8. Pontoon; and The Art Of House Wiring
On my second excursion, later that the year, we set up camp at the edge of the mountains near a major tributary of the Sherbert River. A sheer waterfall there of some height had bored out an extremely deep plunge-pool at its base. It was known to be free of large boulders and, with only a trickle of water coming over it, was excellent for diving – from as high up the cliff as you dared climb.
On this occasion we were accompanied by a Brother Commodius, from the order of St. Vitus in Brisbane. He was up here on church business and Father had dragooned him into joining our little band.
After lunch on our first afternoon there a group of us Juniors went climbing, directly above the pool. The idea was to get as high as we dared before launching ourselves from the cliff, though after a time we started daring each other to go even higher before jumping. Then someone looked down … and there, in his swimmers, resembling nothing so much as a great white whale entangled in a circus marquee and floundering in the shallows, was Brother Commodius.
The sight of him left us in such a state of hysterics that we were unable to do anything more than throw ourselves en mass from the cliff face – shrieking with laughter and lack of grace all the way down.
As we made our way from the pool Brother questioned us about it. We explained how our hysterics had been brought about by the realisation that there was no way out of the situation other than to jump and how excessively far above the water our dare and counter-dare had taken us. And it wasn’t laughter, we told him. It was mass panic and us simply vocalising of our terror.
I’d no idea what the fellow’s formative years were like, of course, but something seemed to be missing. Whatever the case, he was utterly mystified by our free-wheeling, adventurous and competitive spirit and sadly lacking in any appreciation of what being a Gower Abbey boy actually meant to us.
Later in the afternoon I was unfortunate enough to draw the short straw and had to attend Father O’Long’s table during dinner. My duties that evening were to pour the wine (La Fitte ‘32 or something) and to be generally helpful with the fruit bat droppings prior to serving the Avec Poulet de Gleu – or whatever it was Rosie and Robin Hood had created in the moth-ridden lamplight.
“It’s wonderful how much the lads enjoy these times of rough fellowship and spiritual renewal,” I remember Father telling his ill-at-ease guest, as Brother Commodius prodded their offerings suspiciously with a fork. “It builds their healthy young bodies into strong self-reliant men and gives me the perfect opportunity to inveigle a bit of spiritual grace into their hormone-addled brains.”
Brother had dressed and groomed himself for dinner and his hair oil was attracting a minor swarm of fireflies. From a distance it lent him what appeared to be a softly glittering halo, much to the stunned amazement of the other Juniors there. When I looked across at where my compatriots were eating they had all ceased chewing and were staring at him, mouths agape.
After the evening meal was cleared away Father came over to where we boys were camped to give us one of his talks – as was his habit – instructions in things spiritual, moral or intellectual as the mood took him. And at least once during these retreats he would give us some special tuition in things financial – Blackjack being one of his enduring diversions.
“A game such as this helps teach a boy to concentrate and think clearly,” he would say after calling ‘Pontoons only’. It gives a sense of perspective by which to judge the material, compared with the spiritual.”
And it was true. After an evening around the light baize-covered folding table that Father always seemed to have amongst his things, we boys would bed down for the night and see, with great perspective and clarity, the prospect of enduring what was left of the term without the benefit of our (until then) carefully husbanded pocket money.
Accounts would be settled on returning to Gower Abbey, with our “donations” going to the poor-box in the little chapel. And while none of us dared complain, any looks of anguish brought Father O’Long’s assurance that there were many in the community worse off than ourselves. Contributions such as these – he always added warmly – would help alleviate their suffering.
In a way it was taking it in turns: they had been suffering for a while, now we could suffer for a while.
Sometimes Father would allow selected boys the boon of a small personal credit account. In fact it was this, far more than any bookkeeping lesson in the classroom, that was to acquaint me with such things as principal and interest and the keeping of accurate accounts. He always had the time to help us Junior boys calculate the amount owing, too, something we could never seem to get right. And whenever the error was corrected in our favour he would “encourage” a further small donation from the amount saved.
Aside from parental refinancing there were several ways available by which we could reduce the balance owing. We could help with various school projects, for instance, such as clearing timber and canegrass from the new field, overhauling the tractor or rewiring the chapel and presbytery, for which Father would generally allow us three shillings (30 cents) per day. This doesn’t seem like much but the value of money was different then; in the mid-nineteen fifties three shillings would buy something like eight or ten litres of petrol.
Such opportunities were accepted with enthusiasm, too, as explaining to astonished parents about such large donations to the poor-box could be fraught with embarrassing side issues.
The ensuing fire in the presbytery ceiling was quickly extinguished, but it left Father O’Long with a problem. His advice of a lightning strike was interpreted by the insurance company to be an “Act of God”.
“...An act of God?!!” he raged at them through the phone. “Hell’s Teeth man! If God was at all inclined to act He would have blasted the entire termite-ridden edifice back to Creation years ago!” Father believed he was the more competent judge of such things and steadfastly asserted the strike was a perfectly natural storm-driven electrical discharge.
“Electrical discharge” proved an equally unfortunate choice of words, however. It convinced the insurance people that, instead of just accepting Father O’Long’s claim, they should first send someone out to inspect the wiring in the old building. Being “parties of the first part” meant we too had an interest in the outcome, as a lot more experience in building repairs and carpentry would be on our agenda were the claim to fail.
We hung around Father’s office to await developments.
When the insurance assessor arrived Father O’Long was all ready and primed to descend on him like the wolf on the fold. But the hapless gentleman turned out to be one of our old pupils and when Father recognised this the transformation of radiant delight that came upon his countenance was frightening to see.
Most of the older boys present were panic-stricken enough to bolt, having never before witnessed the phenomenon. Some of the Juniors started to cry and one simply wet his pants and fainted. As for me... Well I just stood there, transfixed, paralysed by the naked and terrible omnipotence manifest in that shining face.
The unwitting fellow was invited to step into Father’s office for a moment (something not entirely unfamiliar to him, I would have presumed). Nothing could have prepared him for whatever followed, though.
He came out shaken and ashen-faced about five minutes later, walked very carefully to his car and drove away ... without ever noticing that one of his tyres had been let down and he’d run over the school cat.
None of this was a surprise to me, though. I had already come to appreciate that, where one’s little indiscretions in life were concerned, Father O’Long’s recall was perfect, and how, when the situation was called for, he would play a move like this with all the natural finesse of a Grand Master.
Some would call it blackmail ... but then some would call diamond a shiny rock.
In time repairs to the presbytery were duly effected – including, for some reason, another complete rewiring of the building. Later Rocky
asked – rather imprudently I thought – if we could have the old wire to sell as scrap metal. The glare Father gave him was of such venomous intensity it would have melted the brain-case of a Treen killer-droid (…had there been one around at the time).
It was quite ineffectual, however, against The Rock’s natural defensive force-field:
His IQ of 47.
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Kevin Cassidy The Cassidy Chronicles Page 12
