I sat on the bed, deeply regretting my foolishness, asking myself how I could have let myself be influenced by Bluey. Bluey was a new kid. He knew nothing about this place. Sure, the chores were onerous, and the rules were strict, but the food was really good. The Boss was never cruel, and we had plenty of time to play.
The Boss taught me to box and to play the cornet. Once, he piled us and all our gear into the Kombi and took us to Pottsville Beach for a camping holiday. There was a festival on in the next town. Smithie and I stood on lifeguard towers and played “Blue Bells of Scotland” in rounds. The Boss and Matron said we were really talented and boasted to everyone how proud they were of us.
In the evenings, I sometimes stood for hours in the pottery shed watching the Matron’s big, strong hands caressing lumps of clay to craft beautiful pots that she sold to buy us Christmas gifts. The big wheel hummed and her fingers pulled and pinched and grooved. Muddy water spewed out to spatter my arms and legs and the shed floor. The rich, earthy, mineral smell filling my nostrils warmed and comforted. Blobs slowly took shape as bowls, plates, urns, vases. As her loving hands shaped the clay, her questions and stories, gentle voice and caring glances shaped my personality, my view of myself and the world. She made me feel loved and worthy.
She would talk to me for hours about my schoolwork and sport and the books I was reading. She told me fascinating stories about her youth in London during the war, working as a cryptographer for the army, decoding secret messages, and about the bombings and the air raids. She told me of the horrors the Boss witnessed on the battlefields, watching whole families mowed down by bombs in the streets of London. She talked of how --- although that hardened him --- it did not prepare him adequately for the shock of seeing an abused, terrified child present with the bruises and welts and broken skin I displayed on my arrival at Ohio. She said the day of my first shower there was the only time she ever saw him cry.
She told me about the day she first visited Ohio and saw how cruelly the boys there were treated, and decided, then and there, the Lord had called her to come and show these boys love and kindness.
Her title was Matron, but the boys mostly called her Mum. I resisted for a time and she never pressured. She was happy to be called ‘Matron’ or ‘Mrs Tuck’ if it was more comfortable. She understood most of us had mums, and she could never replace our mothers in our hearts. But somehow, after a while, it just felt right to call her Mum. She was everything I expected a mother should be.
Bluey didn’t appreciate this place yet. Maybe he never would. He hadn’t experienced the horror of St Patrick’s. He didn’t know what this place was like before the Matron and Boss came here either. Some of the other boys had told me about the minister who ran the place before. They said he connected wires to the penises of bed–wetters and gave them mild electric shocks. They said he forced boys to rake the long gravel driveway with shackles on their wrists and ankles. Some said he forced boys to climb the windmill tower and then he shot at the windmill blades while the boys stood rigid in fear, desperately hoping his aim was good. Those boys had good reason to run away.
Footsteps on the stairs. Not the boss’s heavy tread. Softer. Matron?
She opened the door. She was carrying a tray. A glass of milk, a sandwich, a thick slice of chocolate cake.
No. I’m seeing things. Or is this just to torment me? Perhaps she plans to eat in front of me. Maybe she’ll just set it down and make me look at it. Think about what I missed out on by running away. Maybe...
She set the tray down on the personal table beside my bed and sat down beside me. She touched my shoulder gently.
“Are you all right?” “Yes.”
Anything but all right, but I’m not going to admit it.
“You must be hungry.”
“A little.” I’m starving. But you know that, don’t you. You are enjoying tormenting me. You are punishing me for running away. I don’t blame you. I deserve it!
“Why did you try to run away?” “I don’t know.”
“Don’t you like it here?” “Yes, but...”
“But? But what, Paul? Talk to me, please. No. Here, eat first. Have some
milk. Talk can wait.”
What is this? A trick?
“Come on, Son. Eat up. Don’t tell me you don’t want that cake.”
