The Pencil Case

by Lorraine Cobcroft

  ~~~~

  48: ALL BULLSHIT, DAD

  JULY, 2010

  Ern Stanley, somewhat out of place --- and visibly uncomfortable --- attired in stiff blue jeans and starched chequered shirt, climbed into the passenger seat of the black Roller Ghost, flicked the air conditioner switch and settled back for a long ride.

  Over the past months, he had listened for endless hours while I related parts of my story. We drank vodka and wine. We dined together. Ern took me home and introduced me to his wife and children. We went yachting on the harbour. Ern complimented my resilience, but never patronisingly. He met my brothers and sisters and conversed with them as equals, never condescending. We talked and poured over legal precedents until the small hours of the mornings.

  Ern had contacted me three months earlier, having waited a respectable length of time after I had stormed from his partner’s office. After suffering George Smythe’s affront, I was hesitant to speak with Ern, but a deeply ingrained respect for the rules of courtesy required me to grant a reluctant and resentful hearing.

  “Mr Wilson --- may I call you Paul, please?”

  I didn’t answer, but Ern took my silence as consent.

  “Paul, I have enormous respect for people who survive adversity as successfully as you did and it disturbs me that my partner may have been patronising and unhelpful.”

  He paused. Cold silence. Let him sweat --- if that’s what he’s doing. But

  Ern was remarkably at ease.

  “I’d really like to help you, Paul. But more importantly, I’d like to know your full story.”

  “Thank you for your interest, Mr Stanley,” I said, my voice iced with contempt, “but your partner made my position quite clear. I didn’t let my childhood turn me into a criminal or a hopeless drunk and I’m not insane. And if the ‘effluxion of time’ obstructs even entering a courtroom, then my case is hopeless. It’s been over 50 years. Most of those who might bear witness --- on either side --- are dead. And I survived.”

  Ern was silent for a moment, and for an instant I thought perhaps the line had gone dead.

  “The ‘effluxion of time’ is a challenge, but not insurmountable,” he said at last. “There are very good reasons why you could not instigate an action sooner and the State’s lawyers will have great difficulty arguing otherwise.”

  “If I can stump up thousands to buy a hearing, and I’m prepared to risk paying the exorbitant costs the State’s fat-cat barristers will bill if I lose.”

  “We can come to some arrangement. I won’t mislead you about the risks, but the obstacle presented by timing isn’t insurmountable and I’m willing to go out on a limb to get over that hurdle.”

  “For what? If I need to show --- ”

  “Would you indulge me, please. Let me get to know you, at least, and make my own assessments. There are many forms of damage. You don’t have to have been weak. There is often a high cost to being strong.”

  “There was a high cost, all right! Every day of my life was a confused struggle. Still is. But I’m not sure I want to relive the saga, Mr Stanley. Just how much reminiscing would be needed for you to make your assessment? Would I have to see a shrink? Pretend to be a loony, maybe?”

  Ern laughed. “I’m aware of your distrust of doctors, Paul. And no, pretence is neither necessary nor desirable. A psychologist’s report would be helpful, but it will attest to your strength and resilience, and to the fact that you are, quite clearly, perfectly sane and rational. What I seek is an understanding of the type and extent of pain and suffering you endured, both as a child and as an adult, as a consequence of the crimes committed against you, and any economic loss that resulted. Tell me, what kind of reparation do you think would be appropriate?”

  “An Aborigine, allegedly ‘stolen’ and wrongly committed to foster care when his mother 'forgot’ she had left a sick baby at a hospital six months earlier, was awarded $525,000 compensation. Compared to his claim --- ”

  “That’s not a valid comparison. And there are no real precedents relating to care leavers claiming for abuse.”

  “It’s a valid comparison, Mr Stanley.” “Call me Ern, please.”

  “Thank you. Ern, I am not claiming for abuse, although I suffered it. My claim is that I was stolen... twice. I was taken from a good home with loving parents, disconnected from my roots and denied contact with my family. I lost my identity and subsequently the freedom to choose a career and my destiny. What’s that worth, do you think?”

