The staff of St Margaret’s Primary School are hanging by a thread.

There’s

GABBIE STROUD the things that

serious litigation pending, the school is due for registration, and a powerful
‘a real page-turner Bestselling author of  ‘Powerful . . . real . . .
and heartbreaker’ couldn’t put it down.’
parent named Janet Bellevue has a lot to say about everything. As teachers ALICE PUNG Teacher and Dear Parents MAGGIE DENT
they’re trying to remain professional, as people they’re unravelling fast.

There’s Tyson, first year out of uni and nervous as hell, Derek the Assistant
Principal who’s dropped the ball on administration, Bev from the office
who’s confronting a serious diagnosis, and Sally-Ann who’s
desperate for a child of her own.

Thank goodness for kids like Lionel Merrick. Lionel is the student who
steals your heart and makes the whole teaching gig worthwhile: he’s
cheerful, likeable, helpful—and devoted to his little sister Lacey.
But Lionel has a secret of his own. As his future slides from vulnerable to

the things that

dangerous, will someone from St Margaret’s realise before it’s too late?

As secrets threaten to be exposed and working demands increase,

matter
each staff member struggles to recall the things that matter most.

A moving and compelling novel about teachers and their students by the
acclaimed author of the bestselling books Teacher and Dear Parents.

‘An unflinching and deeply moving account of the complex tapestry of

matter most
most
human lives woven into and around a school community.’ a novel
BRENDAN JAMES MURRAY, author of THE SCHOOL

‘A bittersweet love song to those who educate and care for our children
. . . a profoundly moving novel.’
SUZANNE LEAL, author of THE WATCHFUL WIFE

‘This heart-wrenching story made me laugh and it made me cry.

Poignant and compelling. A riveting, thought-provoking debut.’
PETRONELLA McGOVERN, author of THE LIARS

PUBLISHING AUGUST 2023 ‘Lionel Merrick stumbled into my heart like a kid late for class,
ISBN 97817 60879 839 | RRP: 32.99 then the whole book swept in after him . . . gut-wrenching and important.’
TRENT DALTON
 praise for
the things that matter most

‘Lionel Merrick stumbled into my heart like a kid late for class,
then the whole book swept in after him. This is gut-wrenching
and important real-world stuff inside a rattling story that feels
like it was lived before it was written. As a reader, it felt as real as
a cold sore and a soggy jam sandwich; as tough and raw as all the
cruel fates awaiting all those kids who never deserve them. As a
parent, it was a deeply welcome insight into the lives of those noble,
flawed, terrified, brave and brilliant individuals who have chosen
to devote their evidently harrowing and wondrous working lives
to the education of the things that matter most to me, my kids.’
Trent Dalton, author of Boy Swallows Universe

‘The Things That Matter Most is a real page-turner and heart-

breaker, it will leave you aching with appreciation for the work
good teachers do.’
Alice Pung, author of One Hundred Days

‘Gabbie Stroud has written a powerful novel that captures the raw,
the real, the heart-wrenching and the absolute beauty of teaching
in a community. Couldn’t put it down.’
Maggie Dent, author, educator and parenting
& resilience specialist

‘In this emotionally charged debut, Gabbie Stroud gives us

characters we care about, instantly drawing us into the school
community of a tough farming town. We feel the pain of these
characters as they each face their own challenges and they’re

Bh3664M-PressProofs.indd i 23/5/23 1:01 pm

 unable to focus on what matters most. This heart-wrenching story
made me laugh and it made me cry. Poignant and compelling.
A riveting, thought-provoking debut.’
Petronella McGovern, author of The Liars

‘The Things That Matter Most is an unflinching and deeply

moving account of the complex tapestry of human lives woven
into and around a school community. However, Gabbie Stroud’s
compassionate examination of an array of disparate characters
elevates her novel to something more than a reflection on contem-
porary education; it is a comment on the weight carried by those
who dedicate themselves to putting others first. We should all count
ourselves fortunate that Stroud’s willingness to educate continues
through her writing.’
Brendan James Murray, author of The School

‘A bittersweet love song to those who educate and care for our
children, The Things That Matter Most is a profoundly moving
novel. Brimming with love and heartache and anger and hope,
this is a raw and passionate work, its characters so vividly and
tenderly drawn, I keep wondering how they are and hoping that
life is good to them.’
Suzanne Leal, author of The Watchful Wife

‘A rollicking ride through the gamut of emotions—laughter, sorrow,

rage, outrage, joy. The Things That Matter Most lifts the lid on
social injustice and the unreasonable demands we make of teachers
while we abdicate responsibility ourselves.’
Joanna Jenkins, author of How to Kill a Client

Bh3664M-PressProofs.indd ii 23/5/23 1:01 pm

 Gabbie Stroud is a freelance writer and novelist and recovering
teacher. After years of juggling the demands of the primary
classroom, she made the painful decision to leave the profession
she had loved. In 2016, her critical commentary of Australia’s
education system was published in Griffith Review’s Edition 51,
Fixing the System, which went on to be shortlisted for a Walkley
Award. Gabbie’s smash-hit memoir Teacher was shortlisted for
Biography Book of the Year at the 2018 ABIA Awards and
continues to contribute to the national dialogue on education.
In 2020, her book, Dear Parents, offered a passionate call to arms
for all parents. Gabbie’s first novel, Young Adult fiction Measuring
Up was published in 2009. The Things That Matter Most is her
debut fiction for adults. Gabbie lives on Yuin Nation on the
far south coast of New South Wales with her totally awesome
daughters, Olivia and Sophie.

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 GABBIE
STROUD
the things that
matter most

Bh3664M-PressProofs.indd v 23/5/23 12:02 pm

 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of
the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,
locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First published in 2023

Copyright © Gabbie Stroud 2023

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior
permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968
(the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever
is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational
purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has
given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin
Cammeraygal Country
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com

Allen & Unwin acknowledges the Traditional Owners of the Country on which we
live and work. We pay our respects to all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander
Elders, past and present.

A catalogue record for this

book is available from the
National Library of Australia

ISBN 978 1 76087 983 9

Set in 11.75/17.25 pt ITC New Baskerville Pro by Bookhouse, Australia

Printed and bound in Australia by the Opus Group

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The paper in this book is FSC® certified.

FSC® promotes environmentally responsible,
socially beneficial and economically viable
management of the world’s forests.

Bh3664M-PressProofs.indd vi 23/5/23 12:02 pm

 For teachers who have loved and lost in all the ways.

And of course—Jess.

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 prologue
SALLY-ANN

THEREWASSOMETHINGONTHEBRIDGESALLY-ANNTAPPEDTHEBRAKES
squinted. It was a child. A girl. Lacey Merrick.
Sally-Ann stopped the car, fumbled for the hazards. The
bridge was not a safe place to pull up. She stepped out and felt
the fog press close around, felt the icy air slice inside her.
‘Lacey?’ she called. What was the girl doing out here? On the
road? It was so early and so cold.
‘Lacey?’
The child didn’t move, didn’t seem to notice. Sally-Ann
reached out and touched her hair. It felt damp, frosty, almost
brittle.
‘Lacey!’ Sally-Ann insisted. ‘Lacey!’
The little girl looked up at her and blinked as though waking
from a dream.
‘Something’s wrong with Lionel,’ the child said. ‘We need
some help.’

