Lessons from the Heart Read online

  And just as I realize this, and notice the pain’s still there, I see Miss Temple has stopped smiling and is frowning a bit and beckoning at me with her hand, and pointing at a seat at the front, opposite hers and Mr Jasmyne’s. And that’s the last thing I want, so I signal No, I want to stay here, and she goes on asking so I shake my head and put on this fake smile, and that satisfies her because she’s not really thinking about me or wondering if I have a pain – no one’s that sensitive – but is just thinking about how happy she is and how she’ll be with Mr Jasmyne and have him to herself for nine whole days, even if she’s got to sleep in a tent with Miss Plummer or Mrs Harvey. Everyone’ll probably think that coming on this trip is just a duty for her, it’s such a drag – though she does it with such goodwill, they’ll say, she’s so devoted to her job – when all the time she’s racing with excitement inside and thinking about secret kissing or even sex, and maybe even outside, on the grass, or on a path with the gravel biting into her back -with Mr Jasmyne! – because he can’t bear to be so close to her and not have her, and how she will fight him off for a while and not want to, then go back to her tent afterwards and listen to Mrs Harvey talk about some boy in Year 8 and how unmanageable he is, and if he doesn’t improve then he can jolly well sit in the bus all the time we’re at the Rock, and then she’ll go to bed, smiling in the dark and still wet between her legs and wondering with sudden shock if Mr Jasmyne’s smell will reach Mrs Harvey and what on earth she’d make of it if it did, and not be able to sleep for hours with the excitement and secrecy of it all.

  And the weird thing is, once you’ve seen a tiny little thing like that, it’s as though the world you’re looking at is suddenly quite different from anything you ever saw before. And you can even see backwards to things you never gave a second’s thought to at the time, like seeing Mr Jasmyne and Miss Temple on yard duty together or walking to the tea-room because they happened to bump into one another leaving their classrooms, or once when it was raining very hard after school and Miss Temple had given you and Toni a lift to the Mall and Mr Jasmyne happened to be standing at the bus stop, and Miss Temple had turned and said: ‘Shall we give him a lift?’

  ‘Yes,’ I’d said. Because I liked him, and I was happy as he waved and stumbled forward, because I thought I was the one getting him a lift.

  ‘Poor dear,’ Miss Temple said. ‘He looks so forlorn, don’t you think?’

  And Toni and I had laughed at this because he did look like a drowning cat, and forlorn was exactly the right word for him, and because this was a teacher inviting us to laugh at another teacher.

  And after he’d climbed in, Toni giggled all the way and asked him stupid questions like, ‘What tree is that, Mr Jasmyne?’ when it was just a stupid pine or something, or ‘What’s bitumen made of, Mr Jasmyne?’, and once she even said, ‘Did you get wet, poor dear?’ and I saw Miss Temple look sharply in the rear-vision mirror at us, but it was only fun on Toni’s part and she was doing it just to see him change colour, and neither of us thought anything further of it. Because you wouldn’t. Miss Temple and Mr Jasmyne – it was unthinkable.

  And after we’d got out at the Mall, and Miss Temple had turned to Mr Jasmyne and asked did he want to get out there as well and he’d said, No, he’d prefer the rail station if she could manage it, Toni and I just collapsed, of course, and made up stupid scenarios of them discussing dryland salinity or the shocking state of the Balkans all the way to the station and then Mr Jasmyne getting his feet caught on the lip of the car floor and falling out onto the road with all his papers spilling into the gutter when they finally got there, and the two of them making fools of themselves like that.

  But now we’re finally moving at last because the door’s hissed shut and the driver stands in the aisle with his stomach nearly filling it and looks at one row of kids, and then the next, and the next, and just says: ‘I’m Dave, and it’s my bus, okay?’, and looks again, till he’s looked at every row of kids on the bus, and then clambers slowly into his seat. There’s complete silence while he’s saying this, and for a few moments afterwards, and then one tiny, cheeky boy’s voice says, ‘I’m Dave, and it’s my bus, okay?’ and then another, ‘I’m Dave, and it’s my bus, okay?’ And then another voice, then a chorus: ‘I’m Dave, and it’s my bus, okay?’ Then they start doing variations. ‘Give me a D,’ one of the boys says, and the whole bus goes, ‘D!’ ‘Give me an I.’ – ‘I!’ ‘Give me an M.’ -‘M!’ ‘Give me a B.’ – ‘B!’ ‘Give me an O.’ – ‘O!’ ‘D-I-M-B-O, DIMBO! Cos I’m Dave, and It’s My Bus, Okay?’ they chant. And so, by the time we get to the gate, and lurch down over the lip of the gutter and into the street, the driver’s already Dimbo, and he is that for the rest of the trip.

  4

  ‘You were alone – as a monitor, I mean – on your bus, Miss Vassilopoulos? You were the only monitor?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Jackson. There were only five monitors altogether, you see, and with three buses –’

  ‘But normally …’

  ‘Normally I’d be together with Toni. But the idea is, you have one male and one female monitor on each bus. The same as the teachers.’

