I scanned the clear, summer night sky to find pictures in the stars and conversed with the gnarled old willows whose drooped branches shadowed the light from old man moon to create ghostly images. They told me the legends of the river, the stories of those who explored it, fought it, and made their homes by it. And I climbed them and swung on their patient branches. And then I slept, exhausted and happy, on the soft, sandy riverbank.
When the boredom of childish games became intolerable, I recalled my dad’s graphic descriptions of hunts and armed myself with a strong stick for a rifle to seek out wild pig. I stalked the bushland quietly, senses alert, the hunter waiting for prey. Oink. Oink. Followed the sound until the swine was in view; drew up the rifle, focused and fired. As the sow fell, the boar charged, thundering towards me. Fired again. Missed. It kept coming. Closer, closer, only a few yards away. I tensed, my sweat–beaded body rigid with fear. A third report from the rifle and the animal lunged earthwards, tusk gouging the dirt at my feet, dust flying and settling as light red mud on the sweaty black hide. The bullet made a neat wound just in the centre of the beast’s forehead.
We’ll eat well tonight, Pop. This one’ll make us a real nice feast.
In the dining room that evening, sumptuous roast pork with crisp sweet crackling took the place of a single miserable sausage.
~~~~
5: DREAMS OF HOME
MAY, 1957
Days passed. Endless, monotonous days of sameness; marching in lines to a breakfast of tasteless sticky porridge and a single slice of stale buttered bread. Standing for hours in the dusty, barren playground. Eating stale peanut butter sandwiches for lunch. Marching at the sound of a whistle into the long dinner hall, then queuing to march to the bathroom and up the stairs to bed. Every day I rose with a heart filled with hope that today would be the day Dad would come, or the black car would arrive and a government man would knock at the door and ask Sister to fetch me to be taken back home. And every day ended in crushing disappointment.
At night, brief haunting silences were broken often by a nun’s screeches and that dreaded swishing sound, and then the piercing screams.
When sleep finally came, my dreams took me back to the comfort of the shack. I smelled the bush. Dead leaves tickled the soles of bare feet, and the river lapped rhythmically against its banks. I felt the exhilaration of swinging on the willow branches, skimming the water with my toes, sending splashes of icy–cold water dancing up to wet my trousers and the dangling hem of my untucked shirt. My ‘old man’ came striding across the paddock at the end of the day to where Jenny and I played. He thrust one of us up on to each shoulder, then made like a horse galloping home, clicking his tongue as we bounced. I dreamt my dad came to fetch me from the hard bed, lift me on to his back, and jog --- tongue clicking --- all the long way home to the shack.
While chanting times tables in the classroom, or copying letters on to a slate, I tried to do something Mum said had helped Dad through the awful wartime days in prison. I forced my mind to leave my body. While my physical being marched down bleak corridors or shivered through wet afternoons spent in a dingy brick play hall, my spirit rode the tractor with my dad and followed him over the paddocks on a pony. I felt the excitement of catching fish and shooting rabbit. And in the dining hall at night, while the others swallowed greasy stewing chops with watered–down gravy, I feasted on fresh–fried fish and pigeon pie and rich rabbit stew. When they had lamb roast here, it was cold and tasteless and there was only ever two tiny slices. But I would recall the times Dad brought a sheep home and we dined for a week on mutton chops and roast.
I relived a thousand times the day Dad came home with an airgun. “Jes’ look what I found in the paddock today while I was ploughin’. Jes’ the thing a boy your age would like, I reckon. A real stroke of luck that was, eh!” And with a huge grin and a soft chuckle, he had passed me a shiny gun.
