thought. She rose and added a smile to her face as she said “Nice to meet you. Bye.”
Veronica tried to catch her eye, “Nice to meet you; hope to see you again.” But she hurried out of the room and across the field of carpet.
“Is there a problem?” asked Veronica wondering, the instant she asked, if she should’ve.
“No, no,” Mrs. Verlarny said confidently. “Well, maybe,” she added with a sigh. Veronica took hold of the chair the departed woman had vacated but Mrs. Verlarny stopped her. “No, take this one,” she said as she pulled a chair from behind her. “It’s stronger.” And then hurriedly continued. “Her initial email wasn’t overt but she wants to send her three children here. I told her Singhalese wasn’t on the curriculum and she wasn’t at all perturbed by the weight of the fees and my clear language on the website hadn’t dissuaded her either. Maybe the language isn’t clear enough.”
“Right,” said Veronica, wishing to backtrack a little. Why do I need a stronger chair? It was clear to Veronica that this woman was trying to befriend her, but a stronger chair? She had assumed from their initial meeting at home that no kind of friendship was going to develop between them and she liked it that way. There was a dull wave of children noise from the scattered students throughout the open plan library. Mrs. Verlarny got up and closed the door, sat down again and leaned conspiratorially towards Veronica. The woman smelled of lavender and burnt sugar. "That woman," she began and Veronica knew instantly that something unpleasant was going to come out of her mouth, "has more front than Harrods."Not even an Australian cliché. "I've gone out of my way to make it clear on the website that this school is cultivating an exclusivity in this community: something for the people to look up to; a centre of excellence and aspiration." Mrs. Verlarny leaned back in her chair and raised her head as if to give a visual example of what she was talking about. "And now she comes in here and acts as if such a meeting is a mere formality. I don’t know what these immigrants can be thinking,” continued Mrs. Verlarny. “Her name certainly didn’t fool me. We can’t be too obvious on the website, although I’d like to be. But you know what these lefty tree-hugging bureaucrats can be like.” Her conspiratorial tone surprised and annoyed Veronica. “Sometimes I think they like being on the outer. It keeps them in the public eye, I suppose.” Mrs. Verlarny chuckled.
“I see,” was all Veronica could think of to say.
“It never ceases to amaze me, what lengths these people will go to rub everybody up the wrong way. I told her the school is full. What more can I do? And I gathered by her parting words that she’s thinking that all she has to do is decide to send them here and that’s it! End of story! As if the decision is hers and hers alone.”
Veronica couldn’t help herself. “I suppose she feels some kinship since all of us come from somewhere else. And most probably by boat.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Mrs. Verlarny as her smile turned a little sour.
“Well, unless you’re indigenous, of course you came from somewhere else. My family came from northern Europe and I assume yours did as well.” Mrs. Verlarny stared at her and Veronica took advantage of the pause to add with a look of concern, “I’m sorry, are you indigenous?”
“I most certainly am not,” indignation oozing though the woman’s voice.
“Well then, you know what I mean,” and before Mrs. Verlarny could say anything at all, Veronica changed the subject, confident that she has had the last word. “I thought she might’ve been Cinnamon Carmody’s mother.”
Mrs. Verlarny dropped her cordial tone, “No, it’s her father we’ll be talking to today. I don’t think there is a mother; well, there was, of course, but not anymore.” Mrs. Verlarny stared at Veronica who held her gaze unflinchingly. The woman seemed to be weighing up what to say next; and then she decided. “He lives with another man,” and her face took on a look of someone tasting sour milk. “A bit of a.... and here he is!” Mrs. Verlarny rose to open the door, and Veronica turned in her seat to see a man walking across the library floor. He was tall, dressed simply in jeans and a polo shirt. A handsome face, thought Veronica, but not traditionally so; it was his hair that forced the ‘handsome’ tag. It was soft brown, shiny, luxuriant, and collar-length with a bounce in it that you only saw on shampoo commercials. Women would kill for hair like that.
“Hello Mr. Carmody! How are you?” said Mrs. Verlarny as she opened the door and extended her arm like an usherette.
“Fine thanks,” he said almost at the door. He had a charming little gap in his front teeth. He forced a smile and he was a little obscured from Veronica’s view by Mrs. Verlarny. “And you?” she heard him add.
“Oh, I’m fine, given the hour of the day. I’d like you to meet Veronica Souter, Jack’s mother; this is Ben Carmody.”
He bent forward, peeked around the door to get a better look at her.
“Well, Hi!” he said shaking her hand and without warning Veronica was propelled into a split moment of confusion. His “well, hi” was said in such a cheeky, inquisitive, surprised and risqué tone that for a moment she thought he had said, or meant, something else. Her briefly formed assessment of him, given her limited knowledge, all supplied by Mrs. Verlarny only moments ago, and his appearance as he walked towards her was totally at odds with what came out of his mouth; or was she completely mistaken and a victim of her lack of experience at meeting men socially? Her mental impulse was to query what he said (I beg your pardon? ) but that would’ve sounded weird; she was forced to reply to what she thought he had actually said so when she spoke, both impulses collided and caught in her throat which triggered the urge to swallow which caused a violent coughing attack.
“Dear me, Ms. Souter, whatever's the matter?” said a worried Mrs. Verlarny.
“It’s OK,” Veronica managed to say in between coughs but forcing words from the discomfort going on in her throat caused her eyes to water and her nose to run. She took her hand from Ben’s grasp and rummaged in her bag for a tissue, all the while coughing as if her throat would split.
“I think you’d better sit down,” said Ben as he beckoned her to her chair. “Here,” he said and handed her a handkerchief.
She coughed violently, and unattractively, into his handkerchief as the others could do nothing but watch. Mrs. Verlarny moved to go. “I’ll get you a glass of water,” she said as she left the room seemingly anxious to get away from the uncomfortable scene. Veronica could feel her neck warm from embarrassment and tried purposefully to calm down and to restore her breathing to normal. Despite the guttural mayhem she knew her hair was a mess, her cheeks red and burning, her eyes puffy, and her face contorted.
Eventually she calmed down and took two very deep breaths. “Wow,” she said quietly, “I don’t know where that came from. How embarrassing. I’m very sorry.” And she flicked her head like a model in an attempt to gain control of herself.
“Don’t worry about it. It happens to everyone.”
“Oh, I hope not. How weird!” Veronica then realised that his hand was on her back. “Thank you. I’ll be fine.” She rearranged herself in her seat and he removed his hand.
“Is it OK for me to call you Veronica?” he asked. ”It’s just that I got the feeling that you two seem to be on a very formal basis.”
“Well, yes,” explained Veronica, “our first meeting was a little ... problematic.”
“Hideous, isn’t she?” he said. His candour surprised her again.
She threw him a glance and he made a face. You’re being very friendly, very quickly. “Well, yes. She makes a lot of assumptions that seem to me to be very risky when meeting people for the first time.”
“She’d make Hitler wince.” That made Veronica laugh and the coughing threatened to return. “Sorry. Sorry.” And he rubbed her back.
She was breathing normally again.
“We