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 TYSON

THEREWASSOMUCHTOBENERVOUSABOUTTYSONTOOKADEEPBREATH
as he locked his Prius and headed toward St Margaret’s Catholic
Primary. Would the students like him? Would his lessons work
out? Would the parents be nice?
Did he even know how to be a teacher?
This is happening, Tyson thought. Today I’m really a teacher.
This wasn’t prac. This wasn’t even a casual day. This was the first
day of his twelve-month contract. The first day of his professional
career.
He hadn’t felt like a teacher when he’d graduated from uni.
And he hadn’t felt like a teacher writing endless job applications,
sprinkling in edubabble like pedagogy and metacognition. Even
after he’d received the phone call from Nova, the Principal,
offering him the job, it still hadn’t really sunk in. Surely the feeling
will come soon, Tyson thought. He would feel like a real teacher
any minute now. He would have to.
Tyson walked toward the huge school gate. In one hand he
held the oversized key that would open every lock in the facility.

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 GABBIESTROUD

In his other hand, he clutched the faux-leather satchel that

Michalis had bought him the day after graduation.
‘You’ll be a fine teacher,’ Michalis had said, once they returned
to the apartment. And Tyson had strutted across the lounge
room, showcasing all the ways the satchel could be worn. ‘You
certainly look the part,’ Michalis had added, reaching for Tyson’s
hand and drawing him close for a kiss.
Now, Tyson loosened his grip on the satchel and pushed the
memory away. This was no time to be thinking of Michalis, no
time to be remembering painful breakups, and certainly no time
to be reminiscing about particularly satisfying sexual escapades
on the lounge room floor while a satchel lay nearby.
In fact, now would be a good time to remember that he was
beginning his teaching career in a Catholic primary school. In
Boltford no less—hundreds of kilometres from heartbreak, but
decades away from contemporary reality. Sure, St Margaret’s
had a public policy that claimed they were an equal opportunity
employer, but right now, with the teacher shortage, Tyson knew
that principals were desperate. Any warm body would do— even
a queer one.
‘Hello! You’re the new teacher, aren’t you?’ It was a tall blond
boy, leaning against the fence beside the gate. He must’ve been
eleven or twelve. Tyson felt a flutter in his stomach. Year Six kids
made him nervous.
‘I’m Mr Cole,’ Tyson replied, turning his key in the lock and
heaving the old heavy gate up so it could open.
‘I’m Lionel Merrick,’ said the boy, and expertly unlatched the
other side of the gate, anchoring the bolt into a well-worn hole
in the concrete. ‘You’ll be teaching my sister.’

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 t he t hings t hat matter most

The boy grinned, and Tyson felt a wave of relief. He was a

nice kid. Nova, the Principal, had told him they were all nice
kids. Mentally, he sorted through the pictures he’d been emailed
of the students he would teach. Merrick—Merrick, he pressed at
his memory but couldn’t find her.
‘This is Lacey,’ Lionel continued, stepping back outside the
gate to drag in a girl so delicate and small that Tyson couldn’t
help but think of a fairy. Her picture on the computer screen
had been slightly out of focus, her face too close to the lens.
She had appeared oversized and blurry— nothing like the
precious little creature standing before him.
‘That’s ya teacher,’ Lionel said to her, and the girl vanished
behind her brother’s back. Lionel laughed. ‘She’s not shy,’ he
said. ‘I think she’s just a bit nervous, aren’t ya, Lace?’
Tyson nodded, then bent down so his face was closer to Lacey’s.
‘It’s great to meet you,’ he said brightly. ‘Can I tell you a secret?’
Lacey shifted her head and looked at him. She nodded slowly;
her face pressed close to Lionel’s backpack.
‘I feel nervous too,’ Tyson said, and made a face, drawing his
shoulders up into an exaggerated shrug.
Lacey smiled, and Tyson was shocked to see how many teeth
were missing. Surely she was too young to have lost so many? In
the picture he had seen she was smiling with lips together, her
impish face so cute and babyish.
‘Want us to walk ya to the office?’ Lionel asked.
‘I know the way,’ Tyson said. ‘But yeah, that’d be nice.’
As they walked, Tyson felt his nerves swelling and subsiding.
He glanced at the sky, perfect blue and not a cloud, the sun
already dazzling. It was so damn hot. Would he ever get used
to this heat? People had reassured him that the temps would

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 GABBIESTROUD

eventually plummet. When is that due to happen? he wondered.

Beside him, Lionel slouched along with Lacey dangling from
his hand like a ribbon.
‘In there,’ Lionel said, pointing to the glass doors. ‘We’re a
bit early. We’ll wait out here.’ He moved Lacey into a patch of
shade, gave Tyson a cheery wave.
‘Good luck, Mr Cole,’ he called. ‘You’ll be right.’
Tyson waved back at Lionel, wishing for a moment he had
just one-tenth of the boy’s sure-footed confidence. He pushed
open the door to the school office and felt the gaze of three
religious statues staring grimly down at him from their plinths.
I know you’re gay, St Joseph seemed to say.
And I know you’re inexperienced, St Margaret murmured.
Do you belong here? the Virgin Mary asked.
Tyson walked on toward the staffroom. He was Mr Cole, he
told himself. He was the new Kindergarten teacher. He had a
twelve-month contract. He had every right to be here— here
in central New South Wales, here in the food bowl that wasn’t
nearly as delicious as it sounded, here in Boltford at a Catholic
school with a key and a contract and zero experience.
Shit, he thought, forcing himself to breathe. The kids were
supposed to be nervous, weren’t they? Not the teacher.
‘Tyson, welcome!’ Nova was walking toward him, hand
extended. ‘Let me get you settled in your classroom.’
Tyson felt himself being ushered out of the staffroom. He had
hoped to chat with a few other teachers before the day started,
thinking it might settle his nerves. But Nova was directing him,
and she was the boss—a classy boss too, well dressed and stylish.
From the moment he met her at the interview, Tyson had wanted
to impress her.

