I’d discovered a passion for reading. I devoured boys’ adventure stories and they consumed me. I joined big game hunts and white-water rafting expeditions. I was the only surviving hero of dangerous exploratory treks across deserts and through jungles. I climbed the highest mountains; crossed the wildest rivers; fought Indians, bears and lions; mined for gold and ventured into dark coal mines. I read and re–read favourite volumes, hanging on every word.
#
“Sports Carnival tomorrow, boys,” Charlie announced brightly to the little group waiting at the bus stop that afternoon. I was wrestling with another lad. Charlie cuffed our ears lightly. “Keep that up and you two will find yourselves in the office getting six of the best while the others are walking to the fields,” he warned.
I stepped back, pressed my hands against my thighs and shot the Brother a wry grin. I’d felt the sting of the Head Brother’s thin cane more than once. The day before, I had slunk back to class with both burning hands tucked up in my armpits after receiving three hard whacks across each open palm. But missing sport was a punishment worse than death. It was my greatest love --- even more so than reading --- and I excelled at it. I could run fast and swim strongly. I had quick reflexes and a sharp eye. Within weeks of starting school in town I’d found myself dreading holidays and living for sports days.
#
“Next event: Backstroke. Under 10s,” the inter–school swimming carnival co–ordinator announced. “Swimmers, please assemble at the northern end of the pool. The race will begin in 10 minutes.”
A shivering group in wet togs gathered around Brother Charlie to hear him announce despondently that the junior backstroke champion had contracted measles. There was a chorus of groans.
“But we need him. We’re behind on points. We need to win this race,” Jimmy Barnes protested.
Charlie shrugged. “We’ll just have to select a replacement and hope for the best. Geoff Harrison?”
“Booo. Nooooo!” “Phillip Coussa?” “Noooo.”
“Dennis Mitchell?” “Nooo.”
“Paul Wilson?”
I didn’t swim much. St Patrick’s kids were rarely permitted to go to the pool, but our class trooped off to the senior school once weekly in the summer months for swimming lessons. I’d learnt to swim when I was very young, and I swam strongly, but I knew only one stroke --- a somewhat ungainly imitation of the standard Australian crawl. I’d never attempted any other.
A dozen questioning faces focused on me and something in my belly turned over.
How hard can it be? I silently considered my lack of knowledge of the stroke. They just turn on their backs and wave their arms about.
I nodded at Charlie. There was a despondent collective sigh from the boys surrounding me. Charlie patted my back and wished me luck. With the lump in my belly still somersaulting, I strutted to the assembly area at the end of the pool.
“Ready, boys?”
I swallowed hard. Foam danced as twelve young bodies hit the water. Unfamiliar with the starting procedure, I waited for the others to take their crouched positions, then mimicked them, tense fingers and toes gripping the wall and body rigid. Remembering Charlie’s instruction, I inhaled deeply and tried to relax. Chill ripples caressed my thighs. A tenacious white sun beat through thick haze, and I feared that despite the chill, overcast day, my face and bare shoulders might be burning. My heart thundered so loudly I feared I wouldn’t even hear the starting signal.
Froth bounced and sprayed. Twelve sleek young bodies glided through the water, arms slapping the surface in rhythmic rotation and fluttering feet disturbing the surface just enough to create a delicate dance of bubbles. At the halfway mark, I tried to look to the sides. No foam. No splashing bodies. I must be way behind. A wave of despondency washed me, but I kept up a valiant effort anyway.
At the finish line, I glanced about, confused, trying to identify the subject of the applause. It took several moments to realise I was yards ahead of all but one of my competitors, and a few clean feet ahead of the runner–up.
Paul Wilson, backstroke champion, school hero, stood on the little dais, glistening beads on my white belly, back and limbs and wet curls pressed flat against my head. Trickles ran from the hem of my togs down the insides of my legs to pool at my toes. Cheers and clapping almost deafened me. My cheeks glowed, my eyes danced, and my proud heart threatened to burst right through my chest wall and float away.
