The prefects do a lot more than initiations. They run rackets – they’re standover men who expect and take bribes. Cash, cigarettes and food are all legal tender if you want to avoid detention or six cuts of the cane for dirty shoes, crooked ties, hair parted on the wrong side, hair not parted, hat worn at the wrong angle and the list goes on. Thank God for the cakes Mum sends me in a food parcel every week because my hard-earned money would’ve been fast disappearing.
The night after my initiation, I dreamt that I was trapped underwater in a deep, dark well. I could see the wall of the well but couldn’t touch it. I kicked hard, trying to swim to the surface, but it was too far. I couldn’t reach it. I was drowning – it was terrifying. I screamed, waking up Brother Sebastian and the other boys in my dormitory, earning myself a Saturday detention.
AMDG
CHAPTER 11
The only seat left in English was in the front row. I’d never sat up the front before and I wasn’t keen to start. As soon as I sat down, I came face to face with Brother Thomas, who’s about the same height as Noni. His name was written in large, perfectly formed letters on the blackboard, and there was an amazing coloured chalk drawing of Jesus in the top left-hand corner of the board, just below the letters AMDG.
‘In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, let us pray.’ Brother Thomas said, bowing his head, and I did the same. Two minutes seemed like two hours. ‘In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, Amen.’
‘Amen,’ we all mumbled.
‘Open your exercise books and write AMDG on the top line.’ Brother Thomas walked around, checking that everyone had written it properly. ‘Does anybody know what AMDG stands for?’ Not a hand went up, but there were a few grins and knowing looks. ‘It’s not “Auntie Mary’s Dead Goat”, if that’s what some of you are thinking.’ There was lots of snickering. Brother Thomas grabbed his cane and whacked it on my desk. ‘Stop that!’ he yelled, glaring at me and the other culprits. I felt a bit of his spit land on my right cheek. As he pointed his cane and hit each of the four letters on the blackboard, he said: ‘Ad maiorem Dei gloriam. You should all know what this means.’
It’s supposed to be an English class, I thought. I don’t know why, but I put up my hand.
‘Yes, Master Riley,’ he said, smiling encouragement.
I wondered how he knew my name – I’d only been at the school two days. ‘It’s Latin, sir.’
‘Good observation. Do you know what the English translation is?’
‘Something to do with God, sir?’ It was a gift.
‘It means “For the greater glory of God”, which, as all of you should know, is our school motto. You must write AMDG at the top of every page in your exercise books to remind you that your schoolwork is dedicated to the glory of God.’
When I wrote AMDG on the top line of the next page, I had to say ‘Auntie Mary’s Dead Goat’ to myself so that I got the letters in the right order.
‘You’ll all need your dictionaries for the next task. I want you to look up your full name – your Christian name and your surname – in your dictionary. When you’ve found both names, close your dictionary and sit up straight with your arms folded.’ Brother Thomas sat down at his desk, opened up a book called Great Expectations and started reading it.
I opened my dictionary and looked in the Js for Joe. It wasn’t there. I looked down the page for ‘Joseph’ – not there either. Then I looked up ‘Riley’ and found ‘rile’. Is that close enough? I thought. I put up my hand. Two other boys had their hands up as well. Brother Thomas must’ve been up to a really exciting part in his book because he kept reading. I coughed to try and get his attention – it did the trick. He looked up and pointed to the boy with his hand up next to me.
‘Your name?’
‘Maurice MacDonald, sir, but everyone calls me Mac.’
‘We don’t use nicknames at St Bartholomew’s. Yes, Master MacDonald?’
‘There are no names or proper nouns in an English dictionary, sir.’
‘Well done!’
‘I’ve checked twice but I can’t find “superantidisestablishmentarianism”. It’s the longest word in the world. We need bigger dictionaries, sir.’
‘Did I ask you to look up the longest word in the world?’ Brother Thomas grabbed Mac’s copy of the Concise Oxford Dictionary and hit him on the back of the head with it.
Doesn’t pay to be too smart at St Bart’s.
‘No, sir.’
