How to Remember

Artwork by Charlie Robertson

Anna had a stiffness about her. She was not entirely comfortable – drawing herself tight, postured like a ballerina, holding herself in perfect straightness. She was thin, almost see-through, her skin pale and bespeckled. There was a drained look with a sense of lingering sadness. But she was weirdly calm, almost too calm. Anna looked like she was from another time. She had an old-fashioned elegance, which could have been from the 1930s. Definitely pre–World War II. She was waiting to grow into herself. Not quite beautiful – but almost there. 

Anna was always the first in the room, set up and ready to go. She moved quickly and quietly like a ghost, often unnoticed. The classroom, same as all the others, was a utilitarian wasteland. Grey-blue linoleum floor tiles, dry and thin. Oblong windows opening to the bleached paddocks. The pale brick walls were bare, save for a barren pinboard at the back. Desks, laminated in fake wood, paired in even lines. Anna sat on the outer row next to the windows, two desks from the back. She always took the same spot. 

In the desolation of the last period of the day, Anna’s gaze drifted out the window. Fletch had been late, but he never hurried, always nonchalant. Even though he was the teacher, he brought nothing with him, not a book or folder. He stood at the door, scanned the room and looked over the class with a secret, watchful amusement. Anna turned and looked at Fletch with considered attention. Their eyes met. A brief connection, vanishing as quickly as it appeared. 

Ruth burst into the room and pushed past Fletch.  

‘Sorry I’m late, Sir.’ Her words flirty and expected. 

A whirlwind of rush and scrabble. Flushed, slightly ruddy. Her long hair frizzing in big auburn waves. Talkative and loud, gliding through the kids as they found their desks and dragged books out of their bags. Her tartan skirt short, with a navy jumper tied around her waist, and the matching tartan tie skewed haphazardly to the side. She flung her books on the desk with a dramatic eye roll and giggle.  

Ruth wanted to be late on purpose and enter the room with a flourish. She was so self-important and predictable. She had that in common with Fletch. 

Ruth took a seat behind Anna.  

Ruth watched Anna watch Fletch. 

Fletch walked over and took the class novel off Jason, who was sitting at the front. ‘Ok, settle down. Open to page sixty-two.’ He indicated, with a flick of his head, for Jason to look at the book with his classmate. Fletch leaned against the front of the teacher’s desk. 

Jason began to read. His voice, deep and soothing, lulled the excitement down.  

After the hypnosis, Fletch opened the passage up for discussion. This was new in 1985 – talking. Yes, you heard that right – meaningful dialogue. So modern, the unravelling of students’ understanding. Before the time of truth-telling and oversharing. There were no questions on the board to answer, no worksheets. Students weren’t asked to summarise, take notes or dot point the main ideas. He made them think, feel, open themselves. And he facilitated it like a natural. When a student offered something, however trite, Fletch leaned in and attended to them like no-one else existed. They were captivated and wanted to share, and Fletch delved with a magician’s pressure. The class was puzzled, heady and fearful. Who would Fletch call on to speak? They were all there for the taking. Wanting to be noticed, but also not. In awe, and equally freaked out. They were on the edge. 

Words moved around the room, building new worlds. Some of the kids in the class said nothing. Some talked over others, busting to get it all out. Wanting to reveal their very cores. 

‘I felt unsatisfied —’ 

‘Lonely —’ 

‘It was disappointing for you?’ 

‘So, it was unresolved. You wanted more?’ 

‘A personal connection, then? Tell me more.’ 

‘Emotions? Name those emotions.’ 

‘How close to the truth is this for you?’ Fletch asked, pushing just enough. But sometimes the questioning felt too much and too close. The students were high. They were almost there – tense and excited, caught between joy and fear. Almost too much to bear. Words scattered around like confetti, a glitter of weird beauty, unsteady and spinning. 

Ruth raised her arm, trying to appear casual.  

‘Yes, Ruth?’ 

Her words came out small – there was much more in her head, but she didn’t know how to pull them out. She didn’t have the big words, the big words that she wanted. 

Several of the boys in the class were baffled – grinning, unsure, cocky, trying to figure it out – keeping the quiet parts close. Their laughter uncomfortably loud – some mild panic, stumbling over their ideas. They hid behind bravado, farmer-tanned arms and football. They didn’t want to topple off into something too emotional for them to carry. They were exhausted holding it all in. 

Anna rarely spoke, and never put up her hand. She sat back, listening. Then Fletch would turn to her. 

‘What can you add, Anna?’ 

Ruth wanted Anna to go away, so that Fletch could see her. 

Anna’s voice was smooth, held a soft power. Her offering succinct. What she said seemed to hold the most insight and meaning. Anna had the big words. 

His follow up question to Anna was asking for more. Always more. He battled her and ended with, ‘Was this too hard for you?’ His question deliberate and considered. And there Ruth was, a witness to the tiny interrogation. Anna in freefall, the subtlest confusion. No-one understood his question or Anna’s unsteadiness. The whole room became still, frozen in that one moment, until the bell shattered the tension.  

Fletch raised his hand in a casual shrug, signalling it was time to pack up. He turned and was the first to walk out. A scattergun of movement and noise followed as they all scrambled to gather their things, rushing to the lockers and the buses. Towards footy and netball training, and meat and three veg in front of Sale of the Century, and sleeping in shared rooms with bunk beds. Where the hugeness of the night hung over their battered houses, still and dark. 

Anna lingered momentarily in the empty room, then left. The last to leave.