We didn’t get to keep personal possessions. There was no provision in the tiny squares of dormitory space we were allocated at St Patrick’s, nor in the cupboards or on the shelves of the vast halls below. Anyway, the other boys would want, and fight for, anything another had and they didn’t, and the Sisters had enough to cope with without breaking up fights over possessions.
I went home from the carnival that afternoon elated, proudly carrying a little trophy. It remained on top of my personal table for just one day before it disappeared, never to be seen again.
MAY 1958
“David Simpson, Brian Hutton, James Griffen...”
A hundred and twenty–two boys shivered and fidgeted in the convent courtyard at morning assembly as Brother Charlie read the names of the boys selected to play in the under-elevens rugby league team. As each was called, they proudly took their place beside the Brother, their short procession to the front of the crowd accompanied by cheering and applause.
I was paying scant attention to the proceedings. The list was predictable. Everyone knew who the good players were. Having paid careful attention to Brother Charlie’s instruction and the examples of the seniors, and practised moves for endless hours, I was among them. But Home kids didn’t make sports teams. The Sisters would never allow us to stay after school for training, let alone to travel to weekend matches.
“Kevin Anderson, Colin Davies, Paul Wilson...” The calling of my name didn’t register.
“Paul Wilson,” the Brother repeated, slightly louder this time. I shook with disbelief. My name rang in my ears as though it were the name of a stranger. The boys on the dais blurred and floated about the Brother, passing a football between them. I saw me up there trying to catch it, but they kept snatching it from my grip and pushing me aside. I shouldn’t be there. I didn’t belong. Some of the boys had clenched their fists and wore twisted sneers. The cheering was subdued and reluctant.
“Hey, Home kid! Yeah, well, stay stumm,” a sixth grader muttered, just loud enough for me to hear. “Of course ya can’t play on the team. Brother made a mistake. He’ll wake up in a minute.”
I’ll deal with him later.
Father Joseph stepped up behind me and lightly tapped my shoulder.
“You made the team, Paul,” he said. “Wow! Congratulations! Go on, lad. Get up there.”
I knew I was something of a favourite with the Father. He was kind to all the orphanage boys. He often said he was sure, despite our disadvantage, with a little effort we could make something of ourselves. He said he knew I tried hard and he predicted I would do well. He liked that I was mostly obedient and respectful. When he saw me in the hallways he would ruffle my curly hair and call me ‘skinny’ or ‘mischief’, but he told me often I was a ‘good lad’ and the Mother should be proud of me.
At the Father’s prompting, I straightened my back, lifted my shoulders and marched through the lines. Twice, a boy stepped sideways to try to obstruct my path. I paused to say “Excuse me,” in a loud, clear voice and then turned slightly sideways to push through, bumping the obstructer just hard enough to unbalance him. Only a handful of boys cheered as I climbed the dais, and there was far more grumbling than applause.
“Enough, boys,” Charlie roared, then, more softly, “Well done, Paul. You’ve earned your place on the team.”
After assembly, I approached the Brother to mutter in a quivering voice, “Thank you for choosing me, Brother Charlie. I really want to play on the team, but I doubt the Sisters will let me go to weekend matches, sir.”
The Brother frowned a
nd nodded gravely. “It’s unusual, I know, for a St Patrick’s boy to be selected on a school sports team, but you’ve earned your place. And it will be good for you, son. I think we should ask the Sisters.
“Perhaps Father Joseph can talk to Mother,” he continued, turning to face his senior. “He seems to have reasonable success getting her to see his point of view.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, staring despondently at the toes of my shoes. “But maybe you’d better plan for a replacement. Home kids don’t play on school sports teams.”
Father Joseph patted my shoulder. “We’ll see. I’ll talk to Mother Emmanuel this afternoon. We’ll decide then, eh? For now, you are part of the team and that’s quite an achievement. Congratulations. Now off you go to class.”