‘That, Master MacDonald, was a rhetorical question. Do you know what a rhetorical question is?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then you’re not as smart as you think you are.’ Brother Thomas wrote ‘rhetorical’ on the blackboard. ‘Everyone, look up “rhetorical” in your dictionaries. Raise your hand as soon as you’ve found it.’ Brother Thomas sat back down and kept reading his book. I was still going through the Rs when the bell sounded for the end of the first period.
At this rate, my vocabulary is going to improve rapidly, I thought.
RULES
CHAPTER 12
There are so many rules to learn at St Bart’s: dorm rules, chapel rules, assembly rules, dining hall rules, uniform rules, classroom rules, house rules, library rules. On day three, I made it through most of the morning drill, but ‘most’ isn’t good enough. I got the cane for not folding my pyjamas and not making my bed to dorm standard, and then scored extra kitchen duty for being late to rostered wiping up.
Jumping on beds is forbidden (dorm rule 23), but great fun. At the end of the first week, I could run across the twenty beds in my dorm in under ten seconds, a new dorm record.
I’m not used to wearing a school uniform every day. At Glebe Public, no-one got the cane or detention for wearing the wrong colour shirt, shorts or socks. Ties were optional and blazers were unheard of. At St Bart’s, I even get the cane when my socks aren’t pulled up and folded over so their red, blue and gold stripes can be seen. There are also exceptions to some of the rules. Blazers must be worn at all times but taken off in class. We must take our hats off before entering the chapel, library, classrooms and dining hall, but keep them on in Assembly, except when saying prayers and singing hymns. And I keep forgetting to doff my hat when walking past prefects, teachers and anyone else worthy of a doff. It gets me an afternoon detention every time. At this rate, I’ll be spending more time in detention than in class.
Mealtimes aren’t much fun either. It’s not just the lousy food, but the strict rules on how to eat it. If I even think about using my fingers, the cane comes crashing down on them out of nowhere. We’re supposed to cut everything up into small pieces and chew each bit at least six times before swallowing, even mashed potato. I defy anyone to eat peas by pushing them on the back of their fork, like we’ve been told to do. Some of the meals are really bad, but the worst is boiled tripe in a yellow glue-like sauce with cabbage that’s boiled to within an inch of its life, boiled turnips or chokos (it’s impossible to tell which), and the compulsory runny mashed potato that’s slopped on the plate. I’d never appreciated the art of food presentation until I came to St Bart’s.
I stopped getting any sympathy for my broken arm after the first week, except from Brother Felix, my Arithmetic teacher. He was on my case from day one. ‘I can’t read your numbers. Is that a three or a five? Can’t you write properly? That’s wrong – that’s wrong – that’s wrong! Can’t you add up? Stop smudging ink everywhere! Your work is a disgrace!’
I tried telling him that I’m right-handed (and my right forearm is obviously broken) but he wouldn’t listen. When I tried writing with my left hand, it just wouldn’t work. It was hard writing with my right hand because the plaster is so heavy and kept getting in the way. I could’ve been plastered from head to toe and it wouldn’t have made a scrap of difference to Brother Felix. There are no excuses for any work that is less than perfect. Every Arithmetic lesson, that mongrel gives me a sixer. Like everyone else, I get to choose my preferred method of punishment: the cane
or the leather strap that’s clipped to the rosary beads around his waist. I always pick the cane – no-one’s going to belt me with a leather strap ever again. If they even try, they’re going to get the same treatment I gave Dad.
The last time I got the cane from Brother Felix, I held out my left hand ready for it.
‘Bend over!’ he shouted. I bent over a bit but not far enough. He pushed my head lower, giving me a sixer on the backside. I wondered if he had second thoughts about using the cane on my hands because of my broken arm. He’s the only teacher who ever orders us to bend over to get the cane. He gets this weird look on his face, like he’s angry and enjoying it at the same time. A real sicko if you ask me. I’m not sure how much longer I can put up with being caned on the backside by a grown man, Brother or no Brother.
BLOOD BROTHERS
CHAPTER 13
I can count the friends I’ve made on two fingers. The rest may as well be from another planet. The Martians, I call them – they talk with plums in their mouths, walk with brooms up their bums, and look down on boys like me from the wrong side of town. They don’t need to work hard to get ahead – they’ve got their inheritances to fall back on.
