Lessons from the Heart (5 page)

‘Isn't he
such
a spunk?' she says.

‘Who? Billy Whitecross?'

‘Dwayne.'

‘Dwayne? Which one's Dwayne?'

‘Jealous,' is all she says.

And I don't say anything at the time, but I think Dwayne's such a soppy name – Wayne's all right, but
Dwa-yne
isn't a real name at all, not like Mark or Luke or Matthew or John – or Philip, say. Dwayne's a Hollywood name or American at least and if you look it up in an encyclopaedia of names – which Toni is always doing – sometimes you won't even find it. Or if you do, it will say,
see Duane.
But it's the name some actors and soap stars on TV now have and girls of thirteen and fourteen like it because they think it's romantic and soulful and that, but you grow out of it.

‘Do you know what he called me?' Toni says and props herself on her elbow, and in the lamplight I can't even tell if she's making fun of herself, or of me, or is even serious.

‘No, what?'

‘Vivid.'

And Toni forgets this isn't the first time she's told me this – and once she even told Mum. Still,
vivid
's pretty good for Mr Prescott because that's actually what Toni is. She's not absolutely beautiful or stunning, like some girls, her forehead's too narrow, she knows that, which is why she still wears a fringe when they went out last century, and her jaw is too heavy for the rest of her face, and some people mightn't even think she's pretty. But that doesn't matter because, apart from her great legs, her face is so alive and her eyes, which I think are the best part of her … and this is really weird because even while I'm thinking about Toni's eyes, I find I can't remember their colour, and I must have seen them about a hundred times a day for the last million years, and I look now to check but her face is half in shadow from the lamp. Even though I can't see them properly it doesn't matter because I can still see them shining and gleaming in this dim light, and that's what you remember about Toni, not the
colours
so much but the life and energy in her eyes and face. It's a bit of a shock that Mr Prescott should have said that –
vivid
– because you don't think of him as noticing that closely. He's the PE and gym teacher and he's always talking about
speed
and
balance
and
power
and
tension
and
strength conditioning
and
aerobic
and
anaerobic
and things, but not vividness. You'd expect him to say something soppy from the newspapers or the TV like
vivacious.

That's why I'm not entirely sure he did say it. It seems too thoughtful for him, or serious or perceptive – more the sort of thing someone like Toni would say, or would want someone to say about her, which may be the same thing. Though it
is
true, whoever said it. Toni is the most vivid person I've ever known. Apart from my mother, that is.

‘Well, you are,' I tell Toni.

‘What?' she says, and I realize she's drifted on to something else.

‘Vivid.'

‘Do you think age makes a real difference?' she says.

‘Not in itself. It's more your interests are different.'

‘You mean, like if you're married and have children and that, and the other person hasn't?'

‘Yes.'

Mr Prescott is probably about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, though he looks younger, and sometimes if he's in the middle of a group of older kids, it's hard to pick him out. He was in the Institute of Sport in Canberra on a scholarship for running – he used to do middle distance, and he still does, he was in the top ten in the last City to Surf race – but, as he tells you himself (he's nice and not up-himself just because he was an elite athlete), he wasn't good enough to get to the Commonwealth or Olympic Games, so he thought he'd better do a Phys. Ed. course and teach. And I like him because he's helped me and even said I could be a good runner, I have
good body conformation
and am
strong through the hips and thighs –
these are other words he uses instead of calling you
vivid –
and I get all this not just from my Mum but from Dad too, because my Dad, Stavros, was a gym instructor and water-polo coach when he was in Australia. But I don't have any time for running with the HSC and if I want to keep up piano and French lessons with Mum, and I like to swim before school when Mum can make it.

Mr Prescott understands all that and doesn't push me, unless it's school sports time and he wants me to do three weeks' training leading up to it, which I don't mind. But apart from sports he doesn't have ideas and doesn't think to talk to you about your life or poetry or feminism like Miss Temple, but mostly just hangs about the oval or the gym or goes up to the tea-room in his shorts and he has a terrific tan because he's out in the sun so much. When he walks up the stairs, still in his shorts, some of the Year 7 and 8 girls whistle and go,
Ooo-ah,
and he just grins back – but you don't expect it from someone in Year 12. But Toni's been swooning about him for a year now, and Mum and I always just laugh as she melts all over our living room.