In the end, the Mother Superior gave in, reluctantly, to the Father’s persistent arguments. She battled valiantly to convince him of the unwelcome complications it would cause to have a child stay late at school and go away to sporting matches on weekends. There was the matter of uniforms and boots, too. Well, yes, of course Brother Charlie would find a kind family willing to pass down clothing their son had outgrown, but the uniforms would need to be laundered too.
“And Paul can’t manage that?” the Father challenged. “He seems to manage to wash smelly sheets and his charge’s soiled underwear.”
The Mother shot me a mortified what–are–you–doing–here–hearing–such–remarks look and glared at the Father.
“Father, you will need to lecture Paul about making sure his schoolwork doesn’t suffer, and he meets all his responsibilities at home. There can be no further concessions,” the Mother Superior warned, not yet conceding completely. “Any slacking off or disobedience and he will be off the team immediately. That must be understood.”
“I’m sure Paul’s behaviour will be beyond reproach. This will be good for him, Mother. You’ll see.”
Finally, in response to the Father’s promise to convey me home safely from every training session and to collect me and transport me to and from the weekend matches, the Mother yielded. Every Saturday in football season I was fed early, then transported to the football field seated in the front of Father Joseph’s smart white Falcon with its plush red–leather seats. I felt like a king perched there beside him in the front seat. For one precious day each week of the footie season, I was a normal kid.
Proud of their little sporting star, Sister Anne charged herself with the task of making sure my diet was appropriate for a sportsman. She took me to the kitchen where she served me fried eggs and sausages or bacon and freshly buttered hot toast. I washed it all down with freshly squeezed orange juice and she packed a lunch box with tasty sandwiches with slices of devon sausage or cheese and tomato fillings for midday snacks. She would often sneak a sweet biscuit or two into the lunch pack. There was always a juicy half–orange for half–time refreshment and a flask of fresh milk that I drank before the match began, so that it didn’t sour in the hot sun.
Making the team changed my status at school too. I was no longer the first suspect when a pencil case or lunch money went missing. Home kids were always being accused of theft and were quite often guilty. Denied replacements of lost pens and rulers and refused learning aides like coloured pencils and stencils --- and punished by the Brothers when the lack of such devices rendered us unable to perform required tasks --- we did what you might expect kids in such circumstances to do.
Some of the Brothers, and most of the parents of the town kids, expressed the view that this behaviour was to be expected, considering what we were and where we came from. We were the children of no–hopers. We naturally inherited our parents’ defects. We were tolerated, even treated charitably by some who heeded the Christian instruction to suffer the little children, although with the stated opinion that we would mature to layabouts and criminals regardless of any kindness or help. But as a member of the team, I wore a new brand. The shabby uniform no longer defined me. Now, it was my sporting talent that identified me.
JUNE 1958
Father Joseph perched on a long bench beside a young family whose eldest boy was captain of the under 10 team. It was a sunny Saturday and the frost on the fields was thawing quickly. The crowds had gathered early, filling the grass slopes and grandstand. Families assembled on the thin, hard benches around the perimeter of the field or laid out picnic rugs to rest on.
The Father had collected me early from the orphanage kitchen, arriving before I finished my bread. He waited patiently for me to swallow the last mouthfuls, then clean my teeth and comb my hair in the washroom out back. Sister Anne was on retreat and the Father seemed disturbed that her stand–in served me porridge and bread instead of eggs. Instructed to prepare porridge and bread for 60 children, she said she could see no reason why I should be treated differently.
The Father frowned, noticing bruises on my arms and legs. He would have guessed I’d copped a fierce beating a few days before, but he didn’t inquire or comment. Had he asked, I would have told him harsh treatment only made me more determined. But I would have dutifully confessed to misbehaving and acknowledged the beating was deserved. It didn’t matter that I didn’t believe it. I would say what was expected.