I reached nervously for the sandwich. She sat silently, watching. First the sandwich, then the milk, then cake. What a treat! The matron was an excellent cook. This was infinitely better than Caramel Columbines. It was fresh baked, still warm, rich and dark, with thick chocolate icing and cream in the middle.
Why would she give me a treat? What comes next?
“Now tell me, please. Why did you want to leave us? Has something happened here? At school maybe?”
“No.” Guilt weighed heavy on my shoulders. I wished I hadn’t gone. Why had I? They were good to me here. She seemed hurt that I had wanted to go, as though it implied she had failed me somehow.
Why should she care? Twenty–two boys. What does one more or less matter?
She was studying my expression, trying to read my thoughts, searching for answers.
“Then why?”
“No reason. Not really. It’s just that, well...”
“Well?” Her voice was still soft and gentle. No threatening undertone. No warnings of punishment.
“I wanted to see my mum and dad and brothers. That’s all. I miss them. I wanted to go home. It’s been such a long time, and when the man came and took me away he told me it would be only for a few weeks, and… I just wanted to go home.”
Despite my best efforts to hide emotion, my voice rose and cracked. I struggled to hide the moist drop that threatened to trickle from the corner of my eye.
Seemingly endless silence while she considered my words. I wished I hadn’t blurted it out now. It sounded dumb. It was dumb to think I could just walk out of here and go home.
I don’t even know where home is.
I stared at the floor. She didn’t seem to be angry with me.
She should be angry --- or maybe she’s leaving it to the Boss to punish me. It seemed odd that she should give me chocolate cake though. Or maybe not! I heard somewhere they gave prisoners on death row the meal of their choice before they took them off to be hanged.
“What will the Boss do to me?” I couldn’t contain it any longer.
“What? Oh!” She laughed softly. “So you’re afraid he’ll punish you, are you?”
“Well, he said --- ”
“Paul, no–one here is going to punish you.” She spoke slowly… lovingly. “We want you to be happy here, but you must understand. I know it’s hard, but you have to stay here. You can’t go home. I know you want to see your family. I would too, after not seeing them for so long. The man who took you away shouldn’t have told you it was only for a while, because it wasn’t. He was cruel to lie to you. It was for ever, Paul, or at least until you are all grown up.”
I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and turned my head away from her.
“You are a ward of the State --- a child in care, so you have to stay here until the Government says you must go somewhere else, or until you are old enough to live alone. It’s a terrible thing and it shouldn’t be this way. No child deserves this, and you are a good boy. You deserve better, but we care about you and we are doing everything we can to give you a good home and make you happy. And if there is anything wrong --- anything making you unhappy --- you must come and tell us, and we’ll try to help. We’ll try to make things better, if we can. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Good. Now rest while I take a tray to Bluey, then come downstairs and help me make dinner. I’m cooking roast lamb. With all the other boys at the pictures, there’s just you and Bluey to help.” A mischievous twinkle lit her eye, huge bosoms heaved with that deep, resonant laugh. She lifted herself off the bed and collected the tray. I swung my feet up and leant my head back, hugging my knees to my chin. I watched her
as she carried the now empty tray downstairs. Then I lay back and gazed at a blistered ceiling.
It’s good here. The food is good. We win most of our Saturday soccer matches. I like working in the boot shed and I like helping Matron make clay pots.
Sometimes I would go with her to the creek banks to dig for clay and then help her wash and sieve it ready for the pottery wheel. She would let me help her fire up the big kiln and load it, and two days later I would help her unload all her beautiful works.
There were books to read in the evenings and a warm fire. No pissy sheets to wash in icy water, no whining charges to pick up after, no squawking penguins lashing me with a leather strap or scrubbing brush.
It’s not a place one should want to run away from. But what happens to me when it’s time to leave here? Where do I go then?
I answered myself with the resolution I had made the day I first entered that boot shed.
I’ll be a bootmaker. I’ll do well. And when I finally go home, Mum and Dad will burst with pride at what I’ve achieved, and I’ll help them to not be poor any more.
