she can’t understand a word. Last week she smashed a bottle of ink. I’m told it was all over her dress and hands, and that she just stood there staring at it, as if she was in some kind of stupor. At least that’s what Christine Wood the French teacher said. In chemistry she very nearly set fire to her desk a month ago, and now Frank Devine has her sitting at the front of the class, where he can keep an eye on her. In art, her still-life painting is anything but still, I’m reliably informed—things flying about all over the place.
Only last week in the staffroom, Karen Manners, her art teacher, cornered me. I was gasping for a coffee and in a hell of a rush too. But when Karen wants to talk, getting away from her is no easy task. Anyway the upshot is that she told me Alice is always painting the sea, junks and boat people, even soldiers. Japanese, she thinks, she recognises the uniforms. I countered this with some crack about women loving a man in a uniform, which Karen swatted down without so much as the suggestion of a smile.
‘I find that remark inappropriate. This is no joke, Brian. It’s dreadfully serious,’ she flared.
These women! Christ! The trouble is they have no sense of humour. Mind you, I’ve always wondered if Karen mightn’t be a lesbian. That would explain her dour exterior. As Head of English the teachers naturally come to me when they have a problem. I understand that. Though sometimes the stuff is so trivial, I can’t help wondering why they can’t work it out for themselves. Hand-holding. They all seem to need their hands held. But I have to concede that this time the problem, Alice, is a substantial one. I like to tackle things head on, so I naturally went straight to her.
‘Alice,’ I said, ‘if you keep skipping classes you do realise that it’s going to have a detrimental effect on your grades, perhaps even your O levels when you come to take them.’
I’d caught her at the end of the day, hovering in her classroom, after everyone else had left. I don’t even think she was listening to me. She was staring out of the window, eyes dreamy and distant.
‘Alice,’ I tried again, ‘where do you go?’
Perhaps I should have said ‘where are you now?’ She just looked right through me, as if…as if she was stumped by the question, as if she honestly couldn’t remember where she went when she played truant.
As a last resort I called in her mother. And that was the weirdest thing of all. Oh, she came immediately. She didn’t try to put me off the way some of the parents do. She was punctual, too. Smartly dressed, stylish, you know. A belted, pale yellow shift, with a faded rose print in blush pink and gold. It was silk, I’d bet on it. Not Chinese, but that rough Thai silk. Over it she wore a white, short-sleeved jacket with embroidered sleeves. Her shoes were white as well, with very high heels. Not all women could carry off heels like those, but she could. And she had make-up on; not so much that she looked cheap, but applied subtly, giving her class. She was well-spoken too. I can’t help but appreciate when an effort is made. It sets the scene I always think. Gives a meeting a professional air. A few of the parents I know, rolling up in jeans and flip-flops could learn a thing or two from Mrs Safford. She was the finished article right down to her painted pearly-pink nails.
Niceties first. Must observe protocol. I began by congratulating her on the OBE Ralph was awarded earlier in the year, in recognition of his dedicated service on the island. I told her that I’d seen the wonderful pictures of him, in full regalia at the presentation ceremony, on the front page of the South China Morning Post. Her too. And was it their son Harry by her side? She smiled appreciatively and inclined her head. And that lovely shot of Alice with her father,very moving.All traces of pleasure instantly vanished.I forged on.Weather.Always a safe bet.Then a smattering of politics, perhaps not quite so safe considering the current climate among the natives. Just lately I’d say they were definitely a wee bit restless. Still, it looked as though the riots were behind us, thank God. Hardly surprising they’re fed up,considering we’ve been bleeding them dry for decades. But naturally I didn’t say that to Mrs Safford. No, no!
Then I informed her as tactfully as I could about Alice cutting classes, about her erratic behaviour, about her obsession—yes, her obsession with the sea—which seemed to be influencing all her work in art, and closed by voicing my anxieties over her tumbling grades.As I spoke, Mrs Safford nodded and made small sympathetic noises. She didn’t try to deny any of it, didn’t make excuses for her daughter. Didn’t make excuses for herself, come to that. Finally, when she did respond, I was so taken aback, for a moment I couldn’t speak.
‘Mr Esmond,’ she said,‘I appreciate you imparting your concerns to me. But,’ she continued, her diction frighteningly perfect, ‘I’m afraid there is little I can do about it. Alice can be…intractable. She doesn’t listen to anyone. Certainly not to me.’ She fixed me with her unreadable brown eyes.
She left me nowhere to go after that. I recall muttering something about hoping that we could work together from now on. And her response? Mrs Safford bent, lifted her white handbag from the foot of the chair, and delved inside it. She fished out her sunglasses, opened them up and dangled them by one arm. Then she let the other arm rest momentarily on her flame-red lips, the gesture deliberately provocative, before putting them on. Her eyes now concealed, she pursed those lips lightly together, then gave me the kind of supercilious smile that makes a man wither away.
‘I understand your frustration, Mr Esmond. In fact, I empathise with it,’ she said, rising so that I rose too without thinking, and automatically put my hand into her outstretched one. ‘But thank you so much for alerting us to the problem and for giving up your valuable time. Naturally, I will do my best to impress the gravity of the situation upon Alice. And if you could keep us informed, I should be most grateful.’ And with that she bid me good afternoon.
I even remember the feel of her skin. It was very soft and cool. And her nails, they were long and sharp like a cat’s, one of them scratching my hand lightly as she withdrew hers.When she’d gone, I tried to get on with some marking, but my mind just kept skipping back to our meeting.
‘I’m afraid there is little I can do about it. Alice can be intractable. She doesn’t listen to anyone. Certainly not to me.’
Those words of hers played over and over in my mind. I’ve met enough parents now to expect the unexpected. But nothing could have prepared me for that.You see, what struck me so forcibly was that Mrs Safford had spoken about Alice as if she was not her child.
I am sorting through my box of newspaper cuttings, cards and the children’s scraps. There is a write-up about the play, The Crucible,in the South China Morning Post. I’m holding it in my hands, letting my eyes run down the print, picking out the salient points. There is a photograph of Alice too. She is wearing a floor-length dark dress, long sleeves, a square white collar and a white cap.The colours stand out well in the black and white print. Her eyes are fixed upwards, stretched wide in terror at something they see. It is a good review. Well, it would be, wouldn’t it? It’s Martin Bishop’s byline. Ralph’s been friends with Martin more or less since we arrived on the island. They’re drinking buddies too, so it stands to reason that he’d be extravagant with praise when it came to Alice.
‘‘‘Alice Safford’s performance as Abigail Williams was electric. She lit up the stage. She was every inch the part.”’ Hmm…
Actually, I thought she rather overdid it. You can do that you know, overact. They used to love it in Victorian melodramas. Hiss the villain. Great fun. All that screaming and hysteria. I might just as well have stayed at home. At least here it’s free.
I
