The black sedan cruised slowly down the track, through the open front gate and on to the main road, where it picked up speed a little as it approached the town. The only sounds were the soft hum of the engine and the crackle of gravel beneath spinning wheels. Dad fixed his gaze firmly on the road ahead, fists clenched, jaw thrust forward and lips tightly set. I studied my shoes. They had never shone so before.
The car stopped in front of the local courthouse. A man with long, white, curly hair and black robes listened while two suited men took turns speaking and the fat man told on me for wagging school and playing on the riverbank. He said stuff about Mum and Dad --- mean stuff. He said they didn’t care for their kids properly. He said they lived in filth. I tried to tell the long–haired man that wasn’t true. Mum worked hard to keep the little shack clean. They told me to be quiet. Then the long–haired man spoke and hit a little wooden hammer on the table in front of him. A man collected a piece of paper from the table in front of the long–haired fellow and handed it to Dad. The suited men and the fat man looked pleased with themselves. Dad ripped up the paper and stormed out, swearing.#Footnote1
A woman led us outside. We stood watching the shoppers going about their daily business. Some of the faces were familiar, but apart from the odd curious stare from the window of a car gliding by, there was no sign of interest in out plight.
I heard the monotonous chant from the schoolroom across the street, and, for once, I longed to be there listening to the teacher’s tiresome drone. I would have welcomed her sharp rebukes, and even the master’s cane, if only I could erase the events of the past week and go home.
Raucous laughter drifted from the tile–fronted pub on the corner. Men lounged carelessly in the doorway. A tall, grey–haired man leant against the lamppost on the edge of the footpath, hands thrust deep in his pockets. A spent cigarette dangled from one corner of his mouth. I recognised him as a friend of my father. He shot a brief, unconcerned glance at me, shrugged his shoulders, and strode off in the opposite direction.
The early spring sun shone bright and warm that day, yet I shivered, standing there in the monstrous shadow of that old stone building. Behind me, two grey–suited men passed casual remarks on the events of the morning in a tone of official satisfaction. I felt sick. An image of my dad appeared before me, stiff and tense, fists clenched, face twisted with rage. His scream echoed through my head, again and again, weakening each time I heard it. I reached out, but my arms were too short. I tried to call, but the words stuck in my throat. A broken, tormented man faded from view, engulfed in a mist of fear.
The woman crouched and looked sympathetically at Jenny and me. “You’re going away on a little holiday,” she said. “Soon you can come back and see your mum and dad again, and then your family won’t live in a shack anymore.”
I frowned at her and shook my head.
“It won’t be long. I promise. And then you will have better clothes and shoes to wear to school so the kids won’t tease you. And you’ll have books and pencils and a ruler, like the other kids, so you won’t get in trouble any more for not having the right stuff.”
None of that mattered a jot to me now. All I wanted was to go home.
The woman led us across to the black car, opened the door and helped my sister in. I watched her crawl to the far end of the seat, press her frail body hard against the door and begin to bawl. Tears streaked her tiny face. Two watery streams poured from her nostrils. Now and again she lifted a grubby rag doll to wipe her wet face on its belly. She gripped it as though it, too, might at any moment scream profanities and leave us.
The woman motioned to me to follow, but I resisted for a while. I stood there trying desperately to conceive an escape plan. Then the woman pushed me in beside Jenny.
I must not cry.
I sat stiff and erect, eyes clamped tightly shut to hold back tears.
“Don’t carry on so, lass,” one of the suits said, his voice high and harsh. “You’ll be all right. You’ll be well cared for where you’re going. Better care than you’re used to. Far better.”
The car door slammed. The fat man climbed into the driver’s seat. I reached over and placed a reassuring hand on my sister’s shoulder. Her sobs softened.
The engine kicked over. The car eased from the kerb. Down the main street, on to the highway, it picked up speed as the miles fell away and the safe and familiar was left far behind.
