Part Four Chapter 1

‘Morning Grandpa,’ says Harriet brightly. 

‘Morning honey,’ Max says. He’s wanting to sound equally chirpy. He’s wanting to shake the heaviness he’s felt these last few days. Weeks actually. Does Harriet notice, he wonders.

‘Did you have a nice walk?’ she says

‘It’s a lovely morning,’ he says, looking out the window and being aware for the first time that it is, in fact, a lovely morning. 

Max resents his gloom. It’s been taking the edge off what should be a time of at least moderate celebration. Harriet has regained some of her old zest, he has had some wonderful conversations with her about the story she’s writing. He’s made some progress in his reading of Spinoza. 

But the gloom has spread nonetheless, a little heavier each day. Something is out of kilter. 

He knows it has something to do with Zeph living with them. 

When Harriet had originally suggested that Zeph move in, it had seemed like the right thing to do. Here was a boy in need, and they were in a position to help. A quiet boy, no trouble really, though Max had noticed in himself a certain unease when Harriet told him that Zeph came from the council apartments and that his uncle was a drug dealer. Did he, Max, harbour unconscious class prejudices, he wondered? But he’d taught students like Zeph, and knew that he’d taught them well, and liked them. 

He watches Harriet now as she eats her breakfast. She’s reading over her story which they printed out last night, and she’s reading it with obvious pleasure. Then Max lets his gaze take in the familiar shapes and shadows of the room, and then of the garden. This room, the kitchen and family room, is the heart of the world he’s created over the past decade or so since he’s been widowed, a world that in many ways has centred around the rearing of his precious Harriet. This room, this house, this garden, have increasingly felt more ordered, more palatable and indeed more cultured (in the best sense) than an outside world that seems to be ailing, to be daily more crass. This is a sanctuary created out of rhythms and routines. The washing and ironing. The cooking and cleaning. The shopping and storing of supplies. The planting and weeding. The reading of good books and the listening to fine music. The increasingly sophisticated storytelling and conversations with Harriet. It is a good life they’ve built together here in this place.

But now events are making it clear that the illusion of a protected world within a world is just that. An illusion. This has been increasingly clear since Zeph moved in.

It is partly that Zeph, with his inability to pick up on unspoken cues or to adhere to the accepted routines, is a reminder of an outside world that threatens to seep into their lives and upset their rhythms. The way he plays with his phone while Max is trying to read. The way, at dinner, he holds his knife and fork as if they were daggers. The way he leaves half-drunk glasses of water or orange juice around for someone else to empty and put in the dishwasher. 

But it’s not just these minor irritants. 

It is also the way Zeph’s presence is affecting Harriet. 

Harriet, Max has increasingly noticed, is attracted to Zeph’s strangeness, his otherness. Not in a sexual way, he doesn’t think, though of course he can’t be sure. But even if not in a sexual way, Zeph’s male otherness hints at an inevitable attraction that will take her away from this world and into one where a different kind of relationship will be the axis. He’s always known of this inevitability, of course, but knowing and seeing it unfold are two very different things.

He felt the irritation particularly strongly last night. Friday is traditionally pizza night, and the routine had been established that when Harriet got home from school the two of them, grandfather and granddaughter, would decide together on the toppings: mozzarella or cheddar, tomato sauce done with garlic and butter or cooked with red capsicum and wine, mushrooms or prosciutto, black olives or hot chilli, yes or no to anchovies, and so on. Then, once he’d made the dough and rolled it out, and when the oven had reached 250 degrees, the two of them would assemble a couple of pizzas and chat about the day, or plan the weekend, or just listen to music. It was one of Max’s favourite times of the week.

But last night had been different. When he called Harriet through to discuss the toppings, she’d asked him to do it on his own this time; she was discussing with Zeph rationales for their English projects. Of course that was fine, he called back. But it didn’t feel fine. He could hear the two of them talking in the next room, discussing whether or not Zeph was going to hand anything in. He could hear Harriet being warmly encouraging. Max had a momentary thought that he was being excluded, an adolescent thought which he immediately dismissed as ridiculous, but which refused to leave him alone.