  ‘So, there was a male student monitor on the bus with Miss Darling?’

  ‘Jamie Turner. He was on Toni’s bus, and they had Mr Prescott and Mrs Harvey with them. They could tell you all this.’

  Mr Jackson has been asking all the questions to this point. Now Mr Murchison leans forward and opens his hands towards me and says:

  ‘We’re interested in the process of things here, Laura. How it was decided who went on which bus, the combinations, do you see.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure. The teachers decided, I suppose. Nobody argued about it, or anything.’

  ‘But in your case, for example, who decided you should go with Mr Jasmyne and Miss Temple?’

  ‘Miss Temple did.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She just mentioned how pleased she was I would be coming with her and Mr Jasmyne.’

  ‘So in each case, it was the individual teachers who decided?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mr Murchison. I suppose. You’d have to ask them.’

  ‘Yes, we will. I was just interested in how the monitors perceived it. The process of allocation, I mean.’

  Mr Jackson butts back in then. ‘Why do you think Miss Temple said she was so pleased to have you? Was it because she didn’t want Miss Darling?’

  ‘No, or I don’t think so. It’s just that I’m in her class for English.’

  ‘So, I believe, is Miss Darling.’

  ‘Yes, but I like it.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘And I get on well with Miss Temple, and besides she said she would supervise my assignment.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘What was what, Mr Jackson?’

  ‘You’re not intending to be impertinent, I hope, Miss Vas-silopoulos?’

  ‘No, Mr Jackson.’

  ‘This assignment you mentioned. What did it consist of?’

  ‘Well, for English, Miss Temple encourages you to keep a journal, which is something I do anyway. But she encourages you to put all sorts of things in it – different styles and things – she calls them genres – they can be just thoughts and ideas, or descriptions of things you see, or even poems – they can be poems you’ve written yourself or ones you just like that you copy out – all sorts of things, so it’s a kind of map of your mind for the year.’

  ‘Like a diary?’

  ‘Yes, except we call it a journal.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘Well, a diary’s more private, I suppose. It has only private things, whereas a journal can have both private and more public things, like descriptions, or stories, or even jokes, or bits out of the newspaper that catch your eye for some reason. Or quotes that you like and have copied out. Anything really. It’s more like a collage.’

  ‘And you kept such a journal? On this trip, I mean?’

  ‘Ye
s, I was doing it as part of my assessment for English, and because Miss Temple was on my bus, if I needed any advice she could help me.’

  ‘And where is this journal? Now, I mean. What’s happened to it?’

  ‘Miss Temple’s got it. She told me to mark the bits I wanted to use for assessment, and she wouldn’t read anything else. Because there’s a lot of other stuff mixed up with it. Private thoughts, and things. So I use a highlighter to show the bits I want assessed.’

  ‘And you trust Miss Temple,’ Mr Murchison says, ‘not to even look at the rest?’

  ‘Oh, yes. She promised she wouldn’t.’

  ‘Has it occurred to you,’ Mr Jackson says then, ‘that your journal could be of use to us?’

  ‘To you, Mr Jackson?’

  ‘To this inquiry.’

  ‘But you said it wasn’t an inquiry.’

  ‘I said it wasn’t a formal inquiry.’

  ‘I don’t see what my journal’s got to do with anything.’

  ‘Well, it might. If, for example, there was any material in there about this present issue.’

  ‘About Toni and Mr Prescott?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But Miss Temple promised it was private. That nobody else could read it.’

  ‘But she’s reading it.’

  ‘Yes, but I trust her.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Laura,’ Mr Murchison says then in his quiet voice. ‘I’m still wondering about this business of the allocation of students to the different buses. Now I understand about you and Miss Temple, but what about the other students? Who decided where they should go?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mr Murchison.’

  ‘What about Toni? Didn’t she discuss it with you?’

  ‘Sort of. You see, it was Miss Temple and Mr Prescott who supported her coming in the first place, when some of the other teachers didn’t. But since I was already with Miss Temple and you could only have one girl to each bus –’

  ‘It seemed natural for her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about the other girl? There must have been a third?’

  ‘Jenny Freeborn. She was with Miss Plummer and Mr Tremblings.’

  ‘So who decided which of them went where? Toni and Jenny, I mean.’

  ‘I don’t know, Mr Murchison.’

  ‘Was it Mr Prescott?’

  ‘Well, as I said, he and Miss Temple had supported Toni, and they’d told the other teachers they’d …’

  ‘Keep an eye on her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And since you were with Miss Temple, because of your assignment, that left Mr Prescott.’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Well, she could still have gone with Miss Plummer and Mr Tremblings.’

  ‘Would she have wanted to?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did she express any preference?’

  ‘She would have preferred –’

  ‘Mr Prescott?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  5

  We’re not even out of the Sydney traffic when I see this boy in the centre of the bus start convulsing. He keeps dipping and jerking his head like he’s an electronic duck with a malfunctioning chip, or something. And I know about fits because I did this first-aid course in Year 10, and the crucial thing is making sure their tongue’s clear so they don’t bite it off or swallow it, and getting them in a position so they don’t choke on their own vomit, and that.

