There was no point in making friends. I would be leaving soon. I stood quietly in the corner of the playground and watched the others curiously. Shortly, Jen emerged from under the stairs. The gate to the girls’ playground creaked open, and she was nudged through with a gentle push from behind. The gate closed behind her. I made my way quickly to the dividing fence and beckoned to Jen. The girls’ guard approached and explained firmly that boys and girls must stay in their own playgrounds and were not allowed to mix.
“But I want to talk to my sister.”
“Girls and boys do not talk over the fence,” the voice commanded. “It is not allowed. Off you go now.”
I shrugged and returned to the corner of the field. My baby sister huddled against a chain–wire gate, clutching that dreadful rag doll, sobbing violently.
A gate squealed and clanged and a Sister charged towards the tank stand. “Phillip Robertson,” she bellowed, as she reached for some object and turned to stomp across the playground. Startled, I turned to stare in the direction she was heading. A boy --- about my size --- stood, white–faced and trembling, watching her approach. He was clad in an oversized white shirt with half its frayed tail dangling over short, tight serge shorts. One sock hugged his ankle in thick rolls of grey wool. The other struggled to hang on halfway to his knee, sagging in generous wrinkles. His skin was dark, and straight black hair was kept short with a blunt cut, as though a mixing bowl had been upended on his head and its rim used as a cutting guide.
Reaching him, she grabbed his upper arm, spun him around to face away from her, and proceeded to pound his buttocks until, with the fourth slap, he began to blubber and moan. With a satisfied ‘Hhrmmph” and a click of her tongue, she returned to the tank stand and replaced the mystery object with meticulous precision.
Save for the odd disinterested glance, there was no reaction to her outburst from any of the boys. I was tempted to go to her victim and try to offer comfort, but instinct cautioned me to follow the example of the others and ignore him. I had no idea what sin the poor boy had committed --- if any --- and I trembled a little considering the possibility that my inadequate knowledge of rules and expectations might result in me suffering the same fate.
I had assumed, seeing the strap across the Mother’s desk earlier, that the Mother would deal with misbehaviour as Dad had done --- with a stern lecture and two or three stinging swipes across the backside. I was shocked at the cold brutality of the Sister’s attack and alarmed that it seemed to elicit no reaction from the other children.
A whistle sounded as the sun began its descent and the Sister beckoned me to join a line forming at the playground gate. As I stood waiting for her instruction, I glanced sideways at the huge, old, wood–plank platform that sagged under the weight of a slightly rusted water tank. On the corner of the stand a large scrubbing brush rested, its wooden handle worn and whitened.
“Ain’t never used fer scrubbin’,” the boy behind me whispered, obviously noting my curious stare. “Pity it don’t give her splinters.”
Although tempted to ask if it was used often to beat children, I was afraid to speak. My unspoken query was answered, though, when I looked down at the legs of the boys ahead of me in the line. Angry welts blazed crimson and bruises ranged from deep purple–black to faded green–grey.
Bleached by summer sun and coated with frost on cold winter nights, the giant scrubbing brush rested for years on the corner of the tank stand. It was moved only when an angry penguin flew into a rage, or coldly and calculatingly targeted a child to vent her frustration, or maybe just to amuse herself. The only time Sister Catherine’s obvious boredom was relieved, it seemed, was when she held that monstrous device. The brush was worked frequently, and with astounding energy, to beat the devil out of every evil urchin who had the misfortune to enter that ugly abode.
At the sound of a second whistle, I trooped behind the other kids into a huge dining hall furnished with long trestle–style tables and hard bench seats. Girls stood in rows behind the benches on one side and my line marched to stand behind benches on the other. A sour–faced sister stood in one corner and some older girls stood beside the cook at a servery at the far end of the hall.
Table by table, kids moved silently to the servery to swallow a dose of vile Epsom salts, then wait while their plates were filled, returning in military formation to their place. When all of us had filled plates before us on the table, the nuns ordered eyes closed, hands joined under the chin and heads bowed, while an older child recited the ‘Grace’. Finally, the order was given to sit and eat.
I was surprised to find I had no appetite, and there was nothing to tempt a reluctant palate. Besides, by now the food was stone cold.
