The Rest Is Silence

by Kevin Scully

  Sometimes a nun would be going to or from the convent at the start, or end, of a retreat. Other, older women would be sent on respite for or from the houses they shared with other members of the order. There was also the occasional corpse in a coffin to go to the train at Woy Woy. Or he would collect one for burial at one of the hamlets into which he called.

  Then there was the human cargo which was very much alive—a child on his way to join the ranks of the unwanted, unplanned or unloved at the orphanage. As these children reached their teens, they would need to be relocated. Some went into trades locally, though this was a limited opportunity, or were sent north to Newcastle or south to Sydney for placement in positions considered commensurate with their academic or industrial prowess. A number popped up on ferries in Sydney, having honed their skills on Brisbane Water. A lot got apprenticeships with the railways or the steelworks. A few went to university. A couple achieved fame in the performing arts, graduates of the orphanage Wonder Band. A surprising number opted to enter the religious life. How many of them stayed the course, I don’t know.

  I have not seen the institution since the funeral of my parents, which took place in St Paul’s Church of England, some distance from the orphanage. Both mum and dad were killed in a road accident in my father’s first car. I had moved to Sydney by then. As soon as I had settled up their estate, I decided to quit the country.

  EDITOR’S NOTE

  Reading of Bensville was a shock. There was nothing in Columba’s voice that betrayed his Australian upbringing to me, though a number of residents at Care Home told me they had picked it up. Eastenders have a good ear for this—they have often commented on a tinge of a twang in my tones.

  Bensville is a waterside hamlet—a tiny place at the time Columba is referring to—on the Central Coast of New South Wales. I had come to know it fairly well. My parents had bought a holiday house there in the early 1970s. It was a fantastically beautiful place, with the colours and dangers Columba later describes.

  The fibro cottage, Karinya, was built with an obstinate inversion. Its front door faced away from the panoramic views to be had from the glassed in back verandah which, in denial of the atmospherics, had windows that could not be opened onto the breeze off the water. It was the resort of the family holiday, the weekend, the half-term break. It also brought attendant duties, such as mowing the grass which grew at greater speeds than that at our Sydney home in suburban Campsie, no doubt helped by the seepage from a septic tank.

  It was later the venue of many surfing weekends. A couple of cars and vans, with boards strapped to the roof, full of hard drinking late-teenagers, would wind their way up the old roads towards Gosford. The toll was to be avoided at all costs. We would head towards the waves on the coast, a favourite but sometimes dangerous climb up Wards Hill Road from Empire Bay, along the flat towards Maitland Bay, before dropping down to the idyllic Macmasters Beach, with its waterfront car park and café.

  Over the years the natural beauty diminished, as it will by the incursions of any sustained building and development that will ultimately destroy the flora and fauna that make a landscape distinctive. I would return to visit my parents every couple of years and more of the beauty was replaced by costly but aesthetically questionable edifices.

  On one visit my mother Norma warned me I would be unhappy, only to put me in a car—we could have walked—and drove me around the streets of a clear-felled concreted wasteland where exotic plants popped up in isolation. McMansions with long sweeping drives terminated in triple garages. It was all Robin Boyd’s Australian Ugliness writ in hard standing.

  All attempts to draw Columba to discuss the village were fruitless. I had learned that he was polite but circumspect. I wanted to question him as so much of the place I recognised from his writings: the tracks, the boatsheds, the wharf, the colourful and at times dangerous wildlife. There were facts I wanted to clarify. (Facts hound me. Perhaps it is my journalistic background: my wife says I won’t even let someone tell a humorous anecdote uninterrupted if there is an error.)

  But, as with much of his disconnected writings, I have had to let it go. For Columba could well have used the words ascribed to Pontius Pilate, quod scripsi, scripsi.1 Indeed, I have probably written too much of my own experience here. Columba’s story, however fragmentary, is much more interesting.

  1. ‘What I have written, I have written’—John 19:21.

  Growing Pains

  It seemed that everyone in Bensville was retired. That could not have been so. My father worked the ferry. My mother wrote romantic stories for the Women’s Weekly and, under a pseudonym for its competitor, Woman’s Day. Her published efforts made their way to our house through my father’s work. I was not encouraged to read them.

  ‘There is stuff worth reading. And stuff that is done to put food on the table. You will learn to tell the difference,’ she once said as she took the Women’s Weekly from my hands.

  It was an adult world and I was the only boy. There was one other child, Marian. Her parents must have been about the same age as mine. Her presence meant we were destined to be friends. Time together was a mixture of comfort and tension, all that two strong personalities could foment. One repeated compromise to difference was skipping. One end of the rope would be tied to the gatepost, the other person—the one not ‘in’—would turn the rope and chant the rhyme:

  Cinderella

  dressed in yella

  went downstairs

  to meet her fella.

  On the way

  her panties busted;

  how many people

  were disgusted?

  Peppers, those jealousy-fed speeding circles of rope, with rapid counting to accompany them, ‘One, two, three, four, five…’ I learned many girls’ games, though in our isolation they did not feel especially feminine. They were just part of the landscape we inhabited.