He’d tried hard to be his usual self as they ate. But he kept noticing the irritating way Zeph held the cutlery, or the partially chewed pizza visible as Zeph talked. Silly, insignificant things, he tried to tell himself. But he’d felt the irritation grow nonetheless, and he’d gone off to his study out the back straight after dinner. He tried to read, but the words seemed lifeless. He’d gone to bed early and slept badly.

This is more than happiness. Or of a different order. Being with her students in an English classroom, thinks Molly not for the first time, is where she feels most alive. On good days like this – and this is one of the best – her classroom is this wondrous vibrant ecosystem. On good days like this, Molly has the paradoxical sense that she’s both potent creator and passive observer of this unfolding wonder. She feels carried along by some mysterious and irresistible momentum. It’s exhilarating. She feels both deeply calm and endlessly energetic. It’s bliss.

The students are reading. Well, most of them are. This is the day when their stories and rationales are due, and rather than just collect them, she’s organised with the school librarian to have some boxes of books delivered to the classroom, so that while the students browse or read, she can call the students up one-by-one and chat to them about what they’ve done.

She’s known for some time that this assignment has worked. For four weeks, now, her Year 10 English lessons have been turned into a workshop. Most have been writing stories, but a few have taken up the invitation to use a different medium. One girl has composed a piece of music. Another has made a short film. She’s looking forward to seeing these, and reading their rationales. 

Molly has encouraged the more confident writers to read their drafts out loud and to discuss problems with the class, and there’s been a buzz and focus that has grown over the month as students like Harriet have infected their peers with their work. Molly’s had some of her university friends visit the class, friends who have written stories and poems themselves, and they’ve acted as advisers to struggling students. She sent home a newsletter for parents a couple of weeks ago, describing the project and its purpose, and including some extracts from some of the emerging stories, and this too had helped build momentum.

Even Rodney’s attempts to undermine or trivialise had failed to make any impression. Recently he’d taken to walking past her class when she had Year 10. He’d stop at the door, peer in and make some comment. ‘Working hard?’ he’d ask a student sitting in front of a blank page or staring out the window. ‘Early lunch hour, is it?’ he’d remark if the room was full of chatter. ‘Carry on,’ he’d trill with a tolerant smile before leaving. Molly ignored him. She sensed that the students hardly noticed him these days.

No, all was good. Some of the stories, she already knew, were outstanding. But more than that, the process had worked well. It wasn’t only Harriet, in many ways her star pupil, who had become better writers and who had been excited and surprised by what they’d done. No, it wasn’t just Harriet. But Harriet had certainly shone. Molly had read her story; they’d worked together closely over the weeks. Molly had also read her extraordinary rationale. She could see in it the effect of the many conversations Harriet must have had with her philosophically minded grandfather. A lucky girl to be growing up in such a rich intellectual environment. 

Zeph now approaches her desk. He is clutching a single piece of paper. He’s been something of a mystery, these past four weeks, and given the tumult in his personal life, Molly hasn’t been too concerned about keeping him on task. He has seemed happier though. Happier? Maybe that’s not the right word. More settled. More present. He’s seemed more interested in what others have been doing. While he still sits pretty much on his own, he and Harriet often arrive together. Harriet has mentioned that Zeph is living at her house, but has avoided giving any details, though she did hint that she thought Molly would get a surprise when she saw Zeph’s project. Molly wonders if there’s anything more to their friendship.

‘Hi Zeph,’ she says.

‘Hi,’ he says. 

‘All done?’

‘Kind of,’ he says.

‘What have you got for me?’ Molly tries to smile encouragingly. She’s noticed that Zeph is looking awkward again, much as he used to when he first came into her class.

‘It’s my ration-thingy,’ he says. ‘It’s not very good.’

‘And your project? Where is the project?’

‘I’ve explained it in what I wrote.’

‘But you’re not handing it in today?’

‘It’s all explained,’ he says, passing the piece of paper over to Molly. He turns to go. 