“Eat everythin’. Say nuthin’,” came the hissed advice from the boy beside me, “less o’ course ya want a sore arse!”
After the meal, we marched with military precision to the end of the hall to stack plates for the older girls to wash. The march continued to the playroom, where a small collection of tattered books and toys --- mostly broken --- were provided to amuse us until bedtime.
I stood in sullen silence in the corner of the playroom, studying my feet. Colin approached.
“Can’t find anything to play with?”
“Don’t want to play,” I replied without looking up.
“You’ll get used to the place soon enough.”
“Won’t be ’ere long enough,” I mumbled. “Goin’ ’ome soon.”
“Yeah. Right. Aren’t we all?”
I wondered what he meant, but I didn’t ask.
Yet another whistle was followed by a summons to the youngest children to line up at the door, and a nun led them off to bed. Another group followed some time later. Then my age group was called to assemble at the door and march up the stairs to the dormitory to fetch toothbrushes and combs, troop back down to the bathrooms to wash, clean teeth, don scratchy striped pyjamas, and march, once more, up the stairs to bed.
Sleep wouldn’t come on my first night there so I heard the shuffle, sometime later, as yet another age group performed the bedtime march. Eyes squeezed shut, I tried to think happy thoughts, but I kept seeing the long– haired man with the hammer and hearing those awful men. My sister was calling my name, begging me to come and take her home.
I spent the following days engulfed in a lonely mist of fear and desolation and the nights drifting from sleepless torment to horrific nightmares. My cheeks burnt with poisonous rage. My hands trembled.
The nuns left me to work through my terror and misery alone. For three days and nights I cried inside, but never allowed a tear to fall. I woke in the mornings trembling from nightmares about suited men in a courtroom and angry penguins. I sulked over the meals they placed before me: Lukewarm, tasteless, unattractive dishes served with the inevitable slice of stale bread. In the playground, I stood afraid and aloof, kicking the dirt at my feet in angry resentment, and at night I tossed, turned and cursed under my breath until my tortured body collapsed into sleep.
On the fourth day I steeled myself to accept my fate and began to scheme to make life there bearable.
“Treat everything in life as an adventure, son,” my dad had said. “Whatever challenge you face, plan to beat it and enjoy the journey. No matter what life throws at you, there is always something good in it: A lesson, an experience, a victory, a chance to be kind to someone, a reason to get up tomorrow and try again.”
There were fruit trees out back, along with chooks and milking cows. A resident handyman did carpentry work and tended the gardens and animals. Sister Anne, the plump, comely faced cook, seemed quite nice. If I made friends with the right people and showed interest in the right activities, just maybe there were ways to make being here not quite so dreadful.
On the fifth day, I felt Sister Catherine’s wrath. As I leant against the fence, kicking the dirt pensively, a group of boys approached and began to torment me. I ignored them for a time, but when their persistence began to irritate, I lashe
d out. My kicking foot connected lightly with a shin, causing several boys to scurry away while my maliciously dramatic victim shouted a curse, contorted his face, and dropped to a crouched position to nurse his wound.
Sister saw. She saw everything. She stood at her post, day after day --- grudgingly, sour–faced, watching every move, waiting for any excuse to pounce. Like a monstrous magpie in nesting season, she flew across the yard to my corner, black robes flapping about her like massive wings, working vigorously to propel her forwards and keep her feet in the air. Gripping the bristled side of the scrubbing brush, she landed whooshing and swishing in a giant cloud of dust that stung my eyes and filled my nostrils and coated my tongue.
The Sister grabbed my upper arm in a vice–like grip, spun me around and pushed me face–first against the wire fence. Taking careless aim, she whacked my buttocks and legs. Again and again. My lips and eyes ached from being forced tightly shut to prevent the smallest sound or tear escaping. Every fibre of my being throbbed and burnt.
When the witch was done, I pressed against the wire of the fence, shrivelled into a small ball, rocking gently from side to side. The Sister might have noticed I moved neither arm nor hand to wipe away snot or tears. Later, in the line–up, she saw no sign of redness in my eyes and no tell–tale tracks on my cheeks to suggest tears had flowed.