Just because someone’s got more money and lives in a big house that’s not rented from the Church of England, doesn’t mean they’re a better person, even if they are what Mum calls a ‘better class of friend’. I don’t get this whole ‘class’ thing. There are poor people and rich people, and a whole lot in between trying either to get rich or to just put food on the table and make ends meet.
Mac is one of my new mates. His family lives in a mansion on Sydney Harbour with a housekeeper, gardener, swimming pool and a car. Mac never brags about being rich; he seems more embarrassed about it. He’s not like the Martians at all.
Teddy Foster is my other new mate. He’s really different to anyone else I’ve ever met. He comes from a cattle station in Queensland and isn’t used to going to school, wearing shoes, or sitting still on a chair for very long, unless of course he’s eating. Teddy loves food. He even eats my leftover tripe and then looks around for more. He’d much rather be sitting in a saddle and rounding up cattle than sitting behind a school desk all day.
Teddy, Mac and I sleep three in a row in the dorm – just like the Three Bears. That’s what the Martians call us because we always stick together. Teddy’s the tallest and Mac’s the shortest, so I’m in the middle. We walk together, talk together, eat together, pray together, study together and play sport together. We were on the same cricket team until Brother Thomas, who’s also the cricket coach, split us up for talking too much. I couldn’t bat or bowl properly with my arm in plaster but I could catch a ball, no problem, with my left hand.
One afternoon behind the sport shed, Mac, Teddy and I pricked our fingers and exchanged blood – we were officially blood brothers. I’d do anything for Mac and Teddy, and they’d do anything for me.
There’s a common study area at the end of our dorm where we have desks and are supervised by Brother Sebastian every afternoon and evening, before and after dinner. Mac’s a whiz at Arithmetic, Spelling and Latin, and is only very good at every other subject. He always finishes his homework while I’m still stuck on the first page of sums. But since we’ve become blood brothers, Mac’s been ‘helping’ me with my Arithmetic. When he finishes his work, we check to see that Brother Sebastian isn’t looking then swap our exercise books. Mac can write numbers just like me, and just like Teddy as well. We’ve worked out some hand signals to use in class, like deaf people do. It’s too risky to try and swap exercise books in Arithmetic because Brother Felix would be onto us straight away – he has eyes in the back of his head.
Mum and Dad are going to be very impressed with my Arithmetic marks if we can manage to keep this up. I’d get Mac to do some of my other homework as well if I could. The trouble is – his handwriting is worse than mine.
ANGELS
CHAPTER 14
I’d been an altar boy back home at Glebe for nearly three years, but not as long as Mac. Teddy never had the chance, living in the outback. It’s two hundred miles to the nearest church and even then it’s Presbyterian.
Mac and I were excited about being chosen to be altar boys at St Bart’s until we found out that Brother Felix takes altar practice. On our first afternoon, the chapel was stinking hot with the sun beating down on us through the west-facing windows. I could feel sweat spreading out from my armpits and running down my back. Brother Felix locked the chapel doors to keep the heat out, but it wasn’t working.
‘Follow me to the vestry. You can get changed into your robes straight away,’ he said, marching past the altar like a general leading his troops. The vestry is a cool but badly lit room with a wardrobe, chest of drawers, an armchair and a full-length mirror. We stood on the rug in the middle of the room, waiting for further orders, while Brother Felix picked out robes and surplices from the wardrobe. ‘Blazers, shirts, shorts off, and then put these on,’ he said, giving each of us a black robe and a white surplice to go over the top.
I looked at Mac and the other two boys, Mick and Frank. Like them, I couldn’t wait to get my hot school clothes off, but I’d always worn more than underwear under my robe. We shrugged at each other then started getting undressed. I was having trouble pulling my blazer sleeve over the cast, so Brother Felix helped me. Then he undid my tie and started undoing the buttons on my shirt.
‘Chin up, boy!’ He said, standing very close to me. Too close. I was starting to feel uncomfortable. When he undid the zipper on my shorts, I jumped back in fright. ‘Stand still, I’m only trying to help!’ This was the same Brother Felix who showed no mercy in Arithmetic, all of a sudden wanting to help me get undressed. He looked at me in a weird way as his hand brushed against the front of my underpants. It was no accident. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Frank almost fall over trying to get his shorts off before Brother Felix moved onto his zipper.
