by Steve Bisley
Prizes
A month before we’re due to sit our School Certificate, we have the annual prize-giving day at school. It is held at the Wyong picture theatre, scene of many of my crimes, the most memorable being my disastrous attempt at a first date with Barbara Dunstan. (I am eternally grateful that she never told a soul what happened on that awful night.)
It’s a Friday and the entire school population is in the theatre, over a thousand of us, plus the teaching staff and the office people and the mothers who run the school canteen and the groundsmen. On stage is the official party, comprising the masters of each teaching department, the headmaster and the deputy head, and the school captains, with the remaining teaching staff seated on either side.
Finally the crowd settles as the Goog walks to centre stage. For this auspicious occasion the school crest is displayed proudly on the front of the lectern, with the motto Tentando Superabis emblazoned across it. I had written it above the urinals in the boys’ toilets at school, because at last I’d discovered that translated from the Latin it means ‘Aim High’. To this day I still think that was a stroke of genius. The Goog leads off with one of his stock openers along the lines of ‘what a great year it’s been for the school’. He wishes the fourth form students success in our upcoming exams and counsels us about using the next month’s study time wisely, as opposed to surfing most days, sneaking into pubs, hitting on chicks and generally goofing off, which most of us are intending to do. Warm applause ensues. Now the boring bit begins, the awards ceremony. We start with achievements in sport.
I’ve seen the running order. There’s about three million golden trophies lined up on several tables beside the stage and it’s going to take roughly a week and a half to get through them, and that’s before we even get to the egghead awards. I sink low in my seat. I’m bored already.
Up they come, one after another, the fit people! The swimmers are first, all those poor bastards who have been getting up before dawn from the moment they were born to swim up and down a bit of blue water.
I remember my first swimming lesson, when I was four. The instructor threw me into the deep end to see how I went. I went straight to the bottom and had to be rescued, coughing and spluttering. It took me years to get my confidence back.
The divers come next. I admire them. They have courage. I tried going off the top of the diving tower at the Wyong pool. I couldn’t do it. I looked down at the small patch of blue and had to retreat back down the ladder. I get vertigo in Cuban heels!
On and on it goes, award after award. Finally the last high-jumper leaves the stage and we break for lunch, only to return an hour later for more of the same. Now it’s the academics’ turn. It’s a geek fest. Up they come one after the other, the pale, bespectacled ones. I don’t dislike them; I just think it’s unnatural to be that focused. In my opinion, if you’re the dux of the school that’s a sign you should get out more. Ah, who am I kidding? I’m just jealous really.
We finally get to the end of the academic awards and the deputy headmaster steps up to the microphone. He is going to announce the final award of the day – huge cheer – the Principal’s Prize for School Service. He coughs lightly into the microphone, to prepare us all for the weighty words to follow. He raves on about the school being like a family and that a school is only as good as each person in it and that the strength of a family is dependent on each member of it (can’t be talking about mine). He talks about the commitment that the recipient of the award possesses and the tireless unrewarded work the person has done and continues to do, blah, blah, blah.
At last he gets there: ‘The 1966 Principal’s Prize for School Service goes to … Stephen Bisley of 4B.’
I remember the sea of faces turning towards me. I remember being totally shocked. I don’t remember how I got from the back of that dusty old theatre, down the stairs and along the aisle to the stage. I remember Mr Egger standing by the lectern, his hand thrust out before him, and the feeling of his hand gripping mine. The teachers are all on their feet clapping and somebody gives me the largest trophy of the day. The sporting heroes are applauding and the geeks are too, and everyone upstairs stands, causing a ripple like a Mexican wave. People are whistling and somebody yells, ‘Good on ya, Bizo!’ I do remember standing in the pool of bright light in a theatre looking out at a sea of smiling faces. I do remember when I first arrived at high school thinking that I needed to find my niche, my place, the thing that would give me purpose, and today I think I’ve found it.
Kristin
‘Krissie’s coming home on Saturday!’
That’s Mum, happy as Larry. Or in her case, as happy as Pauline!
Dad leaves early on Saturday to pick you up from the railway. I can imagine the conversation when you meet at the car.
‘Why do you have to wear black all the time? Anyone would think you were in mourning.’
Little does he know you had a joint before you got on the train in Newcastle and there are two more rolled and ready in the pocket of your duffel coat for when it gets too hard at home. It’s already too hard and you’ve only just got off the train. He’ll challenge you at least three times before you get to the farm; he thinks it’s the only way you’ll know him. You sit quietly in your own private fog.
There’s a kettle on the stove as soon as Mum hears the car; it’s for you, this good stout black tea. She’s gone to the trouble of warming the pot, because it’s you. I’ll be waiting on the verandah for you, and I’ll make you laugh as soon as I can. You bring the world with you when you come, Krissie. You in the black duffel coat and liquorice-lolly legs. There’s cake for Mum and treats from town and something small for Dad.