Our game was on home ground. We played well and won. Our team’s skill was impressive and our trainer was good. Several of the boys showed talent. The coach said I shone. The Father smiled broadly as I left the field, basking in the admiration of my teammates and the cheers of the crowd.
Father Joseph joined Brothers John and Charlie to set up a little folding table by some benches under a shady tree, open a sandwich box and pour strong, warm tea from a thermos. My teammates hovered around the canteen, spending their two shilling coins on hot pies and sausage rolls with lashings of tomato sauce, and ice creams in wafer cones. I retrieved my little lunch pack from the Father’s car and went off happily with them, wrestling playfully. Brother John passed us, heading for the canteen.
It was the smell that got to me, and hunger. The lunch the stand–in cook had packed was scant and unappetising. I had only a single Vegemite sandwich, while all the other boys were biting into juicy mince wrapped in crisp, flaky, brown shells with big red dollops of sauce on top.
I knew it was wrong to steal and I remembered Dad telling me sternly that hunger was no excuse, but when all the other boys were focused on their pies and the pie man had disappeared below the counter, temptation won. I snatched a pie and ducked behind a parked car to eat it. Hearing my name called, I wiped my lips carefully and struggled to reduce the tell-tale bulge in my cheeks by swallowing the last oversized mouthful.
The heavy, musky odour of nicotine. I felt John’s fingers grip my sideburns and pull hard. I stumbled as he dragged me back to the table where the Father sat. When he released me, I looked up to see that his cheeks blazed.
“One of the boys saw him stealing a pie,” John roared. “Stealing, Father, stealing! Now what do you think about that?” He laid a strong emphasis on the word ‘that’. “A fine way for a boy to thank you for all the favours.
“And Brother Charlie,” he added, turning, “now do you think it was a good idea to include him in the school team?”
I slumped my shoulders and hung my head. The aftertaste of the pie was suddenly foul. My mouth and throat burnt. I felt Father Joseph studying me, planning punishment. I pushed at a mound of grass with the toe of my boot and gulped hard. The tattle–taling fifth grader had followed Brother John and was peeping from behind a nearby tree, grinning maliciously. The Father beckoned to him.
“Did you see this boy steal a pie from the pie stand.”
“Yes, Father,” he said, gloating, “and I told Brother John, because it’s a very bad thing to do, stealing.”
“That’s true,” said the Father, “but I think this boy might have been very, very hungry. You see how skinny he is? And you have a nice round belly and full cheeks, and I suspect your mother gives you plenty of good food to eat. Yes?”
The boy nodded.
“But --- ”
The Father raised his hand to silence him. “It was wrong to take that pie and Paul must be punished. I will help him learn that stealing is wrong, however hungry he might be. But you must promise me you will say nothing to anyone about this. Not a word, do you hear?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Good. Now run along please.”
The boy looked mildly disappointed at not witnessing at least a fierce lecture, but he shrugged and darted off in the direction of the ice–cream stand. “I’ll deal with him, Brother John. And please, the Sisters do not need to hear about this. The punishment I administer will be quite enough.”
Father Joseph was standing now, towering over me and gazing down at the top of my head, watching my foot kicking softly at a tuft of grass. “Come with me, boy,” the Father commanded, striding off in the direction of the pie stand. I followed obediently. He stopped a short distance from the pie stand.
“What did you have for lunch, lad?”
“A Vegemite sandwich, Father.” “Just one?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Nothing else? A biscuit or cake? Fruit?” “No, Father. Only a sandwich.”
“Hmmm. And after that pie, are you still feeling very hungry?”
I ventured a cautious upward glance and noted, with surprise, the Father’s thick neck. Although appearing uncomfortably constrained by his stiff cleric’s collar, it showed no redness or pulsing to suggest rage. His shoulders slumped a little. Creased brow and bushy eyebrows hung low over pitying grey eyes and slender fingers tugged at the oversized lobe of his left ear, as though opening it to better hear the Almighty’s advice.
The Pencil Case Page 7