“Dinner was delicious, thank you, Mrs Bennett,” I said, hoping she had not thought my silence rude.
She replied with a beaming smile and Mr Bennett chimed in with “You’ll be well fed here, my boy. Mrs Bennett is a wonderful cook”.
I slid cautiously from my chair and began collecting cups to carry to the sink. “I can wash up for you, Mrs Bennett. ”
“Why, thank you, Paul.” She gave me another beaming smile. “Maybe tomorrow. We can’t have you doing chores on your first night here. John will help me tonight, and Brian can show you where he keeps his books and toys. Eight o’clock is bedtime here. You can play or read until then.”
In the morning she served piping–hot porridge with honey on top, and fresh, hot buttered toast. Then she ordered us off to the bathroom to wash, clean our teeth and comb our hair ready for a trip to town. “And no jostling or fighting, please. Wait quietly for your turn at the washbasin.”
Despite the caution, the Bennett children shoved one another and trampled on each other’s feet and shouted argument about whose turn was next. I stood still and silent at the end of the line, wishing the others would be quiet and fearing any moment now Mrs Bennett would get angry, or Mr Bennett would appear with a grim expression and a strap in hand. But Mrs Bennett was still smiling broadly when we reassembled in the kitchen and Mr Bennett was humming cheerfully as he polished the last in a long row of leather shoes.
There was plenty of jostling, shoving, laughing and tripping on the way to the store too. It didn’t seem to bother Mrs Bennett a bit. Connie and I tried to march, silent and sedate, in line, but the Bennett children teased us. Eventually we began to relax a little and join in the fun. By the time we reached the Thrift Shop, I was convinced almost nothing could displease this cheerful little mother. Still, I wasn’t taking any chances. I wanted desperately to be invited back again.
“New clothes for Paul,” Mrs Bennett announced brightly to the Thrift Shop attendant. “Neat fitting, with no sign of stain or wear. Nothing scratchy either. He must be comfortable. His Sunday best is acceptable. He’ll need play clothes and pyjamas. I’ll get him some new underwear across the road. We’ll need pyjamas and sun frocks for the little girl please, the best you have.” They outfitted me with smart–looking shirts with no fraying on the collars.
The shorts didn’t sag about my knees and the pyjamas didn’t make my skin itch.
On Saturday, Mrs Bennett packed a picnic basket and we children all piled into the back of Mr Bennett’s truck. It rattled and bounced out to the river crossing where Mrs Bennett spread old blankets and laid out sandwiches and fruit, while Mr Bennett roasted sausages over an open fire. We swam and floated in inner tubes from old tyres and scratched near the banks for craybobs. Then Mr Bennett organised a game of rounders. Mrs Bennett hit a hom e run, but I scored best. Mr Bennett took me aside part–way through the game and asked if I could pitch a little more gently so the younger children could make a hit and not be struck out every time they took a turn to bat.
Mr Bennett cut down a tall pine tree and loaded it into the back of the truck. We rode rather uncomfortably home, crowded around the tree, trying to avoid being pricked by the needles. We forgot our discomfort quickly when the tree was carried to the corner of the living room to stand in a bucket and Mrs Bennett brought the box of Christmas decorations from the garage and asked us to help string tinsel and hang baubles.
On Christmas Eve, Mrs Bennett rolled out shortbread dough and we cut star, tree and Santa shapes. When the biscuits emerged from the oven, I helped spread white and yellow icing on the stars and green icing on the trees. Then I painted Santa faces and coloured baubles with brushes dipped in food colouring. I was even allowed to lick one of the icing bowls.
The next morning, five rowdy youngsters rose early to find two identical dolls in prams under the tree and three identical red tip trucks with their trays filled with sweets. One of the trucks had my name carefully printed on a piece of cardboard and stuck where the number plate should be. I was overwhelmed. Home kids didn’t get Christmas gifts.
Five children dressed in their best to walk with Mr and Mrs Bennett to the chapel on the next corner. We sang Christmas Carols, heard the Christmas story, shook hands with the Priest and wished all the neighbours a merry Christmas. Five children whooped home with expectant bellies and tastebuds to feast on roasted chicken and vegetables, plum pudding with brandy sauce and fresh whipped cream, and thick slices of rich fruitcake.