  “Three major criteria are considered in calculating reparation. First, any quantifiable expense or economic loss is considered, then there must be consideration of pain and suffering. And finally, judges consider negligence or wrongdoing.”

  “There was plenty of pain and suffering, and the damage was quite clearly caused by wrongdoing. Lies, Ern. Blatant, outright lies. And negligence. Economic loss? I spent most of my life in shit jobs that paid peanuts, but we got by. Despite all the hardships and setbacks, we are better off now than many retirees, and I guess that would go heavily against me.”

  “Hmmm,” he said, and was silent for a moment. “I can’t make assessments until I understand your case better. It’s a long, hard road and it will require you to relive your trauma. That can be therapeutic, I’m told, but I’m not the one risking more suffering. It has to be your decision.”

  “And if I agree to proceed, how would we go forward. ”

  Ern chuckled. “My methods are regarded as unconventional, to say the least, but I am thorough. After an initial interview session, to extract the critical information, I’d want to take a trip with you. ”

  “A trip?”

  “Down memory lane, but not just in the psychic sense. I want to get to know Paul Wilson, intimately --- explore the home you came from, meet your family maybe. I want you to take me back to where you were born and let me inside you to experience your thoughts and emotions while you relive your life.”

  “What will that cost me?” I put a heavy emphasis on ‘that’.

  “Nothing initially. If I proceed with your case, we’ll discuss costs. Your case might set the stage for actions by others. It could become a class action. If I don’t proceed, I’ll put the time spent on the trip down to an investment in knowledge and character building. ”

  Nothing? An investment in character building? Please! The guy was born rich. He’s part of the system. What’s his real purpose?

  “Let me sleep on your proposal, and talk to Fran. I’ll get back to you. ” “Please give it serious thought, Paul, and try to trust me. I know that’s a tall order, but I really am sincere. ”

  #

  Water–laden clouds blackened large expanses of grey sky and the wind cried and swept the town pavements clean of their litter the day Ern Stanley gathered up the voluminous legal file he had compiled over a month of journeying with me through time, and we drove through the gates of Dubbo airport. Later, Ern would remark that he came to associate the black day with the black story I told. Over a month of travel, listening and observation, I had forced him to confront, full force, the ugly side of the society that fed him, and it scarred him.

  We had visited St Patrick’s, now a luxury resort. No evidence remained of little children labouring before dawn, washing pissy sheets by hand in freezing water, nor of the dark, dank dormitories where children struggled to tuck bedcovers in with perfect mitred corners, pulling covers tight enough to bounce a coin on. The dusty barren playground was gone, and there was no sign, either, of the worn scrubbing brush that was used to beat the devil out of evil urchins, nor of the sagging timber tank stand on which it had rested.

  We visited the town school where I learnt to read and the bakery --- now run by the grandson of the man who had kindly saved ‘staffies’ for hungry waifs.

  I ran on the football fields where I had triumphed, suffered the humiliation and terror of being caught stealing a pie, then rejoiced in the kindness and understanding of Father Joseph --- one of very few robe–wearing Catholics I
had respected --- even come to love.

  Ohio was now a magnificently restored National-Trust-classified heritage homestead, but the owners kindly allowed me to take Ern on a guided tour of the house and grounds. We stood for an hour in what was once the boot shed. I know Ern cried inside for the little boy who, laboriously welding bits of tyre rubber on to damaged leather soles day after day, had cherished dreams and aspirations that were so cruelly ground to dust.

  We visited the site of the old Army Apprentice School at Balcombe, and walked the five miles to the beach on Mornington Peninsula. We walked through an old romni hut in a mini–camp now converted to a tourist site. I saw the folded linen and blankets stacked in perfect symmetry on the beds; the rows of stretchers lined against dark, windowless walls; and the long, open ablution blocks with not the smallest pretence of screening for privacy. Deep in my stomach, something turned. I was again wrapped in an icy shroud of dread, remembering the indescribable horror of returning --- after the comparative freedom of Ohio --- to total regimentation, constant verbal abuse and bullying, and soul–destroying boredom. I again smelt fear and remembered the unutterable agony of betrayal. I had let down my defences; trusted the Boss; even allowed myself to love him. And the Boss had repaid that love and trust by sending me to be incarcerated again, destroying all ambition and hope, shattering all my dreams.