~~~~
3: A ‘HOLIDAY’ IN HELL
ARMIDALE, OCTOBER, 1956
A heavy, grey blanket hung low over the town. Along the edge of the highway a welcoming guard of bare liquid ambers shivered in an icy breeze. The black sedan swung off the main road and headed up a steep, gravel road, past a graveyard. It revved a little as it climbed a steep drive and stopped at the huge oak doors of a towering brick castle that glared menacingly over the town below.
Geoffrey Simms heaved a deep sigh as he pulled the handbrake and reached for the doorhandle.
“It’s only for a little while,” he muttered, ushering us out. “Some nice people will care for you here for a while, and soon you’ll be able to go back home again.”
He led us up three broad, concrete steps to the heavy double door, raised a brass ring, and thumped it hard against its metal base plate. Once, twice, three times. Heavy footsteps. One door swung open to reveal two tall, black, human towers. I struggled to adjust to the darkness as my eyes journeyed from the flared base of the towers, up the vast expanse of blackness, to the white bibs, double chins, tight lips, ruddy cheeks and piercing eyes. A few thin wisps of hair escaped the stiff white bands fixed low across the foreheads, and from the top of the bands, black veils covered their heads.
“Sister Catherine, Sister Anne,” Simms bleated. “Paul and Jennifer Wilson. You were advised?”
“Yes, yes. Thank you, Mr Simms. We are prepared for them.”
“Paul, Jennifer, say good afternoon to Sister Catherine.” He indicated the shorter tower. “And Sister Anne. These good ladies care for the children here at St Patrick’s, along with Mother Emmanuel, the Mother Superior, who is in charge here, and Sister Agnes. You will be very happy here for a short while, until you can go home again, soon. Well then, say good afternoon, please!”
“Afternoon,” we mumbled in unison, staring at the floor.
“Penguins,” I muttered irreverently, half under my breath. “They look like penguins.” Simms cuffed my ear.
“Good afternoon, children,” said Sister Anne. “Do come in out of the cold.”
A musty odour irritated my nostrils, making me want to sneeze. I surveyed the room carefully. High timber–framed windows, all closed, with thick, worn curtains tied back at the sides. High ceiling. A huge wooden desk angled across the left rear corner with two padded chairs facing it and a straight–backed kitchen chair behind. Several padded chairs and some pine dining chairs were arranged around a crackling open fire under a grey–painted timber mantel. Freshly cut logs were stacked on one side. A huge gruesome statue of a man nailed to a cross was fixed to the wall above the mantel. He stared down at me, pained face pleading for release.
Simms eased his weight into the deeper of the padded chairs. The shorter nun seated herself in another, facing him. The other beckoned to us, pointed to the dining chairs near the fire, then left through a rear door at the side of the desk. She emerged moments later with a lace–covered tray of clattering china teacups and large silver pot. A third nun followed her into the room and sat in the straight–backed chair behind the desk.
“Pleasant trip, Mr Simms?” the nun behind the desk asked. The voice was hard and demanding, but he didn’t seem offended.
“Not at all, Mother.”
My eyebrows lifted and my eyes popped.
Mother? This jowly hag with her dagger eyes and disappearing lips? My mum was gentle and soft–spoken, and real pretty, with chestnut curls and smiling hazel eyes.
“They seldom are, mind you,” he continued. “But this one was worse tha
n most. Girl sobbing constantly and that boy with his sullen, belligerent stare. He’s going to be a handful, that one. Like his father. A nasty piece of work that man. Those kids are fortunate to be free of his bad influence. My, this cup of tea is welcome.”
I glared at him. The sour taste of bile rose in my throat. “So what’s their story? What do we need to know?”
“Not much to tell, really. Boy a month off turning eight. Girl, five. Living in a rundown shack in the bush. Wagging school. Toddler and baby taking up all the mother’s time. Not enough food for the family. Father a no–hoper drunk. No Aboriginal blood, at least not that we can tell.”
“Father doesn’t work?”
“Oh yeah, off and on. Farmhand, droving, shearing, that sort of stuff. Whatever he can pick up, I guess. Seems he’s had some bad health. War veteran. Prisoner of war for three years in Changi. Copped a nasty leg wound that gives him a fair bit of strife. And then a horse threw him and he did his back in. But he’s back working now. Just can’t seem to get on top enough to fund his drinking and smoking and look after kids as well.”
