It’s been a day of ceremony and memories, of war stories from the trenches of teaching. Thirty years in the same school. The turnout is huge: the local MP, district councillors, kaumatua, grandparents and whanau. And ex-pupils, long since grown up, but still living in the same forgotten, run-down suburb, entrusting their own kids to Brian. The karanga rings in the air, at once other-worldly but also strongly of this place, this community. The kapa haka group blows the roof off. But it’s the speeches that the staff are waiting for: will Brian behave himself or will he go out fighting?
The dignitaries and honoured guests are ranked on stage: charcoal suits, sensible, muted colours. Brian, true to form, is sporting some garish yellow shirt he picked up in an op shop. He glows against the sombre backdrop; larger, louder than life.
The local MP is grim but gracious. He thanks Brian for his years of service, his passion for his work, for his school. Notes the pair have frequently agreed to disagree, wishes him all the best: would it be, he asks, an oxymoron to describe Brian as retiring? A handful of dignitaries titter politely.
Then it’s Brian’s turn. He towers over the lectern, turns down the offer of the microphone. He’s never had trouble making himself heard, but you know, he’s not sure he and the MP ever actually agreed on anything. Little waves of laughter and Elizabeth, standing at the back of the hall where she’s keeping an eye on the more rambunctious Year 8s, tenses, mentally urging him to be gracious in return. And Brian almost does it: he thanks his staff, thanks Elizabeth, his right-hand woman, his splendid deputy, makes the kids laugh with a story from the old days. Some of the staff look disappointed. Elizabeth relaxes. Then Brian pauses, as if to finish, takes a breath and launches into a critique of national standards, cuts in operational funding and neo-liberalism. His greatest achievement, any teacher’s greatest achievement, he says, is sending the kids out into the world believing that they matter, that they have a right to dream.
‘It should be a given, a no-brainer,’ he says, ‘but with the policies we’ve got in place, it isn’t. So it’s up to us: teachers and parents and community, all of us. And if we can do this for them, our young people will go out into the world and they will surprise and amaze us.’
There’s thunderous applause. The MP’s small, tight smile is a rictus. A parent stands, then another and soon everyone is up on their feet applauding, stamping. A haka breaks out. The floor of the hall shakes. The air is charged with energy. Elizabeth shivers.
And then it’s the turn of the choir and the band and the school’s tiny orchestra. And cups of tea and savouries and sandwiches for guests and parents. The MP leaves early. The journalist takes pictures. Brian is in his element: ebullient, glad-handing, back-slapping, his voice booming over the rattle of teacups and conversation. Elizabeth watches, fascinated by his confidence.
The bell signals the end of lunchtime, summoning hyped-up kids back to their classrooms. The afternoon winds on, till at last, the teaching day ends.
Teachers and support staff gather in the staffroom, to toast the big booming man with a
penchant for loud shirts and telling it like it is. The textiles teacher presents the staff’s last gift: a shirt so bright it screams.
‘Just what a bloke needs,’ Brian says, ‘come here, Sonia, have a hug.’
And someone shouts out that it’s just the thing for a holiday in Phnom Penh and Brian better send them a photo.
‘Maybe when the teeth are sorted,’ Brian says, ‘post-op won’t be pretty.’
Conversation turns to the high cost of dentistry, of private insurance, the risks and ethics of medical tourism. Malia’s daughter is going to need braces: she dreads the expense. Alex is budgeting for an implant. Talk drifts hither and thither. From teeth, to holidays, to the new guy, who starts on Monday.
And now it’s after five. Brian hasn’t packed and check-in is in twelve hours.
‘So long, you lot! Parting is such sweet sorrow.’
And he and Elizabeth start ferrying boxes from his office, out to the car. The PTA’s gift, presents from the kids, cards from the staff, letters from ex-pupils, books, teaching notes. It’s amazing how stuff piles up, over thirty years.
Their colleagues begin trickling out to the carpark. As Brian and Elizabeth walk back to his office, they see a handful of stayers still finishing off the savouries and curling sandwiches.
‘Haven’t they got homes to go to?’
‘I’ll throw them out,’ Elizabeth says.
‘Well, make sure the buggers clean up. That’s not your job.’
‘Stop fussing Brian. We’ll manage.’
‘Of course you will,’ says Brian.
And they make their way back to the office.
Brian rolls his filing unit out from under the desk, removes the top drawer, tipping its contents into one last box.
‘Education property, Brian, am I going to have to call the police?’
‘Education property, my arse. How much stationery, how many books do you pay
for?’
Elizabeth apologises. But Brian’s attention is elsewhere. He upends the box on the desk, scattering pens, earphones, reading glasses. Rummages through the random detritus of a career. Pauses, then, with one swift, unbroken movement sweeps it all off the desk, back into the box. A few objects spill to the floor. He squats down to retrieve them, seems to be looking for something. Stands, straightens, rubs his back and frowns, scanning the office.
‘Lost something?’
‘No, no, not really. A memory stick, just one of those black and red ones.’
Elizabeth snorts.
‘Hardly a helpful description Brian, we’ve got dozens of them. Is it labelled?’