‘Just a minute Zeph.’ She’s sitting at her desk out the front, and she motions Zeph to sit on a chair that she’s placed next to her. ‘Have a seat while I have a read.’

Zeph shrugs and sits.

And Molly reads.

I’m no good at writing. I can’t spell (Harriet has corrected this good copy) and I can’t think how to say what I want. I wasn’t going to write anything for this rationale, but Harriet said I should give it a go. Harriet told me that I should just write about what I did and what it was like and stuff, and that I shouldn’t worry about spelling or anything, just write. Like you make us do in class, except I usually draw. Anyway she kept telling me to do it, so I’m having a go. I hope it will make sense. I’m just going to write until Harriet tells me to stop. She’s sitting in the room with a stopwatch. She’s like Hitler sometimes. Just kidding.

So here goes.

At first I wasn’t going to do anything for this project. I thought I had to write a story or something. But one day in class Harriet’s grandfather was telling this story and for some reason I found myself sketching a door as I listened. A door to another world, kind of. Then, later, I painted this door on a warehouse wall.

I showed it to Harriet and she wrote this amazing story about it. She made me into a character in the story, which was kind of weird. I liked that story a lot. I had lots of feelings while I was listening to it.

But I’m meant to be writing about my project, not Harriet’s, even though I think they’re connected. I think lots of things are connected, but people think you’re a bit weird if you start talking about this. I think maybe everything is connected. I think the world is this one thing that we’ve cut up and made into lots of different pieces with different names and we don’t see that it’s all one thing and that when one part of it dies then it comes alive somewhere else in a different kind of form or something. That’s what I think, anyway. At school everything gets broken up into pieces and I don’t get that. It’s all one thing.

I’m not sure what that’s got to do with my project, but Harriet said to just write down whatever came into my mind and that came into my mind.

Anyway, back to my project. While Harriet was reading her story to me, I was thinking that I couldn’t do anything like that and I wasn’t going to do a project. But Harriet said that I should submit my painting. But that’s not writing I said. And she said we were allowed to use any medium, including painting, as long as it was inspired by a folk tale, and my drawing was inspired by listening to her grandfather tell a story. I said that this sounded like bullshit and the teacher wouldn’t accept it. But she said that this teacher liked stuff like that.

So my appropriation (which I reckon is a long word for something else, but maybe I’m wrong) is a painting.

Shit a brick! I’ve written heaps. Hitler will be pleased.

‘Not just Hitler,’ says Molly. Her chest feels tight. It’s an effort to push back tears that she can feel building up behind her eyes. 

‘Sorry?’

‘Not just Hitler is pleased with what you’ve written.’

‘That’s good,’ says Zeph.

‘You know I’ve read Harriet’s story. I’ve read about the painting. But I didn’t realise that there was an actual painting that you’d done.’

‘There’s an actual painting. Harriet knows where it is. She can show you.’

‘You show me Zeph. I’d like you to show it to me.’

‘Whatever,’ says Zeph. He smiles.

Elliot is only half-listening to what the woman in their little cocktail party cluster is saying. Instead he is looking around the sumptuously furnished living room, the afternoon sun falling as if by design on the brightly coloured contemporary artworks. Their hosts are Tran’s father, Councillor Hieu Van Pham, and Tran’s Italian-born mother. She, Elliot’s heard, is something of a celebrity collector. 

Elliot is wishing that his father were alive to see him in such surroundings and in such company. His father would have been surprised. Elliot himself is a little surprised, if he’s honest. Surprised and not-a-little pleased. It feels good to be hobnobbing with the rich and fashionable, to have been included in this gathering, to be seen by significant others as a member of the local elite. His father would have been proud.

Councillor Pham has taken him by the elbow and guided Elliot away from the group. This, too, is not unwelcome.

‘Elliot,’ he says. ‘So pleased to see you here. Not a bad turn out, eh.’ The party has been thrown to celebrate Pham’s recent success in a local election.

