But in two years’ time, I have to leave the safety of Ohio. What happens to me then?
The rules of the system dictated that, while still a State ward and subject to the whims of bureaucrats, I would have no home and no–one to care.
~~~~
16: BOOT BOY
NOVEMBER, 1961
“Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday, dear Paul…” The Matron emerged from the kitchen at dinnertime on my birthday wearing a radiant smile and carrying a huge chocolate cake bearing 13 brightly burning candles.
“I think the Boss has a surprise for you, Paul,” Matron said, when the singing and cheering subsided. I looked questioningly at Mr Tuck.
“I’ve decided to make you a corporal,” he said, smiling. The boys clapped and I glowed.
“And,” he continued, rapping the table for silence, “I’m going to appoint you apprentice boot boy. You are going to learn to mend shoes.”
I could hardly contain my joy. I was six years old again, watching Dad make whips, feeling the warm, soft leather between my fingers and asking Dad to teach me to work it, dreaming of becoming a leatherworker one day.
I’ll be a bootmaker when I leave here. I’ll work hard and learn well and I’ll get an apprenticeship. One day, when I’m older, I’ll own my own shop.
I followed the Boss to the boot shed the next afternoon, bubbling over with anticipation. My fingers itched and my nostrils were filled with that pervasive warm, raw odour of cowhide mixed with the addictive acrid smell of Cargrip glue. I remembered that smell from my toddler days.
The boot shed had been a wool–sorting shed in years gone by and the building was well–worn. The oily lanolin smell of raw wool still hung about the rafters. It was dusty, draughty and unpainted, but it had the special warmth old sheds have, or maybe it just reminded me of home. It quickly became a sanctuary --- my personal cubbyhouse --- a place of respite when the constant noise of more than a score of rowdy boys tired me.
Every afternoon I went down to the shed and waited patiently for the Boss to inspect the boys’ shoes and send all those with holes in the soles or toes or broken heels down to me to fix. While I waited, I caressed the lasts and the big old sanding and polishing machines. I held the leather, stretched it to test its strength and moulded it over the polishing wheel to test its malleability. I stroked it to feel the slight roughness and contrast it with the plastic smoothness of the rubber used for patching. Running my hand over the huge old rustic bench, smoothed by years of wear, I admired the way the tools were all laid out in perfect order: skiving knives, hammers, stitcher, pullers, and tubes of glue. Everything at the ready for a quick, efficient repair job.
I learnt quickly how to cut rubber pieces from old car tyres to repair soles and how to tack loose heels firmly in place. A warm, satisfied glow crept up from deep inside me when I applied the final polish to a now–strong new shoe. “Show me the join line,” I challenged the owner of a shoe after applying a new half–sole. Often even I could scarcely tell that a mended boot was not brand new.
I loved the feel of the leather. Like my dad, I had a talent for working it. “My dad was good at leatherwork,” I told the Boss. “He made whips.” The Boss smiled and patted my shoulder.
“I’m going to be a bootmaker when I grow up, and make shoes and whips and fancy belts and wallets. I might even own my own shop.”
“You could do all right, too,” the Boss replied, “There’s never any shortage of work for a good leatherworker.”
My father was an innovator too. A Mr Fixit. Like most battlers in the bush, he could improvise to manufacture all kinds of tools and devices, mend mechanical instruments, fix cars and tractors and construct kitchen and cleaning aids. I guess I’d learnt a bit from watching him. I’d always enjoyed fixing things. I’d been given a broken toy boat once that I took carefully apart and examined, then fixed with a spring removed from a biro. I was ecstatic when the fix worked.
While working in the boot shed, I realised I, too, had a talent for inventing. After repairing only a dozen or so boots, I started to envisage ways to modify the tools to make the work easier. Over the years I was there, I crafted several new tools of my own design and made modifications to the equipment. The shed became a place to unleash my creativity and I delighted in the feeling of achievement when I left each day after working with the tools I’d created to proudly rebuild, repaint and repolish to make old boots new.
