I started to tremble, realising the Boss was watching me closely. I was conscious of him staring at my bare backside as I turned to rinse my chest and belly. He drew breath sharply, and when I turned again the colour had drained from his face and his shoulders were slumped. He raised his hands to cover his face, and then he turned away. When he turned back, his eyes were watery and there was a wet patch on his sleeve where he had wiped his face. He struggled for a minute to compose himself, then he marched up to his own son and hugged him hard.
“Look after him like a brother,” he said softly. It took a moment to realise he was referring to me..
~~~~
14: WE WERE BROTHERS
WALCHA, DECEMBER, 1960
In the morning, we were wakened early. The familiar institutional routine of washing, dressing, bed making and dormitory inspections preceded an orderly march to the dining room. But the porridge was served creamy and hot and the bread toasted and served with a selection of spreads. There was no bed–wetter parade of shame either. Wet linen was quietly removed to the laundry and replaced, with neither comment nor retribution.
The homestead was set on a generous acreage donated by a wealthy grazing family and the Home was largely self–sufficient. Before school, boys milked cows, fed chickens and collected eggs, chopped and carried wood. The kitchen boys washed the dishes and packed school lunches with fresh bread, while other boys swept and mopped floors.
We lined up before school for an inspection by the ‘corporals’, who checked to ensure everyone was clean and presentable and had completed their chores, then we ran three miles to school. The run home was a race, because first back got the biggest slice of cake. The Matron baked fresh every day and the cakes were rich, with real cream filling and thick icing.
Even on my first day, I streaked ahead of the others. I could run! I was often first home, and the only time I wasn’t among the first to the door was when a teacher kept me late in class or when there was a sporting event on after school. I’d sacrifice cake for soccer any day!
There were more chores to do after school --- tending vegetable gardens, cleaning bathrooms, fetching washing off the line and folding linen --- before we were allowed to play. An hour or two of play or sports practice preceded dinner, and then we were ordered to the library to do homework or read until bedtime.
On Saturdays, the boys played cricket or soccer. They had their own soccer team. They told me the Boss coached them, drove them to matches --- no matter how far away --- and barracked enthusiastically for them, delighting in seeing ‘his boys’ win. I arrived there in the summer and the soccer season didn’t start ’til May. There was no cricket match that Saturday either, so the Boss passed out pocket money and drove those who wanted to go into town to the pictures. Others roamed the hills and played. It seemed the boys were allowed quite a bit of freedom.
Sunday began with a church service in the library, conducted by a visiting minister. The service was in English and I was surprised that it was fun. Afterward, the minister talked and played and I saw that all the boys loved him.
“Right, boys. Boxing shed!” the Boss called after lunch. I followed the others to a shed where a little platform was surrounded by a rope at waist height. A variety of punching bags hung from the rafters. In one corner, there was a box of gloves. Some boys donned gloves and several started pummeling the bags, while the Boss pointed to two who jumped into the ring and commenced a sparring match. The Boss called instructions, stepping up into the ring at one point to clasp a boy’s wrist and guide it, advising him where to aim. I watched intently, but in silence.
Those first weeks there, waves of panic swept over me whenever I was spoken to, when I caught someone watching me, or when there was something I was required to do. I did everything I was told. When I wasn’t sure what to do, I studied the older boys and copied them. I was anal about hygiene, neatness, punctuality and chores, but during inspections, a fist tightened around my heart and threatened to rip it from me. As far as I was able, I kept well out of the Boss’s way. And I never uttered a single word.
The Matron called us for afternoon tea, after which came band rehearsals. They were practising carols when I arrived. The Boss had rallied the townsfolk to help with fundraising activities and bought a supply of instruments --- cornets, horns, euphoniums, trombones, tubas, cymbals, drums --- and smart band uniforms. He taught all the fellas to play and they performed at Anzac Day parades, fetes and festivals. He even hired the band out sometimes and set the money paid aside to pay for special treats, like camping holidays.
