Tipping Point
by Janet Meade
Copyright 2013
This is a work of fiction, although it relies on fact wherever possible.
Nothing really happened like this.
But it might have.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Table of Contents
Chapter One - Annie
Chapter Two - Moon Night
Chapter Three - The Book Club
Chapter Four - The Beach
Chapter Five - Tipping Point
Chapter Six - What will you tell your children?
Chapter Seven - The Minister
Chapter Eight - The Monk
Chapter Nine - The Muslim
Chapter Ten - What are you doing to save the world?
Chapter Eleven - Limbo
Chapter Twelve - Epilogue
One Last Thing . . .
About the author
Bibliography
Tipping Point
For the children not yet born
“I do the very best I know how – the very best I can; and I mean to keep doing so until the end. If the end brings me out all right, what is said against me won’t amount to anything. If the end brings me out wrong, ten angels swearing I was right would make no difference.”
Abraham Lincoln
“What is the place in the universe for people with an unbalanced mind? And what is the purpose of their existence?
“Those who are crazy are the people that have completely rejected the whole scheme of your society. They are the people who have been searching for the truth. Because they did not find it in your society they lost every hope. They could not find what they were aspiring for . . . so they went what you call crazy. But in the next life they will become swamis like myself.”
From Teachings of Swami Satyananda, Volume One.
*** *** *** *** ***
Chapter One: Annie
I expected them to come and cart me away. Lock up the crazy woman where she can’t hurt any-one. High white walls trapping me, locked in insanity.
This isn’t what I expected.
There is no strait-jacket.
They have given me a white room and a computer, and asked me to tell my story.
Years of writer’s block, cotton-wool words, unable to like anything enough to overcome the urge to delete. And they want me to write my story!
Where do I start? A phrase from Uni days floats through my mind with a Freudian accent: “Let’s go back to your childhood . . .”
I don’t want to go back that far though. And that’s not what you want to know about, is it?
Annie woke instantly. Again she heard the demanding bark from the other end of the house. Damn! I didn’t shut the door to the spare room properly.
“Spud! No!” The barking stopped. Then she heard a distant thump and a sudden scrabbling at floorboards.
“Warf!”
“No Spud! Come here!”
The rattle of dog claws on floorboards approached from the kitchen. Annie glanced across the room to the angry numbers, glowing red in the dark. 5.30. I’ll have to get up soon.
A cold, wet stone pushed under the edge of the doona and into Annie’s arm. Rather than jump, she reached out and patted Spud’s head, invisible in the dark.
“I know you don’t like the wombat living under the house, but he’s just coming home to sleep. Leave him alone.” The dog pushed into her hand and she began scratching his neck.
“Into bed now, mate. Perhaps I can snooze for a bit. Into bed, there’s a good boy! Stay.”
In the dark beside her she heard him briefly clatter on the bare boards then turn about on the dog bed and nestle into the blankets. Annie relaxed into her warm nest and let herself drift in the currents tempting her to sleep.
A thumping and a distinct sound of digging shattered Annie’s hopes. Spud’s staccato nails stampeded to the spare room.
“Damn!”
Annie didn’t want another confrontation between the beasts. She didn’t stop to put on slippers and by the time she had gone through the kitchen to the spare room her feet were icy.
In the spare room Spud was scratching at the loose boards, but had fortunately not been able to lift them. As she walked over the floor to the dog, an angry explosion of sound came from beneath her feet.
“You’ve pissed him off, Spud. Come here.” She grabbed him by the collar and marched him from the room, shutting the door behind them with a secure “Click!”
Released, Spud capered at her feet, stopping to look hopefully at the firmly closed door.
Walking through the kitchen, Annie stopped to fill the kettle. There was no point expecting to get back to sleep for half an hour.
She looked around at the mouse traps. Two catches. Taking a pen from the table, she amended the list held on the fridge by a magnetic frog. “That makes fifty this season. We’ll be able to make that mouse-skin cloak soon, Spud.”
He sat up and stared at Annie at the mention of his name. Wise, dark eyes gazed at her as he waited, tail gently thumping on the floor. He was a handsome dog, black and glossy, with a kelpie face and faint brown highlights over his eyes, as well as on his chest and front paws. The red heeler in his “breeding” gave his coat a reddish tinge, especially on the mane across his solid shoulders.
The metal thundering of the tin roof brought Spud to his feet. “Worf!”
“Settle down, mate. It’s just one of the possums coming home to sleep through the day. Lucky bastards.”
The dog walked over to Annie and nuzzled her hand, stopping only to gaze anxiously at a scuffling and thumping from the ceiling as the possum inspected its living quarters before choosing a place to sleep in the roof cavity.
“We’re lucky we’ve got somewhere to stay, mate.”
