MORE LIES
CHAPTER 33
‘Where have you boys been? These poor cows are about to burst. If they get infected, it’ll be your fault!’ Sister Ambrose looked like she was about to burst too.
‘Sorry, Sister.’ I stared at my wet overalls and muddy feet, and saw that my big toe was bleeding again.
‘Don’t “sorry” me! It’s the cows you should be apologising to. Where have you been?’ She looked the three of us up and down.
‘We had an accident emptying the night buckets, Sister. It went all over us – it was disgusting,’ I said, recalling the first time I was on bucket duty. ‘We had to go down to the creek to wash it off. That’s why our overalls are wet.’ Charlie and Pete nodded in support. I could tell they were impressed with my lie.
‘Did you spill both buckets? That’s quite a coincidence or else very clumsy of you, don’t you think?’
‘They were full to the brim, Sister,’ I replied. ‘One was already overflowing.’
‘Alright then, go wash your hands and then give these cows’ teats a wipe ready for milking. Don’t forget the leg ropes or they’ll kick the buckets over. You won’t have time for breakfast this morning.’ Sister Ambrose patted my cow on the rump and walked out of the barn.
As I washed my hands, Lance walked past, swinging an empty milk bucket. ‘Liars! None o’ ya were on bucket duty this mornin’. Charlie an’ Pete were s’posed to be helpin’ me but didn’t show. I know where ya all were. I got caught last night chasin’ after ya! When Sister Cornelius followed me back to the cabin, she had a quick look ’round at all the beds – everyone seemed to be there. Nice work, puttin’ ya cases under ya covers. Ya owe me!’ he said, storming off.
I sat down on the stool with my head against the cow’s belly, my hands on her two back teats, and started milking like there was no tomorrow. She must’ve been sore with that swollen udder because she kept turning her head and mooing at me. I half-filled the bucket in no time and then started on the front teats. It didn’t take long before I was carrying a bucket of milk to the kitchen. It was too late to do any separating.
I missed out on porridge for breakfast but managed to grab a slice of bread and a cup of strong tea. I stood on the verandah, sipping my tea and looking up at the mountain. What a night! I thought. I’m thirteen years old – I’ve had a successful egg business and paper run, I’ve won the Glebe Billycart Derby, blue ribbons for athletics, a cricket trophy – and I’ve just finished Racing the Moon. To top it off, I didn’t get caught. The world is still my oyster!
After breakfast, I headed to the sheep paddock with the rest of my team to finish off trimming the hooves on our sheep. As soon as we’d finished, Henry asked us to check for any maggots or lice in the wool because he’d found some lice on the two rams that he’d crutched that morning.
It was easy work, just a matter of parting the wool and checking for any tiny creatures clinging to the fibres. The sheep seemed to like all the attention and didn’t even try to get away.
‘As soon as yer finished, ya can move the sheep into the new paddock – there’s more feed for ’em there,’ Henry called out.
Although I heard everything that Henry said, my mind was elsewhere. ‘Do you miss Racing the Moon?’ I asked him.
‘What are ya talkin’ about?’
‘Racing the Moon – you know – used to be a Farm tradition until Sister Agnes put a stop to it two years ago.’
‘I don’t know nothin’ ’bout no “Racin’ the Moon”, but there was a young boy named Billy who died here two years ago. Lance had just arrived at the Farm – trouble from the start he was, but the nuns couldn’t see it. He an’ some other boys snuck out one night an’ climbed the mountain. Lance told us afterwards that Billy lost his footin’ an’ fell off the cliff. Terrible tragedy. The police were called an’ eventually found his body. Sister Agnes an’ Father Brian believed Lance’s story. I’ve got me doubts. I’ll be glad to see the back of ’im in a few days. He’s turnin’ fourteen, ya know. Can’t stay at the Farm when yer an adult.’
Lance had lied to us about Racing the Moon and we’d believed him. Henry had nothing to do with it. We could’ve died up there on the mountain – but we didn’t. We all made it to the top and back again safely. It was the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life. I still believed in Racing the Moon, even if it was kind of a lie to begin with.
