Mac was operated on soon after he got to Sydney Hospital. Brother Sebastian told us there were complications – Mac’s appendix had ruptured. It was touch and go for a while but Brother Sebastian assured me that Mac was going to pull through. Trouble was – he’d be in hospital for another month, maybe longer.
I looked at the empty beds on either side of me. The Three Bears is just a stupid fairytale anyway, I thought. I hate Easter and I hate St Bart’s! I’m running away for good this time – to Uncle George’s – no-one will find me there.
The Brothers had been watching me like hawks after my last escape, but everyone was so busy over Easter that they dropped their guard, and just like the first time, I walked out the gate and down the road to the wharf. Nobody saw me or tried to stop me.
But the wharf gate was closed and there was a sign tied to it: ‘Due to ferry maintenance, there will be no ferries running over Easter.’
I kicked the gate with all my might and then looked out over the grey, still water. I could see the top of the Harbour Bridge in the distance. Sitting down on the grass, I watched as some seagulls landed, hopping closer and closer to me, waiting for some morsels. They were out of luck and so was I. After picking up a handful of grass and throwing it at them, I walked miserably back up the hill to school. No-one had even missed me.
Nothing’s going to stop me from going home next month for the school holidays, I thought. Some of the country boys would have to stay at school because it takes too long for them to do the round trip. By the time they’d get home, they’d have to come back again. I started marking off every day until the holidays in the back of my Arithmetic book.
THE LAST STRAW
CHAPTER 19
Brother Sebastian left with the senior rugby teams, the First and Second XV, for a tour of boys’ boarding schools in country New South Wales. They were playing for the Macquarie Shield, which Brother Sebastian vowed to bring back to St Bart’s and hang in the Great Hall. We formed a guard of honour along both sides of the main school driveway, cheering them on their way. As I waved goodbye to Brother Sebastian, I wondered who’d be replacing him as junior dorm master for the next two weeks.
I was running again – not away from St Bart’s just yet – but on the athletics track. With the plaster on my right arm long gone, I could swing it as good as my left, and I felt free as a bird. I was the ‘most improved’ at athletics training two weeks in a row: first in the Under 13s fifty-yard sprint, and first in the hundred yards. My wins scored me a place on the junior relay team for my house, Mawson, named after Douglas Mawson, the Antarctic explorer. The Athletics Carnival would be on soon, and if I won my races, I’d be representing St Bart’s at the big interschool athletics carnival in July. I didn’t own a pair of spikes – I prefer to run barefoot – it suits my style.
That day was a good one, better than most: sending off the rugby teams, winning all my races at athletics training and roast lamb, a rare treat, for dinner. Not as good as Mum’s, but it still tasted great. I had no kitchen duty and no homework except for reading Great Expectations for English.
After supper, it was time for bed. Kneeling down to say my prayers, I looked at Mac and Teddy’s empty beds and felt very alone. I prayed to God that my mates would come back soon. ‘In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, Amen.’ Then I jumped into bed.
‘Lights out in one minute.’ The voice was unmistakable. Of all the Brothers at St Bart’s they could’ve chosen, they had to pick him!
When Brother Felix came and sat on my bed, I was alarmed but not scared. ‘Your suspension finishes at midnight tonight,’ he said. ‘I expect you to be at altar practice tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He squeezed my shoulder. ‘You’ve always been my favourite, Joe.’ I couldn’t believe that Brother Felix had actually called me ‘Joe’ and that I was his favourite! ‘I didn’t tell you before because I didn’t want the other boys to be envious. As you know, envy is one of the seven deadly sins.’
When he got up and turned off the lights, I couldn’t see him anymore. Then I heard footsteps and felt someone sit on my bed.
‘Shhh,’ he said softly, as he stroked my face.
I couldn’t believe that Brother Felix was actually stroking my face! I felt him put his other hand under the bed covers. His fingers were near my belly button. For a split second, I felt him touch me where he shouldn’t.