Looking at the clock, Annie decided. She took her cup of tea to the desk, switched on the computer (You’re wasting power!) and went to fetch a blanket. She wrapped herself up and sat at the desk. Spud curled into his nearby bed and resumed watching Annie.
“I’ve got a spare half an hour. I’m gonna try.”
For a time she was busy, tapping, typing. As a teenager Annie had decided to be a writer. With maturity, reality had set in and her passion transferred to her job. For Annie, teaching was a vocation; but she still couldn’t help herself. In spare moments she scribbled down thoughts and ideas, tried to cobble stories together. Always finding herself disappointed by the result.
When she stopped and read what she had written, she once again regretted her studies in English Literature. She had read Shakespeare and Eliot. In comparison her own words were always pale and awkward. With a snort of disgust she highlighted, then deleted most of it.
Now Annie stared at the screen.
Putting her elbows on the desk she finally rested her forehead in her hands and groaned. Why did this happen? Words abandoned her.
And so Annie began the routine of a working day. By the time she had worked out with her hand-weights and started looking for her shoes, there was a glow in the eastern sky.
“Yes Spud. It’s time for a walk.” He followed her now, fully alert and ready for his morning run. As she sat to put on shoes he pushed under her elbow and demanded attention. She scratched his chest.
“Now bugger off. I can’t get my shoes on while you’re in my face!” He stepped back and sat on his haunches, eyes fixed on her as he struggled to avoid imploding at the promise of pleasure to come.
Walking was among Annie’s favourite things to do, too.
&nbs
p; This morning as she walked, energised by the cool morning air, enchanted by the banners of dawn that graced the eastern sky, Annie reviewed her lesson plans for the day. While people bleated about trying to find meaning in life, Annie knew she had found hers: but it was not always an easy profession and it came with a price.
When a man came into her life, charmed by her frequent smile and wicked sense of humour, she no longer expected him to remain. No man had ever stayed with her longer than a year – they did not want to share her with her students. Too many times her answer was, “No, I have correction to finish,” or “No, I’m helping with the school play tonight.”
It had made her sad for a time, but earlier that year, on her thirty-first birthday, she had looked at her life and decided she had all she needed. Always, life had complications. But she had a modest home and a modest mortgage. She had a job she loved and good friends. She had Spud.
Still . . . sometimes she wondered whether there was more. Whether, perhaps, there was some further purpose to her life that she had not yet discovered. Was there something she was missing?
The peacefulness of the morning, birds calling to each other as they wake, trees shaking off last night’s dew in the soft breeze; these things had faded by the time Annie reached school.
From the roadside where the bus stopped she could see the sprawl of mud, completed buildings that were already in use and the building site - high cyclone-wire temporary fences cordoning off the future school rooms. Builders in hard-hats consulted plans on one side of the fence while students dribbled through the muddy walkways on the other side of the cage. “Gotta love the working conditions,” muttered Annie as a bobcat began reversing. Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!
The walk to her office took her past the boys’ toilets – a portable building that was swarming and overflowing. That’s not right.
Annie approached the door, then thumped loudly on the outside wall. “Righto boys! Stop it now! Teacher here!” A tide of students spewed from the door. Annie reached out and grabbed a reliable looking one.
“Robert. What’s happening in there?”
“They flushed somebody.”
“Any reason?”
“He deserved it. He slagged on a kid!”
When a particularly damp-looking student passed within reach, Annie took hold of his arm.
“Could you tell me what happened, please?”
“Nothing, Miss.”
“Isn’t this your brother, Robert?”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Did they flush you, Ricky?”
“Nothing happened, Miss. I slipped, that’s all. I don’t want to be late for class.”
What could she do? She let Richard go then turned to Robert.
“You say he deserved it?”
“Yes, Miss.”
Annie shrugged. The bell was sounding and she would be late.
“I’ll talk to you about this later, Robert.” As she rushed to her desk, Annie briefly considered what she would say to him.
Who had been the instigators? Annie sifted the faces that had poured past her and chose three who would be honest, two of them were in her first class for the day. She needed to know more about what had happened. What would she say if she found a clear culprit?
Probably the same as she would say to Robert, something about not taking the law into your own hands. On the surface, though, it seemed that justice had probably been served. Sometimes people needed to act together to confront evil. Spitting was a disgusting habit.
Her musings on the nature of justice were set aside as her day began in earnest.
The boys in the back row were unrepentant.
“Mouth to Mouth” was an Australian classic. It was an old film, but highly appropriate for this unit of media text analysis. The issues it had raised were not the ones Annie had expected, however. The notes in her lesson plan prepared her to discuss homelessness and the difficulties and dangers facing young people; the use of bleak settings to emphasize the message of the film. She had been totally unprepared when the back row had begun calling out, “Slut! Scrag! Mole!” All because the girls who were the main characters in the film had got into a panel-van and accepted a beer from its occupants.
