We slept in the same bed, my dark-haired sister and I, not always the best of friends because we were…well, so different. Our double bed was at the end of a long narrow room with a second double bed at the other end, where my two youngest sisters slept. My only claims to personal space were the wall over our bed, where I hung a neon cross I had been given for my birthday, and one side of the wardrobe, which I filled with holy pictures, the bigger the better, and the text of the prayers I recited every day. To be thrown together in the same class felt like an extension of sharing a bed, a forced mixing of our identities. I smarted from the humiliation of being put in the same class as my younger sister, and from not having been consulted. And so, for four long years I submitted to almost total boredom, feeling too old, too tall—in other words, a misfit.
Before we were admitted into our upstairs classroom, we all lined up on the broad covered verandah with its green-painted wooden railing. ‘Lift up your skirts, girls, so we can inspect your bloomers.’ Our bloomers were to guard against possible exposure during netball games or when going up and down stairs, and the hems of our skirts had to be just below knee-height. We wore stockings of thick brown lisle, lace-up shoes, a white blouse with a crisp white round starched collar and the college tie. ‘You know, of course, that you are to wear college gloves and hats whenever you are in uniform off the premises.’ Inspections by nuns and prefects continued until there was complete conformity.
Mother Eleanor was a good teacher, relying heavily on charts that she had made herself. The classroom was festooned with them, giving it an air of accomplishment. She always repeated what she said at least three times, knowing the principles of repetition and summary. But I was bored out of my mind. I stared out of the windows, which started above head height to shut out the world and reached to the ceiling. I wanted to scream, or jump out of those windows. Instead, I kept my frustrations bottled up, clenched my teeth and got easy high marks. High marks were a cinch; I could never be proud of them.
WE WERE FORBIDDEN to enter a non-Catholic church of any kind. Sometimes, rather than waiting in a long queue for a tram, I would walk to the next stop a short distance away, passing a Greek Orthodox church. The church, sandwiched tightly between old buildings serving as offices, was just a building until one afternoon it emanated strange haunting music which stirred something very deep in my soul.
‘Maria,’ I said to my Italian girlfriend, with whom I often sauntered a block or so, ‘let’s go in.’
To my delight she agreed; her wicked spirit of adventure was temporarily stronger than her superstitious fears. It wasn’t her conscience that bothered Maria—church directives and school rules were totally amenable to her and her Italian family and friends (one followed them if they were convenient)—but superstition about the dangers of strange religions was another thing entirely.
Together we pushed open the large doors, stepped into the vestibule and entered another realm. It was a mystical place, where a swaying, chanting congregation was enacting a ritual of high seriousness. The great candlesticks, the larger-than-life book that was being waved about, the embroidered standards, the foreign chant that seemed to stir memories of lifetimes long gone by, and the longing expressed by the music—all of this felt much more potent, passionate and real to me than the devotions in my own church and the silly words of the songs we sang. The grass is always greener on the other side, they say.
This was almost certainly not an ordinary ceremony, but a special one because of the presence of an old patriarch that day. The old man came slowly down the aisle on his way out of the church. He smiled as he went, stopping to speak to members of his congregation. Maria and I stood near the door, ready to bolt if necessary—if, for instance, it became obvious that the devil was trying to subvert us for going into a ‘heathen’ church. The old man advanced closer and finally spotted us. He walked over and grasped both my hands. ‘What is your name?’ he asked earnestly, looking into my eyes. ‘Carla,’ I replied, overcome by his manner, which didn’t seem at all devilish. The old man, whose language was that of his native Greece and who was probably hard of hearing as well, seemed very pleased with my name and held my hands firmly. ‘Ah,’ he said intently, ‘that means good!’
I was astonished. A flood of delicious relief filled my body, flushing my cheeks and eyes. This man had recognised me as good! How was that possible? But it was true, I was good! Otherwise I wouldn’t be feeling so good! That wise holy man had given me his blessing. It seemed he had realised the essential goodness of himself, and therefore that of everyone. He conveyed this to me with his touch and look. It was only temporary, because the pattern of unworthiness was strong in me and would reassert itself.
