The Styx. Patricia Holland

he stopped in Edward Street, he didn’t bother to get out to help Mum. He popped the boot, and left Mum with me in one arm to drag the wheelchair out onto the road. It was one of those old heavy wheelchairs. As soon as she closed the boot, the driver accelerated off leaving Mum, me and my chair in a heap, crumpled in the gutter, bruised, spluttering in exhaust stink.

      But on this later get-into-school visit, fortunately for us, the Education Department building was on the flat in Ann Street, just two blocks from Lennons Hotel. The government building was what you would call “serviceable”. Nothing fancy, and very grey. But the lift worked and pinged us to the tenth floor. Anne Sorrenson was youngish, thirtyish, and had a lovely smile. Good teeth. To her, my disabilities weren’t a problem and she talked to me and Mum equally, as if we were equal in every way, except I was a bit more important. My mother’s confessions about setting the Government onto the Heathwood therapists was a story she’d heard before.

      “Other towns, other children, same thing, it is a very sad reality,” she said. “I’ve got no idea why things are still like that. You did the right thing. It’s their job to know this sort of stuff. We all need to be able to stand up to scrutiny. Does us good, keeps us on our toes. It’s tragic that so many kids miss out, and that so many people like yourself have to feel guilty about wanting what you’re entitled to. Therapists like them deserve everything they get and more. Feel outraged that you were forced to write to the Minister. Sophie has a right to be educated. You have a duty to make that happen. It just shouldn’t be that hard for you,” Angel Anne said.

      “Sophie, are you okay with staying with me to do some assess­ment activities? Just look at the ‘Yes’ on this side, or ‘No’ over there, to tell me.” She pointed in turn to the two A3-size signs on either side of the wall behind her head.

      I looked at the A3 sheet of paper on the right “Yes” side of the wall. Ann validated my response with another question.

      “Sophie, did you enjoy the flight down?” My eyes snapped to the left “No” side of the wall.

      “Difficult trip, was it?” Ann asked. Both Mum and I flicked our eyes to the “Yes”.

      My mother’s face reflected a million thoughts and regrets. It couldn’t be that easy. All it took was believing, two pieces of paper, and I was talking! There was no over-enunciating, no raising of volume, no itsy-bitsy baby talk, just normal conversational dialogue, no different from how she was speaking to Mum.

      “It’ll probably take an hour or so. Sophie, do you need your mum to stay?” Angel Anne asked.

      My gaze had an added confidence. I set my eyes to the left A3 “No” side. My first independent decision. And my mother couldn’t have been happier being ditched.

      Rememory 19

      My mother was nervous. She had put me on the front verandah and was fussing, tidying the house, wiping paintwork with a cloth, fiddling with cushions. I found it irritating, so just watched a catamaran sail north, probably to Pearl Bay, I figured.

      Miss Ellis and Phillip Mosely, an Education Department psychologist, drove up to the front of the homestead in a brand new, white Toyota LandCruiser. It was school inspection day and they were going to take my mother and me around all the five schools to see which we liked best. Mum could choose any of them, Miss Ellis said.

      “I thought we’d go to Barrunda first, then Amulla, Giangurra via the back road, then Minbun and finish with Mango Downs,” Miss Ellis said. “The principals are all expecting us.”

      Miss Ellis was extremely efficient. Phillip just smiled and nodded. He obviously knew Miss Ellis well. My mother was still in shock I think. So she just nodded too.

      The two first schools were very welcoming. One principal, especially so. “We have other disabled students, a Downs, an ADD and a CP,” he said. He pointed to a young teenager wildly racing around the schoolyard chasing other boys.

      “That’s Timmy, our Downs. He’s a lovely boy; very happy. The others are really good with him.”

      Everyone was so friendly and I imagine he meant well, but by the look of Mum’s tightening lips, I was sure his school dropped to the bottom of her list.

      Another principal, while welcoming, was rather vague. Miss Ellis called her an acting principal. I thought so too.

      “Lovely to meet you both,” she said, and proceeded to tell us about her sister’s husband’s brother’s child who was disabled. “Cerebral palsy I think, or a syndrome ….” Her words tailed off into the wasteland of syndromes.

      She was an associate and supporter of the inclusive club, she wanted us all to know. Mum smiled sweetly, and that school dropped down to the bottom of her list too.

      The third and fourth school principals did not want me there, in any way, whatsoever, no way. They both had suspiciously similar prepared lists of obstacles justifying why it was impossible to have someone so disabled attend.

      The Giangurra principal didn’t look at me once. I sort of felt sorry for him, for his discomfort. He wasn’t acting. “We don’t have appropriate toilet facilities,” he said.

      “Not a problem,” Miss Ellis said, “we have funding to overcome that.”

      “As you can see, our classrooms are high-set and we have no ramp,” he said.

      “It’s only one flight. We can fund a ramp or a lift. That will not be a problem.” Miss Ellis’s serenity was scary, and he should have known when he was beaten.

      Small doorways, small classrooms, untrained teachers, no medical support, all were met with patience and the same response. As we drove away, Miss Ellis said to my mother, “Don’t take any notice of his objections. It is your choice, and that school is one of your choices.”

      My mother said, “I don’t want to send her where she’s not going to be welcome.” And those two schools dropped off her list too.

      Miss Ellis was ambivalent, I could see. Sensible point of view, she silently agreed with my mother, but the challenge of battle was sweet.

      The school my mother bullied into taking me was the least equipped of the five equidistant from Styx River Station. Mango Downs State School had a husband and wife principal–teacher team, Mr and Mrs Stephens—he was the principal, she was the teacher (of course). They both walked out to meet us when we pulled up under gigantic poinciana trees. The car was air-conditioned, but the town was blistering. I waited for the heat to sear my face as my mother strapped me into my wheelchair. However, one hundred years ago, the school had prepared well for its environment. The air fluttered, cooled by a breeze caught and kept by the trees. Everything felt like it was where it should be.

      “Good afternoon,” we all exchanged. My legs and hand–mouth slappin’ did the talking for me.

      “We have afternoon tea ready near the tuckshop,” Mr Stephens said. “Sophie, do you like scones?” He looked directly into my eyes and saw a student. “Would you like a cool drink?”

      My hand flapped and drool drooled. I was nervous.

      Mrs Stephens hadn’t said a lot, but what she said was significant. As she gave us the classroom tour, she expressed the most insightful issues about having me, so she had no chance.

      “I’m concerned about your expectation of academic outcomes,” she blurted to my mother. “I’m concerned about whether, as Sophie’s teacher, I’m going to be able to deliver the outcomes you want.”

      She was doomed.

      “I just want you to offer Sophie the opportunity to learn,” my mother said.

      Mum’s eyes were shining, her skin turned opal.

      “Treat her just like the others. As much as you can. When it’s her turn to be asked a question, ask her, then give her time to think of an answer. It doesn’t matter that she can’t say