 ‘A great day,’ says Elliot to his host. ‘A great result.’ Has he got the tone right, he wonders? He wants to convey a sense of being at home in these surroundings, of taking it for granted that of course he’d be included in such an event, though in truth it had been a pleasant surprise when he’d received the email. He hadn’t been a part of the campaign, and the last time he’d seen Tran’s father was when they’d had that slightly awkward conversation about his son’s progress. But he’d handled that little challenge well. Perhaps that’s why he had been included. He’d made the right moves.

‘It’s gratifying,’ says Hieu Van Pham. ‘A bit daunting, but it’s good to know you have the support of the community.’

‘You’re a popular man,’ says Elliot, though again he’s not sure that he’s hitting quite the right note in this exchange. 

‘I’m really pleased you’re here, Elliot. I’ve wanted to have a word.’

There’s something about the way that the councillor is avoiding eye contact that is unsettling.

‘You know I’ve been gratified that your school has tried to encourage my son.’

‘There was a brief blip,’ says Elliot, ‘but all is smooth sailing now. He’s a good boy, Tran.’

‘A bit lazy sometimes. Needs a push. Needs a kick up the backside. But your teachers have been excellent with him and he’s been getting the results.’

This is leading somewhere, Elliot is sure of it, and he feels his mouth just a little dry. He goes to take a sip of his gin and tonic and too late realises that he’s raised an empty glass to his lips. Mercifully it seems that Tran’s father hasn’t noticed.

‘I’m still concerned though with what’s happening in his English class.’

‘Ah, Molly McInness,’ says Elliot. He sighs, just to let Tran’s father know that he shares the concern, that we all have our little burdens.

‘Tran says she’s impossibly vague.’

‘Speaks in riddles, I’m afraid, though perhaps I shouldn’t talk out of school, as it were.’ Elliot is pleased with this reply. Councillor Pham will no doubt appreciate Elliot’s willingness to see things from a parents’ point of view. And it’s true, anyway, that he finds Molly impossible to understand. Riddles. Circles. Endless metaphors. Interminable stories with no apparent point. He tunes out when Molly speaks in staff meetings. He and Rodney Jensen occasionally exchange exasperated looks when Molly is in full gushing flight.

‘Tran tells me he struggled to get a grip on what he was supposed to be doing in this recent English assignment. We want him doing well in English. We want him to have opportunities, and he needs the highest grades.’

‘He’s been issued with unambiguous marking criteria?’ Elliot hopes this is true. How teachers can teach without explicit objectives and clear marking criteria, he cannot imagine. Is it at all conceivable that Molly has neglected this fundamental requirement?

‘There’s a marking criteria,’ says Tran’s father. ‘But Tran tells me that he doubts that his English teacher will be guided by it. She seems more guided by her feelings and her favourites. When he asks questions about this, she implies that he needs to lighten up, to play a little, to experiment. But then she cannot explain, in any concrete way, what she means by this. I’m concerned, Elliot. I’d be very grateful for any reassurance you might be able to give me.’

Elliot can read between the lines. He is included in this company on certain conditions. 

‘Rest assured,’ he says, ‘that I will personally make sure that all due process will be followed.’ There are some sentences, Elliot thinks, that form themselves, that come out just right.

‘I knew I could rely on you,’ says Hieu Van Pham. ‘Your drink is empty I see. Here, let me refill it for you.’

Molly is sitting in her empty classroom. It’s lunchtime. She is looking out her window, a half eaten sandwich on the table in front of her.

Molly is thinking about Zeph. Ever since reading his rationale, she’s seen him through fresh eyes. She no longer sees a withdrawn and largely illiterate struggler (how much of this view was unconsciously pushed into her by Rodney?), but a boy who, like us all, wonders about the nature of things. A private and deep boy. A thinker.

I think the world is this one thing, Zeph had written in his rationale, and when one part of it dies then it comes alive somewhere else in a different kind of form or something. She had immediately thought of a poem she’d heard first during her undergraduate English degree, a poem by Thomas Hardy called ‘Transformations’. A poem set in a graveyard. She’s just googled it. 

Portion of this yew
Is a man my grandsire knew,
Bosomed here at its foot:
This branch may be his wife,
A ruddy human life
Now turned to a green shoot.