But Brian ignores her. He’s oddly distracted, agitated even, patting his pockets while he looks about him. Then he laughs, shedding his agitation like a skin.
‘Bloody good job I’m retiring,’ he says, pulling the missing item from his pocket, ‘why on earth do they … ’
And Elizabeth joins in to finish the line ‘… call them memory sticks.’
‘It’s been good, hasn’t it? We’ve been a good team.’
‘Yes, we have. We really have. Thank you. Thank you for everything.’
‘Thank you Elizabeth.’
And the two colleagues, two old friends bound by history, respect and vocation, stand facing each other in a tense, unfamiliar silence.
‘Christ, Elizabeth. That bloody board. I just don’t get it. You’ve been a bloody good DP.
You deserve this job, you deserve your own school.’
‘Don’t, Brian. It’s okay. There’ll be other opportunities.’
But Brian is pacing, venting his frustration. He fulminates against the new appointment, against ministry poodles and pettifoggers; against the board, its accountants and plumbers who think teaching is just another business. Decries the appetite for new blood, new thinking, new pedagogies.
‘New bloody cliché after new bloody cliché. That’s not what these kids need. They need love, Elizabeth. Christ knows some of them get little enough of it.’
‘Brian, I have to work with him. Stop it.’
Brian does stop, apologises, shoulders sagging. A second odd, difficult silence.
‘Well,’ says Elizabeth, ‘I guess this is it.’
Brian laughs, raises his arm to an imaginary audience.
‘This is it, she says. Bloody hell, Elizabeth, I’m retiring, not dying. Now come on, doesn’t
a guy deserve a hug after thirty years in this place?’
Elizabeth smiles.
‘Of course you do.’
Then she tells him to go on home, get himself sorted, she’ll take care of the rest.
Elizabeth looks around Brian’s old office one last time. Closes the window. Slides the drawer back into the filing unit, lines things up with the desk, just so, and sees, on the carpet, in the space she’s just created between unit and desk, a memory stick in a black and red case.
Elizabeth laughs. They must be everywhere, the office equivalent of stray socks. She rolls the filing unit aside to reveal a bulldog clip, two pens, a few stray drawing pins, and yes, another red and black stick. She picks everything up, pushes the unit back into place and leaves the room, shutting the door behind her. A car horn sounds in the car park. Shouts of bye and see you Monday and some wag adds, ‘under the new dawn’. Savouries must be gone, she thinks, and makes a mental note to check and lock the staffroom on her way out.
She goes to her own office, sits at her desk, lets her mind wander ahead to Monday and new brooms and back to thirty years of friendship, longer than her marriage, certainly longer than either of Brian’s. It would be exhausting, she thinks, living with all his noise, his stubbornness, his utter self-belief. Exhausting and inspiring. She smiles: old friends have the right to such observations.
In a minute or two she will go to the bathroom. She will wash her face, her hands, look long and hard at herself in the mirror. Waves of nausea and exhaustion will sweep over her, leaving her drained, shaking, and she too will think about retiring, about getting in her car and driving away, leaving everything behind her. Mostly though, she will think again about friendship. About love. About betrayal.
Elizabeth will breathe deeply, steeling herself for the task ahead. She will return to her office, where she will pause, just for a moment, before doing what has to be done. She will be surprised by the swift unfolding of events, by the speed with which the offices are searched, the computers seized and the car despatched.
Later, when asked, she won’t recall exactly what impulse it was that prompted her to flick off the cap and plug the stick into the port. She will deny being suspicious, deny anything resembling curiosity. When her interlocutors persist, she will suggest that it was nothing more than force of habit, a professional compulsion to maintain order. Alone, she will examine her actions and be shocked to find herself almost wishing she could have done otherwise.
And much later, when it is all over, when judgement is passed and the headlines have faded, Elizabeth will, every now and then, try to explain why she is grief-stricken. This will make her listeners uncomfortable. They will shift slightly in their chairs, and, once she has left the room, speak quietly amongst themselves. They will have difficulty understanding why she continues to mourn the loss of her best friend.
But that is yet to come. Right now, Elizabeth is finishing off for the week. Tidying her papers, making a list for Monday, listening to the machine as it grinds back into action.
Elizabeth is checking her makeup when the directory opens. Three folders. She opens one. Image files. School productions, she supposes, sports days, the centennial. They’ll have to be archived. Another job for Monday. Then she tells herself not to be silly, it will only take five minutes. If she does it now, they’ll be backed up overnight, she can empty the stick and put it back in the stationery cupboard as she leaves.
Elizabeth clicks on run slide show, touches up her lipstick, turns back to the screen.
The lipstick falls to the floor. Her gut turns to water, her heart breaks. She will never unsee these images. They will return to her on sleepless nights when the wind soughs through the pine trees and the full moon pierces the curtains. They will accompany her through the school day, through the checking of the roll, the ringing of the phone, the ongoing slog of it all. They will be with her when the traffic crawls homeward over the hill and the rain beats accusingly against her windscreen. And yes, they will be listening, standing in the shadows, a silent chorus bearing witness, when staffroom talk turns to airfares and Asian holidays.
They will haunt her every moment. The slim young bodies, the slender arms, the fragile hands. The big white man in the loud shirt.