Elsie is puffed up with pleasure. ‘That’s what I was thinking too, Mr P. That’s exactly what I was thinking.’

  As he makes his way back to the classroom, it’s Elsie who fills his head. She’s come a long way, that’s for sure, but he still can’t help but worry about how she’ll go in high school. Kids can be cruel, and Elsie’s an easy target. But it’s still a year away and a lot can happen in a year. Like reading. Like getting Elsie’s reading right up to speed. And not just Elsie, the lot of them.

  It’s late by the time he’s got the classroom sorted. Michelle just shakes her head when he finally makes it home. She’s not annoyed, though. She’s used to it. And she’s made him that chicken casserole he loves, the one they just call ‘Michelle’s casserole’. She’s had the day at home and the place looks a treat.

  ‘Diane’s replacement, what’s she like?’ she asks him.

  He’s not in the mood to think about it.

  ‘She wore a suit,’ he tells her. That’s about as much as he can manage.

  Michelle laughs. ‘A suit? At Brindle Public? Good luck with that.’

  Nina

  Nina wakes early. When she opens her eyes, she sees that a slice of summer sunshine has pushed through a slit in the curtains, beaming light across the bed. Gently, she wriggles around to face Steve then props her head up with her hand to watch him. She often watches him sleeping. She likes to wonder at him, this handsome man, who, somehow, is also her husband.

  Her hair falls in her face. With her free hand, she tucks it behind her ear. Because there is so much of it, half of it falls back again. This time, she twists the errant strands into a coil then pushes it away. She has curly hair, long blonde-brown curly hair that turns to frizz when she brushes it. So she rarely brushes it at all.

  His hair—Steve’s hair—is curly too, but darker; in the sun it has a copper sheen. Beautiful hair, she thinks.

  When he stirs, she moves closer to him, close enough for her foot to rub against his. Smiling, she kisses him on the lips then rubs her nose against his cheekbone. He wakes slowly. A stretching sort of waking that makes her smile widen. When, finally, his eyes open, they lock on her face, so close to his, and he draws back. She pretends this is not what has happened.

  ‘Hi,’ she says softly, her smile more hesitant now.

  With a grunt, he turns onto his side, away from her. He’s been working late, she reminds herself; he’s tired, he needs to sleep. He should sleep.

  And she should get up. If she’s to get to school on time, she should get up now.

  So that’s what she does.

  She slips a light dressing-gown over her nightie and quietly leaves the bedroom. Next door is Emily’s room. Emily doesn’t like to fall asleep in the dark and so, as always, her door has been left ajar. Now, Nina opens it wider, just wide enough to look inside. Her daughter—their daughter—is still sleeping, her face tilting up on the pillow, her tiny rosebud mouth closed. Nina’s heart widens as she watches her: this little girl, no longer a baby, who sleeps not in a cot but in her own bed now. Except that she hasn’t completely got the hang of it yet, and there are nights when, woken by a thud, Nina will rush in to find her on the floor, still asleep, her little brow unfurrowed by her fall.

  It is half past six and Emily will certainly wake soon. But not, Nina hopes, before she has had a coffee.

  The kitchen itself is small but the alcove beside it is large enough for a table. This is where Nina loves to sit, mostly because it has a view out onto the yard. Not that it’s a beautiful yard: just patchy grass with a concrete path that leads up to the washing line. But Nina tries to see how it might be, with a new deck coming off the kitchen and the yard filled with trees. That would be lovely, she thinks. Steve isn’t so keen. A money thing, mostly, but he’s never really been one for home renovations. He thinks they should be happy to have got into the market at all, with prices rising so quickly. And she is happy about that, even if Claremont wouldn’t have been her first choice. But Claremont is Steve’s stamping ground and he likes it here, so who is she to complain?

  She does miss the sea, though. Not that it’s so very far away; they could drive to the beach in forty minutes. But they don’t.