These grasses must be made
Of her who often prayed,
Last century, for repose;
And the fair girl long ago
Whom I often tried to know
May be entering this rose.

So, they are not underground,
But as nerves and veins abound
In the growths of upper air,
And they feel the sun and rain,
And the energy again
That made them what they were!

Should she share the poem with Zeph? Or with the class? It could be a fine thing, she thinks as she stares out the window and watches the students haring about, to make an explicit and convincing connection between quiet Zeph’s thoughts and the poetry of Thomas Hardy. It could be a fine thing indeed. 

There is a large tree out there in the playground, some kind of oak she thinks, on the edge of the school oval, under whose spring leaves there are wooden benches and a light shade. Is Zeph out there, she wonders? She scans the faces of the students on the benches, the students playing with hacky sacks, the students sitting alone. She cannot see him.

But then she sees a student she recognises talking with a teacher she knows, and she feels a sudden irrational panic.

Tran is in deep conversation with Rodney, and she has a strong presentiment that they’re talking about her.

Tran had stormed out of class again the other day, shaking his arrogant finger at her and shouting. I tick every box and still you refuse to give me an ‘A’. Tell me what I’ve done wrong? Just tell me! Name one thing you’ve said on the marking criteria that I haven’t actually done! You can’t, can you! But then I’m not one of your favourites. I’m not a brown nose.

Now, no doubt, he’s pouring his venom into the receptive ear of Rodney. She knows the mark she gave Tran is justified, that his work is not brave or insightful or imaginative. Harriet’s story was all of these things. So she knows she was right; she just wishes she knew she was impregnable as well. It’s disturbing seeing them so deep in conversation, Rodney leaning forward in an attitude of uncharacteristic engagement and empathy. It feels ominous.

Elliot adjusts the few objects on his neat desk as he waits. It’s a little ritual that helps focus the mind. And he needs to be very focussed for what is about to transpire. He needs to play this one very carefully. Like a fox, he thinks, and allows himself a quiet smile. Dissemble. That’s the game.

It’s a game that matters, for what is about to transpire is an opportunity, one that might not reoccur. Ever since his morning meeting with an indignant Rodney Jensen, where interesting accusations were voiced about the problematic Molly McInness, Elliot has known that what happens in the next little while could, if handled cunningly, cement his place within the councillor’s social circle and at the same time rid him of a problematic irritant.

‘You wanted to see me,’ says Molly. She is standing at the door. Elliot hadn’t heard her approach. Has she been watching him? 

‘I most certainly did,’ says Elliot in a voice which, he hopes, exudes a hearty and disarming welcome. ‘Come in. Sit down. A coffee? A cold drink? Weather’s warming up. Perhaps you’d rather a cold drink?’

‘Water’s fine,’ she says. ‘Thank you.’

‘Sit down Molly,’ he says. Is his tone right? She seems on edge, still on guard. 

‘Rhonda’s been telling me about your big project. Says some of the students have taken to it like ducks to water. Knocked your socks off. Yes?’

She’s frowning. Has he not struck the right chord? Is it at all possible, he wonders, that she knows of his conversation with Jensen earlier in the day? Unlikely. They’d been careful.

‘Rhonda says that some of the work the students have done is outstanding. Zeph, apparently, has come good, which is a minor miracle and reflects great glory on you, Molly.’

‘You know about his project?’ She seems surprised that he’s pleased with what Zeph has done. He tries to recall what Rhonda actually said about the boy’s project. The details have slipped away. No matter.

‘He’s written something, I believe. He’s put pen to paper. Minor miracle. Well done you!’

There’s something enigmatic about her smile, but at least she’s stopped frowning. We’re making progress, it seems.

‘And Rhonda was raving about Harriet’s story,’ he says. ‘A little novel, by all accounts. You’ve been an inspiration for young Harriet, or so says Rhonda.’

‘She’s a remarkable student,’ says Molly.

‘Remarkable she may very well be,’ says Elliot, ‘but flowers only bloom when the conditions in the jardin are propitious. Credit where credit’s due Molly. I’ve been on your back at times, I know, but here clearly is a vindication of your teaching. You’ve created the right conditions. You’ve helped this student achieve something quite extraordinary, or so Rhonda tells me.’