He greeted Maria cordially, and we left in a daze, not laughing, not snorting, not scoffing, but deeply impressed. I never went to the church again, although I passed it many times. I did not want to risk the doors being locked, or the place being empty of the magic that was there that day.
AT SCHOOL THE learning of facts went on relentlessly. Girls with good marks were invited to learn Latin, so for three years I crammed my head with declensions and whatnots. I hated it so much that my mother came to the convent on my behalf. ‘Is there perhaps something better for her to do?’ Why on earth didn’t I ask to go up to another class? I was too used to submitting, too doubtful now of the worth of my own opinion, and too entrenched in the status quo.
‘Latin,’ enthused Mother Eleanor, ‘is the basis of several languages, and Carla will be able to understand even the English language better if she continues.’ My mother was convinced, and so I plodded on—until the day of the exam in Year 10, when I lost all memory of any Latin that I had ever learned.
The exam proceeded as per normal that day: the desks were separated from one another to prevent cheating; I was seated near the back as usual, on account of being tall. It was a lovely sunny day; through the high windows I could see little clouds drifting in a blue sky. The exam papers were distributed in silence and, after a briefly barked order to begin, we commenced.
I looked at the questions. They made no sense to me whatsoever. Nothing at all came to my brain. I was curiously undisturbed by this and decided to use the time to write a letter to a boy I knew in Holland, to whom everything I recounted would surely be riveting news. I wrote busily, head down, page after page.
The person in charge that day had been called in especially to invigilate. She probably knew no Latin at all. She walked up and down the rows and noticed nothing unusual. I didn’t hand in anything at the end, but this wasn’t noticed. In fact, it was presumed that my paper had been mislaid! I could feel the questioning eyes of Mother Francesca, mistress of Year 10, on the back of my head as I read the result sheets posted on the classroom wall. I had received a score of eighty per cent! No questions were asked of me, and they were not willing to risk being liable. The collusion was a delicious subterfuge and the high mark a tribute to my usual performance in Latin. I was only sorry it could not have been higher.
ONE OF THE greatest delights of my teenage years was the treasure called the library. Within it were the ultimate great escapes into imagination in pre-television Melbourne. There were books by G K Chesterton, favoured by the nuns because he had become a convert to Catholicism. I delighted in all the Father Brown series, conceived well before the age of drugs when even the worst crook had some redeeming grace. Then there was the unforgettable Scarlet Pimpernel and all the Madame Orczy books, which I read twice, and in my last year the wonderfully descriptive works of Thomas Hardy.
The library was a mysterious, dark, oak-panelled room, where the books were mostly kept in cabinets behind locked glass doors, safe from the casual touch. It was run by Mother Xavier, a gentle and refined nun whom I seldom saw because she was the mistress of Year 12. She had a genuine smile, which broke over rather prominent teeth in a sharply intelligent face, the twinkle in her eyes enhanced by the narrow-rimmed glasses she wore. It was the smell of her I liked. Maybe they all used the
same soap, but they smelled different! Mother Xavier carried her relationship with God deep in a heart that had been broken once by a great human love. This made a distinct difference in her, and one for the better.
No Catholic schooling is complete without sex education. I say this with my tongue way up my cheek, because sex wasn’t talked about at school, and yet, even as it was ignored, it was central to Catholicism. The word ‘sex’ was never once mentioned in the classroom; we were educated by example and by omission. There is a saying that silence can speak louder than words, and we were surrounded by women who had renounced sex for the love of God. Where did that put sex and sexual relationships on the scale of values?
But what could those nuns have told us about sex? Their sanctimonious ignorance paraded as wisdom. I was surely not the only one to be utterly bewildered by what they told us.
The most explicit reference to sex I ever heard was by Mother Anthony, who taught us maths. Mother Anthony was a bony, swarthy and sultry woman, most likely of Irish descent, who should have known better. Her knuckly hands were constantly under her apron, fingering her rosary beads. She told an attentive class of girls facing the summer in 1956: ‘Kissing makes you pregnant.’