The Matron gave me a cornet mouthpiece and showed me how to practise blowing into it. Another challenge! Excitement and terror battled for supremacy. I knew which I wanted to feel, but electric jolts of adrenalin shook me and then cold waves of terror froze my gut. I ripped at my hair and sought out quiet, lonely places. The other boys seemed so at ease. Perhaps that should have reassured me, but it somehow made me more afraid.
I had been there three weeks when the Matron and Boss finally called me aside and pleaded with me to talk to them.
“We’re worried about you, Paul,” the Matron said. “We can see you’re afraid of something, but there’s nothing here to be scared of. Honestly. We want you to be happy here.”
The Boss called to Peter. “Take him to your room, Son,” he said. “Show him your things. Make friends with him.”
“Get him to speak!” the Matron said, her voice sharp and tense and her face wringing.
Pete took me into his room and showed me his stamp collection, coins and books. I was fascinated. I relaxed after a while, and eventually Pete was even able to tease me a little and I took it in good humour. He told me how things worked around the Home, which boys were good at sport and which of the boys he disliked.
“I don’t dare show dislike, though,” he said, “and you should be careful not to also. We have to get along with everyone here.”
I told him about the cruelty at St Patrick’s and the Mother’s grave warnings about the Boss. It shocked him and he was quick to assure me the Mother had it all wrong.
“The Boss doesn’t thrash boys for misbehaving?” I asked, incredulous. “He’ll clip your ear,” Pete said, “but he’ll certainly never beat you.”
We were in that room for hours. The Boss and Matron listened at the door for a time, but long before I finally spoke, I heard them steal away.
You couldn’t have found two more opposite kids. Peter was a burly, confident, devil–may–care teenager, afraid of nothing. I was a skinny, malnourished, frightened little boy. On that day, we became brothers.
~~~~
15: A BOY FROM OHIO
DECEMBER, 1960
Christmas festivities began just days after I first spoke. The Christmas tree went up in the corner of the library, and we all helped the Boss decorate it. We hung streamers about the walls and blew up balloons and pegged dozens of Christmas cards to strings hung across the windows.
The boys staged a Christmas concert and a huge party followed to which each boy was allowed to invite one or two guests. The Matron and Boss invited lots of friends and of course the town and church dignitaries were there as guests of honour. The Ohio band played carols, and boys sang and staged little plays. Smithie, who had amazing recall, played memory games. The audience clapped, cheered and praised the boys for their talent and dedication to rehearsing. I resolved to practise really hard so I could play superbly next Christmas and hopefully they might compliment me.
The Matron baked and iced a huge Christmas cake and made a rich plum pudding with sixpences scattered through it. Each of us was allowed a small glass of sherry. Most of the boys had considerably more than their allotted rations. I felt certain Matron knew, but she just smiled at them indulgently.
I was a little embarrassed when all the boys except me presented the Matron and Boss with little gifts. Everyone received a gift from Matron. They were tokens, I guess; nothing of any value, but I was thrilled beyond words at having
something to unwrap. It made me feel wanted… cared for. Loved I guess, although I wasn’t confident that anyone could actually love me. The nuns had taken pains to ensure I had no illusions about being worthy of affection. After all, I had bad blood. Only grudging Christian charity had kept me from being left to starve to death.
Determined to show my appreciation for their kindness, I resolved to make sure I had money to buy gifts for the Matron and Boss next Christmas. I wanted to buy gifts for some of my ‘brothers’ too. I noticed that many of them exchanged presents and they bought presents for their party guests and for their teachers. They seemed to have ample funds to cover the costs of a dozen or so small items. That surprised me, for I knew the 20 cents the Boss gave each of us on Saturdays was always quickly spent.
The mystery of where funds for gift purchases came from was solved some months later, when Peter took me on my first wool hunt. The boys went out regularly on weekends with large hessian bags that they filled with dead wool and sold for almost as much as a poorly paid family man earned for a week of labouring. It was hard–earned money, but not so tough when we could find slippery, grease–caked wool fallen from the sheep’s back. Mostly it had to be plucked from the rotting hides of stinking, maggot–ridden carcasses by those of us with stomachs strong enough to stand the over–ripe stench and the view of bloody half–eaten innards spilling out. Huge blowflies buzzed about our ears and lips and I had to spit and blow to stop them entering my mouth and nostrils.