In the early mornings, the nightmares came again. I fled in panic from the panting fat man, felt the savage grip on my upper arm, saw the ruddy, bulging, sweat–streaked cheeks, popping eyes; the wet beads on the pulsing red forehead, the tight disapproving set of the thin lips and the huge Adam’s apple bouncing in the thick, red neck. I was in the black car again, trembling. My little sister was sobbing softly, her crumpled face buried in the belly of her dirty rag doll. The bare liquid ambers shivered in the icy pre–spring winds and the ominous grey sky hung heavily over the drab brick tower with its heavy wooden doors. The doors opened to reveal squawking penguins who sipped tea and ate biscuits with the fat man and discussed my family as though we weren’t even there. A voice told me it was only for a short while --- a few weeks --- then I could go home again.
It was after one of those regular dreams of swinging on willows that I realised, to my horror, I had wet my bed. The urge to pee woke me regularly in the early hours of the morning. It was cold in the building at night, and we had to descend the stairs and cross an open courtyard to the toilets. The stairs creaked and the doors moaned and the wind whistled through the dark, open corridors, so the place had a ghostly air. I was afraid, so I would lie and wait, enduring the agony of an overfull bladder, hoping to hold on until the first light of day. Once, I dared to ask a roommate to go with me, but he laughed and teased me. And then I suggested that perhaps I should wake Sister.
“Yeah!” the lad replied. “If you want a thrashing. You don’t wake Sister for nothin’ ’less ya dyin’. And then only if ya sure ya can’t wait ’til mornin’.” I knew many of the others here did it, and I thought it a disgusting habit. When I woke in soaked sheets for the first time I was overcome. The horror of it; the humiliation; the disgrace. It seemed somehow fitting that I should be forced to join the morning parade of shame, shivering on the veranda in wet pyjamas through the Sister’s angry tirade, waiting my turn to be beaten. I nurtured a vague but doubtful hope the punishment would somehow prevent a repetition.
I knew the morning routine well. I had witnessed it daily through the summer months. While Colin helped me tuck sheets and blankets tightly under the mattress and form perfect mitred corners at the end of my bed, the bed–wetters queued for their public scolding, then waited silently for the Mother’s arrival or for the Sister to fetch the strap from the office. With the others whose beds were dry, I had watched, filled with pity as, one by one, the pathetic waifs stepped up and took a whack or two, then returned to stand miserably by their beds while an older boy stripped their bed, rolled the smelly sheets and made his way to the laundry.
I crawled from my bed, soggy flannel pants hanging heavily about my legs and the strong stench of urine annoying my nostrils. I pulled back the covers to expose the tell-tale yellow stain on the bottom sheet and stood expectantly at the foot of my bed, awaiting the Sister’s order to queue on the veranda. Then I marched dutifully, wet flannel pants slapping at my legs, out on to the slippery frost–coated boards of the veranda to shiver through an interminable wait for the Mother’s arrival. The cold burnt my wet legs and backside and turned my bare toes blue. Although I shuddered a little, anticipating the pain of the strap, I looked forward to reaching the top of the line and hearing the command to turn and bend, so I could finally shed my wet clothing. I silently apologised to Colin, who would have to wash my pissy linen, frowning in expectation of the older boy’s sympathetic chiding.
“Filthy, disgusting, stinking dogs!” the Mother shouted, wrinkling her nose and turning down the corners of her lips. “Look at them, boys!” she commanded, turning her attention to those remaining in the dormitory. “Look at these dirty uncivilised creatures. Still not toilet trained!”
A few boys sneered and giggled. Most, I knew, silently wished they could stop the brutal ceremony that began each miserable day.
She passed the strap to Sister Catherine. “This disgusting behaviour must be curbed, Sister. These urchins will thank us, one day, for the training they receive here.”
As Sister Catherine called the first in line to step forward, the Mother lifte
d her long black habit and stamped to the end of the veranda, then turned and stood smug–faced and akimbo to watch as Catherine raised the belt and struck her first young victim. I bit my lip hard and steeled myself for the expected pain, vowing for the thousandth time that however hard the blows, I would show no sign of suffering discomfort. I would march away tall, proud and defiant, giving no hint that under my breath I was praying fervently I would never wake in a wet bed again.