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 t he t hings t hat matter most

‘I’ve been into my room quite a bit over the holidays,’ Tyson
told her as they moved through the foyer, past the judgey statues.
‘Wonderful,’ Nova said. ‘I remember you wanted to paint the
back wall. Did you get that done?’
‘Yes!’ Tyson heard his own voice, bright with enthusiasm. ‘It’s
aubergine now.’
Nova smiled, opening doors for him and leading him across
the playground. They walked past Lionel and Lacey, still standing
in the patch of shade.
‘Good morning, Merrick family,’ Nova sang. Tyson watched
as she reached out to ruffle Lionel’s hair. ‘You’re here very
early,’ she went on. ‘Lionel, can you please set up the Early Bird
Nest?’ She didn’t miss a beat, her trendy grey heels propelling
her forward even as she returned her attention to Tyson and
asked, ‘Why aubergine?’
‘It’s meant to be a colour that’s both stimulating and calming,’
he explained. ‘I’m not sure how true that is, but the kids’ artwork
will look stunning against the background.’
Aubergine was also a colour Tyson liked. Plus, the paint was
discontinued and going cheap at the local hardware store. Man,
he’d spent some money on this classroom. But anything would
have been better than that god-awful beige. It had made Tyson
think of prison cells and public toilets.
‘I look forward to seeing it.’ Nova stopped at the Kindergarten
door. Tyson had already decorated it with a brightly coloured
sign, geometric in style, welcoming everyone to Mr Cole’s Kindy
Class.
‘Looks great,’ Nova said.
Tyson beamed. He turned the key and pushed the door open,
stepping into the darkened room.

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 GABBIESTROUD

‘Wait,’ he said, stopping Nova’s entry for a moment. ‘Get the

full effect.’ He flicked a switch, and thousands of fairy lights
illuminated the ceiling. The room looked like an enchanted cave.
‘Oh wow,’ Nova exclaimed, gazing upward as she slowly turned
around.
‘I hope it’s okay?’ Tyson stood close behind her and then
stepped back. He didn’t want his need for approval to drip onto
her chic wrap dress with those fabulous puff sleeves.
‘It’s amazing.’ Nova kept turning, her eyes trailing over
the room.
‘And with natural light . . .’ Tyson snapped the fairy lights
off and dashed across the room, tugging at the curtains to let
daylight spill in.
The effect still delighted him. Clusters of pot plants were
spaced out along the bench; pretty delicate ferns sheltering along-
side juicy large-leafed plants. Between these mini rainforests were
charming wooden toys, jigsaw puzzles, tubs of instruments, and
a globe. A child-sized bookshelf stood nearby fully stocked with
picture books and comics and fairy tales. Beside the shelf, he had
placed a wicker basket of soft toys, each waiting to be chosen,
cuddled and read to. In a corner he had installed a teepee—an
actual tent, just the right size for little children. A tub of sensory
toys was neatly housed within.
‘I was thinking of my student with autism,’ Tyson said, following
Nova’s gaze and then moving to the tent to adjust an errant strap.
‘I read that kids on the spectrum can benefit from having a safe
place to retreat to, and things to help with sensory development.’
‘And this?’ Nova gestured to a TV screen with iPads stacked
nearby on a shelf. Mini beanbags were arranged around it in
a semi-circle.

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 t he t hings t hat matter most

‘That’s like a tech-station,’ Tyson explained. ‘I’ve synched

the iPads to the screen. I can demonstrate stuff and bring their
screens up on here.’ He tapped the TV. ‘I’m thinking I’ll teach
IT in small groups. There’s new research that shows it’s the most
effective way. I bought the TV myself. I’ve bought a lot of stuff
for the room, actually.’
He looked around, proud of the way it had all come together.
It didn’t matter that he’d maxed out his credit card. He’d be
earning teacher-money soon. It probably also didn’t matter that
the ‘research’ he kept quoting was vague at best, mostly just
captions from classroom ‘influencer’ pics he’d found on Insta.
‘This looks incredible!’ Nova said.
She was pointing to the aubergine wall on which twenty-five
over-sized picture frames were neatly hung. He had put a black-
and-white picture of each student in each frame. The framing
alone had taken two hours and he had cut his thumb quite
badly during the process—but the effect was incredible. He was
pleased that Nova had commented.
‘They all have their own frame,’ Tyson cleared his throat,
wished he could delete such an obvious comment. ‘And once
they’ve created some artwork, I’ll take those photos out and
put their artwork in.’ He was hoping he wouldn’t have any new
students during the year, because he couldn’t fit another frame
without ruining the arrangement.
Don’t say that out loud, he advised himself.
‘Oh, Tyson.’ Nova shook her head. ‘This whole room
is incredible!’
‘Really?’ Tyson had sent photos of the picture-perfect sparkly
room to his uni friends on their messenger thread: understood the
assignment. That had caused an avalanche of pics—there were

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 GABBIESTROUD

plenty of bright, shiny new classrooms out there apparently, and

Tyson had to love heart them all.
This—here, now, with Nova gazing around, perhaps spell-
bound—this was the reaction he had been hoping for. Maybe
he could become an Insta-influencer— his classroom was
Instaworthy.
‘I’ve never seen such a lovely classroom,’ Nova announced, and
she smiled at him, a big, generous smile that made Tyson feel
as though it had all been worth it— even the stupid cut on his
stupid thumb that had bled like a ruptured artery and stained
his white chino shorts.
‘All you need now are your students.’ Nova gestured to the
mat and Tyson wondered if she might ask where the old one
had gone. It had been a massive rectangle— cheap-looking with
garish primary colours and ugly stains. Even when he’d moved
it around the room, Tyson hadn’t been able to make it fit with
the aesthetic he was striving for. In the end he’d rolled it up and
folded it as best he could before wrestling it into his Prius like
a dead body. He’d felt actual guilt as he’d driven it home and
stowed it in the corner of his garage. But seriously, how could
children learn with that kind of horrific nightmare taking up the
space? The mat he’d purchased online was circular— a rainbow
chindi rug made from recycled materials. It had cost a bomb,
but it brought the whole room together.
‘Well, you’re all set,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
Nova gestured to his desk and Tyson noticed the way she
was stage-directing him into position again. He wished for a
moment that she might stay beside him all day, prompting him
and steering him and telling him what to say.
‘Oh my goodness, Tyson!’ Nova exclaimed suddenly.

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 t he t hings t hat matter most

A bolt of alarm jagged through Tyson’s body, and he glanced

at the back wall, wondering if he was short one picture frame.
‘Are you wearing blue suede shoes?’ she asked with a laugh.
‘Yeah,’ Tyson said, performing a theatrical tap-dance.
‘I worked at The Shoeshop Warehouse while I was at uni.’
‘You’re going to fit right in here,’ Nova said. ‘Lots of shoe-
lovers on this staff.’
Tyson smiled, but it hurt. He’d worn these shoes on his first
date with Michalis and Michalis had called him Elvis for the next
few months. He was probably still listed as Elvis in his phone.
Probably. Probably not. God, it hurt.
‘Remember to flick on that air-conditioner,’ Nova advised.
‘High thirties today.’
Tyson found the remote, fumbled it in his hands.
‘You’ll be fine,’ she promised him, squeezing his arm.
Tyson wondered if it would be inappropriate to ask for a hug.
He needed one.
‘Your first official day of teaching,’ she went on. ‘It’s a very
special time.’ She smiled at him, and Tyson felt his anxiety ease,
felt excitement sweep in and fill up the space. He was finally
a teacher— a Kindergarten teacher! With a class full of little
humans. It was going to be so much fun. And maybe one day, if
this teaching gig went alright, he’d become a Nova—a principal
reassuring some newbie that they were going to be just fine.
She was at the door now, and Tyson felt nerves surge again,
trumping the short-lived moment of enthusiasm. Fuck, his
feelings were impossible. Suddenly it felt like his own first day
of Kindergarten. Don’t go, he wanted to shout at Nova. Don’t
leave me. He felt a stream of heat as she opened the door. Was
that air-conditioner even working?