Molly’s smile remains barely polite. She’s still uneasy. Time, perhaps, for a slightly more direct approach.

‘You know there is a Principal’s award at the end of the year to an outstanding teacher. You have put yourself forward, me thinks. There are students performing with you in ways we haven’t seen. How do you do it? Perhaps we have a lot to learn from you, Molly McInness. Tell me more about your work with young Harriet. How have you created the right conditions for this flowering?’

Again the frown. And then a noncommittal shrug of the shoulders. This is not quite going to plan. 

‘You’ve worked closely with her, I don’t doubt.’

‘She’s keen,’ says Molly. ‘She’s one of the those students who is eager to learn.’

‘And she admires you, clearly. She looks up to you. She would have sought your guidance.’

‘She is eager to learn,’ Molly says again.

‘I imagine she would seek you out, show you her progress, ask for feedback.’

‘I told all the class that I would be happy to give feedback. Harriet was one who asked for it.’

‘More than the others?’

‘She was certainly very keen to talk about what she’d done.’

‘And her writing improved as a result of your feedback?’

‘I think so. You know what it’s like. When you get a student who wants to learn.’

There’s something about her tone here that is irritating, as if she’s mocking or challenging in some hard-to-fathom way. Elliot chooses to ignore it. There’s a bigger game being played, and some progress is now being made.

‘And this feedback?’ says Elliot. ‘You’d give it … when?’

‘Whenever she asked for it … if I had the time.’

‘During class?’

‘During class.’

‘And at lunchtimes?’

‘Sometimes. She was keen.’

‘And other students? Did they come at lunchtimes as well perhaps?’

‘No. Harriet was the only one who took up that opportunity.’

‘It was an opportunity that the other students knew about, I presume.’

Molly is frowning still, though it’s a very different kind of frown. Time to close in.

‘And her writing, Harriet’s writing, it changed as a result of these exclusive and private lunchtime chats you had with her?’

‘What are you implying?’

‘Implying? I imply nothing Ms McInness.’ His voice is now cold, confronting. The words come easily. ‘I’m just trying to establish some facts. There are questions being asked, and I need to be able to answer them in full possession of the facts.’

‘Questions? Who is asking questions?’

‘There are some concerns, unjustified without a doubt, but in order to deal with them I need to be in possession of the facts.’

Is he imagining things, or has the colour left her cheeks? She looks shaken, uncertain, cornered. Yes, cornered. 

‘Ms McInness, were any of these sessions conducted out of school?’

‘No.’

‘Harriet hasn’t visited your house then?’

‘All of these sessions took place at school.’

‘That’s not quite what I asked, Ms McInness. Has Harriet visited your house?’

‘Not during the writing of the story, no.’

‘But she has visited? On her own?’

‘When she was worried about a friend of hers. She wanted my help.’

‘Did she visit chaperoned by her grandfather, or was she on her own?’

‘Elliot, what are you implying?’

‘I’m asking some questions, Ms McInness. Questions I need some answers to. I’ll assume from your responses that Harriet visited alone.’

Silence. 

‘Let’s return to these private sessions you had at school with Harriet. You worked together on specific passages of her draft?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was one of those passages about a character called Attor?’

‘We worked on several passages of her very long story, but not all of it. I can’t remember if we worked together on that passage. We talked about it, I think. But we didn’t work together on it.’

‘Did you warn Harriet, when you read the passage, that she was playing with fire?’

‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘You were aware, weren’t you, that she was basing her description of that character on one of your colleagues.’

‘I did not help her write that passage, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’

‘I’m not suggesting anything Ms McInness. I’m trying to establish the facts. Did you recognise the caricature?’

She says nothing. She is glaring at him. Fuming. Provoked. Caught out. Hoisted on her own whatsit.

‘I’m her English teacher, helping her to write well,’ she says at last. ‘I’m not her guardian.’

‘And you’re not using her as your own mouthpiece? You’re not using a student to get back at a colleague?’ he asks.