Colin had warned me, on my first day there, never to cry. Any sign of emotion invited much more savage beatings. So I had made my resolve on my first night there, lying, terrified, in a dank, cold dormitory, listening to the breathing of a dozen sleeping boys and the creaking of cot springs as some tossed and turned. As I stared at the peeling paint on the high ceiling, wondering if sleep would ever come and silently begging my mother to come for me soon, I made a firm promise to myself. No matter how brutally they beat me or how cruelly they tormented me, I would never, ever cry. Whatever they might do to me, they would not break my spirit.
~~~~
4: GAMES AND MAKE–BELIEVE
NOVEMBER, 1956
Ben Carmichael stared at me with contempt.
“That new kid must be a bit of a dope, I reckon,” he muttered to Jimmy Phillips. “Always standin’ in the corner kickin’ the dust. Never joinin’ in games and stuff.”
“He’s angry ’cause they won’t let him near his sister, is all,” Jim replied. “I heard him talkin’ to Sister. Said he had to look after ’er, but they won’t even let him talk to ’er.”
“Well, ’e may as well get used to that, cause it ain’t gunna change, is it? If ’e wants ’er so bad, ’e shoulda bin a girl. Acts sissy anyway. What we gunna do ’terday, Jim?”
“I dunno... Maybe we could go an’ make friends with ’im?” “What, with a dumb dust–kicker?”
“Well, maybe ’e’s lonely.”
“Well, all he has t’ do is git out of that corner ’an act sensibul.”
Jimmy regarded me cautiously for a moment, realising I had heard. Finally, he approached me, smiling.
“Ben wasn’t so tough when he first come here neither.”
“Didn’t stand about kicking dirt for days,” said Ben, following him. “Didn’t ya?” Jimmy’s tone was one of admiration. “I think I bawled for days.”
Ben dropped to the ground and sat doodling with his finger in the dirt. I surveyed the playground. I was standing in a single small patch of shade provided by a large gum tree in what would have been the right–hand corner of the enclosure, if the fence line hadn’t been altered to cut off the corner, placing the tree just out of bounds --- a safety precaution to ensure against tree climbing. In the centre of the ground was a concrete pitch used on rare occasions for cricket practice. A few assorted balls had been placed just inside the gate. Off to the left, an identical enclosure provided play space for the girls. They were privileged to have, in addition to some balls, a limited supply of skipping ropes. I learnt later that ropes had been available to the boys too, but it was quickly realised that boys were not inclined to use them for their proper purpose. A few groups of boys played chase or ball games.
“I remember Sister shouting at me,” Jimmy continued, unaware that Ben was deep in his own recollections. “ ‘They’re dead, Jim. They can’t ever come back again because they’re dead and gone and no one will ever see them again.’ Must’ve got sick of me bawling. She was real angry. But I never even knew what ‘dead’ meant then. Weren’t ’til last year when ’ol Harry the handyman kicked the bucket I found out was death was all about.”
“Are your parents dead?” He addressed the question to me, but added without waiting for an answer, “Reckon I’m near the only one here that hasn’t got anyone.”
“How come ya never wanna play?” the swarthy–complexioned Ben said suddenly.
“Don’ feel like it,” I replied. “Anyhow, won’t be ’ere long.” “How long?”
“A little while. That’s all. Then I’m goin’ home again. Could be tomorra’ even.”
“Fat chance. What’s your name anyhow?” “Paul. What’s yours?”
“Benny Carmichael. An’ this ’ere is Jimmy Phillips. He’s my best friend. We always play together.”
I shrugged and kicked the dirt again, disinterested. My companions looked an unlikely pair: tall, gangly Ben with his spiky, black crew cut; and little Jimmy with his basin–cut, sandy hair and prominent cowlick in the centre of his crown, questioning eyes, and fair skin flushed from too long in the sun.
“How old are ya?” Ben asked. “Eight.”
“Me too.”
“Wanna play with us?” “Depends.”
“On what?”
“What ya playin’.”
“I always decide what we’ll play. I’m the oldest.” Ben smacked his chest. “Not older than me,” I challenged.”
“Bet I am.” “Bet ya not.”
“OK, when’s your birthday?” “Ain’t sayin’.”
“Cause I’m older an’ ya know it. You’re stupid. You don’t even play. Just stand there all by yourself all day.”