‘He's got such gorgeous legs.'

‘And what colour are his
eyes
?' Mum says, because she likes to join in and tease Toni, and she's sitting there feeding Thomas while she does this. And Katie's sitting on the other side of her because she loves to see the baby feeding and can't take her eyes off him sucking on Mum's breast and keeps saying soppy things like ‘He's really gobbling it, he's so greedy, isn't he?' before she pulls herself together and says, ‘I bet he sicks up later.'

And though I'd never admit it, I do actually enjoy it as well -just being around when Mum's feeding, not looking so much because it's all fairly ugly, and the milk and muck goes everywhere and you have to keep wiping your nipple. Mum's nipples are now so huge, and I keep hoping she won't wear singlets to the swimming pool and I tell her it's cold when it's about forty degrees and she ought to wear a tracksuit and not take it off till she gets to the side of the pool. It's more just the noise I like, just hearing the sound of Thomas's lips sucking –
Thomas,
can you believe; we're not allowed to say
Tom
. The sound's really restful, and I do look sometimes, I admit that, and wonder what it would be like to have a baby sucking on your breasts – not a man, not like Philip and that – but a baby, and once or twice I've had this feeling while I was watching, not in my breast but deep inside me, in my stomach or belly or something – weird – just like a tiny pull on a string, and I realize with a bit of a shock what a baby can do, just from looking at it.

But the thing I really don't like is when Thomas moves, or Mum does, and he falls off the nipple and suddenly you've just got this red, screwed-up face with its pointed, searching lips and a head going from side to side and about to scream because it can't find what it wants and it looks like a blind serpent that's about to eat you if you don't give it what it wants straightaway, and you get suddenly afraid that you might never get it off, like a leech that's huge and bloated but goes on sucking and sucking until it sucks every last drop of blood out of your body.

‘Isn't that crazy?' Toni says to Mum, still talking about Mr Prescott's eyes. ‘I don't know.'

‘But you must have looked,' Mum says. ‘If he's such a dream-boat.'

‘Blue, I suppose, cos they go with his hair.'

‘Which, no doubt, is blond. What a bore.'

‘Jealousy,' Toni says, ‘is a sin.'

‘Not as bad a sin,' Mum says, ‘as tedium. And what do you and Dreamboat talk about?'

And that's where Toni's stuck, because although she's always hanging around the gym and the sportsfield, whenever I've heard her talk to Mr Prescott, it's always been about sports – because Toni's quite a good long-jumper – or he's asked her about her school-work, and she's said how's his new baby. I mean, she does talk to Mr Prescott by herself sometimes when they're over at the jump-pit and I'm doing laps with the other girls, but I don't believe it's anything special and it's probably about strength conditioning and her thighs and hips, and that's why – when Mum asks her – she just shrugs and says:

‘Things. Anyway, people don't only talk.'

‘No,' Mum says. ‘But if they don't, it can get a bit dull in between.'

‘Oh, yes.' Toni pushes herself up off the couch and vamps her way across the carpet to get a tangerine from the bowl on the table. ‘And what if there is no in-between?'

‘Then,' Mum says, as she takes Thomas off her right breast and lifts him over her shoulder, ‘you're going to need all the vividness you can get.'

‘Vivid,'
Toni's still saying to me when we turn out the lamp. ‘Vivid,' she yawns, and starts to snore till she turns over off her back and lies on her side. But I'm still awake, listening to the last of the kids whispering in their tents and a late bird calling somewhere, and thinking of Mum, and her feeding Thomas, and the mortal shock I got when she said, my own Mother, calmly as anything, as if she was asking me if I'd had a good day at school:

‘But, darling, you didn't expect you and Philip were going to last forever, did you?'

6

‘This first night you camped,' Mr Jackson says. ‘This was at Cobar?'

‘Yes, Mr Jackson.'

‘What were the tenting arrangements?'

‘You mean, how did we put them up?'

‘No, Miss Vassilopoulos. I mean who slept … who tented with whom?'

‘All the kids and that?'

‘No, not all the kids and that. Just the teachers and the monitors. There were … let me see, five males and six females, am I right?'

‘I don't see why you're asking me all this, Mr Jackson. Any of the teachers could tell you this better than I could.'

‘It's important to get everyone's point of view, Laura,' Mr Murchison says then. ‘People remember things differently.'