‘I did not help her write that passage,’ says Molly.

‘Thank you Ms McInness, you’ve been most helpful.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Thank you Ms McInness.’

Max has not seen her like this. Almost as soon as they sit at their usual table at the front of the cafe on this Saturday morning, Molly starts fiddling with the table napkins, looking distractedly out the window, asking him meaningless questions and clearly not listening to his responses. Then, when the coffees arrives, she plays with the froth on her cappuccino, stirring with increasing agitation, as if trying to replicate in a caffeine whirlpool a turbulence she is obviously feeling herself. 

‘Molly,’ he says more sharply than he’s intended.

Molly lifts her gaze slowly from the cup to Max’s face. Is it panic he is seeing in those eyes? Sadness? She looks defeated.

‘What’s up Molly?’

Tears form. One runs down a cheek, pools briefly at her chin. She wipes it away impatiently.

‘Molly, what is it?’

‘I received an email last night,’ she says at last. ‘I’ve printed it out.’ She fumbles in her bag, first laying car keys, soggy used tissues and assorted coins on the table, then taking out a folded and crumpled piece of paper. ‘I’m going to the bathroom,’ she says. ‘Read it while I’m gone.’

Max unfolds the paper and begins to read.

Allegations of a breach of the Melbourne Teaching Institute’s Profession Code of Conduct

Dear Ms McInness,

A series of complaints have been received by this office at the Victorian Institute of Teaching, from your Principal, alleging a breach of the Teaching Code of Conduct.
It is our responsibility to investigate allegations of a breach.
The purpose of this letter is to inform you of the nature of the allegations, to outline the procedure for the investigation of the complaints, and to invite your response.

The allegations
There are four allegations outlined in the complaint from your Principal, Mr Elliot Sullivan:
1. Ms McInness has consistently displayed bias and preference in her dealings with her students, a bias that has been reflected in her marking of their work.
2. Ms McInness has had contact with a student without a valid context, and has invited students to her home with no-one else present.
3. Ms McInness has failed to take appropriate action when responding to parental concerns, concerns relayed to her both directly by the parents concerned and by her Principal, raising questions about the way she marks the student work according to whim and personal preference, rather than in accordance with published marking criteria.
4. Ms McInness has acted unprofessionally in encouraging a student to publish scurrilous and defamatory portraits of a teaching colleague in order to ridicule and belittle that colleague.

The procedure for investigating the complaints

1. We gather information by conducting interviews and inviting statements from yourself, your Principal, your colleagues, parents and students.
2. We then make a determination as to whether any further action is required, which might include a formal agreement, an informal hearing (without legal representation) or a formal hearing (open to the public and where you would be entitled to legal representation).

3. A determination would then be made as to any further action, should a finding of misconduct be made. This might include a caution, a reprimand, conditions being placed on registration, a suspended or cancelled registration or a criminal prosecution.

The next step

 You are invited, as a first step, to meet with us to discuss the concerns, provide a written response and/or to explore opportunities for an early resolution by agreement. 
It is our intention to resolve this in a way that causes the least amount of disruption or concern to you or to the other parties involved, insofar as this is consistent with the maintenance of the highest possible standards of professional conduct.
If possible, we would like this initial meeting to take place on Monday November 9th at our offices, at 4.30pm. Please let me know if this time is possible for you.

With best wishes,
Gillian Aldridge.
Melbourne Teaching Institute 

‘Well?’ says Molly. She’s standing behind him. He hasn’t noticed her return. 

‘What’s it all about?’ says Max. He turns in his chair so he can see her face. It’s white.

Molly doesn’t answer.

‘Molly?’

‘I don’t think I can talk right now Max,’ she says. ‘I’ll text you later, if I can.’

‘Molly, I’ll walk with you.’

‘No, stay here. I need to go. Can you pay? Sorry Max. I’ll text.’

After she’s gone, Max sits for a while, concerned for Molly but also worried about Harriet. Could this have something to do with her? Might she be sucked into something very ugly? 

First Zeph, now this. The sanctuary’s walls are porous.