Shortly after breakfast on Boxing Day, Mr and Mrs Bennett sent the other children outside to play and asked me to join them in the parlour. I found myself shaking and I felt the blood rush to my feet. I feared perhaps I was about to be punished for some unintentional misdeed. I fought desperately to remember every word I had spoken and any act that might have raised objection. I was sure I’d obeyed every instruction, and certain I’d never forgotten my manners --- not even for a moment. I’d worked very hard at always speaking respectfully. Whatever could I have done to anger them? What punishment would they hand out?
I’d seen Mr Bennett clip the boys behind the ear once or twice. Mrs Bennett waved a wooden spoon at them now and again, causing them to run outside or to their bedroom where they would remain quietly for a few minutes before returning laughingly to a woman who invariably greeted them with a hug and a smile, seeming to have forgotten completely that moments earlier she was threatening them. I’d never heard either of the Bennetts raise their voice in anger or order a child to their room; never seen either take a strap to any one of their kids, or even spank them with their bare hand, for that matter.
There was never any indication in the other boys’ behaviour that they might have suffered a stern reprimand, let alone a beating. But right now I hoped fervently that they would settle for administering a thrashing, rather than sending me back to the orphanage. I’d rather take a beating every day than suffer the shame of being sent away.
There was no punishment. Mr and Mrs Bennett met me with wide smiles, kind eyes and outstretched arms. They praised my manners. They thanked me for my obedience and for being helpful. They said it was a great pleasure to have me in their home and they were happy that I got along so well with their sons.
“We’ve grown very fond of you in the short time you’ve been here, Paul,” Mr Bennett said. That made the blood rush to my head. My chest puffed out and my shoulders lifted and a warm glow enveloped me.
“We wondered if you’d like to stay with us permanently.” Mrs Bennett said softly, with a hint of caution in her voice, as though afraid I might decline. “We’d like to foster you, Paul. Do you know what that means? It means you would become part of our family --- our son.”
Paul Frederick Bennett! The name repeated over and over inside my head. It sounded good. I would go to the little village school down the road with their two sons, help Mrs Bennett tend the vegetable garden, and take turns with the boys chopping wood and mowing lawns. I could help Mr Bennett wash the truck on Friday afternoons. I would sleep in a cosy bed in a bedroom shared with two boys near my own age and eat wonderful, hot, home–cooked meals at a kitchen table with a family who enjoyed chattering and joking over their dinner. I’d never again have to queue in silence for lukewarm hash and stale bread, and never again wear shabby ill–fitting shorts and shirts with frayed collars. I’d never again be called ‘home kid’.
Paul Frederick Bennett. Third son of Mr James Bennett and Mrs Marion Bennett. Wanted. Liked. Chosen.
“But,” I hesitated a moment, terrified of seeming rude or ungrateful. I could hardly believe I was daring to speak, let alone spoil this moment with an objection. They stared at me, curious, concerned. I struggled desperately to force the words past the lump in my throat. I couldn’t stop the tears welling. “What about Jenny? My sister? My dad said I must take care of her. I can’t leave her.” I stared at my feet.
“I... I’m sooo ss… ooo… ry,” I stuttered, drowning in wretched remorse, then surfacing to burn in the blistering flame
s of desire. “You are wonderful people and your offer is so kind. I would give anything to live here permanently. But...,” I broke off with a pleading look, uncertain precisely what it was I begged for. I didn’t really expect them to take Jenny too, but I couldn’t leave her.
Mr and Mrs Bennett considered me for a moment, then turned to silently converse with each other. When they spoke, it was in unison, and neither looked even mildly surprised.
“I suppose there is no reason why we couldn’t take Jennifer too, if she is happy to come.”
I wanted to scream with delight. I wanted to whoop and cheer and hug everyone, and run up and down the street shouting to everyone who would listen. I wanted to run all the way back to St Patrick’s to tell my sister and the nuns and Father Joseph. But the parlour mat held my feet firmly and would not release them, and the Bennetts’ kind gaze held my eyes. When I tried to speak, the words stuck in my throat and only soft sob–like sounds escaped.