As we let the sheep out of the holding pen to take them to the new paddock, Henry called out: ‘Can ya grab a couple o’ bags o’ charcoal from the barn to put in the truck on ya way back? I hafta pick up a bull from a farmer down the road to breed with some of our cows to keep their milk supply goin’.’
By the time we’d finished pouring the bags of charcoal into the gas converter fitted to the side of the truck’s engine, it was too late for Henry to pick up the bull. It was also looking like rain. While we were having dinner, it started to pour.
It rained for six days straight. We had lesson after lesson with the Three Sisters. I’d never been in the classroom for so long before. Sister Cornelius finally finished reading The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, and then we wrote stories and letters. Half the class needed new exercise books – there were no blank pages left in their old ones – they’d all been ripped out.
‘Well done!’ Sister Cornelius said as she handed out new books. ‘Keep up the good work!’
I wrote a story in my new English exercise book about Racing the Moon. I changed the names of the boys so Sister Cornelius wouldn’t get suspicious. After that I wrote a letter to Kit and one to Mum, ripping the pages out and putting them in the same envelope to post.
In Arithmetic, Sister Agnes moved onto teaching us algebra, while Sister Ambrose was excited about showing us her new pull-down map of the world with all the countries of the Empire coloured in pink.
‘The first Empire Games were held last year in Ontario, Canada, and Australia won three gold medals for rowing and swimming. The Olympic Games are being held next year in Los Angeles,’ Sister Ambrose said proudly, pointing to each city and country as she named them. ‘We should be able to listen to some of the Olympic events on the wireless next year. What do you think about that?’
‘What wireless, Sister?’ I asked. I really missed listening to the wireless and had thought that there wasn’t one at the Farm.
‘Henry’s been waiting for a part to fix it. It broke a few months ago – all you can hear is crackling.’
Talking about the wireless made me feel homesick. I missed sitting around our AWA wireless with the rest of the family, listening to the cricket, the races, our favourite music and serials, and even the news.
BAD LUCK
CHAPTER 34
Lance left the Farm on the same day that a new boy arrived. I didn’t bother saying goodbye or swapping addresses with him. The new boy, Nick, was born in Greece and can’t speak English very well but he knows almost as much about farming as Henry. Since Nick arrived, two calves and eleven lambs have been born, including three sets of twins.
After two failed attempts to drive the truck down the road through the mud, Henry finally managed to pick up the bull to mate with some of our cows, just the ones whose milk supply was getting a bit low. Henry’s not only a farmer, driver and school caretaker – he’s a jack-of-all-trades who can do anything he sets his mind to, and the Three Sisters depend on him.
After picking up a new part for the wireless, Henry fixed it, good as new. Sister Ambrose carried the wireless into the classroom like she was making an offering to the Lord. She plugged it into the generator that sits outside on the verandah and then turned it on so we could listen to the Melbourne Cup. Phar Lap won last year and we all waited impatiently for the champion colt to do it again.
‘And they’re off in the 1931 Melbourne Cup!’ It was hard to understand what the race caller was saying most of the time – he was speaking quickly and there was lots of static. As the horses turned into the straight, running towards the finish line, Phar Lap wasn’
t mentioned.
‘Where’s Phar Lap?’ I asked in disbelief.
There was more static then the race caller announced, loud and clear. ‘And Phar Lap finishes eighth.’ I was too shocked to say anything – I’d wanted Phar Lap to win so badly.
It cheered me up a little, though, to think of the money my parents must’ve won with the hot favourite losing.
Two days later, we were back in the classroom, listening to the wireless, and it wasn’t even raining. It was the first day of the Sheffield Shield match between New South Wales and Queensland. Sister Ambrose loves cricket and, like me, she’s one of Don Bradman’s biggest fans. The radio announcer took us through the highlights of the match, play by play. When Don Bradman walked out to bat, the big crowd at the Gabba stood up and cheered.
Wendell Bill had just been caught behind for a golden duck, and it was up to Bradman to put the first score on the board for New South Wales. He was facing Eddie Gilbert, an Aboriginal bowler from Queensland, and the fastest in the state.