“Is he receiving a veterans’ pension?”
“Don’t know. Didn’t ask. I’d presume not. Probably wouldn’t know how to apply for one, if he knows such things exist.”
“Pity. It might help them.”
“The only help for that family is to rescue those little urchins from the bad influence and put them in a decent home. They are better off here, trust me. They’ll get some schooling and be taught some discipline, instead of roaming all over the countryside making nuisances of themselves.”
Why didn’t he rescue our brothers, Ian and Robbie? There was nothing Jen or I wanted to be rescued from.
“The children will be looked after here,” the nun said. “We’ll teach them to fear God and obey rules. Send them to school.”
“You do a great job here, Mother. You and the Sisters. These kids are fortunate that places like this exist. Otherwise, who knows where they’d end up?”
“Thank you, Mr Simms.”
“How many do you have now?”
“Nearly 60 at the moment. Too many for four of us to manage, really, but we try. It’s a thankless task. There’s only so much you can do for children like these. You know… the sins of the fathers. They come from bad stock. Not much you can do about the blood that runs in their veins.
“Of course the boy will eventually go off to St Vincent’s, in Sydney,” the Mother continued. “The Brothers there are very strict. Even the most rebellious fall into line after a few months of the Brothers’ discipline. But really, this one looks quite fragile.”
“Looks can be deceiving, Mother. He needs a very firm hand.”
“He’ll find it here.”
“Of course. As I said, Mother, you and the Sisters do a magnificent job.”
“Shall we finalise the paperwork, then?”
He rose, walked to her desk, handed her a folder, and took one of the comfortable seats facing her. She opened the folder and read from it. Sitting stiffly on that hard upright chair, at the side of the fireplace, opposite my white–faced little sister, I tried to judge her expression as she scanned the page. My eyes were drawn, instead, to the worn leather strap resting across one side of the desk. It wasn’t difficult to imagine what that was used for, but I prayed she didn’t use it on little girls. I’d copped a few good hidings, and once, when I was jack–rabbiting across a paddock, hoping to escape a belting for disobeying, Dad flicked the tip of a stockwhip across my backside. It stung like hell. But Dad would never hit Jen with a whip or a strap. I glanced at my baby sister. I’d promised Dad I’d take care of her. I would not let this old crow beat her with that thing.
Jen and I tensed as Simms and those black and white apparitions discussed us in clearly audible whispers. I don’t think I was actually meant to hear, but the events of the past week seemed to have sharpened my senses. Simms and the Mother periodically cast furtive glances in our direction as they perused paperwork, fixed rubber stamps to pages, and carefully applied signatures with steel–nibbed pens dipped in a deep inkwell.
The tray had been deposited on the end of a large sideboard, and two cups were filled and placed on delicate china saucers on the oak desk. A platter of biscuits passed between Simms and the nuns, bypassing us. They offered us nothing.
Finally, our captor took his leave. Tipping his hat, he strode back into the daylight. His exit allowed a weak stream of light to penetrate the room for just an instant, before it was plunged back into dreary half–darkness. A nun rose, smiled at me, and lifted Jenny gently from her chair. Taking her hand, she motioned me to stay and led Jenny across the room, through a creaking rear door, and down a concrete–floored hallway. Sister Catherine beckoned to me to follow and we trailed along behind them. Near the end of the hall, two creaky timber staircases climbed at right angles to the hall in directly opposite directions. Jen was led up one. I climbed the other.
At the top of the stairs, a long, open passageway passed several distantly spaced doors, each leading to huge dormitories. Unpainted dark, brick walls were lined with neatly made steel–framed beds and tiny bedside lockers. Small windows admitted little light and no fresh air.
I was struck by the austerity and absolute conformity of the place. The beds were placed equally tiny distances apart, separated by identically sized bedside lockers, creating a small sterile square of territory for each occupant. Every bed was perfectly made. Covers were pulled tight. Corners were tucked in perfect triangular folds. Floors were scrubbed. Furniture was brightly polished. There was not a toy, book or personal item of any kind in sight. There was a pervasive disinfectant odour: The smell of fear.
