The Rye Man (18 page)

At the chugging sound of a tractor coming up the lane she stood up and confirmed it was her husband, then took a rag of a dish-cloth and wiped the draining board before turning to quickly lift away his unfinished cup of tea. He felt she was going to say something to him but couldn't find the words, and the only sound was water dripping into the sink and the welcoming bark of the dog.

‘Mrs McQuarrie . . . ‘

She squeezed the dish-cloth into her hand.

‘It'll be all right.'

She nodded her head and then went into the porch to open the outside door. He heard her whisper something and then McQuarrie came into the kitchen. He was dressed in mud-splashed blue overalls and when he pulled off his blue woollen cap he revealed a skim of thinning blond hair plastered flat to his head. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a face reddened by the seasons and outdoor work. He had blue eyes like Jacqueline and looked at the hand stretched out in greeting with open suspicion. He shook it quickly without excusing himself then turned his back to wash his hands in the sink, working up a lather from a thick block of green soap. She stood beside him ready with the towel and he took it without speaking, drying his hands in slow deliberate movements then handing it back to her.

‘
What can I do for you?' He stood at the edge of the table looking down at him, his hands plunged into the depths of side pockets.

‘I'd like to talk to you about Jacqueline.'

Without turning McQuarrie called her from where she lurked in the porch and with the word ‘upstairs' sent her scurrying into the hall.

He tried to be conciliatory, to create a positive atmosphere for what he had to say, and hoped McQuarrie would sit at the table. He made no reference to the earlier letter. ‘I'll not take up your time – I know you're a busy man.'

McQuarrie pushed an indifferent hand through his hair and opened the top two buttons of his overalls. His wife hung back, close to the doorway, still holding the towel.

‘As you're probably aware I'm concerned about Jacqueline's progress and don't feel that the school is able at present to give her the help she needs.' He paused while McQuarrie sat down on the chair opposite him, his hand sweeping bread crumbs to the floor. ‘I'd like to have her assessed by the educational psychologist to get a clearer picture of what her strengths and weaknesses are and to get a recommendation about what would be best for her.'

‘A psychologist,' repeated McQuarrie. ‘People who are sick in the head need psychologists. My daughter's not sick in the head. She doesn't need a psychologist.'

‘They're called psychologists but all they really do is chat to the child and give some tests in English and Maths. Find out their reading age – things like that.'

‘And what'll tests show when she's done them except she didn't know any of the answers?'

‘It would give us a more expert opinion on her needs and advise us what would be best for her.'

‘You don't need any tests to know that Jacqueline's slow –
you
hardly need to be an expert to know that and it's her parents who'll say what's best for her and not some stranger in a suit.'

There was a creak from the stairs and he knew she was sitting listening to her father's rising voice. His face had slowly flooded with colour and he sat stiff and straight-backed, his hands palm down on the table. Strong, squat hands, a rim of charcoal-coloured dirt under the broad nails.

‘There are teachers trained to work with children like Jacqueline who really could help her make progress, fulfil some of the potential I know she has.'

‘And where would these teachers be?'

‘There are special schools and some schools have units which are able to do this sort of work.'

‘It seems to me that teachers are paid to teach children, so are you saying that your teachers can't do that?'

‘No I'm not saying that, but I'm saying we don't have the training, or more importantly the small numbers and facilities, to give Jacqueline the time and attention she needs.'

‘Has Vance complained about her behaviour?'

‘No, he hasn't, and it's not a question of behaviour. Jacqueline's a good girl. I know that.'

‘She knows well enough that she's to behave properly when she goes out of this house. Isn't that right Lisa?'

His wife nodded her head.

‘And tell me this Mr Cameron. Where would Jacqueline have to go for this help?'

‘The Board would supply transport and take her to wherever there was a place.'

‘Now you're supposed to be an expert, but you're telling me that it would be best for my daughter to take her away from the school she knows and all the people she knows in it and send her away somewhere she doesn't know anybody, and
nobody
knows her. Send her away every day to some school miles away and set her apart from all the other children here where she lives. Make a gypsy out of her. It doesn't sound very expert advice to my way of thinking.'

As he listened to his undisguised scorn he wanted to tell him about his child crouching at the base of the thorn hedge, curled like a mollusc on the rock, trailing her group at Nendrum, but although he knew already that there was little he could say which would reach McQuarrie or alter his way of thinking he had to give it one final try. ‘Sometimes children can be unkind . . . ‘

‘We know that fine rightly,' he interrupted, ‘and if you're really interested in Jacqueline's welfare there's something you can do for her, and that's make sure none of those wee skitters think they can get away with tormenting her. Because you can tell them from me that if I hear they're up to their old games I'll be up and tan their arses.' As he spoke his open palms clenched into hard knots of fists and one rose and fell heavily on the table making dishes and tea-stained spoons bounce like hail stones. ‘Now Mr Cameron I've cattle waiting to be moved and work to be done. We don't all enjoy the holidays of teachers.'

Then pushing back his chair and pulling the woollen cap back on his head he strode out of the kitchen telling his wife he wouldn't be back until mid-afternoon. There was the sound of a tractor's reluctant engine and then it was gone.

He thought of trying to explain to her but knew it couldn't change things as she accompanied him silently to his car.

‘Will you talk to him?'

‘It'll do no good when he's his mind made up as sure as he has.'

‘Will you try?'

She nodded her head with little conviction and then handed
him
something. It was a jar of home-made jam, its little, stretched cellophane lid fastened with an elastic band. He thanked her and searched slowly in his pockets for his car keys. The curtain of an upstairs window moved slightly.

‘Jacqueline's a bit of a tomboy isn't she?'

