2025

I  

Connan

They called Connan the strange one. He was a solitary boy without friends. He played by himself. The Freemans lived in a wooden house on the edge of town, hard against the bush.

Connan loved to go into the bush. His parents let this eleven-year-old boy free all Saturday. Into the bush he went, although never far from home.

He found a space and sat down. He ceased all movement, his breath slow and steady. He watched. After about thirty minutes everything returned to normal. He became part of the bush.

His head didn’t move, but his eyes swept constantly over the scene. There was a pile of bark at the root of a tree which revealed beetles, a small tangle of ground plants which were a known haunt of a Blue-tongue lizard, a rock lounged upon by skinks and concealing a family of scorpions, and some previous generation’s hydrangea that attracted butterflies. Insects buzzed their way through his vision, and bird calls filled the air. Into the stillness before him, a pair of honeyeaters flittered from bush to bush close to his face.

Connan gradually became aware of an incongruity. Something didn’t fit. He couldn’t decide what it was. He would wait. It would come to him- in time.

He began a minute search of his world. He knew what to do. He set up a grid in his mind and systematically shifted his vision from square to square. Several intense minutes passed before he recognised the discrepancy. 

A bush in the undergrowth was the wrong shape. Connan let his awareness take it in. His focus drifted around the bush and through it. It slowly resolved itself into a boy: a boy about his own age, clad in clothes the same grey-green as the bushes.

The boy spoke, “Hello, Connan, I’m Marcus. I live on a farm over the ridge.”

Connan rasped out, “How did you get here. Why are you here?”

“You watch creatures, Connan, I watch people. I know that you watch creatures because they are easier to deal with than people. People frighten you. Perhaps it’s time to make a  change.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Connan said. It was his usual response to disturbing accusations.

Marcus stood up. “Come over here, Connan.”

Connan walked to him. He paused hesitantly outside striking distance. Marcus reached out easily and pulled him closer. He spoke to Connan for several minutes, and finished, “You have to practice this. Practice it and do it. Of course, you will fail sometimes, but mostly you will achieve what you want. Go home now, I have to go home, too.”

Connan went home. He didn’t mention the boy he had met in the bush. He went into his bedroom and sat on the bed and thought. He didn’t need to write anything down. It was burnt into his brain.

***

Doctor Connan Freeman was an arborist of note. He had completed his Ph.D. on eucalyptus lignotuber, and devoted his time to reafforestation and koala conservation. He had met his wife, Fiona, at University. She was a specialist in fungi, and they joked that they were connected underground. They had four robust children.

Both Connan and Fiona worked mostly for the Department of Environment in conjunction with Departments and Universities along the East Coast.

One Saturday night in May, Connan collapsed onto the couch in the living room and hoped that nothing would happen for a while. It was ridiculous that once you became a leader, much of your time was taken up fighting for funding. The State Government was broke and sacking people, Commonwealth funds were tight, and this meant continual presentations to non-government groups keen to save trees and koalas and other wildlife. Fiona’s work was still funded, probably because the Estimates Committee didn’t know what  eukaryotic organisms were, and didn’t dare ask.

The previous week had included two government committee meetings and three presentations. Connan believed that he had won them all, but he would have to wait for documentation. One of his colleagues had given up and resigned, but more had been sacked under governmental austerity directions, which meant he had more work to do. Managers in Parks were being laid off, as well, which would lead to a decline in services, and, subsequently, forest welfare.

The scream of a four-year old disturbed him, and he stood up. Lisa’s screams could mean anything from beheading to a slight irritation. He heard Fiona call, “It’s OK, I’ve got it.” But he kept moving anyway, to find out what was happening. Lisa was the youngest, and irrationally believed she should have more attention.

He walked into his daughter’s room. “Bobbet took my bear.” Lisa stormed.

Robert was seven, and had his defence ready. “She left the bear in the hallway, so I took it to the back room out of the way.” None of the children lied, so it was probably just confusion. Fiona and Connan hushed them down.

Elizabeth arrived. She was nine, and was learning the violin. Connan had organised a space at the rear of the garage for her to practice in, which sometimes meant she was out of contact. “What was the scream?” she asked.

Lisa was about to tell all when Fiona interrupted. “Nothing, just the children misunderstanding. It’s getting towards bedtime. So, you had all better finish up what you are doing.”

Connan went back to the lounge and sat on the couch. In a few minutes he would go and assist the into bed routine with the little ones. He stretched back just in time to be interrupted by his eldest son, who was clutching a book. He was a ferocious reader. He plonked himself beside Connan and asked, “Dad, the man in this book believes in angels. Do you believe in angels?”

Connan smiled, “Yes, I think so.”

“Have you ever seen one?”

“Yes, I think so.”

His son stared at him. “Did it have wings?”

Connan wasn’t sure what to tell him, then, “No, he looked very much like you.”

“How did you know he was an angel?”