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 GABBIESTROUD

‘And Tyson,’ Nova added, turning back, her coiffed grey

hair looking almost silver in the morning light, ‘I want you to
know, I appreciate the work you’ve done here. I hope the parents
appreciate it too. And your students.’
Tyson felt tension in his stomach— worse than nerves.
Foreboding. The way Nova had chosen those words, that she
could only hope his efforts would be noticed and valued.
‘Me as well,’ Tyson heard himself say. He cleared his throat.
‘I mean, I hope so too.’



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 BEV

HEWASAPOOFTERBEVWASSUREOFITYOUDIDN’TSEEMANYFELLAS
like that in a town like this— and that was pretty much how
she knew. That, and the monogrammed leather satchel. And the
blue suede shoes. Bev wondered how long they’d stay blue, how
long they’d stay suede.
Her daughter, Rebecca, would kill her for thinking like that.
‘It’s LGBTQIA, Mum,’ she would say. ‘And with a plus on the
end of that. It’s not acceptable to use language like poofter or
homo anymore.’
But Bev was grateful for the space inside her head, where she
could say these things and think these things. It was like the last
remaining place where she could be herself—the final frontier
that hadn’t been taken over by politically correct bullshit. God
alone knew that every other area in her world had been occupied.
Bev had nothing against the gays or whatever acronym they
went under these days. She just didn’t want to be told how she
had to think about it, how she had to speak about it. Surely
now, in her sixties, she had earned the right to say what she



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 GABBIESTROUD

thought. Apparently not, according to Rebecca and all the latest

workplace protocols.
Bev shifted attention back to the screen in front of her.
Class rolls on spreadsheets. They needed to be printed out and
distributed ASAP. The teachers would use these to note atten-
dance until the networked copies were finalised and published
on the intranet. Nova liked the rolls to be accurate right from
the get-go and Bev couldn’t agree more. Get it right the first time
was one of her personal mottos along with KISS (Keep It Simple,
Stupid) and OHIO (Only Handle It Once). Bev was practical,
productive and proficient, and as a result, St Margaret’s ran like
a well-oiled machine.
She navigated through the screens, while her eyes skimmed
and scanned. Each list was uniform in appearance, with the
correct class teacher named in bold at the top. Student gender
was listed to the left of each name.
‘Perhaps we should put IAM and IAF,’ Sally-Ann had suggested
last year. ‘Identifies as male, identifies as female.’
Bev had openly scoffed at the idea.
‘You can create your own lists then,’ she had said.
Nova had smoothed it over, saying the lists weren’t for public
consumption so they could leave the templates as they were.
She was reasonable, Nova was. Had common sense. Sally-Ann,
on the other hand, was forever coming in with new-fangled
ideas and better ways of doing things. She would come waltzing
back in from a professional development day in Sydney wanting
to reinvent the wheel, as though nobody had anything better to
do. As though wheels might turn better if they had bells and
whistles and gluten-free icing on top. At staff meetings Sally-Ann
always knew something about something, was always mentioning



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 t he t hings t hat matter most

her years teaching in other places— including overseas. Even

after eight years at St Margaret’s she was still full of ideas and
initiatives, brimming with optimism and a ‘can-do’ attitude.
It gave Bev the shits.
The office doorbell sounded, and Bev made an irritated noise.
If she never heard that ding-dong again it would be too soon.
Kids and parents and teachers forever buzzing at her, always
wanting to bust through the office window and make demands.
It was still early on the first day back and already they were
coming for her.
‘Lionel,’ she said, stepping away from her desk and over to
the front counter. She glanced at her watch. ‘You’re here far too
early. Who let you in?’
‘Hello, Mrs D,’ Lionel said. ‘The new teacher let me in.
Mr Cole.’
‘Of course he did,’ Bev sighed. ‘You should be sitting in the
Early Bird Nest. School gates shouldn’t even be open yet.’
She studied the boy. He’d grown taller over the holidays, his
shaggy white-blond hair in need of a good cut. His face had
been sunburnt and Bev could see skin peeling at his jaw and
the exposed raw pink over his nose. His schoolbag was the same
tatty thing he’d been lugging around for years.
‘I know I’m early, Mrs D,’ he said, grinning. ‘But it’s Lacey’s
first day and I didn’t want to be late.’
He pointed to a child waiting just outside the glass of the
office doors. It was a girl, and she was tiny, Bev noted, with
the same white-blond hair as Lionel and the same sun-ruined
complexion. Her bag seemed enormous, hanging off her back
like a hiker’s pack. It was clean and new and shiny in the early
morning light. An illustrated Disney princess beamed at Bev,

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as though coming to school for the next short eternity was the
most joyous idea in the world.
The little girl turned and caught Bev’s eye. She gave her a
gummy smile and then shifted her gaze to Lionel, and gave him
a thumbs up. She’s tiny, Bev thought again. Tinier than most. Bev
wondered if she was school-age or even school-ready. Perhaps she
should check her DOB on the software when she got a chance.
She sighed. What was the point? Parents ruled the school these
days. If they wanted their child to start early— or late—then the
school would bend over backwards to make it happen.
‘Mrs Castell asked me to set up the Early Bird Nest. Could
I please borrow your keys?’ Lionel asked.
She handed him her keys and gave him the speech about
chopping off all his fingers and toes if he didn’t bring them
straight back to her.
Lionel flashed a grin. ‘I’ll bring ’em straight back, Mrs D,’
he promised. ‘And then me and Lace’ll wait in the Early Bird
Nest for the bell.’
Bev watched as he left the office and took his sister’s hand.
She could see that he was talking to her. The little girl’s face
was turned up toward him, watching with rapt adoration. The
girl laughed at something Lionel said and then loosed her hand
from his and skipped ahead.
Lionel is a good kid, Bev thought. The school needed more
like him. Well mannered. Not in-your-face. Always happy to
help. He had near-perfect attendance too, and that made Bev’s
life so much easier. It was only the school fees that were ever
a problem. Bev had had to ring and chase them a couple of
times. What would it be like now with two of them to pay for?
Probably a shitstorm.

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The phone rang and Bev snatched it from the cradle.