I had been boot boy for seven months when the winter sport season began. I was finding it hard to focus on my afternoon chore, because sport was still my first love. We played soccer at Ohio, not the Rugby League I had played while at St Patrick’s . Our team was the only one in the district to go through a season undefeated. I played inside right.
Skive… glue… tack… shape… buff. As I worked, one wintery afternoon, my mind wandered to replay the moves that had won us last Saturday’s game. I had missed a kick. It didn’t happen often, and I was furious with myself. It was the boot, though. So awkward and unresponsive. So uncomfortable. If only…
The next afternoon, I took a soccer boot to the shed. I examined its shape and felt the leather, comparing its feel with the different types of rubber and leather scattered on the benches. I pondered the merit of various changes in the shape. That night, I dreamt of crafting a new style of boot --- one that was more flexible and comfortable, more responsive to kick with. In the morning, I confirmed my ambition. I would be an inventor. I would design a new kind of soccer boot.
Every day, as I hammered, pulled, polished and buffed, I imagined myself crafting that new–style boot. I heard the expressions of gratitude of the players as they marched triumphantly from the field after winning their first match wearing it. I dreamed about it constantly when training or playing, and when working in the boot shop. I sketched designs. I tested the malleability of leathers. It became almost an obsession, and for the first time since Simms destroyed my world, I felt confident of my future. I had ambition. I had plans and a way forward --- a life to look forward to.
I had a way to leave my miserable past behind and be someone. An entrepreneur. An inventor. A craftsman. Independent and free.
~~~~
17: NOWHERE TO RUN
SEPTEMBER, 1962
In the spring of my second year at Ohio I befriended a newcomer who talked constantly about home and family. I began, again, to think about my parents and brothers. I wanted to see them again and to know why they had never come for me --- to be part of a normal family and not a ‘home boy’. They were kind to me at Ohio. I loved the Matron and Boss. I called the Matron ‘Mum’, but she wasn’t really. I wanted my own mum and to live in a normal family home and not an institution. I decided to run away with Bluey Jackson and go home.
Bluey claimed to plan and map our escape carefully. We set out very early one Saturday morning, two fit, eager lads who feared almost nothing, but poorly equipped. We had scrounged only a few pieces of fruit and packed a jumper and a single change of underclothing.
With the September sun high in a clear sky, broken only by the occasional filmy streak of white cloud, we climbed grassy hills and crossed cool, trickling creeks. Over one fence, squeeze between the wires of another to avoid snagging on the barb on top. A huge black bull appeared from behind a clump of trees and thundered towards us, head down, menacing horns aimed directly at our chests. We ran to the fence, scrambled over, and fell panting on the grass on the other side. Rolling, laughing, making faces at the bull restrained by the tight wire, bellowing to announce our presence. There was nobody to hear.
We gathered up our scant belongings and walked on. Miles of grassy hills. Miles of sameness.
“Are we going in the right direction? How many days will it take? How far is it, exactly?”
Bluey Jackson had no idea, but he was getting very tired. “Perhaps we should rest a while?” he suggested tentatively.
We shared an apple and sipped from a water flask. We sat a while, resting our
backs against a tall tree, enjoying its shade. The sun was rising higher. Mid–morning? Eleven, perhaps?
Bluey took off a shoe and sock to examine an angry blister on his heel. His feet were hurting real bad.
“How far do you think we’ve walked?”
“No idea,” I replied. “Maybe five miles? How far is it?”
“Not sure. Maybe 10 miles? Maybe 20? Maybe 50? I know it took a couple of hours to drive from there.”
“Do you even know where ‘there’ is?”
“I know it’s north. It was afternoon when I came and the sun was on our right.”
“But you don’t really know the way,” I said, my tone mildly accusing.
“Well… not exactly, but… you know… enough. I can find it. I know I can find it.”
“If your blistered feet will carry you far enough.”
