5. The Scene Of The Crimes; and Some Of The Guilty
The school building was divided into two classrooms, both of which were well equipped with cupboards and locker space. One corner at the back of the Juniors’ room was the school library, the two parts separated by well used shelving packed with well used books.
The Seniors’ classroom had a partition across the back as well. Behind this was the chemistry lab.
Our dormitory and dining room were in what had originally been Ebenezer Gower’s farm house. This was the oldest building there and had been the subject of extensive renovations as part of the initial school development. Due to other priorities, however, no further work had ever been done on it, meaning it had a certain raffish character about it – something which suited us boys perfectly.
The front two-thirds of the old house was now students’ quarters, with the dining room comprising the remainder. Double-doors connected the two but these were usually kept shut.
The dormitory’s front entrance was a pair of westward-facing double doors, while dining room access was via Gower’s old back door.
Among those early renovations was the addition to the building of verandas all around. On three sides they were left open but the northern side one was closed in and fitted out as a kitchen. An additional door was installed to give us direct access between the dormitory and the southern veranda, as this had been set aside for our recreational use.
Gower’s old outside bathroom was totally beyond redemption and would have proved manifestly inadequate anyway, given the farm’s new purpose. It had been replaced with a multi-cubicle shower and toilet block of light construction adjacent to our recreation veranda, with the three-metres between the two given a concrete walkway. Other buildings constructed during the initial development included the presbytery, some sheds and storerooms and a small cement brick chapel.
The cement for the chapel’s construction was supposedly donated by the then local police sergeant. According to school legend he’d stolen it from a crooked builder he was unable to prosecute due to lack of proof.
There was also something called a school hall. In reality it was just a large corrugated iron roof with a wall at one end (and we shall enlarge upon this later).
As the first term got under way we new boys had to fit ourselves into Gower Abbey’s general routine as best we could. This wasn’t too difficult for me, as in many ways it was similar to the school I’d attended in Brisbane. The lessons and subjects were part of the same curriculum, of course, while outside in the schoolyard the usual well-established pecking order held sway. I soon discovered, however, that in a boarding school situation this pecking-order ranking extended to all aspects of daily life.
My parents had delivered me to the college mid-afternoon of the day prior to the first term commencing and, before departing, helped take my things into the dormitory – the last pupil to arrive. And at first I thought I was lucky; the only unoccupied bed was in a corner. From a tactical point of view this seemed a good position, especially for a new kid. And it was true – well, to a certain extent, anyway.
Whatever the case, I soon discovered why the bed hadn’t been taken. It was due to its proximity to fans and windows, something it lacked on both counts.
Alongside my bed was a three-drawer plywood writing desk and rickety looking chair, their every visible surface ornately engraved with nibs, nails and pocket knives by previous occupants. I noticed too, as I began unpacking my clothes, that this artwork extended a fair way into the drawers.
Thirty-two beds I counted in the dormitory, though just then many of the boys were elsewhere. Those present included some old hands (easily recognized by their age and confident air), three tough looking Seniors, a couple of larrikins, one serious scholar, two boys who seemed to be somewhat unhappy about their fate and a similar number who were obviously delighted to be back.
Predictably, their number included a resident bully, a beefy-looking kid called Peter DeRosario. No one actually told me he was the local boss-cocky, yet there was something about him that suggested he might see himself as being in charge around the place – in the unofficial sense, anyhow.
Perhaps it was his size, or maybe it was his demeanour – though it could have been the confident way he came over and lifted me clear of the floor by the front of my shirt. This seemed a convenient technique, I must say, as it clarified the issue and brought my face up level with his own all in the one economical movement.
“First I’m gunna introduce meself,” he said in what I presumed was his best menacing voice, “…then I’m gunna explain to you just what your position will be around here.
“I ... am Peter De-Rosario … and when I – say – ‘Jump’, you’d better bloody...”
“‘I am Peter DeRosario,’” echoed a mocking voice from the Senior boys’ end, “‘and when I say jump, you’d better...’ —Ar, come on Rosie. We all know you’re big an’ strong.”
“Yeah Rosie,” came another. “You don’t have to keep showin’ us, ay.”
“Rosie?!!” This thug? I wanted to burst out laughing, despite my elevated position and my sleeves cutting into my armpits. In the event I managed to keep my expression neutral and my voice reasonably calm. “You’ve got egg-yolk on your chin,” I said quietly enough for only him to hear.