‘Well,' I say, ‘I was with Toni, and I know Miss Temple and Miss Plummer were together, so I suppose that left Mrs Harvey and Jenny Freeborn. She was the other monitor.'

‘And the men?'

‘Mr Jasmyne was with Mr Tremblings, I think.'

‘And the other two monitors – this was Jamie Turner and …?'

‘David Lau.'

‘They were together?'

‘I think so. But I couldn't swear to it because they were right at the other end of the tents.'

‘So, the men's tents were all at one end?'

‘Up where the boys were.'

‘And the women down the girls' end?'

‘Yes.'

‘And that left one person over.'

‘How do you mean, Mr Jackson?'

‘Well, if what you've said so far is right, we have one person left who apparently had a tent to himself – Mr Prescott. How did that come about?'

‘I don't know, Mr Jackson.'

‘Well, would you have expected it? I mean, Mr Prescott's very popular, isn't he? With students, with other teachers?'

‘Yes.'

‘So, wouldn't you expect he'd be the first person someone would want to tent with – another teacher, one of the monitors perhaps?'

‘Well, if they had a choice, the monitors wouldn't want to sleep with a teacher.'

There is a silence when I say this. I look up at the picture of the Queen on the wall above Mr Jackson's head to stop myself from going red.

‘Tenting,' Mr Jackson says finally. ‘We're discussing tenting for the moment, Miss Vassilopoulos.'

‘Yes, Mr Jackson. But I'm sure Mr Jasmyne and Mr Tremblings would have wanted to be together.'

‘Why?' Mr Kovacs says, and this is the first question he's asked so far. I thought he must have gone to sleep or been resting his eyes till Toni's legs appeared through the door.

‘Because they're both …'

‘Both what?' Mr Kovacs says.

‘Both …' I say, and I don't want to make another mistake and say something stupid, and how can you say
nerds
about two teachers to the Principal and the Chairman of the School Board? But I've got so flustered,
nerd
is the only word I can think of, and they wouldn't understand
geek
or
dweeb,
and what's a proper English synonym for
nerd
anyway?

And by this time, Mr Kovacs has got a funny look on his face and is leaning back in his chair and looking at Mr Jackson, not me at all, and his expression is saying, ‘Well, good God, Principal, what have we got on our hands here?', or something.

‘They're both what, Laura?' Mr Murchison asks, in his usual helpful voice. ‘Compatible? Both interested in the same things?'

‘Yes. That's what I mean.'

‘What sorts of things?'

‘Well, like plants and animals, and that. And computing -they're always talking about this exciting new software program or something.'

‘I see,' Mr Murchison says, and Mr Kovacs has gone back to fiddling with his papers again, and saving his eyes up for Toni.

‘And so,' Mr Murchison says, ‘with common interests like that, they'd naturally gravitate together, just as the two male monitors would?'

‘Yes.'

‘And I suppose Mr Prescott – being the easy-going fellow he is – would probably say “Go ahead, I'm fine by myself”?'

‘Yes, Mr Murchison,' I say, and I'm just glad there's someone there with a few brains who can work things out.

‘Thank you, Mr Murchison,' Mr Jackson says, but I can tell he doesn't mean it. ‘That's been very helpful. And now, Miss Vassilopoulos, just one more thing about this Cobar stop-over.'

‘Yes, Mr Jackson?' I say, but I'm wondering to myself if we're going to go through the whole trip like this, stopping to discuss what happened every night, when the only things that happened, happened at Ayers Rock. It's already been thirty minutes and if it goes on like this it'll take an hour or more, and poor Toni will be wondering what's happening and if she's in real trouble and will have been to the toilet twelve times already.

‘At any time during your stay at Cobar, did you ever observe Mr Prescott and Miss Darling alone?'

‘No, Mr Jackson,' I say. After I've thought about it.

‘Why did you hesitate?'

‘I wanted to be sure I was right.'

‘Let me ask you again,' he says. And he speaks very slowly, and his voice is warning me to make sure I'm telling the truth. ‘Did you ever – on any occasion – during your stay at Cobar observe Miss Darling and Mr Prescott alone together?'

‘No, Mr Jackson,' I say. And, as I say it, I'm aware of Mr Murchison watching me. Not saying anything, just watching. And thinking.