by Kim Hodges
chapter fifteen
COMING OF AGE
At fourteen, I was still unsure about the existence of God. So I set myself a mission in scripture class in year eight. To satisfy my curiosity, I formulated a number of questions for my school scripture teacher regarding the existence of God. I needed clear answers. I had been christened an Anglican so I attended the Anglican scripture lessons. The night prior to scripture class, I wrote my questions on a piece of paper that I kept hidden in my bedroom. My goal was to ask two or three questions in each of the thirty-minute lessons each week. Minister Andrews, a small, bald, quietly spoken man, came to our school on Wednesdays to teach scripture. I would memorise the questions that morning and I would then query the minister about the existence of God. The minister provided long-winded responses, which failed to satisfy me. Minister Andrew’s frustration with me became more evident, “Just accept there is a God,” he would beg me. I could not. Toward the end of each scripture class he would ask, with his face slightly distorted, “Are there any questions?” He would make eye contact with the other six students, but avoid me—another hint to keep quiet and just accept things.
In Coolah, many people believed in God. Kids from the local school dressed up in their best outfits to attend mass or church on a Sunday morning. There were three churches in Coolah. The Catholic Church had the greatest number of worshippers and a new church building that was perched on a hill, overlooking the town, next to the Catholic school. The smaller Anglican Church housed its congregation during the week, but on Sundays, the big Anglican hall next to the Coolah Central School was utilised. I attended church there. A smaller congregation would gather at the Presbyterian Church. I would walk past this church daily, on my way to either the swimming pool or the school. I knew which families attended church, how often, and which families didn’t attend church.
Most of the rougher townie families didn’t bother with Church. Other townie families, like ours, dressed up to attend church, as did many grazier families. My mother conscripted our family to attend church at Christmas, Easter and other key occasions: all dressed up, our teeth clean, hair neat and shoes shiny. My father reluctantly stood by his wife on these occasions and I noticed that his face was unsmiling. He endured church a few times and then simply refused to attend, stating that the vegetable garden required weeding. Initially, we weren’t allowed the choice to stay home with our father. My mother persisted in dragging all four of us along with her, but only for as long as she could stand our protests. We eventually overwhelmed her with our expressions of disdain for church. Finally, she reluctantly agreed that Christmas and Easter were crucial and other occasions were not. I attended church for the last time when I was sixteen years old when she accepted that none of us kids wanted to go at all. I just could not believe without evidence.
I was fascinated with the people attending church and how they dressed, more so than the service. Well-dressed townies, who I normally saw playing sport or said hello to in the street, were respectful and on their best behaviour. I wondered why these people attended church services every Sunday. Would these people give a stranger food, if they had knocked on their door begging? Would a beggar in dirty clothes be welcomed into their homes? Why did these people go to church but also gossip about other people? Did these people treat their neighbours well? These questions filled my mind as I looked around at the faces of the congregation. I would listen intently for the first ten minutes of the service, and then tune in and out. After the service, my mother would be engaged in chatting over a cup of tea and a plate of cakes, as I stood, self-conscious, in my dress and nice high-heeled shoes which added to my feeling of awkwardness. She would insist on me wearing these clothes. Once home, I felt liberated, as I took off my dress and shoes and slid into a pair of baggy shorts and t-shirt, and walked barefoot instead.
I was led to believe that to be a Christian and to go to heaven you had to attend church at least five times a year—Easter, Christmas Eve and three other occasions. My mother, the Anglican Minister and my friends adhered to this common knowledge. I suppose it was a short cut to being a Christian rather than attending church weekly. Many ritualistic Catholics attended mass two, three or four times a week. Maybe there was a separate rule for Catholics.