  Before they’d bought in Claremont, they’d lived within reach of the water. Up north—right up north, ten hours north—and so close to the ocean she could almost taste the salt water when she woke in the morning. She’d loved living there. And she’d loved working there. Of course she was only ever a casual teacher—permanent placements almost never come up on the north coast—but she’d been lucky: one term had turned into two, then into a year, then two, then three.

  Midway through the second year, she met Steve. It was at a party at the local surf club; not one Nina had been invited to—one of the other teachers had dragged her along, to get you out a bit. Nina had never been a party girl; in a crowd, she was shy and awkward.

  She heard him before she saw him. He had the type of voice that could carry a party. The type of voice Nina didn’t have. When he came into view, she found herself watching him. He stood out. At the time, she would have guessed he was well over six foot. In fact, he is only just five eleven. Still taller than her, though, if only just.

  When he caught her eye, she blushed, and when he made his way over to her—of all the people there, it was her he chose—she’d felt her palms become sweaty. And although she became tongue-tied, he seemed not to notice; he just stayed and talked. About what, she can’t remember anymore, just that there had been a steady stream of words, steady and comforting, almost without a break, so that she didn’t need to say much in reply. She loved that: loved that her quietness was not a problem. When, at the end of the night, he asked her out, she looked around the room, filled as it was with bronzed and buxom locals, and was amazed he should opt for her. And when, less than a year later, he proposed to her, she answered quickly: so quickly there was no chance for him to reconsider.

  Later, after they were married, he decided it was time for a change. Instead of serving drinks at the club, he’d try to get into management. For this, he needed to study, and for him to study, they needed to move. So they moved to Claremont.

  And now, from the hallway of their house in Claremont, she hears the patter of little feet headed her way. Emily is up. There she is, poking her head through the doorway. Standing up, Nina holds her arms out. ‘Good morning, blossom,’ she says.

  Emily stays by the door. ‘I’m not a blossom, Mummy, you know that, don’t you?’ Her voice is severe.

  Nina tries not to laugh. ‘What are you then?’

  ‘I’m an Emily Foreman,’ she says.

  Nina murmurs in agreement. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘that’s exactly what you are: you’re an Emily Foreman.’

  One foot balanced on the other, the little girl looks pleased. Quickly, Nina checks the clock on the wall. It’s almost seven: time to get a move on.

  Today they are out of the house just after eight, which isn’t bad. Quietly, carefully, Nina closes the front door so as not to wake Steve. Emily, too, knows to be quiet in the mornings. Because Daddy is sleeping, she tells Nina on the way to the car, her voice a whisper-hiss.

  Nina fumbles in her bag for the car keys. ‘Because Daddy worked late last night, didn’t he?’

  Emily nods, her eyes wide. Daddy’s work is important. Already she knows this.

  It’s Tuesday; Tuesdays and Wednesdays aren’t childcare days; they’re Poppy days. Today when they arrive at Poppy’s house, the front door is closed. Nina gives only a cursory knock before she turns the handle and walks in.

  ‘Hi, Colin!’ she calls out to her father-in-law.

  ‘That must be my two favourite girls!’ he calls back.

  Nina smiles to see him.

  ‘What about Auntie Jen?’ Emily pipes up. ‘Is she your favourite girl too?’

 
Colin tugs at his ear, which has tufts of grey hair growing out of it. This fascinates Emily. It fascinates Nina, too, who often catches herself staring. ‘You’re right,’ he says now. ‘Auntie Jen is my favourite girl too. You’re all my favourite girls.’

  From Colin’s place, it’s only a short drive to Stenton Public School. This is Nina’s third year there as the learning and support teacher. It’s a good job—especially because it’s part-time—and although she misses the bustle of the classroom, she loves the one-on-one teaching. She even wonders if she’d be able to cope with a whole classful of kids again. Not to mention how she’d ever manage a return to full-time work.

  As she nears the school, she scours the street for a park. There isn’t any staff parking at the school so it’s simply a matter of finding a spot wherever she can. Today she’s lucky and gets one right outside the gate. She takes it as a sign that the day will be a good one.