On occasions, the punishing Sister would bypass a regular bed–wetter in the morning line–up, but for any child who might actually be able to control his night–time bladder functions, the embarrassment of exposure and the seemingly interminable wait shivering in wet clothes on that freezing veranda was a far more effective incentive than the most vicious beating. I was still waiting to feel the lash, but I had already suffered a penalty far worse than any I could have imagined possible, and I was cold with dread of inviting such punishment again.
~~~~
6: BIG BROTHER
NOVEMBER, 1957
“Nine years old, Paul. You are a senior now,” the Mother said. “Seniors are expected to look after charges, the way Colin took care of you.”
The singing of the birthday song followed grace on the morning of November 8th, 1957. The usual breakfast of lukewarm sticky porridge and stale bread followed. There was no cake, no gifts, no concessions, no treats. Save for the singing, it was just another day, except that when the morning meal was done, I was summoned to the Mother’s office. After long mornings of painful practice, plenty of harsh words of ridicule, and regular bruising swipes with whatever object the Sister spied to hit with, I could make my own bed now, with perfectly mitred corners and the cover pulled so tight you could bounce a coin on it. I could tie my school tie and polish my shoes to the satisfaction of the penguins. I no longer needed Colin’s help or supervision. Now it was my turn to play the big brother role.
“I’m going to assign young Sam Parry and Robbie Barker to your care. Unfortunately, both are bed–wetters. Starting tomorrow, it will be your responsibility to change their beds and wash their sheets, and your own. Hopefully, that will provide an incentive for you to stop your filthy habit.
“Of course you will make sure they wash, clean their teeth and comb their hair, and you must help them get ready for school in the mornings and supervise their wash at night. And make sure they obey the rules. It’s a big responsibility, taking care of charges.”
“Yes, Mother,” I said, noting that there had been no birthday greeting, and that she had assigned me two charges, where most boys had only one to care for. I was certain that assigning me two was the Mother’s way of making me pay for the extraordinary privileges I enjoyed. I had won the cook’s heart and was allowed to go to the orchard to fetch fresh fruit. I lingered in the trees for ages, sucking sweet lemons and crunching crisp, tart apples. When I returned with a little harvest, cook rewarded me with a warm smile and a sweet biscuit.
The Mother took care to assign bed–wetters as charges to boys who also wet their bed. It had nothing to do with expecting the older boy to show kindness and understanding. Rather, it was a further form of punishment for the older lad --- and quite severe too, considering the obligations placed on a nine–year–old.
“The beds must be made and the linen washed and hung on the line before breakfast, Paul,” she continued, “and you will be expected to be on time in the dining hall for breakfast. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Sister Catherine will ask one of the older boys to help you tomorrow morning, to show you how the job must be done. You may go now.”
Sam Parry was a half–caste Aborigine. Aged five, he had fuzzy black hair and olive skin and a broad nose that constantly oozed thick, yellow snot. His mum died in a fight of some kind when he was three. His dad visited occasionally. Actually, he came often, but he was mostly turned away at the door because he reeked of stale grog and slurred his words. When he was allowed in, he brought Sammy a toy that was promptly confiscated the instant his dad left. Sometimes, he would take him out for the afternoon and Sammy would come back with wild yarns about his dad’s claimed heroic exploits. He would tell me how his dad would soon take him home for good. It never happened.
Robbie Benson was six, and a rich kid. His mum was killed in a car accident and his dad reluctantly left Robbie and his sister at the Home temporarily until he could arrange alternate care. He came to visit every week, but the nuns despised him and resented his interference. He complained endlessly that Robbie wasn’t wearing his own neat clothes, or his favourite toy had been taken from him, or he wasn’t practising piano.