Simmo earned his pay easily for a time. He snuck into the wool sheds and stole the fresh–shorn fleece from the sorting bins. It puzzled us how he was always first back home, yet had the largest hoard. We would struggle in exhausted, often burnt and blistered from too much exposure to a savage sun, but he looked as fresh as when he climbed out of bed in the mornings.
He was caught out, of course. The buyer noticed that the wool in his sack was always clean and of a high grade. A cranky cocky visited the Home one Saturday evening and asked to speak to the Boss in his office. Simmo was called in shortly after and given a right earbashing. He was banned from joining wool–hunting expeditions for a month. The cocky wanted us all banned permanently, but the Boss argued our case. He was hard on us when we erred, but he always stuck up for us with outsiders. No–one else was permitted to speak against ‘his boys’.
#
“Monkey, Monkey.”
I was returning from a Friday afternoon wool hunt, tired and irritated, when I heard the familiar name called with an unfamiliar accent. The tone was unmistakably one of ridicule.
Pete always called me “Monkey”, but it was a term of endearment. No– one else was permitted to call me that. He would have decked anyone who dared to tease me.
Pete had gone out somewhere and he wasn’t yet back. I was alone with my tormentor, so I swung around and thumped Smithie hard in the stomach. He hit back, and I struck again, this time on the side of the head.
“Break it up, fellas,” a corporal shouted from across the paddock, and in minutes the Boss was striding towards us, glaring. For the first time, after a full five months at Ohio, I was in trouble.
“Boxing shed. Right now!” the Boss shouted. Contrite, but secretly a little excited, I ran to the shed and bounced up into the ring. I spent many happy hours in the shed, thumping the heavy leather punching bag and punching the speed bag and mounting the ring for friendly --- and sometimes not so friendly --- sparring matches.
“Gloves on,” the Boss said sternly. “Give it your best, but stick to the rules and may the best man win.”
Smithie was bigger than me and an experienced boxer. I fought valiantly, but I took a towelling that day and I breathed an audible sigh of relief when the Boss finally called time and pronounced Smithie the victor.
“Shake hands,” the Boss ordered. I stepped forward, a little reluctantly, hand extended. My opponent shook it warmly, whispering, “Sorry, mate. Can we be friends?” I nodded. Inevitably, whoever won and however hard the punches, we always left that boxing ring good mates. After that day, Pete, Smithie and I became an inseparable trio.
It was my first serious fight and one of very few I lost. After suffering a humiliating defeat, I made a firm resolve to become expert at the sport. I practised at every opportunity and begged the Boss and the older boys to teach me every winning technique.
The Boss wasn’t quite satisfied with seeing me whopped in the ring. “Starting a fight demands punishment,” he declared sternly as I prepared to leave the shed, nursing a mildly bruised body and a badly bruised ego. “You’ll both spend tomorrow afternoon in bed.”
I stifled an urge to smile. While missing out on the pictures was mildly disappointing, bed was not an unpleasant place to be on a cold Saturday afternoon --- especially as we were allowed to take a book. The Matron even brought a sweet snack up at afternoon–tea time.
#
I’d been at Ohio almost nine months before I experienced a harsh punishment, and I berated myself, afterward, for my foolishness. It was Pete’s fault. I rarely got into trouble at Ohio, but when I did, it was nearly always his fault.
Pete was sent to bed early one evening as punishment for some minor misdeed. He was hungry, so he opened the door a crack and beckoned to me.
“Sneak into the kitchen and make me a sandwich,” he whispered.
Stealing food was a serious offence, but I figured I owed Pete. He was my big brother and he took care of me. I crept out of the library and around the back way to the kitchen, and made a cheese and tomato sandwich, taking care to clean up thoroughly and put everything back in its place. I crept to the door of Pete’s room and tapped lightly. He opened the door a crack, reached out, and I placed the sandwich in his hand. Begging my heart to stop thumping so loudly, I drew a deep breath and darted back into a corner of the library, where I grabbed a book and held it over my face, pretending to be engrossed. I’d been swift and silent, so I was quite sure I’d escaped detection, but when the Boss called my name at breakfast next morning, I knew I was gone.