‘Welcome to St Margaret’s,’ she said brusquely.
‘Bev, it’s Rory Ellis here.’
‘Morning, Rory.’
‘Just wanted to know what time the Kindergarten children
should arrive there today. I’ve got Caleb starting. He’s with
Belinda, but I still want to be there for his first day.’
‘Any time after first bell,’ Bev said. ‘So, any time after
eight-thirty.’
‘After eight-thirty?’ he echoed. ‘Right, got it. Thanks for that.
Belinda’s been a bit difficult with the details. Anyway, see you
soon.’ He ended the call and Bev slipped the phone from her hand.
He was a funny one, that Rory Ellis. His marriage had busted
up eighteen months ago and there wasn’t a person in Boltford
who wasn’t speculating on what had gone wrong—the handsome
local cop booted out by his mousy little wife. Bev had heard
some talk that he’d been rough with her, but she struggled to
believe that. Apparently, Belinda—the ex—was keeping her cards
close to her chest. In a place like Boltford that just caused the
rumour mill to work harder.
That fucking rumour mill, Bev thought. She’d been through
it once. Not here, but in a town like this. She sighed. It was a
long time ago. A different time. These days you could be unwed
and have a baby, and you didn’t have to move towns to save your
family the shame. You didn’t have to pretend you were a widow,
a Mrs, when really you were just a Miss, nineteen years old and
scared senseless.
Bev returned her focus to the screen, settling in to print off
the lists. She glanced at the clock. It was ten past eight. Shit!
Where did the time go?

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‘Morning, Bev! How was your holiday?’

Fuck-a-duck, it was Sally-Ann.
‘Fine,’ Bev said curtly, taking her hands off the keyboard and
giving Sally-Ann her full attention, as she had been instructed
to do at some New Age admin course.
‘Oh, that’s lovely,’ Sally-Ann replied.
‘What do you need?’ Bev asked. She tapped her fingers against
the desk. What do you want? she had felt like saying, but appar-
ently using the word need rather than want was warmer and less
confronting.
‘Class list?’ Sally-Ann asked hopefully.
‘Not done,’ Bev said and shifted her attention back to the
computer. ‘I keep getting interrupted.’
‘Sorry, Bev,’ Sally-Ann murmured, leaving the room.
Almost immediately the phone rang, and Bev grabbed it up.
Bloody hell. She hadn’t even had time to put her headset on yet.
‘Welcome to St Margaret’s.’
‘Mrs Donald?’
‘Yes,’ Bev said, trying hard to place the voice.
‘It might be helpful if you introduced yourself on answering.’
Bev knew then who it was. Janet Bust-Your-Balls Bellevue. She
was a Covidian—had moved to Boltford from Sydney during
the pandemic, when she’d discovered she could work from
anywhere— even central New South Wales, which was about
as ‘anywhere’ as you could get. She was a journalist, renowned
apparently. Bev had looked her up and discovered her stuff was
published in tabloids that were actually printed on paper. She
even had a little mugshot next to her by-line, like her face was
important and people might recognise her and feel inspired
to read.

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Janet was a bit of a wanker with it though. She’d introduce

herself like she was reading from a resume, telling people about
awards she’d won and places where her work had been published.
She only had one kid at the school—Abigail—but you would’ve
thought she had ten the way she kept tabs on everything. Nova
never said anything—none of the teachers did because they were
such good people—but Bev knew that they all thought the same
as she did. Janet Bellevue was a big, chunky pain in the arsehole.
‘What can I do for you, Janet?’ Bev asked, ready to hit the
accelerator on this conversation.
‘I’d like to speak to Nova.’
‘Nova’s not available at the moment,’ Bev lied. She could see
Nova returning to her office as she spoke. But it was the first day,
and Nova did not need the vampire demands of Janet Bellevue
before the first bell.
‘Really?’ Janet pressed.
‘Really.’ Bev’s tone was dead flat. She was a master gatekeeper
and Nova needed a gatekeeper right now, a bodyguard. Her
lovely husband, Laurie, was only a few months in the earth and
Bev knew Nova was fragile with grief, barely hiding it all behind
her mask of Botox and glamour.
‘This is quite inconvenient,’ Janet said. ‘I’d come into the
school personally only I’m away for work. It is important that
I speak to Nova.’
It’s not, Bev thought. It’s not important that you speak to Nova.
‘Would you like to speak with Abigail’s teacher?’ Bev offered.
‘Sally-Ann’s in her classroom.’
‘No, that’s not helpful.’
Bev felt her knuckles turning white as she gripped the phone.

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‘I spoke to Sally-Ann during the school holidays,’ Janet

went on.
Bev clenched her teeth. Why was this parent calling teachers
outside of school term? And how?
‘It’s Nova I’m wanting to speak with,’ Janet pressed.
‘I can schedule a time for you to speak with her.’ Bev pretended
to click some buttons, paused as though she was consulting a
calendar. ‘What if she gave you a call around ten this morning?’
‘Well, I  suppose that will have to do,’ Janet said, with an
audible sigh.
‘Jolly good,’ Bev said, pleased that the woman felt pissed off.
She put the phone down, retracing her thoughts. The class
lists were still waiting onscreen. Bev scanned through them
before pressing the magical print key. She waited a beat, listening
as the photocopier in the room next door churned them out.
Collecting the lists from the machine, she noticed sheets still
left in the tray. They were some kind of bingo game printed on
colourful paper. Probably Sally-Ann’s. She was always making
things like that. She was annoying, but she was a good teacher.
Bev let herself wonder, just for the smallest of milliseconds, if
Dr Lin had said anything to Sally-Ann—if he’d mentioned Bev’s
appointment or the tests he’d requested. It would be a breach
of patient confidentiality, but Bev wondered about their pillow-
talk. Husbands and wives talked about all sorts of things, didn’t
they? Didn’t they? Bev wouldn’t know.
Bev set the colourful bingo games aside and collected her lists.
Perhaps she had been a bit snappy with Sally-Ann. But she had
a lot to get done that morning and a lot of things on her mind.
Bev was very busy. Very busy not thinking about the lump. She
returned to her desk and absently touched her breast.



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 SALLY-ANN

SALLY-ANNCROSSEDTHEPLAYGROUNDQUICKLYANDTOOKREFUGEIN
her classroom. She sat at her desk and took four deep breaths,
trying to channel the calm, peaceful energy of her morning medi-
tation. It’s just Bev, she reminded herself. She’s always like that.
But why? another voice asked. Why is she always so hostile?
And why is she so hostile toward me?
Sally-Ann felt tears threaten. She pressed her palms against
her sockets and inhaled deeply. She shouldn’t cry at school. Think
of Nova—she had something to cry about. She was grieving her
husband and she never cried at all.
Sally-Ann took in another meditative breath—long and slow.
She let herself become conscious, brought herself fully into the
present, felt the weight of her body in the seat and the pressure
of the desk beneath her elbows. She heard Derek unlocking
his room next door and Rosie shifting furniture in the room
on the other side, her radio buzzing faintly in the background.
Sally-Ann reminded herself that she was okay— safe in her little
cocoon with competent, friendly colleagues all around her. Bev