  In the same way our ‘adventures’ did not feel especially masculine or feminine—the shoreline foraging for oysters, our secretive explorations to the uncharted territory beyond the boatshed, the imaginative narratives that accompanied them, the cubby houses built under the canopy of lantana. It was in one such hidey-hole that I got my first kiss and, never to be repeated as little ones, a glimpse of her private parts in return for an exhibition of my own.

  We would go to Woy Woy each morning on the ferry where, by virtue of our differing ages, gender and, more importantly, denomination, we attended different schools. She would go off the school run by the same order of nuns who lived across the bay and ran the orphanage. I would go to the public school.1

  As adolescence took hold—it became apparent to each and the other—our adventures took a new course. Being the solitary representative of the opposite sex in the same age group meant there was no distraction or discussion outside school. My journey across the water continued, though the destination changed—Woy Woy High. Marian would walk up Kallaroo Road to Empire Bay Road, to collect the semi-trailer-like bus that took her to the Catholic girls’ school in East Gosford. On return, homework and parents permitting, we would seek each other out.

  The colours of the waterside hamlet faded in the glare of the luminosity of our changing bodies. So much had sparkled until then. The mix of yellow, green, blue and white of the budgerigars; the alternative presentations of the rosella—the entire prism or the strident red and blue; the soft grey and pink of a galah; the various tans and beige of the kookaburra; the yellow flash on the alert head of a cockatoo.

  Even dangers were colour coded. First up were the snakes: red on the belly of the black snake (and its mistakenly attributed name to its cousin with the yellow underside); the dark brown, the most vicious of all; and the black and gold of the spectacular tiger. Some of the rainbow made it to spiders too: the giant Nephila and, lurking danger to all hurriedly putting their bums on the seat of an outside toilet, the redback.

  We were constantly warned to be on our guard for these and other hidden dangers—ticks, poisonous plants,
jagged rocks and dangerous tree roots—but familiarity breeds complacency if not contempt.

  Besides, we were changing. As hair sprouted on my upper and nether parts, my voice broke. Marian shot up in height as her chest filled outwards. Alone and together we were more aware of ourselves and each other. The colours around us and their attendant dangers faded.

  New ones arose. My centre of consciousness moved south from my brain to my groin. Confusing pleasures came with unsought erections. Stroking gave me satisfaction but the very existence of a taut member gave me a self-conscious pride. Alone, I would strip, and bend a school ruler along the side of my member, carefully noting its length and width, and being bewilderingly proud of its sturdiness. I would hang shirts and other clothing, even towels, from it. I was absorbed by the tension that nothing, short of stimulation to ejaculation, would release.

  Marian and my hitherto innocent excursions became less explorations of place than of person. Boat trips went from being from fishing expeditions to quests for an isolated spot where we would tie up the boat and go ashore. Our incursions into each other became increasingly adventurous. Gentle external stimulation was overtaken by lifting up of cloth, testing of elastic, unclasping of fixtures to grasp, grab and poke what our fingers encountered. Once I heard my own gasp as I found my way to her pubic area, gently explored a moisture that pushed my hardness beyond control. Hours later I lay on board the drifting dinghy, luxuriating in the smell of Marian on my unwashed hand.

  These journeys reached their apogee one evening. Having informed our parents that we were going out to look out at the water from the wharf, we allowed ourselves to be seen by some of the men with their fishing lines adrift in the dying light. We struck off into the track, skipped into the bush and imagined ourselves hidden and out of earshot behind a boatshed. Astonishment took hold of my mind as Marian unbuttoned my trousers, slipped down my underpants, knelt on the ground, and then without a hint of overture, placed her mouth around my penis.

  Years of experience, shame and prayer have not erased the amazement as Marian tightened her teeth around me, causing an instant eruption, and her seeming wide eyed wonder as she gazed up at me, taking everything from my pulsating frame. She held me till I was flaccid then, without a word, stood up, put a finger to her lips and walked back towards Kallaroo Road, leaving me to recover.

  The next day I saw Marian’s mother coming down the path to our house. Always a voluble visitor, this time she was taciturn. I was despatched by my mother to do some gardening while the two women had a prolonged chat over a proverbial cup of tea. Chores in the shed were similarly found for me when my father later strode up from the wharf and went into the house.

  My father’s interview with me was circumspect. I was becoming a man. Some things were difficult. The word ‘gentleman’ meant we should behave properly. A gentleman knew the meaning of restraint. I returned a vacant look. ‘Look, son,’ Dad snapped. ‘Marian is out of bounds from now on. You’re both venturing into dangerous waters.’

  A couple of weeks later Marian’s family moved to the peninsula. I saw her on her way home from school until the move, but that was it. We never found ourselves alone together again. So there was no opportunity to mention our exploratory past.

  When they left I found myself drifting around the village—to the wharf, to the shop, into the bush, to the newly emptied house, and to the scene of the extraordinary event that somehow led to the curtailment of our relationship.