*
When I turned fifteen and a half my periods arrived. I was relieved to be able to feel like a normal teenage girl; like the other girls in my class. Once my periods arrived, I would blush every time I entered the general store to purchase pads and tampons. I learnt to hide my purchases between the newspaper, milk and bread that I bought for my mother. I believed that anyone in front of me, or behind me, shouldn’t see these items. Only the checkout girl could, as I placed them on the counter at the last possible minute, and she quickly transferred them into a bag. My face went from pale pink, to pink, to dark pink, then red and finally to dark red. I would collect the receipt and change and exit the shop. I hoped that a wave of fresh air would lighten my face. Visiting the one chemist in Coolah to ask for condoms, or the one local doctor to ask for a prescription for the pill weren’t options for me. My father just happened to play table tennis with the chemist and with Dr Desmond. Or someone would tell my mother—I imagined the possibility of dying from embarrassment. If I did walk into the chemist I knew I would choose jellybeans and bandaids and could never stop at the condom aisle or hand over a prescription for the pill. Plus my face would be the colour of a beetroot if I made it that far. Anyway, I did not require condoms or the pill, being certain that virginity was for me until I escaped the town. Once I understood what sex actually was, and that a repercussion of unsafe sex was becoming pregnant, engaging in any sexual activity was not for me. I was determined to avoid it at all costs. I couldn’t run the slightest risk of becoming pregnant and be stuck in Coolah with a local lad. This was never ever going to happen to me. Other girls did accidently get pregnant and became stuck forever.
*
At school, other girls in my class fussed over boyfriends and whispers about sex between so-and-so circulated. As these girls huddled around whispering, I pretended to join in by nodding my head at appropriate times. But I was naïve and devoid of sexual feelings, so I couldn’t contribute any conversation to their group huddles. I had no awareness of my own sexuality, nor any inclination towards sex. My sole interest was in leaving Coolah. I viewed the local lads as just friends—mates to rumble and play sport with, to joke around with—just like my three brothers. I had grown up with the townie lads who remained unattractive to me. One day, a long way in the future, I wanted to meet a lad who was very different to the Coolah boys.
I had no attraction as a teenager, to males or to females. I pondered if I might be gay, since I was such a tomboy, but only for a moment. I did not feel gay, even though I had no idea what that might be like. Being gay in Coolah was probably worth hiding until one left the town. Two middle-aged women, both nurses, lived together in town. Disgust was the tone of the speculation circulating that they may actually be in a lesbian relationship. The word lesbian was so taboo, that if a girl said it, the listener needed to look aghast, or she might be accused of being one. I never understood why it was a hushed-up topic, or so wrong. There was a teacher, Ms Linda Gabriel, who came to Coolah to teach home science in secondary school. She was strikingly attractive with a mop of blond hair. She referred to herself as “Ms” and encouraged us to call her by her first name. This was the first time I had heard the word Ms, which was probably the case for most students and people in Coolah. She didn’t shave her legs either, and if asked about it she simply answered: why should I? Linda shared that she was in love with her boyfriend who lived in Sydney and travelled overseas for work. Rumours circulated that she must have been a lesbian because she used the title Ms, didn’t shave her legs and the so-called boyfriend had never been seen. I never believed the rumours. She lasted one year before returning to Sydney. I ran into her in Sydney years later and she had married her longstanding boyfriend, had two children a
nd carved out a career with the Board of Studies.
I did have some feelings for Anthony, as a special friend. We desired to travel the world, have a career, and live in a city rather than remain local. Apart from that, Anthony and I were quite different. Differences in everything stood out to me and my questions often remained unanswered. We did really enjoy being together. I held his hand many times and he kissed my cheek on occasions, out of fondness and respect, not sexual desire. I suggested to Anthony in our mid-teens that we should get married at around thirty years of age, if neither of us had found someone else, and he agreed.
My alienation amplified as the illness started to brew inside me. I felt a gaping rift open up between me and my body, myself and my family as well as the town. So much so that reconnection seemed impossible, although there were no strong connections in the first place. Anthony and I both felt different to others in the town but not better than them. We each felt that we did not fit into the local class structure. I could talk to Anthony about anything, without judgement or sexualisation. We had conversations about politics, religion, social issues and our developing social consciences. Anthony was respectful, unlike many of the townie blokes, who tried to silence me if my conversation was of no interest to them. The English teacher had told Anthony that he was very clever at English. So maybe, just maybe, he could go to university.