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was an anomaly, a random glitch in the otherwise supportive

and harmonious workplace of St Margaret’s.
And this, Sally-Ann realised with a start, this teary reaction was
probably just hormones. Sally-Ann touched her belly, wondering
if it was rounder than usual. She pressed at her breasts, hoping
for the discomfort she had felt that one time. She could be preg-
nant right now. Sally-Ann smiled at the idea.
‘Knock, knock, Mrs Lin?’
Sally-Ann looked up to see Lionel Merrick tapping at her
open classroom door.
‘Hello, Lionel,’ Sally-Ann said, getting up. ‘And who have you
got with you?’
Lionel stepped into the room and a little child that could
only be his sister followed.
‘This is Lacey,’ he said. ‘She’s starting Kindergarten today.’
Lionel put a protective hand on her shoulder.
‘Well, hello, Lacey,’ Sally-Ann said, squatting down to the
child’s height. ‘I’m Mrs Lin and I teach Year One. And do you
know what?’
The little girl shook her head, eyes earnestly fixed on
Sally-Ann.
‘When your big brother was in Kindergarten, I was his teacher.
Did you know that?’
The little girl shook her head again.
‘Do you remember that, Lionel?’ Sally-Ann rose to her feet
and gently scruffed Lionel’s hair.
‘Yeah,’ he said with a laugh. ‘I loved Kindy. But I really just
love school.’ He shrugged, and his backpack lifted and settled
with the movement.
‘You’re here early. It’s not even quarter past eight.’



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‘I know,’ Lionel said. ‘So, I’m setting up the Early Bird Nest.
Mrs D gave me her keys and I’ve arranged the chairs and stuff,
but I just need the cushions. I think we mighta stored them up
the back of your classroom at the end of last year.’
Sally-Ann nodded and pointed to a cupboard. ‘They’re
in there.’
As Lionel opened the cupboard, Sally-Ann admired her
holiday handiwork. The shelves were clean and ordered: trays
of coloured paper, tubs of fresh new paint, jugs of watery glue.
A  stash of tissues, baby wipes, several cans of air freshener.
Everything was organised and ready. Sally-Ann felt calm just
looking at it—the kind of calm she reached for in meditation.
Perhaps she could start a new kind of meditation, one in which
teachers gaze at their organisational work and feel a sense
of satisfaction.
Lionel was loading Lacey up with cushions, the child grin-
ning at her brother as he tucked a few extra under her wings.
‘Mrs Lin?’ Lionel asked, dropping a pillow and crouching
down before an old yellow tub that was wedged in the lowest
shelf. ‘What’s this?’
Sally-Ann hoped it wasn’t something dead. No matter how
hard she cleaned the classrooms in this school, they were still
filthy. She moved across the room, calculating how much time
she had to remove a small corpse or an infestation of bugs
before the parents started arriving with their anxious needs
and requests for the year ahead.
‘What is it, Lionel?’ she asked, squatting down beside him.
‘A fishing magazine!’ He sort of breathed the words and
turned to Sally-Ann with eyes a-glitter, as though he’d discovered
treasure, right there where a mouse might have lived.



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‘Oh, they’re just old magazines.’ Sally-Ann’s relief was real.

She glanced at the clock. Time was getting away, but she could
still get a few last-minute things done. She stood up, smiling
down at Lionel as he leafed through the glossy pages. ‘I think
that one was Dr Lin’s. He buys the magazines, but he doesn’t
actually fish! You can have that if you want. It’s just in there for
the kids to cut up.’
‘Really?’ Lionel grinned up at her. His face split in two with
the magnitude of the smile, the stretch of his happiness. ‘Are
you sure?’
‘I’m sure, Lionel.’ She smiled back at him. She loved this
part of teaching, the part where you made a child’s day in the
simplest of ways. ‘Why don’t you keep it with the Early Bird stuff
so you can read it every day?’
‘Great idea,’ he said, leaping to his feet and grabbing the
cushions.
‘C’mon, Lace,’ he said, turning toward the door. ‘Say goodbye
to Mrs Lin.’
‘Goodbye, Mrs Lin,’ the little girl said, her missing front teeth
making the Mrs sound more like mith-ith.
‘Oh, and Lionel,’ Sally-Ann called, ‘do you think you could
do a little job for me after that?’
‘Sure,’ he said, glancing up from beneath his shag of fringe.
‘Do you think you could go to the office and ask Mrs D for
my class list? And my photocopying? I should have a bingo game
coming out on the printer. Would that be okay?’
‘Yep,’ he said brightly. ‘I’ve got to take the keys back to her
anyway. Otherwise, she’ll cut off all my fingers and toes.’
Sally-Ann laughed. ‘Thanks, Lionel.’



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She felt a smidge of guilt as she sent the child to the lion’s den.
It was self-preservation, Sally-Ann told herself. Arguably, it was
self-care. And she resolved there and then that she would avoid
Bev for the rest of the day, and if she could manage it, the rest
of the year as well. It would be tricky; Bev was a difficult bullet
to dodge. But Sally-Ann knew that ducking and weaving would
be the best way to improve her chances of having a reasonably
happy year.
Everything would be alright, she told herself as she sat at her
desk and found her to-do list. Her programs were done, and the
room was organised. All her other paperwork was up to date.
She’d worked like a dog over the holidays so that the year ahead
would run smoothly. Bev could be avoided and everything else
could be managed. She was a good teacher, and it would be a
good year. A fun year.
And hopefully—hopefully— she would fall pregnant some
time very soon. And hopefully the pregnancy would be sticky—
and the embryo would cling on inside her and she’d make it
to fourteen weeks and then all the way to forty. She’d be on
maternity leave by Term Four. Hopefully. The baby would be
happy and healthy, and Sally-Ann would be happy and healthy.
Better than happy and healthy. Sally-Ann would finally be
relaxed, finally able to breathe after relentless years of teaching
and endless years of trying to conceive.
Her computer pinged with a message. Sally-Ann read the
first line and closed her eyes. Janet Bellevue wanted to schedule
a meeting. Already. Last week, Sally-Ann had had an hour on
the phone with the woman discussing everything related to her
daughter, Abigail. They’d covered dietary needs and reading age

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and pencil grip and screen time. What else could this parent
possibly want?
She considered emailing back, but she didn’t want to. Not
yet. Let Janet Bellevue wait a while. She’d already consumed
too much of Sally-Ann’s time. That was another thing Sally-Ann
would keep in check this year. She wouldn’t be giving in to parent
demands. She’d be firmer. She’d have professional boundaries.
Sally-Ann skimmed the email again, noted the passive
aggressive undertones, the way Nova had been cc’ed in. Sally-Ann
wondered if she could dodge both Bev and Janet, wondered also
what it might be like to be Abigail, daughter of this demanding,
needy and micromanaging parent.
I’ll be different, Sally-Ann promised herself. When I’m a
mummy, I won’t be anything like Janet. I’ll be patient and under-
standing. I won’t nag at teachers and dominate their time. And
she closed her eyes and smiled at the thought of what a good
mother she could be.