~~~~
18: FIFTEEN --- BUT NOT FREE
NOVEMBER, 1963
Fifteen! Freedom!
Birthdays were never that special. They were marked at St Patrick’s only by the singing of the traditional birthday song. At Ohio, there were cakes and singing and good wishes. A birthday often elevated me to a position of greater responsibility and a heavier workload. Otherwise, the only real significance was that it brought me closer to that magical birthday that would finally set me free.
After our 15th birthday, the Government would not provide funds for our keep. We would be sent out to find work or sign on as trade apprentices, hopefully to be offered board and lodgings with a decent family.
I was going to be an apprentice bootmaker. I asked my teachers and the town bootmaker how to go about getting an apprenticeship. I found out where to go to apply, how long the training took and even how much I would be paid in my first year of training. I dreamt, planned and celebrated; my fingers itched in anticipation.
A government worker driving a sleek black sedan came to interview me a few months before my birthday.
“Mr Tuck tells me you are keen to join the army, to go to the Apprentice School like so many of your mates,” he said, making marks on the pages on his clipboard.
I stared at him nervously.
Who told him that? Why? The Boss knew I didn’t want to go in the army. Don’t argue with your elders! You’ll get a clip in the ear and the Boss will tell you to do as you are told.
“That’s very good, Paul. I’m sure you will do very well in the army.”
Do very well? Is that all that matters? Does it matter if I’m happy?
I bit my lip and took a deep breath.
“Actually, sir,” I said, trying hard to sound very respectful, “I want to be a bootmaker.” The man kept writing, seeming not to have heard.
“I repair shoes for the boys here, and I’m very good at it. I like the work.”
“That’s very good, Paul. I’m glad you are making yourself useful here and learning some good skills.” He said it with disinterest, still writing.
“I’d really like to take on an apprenticeship in leatherwork. I’ve found out all about it. I told the Boss that’s what I’d like to do.”
“I’m sure Mr Tuck will do whatever is necessary to ensure your future, Paul. You should take his advice. He is a wise man, and he is genuinely concerned for your welfare. Now, I think I’m finished here. I will submit my report. The army will send your school reports to our office in Sydney, so we’ll be able to keep an eye on your progress. I wish you all the very best.”
Did this fool not hear a word I said? Of course he heard. He just doesn’t care. None of these government workers do. They don’t care that my mother kept our house clean and my mum and dad loved me and looked after me. They don’t care that the nuns beat children mercilessly and called them ‘filthy urchins’ and ‘trash’ and deprived them of decent food. They don’t care about kids. All they care about is pushing pencils to write stupid reports.
The officer extended his hand, and I shook it reluctantly. I was seething, but I didn’t believe what he’d said about the Boss. I was quite confident there had been a simple misunderstanding.
The Boss will put things right. I’ll tell the Boss again that I don’t want to go in the army. That I want to be a bootmaker. I’ll ask the Boss to put in the application for me.
It turned out the Boss had already set the wheels in motion for me to join the army. When I approached him about the bootmaking apprenticeship, he said it was too late.
“Applications have closed, Paul,” he said, “but I’m sure you’ll like the army. You’ll be with Peter and some of your older brothers. Surely that pleases you?
“I know that you don’t really want to join the army, Paul,” he continued, “but I hope someday you’ll understand why it’s the best thing for you. I know you think you are all grown up now, but suddenly let loose at 15, headstrong, excitable young lads who have been subjected to years of rigid discipline so often go looking for adventure and get themselves into trouble. Once you leave here, there is no–one to watch out for you. I want to be sure you’ll be kept safe until you are thoroughly mature. I want you to have the chance of a good career. There is no opportunity for State wards to finish school, but the army will give you two more years of education. You will learn valuable skills, be well paid and have a lot of fun. Balcombe turns boys into fine young men.”