Mrs Bennett seemed to understand. She moved slowly towards me, wrapped her arms about me, kissed the top of my head, and muttered “Welcome to our family, son”.
Mr Bennett warned her not to get ‘all soppy now’. “He’s a boy, love. You know how boys are about women carrying on all emotional like.” He grinned at me. “Now don’t go thinkin’ jes’ because yer one o’ the family now yer can git cheeky. I’ll clip your ear if you misbehave, lad. Make no mistake about that.” He ruffled my hair affectionately. “An’ you’ll be expected ta’ pull ya’ weight around here. There’s plenty o’ chores ta’ be done.”
“Of course, sir,” I said.
“An’ none o’ that ‘sir’ business, please. I ain’t no ‘sir’! Jes plain ol’ Jim’ll do.”
“Oh no, sir. I mean, Mr Bennett. I could never call you by your first name.
That’s disrespectful.”
“Hmmm. Then I guess it’ll hafta be ‘dad’ or ‘pop’. What d’ya reckon?”
I thought for a moment. Mr Bennett was nothing like my dad, but then, if I was to be their son, why not? I would sure like to call Mrs Bennett ‘Mum’. “That’s settled then, I guess,” said Mrs Bennett. “Next week we’ll go to see the Mother Superior and make the arrangements, and bring Jenny home.”
The following Tuesday, James and Marion Bennett went to see the Mother Superior, and they brought Jenny back. For three glorious weeks, Jen and I were part of a wonderful, loving family. She and I could talk and hug, and I could protect her the way I’d promised my father I would. We were inseparable, and our joy at being together surpassed even our delight at being part of a real family. Everything was a wonder to us. Our eyes sparkled and our cheeks shone.
I was nervous and hesitant at first, terrified of displeasing, but as the days passed I relaxed. Eventually, Jenny and I even dared to join in the Bennett children’s innocent little acts of mischief.
#
An icy chill tiptoed down my spine when I spotted a sleek black sedan parked in front of the house one Monday morning.
I crept inside.
The lounge room door was closed. I pressed my ear to the keyhole. My face burnt with guilt, and I trembled in fear of detection --- fear of what I might hear.
Mrs Bennett’s voice was soft and muffled, but the man, when he spoke, was loud and forceful. I had an uneasy sense that the harsh voice was familiar. “Mr and Mrs Wilson will not consent to either permanent fostering or adoption. I’m sorry, Mrs Bennett. There is nothing further I can do. Under law, they have the right to refuse.”
There was a muffled reply, then the man’s voice came again. “I can wait while you pack the children’s things.”
I stepped back behind the door of the adjacent room to avoid being caught eavesdropping. Mrs Bennett and the man stepped out and moved towards the front door. Mrs Bennett’s eyes were red and she was dabbing at them with a lace–trimmed hanky. The man was fat, with ruddy cheeks and a thick neck. He wore a fancy suit and tie and he didn’t seem at all distressed or sympathetic.
“Thank you, Mr Simms...”
Simms!
Fear and hatred hurtled down the hallway and enveloped me, binding my limbs and freezing my tongue and causing my heart to thunder. My legs threatened to give way.
I missed hearing the end of Mrs Bennett’s softly spoken sentence, but I heard Simms say, “Very well then. Please ensure you return the children promptly”. The door closed behind him and Mrs Bennett fell against it with a soft moan. Then she composed herself and marched resolutely to my bedroom.
I followed her and dared to ask why that man had come, but the pain etched on my face told her I already knew.
~~~~
11: A FARM HOLIDAY
MOREE, MAY, 1960
In May, 1960, school closed for a ten day break before the start of the mid school term. I was called to the Mother’s office to be told I had again been selected to go on a holiday.
“A farmer from Moree has asked to take you,” said the Mother. “He’s taking John Sanders too. You are very lucky, you know? I hope you will behave yourself. You must be very polite and obedient.”
“Yes, Mother,” I replied dutifully, suppressing excitement at the prospect of a week on a farm, away from the boredom of the orphanage.
“You will be expected to help on the farm and around the house. You must do your share of the work willingly.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Farm chores will be a joy.