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 DEREK

DEREKSURVEYEDHISDESKTHEDESKHEHADN’TBOTHEREDTOTIDYON
the last day of last year, the desk he hadn’t bothered to sort out
during the holidays, the desk he never sat at anyway. Under
his arm, he held a clear plastic tub of classroom supplies. He
dumped it on the desk, disturbing a pile of paperwork. Pages of
paper slithered to the floor. Derek watched as the sheets landed
on his shoes.
I’m going to be buried by paperwork, he thought. Literally. He
kicked the sheets away and resisted the overwhelming urge to
stomp all over them. Instead, he bent and snatched them up. The
words—Professional Teaching Standards—were printed in bold
across the top of each page. Derek felt a small, frustrated rage
flame inside him. Bloody standards. He’d been teaching for forty
years, but suddenly now he had to prove he was accredited—
accountable. He had to produce evidence to show he was doing
his job, had to have data to justify his choices.
The irony of it all, Derek believed, was that he’d always felt
accountable, and had always set a high standard for himself and

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his students. He took his responsibility as Teacher seriously. He

was accountable to each and every student that stood before
him. Their welfare and well-being were his highest priority and
Derek knew that if he attended to those things, met their needs
in those areas, then learning would inevitably follow.
Derek heard movement in the room next door.
‘Morning, Sally-Ann,’ he called out.
‘Morning, Derek,’ she chirped. ‘Have good holidays?’
‘Yes, indeedy,’ Derek called. He crossed the room, unclicked
the partitioned walls and stuck his head into Sally-Ann’s
classroom.
‘How were your hollies?’ he asked and laughed as Sally-Ann
jumped, her attention startled away from her computer screen.
‘You gave me a fright!’
She moved across the room and Derek thought, not for the
first time, what a beautiful girl she was. She was one of those
women who was gorgeous inside and out. It was impossible not
to like her. She was generous and sweet and would do anything
for you, plus she had a lovely prettiness about her features,
and a petite figure. He had seen the dads checking her out
at assemblies. And the best part was that she was completely
oblivious.
She was like the Pied Piper with children too. The kids adored
her. She was so natural with them. He knew he wasn’t meant to
think it, but he couldn’t help feeling hopeful that she might soon
start having babies of her own. Perhaps Sally-Ann was more like
Nova, he supposed, ready to climb the ranks and devote her life
to school. Yet every year when Term Four rolled to a close and
Derek tried to palm off his role of Assistant Principal to Sally-
Ann—to anyone really— she always refused.

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‘My holidays were great,’ she said. ‘Thanks for asking.’

Her room was clean, spotlessly so. There were no spiderwebs
in the architraves and no dust on the shelves. The little blue
bucket-like plastic seats looked brand new; not a random scribble
on any of them.
‘Did you get new chairs?’ Derek asked, picking one up to
inspect it.
‘No,’ Sally-Ann said. ‘I just came in and scrubbed them during
the holidays. The kids never clean them that well at the end
of the year, do they? I made myself do them before we went
away on our trip.’
‘Good for you,’ Derek said, replacing the tiny seat. ‘Where’d
you go?’
‘Up to the Central Coast,’ she said. ‘Around The Entrance.
Hubby has family up there, but we didn’t stay with them. We
rented our own apartment. We got up there on Christmas Eve
and stayed until after New Year’s.’
‘Sounds nice,’ Derek said. ‘Bev was up around there. She
was at Terrigal for New Year’s. You guys probably crossed paths.
You’ll have to ask her at recess.’
Sally-Ann laughed, but Derek noticed a flicker of emotion
cross her face, too quick for him to read. He’d worked with
women long enough to know when he was approaching a land-
mine. He tried to think of a way to change the subject, but
Sally-Ann got there first.
‘And your break?’ she asked.
‘Good,’ he said, leaning against a nearby bench and folding
his arms. ‘Quiet.’
He recalled the long Christmas break; days by the Bolty River
swimming and seeking shade, trying always to escape the heat.

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‘We had both the boys home—Lewis and Evan—plus their

partners plus grandkids,’ he said. ‘It was a houseful, but just for
those two weeks over Christmas. I’ll show you pictures at lunch.
Baby Jenny’s nearly walking.’
‘Not a baby anymore.’
‘It happens so quick,’ Derek said. ‘But then after they left it
was just me and Jill. She’s officially retired now. We had a trip to
Sydney. I spent a bit of time in the garden. I slept a lot too—naps
in the afternoon, you know, the usual holiday stuff.’
‘That’s great,’ Sally-Ann said. ‘I should do more stuff like
that. I spend too much time doing schoolwork.’
‘Well, I probably don’t spend enough.’ There was a pile of
admin he should have completed in the holidays. It was huge.
Bigger than himself. He hadn’t touched it.
‘Oh well. At least you had a good holiday.’
Derek nodded. Defeat was churning in his guts as
he remembered the work Sally-Ann was referencing. Why
hadn’t he completed that paperwork? Nova would be asking
for it. Outside, a currawong gave its gargled call.
‘And here’s Lionel Merrick,’ Derek announced, noticing the
boy standing at the door.
Sally-Ann beckoned the boy in while Derek offered him a
hand to shake. Lionel fumbled a handful of papers onto a nearby
desk before accepting the handshake.
‘Welcome to Year Six,’ Derek said to him. ‘I am thrilled to
have you in my class.’ He heard the way his own voice changed,
becoming jovial with an edge of authority.
Lionel smiled, his eyes casting up to Derek beneath the shag
of his too-long fringe.



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‘Thanks, Mr Benson. I’ve got class lists for both of you.’ He

flicked through the papers on the table and handed a page to
each of the teachers.
‘Thank you, Lionel,’ Sally-Ann said, accepting the list. She
also took a bundle of coloured pages. Bingo, by the looks of it,
Derek thought. He might do some bingo with his kids. He had
a template somewhere.
‘Did you know, Mr Benson,’ Sally-Ann was saying, ‘that Lionel
has a little sister just starting school today?’ Sally-Ann looked
around. ‘Where’s that little Miss Lacey?’
‘Here me am!’ Lacey leapt into the room from the foyer where
she had been waiting.
Derek laughed, marvelled at how small she was. A tiny mite.
‘Well, hello, Lacey,’ he said, offering her a handshake.
‘Welcome to big school.’ Her palm felt like a delicate leaf. ‘You
must be very proud to have your big brother showing you around
school on the first day?’
The girl nodded, glancing at Lionel.
‘He’s extraordinary, your big brother,’ Derek went on. ‘Did
you know that?’
Lacey shook her head and Derek noticed the way she was
watching Lionel. They were close, he realised. You didn’t usually
see that with such an age gap, especially not between a brother
and a sister, but it was there, Derek could tell.
‘I don’t think I’m extraordinary, Mr Benson,’ Lionel scoffed.
Derek dipped his head just slightly, held Lionel’s gaze. ‘I think
you are, young man.’
Derek touched Lionel’s shoulder and almost felt the boy grow
with his praise.