  I showed Ern the spot on the route to school where a hit on the head with a wooden pencil case started a pain that would never heal.

  We walked over the property on which the shack my family called home once stood. I pointed to the place where the black car had parked the fateful day Simms drove me home, and to the place where my father laboured with the axe, glistening rivulets of sweat trickling over and between deep carved muscles. For a brief instant, I was a little boy again, trembling in expectation of the sting of my father’s belt across my buttocks. But I was spared that brief discomfort, and sentenced, instead, to seven years hard labour in a children’s prison and the loss of my freedom for life.

  “It was just as the Aborigines describe it, ” Ern wrote in his notebook. “He was put in a black car and taken away from everything safe and familiar.”

  “I was feral before they took me,” I said. “I was forced into sterile institutions, to wear uniforms and sleep in barracks, but I belonged in the bush, living off the land and in touch with nature.

  “Aborigines talk of one’s ‘dreaming place’. You may never see it, but you will always long to return to it: the place of your conception; the world you were first born to. My dreaming place was the outback --- the ‘Never Never’ land of blazing suns and blistered red earth, breaking wild horses and herding cattle from waterhole to waterhole and sleeping in a swag under the stars. ”

  Ern had convinced me to see a shrink. I was reluctant, but I consented. “The medical reports say you suffer from post–traumatic stress disorder,”

  Ern said, perusing the report that labelled my condition. It reported alcohol abuse, employment issues, lack of confidence to set and pursue life goals, relationship difficulties, anger–management issues --- including periodic outbursts of violence --- and claimed inability to experience normal feelings and emotions.” My laugh --- when Ern read it out --- was tight with resentment. “Shrinks love labelling people, don’t they. So I’m PTSD, eh, like soldiers who witness horrific brutality in war zones?

  “The smells!” I said then, suddenly conscious of the enormous power they had always held over me. “Men who live through the trauma of war are often haunted forever by memories triggered by the most seemingly insignificant sounds and odours. I used to condemn them for their weakness; regard them with contempt. Later I recognised that contempt as the reaction of a man intensely focused on fighting his own demons, and denying their ability to control him.”

  A family of travellers shot us a curious glance as they pulled cases towards the terminal. My gaze followed them, granting Ern a moment to surreptitiously pull a handkerchief from his pocket, wipe his face and regain his composure.

  “The memory of the smells never left me,” I continued. “The disinfectant and floor polish in dormitories. The kitchens, the ablutions blocks, sweaty young men. They controlled me. The institution controlled me. When I came out, I was lost --- so thoroughly desensitised that I didn’t know how to make a decision. For the rest of my life, the need to make a choice terrified me and I felt cold, nauseous and frightened for ages after. I expected whatever I sought to be snatched away, and I struggled to deny wanting and to prevent anyone from knowing what I longed for or what gave me pleasure.”

  “How frequently do your senses cause you to relive the trauma, Paul?” Ern asked.

  I shrugged. “Not often now. It started to reduce a year or so after I left the army, but every now and then something triggers a bad memory. Honestly, though,” I said, composing myself quickly, “It wasn’t childhood trauma that hurt me most. You relive the pain often, but you do get past it. The trauma ends and even while reliving it you can remind yourself it’s just a memory and it’s over. It was the ongoing persecution that did the real damage --- the withdrawal of freedom and denial of rights long after I ought to have been allowed to control my own destiny. Bureaucratic bungling and unfair dealings that seemed to go on without end, and my own endless confusion. Outwardly, I appeared capable, controlled and content, but I lived in a constant state of turmoil. When I suffered unfairness --- like the wrongful denial of retraining I was legally entitled to --- I hadn’t the knowledge, the perspective or the confidence to fight for my rights.”