Something snapped. I punched him in the face with all my might. We both cried out in pain. I shook my hand – it was killing me. I rubbed my eyes with my other hand – there was something warm and sticky on my face. When one of the boys turned on the lights, I saw blood everywhere.
‘You little bastard, I think you’ve broken my nose!’ Brother Felix held a handkerchief to his nose and then hurried out of the dorm. Everyone clapped and cheered. I was shaking. If Brother Felix could’ve seen me through all the blood that was on his face, I think he would have throttled me.
Brother Damian, the senior boarding master, ran in and dragged me out of bed. ‘Come with me to the office. Back to sleep, the rest of you.’
When I told Monsignor Reynolds and Brother Damian what had happened, they wouldn’t believe me. The Monsignor said I was telling lies to get out of trouble and that if I didn’t repent my sins and change my evil ways, I’d go to hell. I felt like I was already there.
‘I could contact the police and have you charged with assault,’ he explained, ‘but that is not the way we address problems like yourself at St Bartholomew’s. If word gets out, respectable parents might start taking their boys out of the school. The reputation of this college is paramount.’
For breaking Brother Felix’s nose and telling ‘defamatory lies’ about him, I was put into one of the isolation rooms where ‘in solitude, you can reflect on your hideous deeds and pray to God for forgiveness.’ I kicked the walls of the isolation room and pulled my bed apart, shouting out every swear word that I knew. The room was the size of a confessional or large dunny, with a small window at the top that was too high to reach, even when I stood on the upturned bed.
As soon as my parents could be contacted and arrangements made, I was being sent to St Mary’s Farm School, a reformatory on the south coast run by some nuns. I hoped and prayed that Mum and Dad would refuse to go along with their plan and that I could go home.
For three nights, I was kept in the isolation room under the watchful eye of Brother Damian, who brought me breakfast, lunch and dinner on a tray. I was only allowed out to go to the dunny, and so was forbidden to take part in any school activities, which, he told me, included the Liturgy on the last day of term as well as the long-table dinner hosted by the senior boys for staff, parents (except mine) and special guests. I think he expected me to be upset or, at the very least, disappointed about what I was missing out on. He hasn’t got a clue! I thought. But when he told me that my parents had agreed to the reformatory and that I wouldn’t even be going home for the holidays, I flew into a rage, kicking the walls and pulling my bed apart again. I managed to break the window with a broken bed leg, and when the glass fell on my head, I swore like a trooper. The threat of hell and damnation had no effect on my rage.
Monsignor Reynolds had to make another home visit because as far as he knew Mum and Dad didn’t have a telephone. One of Dad’s mates had installed an illegal line for us so that some of the punters could call their bets in. Dad had bought the telephone cheap from another mate at the pub. We have an unlisted number that only a select group of people know about.
Brother Damian was smirking when he told me that St Mary’s was at the foot of a mountain, ten miles to the nearest railway station. ‘Running away won’t be possible. Through manual labour, prayer and sacrifice, you will learn humility, respect and responsibility.’
I spent my last night at St Bart’s with Brother Damian’s words and crooked, yellow teeth going around and around in my head.
SOUTH TO ST MARY’S
CHAPTER 20
&
nbsp; Dad and I boarded the South Coast train at Central Station, stopping all stations to Bomaderry. The furthest I’d ever been on a train was out to Uncle George’s chook farm in Rooty Hill to pick up eggs. I’d never left Sydney, never been away anywhere on a holiday. Mac has been to Amsterdam, the capital of Holland. He sailed with his family on a ship to Batavia in the Dutch East Indies and then by aeroplane to Amsterdam – it’s the longest air route in the world.
The train rattled its way through the city, hissing steam and blowing clouds of smoke that wafted through the window and stung my throat. Looking out the window at all the houses, factories and shops crowded together, I thought they seemed out of place, as if they belonged somewhere else, like in England, which I’d read about in Great Expectations. On the outskirts of the city, I saw shacks and humpies where poor people lived on the sand dunes of Botany Bay, not far from where Captain Cook had landed in 1770.