*
When Bruce Richards came to town, something changed forever. I developed feelings for Mr Richards, my teacher and mentor, but at the time I didn’t have the skills to recognise it. As a sixteen year old, standing next to him awakened positive feelings in me: endorphins bubbled, imaginings happened, my mind engaged. I still felt tall but I actually liked myself. My self-loathing dissipated when I was near him. I only had such feelings around Mr Richards. But my regular self always returned. I felt exposed, and that I needed to suppress those feelings, for self-preservation. In retrospect, I loved Mr Richards, but didn’t know it then.
In the last week of school, at the school assembly, the arrival of three new teachers was announced for the forthcoming year. It was December 1980. I was at the end of year nine. One of the three teachers, Mr Richards, the new deputy principal, would arrive from Sydney in time for first term. This was big news for our school. The tough lads behind me joked, “How long will it take us to break him?” and “From Sydney, hey? He won’t last.” I wondered how long Mr Richards would last; many left after a year.
During my Christmas holiday ride past the teachers’ villas to see if any teachers had returned, I hoped to be the first to see the three new teachers, especially the new deputy principal. The day before the teachers were required at school, I rode past, in the afternoon and saw two cars, one of which I didn’t recognise. Was it Mr Richard’s car? He was due to arrive from the city. Crouched down behind a tree, peering between the branches, my bicycle hidden behind a bush, I watched the villas for an hour, but I didn’t see him. I went home and once it was dark, I rode back past. Six cars were parked and the teachers were unloading their roof racks and boots. But I didn’t see him. Oh well, I thought, school was in two days, I would see him then. I was up, dressed and ready for school very early that first morning of year ten. I elected to walk rather than get a lift. The other students would have also wanted to see Mr Richards and the two other new teachers. The bell rang. We fell into our new assembly lines automatically. In the year ten line, I was a line closer to the last row: two rows to go. Standing in the back row, and looking behind to see no more lines, symbolised the end of Coolah Central School for me.
The old, baldheaded school principal, Mr Johnston, strutted out to our first assembly of the year. He announced to us at the start of every year that he was responsible for two hundred and sixty students, primary and secondary departments—the entire school. Mr Johnston introduced the smiling, familiar, teaching staff from last year, all looking fresh-faced from a six-week break from Coolah. Then a man walked over and my mouth dropped open. I imagine that the majority of students copied this action. That was Mr Richards. I just knew it had to be. Mr Richards was introduced to us. He was a very handsome man with wavy hair, a well-groomed beard, wearing a suit and tie, with very polished black shoes—so shiny that the sun was reflected in them. A handkerchief was visible in his upper suit-pocket. Teachers in Coolah never dressed like this. “What a sight,” and “Get a load of him,” and “Who does he think he is?” I heard the lads saying next to me. Mr Richards was the talk of the week, before we all got used to him. My mother and many other teachers referred to him as “the gentleman” but never within earshot of the man himself. For the entire time that Mr Richards was at Coolah Central School, I never knew how old he was, but he seemed young. He was ageless. Mr Richards stood out, oozing sophistication and style and he dressed the same way every single day in his suit, shirt, tie, polished shoes—and always a handkerchief.
“He’s a gentleman and not like the other dickhead teachers,” my mother shared. In the heat of summer, he would remove his suit jacket and tie, and roll up his shirtsleeves, becoming even more handsome. I noticed sweat seeping through from his back onto his shirt and under his arms. Small contained patches of sweat that were sweet smelling; not the “boy-smell” that I knew so well. My brothers oozed boy-smell sweat after sport, as did the local lads in my class towards the end of the day—and the other male teachers. As I stood near Mr Richards, I could breathe it in without being noticed. His smell was sweat mixed with sweetness. Mr Richards knew exactly how much aftershave or cologne he had to put on to make it through the teaching day. In summer more and less in winter. The boy-smell was never attached to Mr Richards.