“Woodheap duty. Two weeks,” he said sternly. I gulped hard and stifled the urge to wail a protest. A few of the boys whispered “Ouch,” and sympathetic looks assured me --- in case there was any doubt --- that the next 14 mornings would be extremely unpleasant.
There was no room for negotiation over retribution. Neither was there any tolerance for complaint or displays of emotion. We were expected to take punishment like men. As much as I wanted to blame Pete, I had to admit that I’d knowingly broken a significant rule. The punishment was deserved and fair, but woodheap duty was a dreaded chore. I was unfortunate to earn this penalty in the dead of winter, when the night and early morning temperatures were well below freezing, sunrise came late and slow, and frost inches thick blanketed everything.
The next morning, I rose at 4:30 --- well before even the first hint of pearly dawn --- and dressed quickly and as warmly as practical. I tried to run down to the woodheap, but the frost was so heavy that just walking without slipping was a challenge. I exhaled fine white jets of smoke and the cold burnt through the soles of my shoes. It reminded me a bit of washing pissy sheets at St Patrick’s, where I’d slithered and slid about the paddock struggling to reach the clothes lines. It was even colder at Ohio, but chopping wood was not nearly as unpleasant as washing pissy sheets in freezing water.
I wiped the frost off the axe with a rag, set a large block on the chopping block and commenced chopping. At least the physical exertion warmed me a little, although the frosty wood burnt my fingers.
Fetch a block. Position it. Raise the axe. Take aim. Bring it down with all your strength.
Crack! The block split.
Lift the axe. Strike again.
Sometimes a weakened section would split apart and bits would fly everywhere. Occasionally, one struck my leg.
Handle the split pieces carefully. Watch out for splinters. Work faster. You have to finish this job before breakfast or you’ll be in more trouble.
As t
he pile of chopped logs grew, I drove the axe into the chopping block, piled my arms high with wood, then walked as fast as I could without slipping into the kitchen to fill the woodbox near the stove. Then back to the woodheap to repeat the sequence.
Position the block. Raise the axe. Aim. Bring it down with all your strength. Dodge the flying timber. Fetch another block. Position, raise, aim, strike. Fetch, position, raise, aim, strike. Fetch, position, raise, aim, strike.
Gather the pieces. This time to the library to fill the box near the fireplace. And there were boxes near the lounge–room fireplace, the Boss’s office, the laundry copper...
The morning wore on and the sun began its slow climb, painting the sky a soft pink, but hardly raising the temperature. My arms ached. Despite the cold, I dripped perspiration.
Finally, I was done. I would have liked to collapse into bed, but now there was bed making and morning chores to attend to. The last thing I needed was to fail morning inspection or be late for breakfast. Two weeks might quickly become four, or who knows what other awful penalty I might incur? I washed carefully, climbed the stairs hastily and set about ensuring the bed cover was perfectly straight and the corner mitres were perfect.
The Boss ruffled my hair affectionately as I entered the dining room.
“Good job this morning, Paul. Thank you. Keep it up.”
As if I have a choice!
“Only 13 mornings to go, eh! Bet it will be a while before you invite that punishment again?” the Boss said, chuckling. I nodded silently, telling myself firmly I had no right to feel resentful. It was harsh punishment --- a far more effective deterrent to future disobedience than the most savage beating. By the time I’d completed my two–week sentence I was convinced there was some validity to the nuns’ warnings about the Boss. He wasn’t cruel, but he certainly commanded respect and obedience. He was also a kind and patient teacher, and fiercely protective of ‘his boys’. He taught us survival skills and self–defence and cultivated a sense of pride in our abilities and achievements. I was still an orphan, living in an institution, but there were no cruel reminders. Survival was no longer a daily challenge.
The Pencil Case Page 12