Things were going from bad to worse, not the way I’d planned at all. I’d always felt like a winner, and not just on the athletics track or cricket pitch, or when I’d won the Glebe Billycart Derby. I found opportunities to make money, to make something of my life. I’d felt that the world really was my oyster. Now I felt like all I had left were the stinking empty oyster shells. Looking on the bright side, there was only one way left for me to go, and that was up.
Dad fell asleep with his head resting on the back of the train seat. He started snoring but with the noise the train made, I don’t think anyone else noticed. Sticking my hand out the window, I touched the leaves of a gum tree that brushed past, and then bumped my head on the glass trying to spot koalas up in the trees that were growing all along the track. Smoke and cinders from the engine blew in my face, stinging my eyes. I kept blinking to try and stop the burning feeling.
When we entered a long dark tunnel, I closed my eyes and imagined that I was flying in a plane to Amsterdam with Mac and Teddy. There was no-one in the cockpit so we sat down and took over the controls, flying the plane like we’d done it a hundred times before. Suddenly the cockpit started to fill with smoke and a bright light was shining in my eyes, almost blinding me. When I opened my eyes, I was relieved to see that I was on the train, but disappointed to be sitting next to Dad, who was still snoring.
As we came out of the tunnel into daylight again, the train swept around a big bend, and then everything went blue. The train was crossing a high bridge over a creek, and the blue was the Pacific Ocean that seemed to go on forever. When I squinted, I could just make out a ship on the horizon. It looked so small it must’ve been miles away. I wanted to be on that ship, sailing to Batavia, just like Mac had done.
I used to go fishing in Botany Bay with Dad and his mate, Stan. We’d go out in Stan’s dinghy, and the fish would almost jump into the boat. We never came back empty-handed. There was always plenty of bream, flathead and trevally to take home to cook for dinner and sell to the neighbours.
The train rattled on past steep cliffs on one side and beaches, fishing boats and a lighthouse on the other. I dozed off with the rocking of the train and dreamt that the reformatory was on a headland with its own lighthouse, and I was lost at sea in a small boat. I could see the light from the lighthouse, but no matter how hard I paddled, I couldn’t get any closer to it. Then a loud whistle woke me up, and I saw a sign flash past again and again: ‘Wollongong’.
We followed the coastline south, past the smoking chimney stacks and new steelworks at Port Kembla, and then headed inland through farmlands, away from a big lake and towards the mountains. As the train pulled into Dapto Station, I woke Dad up.
‘Is this our stop?’ I asked.
‘No, next one.’ Those were the first words he’d spoken to me the whole way from Central Station. ‘Why did you do it, Joe?’ he asked, clenching his fist. ‘Why did you punch that Brother in the face?’
‘I don’t know, I just did.’ How could I tell my father that another man, an ordained Brother, had touched me where he shouldn’t? Maybe I’d overreacted, maybe it was an accident, but every instinct in my body told me no, that wasn’t it at all. I don’t regret what I did. That bastard got what he deserved.
Dad and I were the only people to get off the train at Yallah. It was Sunday morning so I figured everyone must be at Church. A man in overalls was waiting outside the station, standing alongside two horses and a cart, and smoking a pipe.
‘Are ya the Rileys?’ he asked.
‘I’m Arthur Riley and this is my son, Joe.’
‘I’m Henry Lucas – caretaker, driver, butcher, farmer an’ jack-o’-all-trades at St Mary’s. I’ll look after ya son from ’ere. School’s ’bout ten miles up the road. The next train back to Sydney should be ’ere soon.’
Dad shook my hand. ‘Don’t go getting up to any mischief.’
‘I won’t.’ I didn’t say goodbye because I was still angry with him for sending me away. I climbed up onto the seat next to Henry.
‘G’day, Joe,’ he said. Henry had one of those friendly sounding voices. As soon as we turned around on the gravel roadway, the horses started trotting and Dad was nowhere in sight.
‘They know their own way home,’ Henry said. ‘I’m just ’ere to hold the reins. They hafta get a bit o’ speed so we can make it up that hill. Don’t worry, they know when to slow down.’