‘Bradman easily blocked the second delivery from Gilbert,’ the radio announcer reported.
We waited expectantly for the next ball.
‘The delivery was short and clipped the top of Bradman’s cap, making him lose his balance and fall backwards.’
Sister Ambrose gasped but nobody said a word. I was sitting on the edge of my seat.
‘The fourth ball flew over Bradman’s head, straight to the keeper.’
I breathed a sigh of relief and edged closer to the wireless.
‘The fifth delivery from Gilbert was so fast that it knocked the bat right out of Bradman’s hands.’
Everyone gasped – we couldn’t believe what we were hearing. How fast must that ball have been going? I thought.
There was only one more delivery left in the over. You could’ve cut the tension in our classroom with a knife.
‘He’s out!’ said the radio announcer. ‘Bradman tried to hook the sixth delivery from Gilbert and was caught by Waterman, the wicket keeper. He’s out for a duck!’
‘He can’t be!’ I shouted, jumping to my feet. That was the second time in less than a year, I couldn’t believe it! Sister Ambrose started to cry and I almost did too. Our hero was out for a duck! It was a shock for me to realise that even the great Don Bradman has bad days and this one was worse than most. ‘He’ll come good,’ I said, with all the confidence in the world. ‘Just you wait and see.’
I got a letter back from Mum the following week and I read it while sitting under one of the flame trees eating my lunch.
Dear Joe,
I was very pleased to get your letter and to find you are well and that you are learning lots of new things. I wish I could be there to see you milking the cows and chopping wood. I’m so proud of you. The Sisters sound very kind and I’m sure that you have been learning a lot from them.
We have all been well except for your father. He had a couple of turns recently but is a lot better. The doctor says it’s his heart, and told him to take it easy and stay off the grog, which as you know is easier said than done. As soon as he was well enough, he went to see the Monsignor at St Bart’s. It didn’t go very well. I’m sorry, Joe, but you won’t be going back there next year. If your report from St Mary’s Farm School is good, you won’t have to go back there either.
I can’t wait to see you again – you’re probably as tall as your father by now. It will be a very special Christmas this year with all of us together once again.
Your loving mother
PS We’re all praying that Phar Lap loses the Melbourne Cup.
‘You little beauty! Good onya Dad!’ I said, looking up at the flame trees and the bright-red buds about to burst into flower. I wish I could’ve been a fly on the wall when Dad went to see the Monsignor. I couldn’t wait to go home and find out what happened.
There was a lot of work to do on the farm before we could go home for Christmas: piles of wood to be chopped, split and stacked; charcoal to be dug up and new pits made; spring and summer veggies to be picked, and new seeds sown and seedlings planted; and all the stock checked and fire breaks made.
It was hard trying to keep the water up to the veggies and fruit trees. It had been a hot spring and early summer, with bushfires already raging and causing havoc in some parts of the country.
A gang of labourers was coming to help Henry on the farm for the six weeks we’d be away. Even the Three Sisters were going on holidays up to Manly beach in Sydney. Half their luck!
On our second-last day at the Farm, we had to scrub every inch of the cabins and shower shed, inside and out. I dragged my mattress outside to beat all the bed bugs out that had been biting me for the past six months.
We all pitched in to clean out the barn and stables, replace the hay, and then spread the old hay and manure on the veggie garden and around the fruit trees.
After lunch, Pete, Charlie and I moved all the desks out of the classroom. I took down Sister Ambrose’s charts and maps then washed the blackboard while Charlie and Pete mopped and scrubbed the floor.
Every couple of minutes, I’d call out in my best Irish accent: ‘Put a bit more elbow grease into it, boys,’ trying to sound just like Sister Agnes.
When Pete threw his scrubbing brush at me, the water fight was on. We tossed wet rags at each other, and then when I was about to throw my bucket of water at them, I slipped on the wet floor and went sliding into the wall.