“Do you want to go back?” A hint of hopefulness, relief at my seeming reluctance to go on. Neither of us wanted to be the first to admit defeat.
“Maybe,” I replied. “Do you? I’m not sure this was such a good idea.” “We haven’t exactly given it much of a shot, you know. It’s still early. We haven’t even spent a night out in the open yet. “It will be very cold out here tonight.”
“Yeah, but we’ll get in awful trouble.”
Just then, a car came into view on the lonely dirt road. It announced itself with a huge cloud of dust and the faint roar of an engine, and as it came closer, with the crunching sound of gravel under its wheels. Bluey jumped up immediately, ran to the edge of the road and held up his thumb.
“Come on, Paul. Quickly!” he yelled. “We’ll get a lift.” The farmer pulled over obligingly and leant across to ask where we were headed.
“Guyra,” Bluey replied without hesitation, and to my surprise the farmer nodded and invited us to jump in.
“Lucky coincidence,” the driver said. “Just exactly where I’m going.”
He drove on while Bluey and I grinned at each other in silent delight. We couldn’t believe our luck, but a few miles down the road, without uttering a word, the farmer turned a corner. The engine hummed and the gravel crackled. The trees and cottages I saw through the rear window became increasingly familiar. I bit my lip, recognising the direction we were headed. My gaze shifted from the scenery to focus hard on the farmer’s hairy tanned arms, firmly set shoulders and the oversized work–hardened hands that gripped the wheel. They looked just like my dad’s.
Recalling the savage beating and the punishing deprivation following my last run–away attempt, I ventured a peek at Bluey.
What’s he thinking?
He had turned pale and was gnawing at his fingernails.
The farmer skirted around the back of the Ohio property and came down through a rear paddock to stop about 50 yards from the homestead. My stomach was mincing and churning that apple now, hurling its scant contents about, forcing burning bile up my throat.
The other boys were all lined up in front of the old homestead, waiting. It was Saturday afternoon. At about this time, they usually piled into the Boss’s beat–up Kombi and bumped down the gravel drive and into town to the pictures --- cowboy shoot ’em ups; Smiley and Davey Crockett movies. The Boss gave us all two bob to buy ice creams or chocolate bars or Caramel Columbines at interval. Columbines were my favourite. I would suck them very slowly, making them last and last so that my pockets were still full when the movie was over and I had plenty to suck on through the week. Movie afternoons were the highlight of the week, except in soccer season.
I wonder how long it will be before I’m allowed to go to a Saturday movie again? Or to play soccer.
“There you go, fellas. Home safely,” the farmer said, turning to smile knowingly at us as he stopped a few yards from where the Boss stood. “Out you hop now.”
Bluey and I shot nervous glances at each other. The Boss was standing in front of the Kombi, glaring in our direction. The other boys stood to attention, deathly silent, solemn faced, waiting to watch an execution.
“So, the runaways return, eh?” The Boss waved his thanks to the farmer and the car drove off. Bluey and I stood a few feet from the executioner now, heads bowed, silent.
“Get up to your rooms, both of you. I’ll deal with you two later.” His ominous tone raised a lump in my throat. My belly was somersaulting.
“The rest of you, in the van. Let’s get you to the pictures before you miss any more of the action.”
A dozen lads relaxed and scrambled for positions in the old Kombi. The Boss climbed into the driver seat, as Bluey and I marched into the homestead and up the stairs, solemn–faced and silent.
I sat on my bed, staring at the floor, listening to the silence of the huge empty homestead. No rowdy boys jostling and fighting. No singing or music practice. I wished I was at the pictures eating Columbines or in the boxing shed, pummelling. I wished I was playing soccer or in the boot shop, working.
I wished I was anywhere but here.
My stomach rumbled. I’d only had one apple since breakfast, and I was thirsty. My mouth was dry with fear.
How much longer before the Boss will return? What will he do to me? Woodheap duty? Once was quite enough.
Will he beat me?