We rode over one hill, then another and another. I couldn’t see for the dust, which started working its way into my eyes, nose and mouth, even my ears. Bloody hell! I thought.
‘Are we nearly there?’ I asked. Henry didn’t seem to hear me over the noise of the hooves crashing on the dirt roadway, so I shouted, ‘Are we nearly there?’
‘Ya don’t hafta shout, I heard ya the first time! Ya city boys hafta learn to be patient, give people time to answer.’ I could barely see Henry through all the dust that was flying up. ‘Couple more miles,’ he shouted.
Eventually, we turned left through some gates onto a narrow dirt track, and then a sign flashed past.
‘Is this it?’ I asked.
‘Yep, St Mary’s Farm School alright. We call it the Farm.’
The horses picked up speed and started to canter, brushing past overhanging bush on both sides of the track, yellow wattle spraying all over us like confetti. We pulled up outside a large timber house with a verandah that looked like it went all the way around. I had grit in my eyes and a mouthful of dirt that I spat out as soon as I jumped down from the cart. There was a small kangaroo grazing a few yards away. I’d never seen a live kangaroo before, just dead ones alongside the train tracks near Uncle George’s chook farm. Looking up, I saw the sun shining above a tree-covered mountain that was so big it cast a shadow over the house. It was dark and mysterious, almost god-like, looming over everything. When I looked around to find the kangaroo, it was gone.
THE FARM
CHAPTER 21
A tall nun wearing a long brown habit and a large set of rosary beads around her waist was striding towards me with her arm outstretched, ready to shake my hand. ‘You must be Joseph Riley. Welcome to the Farm. I’m Sister Agnes, the School Principal.’
The only nun I’d ever met before was Sister Monica, the nurse at St Bart’s. I’m not exactly sure she was a nun, but she was an angel sent from heaven. Sister Agnes doesn’t look like an angel – she walks and talks more like a man. I could feel the bones in my hand crunch as we shook hands.
‘Unfortunately you missed Mass this morning – it’s the highlight of our week. Father Brian comes out from Dapto early every Sunday morning to hear confession and celebrate Mass with us.’ She put her hands together and closed her eyes. I wasn’t sure if she was thinking hard about something or praying. Half a minute later she opened her eyes and smiled, rubbing her hands together. ‘I’ll show you the classroom on our way to your cabin. You’ll need to get changed into some work clothes.’
I followed her along the verandah around to the side of the house, and then through some open doors.
‘This is our classroom – on Sundays
it serves as a chapel.’
There were five rows of desks facing a blackboard with a big crucifix and pull-down charts at the top. In one corner there was a lectern, and in the other, a statue of Our Lady surrounded by vases of fresh flowers. The room was very neat and didn’t look like it had been used very often.
We walked around to the back of the house and looked through the window at the big kitchen, then we stopped to admire a long table and four benches on the verandah.
‘Henry made all of these from trees that had fallen down on our property,’ she said, running her fingers along the grain of the smooth wood. ‘Most of your meals will be served here. And over there’s the barn where you’ll go for milking duty twice a day.’ She pointed to a huge tin shed that was much bigger than the house.
There was a strong smell of fresh cow manure in the air, and I could hear cows mooing not too far away. I pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.
We started walking towards two cabins that were opposite the barn and looked like shacks with crooked verandahs out the front.
‘There are sixteen boys in each cabin, and you’ll be sleeping in this one.’ she said, as we stepped onto a creaking verandah, crowded with broken beds, two buckets and a large wooden box. Inside, the cabin was set out like a dorm with eight beds on either side.
‘This is your bed,’ she said, pointing to the fourth bed along on the wall closest to the barn.
I lifted my case onto the rusty metal-framed bed with no bedspread, just a grey woollen army blanket tucked in with a grey sheet.
‘The showers are outside in the shed and the toilet is down the back near the flame trees. These are your work clothes to change into. You can put your case under the bed – you won’t be needing it for a while.’ She clapped her hands together – they were thick and fleshy like a man’s and her fingernails were black with dirt. ‘I’ll wait for you outside on the verandah.’
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