  It’s only by chance but I’m actually looking at this boy when it starts, and I’m already thinking what a klunkhead he looks, even though he’s probably only twelve or thirteen, but he’s the biggest kid on the bus and has a square head and a flat dish of a face that looks like a rice pudding with tiny dark raisins for eyes and looks even uglier with his baseball cap worn backwards. It’s amazing, you see the fattest, ugliest kids all the time and their mothers seem to have no idea, and even if you told them, they’d probably just go, ‘Ugly? My kid? Have you ever looked in the mirror yourself, ape features? Why don’t you just mind your own business?’

  Anyway, all this is running through my mind when the fit begins, which is called the onset. And this is what monitors are for – to stop the kids having fits on the bus while the teachers are right up the front holding hands under an overcoat and pretending to read.

  Still, I’m quite pleased with myself, because not only do I leap up as soon as the convulsions begin but I grab a wooden ruler off another boy as I go down the aisle of the bus, and that way, I think, I can keep the kid’s tongue down without losing a finger myself. And there’s no chance to call Miss Temple or Mr Jasmyne because by the time I get there, the kid’s jerking uncontrollably, his head and neck and shoulders all working, and I push him back hard against the seat and hold him still for a second, and his eyes are still rolling and their whites showing, and I shout at him to see if I can reach him.

  ‘Can you hear me?’

  And all the kids in the seats nearby kneel up or screw around and even push me from behind to see what’s happening.

  ‘Sit down,’ I yell, and from the corner of my eye, I see Miss Temple’s head appear at last around the edge of her seat, and I wish she’d just hurry. But the kid must be able to hear me, I reckon, because his eyes have stopped rolling and just for a second the convulsions seem to have stopped.

  ‘Can you open your mouth?’ I rest the wooden ruler on his bottom lip. ‘Just try and get it open.’

  The boy can’t or won’t open. He just shakes his head from side to side, his lips pressed whitely together. But he looks calmer and in control suddenly, except for his eyes which are still wide with fear.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I say, because the jerking’s stopped for the moment, and I withdraw the ruler.

  ‘What are you bloody doing?’ he says then.

  ‘You were having a fit,’ I tell him, as Miss Temple finally gets to us.

  ‘A fit?’ he says. ‘You’re the one having the fit. Why don’t you mind your own business? Lorr-ah,’ he adds, squeezing the hard, black raisins even tighter and pushing his lower lip and jaw out so far that the rice pudding’s disappeared and I’m left looking at the orangutan that’s just swallowed it.

  ‘Thank you, Laura, I’ll manage this now,’ Miss Temple says, and I move back as she begins to get the story from the kids in the seats around. Their voices run over the top of one another as they tell her: ‘Well, you see, Miss Temple … Maurice Jonkers, he swallowed a jube … actually it was a wine gum … no, it wasn’t, it was a jube, I was the one sitting next to him … anyway, then he got hiccups … and then Billy Whitecross … well, he began to pretend he had hiccups too, just to mock him … and he started to do all this jerking about and things … and rolling his eyes … and then Laura, well she tried to put this ruler down Billy’s mouth … cos she thought …’

  Little prick, I think, as I reach my seat. What a rotten little prick. And I slump down in my seat and think, what am I doing here, I’m going to hate this whole trip, and if I had any guts I’d go up the front right now and tell Dimbo that I’d just been to the toilet and found I’d had a sudden outbreak of cholera, and the whole bus would have to go into quarantine for three months if I didn’t get off right now, and I’d get a train back home and go to bed and pull the blankets up over my head for the rest of my life.

  ‘You did the right thing anyway, Laura.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Temple.’

  ‘It could have been serious.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Temple.’

  ‘Perhaps just check with me first next time? It can save us all getting too anxious or carried away.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Miss Temple.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right down here by yourself?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Temple.’

  ‘You’re not lonely, just here with your own thoughts?’

  ‘No, Miss Temple.’

  ‘Good, I’ll let you get on with them, then.’

 
As she goes back down the aisle, Miss Temple stops to check one last time with Billy, the boy who wasn’t having the fit. She pats him on the shoulder, and moves on. Behind her back, Billy turns and pokes out his tongue at me and waggles his open hands and fingers against the sides of his head, and three or four of his friends start jerking and convulsing their heads and shoulders.

  Prick, I think. You absolute little arsehole.

  ‘Don’t take any notice of him, Laura,’ a voice comes up from the seat in front of me. ‘He’s like that with everyone. He’s just a bully and a show-off.’

  I look over the top of the seat at the two girls sitting quietly with their books on their knees and a packet of sweets open on a cushion between them. One of the girls is dark – Indian or Sri Lankan, I guess – with the blackest, gleaming hair pulled back from her face and pinned with bright plastic clips with animals and butterflies on them. Her teeth shine whitely in her brown face. She is so cute.

  ‘Would you like a barley sugar?’ she says.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, though normally I never eat barley sugar. ‘Thank you,’ I say, as she lifts the open packet up to me.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I ask her while I’m choosing.

  ‘Luisa.’