  I told Ern how vehemently I had hated the army and everything it stood for.

  “Yet you wanted to go to Vietman?” Ern said. “There must have been a streak of patriotic fervour somewhere deep inside you?”

  “No. I hadn’t the slightest inclination to contribute to the defence of a nation that sacrificed my father over something that was happening in Poland, and rewarded his sacrifice by condemning him and his children to a life of misery. Why would I? I wanted to go for money and adventure. If the truth be told, I suspect that’s what motivates most modern volunteer soldiers, and was the driving force behind the signatures of any Vietnam vets who weren’t conscripted.”

  Ernest Stanley’s cash–register eyes tallied and popped when I told him how Robert Johnson had destroyed Tech Ventures, but I merely shook my head.

  “If you took that matter on, you’d get a visit,” I said sourly. “Robert Johnson was connected. We were told it was incompetence, but then I did some digging of my own, and what I found was no surprise. Amcorp warned us. We should have run a mile when they mentioned Asian Mafia, but we were floating --- hovering somewhere between the top of the clouds and the end of the rainbow, blinded by the gleam of that elusive brass ring.”

  “So much injustice!” Ern said.

  “You know, I never really thought of it that way,” I replied. “At least not in relation to my childhood. I was often angry and depressed, but when I thought about it, it was with resignation. It’s just how it was. My lot. In many respects, I had a fortunate life. I didn’t go to war. I found a good woman to love, and she loves me. I’ve got great kids.

  “It was that damned Apology that changed my attitude. So many benefits I was denied because I was white. And ultimately I was denied acknowledgement. My childhood never happened. I don’t even exist!”

  Ern gawked at me. He’d obviously never thought about it that way. Positive discrimination seemed right and proper to the privileged.

  “So much injustice,” Ern repeated, “but I’ve always seen it as my mission to address injustice. Mine and my fellow professionals. I’d like to believe we enjoy a measure of success in that endeavour.”

  I laughed, a sharp, mocking laugh. “I’m sorry, Ernie. Really. But it’s such a ludicrous concept, isn’t it? You and your fellow professionals are players in a game --- a game in which power and money, not righteousness, determines who wins.”

  “Economic reality is, unfortunately,
a significant factor in determining whether or not justice is achievable, Paul,” he said, “but we strive hard to ensure that the righteous party prevails as often as possible.”

  “Economic reality. Yes. That’s the justification, but the reality is it’s all just a game. And the winners don’t care who they persecute during the play,” I said, aware my tone was caustic.

  “Then we shall play the game to win, my friend,” Ern said brightly.

  “Win?” I snorted. “There is no win. My father sacrificed his life fighting evil and all he achieved was to prove that it’s a lost cause. The corrupt and evil will always prevail. The best men like me can ever hope for is to maybe occasionally put a small dent in their armour.”

  Ern’s little indulgent smile was almost a sneer. “What you can hope for, my friend, is a generous award of compensation --- following a no doubt lengthy and immensely satisfying battle of wits that will give all on the legal teams on both sides a handsome feed.”

  An implacable rattling voice in my head reminded me of the cynical warnings it had issued when I’d acceded to the lawyer’s request. I fought the inclination to feel betrayed, but I was dog-weary and aware that my eyes were accusing. Silence hung between us, heavy and awkward.

  “So where do we go from here?” I asked at last.

  “I go back to my office and compile my notes, and then I prepare and lodge a written claim. And then, my friend, the real journey begins.”

  “Enjoy the adventure, then,” I replied, my tone still acrid. “I’ll try my best to enjoy mine.”

  “What will you do, Paul?” Ern asked.

  “With the money, if it eventuates?”

  “No. With your life. It’s not yet over. You have a great deal of ability. A law suit is a distraction, not an ambition.”

  “That racing system. I’ve finally fine–tuned it enough to implement it with confidence, and I have an idea for another invention I think I just might pursue. It’s taken longer than I planned, but I’ll get rich yet!”