Free Escape by Anna Fienberg Page B

tightening the strap of my shoulder
bag.
    I marched up George Street, past Best Bikes and the camping shop
where my father had bought the tent for Danny, towards the Capitol
Theatre. I'd meant to look at the summer dresses in the windows on
the way, which my mother had pointed out would be on sale by now,
but I saw nothing. I just kept thinking of the beautiful man and how
dazed I felt, as if struck by lightning.
    I had come into the city to do a reconnaissance of the Capitol Theatre
because the following Monday I would be taking my class for their
annual excursion. When you're about to enter a new environment,
I've found it's best to rehearse it first, particularly when the happiness
of thirty children is in your hands. I wanted to know exactly where the
bus would stop, how long it would take to walk there, the location of
the traffic lights, and the layout of the theatre.
    I had been teaching at Wanganella Public School for three and a
half years, and this year we third grade teachers were told that we could
each choose our own school excursion. The weight of the decision
was quite crushing. I imagined all the children coming home to their
parents – that is, providing I didn't lose any of them – complaining that
their day out with me was the worst, most tedious excursion they'd
ever been on. Their little faces would be pale with disappointment
and the realisation that they would never get to have a grade three
excursion – or this day – ever again.
    To be honest, the whole business of teaching, the responsibility
of all those young minds, was exhausting. Sometimes I'd stand outside
myself and look on, wondering what on earth that woman thought she
was doing.
    Adult life seemed to be largely a mixture of boredom and terror.
I'd gaze wistfully at the children playing their make-believe games,
thinking the best part of being a child was that you were allowed to
make yourself up. No one said 'don't be silly' or 'oh dear, you seem
to have a mental problem' when you were four and being a mermaid,
your legs tucked cunningly together into one limb of your mother's
green wool tights.
    In kindergarten I'd wanted to grow mermaid tresses, but my
mother said it wasn't practical – my hair was thick and untameable
and she just didn't have time to comb it constantly. ' I'll do it,' I'd said.
And I did. At eight it was long enough to plait and I learnt how to do
a beehive and a bun and a French roll. Sometimes my mother and I
played hairdressers in the kitchen and she let me massage her head
and rearrange her hair . She had vibrant hair, I told her and really it was
a crying shame that she didn't show it off more. She'd giggled; she liked
'vibrant', I could tell.
    But then my father stopped being a policeman and started
bringing home the orphan children instead. This meant no one could
be bothered to talk for even five minutes any more about French rolls
or beehives. There were real live crying shames needing attention in
our kitchen.
    Shame seemed to have attended most decisions in my life. It
was like an unwanted guest who lingered too long. Still, when you
were a teacher of grade three, decisions had to be made, and quickly.
Eventually the possibilities for excursions were narrowed down to
three – the zoo (fresh air and educational), volleyball on the beach
(cheap and fun) or hiring bikes at Centennial Park, with a picnic. But
what if it rained? And then I thought of myself at their age, my love
of mermaid glitter and harem pants and Jean and Dean in The Magic
Show .
    There had been notices in the theatre section of the newspaper
for a couple of months about the Magic Masters coming to Sydney. From the ancient world the Magic Masters will bring mesmerising illusions
combined with spectacular lighting effects guaranteed to keep audiences
on the edge of their seats! There would be the Table of Death, the
Domino Card Trick, Mysterious Fountain, the Slicer, Escape from the
Straitjacket. I had fantasised about going myself –