  In her boot is a plastic crate full of books and a carton of milk. Leaning over, she swings her handbag over her shoulder, lifts out the crate and carries it over to her classroom. Well, classroom is something of an overstatement. In reality, it’s an old storage area. There aren’t enough classrooms to go around, and because Nina isn’t on class and works part-time, she got what was left over.

  She doesn’t mind. In fact, she’s grown to love it. And even though it’s small and narrow, a wall of windows keeps the room bright and sunny.

  From two of the windows, she has hung tear-shaped crystals that throw strips of rainbow across the room and onto the walls. She is especially pleased with the walls: pleased she painted them light blue and white, like a piece of sky drifting in through the windows.

  The only table in the room is covered in a tablecloth to hide the fact that it’s actually just two old school desks pushed together. In the corner of the room is an old filing cabinet covered with a silver-blue scarf. On top of it is an electric jug, a tin of chocolate powder and a packet of marshmallows. She adds the carton of milk. If Nina has a drawcard, this is it: when they are working with her, the kids can have a hot chocolate with a marshmallow.

  She turns the kettle on, but before it’s boiled there’s a knock on the door. ‘Come in,’ she calls out, but no one does. So she walks over and opens the door herself.

  In front of her is a student she doesn’t recognise; the new girl, she presumes. ‘Paige?’ she asks.

  The girl nods. She doesn’t return Nina’s smile but she does look her in the eye. This, in itself, is unusual. On a first meeting, the new kids tend to just shuffle their feet and look at the floor. It’s embarrassing to be hauled out of class to see Mrs Foreman. It’s as good as holding up a sign saying I’m stupid. That’s why no one ever comes to her with their head held high. Except this one. She’s a stocky kid: broad shoulders, chunky little legs and a barrel-shaped tummy. Freckles, too; not just across her nose but a whole face full of them, from her forehead right down past her chin. Her hair, light brown and long, could do with a cut.

  ‘I’m Mrs Foreman,’ she says. ‘Nina Foreman.’

  This makes the girl flick her head up in surprise. It’s an introduction Nina gives deliberately. To create an intimacy, to give out a bit of a secret. To make up for the embarrassment of being sent out of the classroom and over to her in the first place.

  ‘Come in,’ she says. ‘Have a seat.’

  The kettle starts to whistle as it boils, and already Paige is looking past Nina and across to the tea corner.

  Nina makes her a hot chocolate. ‘White marshmallow or pink one?’

  The girl’s lips twist up. ‘Pink.’

  Nina hands her an exercise book, which is already covered in red-and-green-striped contact. Nina covers all her students’ books, to make it seem a bit less like schoolwork and a bit more like fun.

  ‘Do me a title page,’ she tells the girl. ‘Just your name and your class.’ Nina has three pencil cases: a green one filled with coloured pencils, a red one with textas, and a blue one with lead pencils and biros. She places them all on the table and leaves the girl to it. She always starts with something easy, something she knows they’ll be able to manage, so they don’t panic.

  Paige looks doubtful but opens her book to the first page then runs a finger down the edge to make it stay flat. She chooses the red pencil case and tips it up so that the textas roll out of it and onto the table. For her name, she uses purple. Paige Peters she writes in careful bubble writing. To make a border, she draws green zigzags along the edge of the page then repeats the pattern in red and then blue. When she has finished the last zigzag, she looks up at Nina.

  Nina nods. ‘Good,’ she says. ‘And now I want you to tell me a story about yourself. Just a short one. Two or three sentences, that’s all.’ It’s a test to gauge the girl’s writing level, only she doesn’t want to say that. But the girl isn’t fooled, and her face falls.

  Nina hands her a lead pencil. ‘It’s just for me,’ she says, ‘so I can get to know you.’

  The girl bites her lip but takes the pencil and starts to write. She is left-handed, like Emily. For this reason alone, Nina feels a sudden affection for her.

  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, b
ut 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.