Rachel Cusk - The Country Life

‘When your team wins at football!’ said another boy.

‘Good!’ beamed the woman.

‘When your friend comes to see you!’

‘Good! ’

I was edging back in my chair in the attempt to catch sight of Martin. He was sitting with his head erect and his eyes closed, with an aspect of almost mystical contemplation. As I was looking, he opened his eyes and gazed at me.

‘Now,’ said the teacher, when the volley of positives had subsided. ‘What about bad feelings?’

I sensed that of the two subjects, this one interested her more; and that she would not be so easily pleased by the children’s answers concerning it.

‘What about bad feelings?’ she said again, giving the word every nuance that facial expression and intonation could muster.

‘When you’re sad,’ chirped a little girl beside me.

‘When you’re sad ,’ repeated the woman triumphantly, looking around at the group. ‘What makes you sad?’

There was a fidgeting silence.

‘Martin,’ she said presently. ‘What makes you sad?’

‘Take your pick,’ said Martin, shrugging.

‘Stephen, what about you?’

‘Dunno,’ said Stephen in a small voice.

I had my eye on Elizabeth, being more articulate but less defensive, to supply the correct answer; and sure enough, when her forays among the male contingent had proved unproductive, the woman’s gaze settled confidently on the girl.

‘Elizabeth?’

‘When people don’t treat you as normal,’ said Elizabeth reliably, her fleshy white face barely moving.

‘When people don’t treat you as normal,’ echoed the teacher, distributing the phrase with her eyes over the whole group. ‘And how does that make you feel?’

‘Sad,’ said Elizabeth, nonplussed.

Now that I was settled in my chair, and had more or less got the measure of my new situation, the frantic pressure which had been pounding in my chest all day began slowly to subside. My drive to Buckley underwent in my mind the miraculous reduction which time can effect on an unpleasant past event, while other anxieties, emerging from its shadow, grew correspondingly larger. While I had certainly succeeded in conveying myself and Martin to the centre without injury, my accomplishment accrued in my mind a debt to luck which I had not attributed to it at the time. Concerned only with the immediate problem of getting to Buckley that afternoon, I had failed to take into account a future regularly punctuated by these journeys; a future which must, given my reliance on chance rather than skill in the matter of driving, contain down one of its dark trajectories a horrible accident by which I would repay all that I had borrowed from fortune. Despite Martin’s willingness to enter into my deception, I knew that by continuing to drive in this manner I would be taking unacceptable risks with his life; and yet his compliance was so tempting, given the consequences of an admission of truth to the Maddens, that I found myself as I sat there without the clear intention of confessing the problem to them at the next opportunity. How could I confess to the Maddens, now that I had exposed not only their car but also their son to danger? Seen in this light, it seemed incredible that I had not been honest when honesty had come at a more reasonable price; but I was beginning to realize that no amount of calculation could cure what probity would have prevented.

‘Now just calm down everybody,’ said the teacher, making leavening motions with her hands.

I realized, surfacing from my reverie, that some kind of argument had broken out around me. Its centre appeared to be Marie, the piercing register of whose voice rose in indeterminate squawks and exclamations above the waves of commentary sweeping the group. The teacher’s face was a medley of triumph and fear, as if she were savouring the perils of her job and tasting her own competence as she negotiated them.

‘I’ve got the right to my own opinion,’ complained Marie.

‘Marie’s got the right to her own opinion,’ confirmed the teacher above the noise.

‘That’s like saying I’ve got the right to pick my nose,’ said Martin clearly from the back of the group. ‘Everybody would prefer it if I didn’t do it in front of them.’

Martin’s comment detonated explosions of laughter all across the room.

‘I really don’t think—’ said the teacher amidst the pandemonium.

‘That’s typical !’ shrieked Marie. ‘That’s typical !’

‘—that sort of remark is what we’re all about here, Martin.’

Martin did not reply. A brief hush fell over the room. Then a boy with an oafish face and untidy hair put up his hand.

‘I support Martin!’ he said loudly, looking to his hero for approval. ‘Marie talks too much. She’s always complaining.’

‘Yeah! Yeah!’ chimed a choir of variously pitched male voices.

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake ,’ wailed Marie.

‘Now look.’ The teacher’s expression of bland geniality was momentarily dislodged by a flash of anger. I saw that her patience with the group was the result of some effort, and that a narrow margin separated it from her loathing. ‘Now look,’ she said, more calmly. A thread of hysteria ran through her voice. ‘Let’s all just cool off , shall we? This space is meant for discussion only. If you can’t all discuss things without arguing’ — she looked nervously around the group. I sensed that recourse to a more authoritarian style of leadership was imminent — ‘then we’ll have to abandon these sessions. Is that clear?’ Silence reigned, ‘Is that clear?’ A grumble of assent rose sheepishly from the wheelchairs. The teacher surveyed the group at a level just above their heads, as if ascertaining the efficiency of their suppression. She wore a slightly vengeful expression as she guarded her painstakingly constructed democracy. ‘Now I think we’ll end here. You can all go and find your drawings and carry on where you left off on Monday. Quietly!’ she commanded, stemming an outbreak of chatter as the group broke up and its constituents began turning on their axes and spinning away to the far end of the room.

I was surprised to hear that more drawing was on the agenda, as from what I had seen so far the building already seemed replete with the group’s artistic efforts. I immediately saw in the occupation the slender pretext of distracting the group with minimal effort on behalf of the teacher; a motive I was beginning to suspect underlay the whole character of the ‘sessions’. Now that the others had dispersed, I was left rather isolated on my plastic chair; and eventually I stood up and, having nothing else to do, busied myself with replacing the chair where I had found it.

‘Stella!’

I turned around and saw the teacher bearing down on me, her arm extended and her face transfixed by a sociable smile.

‘Karen Miller,’ she said, grasping my hand and shaking it. Having already told her my name, I was somewhat lost as to the correct response to this greeting. ‘It’s great to have you here,’ she continued. ‘I always think it’s very positive for carers to see the kind of thing we do here.’ She laughed ruefully. ‘Although I’m afraid they weren’t on their best behaviour today. I wouldn’t want you to think that it was always like that. Most of the time we have really useful discussions.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ I said, nodding. I saw that she required some assurance that I would not form a bad opinion of her class, which I might then remove from her jurisdiction and disseminate.

‘The discussions are designed to help the children come to terms with their situation,’ she continued. Her large eyes pinioned mine, but strangely I did not feel that she was looking at me. ‘Our aim here is to enable them to socialize their disability. A lot of them feel very isolated without this sort of contact. Here they can just relax and be themselves. We wanted to create a space above all in which children like these feel normal. ’