“Rosie” continued to hold me, glaring into my eyes as his thinking machinery cranked up and worked through the derision’s terms and my totally unexpected comment. Suddenly he became defensive. “Wotcha mean y’ stinkin’ li’l rat!” he snarled, at the same time tightening his grip on my shirt and giving me a threatening shake.
“You must’ve had eggs for lunch, ay, cos there’s some on your chin. If you put me down you can wipe it off and no one will notice.” (...Perhaps they already had, I thought.)
He continued to glare at me for a moment, then dumped me on the floor and shoved me backward onto my bed. “And don’t bloody forget what I told you,” he growled, overlooking the fact he’d told me nothing other than his name, “or y’ll find y’self in serious bloody trouble. ...Understand?”
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose, at the same time deftly removing the egg from his chin. He then gave me his very toughest, most threatening glare and headed off to deal with the unwelcome comments issuing from the far end of the dormitory.
Peter DeRosario – AKA “Rosie”:
“Don’t gimme no bullshit now, I know
youse kids are up to something.”
Following his eloquent little scene I lay back on the bed and relaxed for a while, watching the comings and goings of the various boys as they renewed acquaintances or made strategic alliances with their immediate neighbours, only after a time getting up and packing away the last of my things. Just as I finished I was joined by the two boys whose beds were nearest mine – both of them also newly arrived. Their names were Ashley Saddlehead and Douglas Glass, though in the manner typical of boys our age we didn’t immediately introduce ourselves.
“We saw the local gorilla making himself known to you,” said one. “How’d you go?”
“Ar, not too bad. The others weren’t backin’ ‘im up an’ it was pretty easy to confuse him.”
“Gees, how’d y’ do that?” asked the other.
“Easy. I just changed the subject – like to the egg on his chin.”
“Yeah, but what if it hadn’t worked?”
“It had to work, ay. I couldn’t have been lyin’. How could I have guessed what ‘e had for lunch?”
“Pretty risky but. He might’ve just bashed you up.”
“Nah, look; his mates are givin’ him a raz, this stupid new kid’s too dumb to be scared, and then he finds out he’s wearin’ a big yellow golly all down his chin. —Overload! Overload!”
Actually, my first impression of Rosie was wrong. He was not your usual bully but instead had a bullying streak which occasionally came to the fore. As the position was vacant he simply fil
led the role when it suited him.
On these occasions his responses were fairly typical, yet his personality was far more complex than that of a simple bully. Rosie had been endowed with certain attributes that proved instrumental in his soon being installed as our Prefect, then later as school captain.
By any assessment of seniority, Rosie’s chances of being appointed Prefect would have seemed invisibly small. Yet Father O’Long must have seen that without some direction Rosie would soon have posed a threat to the authority of whomever else he appointed Prefect.
Taking the course of action he did allowed him to nurture Rosie’s latent leadership qualities, while at the same time giving him an opportunity to deflate the boy’s overbearing pompousness – taking the wind out of his sails, as it were, by giving him real and accountable responsibility.
The older boys were outraged. Why should our new Prefect come from the middle ranks, they argued. Father rejected their protests and suggested in an oblique manner that any boy with a dissenting view might like to take up the issue with Rosie.
For a while after that Rosie’s stocks were at rock bottom. And, predictably, we Junior boys sided with the established wisdom. All of us accepted his unofficial authority as Rosie, the toughest kid in the school (...just do as you’re bloody told), but with the authority of an appointed leader he was not accepted as Rosie, the toughest kid in the school (...just do as you’re bloody told, please).
This attitude was quickly reversed, however, following a demonstration of his total commitment to his younger schoolmates’ honour and safety. It happened when two junior boys from Gower Abbey were in town shopping. At some point in their expedition they encountered a couple of older boys from a local school who’d decided to tough them up – without any provocation whatsoever, it was strenuously asserted.
As it happened Rosie was in a nearby shop talking to a girl he’d recently met, and by sheer coincidence he’d stepped out onto the street and rounded the corner just as the rough-stuff was getting started. His sudden appearance seriously compromised the Ingham boys’ plans and before they knew what was happening their heads had developed a number of very hurty parts.
Why he’d reacted in such a way was puzzling, even to Rosie (especially given our general feelings toward him), and when pressed he admitted almost shamefacedly that he supposed it was because they were Gower Abbey kids. Juniors or not, he confessed, he couldn’t just stand by and watch them being beaten up.
As far as we were concerned, however, him rising to the defense of his Junior schoolmates was thoroughly commendable – with every one of us Juniors temporarily overlooking the fact that tomorrow he might well be beating us up, Prefect or not.
