‘Oh, sorry to hear…One of you said, so, Bart, what are you going to make? And I said, well, perhaps it’s time to go back and make a spice rack.’
Mrs Maxwell smiled. ‘You were quite a pioneer.’
Rebecca Downey was growing impatient. ‘We must go, the assembly’s started.’
‘Nice to see you again,’ Moy said, as Mrs Maxwell waddled along.
Moy said to the principal, ‘Nothing much has changed.’
‘Well, she’s way past retirement, but it’s hard to find a good home ec teacher…Any home ec teacher, really.’
‘I mean, nothing much has changed physically. Same lockers, same chairs, same desks.’
She looked at him strangely. ‘We have a master plan. Most of the rooms have been renovated and recarpeted.’
‘Really? Well…’ He looked in one of the grade five classrooms. ‘Looks just the same.’
‘Interactive whiteboard,’ she pointed out. ‘Data projector.’
‘Yes, but look at those macaroni murals. What’s that one?’
‘I think it’s meant to be a face.’
They arrived in the gym. All three hundred children were waiting for them, sitting on the ground in year level lines: the youngest, their hands in the little valley of flesh created by their legs; the grade ones and twos, more alert, staring at the strange man beside Miss Downey; the threes and fours, laughing and holding their nose because someone had farted; the older kids, their lines snaking across the floor at the back of the gym, their legs stretched out, whispered threats and promises passing up and down the line.
Principal Downey waited at the front of the hall with her arms crossed. Eventually, over a minute or so, the students fell quiet.
‘Well, that was quite a wait,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand why I should have to wait here for so long when it’s obvious what I want you to do.’
Silence; as the teachers thought the same thing as the kids.
‘I’ve explained,’ she continued, ‘how it should be so quiet that I can hear the air-conditioning.’
And they all listened, realising no one had turned it on.
There was a boy staring at Moy with a scowl on his face. Moy glared at him, opening his eyes wide and clenching his jaw. The boy mouthed a word. Moy couldn’t make it out. Was it please? Was he pleading for something? Perhaps he was saying his name: Peter, Paul? Pavlich? He said it again.
Poof.
Jesus, nothing changes.
‘Howard!’ the principal growled, and the boy looked forward. ‘The Student Council is meeting this Thursday. They’ll be voting on four proposals put forward by you, the students.’ And she indicated, in case they’d forgotten who they were. Then she read from a clipboard. ‘One: soft drinks for the canteen.’ She looked up. ‘Well, I don’t know how that one got through.’ She smiled at an efficient-looking woman to her left. ‘That wouldn’t fit our healthy eating policy,’ and Moy wondered, if that were the case, why there were so many fat kids.
He noticed a wall covered with sporting pennants dating back to the 1960s, boasting first, second and thirds for football, cricket, hockey and athletics. No pennants for netball. There were clubs for that.
On his first day at high school Rodney Elvis had given him the best advice of his life. ‘In your first sport lesson,’ the older boy had said, ‘make sure you put in zero effort.’
‘Why?’
‘They’re watching you. In your second lesson they’ll put you into groups and they make the advanced group run, play footy, do weights.’
And so it came to pass that by March the advanced group was running circuits, jogging around the school and battling each other for the title of longest kick and quickest sprint. Meanwhile, the remedials were escorted to Judell’s Pool Room for an hour of snooker.
‘And now, Detective Sergeant Moy, from the Guilderton CIB—is that right?’ the principal asked.
‘We don’t really have a CIB, as such.’
But she didn’t care. ‘Mr Moy wishes to speak to you. So, best manners, no talking or you might end up in handcuffs.’
He came forward. ‘I would like to ask for your help,’ he began, and there were murmurs at the back of the hall.
‘Perhaps if you could speak up,’ the principal said.
‘Fine. Is that better? Can you hear me?’ he asked, and one of the grade sevens said, ‘Loud and clear, Detective.’
The whole group laughed. Downey stood glaring at them with her hands on her hips. A few of the other teachers stood up and started walking in the spaces between the rows.
‘Yesterday we had a report of an abduction from a laneway behind the shops on Ayr Street.’ And he explained. When he stopped he noticed the poofter boy mouthing something different: Gary, gate, get off…gay…Gay, yes it was gay. The boy repeated it.