I remembered, again, the beating the Mother Superior had handed out when I tried to run away from the orphanage. I remembered the Mother Superior warning me her beatings would seem like a gentle pat compared to what the man at this Boys’ Home would deal out. That man would pull me into line. That man would make me behave. I shivered a little, and tried to think happier thoughts. I’d been here quite a while, and so far I had never known the Boss to beat anyone.
There was one time Matron wanted him to give little Snowy Weston a hiding. Snowy had been giving her cheek and, after several warnings, she lost her temper. It shocked all the boys. The Matron wasn’t known to lose patience often. She stormed into the library and informed the Boss Snowy Weston needed a lesson in manners and asked would he please take him to the office and administer a thrashing. The Boss put down his newspaper, commanded Snowy to follow him, and strode off to the office.
Five of us followed, keeping a safe distance behind and glancing about nervously to be sure we weren’t seen. We huddled in the hallway, just out of sight of the Matron, who stood by the closed office door with her arms folded, frowning. Muffled voices, then a sharp slapping sound. Once, twice, three, four, five, six times. After each came a shrill cry. Then there was the sound of sobbing. We stared at each other, shocked, disbelieving. The Matron gave a satisfied ‘Hrrrrmmmph’, unfolded her arms, and strode off to the kitchen. Snowy emerged, red–eyed, and I scrambled back to the library before the Boss came striding back to his chair to resume his reading, looking quite pleased with himself.
Later that night, Snowy Weston confided that the Boss had instructed him to cry out loudly and to rub his eyes to make them water and turn red. Then he had proceeded to take off his belt and hit the floor at Snowy’s feet six times. He warned him that next time he might not get off so lightly, but he ruffled his hair affectionately as he sent him off to apologise to Matron.
The Boss clipped my ear once. That was an incident I would never forget. I’d never forgiven Thommo, who ought really to have been the one to be chastised.
The kitchen boys packed the school lunches in a big Arnott’s biscuit tin --- one of those lovely old tins with big colourful parrots on the sides and lid. I wished desperately they would pack our lunches in individual packs. We had to line up at lunch and one boy would hold the open tin out and we would reach in and take out two sandwiches each. It marked us as home kids.
Thommo was holding the biscuit tin one day and he was being a smart arse. He kept pulling the tin away when anyone tried to put their hand in. I saw him doing it, so when it came to my turn, I grabbed the side of the tin and pulled it. Thommo lost his balance and rocked a little, struggling to keep a grip on the tin. It wobbled, and a couple of sandwiches spilled out on the ground.
Tha
t afternoon, he squealed to the Boss. We had just come in from school and were in the kitchen, panting after our usual three–mile run home. Matron was handing out fresh scones. Thommo put the empty biscuit tin on the sideboard and turned to the Boss and said, “Some of the boys missed out on lunch today. Wilso’ was stuffin’ about an’ grabbed the tin and some of the sangas fell on the ground”.
The Boss strode across to where I stood, raised his arm, and swiped hard across the back of my left ear. It stung like hell, but it wasn’t the pain that upset me. The Boss was angry with me. I didn’t deserve it, but there was no point in trying to tell the Boss. I would deal with Thommo later. I just stood there smarting and glaring at Thommo, wishing Matron wasn’t there to hear and see, wondering how long it would be before I could redeem myself and how I might do it.
I hadn’t felt like that since the last time Dad punished me. I ached, burnt and seethed with rage when the nuns belted me, but I never once felt remorse for anything I’d done, nor distress that one of them was angry with me. I hated them with every fibre of my body. I didn’t want them to like me. I didn’t want their approval.
This was different. It upset me to think the Boss might disapprove of my behaviour. The thought of disappointing the Matron disturbed me deeply. Their opinion of me mattered, although it surprised me a little to have to acknowledge that. I hated to have the Matron and Boss angry with me. As much as I feared punishment, I would rather suffer a thousand beatings or a year of woodheap duty than suffer the Matron’s disapproval.
The Pencil Case Page 13