Your hair is ironed flat to look like Marianne Faithfull. Sometimes you bring recent canvases you’ve done with the oil paint still sticky. I know you’ve got boyfriends, but I’ll always be here for you. Sometimes you bring girlfriends with you, like Flora with the beautiful open face and the broad smile and a duffel coat too. You both could be from Carnaby Street in Swinging London and go to parties with the Beatles. ‘Hey there, Georgy girl.’
Mum claims you at the threshold of the house. The old man fades to the fridge for a beer; it’s early, but who’s counting? I hover nearby, happy to be close.
We walk in the paddocks in the afternoon with Mum. Dad’s not with us; he never is. He sits in his place at the head of the table and hopes you’ll notice, but you’re way too smart to fall for that one. In the paddocks we’re nearly like a family, going nowhere, moving together. We make our way to the creek and sit on the bank under the sighing casuarinas. The sky is in the water today. We swam here when we were small, you and me, where the clay oozed out, just over there, and we caked it in our hair and smeared it over each other and slid through it to the water and washed ourselves clean.
Do you remember running through the low scrub, between the river gums, forgetting that the snakes were there, coiled on the dark ground, to find the riotous Christmas bells waiting to be picked for home?
Mum reminds you of the picnics with the plastic tea set and your dolls arranged around you.
Mum’s having a bit of a weep at the memory and we all go quiet till she honks into the hanky that’s always folded into one of her sleeves.
You cheer her up with stories from your new life. Cheap Asian restaurants you go to, teachers college, protests you’ve been to about Vietnam and the bombing of Cambodia and boyfriends with no money and painting classes with nude men on chairs and then: ‘When are you going to leave Dad and have a life of your own, Mum?’
More hanky work and then she’s up on her feet and moving. ‘Enough of that. Let’s head back for afternoon tea – Dad’ll be ready for a cuppa.’ And she’s off. We catch her in the paddock and you light another joint and offer it to her.
‘I don’t know what all the fuss is about with this marijuana thing,’ she says, and inhales deeply to prove her point.
Oh dear, this is going to get messy. It doesn’t take long for the gear to hit t
he spot and in no time she’s dancing through the clover, stories tumbling out of her along with jokes and bits of songs. Now she’s over there cuddling the cow, who doesn’t seem to mind but probably thinks it’s out of character. We steer her towards the house. Dad’s retreated to the lounge room with the next beer and is dozing in the recliner with something blokey on the box.
Mum’s now charging round the kitchen like a woman possessed and finally manages to get some tea into the cups. I’m worried about the boiling water, but she won’t let me help, though she needs a hand to find the sugar. I’ve just seen her put it in the fridge, so I retrieve it and get the milk out while I’m there. Mum’s hacking into the cake Kris has brought with the bread knife. I’m more worried about the knife than I was about the water and try to intervene, but she refuses my help and hacks on.
By the time she gets the cake to the table, she’s eaten half of it and the remaining pieces look like they’ve been put through a paper shredder. She finally gets into a chair, has two sips of tea and announces she needs to lie down. It takes her a couple of goes to find the bedroom, and when she gets there she crashes face down on the bed.
This is my family. My father’s pissed in the lounge room, my mother’s stoned in the bedroom and my sister’s ripped in the kitchen. I think I’ll make myself a double-strength raspberry cordial just so I feel like I belong.
Sunday afternoon and you’re back in the black and ready to go. Only a short ride to the station with Dad now, and then you’re free. He’s polite on the trip, knowing that he’s lost you and wishing he hadn’t. Mum’s in the kitchen holding the last of the cake you brought in her hands, the salty tears falling to wet the brandied fruit.
On the black ribbon of road that goes all the way to Queensland, Dad drives home to Stillways in an empty car.
Testing times
I took the advice of Mr Egger, the headmaster, and spent the entire month in the lead-up to the exam with my head in a book. Well, a magazine, actually. It was a copy of Playboy, a collector’s edition, and it was crammed full of information about human anatomy and important advice about stress relief and interesting articles designed to keep the reader abreast of world events.
I’m kidding, sort of. I did work, most days, on some subjects, but it all seemed a bit pointless, a bit late. I took my books to the beach, hoping that the effect of the sun, the sea and the waves might focus me. It did, on the sun and the sea and the waves, but not a lot on the differences between Monet and Manet and what drove Van Gogh to remove an ear. I think a Prussian may have started the First World War by shooting someone important – or was it caused by someone important shooting a Prussian? Note to self: check Prussians and war. Other note to self: check difference between Monet and others.
Finally the big day came: the start of the exams. My first was maths and the only reason I turned up was because it was compulsory. It was scheduled to go for two hours and I completed the paper with an hour to spare, due mainly to the fact that I answered fewer than half the questions. I entertained myself in the remaining time by drawing pictures in the spaces left for the answers. I thought the least I could do was provide some entertainment for the person marking my paper. It was safe to assume that I would not be pursuing a career in accountancy.
The following day was science and, although it wasn’t one of my favourites, I enjoyed the test and felt reasonably confident that I had done the best I could.