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And that’s how it’s done, Derek thought as he closed off the
partitioned wall and returned to his classroom. That boy will
learn from me because he knows I care. Derek saw the paper-
work still lumped on his desk. He shook his head. Professional
teaching standards didn’t achieve anything.
He opened the plastic tub and started stocking up his class-
room. He busted open packets of muesli bars and dumped
them into a container on the bench where a sign was posted
nearby that read: I  forgot my lunch! He filled an old timber
salad bowl with fruit then dotted extra tissue boxes around the
classroom along with packs of baby wipes. In a cupboard under
the bench, he stacked thirty new glue sticks that he’d found on
special during his recent trip to Sydney. You could never have
enough glue sticks, and yet the budget never seemed to stretch
far enough to cover their cost. The rest of the stuff—glitter pens
and highlighters, notepads and lollipops—he dumped into a
colourful box labelled ‘prizes’.
Derek put aside the empty tub and set about turning on the
main computer and bringing life into the interactive whiteboard.
He clicked the mouse a few more times and saw ‘ Welcome to
Year Six’ beaming down from the screen. He didn’t have much
prepared. The first day with Year Six was always the same. Write
about your holidays and the year ahead. Then he’d spend some
time talking with them, asking questions. What do you like to
read? What’s your favourite sport? Favourite saint— that was
always a funny one. A diagnostic maths test after recess. A few
team-building games. Some art after lunch if things were going
well. He could already tell it’d be too hot for any sport.
Derek wondered if the pains in his chest would start up again.
They’d become bad last year, when he was Acting Principal for

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Nova. Her husband, Laurie, had been sick. It had been tough.
Laurie was also his best mate and Derek had felt useless. Impotent.
All he could do was struggle through a visit each afternoon—a
visit he grew to dread, watching his friend languishing, his once
robust body shrinking further and further away from life. And
then Laurie had died.
But school didn’t stop for terminal diseases or grief or any
kind of suffering. No. The work just kept coming and Derek
had had to ‘act’ as Principal. He was a very ordinary actor. Only
for his love of Laurie and Nova had Derek battled through it,
trying to keep the school humming along while their lives were
falling apart.
The chest pains had started within the first week of taking
up the role. Initially Derek had thought it was a kind of heart-
break because of Laurie, but the pains had become more intense,
causing him to catch his breath. By November he’d been chewing
through indigestion tablets like a rabbit through fresh green
pick. He bought them in secret so his beautiful wife, Jill, wouldn’t
realise how many he was going through. He had moments when
he became sweaty and short of breath, his jaw feeling tight and
the fatigue all consuming. Just once he’d felt the sustained
clutching chest pain that couldn’t possibly be heartburn. He
had been at school, on his own, thank God. He’d gripped at his
chest and wondered if Laurie would have a beer ready for him
in Heaven. And then the feeling had passed. He’d gone home
and slept well. Felt reasonable enough the next day.
Bev had been on to him, had asked him more than once if
he was feeling alright. She had even offered—threatened—to
make a doctor’s appointment for him. You do it or I will, she
had said one day, toward the end of the year. And he’d almost

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 GABBIESTROUD

done it. He’d almost called the surgery and asked for a time
with Doc Lin. But then— finally— the holidays had arrived,
and Derek’s school stress had fallen away, even as his grief for
Laurie remained. He’d spent time in the garden with Jill and
walked every morning. The pains had disappeared. It had been
a situational arrhythmia, he’d decided. He was only verging on a
heart attack when the workload was too high, too intense. He
would keep a lid on things this year.
His classroom phone rang out, two old-fashioned brrring
brrring sounds.
‘Year Six, Benson,’ he announced into the receiver.
‘Morning, Derek.’
‘Morning, Nova. Ready for kick-off?’ Derek glanced at the
clock. He still had a helluva lot to get done before the kids came
in at nine. He noticed the plant on his filing unit looking pretty
sad. He’d give it a big drink of water soon. It’d come good. Sally-
Ann had nicknamed it Lazarus.
‘Derek, I don’t know how to say this,’ Nova said, and Derek
felt his stomach drop.
Laurie had already died. The first bell hadn’t even rung. How
could Nova’s voice sound as though calamity was imminent?
‘Best just to say it then, Nova.’ He felt his brows knit together
in a frown and he noticed himself bracing for the chest pains. He
thought of Jill, at home right now, retired after a long career in
nursing. A stab of jealousy wedged itself in Derek’s side and he
felt the shock of it. He couldn’t be jealous of Jill. She had worked
so hard, had earned this time. They had made this decision
together. He needed to put in five more years. Financially it
had to be this way.
‘Do you remember the Sampson family?’

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 t he t hings t hat matter most

‘Of course I do,’ Derek heard his voice change, gruff and curt.
He made an effort to adjust his tone. ‘They left. Term Three
last year. They switched to the Steiner school, didn’t they? That
new one that opened out there in Haven.’
‘I believe so.’ Nova sounded breathless, like she’d been winded,
wounded. ‘I’ve just opened an email from their solicitor. They’re
suing us. St Margaret’s. They’ve got a claim against the school.’
Derek let the words settle. They’d been such a difficult family.
He wasn’t surprised; he knew something was up when the family
opted to leave for a school that was hours away despite the kids
performing quite well where they were. He was shocked though.
Being sued was something new. Something very serious. Nova
didn’t need this, not now. He didn’t need this either. Derek
wished for the millionth time that he was not the Assistant
Principal. This was not something he wanted to deal with. God,
he just wanted to retire.
‘Okay.’ Derek found his calmest voice, the one that was
reassuring, the one that he was almost famous for. ‘I’ll come
over to your office.’
‘No,’ Nova said. ‘I need you to cover my playground duty,
now, this morning. Please, Derek? Let me get my head around
this and make some phone calls. If you do my duty now, then
we can get into this after school.’
‘Of course,’ Derek said, and he felt his first day already
falling behind, felt his early-mark home slip away, felt the
year sliding out of control before it had even begun.
He hung up, grabbed his hat and whistle and the medical
pouch. He was missing his high-vis vest. Where would it be? Did
Bev take them home for a wash over the holidays? He would
have to try to find it later.

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 GABBIESTROUD

Derek stepped out into the heat of a Boltford morning, into

a playground of early arrivals. There were new students, faces
not yet familiar, names not yet known. And old students too,
their faces familiar but their bodies stretched, grown an inch
over the holidays, their feet in shiny shoes a size larger than last
year. Parents were milling around, waiting with their children,
gathering in the shadiest places. Derek would chat with all of
them, would make every parent feel welcome, every child too.
He wondered this morning how many of them would one day
want to sue him.
He moved toward a parent, already hailing him from across
the yard. Something twitched in his chest. Tiny heartbreaks,
ready to begin again.

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