In the ensuing silence, Mother Anthony surveyed the impact of her sinister statement. We waited for more, and when nothing else came we giggled, squirmed and studied her face in an effort to read what was apparently obvious to her. Mother Anthony had a strange sense of humour, one more suited to cynical adults than young girls. But no, she wasn’t joking this time. Her words created an image in my head of a boy’s semen travelling from his mouth, down my throat, into my womb.
As for Mother Mary Paul, our class mistress in Year 11, all she had to say after her inspection of our ballgowns for the annual ball was that we should cover up our cleavage to prevent boys from falling into temptation. Inadvertently she told us exactly what to do if we ever (wickedly, wantonly and sinfully) did want to lead a boy into temptation. Not that I would have dared!
When I met Keith later that summer, three months before I was due to go into the convent, we developed a quasi-relationship during which he became entranced by the unattainable. Poor Keith. I never allowed him to kiss me on the mouth because of my fear of pregnancy.
APART FROM MY Italian girlfriend Maria, I made friends with Barbara. She wasn’t tall, had bandy legs and well-developed breasts that already drooped by the age of fourteen. She had black curly hair, and a masculine style in the way she threw the ball with her left hand in the fast team game we called tagball. We wrote poems to one another on those languid summer days when blowflies hung about the open windows on the shady verandah called the ambulacrum. Our poems were sweet and passionate and very floral.
‘Come to my place, Barb,’ I’d say, and she did a couple of times, but it was difficult because the trams didn’t run frequently at weekends. I went to her place once, when I insisted. There I met her mother, who disliked sunlight so intensely that she always kept the house as dark as possible, and her ungainly older brother, who immediately fell in love with me. It wasn’t possible to carry on a conversation with Barbara’s mother, who seemed to think that conversing meant being interrogated. Her husband was not around, I gathered. The house, though, was filled with exquisite flowers: madonna and tiger lilies and larkspur. These flowers had been grown by Barb, and the cookies that were served were baked by her too. Barb was a capable girl.
Poor Barb. Her dark eyes would flash with joy to see me, but I grew wary of her strangeness and the way black hairs grew on her hook-nosed face. Like everyone else, I deserted her. Barb never married but became a successful businesswoman, using the stenography skills she learned at college and her intelligence, which made her ever practical and reliable. I met her again many years later, when she made contact with me. I promised to ring her, but never did. It was cruel, but I was unable to accept my own strangeness, never mind hers.
Part of my strangeness came from the fact that my father was the head gardener at the other convent. He felt it was his duty to publicly show gratitude to the nuns at Vaucluse for educating his daughters and he did this by making us his envoys. Liesbet and I had to carry huge bunches of flowers, or plants in large pots, for the Reverend Mother. The trouble was that the Reverend Mother usually only appeared at morning assembly. To catch her meant placing ourselves between the hall and the door through which she would disappear. After the first time, however, she swept past us regally, veil flying, pretending not to see us. We left the plants outside the door, feeling awkward and dejected. The message was that we were no different from the others who dutifully attended her oratories. It was respect for her voice and wishes that was appreciated, not our attempts to show it with plants and flowers.
Feeling strange can be generated by simple things. Like not having a bra when you’re fifteen. As I half skipped, half trod down the wooden stairs from the upstairs classrooms, I could feel my breasts bounce up and down under my singlet, shirt and tunic. Hadn’t my mother noticed I was growing up? Clothes had always been her arena: what was in our wardrobe was always and only Mother’s choice; she made practically everything herself. But not bras. Would I have to ask her for one, or save up for one myself with the pocket money that usually went on dances every week? Tears stung me. I was sure that all the other girls’ mothers knew their daughters had breasts and bought them bras.
Meanwhile, regular periods confirmed that I was on my way to adulthood. Not long into this phase, I couldn’t locate the large safety pins needed to hold the absorbing rag in place inside my pants. I solved the dilemma by wearing an extra pair of bloomers, hoping that the elastic would keep everything in that was supposed to be in. All day, I needed to make little adjustments, and finally it was time to go home.