‘I thought you boys were supposed to be washing the floor, not playing on it!’ Sister Agnes said, hitting her cane on the door frame. ‘I want this mess cleaned up now!’
GOING HOME
CHAPTER 35
On our last morning, I could feel the excitement in the air. We got extra-large bowls of porridge, but no bread this time. Instead, Mrs Lucas baked Anzac biscuits for all of us to take home on the train.
Just for fun, I tried on my St Bart’s uniform that I’d worn to the Farm six months ago: grey shorts, blue shirt, blazer, striped tie and matching socks, and black leather shoes. My shorts, shirt, blazer and socks were all too small and I had to squash my toes to fit into my shoes. I’d well and truly outgrown my St Bart’s uniform. I wore the clean shirt, trousers and shoes that Sister Agnes gave me instead, and then threw my uniform into the incinerator.
‘Ya looked stupid in it anyway,’ Pete said, looking over my shoulder at the burning uniform.
As I watched the school crest on my blazer engulfed by flames, I thought about St Bart’s – my best friends, Mac and Teddy, and the good times we had there. It wasn’t all bad. There was only one bad egg – Brother Felix – and if it wasn’t for him I’d probably still be at St Bart’s. But then I wouldn’t have met Pete and Charlie and gone Racing the Moon. ‘We’ve all got to learn to take the good with the bad.’ That’s what Mum says, and I think she might be right.
‘Ya gunna stay here all day an’ watch that fire?’ Pete asked.
‘I just want to make sure it all burns.’
‘Ya hate it that much?’
‘Not anymore.’
Before getting into the back of the truck for the trip to the railway station, we said prayers with the Three Sisters and sang, ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’. Sister Ambrose’s and Sister Cornelius’s voices hadn’t improved at all over the last six months – if anything, they were worse. As we lined up, waiting our turn to get onto the truck, Sister Agnes gave each of us two shillings and shook our hands. Then we shook hands with Sister Ambrose and Sister Cornelius, and climbed into the back of the truck. We didn’t all fit, so some of the boys went in the horse-drawn cart with Nick volunteering to drive. Mrs Lucas had to come as well to bring the horses and cart back while Henry drove the truck.
Sister Agnes cleared her throat to speak. ‘Father Brian sends his apologies – he’s terribly sorry he isn’t here to say goodbye to all of you. He has a baptism to do in Dapto this morning. We wish you all a happy and holy Christmas, and unfortunately we’ll be seeing some of you back here again next year.’
None of us knew who was coming back – it all depended on the reports that Sister Agnes had already posted to our parents and old schools. In some ways I wanted to come back – the Farm was starting to grow on me. But it wasn’t home.
At Yallah railway station, we said our goodbyes to Henry and Mrs Lucas, and then split into two groups: those catching the train south to Bomaderry, including Charlie, and the mob heading north to Sydney, including Pete and me. Nick was the only exception – he pocketed his two shillings and headed up the road to hitch a ride. Said he was heading out west to become a shearer. Good luck to him, I thought.
We had the last train carriage to ourselves, because neither of the two people waiting on the platform got in with us, and a woman who had been sitting down, got up and walked through to the next carriage. We must’ve had ‘reformatory’ written all over us.
I sat opposite Pete and we looked out the window as the train rattled and rolled through farmlands and past the big lake, stopping first at Dapto then heading towards the ocean and the smoking chimney stacks of Port Kembla.
‘Do ya think ya’ll be goin’ back to the Farm next year?’ Pete asked.
‘Dunno. What about you?’
‘Not sure what I’ll be doin’ now me stepdad’s in gaol. If me report’s good enough, I’ll probably hafta work to bring in money for Mum an’ me two little sisters. Might look around an’ find an apprenticeship somewhere, maybe at the steelworks.’
‘Henry said they’re laying people off there. If you can’t find a job, we could go into business together.’
‘What kind o’ business?’
‘Selling eggs and newspapers; a bit of gambling, bookmaking – that kind of thing.’
‘What ’bout ya mate, Harry?’
‘He’s given it all up to help his dad with odd jobs around the neighbourhood.’
‘I might be interested then.’
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