I rushed forward then, knocking Ben over. In seconds, the squawking magpie was descending, brush in hand, and Jimmy was running like a scared rabbit with Ben pulling himself up to follow.
They left me alone for a while, but a little later they approached again. “You all right, mate?” Jim mumbled. I suspected he knew exactly how I was.
“Why wouldn’t I be? You think that witch could hurt me?”
“ ’Course not!” said Jimmy, trying to sound confident. “Always layin’ into someone with that thing. We didn’t mean t’ get y’ int’ trouble. Honest. We just wanted to make friends. Ben shouldna’ called y’ stupid.
“Anyways,” he continued thoughtfully after a brief pause. “Might be older. Might be younger. Doesn’t matter either way, does it, Ben?” He shifted his gaze to stare at his mate.
“No reason why a newcomer shouldn’t be allowed to pick a game for once, is there?” he challenged.
“OK,” Ben mumbled good–naturedly. “Pick a game.”
Within minutes, Jimmy, Ben and I were kicking a ball back and forth, with Ben demonstrating the fine art of dribbling. Only to Ben’s intense frustration, I mastered the skill instantly.
“Like this?” I asked, tapping the ball with the outside of my foot and then the inside, maintaining complete ownership as I eased it across the paddock with Ben following in an in–and–out weave, kicking at air in repeated failed attempts to take it from me.
“Wow!” said Jimmy. “He learns quick, Ben. He’s pretty good at it, eh?” I was beginning to enjoy the game.
“Done it before,” said Ben, in a matter of fact tone that dared me to argue. “Can’t learn that quick. Played before, haven’t you, Paul? Just pretending not to know how so you can show off!”
I shrugged, grinned, and proceeded to dribble the ball back across the paddock in the other direction, yelling, “Take it from me if you can,” and laughing gleefully at the two boys running at the spot where the ball had been a second ago, kicking at fr
esh air while I deftly executed the next move.
Before long, Ben and Jim had given up and fetched another ball. The three of us practised dribbling back and forth across the paddock, occasionally pulling back to execute a heavy kick, then catapulting across the paddock to retrieve the ball before another boy took possession, and dribbling it back to the starting point.
#
Sister Anne exited the girls’ playground, brushing the dust from her habit, to intercept the departing Mother Superior. The Mother had just escorted a six–year–old back to the yard after administering a belting. Earlier that morning, Sister Agnes, who had less affection for the scrubbing brush than Catherine, had marched the girl off to the front office for a spanking with the worn leather strap I’d observed on the corner of the desk the day I arrived. She returned sporting bright red welts on her upper legs, her cheeks streaked with tears and her eyes swollen.
The Mother turned to observe the youngsters at play. Her black–veiled head nodded with satisfaction.
“The two new ones seem to have settled in, Mother,” Sister Anne remarked. “Thank the good Lord,” replied the Mother. “It’s so much easier to manage the children after newcomers have adjusted.”
But I was anything but ‘adjusted’. I was imprisoned --- a most unnatural condition for a bushman, a champion big–game hunter, expert fisherman and famed explorer. The games the boys played bored me. The discipline and routine were intolerable. The food was tasteless, and never enough to satisfy. They had invaded my childhood world of adventure, uprooted me from the places and people I belonged with --- stripped me of my identity, just as wild Aborigines might have captured explorer heroes and held them in bondage in a hostile, foreign land. There was no escape except to my land of dreams.
I was bodily imprisoned, but they could not contain my mind. When the freezing dormitory and barren playground were intolerable, I felt the blistering outback heat, plunged naked into the clear, cool, caressing waters of the river, and waded, stick in hand, through the shallow depths, exploring the watercourse. With wood grubs picked from the rotting timber of fallen willows for bait, I stood knee–deep in the chill, rippling waters and threw lines for yellow–belly or catfish. Quick, skilful hands baited the hooks, threw the lines, then reeled them in, one by one. Perfect timing, perfect skill, perfect control. I sieved the mud on the bank for craybobs, washed and broiled the tiny delicacies, and fried the fish on glowing coals. Then I lay, cooled and refreshed, in the soft lush grass near the water’s edge, staring dreamily at dancing flames licking crackling twigs and savouring the rich, sweet after– taste of fresh–fried fish.
The Pencil Case Page 4