I made it to the first tram, then headed for the second, but had to wait at the traffic lights. The lights turned green—and so did I, when the rag fell from under my skirt. Before I had time to pick it up, a gentleman—a real gentleman, that is, one trained to respond as quick as a flash to the needs of damsels in distress—bent down to retrieve it before he realised what it was. Somewhere in the middle of this gallant act, subtle signs of shocked recognition shook his frame, but he swung around with panache and offered the blood-streaked thing to me as if he hadn’t seen what it looked like.
I stuffed the stained rag into my schoolbag, thanked him with what I hoped was convincing lack of guile, and swung around to run—but the lights had turned red, and so did I. This incident did absolutely nothing for my advancement into womanhood. I felt ashamed that I had made a gentleman come face to face with the bloody evidence of a woman’s messiness—with what was her business alone, and not his.
My mother finally felt obliged to tell me about the birds and the bees. ‘Come into the parlour,’ she said. Taking me into the parlour for privacy indicated the seriousness of her intent, but all she did was shove a little booklet into my hands and leave the room in a hurry, biting her lower lip. Reproduction it said on the cover, or some similar title. I was so angry at my mother for fobbing me off like this that I threw the booklet into a corner and left it there. And so I never got any the wiser for at least another fourteen years.
I GREW UP to be a not unattractive teenager—tall, with perfectly shaped legs and thick kinking blonde hair, and a marvellously clear complexion—but I didn’t think of myself as good-looking. The worst thing about me was the size of my shoes. I was too old for my class, too skinny, my feet were too big and—wait for it—I felt I had too much space between my legs at the crotch. Apart from those glaring imperfections, I had two black front teeth, a legacy from that day I refused to eat my breakfast. My teeth had slowly blackened as the nerves died and smiling, alas, had become a terrible hazard.
There were other hazards. First was wearing a bathing suit, due to the unwanted gap between my legs, and the varicose veins that had begun to appear after I turned sixteen. Going dancing was a hazard, as the hankies stuffed down the bra my mother finally
had bought me could easily slip. I felt cringingly inadequate. The beauty of my face might make someone look twice (I hoped and imagined this during my long trips on the trams) but as soon as anyone saw my feet, or saw me stand up to tower above most other people on the tram, he would surely sigh and turn away.
Deportment was another thing. Our mother showed us how to walk with a book on our heads, to keep our spines straight. She had been to modelling school and passed on some of her knowledge, like how to exercise our tummy muscles and keep them flat, but she never tried to make us feel good about our femaleness. On schooldays, our tummies were encased in elasticised girdles, the kind that rolled up in the sweaty heat and smelled as if the rubber was melting.
It was during my eighteenth year that romantic feelings overcame me in a new and stormy way. I fell in love with a boarder at the convent who played tennis regularly on the courts next to our house. She had a Russian surname and that alone fired my imagination, but it was also the way she moved and laughed. Without my being able to put it this way then, she represented the self I longed to be: confident, classy, at ease with friends, well off, intelligent and properly educated to be a true woman…not at all straight-laced.
Alana was her name, and she was no snob. She was aware of my attention, because I came out to the courts and waved to her now and then. I was able to see the tennis courts from my bedroom window if I strained my neck, and so I looked out for her. One afternoon I strained so hard that the wooden-framed flyscreen fell out of the window with a crash, which made her turn around and laugh. She knew what was going on.
Alana was kind enough not to ridicule me, and even kinder to invite me for a couple of days’ holiday with her parents at Lakes Entrance. I was beside myself with happiness. In her company I felt at ease because she was not superior or sarcastic. She was only a year older than I, but so much more sophisticated and mature. On parting she gave me a ceramic memento of the beautiful place we had been to, complete with real moss, shells and coral. The ardour I felt for Alana soon matured into a sane appreciation, and after that I waved to her occasionally and that was all.
God's Callgirl Page 10