  It is a long time ago and much has happened in both our lives. I ponder, as I am sure many do in similar circumstances, if she has ever given any thought to that amazing evening that stymied our contact and friendship. I have never been able to erase that locking of our eyes as I released myself into her mouth. I had no words at the time, and have found none since.

  1. Columba’s reference to a public school is essentially an Australian one, i.e. in the state system. It is not to be confused with the elitist English institutions that falsely parade under the same name.

  The Novice Master was very keen on the Salve Regina. He seemed particularly moved when we would get to the bit about the ‘vale of tears’. The Prior, in one of his occasional addresses to the novices, happened to say that he felt some of our faith—and the prayers we knew and loved—erred too much on the side of pain and failure. I looked over towards the Novice Master but his face was impassive. At the time this view from a senior brother seemed reassuringly sensible. It has stayed with me. So much joy; so much to be thankful for.

  Feed my Sheep

  I don’t where this came from. Or why. But I was watching something on the television with Fr Abbot—he likes to watch anything, as do many of our fellow residents here at Care Home—when an old episode of One Man and His Dog came on. This had passed me by. Not surprisingly, I suppose, as I was never really much of a television viewer. Less so when I joined community.

  Yet watching the man (Welsh) and his dog (a Border Collie) and his sheep (Border Leicester) led to a cascade of memories. My parents had bought an Arthur Mee’s Encyclopaedia as a present for my birthday—I can’t remember which one, but obviously I was able to read it unassisted. Reading was part and parcel of life at home. My mother’s writing absorbed her. Every now and then I would be shooed out of the house so she could finish a story or meet a deadline.

  My father brought in books from the library at Woy Woy, or those sent by magazines for my mother to review. There was a stream into the house of magazines, from the highbrow to those from which my mother earned a living. The linen press, kitchen cabinets, the bathroom cupboard—at least one shelf of these would be given over to literature. It was some years before my father yielded to the inevitable and built my mother some bookshelves for her library. It was only then order could first be established and then maintained. Woe betide either of the males in the house if they disrupted her library. Pride of place, of course, went to three books: the dictionary, the complete works of Shakespeare and the Pears Cyclopaedia. This latter work was replaced every year, the superseded volume being relegated to its chronological place on the second shelf. It was on the bottom shelf of this bookcase that Arthur Mee was stored.

  We had not yet run to a television. Even when we did we needed an aerial that was nearly twenty foot high. The ten volumes of the encyclopaedia were just the ticket for my father, who would reminisce about life in the Old Country, and for me, who would absorb (and rapidly forget) many alarming and interesting facts. Dad would often take a volume off to bed to read. Of course, Mr Mee had included nothing that would disturb or upset a young mind. But he did provide in his ten volumes a treasure trove of knowledge, oddities and history cast in the Old Imperial Ways.

  A couple of pages of photographs of sheep caught my eye. It was through this I became something of an unchallenged expert on breeds I rarely got to see. There were not many sheep in the Bensville area—those areas of bush that had been cleared were mostly given over to dairy farming—and the ones I did encounter were invariably were Australian Merinos, believed to be the result of genetic modification, known more innocently as cross-breeding, of John Macarthur. Though revisionists have suggested that this is to do down the efforts of his wife, Elizabeth. The history (re-)writers say that he was so busy in the political life of the early colony—and later with his own delusions, by reason of insanity—that he did not really have time to supervise animal husbandry. Like many women in many fields, Elizabeth’s efforts were apportioned to her spouse and thus her claim to fame was robbed of her. Even to the point of his being pictured with a sheep on the first two dollar note. (I don’t recall the Macarthurs having a listing in Arthur Mee’s Encyclopaedia.)

  Wanting a more robust animal for the Australian conditions, and one that would produce a good clip, using rams from Spain, along with ewes from various other breeds, a new strain of Merino was developed. Fleeces from New South Wales found their place in the wool market. I came to learn—another mystery of accumulated trivia that clogs my mind—that there a
re a number of varieties that parade under the title Australian Merino. (I did not get that from Arthur Mee.)

  But back in the home country there were plenty of breeds growing wool. And it was these which were photographed and displayed in Arthur Mee’s Encyclopaedia. As I said, I would pore over the pictures. Then, as a test, I would cover the caption line and set out to identify the animals: Beltex, Cheviot, Corriedale, Dorper, Romney Marsh, Hampshire Down.

  When I started travelling around Britain, I found myself calling out breeds of sheep as I saw them, many for the first time, not on the page, but in the field. This was a grown-up-child’s car game and it amused and perplexed my travelling companions. Donna was particularly entertained by this. I wonder if, among the bad memories I no doubt provided her with, she ever recalled this lighter aspect of our relationship.

  When I came to St Candida’s, I likewise amused myself on early exploratory walks, recalling this specialist knowledge, though most of the animals disappointingly turned out not to be Dorset Down but Suffolk.

  Fr Scully, in one of his attempts to animate a particularly somnolent Eucharistic congregation, in a homily on the Good Shepherd, once told the story of an organist who, as the coffin was carried out of the church at the end of the funeral of a local butcher, played Bach’s Sheep May Safely Graze. No breed was mentioned.