I had a day’s break between science and art history. I had already submitted my major work in art, a study of two ballerinas painted in acrylics. I had wanted to paint a picture of two nudes in a bath, but we didn’t have a bath at home and I didn’t know two girls who were prepared to pose nude for me, although it wasn’t for lack of asking. I had always loved the work of Edgar Degas, who had painted many studies of ballerinas. I loved the movement in his work and the lightness he was able to capture. I don’t think my painting was in any way comparable but it was my way of honouring his memory and I was pleased with it.
So on and on it went for the next two weeks. I did get a question in the history exam asking: What were the events which led to the Outbreak of War in Europe at the end of July, 1914? Thanks to a bit of last-minute swotting I was able to respond: The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, on 28th June 1914, set in train a series of diplomatic events that led inexorably to the outbreak of the First World War. So much for the Prussians!
Then, after my last exam, geography, it was all over. Finished.
I remember milling about outside the school hall where the exams had been held with a lot of other kids who, like me, were leaving this year. Everyone seemed numbed by the finality of the day. Eleven years of our lives had been taken up at school. Now the world waited to see what we were worth.
The formal
A week after our exams and I’m in Brooksey’s car heading back to school for the last time ever. It’s the night of our end-of-year formal. Micky Fisher’s in the back seat and we’re picking up someone else on the way. I hope it’s not Doddsie, the serial wanker; I’m a bit over all that now – I’ve given it up while I’ve still got my eyesight.
We look like three FBI agents in our dark suits and, although I can’t vouch for myself, I think the others look cool and suddenly older. My suit’s a hand-me-down from a cousin who works at the post office. Mum’s had to take the pants in a bit and the jacket’s a bit long in the sleeves, but it makes me feel capable, like I could be depended on in a crisis, something life-threatening, something urgent and dire.
Mum got a bit emotional when the guys arrived to pick me up. She’s quick to cry at the best of times, so it could be anything that set her off. Dad was on his best behaviour, which is a long way from his worst behaviour and didn’t even tell me what time to be home. He said, ‘Take care,’ and went quiet. Mum couldn’t help herself and straightened everyone’s tie again and had another weep, so we headed off before she got too gushy.
We’re on the highway, desperate and dateless and heading south, three G-Men on a mission.
‘Have a crack at this,’ says Fish from the back, and passes a bottle of Scotch over the seat.
‘Started early, did ya?’ asks Brooksey, seeing it’s already half empty.
‘Nah’, says Fish, ‘it’s the old man’s. He won’t miss it.’
He’s probably right. Fish lives in a rundown joint in Wyong with his father. His old man is a notorious drunk; he’s been barred from every pub in town. He’s not an angry drunk, just an opinionated one, and will argue till the cows come home, so they kick him out every now and then just for a bit of peace and quiet. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him sober and I don’t think he’s ever had a job. Fish played footy with the Munmorah Red Devils for a while and we’d often go round to his joint early on a Saturday morning to pick him up for the game. He’d always be waiting out the front of his house for us, sitting on the kerb. He didn’t ever want anyone to see inside his house, because of the state of it.
His mum had left years ago, just couldn’t take it anymore. No one blamed her; she’d just had enough. Fish didn’t have a choice, he was only eight when she left and he’s been looking after his dad, or trying to, ever since. He has a paper round before school and he works in the local pharmacy on Saturday mornings, delivering prescriptions to old people who aren’t mobile. With the money he’s able to scrape together and whatever his old man gets from welfare and doesn’t drink away, they’re able to survive.
The welfare department took Fish away from his dad soon after his mum left and put him in foster care, but Fish was having none of it and ran away from everywhere he was placed and went back home to his dad. He ran away so many times that in the end they just gave up and let him stay at home. The truly amazing thing is that in all the time I’ve known him, I’ve never heard him say a bad thing about his dad, not once. He is always neat and tidy at school, is one of the brightest students in the place, and he’s funny to boot.
I�
�d seen his old man in the Royal Hotel, one Saturday morning when I went in there looking for a mate who had a job picking up glasses. Fish’s old man had a special place at the end of the bar next to the door to the men’s toilet so he didn’t have far to go when the urge took him and it took him often. I had heard about his daily drinking routine from Fish, who used to talk about it like it was completely normal and this day I got to see a little of it first hand.
He would be waiting on the footpath for the pub to open at ten. His skin was the colour of pale silk with the tracks of blue veins running just below the surface. His face was ashen and his eyes were sunken and cloudy.
Fish used to try and get some food into him before he left for school in the mornings but he hardly ate, ever.
The moment the pub doors opened, he was in and perched on his bar stool by two minutes past; you could set your watch by him. The barman would have the first white wine of the day poured, with a drinking straw already in the glass. In the mornings Fish’s old man shook so violently he couldn’t hold the glass. So the barman would hold the straw for him while he drank. It took six glasses for the tremors to settle to the point where he could hold the glass unassisted and then he was set for the day. He sat there all day arguing with anyone who was silly enough to challenge him. He was a font of knowledge from sport to politics and what he didn’t know he’d make up, just to prolong whatever discussion he was having at the time. The only time he got off the stool was to relieve himself.