The discussion afterwards surprised Annie. Like most people, she believed that women had achieved equality in our society – the attitudes her students expressed challenged that belief.
“But all the girls did was get into the van and accept a can of beer from the blokes. What’s wrong with that?”
“Oh come on, Miss. You know what happens after that.” The leer on Mark’s face made it clear what he thought.
“But in the film, nothing happened. So what you said was wrong.”
“They’re still moles,” said Tom, supporting his mates.
“You’re a mole,” said Cara. “The girls didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Although she should not call people names . . .”
“Sorry, Miss.”
“ . . . Cara has a point. And they certainly didn’t do anything more or less than the boys in the van.”
“Yeah – so the boys have to be sluts too!” said Georgia.
“Nah! They’re legends!”
“Like us.” The back row adopted their best tough body language, lounging backwards and tipping the chairs to lean precariously.
“In your own mind,” Cara said. Outrage was growing among the girls.
Annie was lost for words for a moment. Did people still think like that?
“Let me get this straight. It’s okay for boys to . . . sleep around, but if a girl does, she’s a slut. On the other hand, if a boy does it, he’s a legend?”
“Stud, Miss. Stud! You got it right.” All the boys made approving noises.
“It’s not right! It should be the same for every-one,” exclaimed Georgia.
“You just don’t like being called a mole,” accused Mark.
“’Cause I’m not!”
“That’s enough, every-one.” Annie tried to settle the class.
“Well, you’re not a virgin! Jarrad told me all about you and him,” Mark concluded.
A mumble came from the back row, “Slut.”
Before Annie could respond, a passionate voice began. “You have no right to talk to us like that!” Bridgett, usually so solemn and quiet, was incensed into speaking. “Men and women, girls and boys – we should not be treated differently because of our gender. We are all equal. It is a double standard to praise men for behaviour they deride in women. You are being sexist!”
Her anger exhausted, Bridgett leaned back in her seat, as surprised by her outburst as the class who had listened in stunned silence.
When the girls recovered their senses and began applauding, Ben called out, “What would you know, a frigid virgin like you.”
“Enough!” demanded Annie.
In the sudden silence, Cara’s voice was piercing as she glared at the boys at the back of the room.
“Well, youse can’t be virgins, ‘cause ya faces are f***ed!”
When the class had finally left, after some very stern words from Annie about appropriate language and behaviour, she turned to Cara, who had remained to discuss her swearing.
“Well,” said Annie, “you know we have to take swearing very seriously?”
“Yes Miss.” Cara looked uncomfortable.
Annie brought up her index finger and wagged it, admonishing, a small smile forming, “Don’t you ever use language like that in my classroom again.”
“No Miss. I won’t.” Cara was sincere, but returned the smile as she began to leave.
“Well said!” Annie commented, and patted Cara’s shoulder as she passed. “Don’t let them put you down.”
These girls had to learn to stick up for themselves. But, had the world changed so little that children were learning sexism, double standards, bullying, misogyny? After all, the kids didn’t make up something new - it was
hard to know how much was simply absorbed from their parents and family. She found herself remembering some of the racism that was so common. And the irony that there weren’t any Asians in the classroom to defend themselves against the accusation of “taking over”!
The nature of her work meant that Annie could not close her eyes to the issues that troubled her community. Every day her students confronted her with their values and opinions – many of them biased and intolerant, based on ignorance.
“Where is the world going?” she asked the empty classroom as she picked up paper that had been missed in the end-of-lesson cleanup, trying not to think about the waste as she threw it into the bin. When the floor was clear she cleaned the board and left.
Before she went home, Annie faced the task she could no longer delay. Her students would need this handout tomorrow, so she headed to the photocopier.
“This is silly,” Annie muttered to herself. “It’s part of my job – the students need this handout to help them learn.” The photocopier sat sullenly, listening to her working up her nerve. “It has to be done.”
She stepped forward decisively, pushed the log-in button and punched in her code. The machine purred suggestively as she placed her original on the glass and closed the cover. As the whirring and clacking started and sheets began emerging into the tray, Annie looked out the window and tried not to hear the screaming in her brain.
How many trees are you killing each year? What effect are all these chemicals having on the environment? You’ll get cancer from the fumes in here. How much power is wasted in this school every day anyway?
As the questions diminished she could feel the panic rising. She breathed deeply. Focus on the breath. It was important to keep going - she could not let the voices win.
“ ‘I do not think that they will sing to me.’ ”
Annie stared at the screen (Wasting power again!) knowing what she wanted to say, but unable to trap words on the page. Instead the insistent voices. What’s the point? You’re not good enough. No-one will want to read this. It’s a waste of time. And the voice that had driven her to the keyboard - the one that inspired her and reeked of prophecy - was silent.