Because of the odds against him and the prominent location of the affray, Rosie escaped neither unmarked nor unobserved, and on returning to the school was required to present himself at Father O’Long’s office. As Rosie later explained, it was not a happy encounter.
“...Not just a boy from Gower Abbey,” Father had accused him in icy tones, “nor even a Senior boy from Gower Abbey. Instead we have the singular spectacle of our School Prefect brawling in the street like some gutter urchin! Hell’s teeth, boy! Whatever could have brought you to this? Did they assault you, perhaps?”
“No Father, but...”
“Well did they threaten to assault you?”
“No Father, they...”
“And so they maligned you and you took offence.”
“No Father, I...”
“Then – if I am to understand you correctly – you simply saw them and set about them?”
“Well, yes Father, but...”
“Were you out of your mind boy? What can have possessed you to embark on such a course? Do you think this is the kind of reputation we want our school to acquire? What in the name of fortune could you have been thinking about?” ... etc etc.
The lecture left Rosie quite shaken, though his clear conscience saw him happy to put the affair behind him. He then said a few things to the Junior boys concerned, mostly to do with appreciating his efforts on their behalf – something they did unreservedly. Also, having been unable to do so himself, Rosie urged them when questioned to show his actions in the best possible light – the summons for which we expected at any moment.
Yet the more the affair was discussed and analysed the more anomalous its aftermath seemed, certainly in comparison to other fisticuff episodes I’d heard about. And with eyes wide and mouths agape we new boys sat there listening for the fundamental truths and insights about to be revealed, as these men of the world actually discussed the affair in front of us.
“But gees, Rosie, why dincha explain what they done?” asked Slater, one of the two Juniors involved.
“I never got the flamin’ chance, did I,” replied Rosie, who was now basking in the respectful attention of every boy present – a hitherto unprecedented phenomenon.
“Father never asked me why I got into the fight; he just decided it was my fault and gave me a real ear-bashing about it.”
“And that’s the part which seems kind of odd, when you think about it,” said another boy called Duffy, “because anyone caught fighting around here always gets a dose of ‘the Jack’,” (…the less than affectionate term we used for a stiff leather strap Father sometimes employed to emphasize his extreme displeasure.) “There’s no ifs and buts about it or second chances or anything. It’s just, ‘Were you one of the boys fighting?’ ‘…Yes Father.’ —Bang! ...Everyone knows that.”
(Brendan Duffy was a kid from the valley. Sometimes we called him Brengun but mostly it was just Duffy.)
“But you never got the Jack, didja,” said a classmate of Rosie’s called Robin Hood. “Don’tcha reckon that means something?”
(Robin Hood was one of our more serious scholars. He was never one to say much but was usually sure of himself when he did.)
“I suppose it must,” muttered Rosie. “P’raps it means his arthritis is playin’ up. —I dunno; what do you reckon it means.”
“Well yeah,” Robin Hood continued. “But that’s not what I’m getting at. See what you have to understand is this: Father O’Long already knows what happened, but he has to give you a going over because about forty people will’ve rung him by now to say that his Gower Abbey College Prefect was seen bashing up a coupla Ingham kids in broad daylight. He has to be able to tell ‘em he’s dealt severely with the one responsible, see. —So do you reckon you were dealt with severely?”
“I’ll let you know when I get the flamin’ knot outa me guts,” Rosie grumbled.
“Yeah; but y’ never got the Jack, ay. And the reason for that must be because he knows why you did it.”
“Sometimes I reckon coppin’ his tongue is just as bad as the Jack.”
“Maybe so. But while all you new kids are hangin’ around here with your ears flappin’ let me tell y’se all something. Don’t ever imagine old ‘Further Along’ doesn’t have the full works on what you get up to. He just knows, ay; that’s all. And don’t bother asking how he does it. “Perhaps he just looks in your minds and sees what’s been goin’ on while he’s sittin’ in his office.
“—Hey! And just to prove I’m right I’ll bet you all something else. I’ll betcha Father won’t even get Slater and Winkle round to his office to hear their side of the story. And you know why? …It’s because he – all – ready – knows.”
This masterful summation met with an awed silence as we contemplated the implications of being in proximity to such a powerful figure, while the veracity of Robin Hood’s theory increased exponentially with every minute the two Juniors remained unsummonsed. And by the time Brother SanSistez called us for study period it was cast in concrete – or whatever the substance was that comprised our tiny minds.
Kevin Cassidy The Cassidy Chronicles Page 7