Both Robbie and Sam were given favoured treatment because their dads kept check. I only took care of Robbie for about a year. One morning, the handyman left a hoe by the wall near a garden bed he’d been weeding. Robbie took the hoe and began, quite expertly for one so young, to chip away the weeds. He was obviously quite practised. He told me he often helped his dad tend the gardens at home.
The neat results he achieved failed to impress the Mother, who flew into a rage and railed endlessly about the danger of a young child handling such a tool and spanked him. #Footnote2Two days later, his dad took Robbie and his sister away for good.
#
My new daily routine began the morning after my birthday. An alarm sounded at five a.m. and I rose and joined my charges in the morning line–up to be punished for wetting my bed. Then I accompanied my charges to their dorm to strip their beds and roll up their pissy sheets and pyjamas. I remade their beds with clean linen, taking care to ensure the covers were tight and the corners perfect. Then I left them to dress while I attended to my own bed. And then I carried three sets of pissy sheets and wet pyjamas downstairs to the laundry room.
Colin showed me how to wash the linen by hand, in ice–cold water. I had to stand on a stool to reach into the huge concrete tubs. When the rinsing was complete, I squeezed as much water from the linen as I could, then struggled to the clothes line under a load twice my own weight. I had to run back to fetch a stool to reach the lines. It was sheer agony moving it up and down the line, stretching the sheets out and making sure they were straight and pegged firmly.
With no help on the second morning, I was late to breakfast. Grace had been said and the children were already slurping cold, sticky porridge when I reached the door of the dining room. Sister Agnes was waiting for me.
“Late, Paul Wilson,” she snapped.
“I’m sorry, Sister. I --- ”
“No excuses, young man. It is the height of rudeness to arrive late for a meal.”
“Yes, Sister,” I mumbled, a simmering stew of resentment bubbling in my gut.
“No breakfast for you, boy. Go to the front of the hall. You will stand and watch the others eat.”
I marched to the front of the hall and turned to face the other children, concentrating intently on maintaining a poker–face and deadpan stance.
“You see this rude boy, children? He has not the good manners to present on time for his meal, so he must suffer hunger until the next meal. That is the punishment for tardiness. We must all learn good manners, mustn’t we?”
“Yes, Sister Agnes,” the children chorused. My belly rumbled and rolled and my parched lips and tongue ached for a taste of the vile, sweet, weak tea the senior girls poured from big enamel pots each mealtime. I silently cursed the Sisters for their unfair expectations, but resolved to complete my morning chores more quickly in future.
JUNE 2010
Ernest Stanley checked his watch, stowed his digital voice recorder and climbed back into the Roller for the drive to town.
“Did you miss breakfast often?” he asked Paul.
“Only once, luckily,” Paul replied. “Either I was a fast learner, or depriving me of food was an exceptionally effective punishment. But I washed pissy sheets in cold water nearly every morning for three years.”
Through the summer, that washing task was onerous.
In autumn, fierce icy winds burnt eardrums and wrapped soggy sheets around the children, tying them in twists that took forever to untangle. In winter, the taps froze. The older children filled the tubs and water buckets at night. In the morning, little children had to peel off sheets of ice to get to the freezing water below. For six months of each year we laboured across frost–coated paddocks and our hands were raw and covered with agonising chilblains.
Ern struggled to retain his composure. He’d declared himself prepared for this. He’d researched, interviewed, recorded and listened for endless hours to stories of life in children’s homes. But it was apparent Paul’s story was tearing away at the fabric of his reality --- destroying his confidence in the system that governed and gilded his world.
“Kids suffer much worse in war–torn countries and the Third World,” Paul said, shrugging off Ern’s disquiet. “In Australia, we get it far too easy. And kids are amazingly resilient. We are born with strong survival instincts. Children cope because they have no other choice.”
Pain lines creased Ern’s brow as he battled to dismiss horrifying images of children running from gunfire and limbless children in makeshift hospitals in Third World countries. But that was there. This was Australia, in a time of peace and prosperity.
The Pencil Case Page 5