She nodded vaguely.

‘She did very well on the outdoor pursuits day. Had a go at everything. Caused me a bit of a worry though when I saw her bruised arm. I thought she'd done it during one of the activities, so I was relieved when she told me she'd had a fall on the farm.' He found the key and unlocked the door.

‘Said she'd had a tumble off the bales of silage.' She turned her head away as she spoke, her voice like the last faint wisps of mist.

‘Aye you couldn't watch her. Those bales are very slippery when they're wet.'

He sat in the car watching her walk quietly back into the house before he turned on the engine. As he drove down the lane the dog ran alongside, barking and snapping at the wheels.

*

Emma was still in her dressing gown when he got home, sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. The signs weren't good. He set the jam on the table as if it was a peace offering. Her spirits had been sinking steadily over the previous few days but as a counterbalance they had planned to go away for the day, driving into the Mournes where they could do some hillwalking and she could sketch. On the way home they would stop and have an evening meal in an hotel. But now she moped about showing little energy or urgency to get the day started. From her posture and flat replies to his questions he sensed that in her eyes he had done something wrong. He had told
her
a little about Jacqueline McQuarrie but not everything and she knew he had intended seeing her parents. It was obvious that the visit was something to do with her mood.

‘Well are we going to get ready?' he asked.

‘Ready for what?'

‘Our day out.'

‘I don't think you're very interested in going.'

‘Of course I'm interested, why do you think I'm asking?'

‘You're asking because you feel it's the right thing to do.'

He could feel his exasperation growing but, as always, resisted the temptation to say something forceful and plumped for the placatory. ‘Emma, you were looking forward to it.'

‘I was but I think it's a bit much that on your first day off you're away doing something about the school.'

‘But you weren't even up when I left and I'm back now. It was something important – you know that.'

‘John it's always important when school is concerned. And I know fine rightly that when we're out, about one tenth of your self will be with me and the rest of you will be thinking about school. Oh yes, you'll say all the right things, nod your head at the right times, but you're not really there. You're never really there.'

‘You have to understand – I'm in a new job and there's a lot of things I have to keep on top of. It'll be easier when I'm in it a while longer and I've got things better organised.'

‘Do you really believe that? Because I don't. It wasn't any different in your last job. Sometimes I don't think it'll ever be any different.'

She was angrier now than he'd seen her in a long time, the words bursting out of her and flowing over him, a hot lava flow scalding everything in its path. It was as if all the hurt and bitterness that had been stored so tightly were now finally breaking free. For a second he almost launched into a
defensive
listing of his virtues as a husband but stopped short because the first which came to his mind was the patience which he felt he displayed towards her at times like these. He tried his customary defence – lie back on the ropes and take the rage, shuffle a little, then deflect the flow in a different direction until gradually she wore herself out. But it seemed only to infuriate her more, provoking her to spew out words which would strike deeper, inflict some genuine hurt. As he listened, waiting for the rage to vent itself he tried to soak it up, to keep trying to calm her, hoping that it would all end with him holding her in his arms while she sobbed out the last dregs. But for the first time ever she was talking about their child, and in that moment they were suddenly shifted away from familiar ground.

‘You think of yourself as the great carer – well did it ever occur to you that when I needed your support most it wasn't there for me? No matter what you say you only played at grief. I don't think you ever felt any pain inside. Holding my hand and saying everything would work out all right was about the limit of what you gave to me, and when you walked out of that hospital each night you went straight home to carry on with your cosy little world of school.'

He tried to deny what she was saying but couldn't explain about the suitcase: the words he used instead sounded cold and predictable even in his own ears. He had never seen her in such a state and it frightened him because he was no longer sure he could control or assuage her feelings.

‘Tell me the truth John, did you really want to be a father?' She stared at him, the first tears starting.

‘Of course Emma I wanted to be a father. I wanted the child as much as you did.'

‘No, I don't think so. In fact I think the idea scared the hell out of you because while you go out of here and put on your
performance,
be Mr Wonderful to everybody else's child, you didn't know if you could carry it off with your own. And it would really scare you, wouldn't it, for a child, especially your own, to ever see you as less than Mr Wonderful?'

He tried to put his arm round her but she pushed the pathetic gesture away and rubbed her eyes with a shredded rag of tissue. He struggled to find some escape route for them both but only floundered further into the hail of her words.

‘John Cameron, the children's friend, the great catcher in the rye. Why don't you admit it John, just once, that it's all phoney. From the day you found Maguire's boy you've been living off children, using them because they don't know any better, can't see what a fraud you are. You make yourself wonderful to them and live off their affection like some parasite. All their pathetic little adulation feeds your ego, makes you feel good about yourself and nothing else really matters to you. Just that alone, not me, and not the child we'll never have.' The tears were in full flow, smearing the pale wash of her face.

There was nothing he could do, nothing he could say. He opened the kitchen door and headed out across the fields.

*

The formal business of the governors' meeting was mostly bureaucratic in nature – the shortlisting of applications for a cleaning job, the wording of an advertisement for a temporary replacement for Mrs Craig. The Reverend Houston queried whether there was any need for the maternity leave to be advertised as one of his parishioners was looking for a teaching job and proceeded to give her a testimonial. Without being sure of her qualifications or exact experience he felt that in her involvement with church activities she had displayed enough
qualities
of character to do a good job for the school. It was an argument that would have gathered momentum but for George intervening to say that while the good lady's application would certainly be considered, perhaps they should go ahead with the advertisement, purely ‘to keep things above board'. Then after a long, rambling debate about whether the local youth club should be granted use of the school premises it was time to give his progress report on the term so far.