He nods at the stage and straightens.
A rumpled-looking John Nicholson taps awkwardly at the microphone and then mouths something to the blonde lady, who is looking on encouragingly. The shushing waves over the crowd until the only sounds that can be heard are cicadas and the ragged crying of an overtired baby.
‘Thank you all for coming here today.’ He swallows heavily. ‘Rosalind Ryan was …’ There is a pause and his hands grip the sides of the lectern, his eyes moving up to the sky as if in prayer and then slowly moving back to the crowd. ‘Rosalind Ryan was a gifted teacher, a wonderful student and an amazing person. You all know that. That’s why we’re all here.’
A group of girls near us, faces wet with tears, clutch each other’s hands. One suddenly breaks into loud crying as the others rub her back, murmuring in her ear.
Nicholson acknowledges the crying with a sympathetic grimace. ‘Today is about celebrating her wonderful life and the incredible passion she had for Smithson and her students. Rosalind was so proud of you all and proud of what she achieved here.’ Nicholson’s voice cracks and he steps back from the microphone, but I can still hear the guttural sob that escapes his mouth. He thrusts his hands deep into his pockets and appears to breathe in strength, steadying himself before he talks again. ‘What happened last week was a tragedy. Something we will never really understand. Rosalind would not want us to dwell on that though. There are so many things to celebrate about her short life that it makes no sense to speculate beyond that. That is the job of the police, and I know that they are doing everything they can to achieve justice for Rosalind and her family.’
Nicholson gives a not-so-subtle nod in our direction and hundreds of eyes turn on us. I feel a mild flush creep across my cheeks and I lean away from Felix slightly.
‘People deal with something like this in very different ways. And that is completely fine. There is no right or wrong way to feel. Today a few students are going to perform for us in celebration of Ms Ryan, or simply tell us something special about her so that we can share our memories and remember how much she meant to us all.’
Nicholson clears his throat loudly. ‘Rosalind’s family are also here with us today.’
He turns to where the Ryans are seated. George Ryan seems to nod at Nicholson but his jaw remains set. The brothers are erect and steely. A low murmur rustles from the audience. I look to Nicholson again, who is shifting his weight back and forth.
‘Thank you for being here today. Your Rosalind meant a great deal to us. We can’t begin to imagine your pain. Please know she will never be forgotten at Smithson.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ George’s gravelly voice booms without a microphone and cuts through the singing cicadas.
Nicholson continues, ‘First, two of our students are going to share a reading for Ms Ryan. And then we will have a song from Camille Hollback, one of our talented year ten students. And then the year twelves have a special announcement to make in Ms Ryan’s honour.’ He bobs his head as he steps backwards and makes his way off the stage.
I lean forward so I can see the front rows. Behind the family and a little to the left are the teachers. I recognise most of them from our staffroom interviews the other day. The PE teacher’s broad shoulders form a large square in between two petite women. I recognise Izzy with her bright red hair and the older lady who grabbed manically at her hanky when we asked about Rosalind.
Then I spot Candy Fyfe in a sleeveless red shirt talking intimately to a TV camera. She flicks her head dramatically and gazes steadily into the lens for a few moments before gesturing for her cameraman to focus on the stage.
‘He’s pretty upset, don’t you think?’ Felix is watching Nicholson.
‘He’s allowed to be, isn’t he?’
Two girls clutching single red roses make their way onto the stage, holding hands. Nicholson nods at them encouragingly. The students look like otherworldly elves, with long feathery haircuts and large almond-shaped eyes. They exchange looks and smile grimly, as if summoning the strength to do whatever is coming.
‘Ms Ryan was the most incredible teacher.’ The first girl speaks in a hushed whisper. The second girl grips her hand a little tighter. ‘She was so passionate and wanted us to love books and reading as much as she did. She really helped us to learn. Really learn.’
‘She really did. Every day in one of her classes was like an adventure. She wanted us to know new worlds without having to go anywhere. She taught us that anything is possible.’
The first girl starts to cry. The second girl continues, ‘We want to say thank you to Ms Ryan. We will never forget you.’
The first girl nods through her tears and manages to speak. ‘This is a scene from one of our favourite texts. Ms Ryan always said that it shows how great love stories can change the way you look at the world.’
‘It’s from The Velveteen Rabbit,’ says the second girl.
They draw deep breaths in unison, then take it in turns to read the characters.
‘What is REAL?’ asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. ‘Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?’
‘Real isn’t how you are made,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.’
‘Does it hurt?’ asked the Rabbit.
‘Sometimes,’ said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. ‘When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.’
‘Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,’ he asked, ‘or bit by bit?’
‘It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.’
My eyes sting with tears. Felix’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down. The sound of sobbing fills the air.
The two girls nod at the audience then step down from the stage.