Connan looked into his curious face. “He told me something that changed my life.” Connan didn’t add that when he was seventeen, he had determined to find Marcus, and had discovered that there was no farm over the ridge, and nobody had ever heard of a boy called Marcus in the area. He had gone back into the bush where he had seen Marcus. Where he had stood there was a very vigorous gum growing, and sitting in its branches a koala. He was overcome with an awe, it defined his life, and had shared only with Fiona that this was a spiritual experience.

His son was poking him. “What did he tell you?”

“He told me something that I have already shared with you and you have become. Foreshadowing, acting into your future self.”

“How did that change you?”

Connan told him, “I was a very withdrawn boy. He taught me to act into what I wanted, and I did. I became more assertive (his father’s version had been ‘more aggressive’) and I got into things at school and achieved a lot. Marcus taught me courage.”

His son sat up. “Hey, I’m Marcus!”

“True, and you were naturally named after him. But don’t go around saying that your father saw an angel. Marcus had a great effect on me, and I later decided he was an angel. Let’s just say I met a boy when I was a boy, and he greatly influenced me. Maybe there are people you will meet who have a great effect on you, and you may like to think that they are an angel.”

Marcus snuggled into him. “Daddy, I’ve already met one.”

Connan called Fiona in. “I’ve told Marcus where his name came from.”

Fiona dropped down and hugged Marcus. “Your grandparents thought it would be nice if you were also named Connan, but I said that two Connans in the world would be too much, so we named you after an angel. You are a little angel.”

Marcus eyed her warily.  “Last time you called me a little angel, you wanted me to clean the back yard.”

“No.” She ruffled his hair. “You are one fabulous kid. The only downside is that you take after your father.” They laughed and entangled giggling on the couch till they were forcefully interrupted by Elizabeth.

“Are you putting me to bed, or what?” 

The White Law

Mr. Albert Strathen was an Accountant, a Partner in his Firm, an upright man. He was married to Louise, and had two children, a daughter named Allison who was sailing through Year Nine, and a son named Mark who had ventured into Year Seven, which was Form One in his private school which we will call South Grammar.

Mark had done poorly in Grade Six. He seemed incapable of grasping schoolwork, or a ball at sports. Discipline, extra tuition, a reward system and dire threats had failed to make any difference. When faced with secondary school he was terrified, and had offered to run away from home. Nevertheless, he was sent to school.

You can imagine his parents’ astonishment when, several weeks into the term, he came home singing, and thereafter eagerly looked forward to school. When asked why, he just shrugged and said the teacher was OK.

One night Mr. Strathen heard singing from upstairs, and went up to locate its source. It was Mark. “Mark, what are you making all this noise for? What are you doing?”

“Mr Whitelaw said my twelve times table was weak. We learn tables by singing them.”

“Seems a bit odd, “ Mr. Strathen said, “But if it helps, I suppose we will put up with it.”

However, a week later there was much thumping on the floor above Mr. Strathen’s head, and he leapt up the stairs and moved into Mark’s room. “What are you doing?”

Mark was clutching an exercise book. “We have to jump into the squares of Pythagoras’ Theorem. Tomorrow we are taking measuring tapes down to the basketball court to prove that. Next week we are going to design a house.”

“Alright, but why the jumping?”

“Mr. Whitlaw says we have to feel what we are thinking, and jumping is the easiest. I’m just practicing, because tomorrow morning we have to chant the theory as we jump.”

“You’re a bit young to be learning Pythagoras.”

“Mr. Whitelaw said Pythagoras was the basis of so many things we should learn it now. When we have measured the basketball court we will go out onto the Oval and make a proof ourselves. It’s a lot of fun. There are stakes and white string. We have to set up a big 3, 4, 5 triangle first. Earnie Coleman knows how to do that.”

Mr. Strathen drew in a breath. “Do you do things like this with other teachers?”

“They are called Masters, and no, not really, except history, we have a trainee Master, and Mr. Whitelaw stands at the back and shouts at him.”

“Shouts at him?”

“Well, not really loudly, just the way he shouts at us in class.”

“Your Master shouts at you in class?’

“Quite a bit. And we have to shout back. We have to argue that our answers are right.”

“Heaven help us. Get yourself ready for tomorrow.”

Albert Strathen went downstairs and found his wife. “Louise, I will make an appointment with Mark’s Headmaster tomorrow. We are paying a lot in school fees, and Mark seems to have a lunatic for a Master with a frivolous educational method. I will see if I can have him removed, or Mark transferred to another class.”

***

The Headmaster, Dr. Laurie Norton, gazed across his desk at Albert Strathen. “Is Mr. Whitelaw peculiar? Definitely, very peculiar. He’s the best remedial teacher we have, probably anybody has, for that matter. We have four levels of Maths: Maths A, Maths B, Maths C, and Remedial. Do you know, last year, at the end of the year tests, all of Remedial’s score equalled Maths B, except for one boy. He went into Maths A. And that includes a boy who is supposed to have severe learning difficulties. As for your suggestion that Mr. Whitelaw might not be very intelligent, I should tell you he also teaches Year Twelve English Literature and monitors the Quest Program we have for very advanced boy’s self-learning. Mr. Whitlaw says that the boys are more intelligent than he is, but that’s false modesty.