Mr Richards taught science, but he also gave us more. The bigger, exciting world that was out there, waiting for every one of us, as he told us all. I was impressionable and he impressed me. My genuine interest in his worldly stories made me stand out, as the other students switched off, or rolled their eyes. Every word he spoke was like gospel to me. Mr Richards told us that we all needed to leave Coolah, to experience the world and travel. His passion and sophistication was evident as he described Sydney as being full of different people, cultures and foods. “Go, see, and open your eyes and ears.” Mr Richards filled my senses with words and gave these words meanings. Rather than a dream, or a possibility, life outside of Coolah, in Sydney, became a future reality. I pretended to be surprised when I bumped into him in the main street, after I had casually crossed the road to cross paths with him. I was a willing messenger for the teachers, if a note had to be delivered to Mr Richards.
Mr Richards did not fit in with the graziers. Property life, beef, cattle or wheat, the bourgeois lifestyle that accompanied such things; he wasn’t interested in them. Nor was he interested in socialising with the townies, as few commonalities existed. Mr Richards drank wine, I discovered, not beer like the townie blokes, who often drank schooner after schooner at the local pub, then ordered a takeaway beer to gulp down at someone’s house. On a special occasion, such as bonfire night, I saw townie blokes drink beer after beer until they passed out, and then do it again the following night. More closely matched with the blow-ins, Mr Richards apparently socialised with them, when he wasn’t being self-contained.
My relationship with Mr Richards eventually moved from the public arena to his teacher’s villa. I cannot recall the exact moment, but one day I returned a book to his villa and was invited in. The small villa housed books and videos, an exercise bike, a comfortable chair and other regular things. Mr Richards sat and relaxed while I asked him questions. He chatted to me as I returned his borrowed books every week. I would mainly ask him questions about Sydney, about travelling overseas, and about the books that he was reading. My future life outside of Coolah came alive in my mind. He told me that anything was possible. After many visits to his villa, I ventured to his exercise bike, and, embarrassed, asked if I could please have a go. As I was lifting one skinny, long leg up in the air and over the bike, I saw out of the corner of my eye his eyes gazing
at my legs. He talked as I rode. The next time I visited I asked if I could ride his bike and deliberately lifted my skinny leg very high, when finding the pedal. I pedalled as he talked to me. Again, I could see and feel him staring at my legs. He paused mid-sentence for a moment, as if pondering what to do next, to touch me or not, then he recommenced his sentence and his stare ventured elsewhere. He never touched me; the looks were as far as it went. I respected him for that, but secretly, at sixteen years of age, I had wanted him to do more than look at my long, slender legs. Occasionally, other students queried me about visiting Mr Richards in his villa. I would be silent and walk away. Mr Richards, my teacher at school, was my mentor after school. His respect for me was evident in the boundaries that were always firmly in place. I knew rumours might well be circulating. At least if the gossip was about me, some poor other soul was being left alone.
*
I first met Dr Desmond for a procedure in which a wart was burnt off my knee. I was sixteen years old. I, like my mother, had showered beforehand to be shiny clean for Dr Desmond. I thought that Coolah was fortunate to have a permanent doctor. Many townships the same size couldn’t attract or retain a doctor for a long, despite government incentives. Dr Desmond had practised medicine in our town for more than two years. He owned the biggest house in Hilltop Road, a kilometre north from the Top Pub. The community accorded him a God-like status. A doctor’s word was final. I knew this, although I was never told it explicitly. It was another belief subtly instilled in my brothers, my parents, the townies and me. Just the way it is. This particular visit had given me an opportunity to have a good look at Dr Desmond. As he injected me with local anaesthetic, I noticed the greasy black hair surrounding the balding spot on the top of his head, and the black-rimmed glasses that sat towards the front of his ample nose. His chequered brown and white collared shirt was tucked into his brown knee-high shorts, held up by a belt. His exposed knees and white legs had black hairs that grew thicker as my eyes followed his legs down to the short white socks covering his ankles. Dr Desmond is really ugly and nerdy, I concluded. I noticed how the hardy carpet, with its swirls of dark browns, light browns, and all shades in-between complemented Dr Desmond’s attire. Was that the reason he never replaced the carpet? He must know what I know; that it makes him look a fraction better. I thought about the brown carpet and realised that we also had swirling shades of brown in our lounge room.