Church families regularly took home kids for holidays, and we looked forward to a break from the monotonous routine and the nuns’ cruelty. Most of the families were kind, like the Bennetts. We were well fed during those breaks and enjoyed more freedom to run and play. Sometimes, they would take us swimming and to movies and on Sunday family picnics. We were often used as cheap labour, especially by farmers, but we never really minded that.
Jenny went often with the same childless couple. They spoilt and pampered her. They adored her and she them. I was always pleased to see them arrive to collect her and deeply saddened when they brought her back.
I didn’t get to go often. Perhaps because of the privileges I enjoyed as a footie player, the Mother sought to deprive me of most other treats. She claimed I was defiant and she disliked me for it, claiming she could not send me to a decent family until I learnt respect for my elders. It would be unfair to kind people to leave them to cope with my disobedience and insolence. True, I lacked respect for the black–clad witches who prayed daily and claimed a love of God, yet treated little children so cruelly. I might have allowed that lack of respect to show, but Mr and Mrs Bennett would have said I was a good kid --- polite, obedient, respectful, and always willing to help. Father Joseph treated me with respect and I reciprocated. I was insolent and defiant only when abused. On a farm, I would work hard and try my hardest to earn a repeat invitation. I didn’t show it, but I was wildly excited.
Mr Jackson arrived mid–morning on a Saturday, driving a dusty, white Holden ute. He tossed two battered suitcases into the back, ran a rope through the handles and tied it to the side rail to secure them. He greeted John and I with a grin and a slight tip of his battered broadbrim hat. He was stocky, rugged, fair-complexioned but well sun–tanned, with huge, expressive, green eyes.
John sat in the middle of the single–bench seat, so I had the benefit of a clear side view and a fresh autumn breeze when I chose to lower the window. Mr Jackson had little to say on the four–hour drive, except to occasionally point to a landmark, or to remark on the condition of grazing stock, grassed paddocks or shallow dams. He told us he ran a wheat farm and he would teach us to drive a tractor and milk cows. He asked how we liked school.
“I’ve heard you ҆re pretty good at football, Paul. I wasn’t too bad myself in my schooldays,” he said.
He said Mrs Jackson was a very good cook and she was looking forward to having two strapping young lads to appreciate her talent.
“You’ll need plenty of sustenance,” he added, “because there are always plenty of heavy chores to be
done on the farm and in the house. I hope you’ll be willing to help out when needed.”
We dutifully confirmed our intention to give our best efforts to whatever chore was allocated, and nodded solemnly when asked if the Mother had warned us to be obedient and polite.
“I can be a harsh disciplinarian when required,” he cautioned. “I won’t hesitate to punish you if you step out of line, but I do hope I won’t need to.” We hoped he wouldn’t need to also. I didn’t plan on doing anything to anger him, but as yet his expectations were something of a mystery and there could be no certainty we would be able to live up to them. That was the trouble with going off with strangers. It was easy to displease when one didn’t know what their rules were, no matter how hard one might try to be good.
It wasn’t punishment I feared. I was quite accustomed to savage beatings and it was unlikely Mr Jackson would inflict more pain than the magpie with her scrubbing brush or the Mother with her wide belt, but I wanted to please; to be liked and admired. Again, briefly, I would lose the label ‘filthy urchin’ and be just an ordinary kid, helping out in the paddocks during the day and enjoying the warmth of a real family in the evening and a woman’s tender ‘goodnight’ at bedtime.
The farm house was a rambling 50–year–old weatherboard structure. Wide verandas on three sides were covered with a slightly rusting bull–nose iron roof angling off a pyramid hip that rose to a sharp point in the centre. A weather vane decorated with a rooster rotated above the peak. Timber double– hung windows were pushed up high and here and there a pair of French doors was anchored fully open to catch the afternoon breezes. The timber floors were faded from frequent scrubbing and the walls were lined with wide boards that probably were once white, but had yellowed with age and were liberally littered with grubby stains, chips and scratches.
The homestead had a homey feel, and we were welcomed with a huge hug, a plate of hot scones with strawberry jam and two tall glasses of fresh milk. I liked Mrs Jackson, and was sure I was going to love it here. I promised myself I would try very hard to be good enough to be asked back again.
The Pencil Case Page 9