I wanted to protest over having to sign away eight years of my life to be admitted to the Army Apprentice School at Balcombe. I wanted to complain that the discipline there was prison–like --- so much so that judges often gave young offenders the choice of Balcombe or jail. I wanted to tell the Boss I’d had enough of institutions. I wanted my freedom, to follow the career path of my choice, but I knew better than to argue with the Boss. In any case, the Boss made it clear that the decision was made and there was no way it could be changed.
“Most of you will probably sign on again,” the Matron had remarked enthusiastically when the Boss talked of the opportunity he had arranged for the boys and the potential benefits. “After 20 years’ service, you can retire on a pension for life, still young enough to build careers in civvy street with a secure income to back you. Or, if you choose to stay longer, you can rise through the ranks and eventually retire on a generous military pension.”
Their talk tempted some. Several of the boys wanted to be soldiers and musicians, so looked forward eagerly to being old enough to join up. At least that’s the impression they conveyed, although perhaps only to please, or maybe because it seemed a fait accompli. We had been taught that real men wear masks and must never show hurt or disappointment. I didn’t share my distress with my Ohio ‘brothers’.
The Boss’s own son had been keen to join. Peter went off happily to Balcombe a year before I turned 15, following in his father’s footsteps. I liked playing music for a hobby, but I had no desire to do it every day for the rest of my life. There was an opportunity to take on a bootmaking apprenticeship and earn an adequate wage. When I had learnt my trade, I could own my own shop and make lots of money and maybe even employ apprentices. I would invent a new kind of soccer boot. I had an ambition, and joining the army did not fit with my plans, but it was clear, now, that turning 15 didn’t mean freedom after all. I was still legally a minor and a ward of the State until age18.
The irony of the situation was that despite being still a child in care for another three years, I had to be financially self–sufficient. I was expected to survive the last three years of childhood without guidance or security --- without a soul in the world to care what became of me or to offer me comfort. Had I not been sent off to join the army, I would not have even been offered a place to sleep. I had all the responsibilities of an adult, but none of the privileges.
I struggled to go to sleep that night. In my dreams,
I was chased up the riverbank by a fat, ruddy–faced man with pointy ears sticking out and beady little eyes, pouched cheeks and a twisted, sneering smile. He spoke to my father in a whining bleat. He said, “Paul and Jenny are going for a little holiday, but they’ll be coming back home soon”.
The fat man watched, a cruel smirk twisting his lips, as I stood in a barren playground pining for home and asking the older boys what ‘soon’ meant. I kicked the dust and counted off the days, then the weeks, then the months. Finally, I gave up counting and just accepted that Simms had lied. I was never going home.
Now, it seemed I was destined to remain incarcerated through adulthood. I was doomed to forfeit every hope and dream and aspiration I had ever dared to nurture.
I dreamt about Geoffrey Simms often and blamed him entirely, up until that time, for my unhappiness. I swore I’d kill the bastard one day.
Now a man I had dared to love and trust --- a man I sometimes called Dad --- appeared in my dream as a jailer, pushing me into a cell and slamming the door firmly behind me. A soccer boot and a last drifted past my cell. I stretched my arms through the bars, but the Boss appeared, grasped them, and thrust them away beyond my reach. Then he reached up and pulled down a sign that read “P.F. Wilson. Bootmaker”, threw it on the floor, and stamped on it until it splintered and turned to sawdust.
I woke, cold and trembling, in the earliest hours of the morning. The dorm was dark and still. Beyond the dormer window, old man moon was still playing with the stars. A vow replayed in my mind: a vow made as a little boy not yet eight years old. “No matter how they hurt me, I will never, ever cry.”
I had honoured that vow, suffering their beatings and enduring incarceration, torment and deprivation. I had never allowed a tear to fall. But that morning, all the accumulated pain and suffering and fear and frustration of seven long, painful years of imprisonment and separation from family formed itself into a huge ball, capped with the hard ice of betrayal by one I had foolishly allowed myself to trust. And then that ball came thundering down to roll over me and crush me.
The Pencil Case Page 14