Altar practice went well after that and Brother Felix even congratulated me on my technique. Maybe I’d imagined that light touch. Then again, there was that look in his eyes.
‘Of course it was an accident!’ Mac said afterwards. ‘Why would he want to touch you there, of all places? Doctors might do that sort of thing but not Priests or Brothers.’ Mac made a lot of sense. I put it to the back of my mind.
We stripped off again the following week. Sydney was having its worst heatwave in years. Brother Felix helped me undress but this time kept his distance. It was Mick who was singled out for special attention. After practice, Brother Felix asked him to stay back for another five minutes, just to go over a few moves. ‘I’ll see the rest of you next week.’
When we walked into the chapel the following week, Brother Felix was nowhere in sight. We found him sitting on the armchair in the vestry waiting for us. He’d given Mac and Frank the afternoon off, as he said that Mick and I needed more practice.
‘Come here,’ he said.
Mick and I moved closer to him.
‘Kneel down.’
As we knelt in front of him, he placed a hand on each of our heads. I waited for him to bless us, but he didn’t. When he took his hand off my head, I looked up and saw him put it under his robe. He looked like he was scratching himself. His other hand was on Mick’s head.
Suddenly I felt sick in the stomach. I could feel my lunchtime tripe rising up. It kept coming and I couldn’t stop it. I threw up all over Brother Felix.
‘You disgusting creature!’ he yelled, pushing me away. I fell onto my broken arm but it didn’t hurt anymore. Brother Felix was a real mess, and the smell was awful. The half-digested tripe was dripping down his black robe. I felt like running away but I threw up again instead.
‘Get out of my sight!’ he said between clenched teeth.
Mick helped me to my feet and as soon as we were outside the chapel, he patted me on the back. ‘Perfect timing, old boy – couldn’t have done it better myself !’ Mick seems to take everything in his stride. H
is father is an admiral in the Navy. A chip off the old block.
I was sick as a dog. Mick almost had to carry me to the infirmary. Sister Monica, the school nurse, helped me onto the bed and took my shoes off. She propped up some pillows behind me and held a glass of cold water for me to sip. She felt my forehead, shook a thermometer and then put it in my mouth. I watched a fan spinning around on the ceiling and felt a bit better with the cool air blowing on my face.
‘Can I get the plaster off soon, Sister? It’s real itchy.’
Sister Monica pulled a card out of the box on her desk and checked it. It’s ready to come off, alright.’ I watched as she cut the plaster, lifting it off in one piece. I looked at my thin, pale arm. ‘You’ll be back on the cricket pitch in no time!’ she said.
I must’ve fallen asleep because the next thing I knew the bell was ringing for dinner. I could get used to this, I thought.
‘Are you awake?’ It was Sister Monica. She felt my forehead. ‘You’re burning up. You’ll have to stay here overnight.’ She gave me some more medicine and a glass of water to wash it down.
My eyelids started to feel heavier and heavier. I love Sister Monica, I thought, she’s an angel sent from heaven.
I dreamt that I was in Brother Felix’s Arithmetic class. He was banging on my desk with his fist, carrying on about my mistakes and ink blots, when blah! I threw up all over him. Then I was in the chapel in the middle of altar practice. He pushed me to my knees, and when he put his hand on my head, I threw up all over his shiny black shoes.
I was sick for another two days.
BACK HOME
CHAPTER 15
I wasn’t feeling sick anymore – I was homesick. If it hadn’t been for Mac, Teddy and Sister Monica, I don’t know what I would’ve done. I started having nightmares, the same one every night. A man wearing a dark robe walks into Mum and Dad’s bedroom, holding a knife. He leans over Mum, who is sleeping. He raises his arm, ready to stab her. I scream, a bloodcurdling scream. Mac and Teddy wake me up, slapping me on the face to snap me out of it. It’s terrifying – it seems so real. I’ve started worrying about Mum all the time.
Racing the Moon Page 4