I want to show you a video. I would be grateful if you kept it to yourself, but as you were disturbed by Mr. Whitelaw’s methods, this may tell you something.” He swung a computer around and punched several buttons. Into view came a classroom filled with boys. One boy was standing by his desk. Mr. Whitlaw was saying, “I don’t like the look of your work.” The boy began shouting at Mr. Whitelaw. “You are wrong to question me. I followed BODMAS and Coleman checked my work, so the answer is eighteen, and I stand by it. I am right.” Mr. Whitelaw shouted, “All those in favour of Collins being right?” And the whole class shouted “Aye’. Mr. Whitelaw walked up to Collins, removed the mortarboard from his head, and put it on Collins. The class clapped.

“Now,” Dr, Norton said, “That might look rather strange, but Collins had been in that class for seven weeks when this was taken. He started First Term with severe depression and a handful of pills daily. He is now able to stand up in front of a class and argue with staff. Every boy in his class has to do that. Of course, they are not allowed to shout at other Masters, but they are allowed to argue. It’s a very effective teaching method, along with the other activities you found surprising.”

“But what about his shouting at a student teacher?”

“The boys are in on it, and so is the student teacher. Whitelaw coaches the teacher, and the boys have their input, correcting Mr. Whitelaw or the student. The boys know that they are training the teacher at the same time as they learn from him, or her, because we get a few women through, nowadays. It sounds different, but we have a waiting list of student teachers  who want to come here. Oh, and the learning level of that class is higher than any other in that subject.

Now, we should turn to your son. Mark probably falls under the umbrella we call Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder. Very mild, but caused a few problems in the past. Mr. Whitelaw says he is developing well, and he fits into the class system satisfactorily. Mr. Whitelaw will let us know if there are any problems that need attention. It’s extraordinary how children respond to The White Law.”

“What on earth is that?”

“Hasn’t your son told you? Previously, if a boy didn’t understand something, he put his hand up, and the Master responded. Under White Law, Mr. Whitelaw’s move, obviously, if a boy doesn’t understand something, he puts his hand up, and one or more boys who know the process come to him and help. If they still have a problem, they all put their hand up, and the Master comes to investigate. It seems that boys who are shy or isolated know that they can get support from other boys without being put down. They say it every morning.”

“What?”

“Hasn’t your son told you? When the Master comes into class, all the boys stand, and the Master says, ‘Good Morning , boys.’ And what do the boys say next?”

“Good morning, Sir.”

“No, they say together, ‘We are here for each other. Every boy in this class wins.’”

Mr. Strathen asked, “Can I talk to Mr. Whitelaw?”

The Headmaster grinned. “There are two ways. You can wait for the Staff and Parents Night, or you can meet him at seven a.m. at the oval and jog with him as you talk. I wouldn’t recommend the latter unless you are very fit.”

“Are you being funny with me?”

“Not at all. Five days a week, all weathers. Four times around the oval at least. There are always boys jogging with him. Some are being coached in a subject, some are aspiring runners, and, no, I have never done it, but a couple of staff join in some days. And, yes, some parents have joined in. You are not the only parent who is curious about Dr. Whitelaw.”

“Did you say Doctor?”

“Sorry, slip of the tongue. He doesn’t like titles. Well, I will let you get on your way. Any time you have concerns, do call me. Good Morning!”

Albert Strathen went home. While driving he was struck by a word. Google. At home he explored the computer. There wasn’t much, but in a way, too much. He went to his wife. “Louise, Mark’s Maths teacher, Adrian Whitelaw, is a Doctor of Philosophy and a Master of Education, and a Graduate Diploma of Linguistics.”

“Good heavens, I should have twigged,” Louise said. “Adrian. I knew him a bit at Uni. Mad as a hatter, but a great actor. We all thought he would go onto the stage. He married that girl Gab, Gabriella. She’s a biographer, I think. And he’s ended up teaching Mark. What a joke.”

Albert was not comfortable. “I’m not keen on the idea of a joke, but the Headmaster says he is a very good teacher, so we’ll hope for the best.”

Louise said, “Tell you what, why don’t we have them around for dinner. I knew them both. And they have kids.”

Albert flexed his jaw. “I don’t know. And Mark mightn’t like the idea of a teacher coming to the house.”

Louise smiled at him. “I think that you are in for a surprise.”

***

If you were to gaze into a crystal ball and had the intuition to envision the future, you might imagine Albert becoming Bursar of South Grammar, and Mark graduating as a teacher. Somewhere in the background there is the image of Dr. Whitlaw in flowing red and gold robes which he rarely wears because, he says, they are much too gaudy, and class, explain what gaudy means and where it comes from, and Cooper, stand up and convince me to wear the robes, louder than that, boy, with passion. And in the glimmering lateral refraction around the crystal ball, you may see reflections of yourself wondering why a brilliant man would spend so much energy teaching a remedial class.

Or perhaps, you already know.