The leather–faced Sister led me to the end of the passageway and opened a wide, tall cupboard. Inside, a collection of roughly folded underpants, discoloured singlets, shorts, shirts, jumpers, socks and shoes jostled for space. She tugged at the corners of some garments and they tumbled out. She rifled through piles to assemble a collection of items that seemed to satisfy her and she thrust them at me, screwing up the remaining items and shoving them carelessly back.
“Off with those dirty rags. You’ll wear clean clothing here. You’ll wash now and change.” She motioned me to follow her back down the stairs. Under the stairwell, a thin trail of water oozed from under a door. She opened the door and pointed inside.
“Toilets, washroom. I’ll wait here. Put your soiled clothing in the bin there.” Then she turned her back and stood, guard–like, across the doorway, arms folded firmly across her chest.
I relieved myself at a long steel trough, then washed my hands and face in icy water at a metal basin, drying them on a rough towel hanging above.
None of the garments were new. They were darned, worn and shabby. The shorts were too large and patched at the back. Jumper sleeves stopped inches above my wrists. The shoes were just a little too tight, but I supposed they might wear in. The singlet and underpants were scratchy. The shirt collar was badly frayed and the threads irritated my neck.
The clothes I had worn here were better, and Mum had made sure they were clean. She scrubbed them with red hands in an old tank cut in half and laid on its side on four big stumps of wood that Dad had levelled with the axe. She would light a fire under it after filling it with an old galvanised iron bucket, fetching water from the dam 20 yards away. When the water heated, she would dump the clothing into bubbling water, leave it simmer a while, then let the fire go out and lean over the steaming tub to scrub each garment, in turn, until the frayed–collar shirts were snowy white. Sometimes, I would help her peg them out on the wire line Dad had strung between two trees. They would hang there, flapping in the breeze, until nearly dry. Mum always liked to take them off when they weren’t quite dry. Then she would take them inside and lay them on a worn blanket on the kitchen table and iron them with two big black irons that she heated on the stove, alternating between them so that one was heating while the other was in use.
If ther
e was a dry wind, sometimes she would shake and brush the shirts as she removed them from the line, and she would curse the red dust that seemed to coat everything. But my clothes were always clean and neatly pressed when I put them on in the morning, and although Dad returned from droving trips covered in red dirt and stinking with sweat, he always left wearing a clean shirt and trousers and with a clean pack.
When I was done dressing, I stood for a moment staring hesitantly at the massive black back with its stiff veil ending just above the waist. Fear wrapped itself about me, anchoring my feet and binding my tongue. Finally, she turned to appraise me, nose upturned and lip curled. “Red hair,” she sniffed. “And no doubt the ugly temperament that goes with it. Well, you’ll lose the attitude quickly. I shall see to that.”
She asked had I ever made a bed. I shook my head.
“We’ll find an older boy to teach you,” she barked, and seemed to hesitate a moment to think. “Colin,” she said decisively. “Colin will show you around and teach you how things work here. You can meet him later.”
She led me back up the stairs to the dark dormitory and across to one of the beds on the far side. She ordered me to open the drawer of the bedside table where I found two handkerchiefs, a toothbrush and a small black comb. “We bathe before breakfast. Wash every night. Clean handkerchief in your pocket each day. Teeth cleaned and hair combed morning and night. And make sure your toothbrush and comb are returned to that drawer immediately after use.”
Then she led me back down the stairs and out to a barren, chain–wire fenced paddock.
Boys ambled about, hands in pockets, expressions sullen, sending up clouds of dust as they kicked the dirt. Here and there, a few kicked a ball back and forth. There was not a single item of playground equipment. Apart from one or two balls, the yard was devoid of toys. Beyond the side fence, another identical playground was inhabited by girls, carefully segregated from the opposite sex. A couple of the girls hugged shabby rag dolls. On one side of each playground a nun stood guard, watching every move with a stern expression.
The Pencil Case Page 3