We knew nothing about politics, the causes of war,
and our “homelands” were now in the suburbs.
The lights of the railway station shone in the distance
like the altar candles at Mass each Sunday morning.
It was 1955 and my last year at St Peter Chanel’s. For better or for worse, time seemed to be passing very quickly. That year my birthday fell on Easter Sunday and Sister Ligouri gave me a holy picture of St Aloysius. This was St Aloysius Gonzaga who, I learnt from my Daily Missal, was a Confessor priest, and was hailed as a “veritable angel in the flesh” because of his purity of life. At the age of nine years he had taken a vow of virginity, and entered the Jesuit Order at the age of sixteen. By 1591, at the age of twenty-three, he was dead, and Pope Benedict XIII proclaimed him “Patron of Youth”. The image depicts him as a teenager dressed in a black soutane and white surplice. His hair is combed neatly. He looks impeccably clean, as if his body and clothes have been to the dry cleaners. He is holding a crucifix before his face, close to his lips. Beneath him, tall white lilies are growing out of the air, their flowers touching the hem of his robes. St Aloysius is praying, oblivious to human existence. He seems to be in an otherworldly place. Oddly enough, he resembled Father Doherty, the young Assistant Parish Priest my mother always thought should have married and had children.
Don’t you think this is a beautiful holy picture? my mother asked, holding it up to my father. She was using the word “holy” a lot that night. She and I were sitting at the kitchen table when he walked into the house. I wonder why Sister Ligouri chose this one to give to Peter?
Maybe she wants him to be a priest? my father asks seriously.
Oh, do you think so? A priest? I’ve sometimes thought about having my son become a priest. Can you imagine receiving Holy Communion from the hands of your son? A mother would feel so special. So, so holy! Holy!
No, I can’t, said my father. What about Confession? Telling your sins to your own son? Hey, Peter the priest, what penance would you give your mother?
Not me, Dad. If the nuns want us to be priests they shouldn’t go around belting us like they do.
I agree, said my father.
Well, said my mother, you’ll be at a new school next year — and the Brothers will educate you to be a Christian gentleman.
Your mother means they’ll straighten you out with a strap instead of a cane if you play up, my father said.
Silly, silly, my mother replied, and waved away the conversation. Now, show me that lovely holy picture again, will you?
Here you are, Mum.
My, my, doesn’t St Aloysius look holy … You can see the light of God in his eyes.
They’re closed, Mum.
Driving past the Regents Park Hotel today, and reading “Las Vegas Gaming Lounge” painted across its front, I find myself remembering — and thinking how ironic — that Father Donovan, a Confessor, lived there, “at the pub”, as it was said, for twelve years before a new presbytery was built for him in 1952 in the grounds of St Peter Chanel’s.
A new church, Mr McLean, he was reported to have said to the publican. We must now build a new church, a church that will be big and full of light, for I dislike churches that are small and dark and damp, such as I remember from the old country. The new church will stand on top of the hill in Kingsland Road and be seen from such places as Villawood and Banks-town — and even, Mr McLean, for sure, from Araglin itself.
So in 1955 a collection was begun for the building of this grand house of worship. We, as pupils at the school, were encouraged to bring in four shillings and sixpence each to buy a brick. Even though I wouldn’t be at the school after 1955, my parents donated the money and were among the first group of parents whose names were read out by Father Donovan at Sunday Mass. To the Glory of God, Father Donovan stressed, holding up his hand as if he were proposing a toast — and all it will cost is fifty-two thousand pounds! God deserves nothing less than the best and the best we will provide! Parishioners coming after you will be in your prayers and debt forever more. Your love of God, your generosity and ability to work hard will be remembered in decades to come! Think of God, think of St Peter Chanel and think of your own immortal souls!
To the Glory of God, the congregation might have thought and agreed, but almost murmured, No, No, to fifty-two thousand pounds! Instead, they nodded their heads, remembering that the old building they were sitting in was a church-school and God did demand their loyalty. They were being led into the battle of fundraising by the greatest warrior-general who ever trod the polished floorboards of any Catholic altar and surely he wouldn’t lead them into defeat. Then there was the matter of their immortal souls. Nobody wanted to burn in Hell. Many wore their brown scapulars that guaranteed dying in the state of grace; others were wearing their green scapulars, which meant they would not get sick. Good health, dying in the state of grace and contributing to the building of a grand church to the Glory of God. What Catholic man, woman or child could ask for more?
Cracker Night
We stand to attention like little soldiers in the playground during assembly while Sister Dymphna announces that next week, on the twenty-fourth of May, there will be a school holiday to celebrate Empire Day. She reminds us that all the pink countries on the world maps in our classrooms belong to Great Britain. Australia is not a colony anymore, but is still part of the British Commonwealth of Nations.
Who cares, I think to myself, as long as it’s a day off school. I catch Stefan’s eye and know that he’s thinking the same thing. So are Ziggy and Leon. We’d like to give three cheers for the holiday but are forbidden to speak during assembly. Never mind, our thoughts are already in the bushland behind our homes. Next week, fireworks will explode there. There might even be a fire and the Fire Brigade will be called. The night air will become filled with smoke and the smell of gunpowder as double bungers, jumping jacks, sky rockets, sparklers and other kinds of fireworks explode, burn, blaze, fizz and shower in the name of a celebration we don’t fully understand. Dogs will bark, hide in kennels and under houses; cats will disappear for the night or be locked up in their owners’ homes.
The four of us usually made our bonfires separately, but this year we decided to work together and create one big bonfire. We called it “The Biggest Bonfire Ever”. Bigger than a Hollywood production, as one neighbour in the street remarked when we boasted about it.
There were two secrets to making a bonfire that wasn’t just a cone of branches and twigs that would burn itself out quickly. The first was to fill the centre with materials that take a long time to burn — car tyres were the best. The second was to build a big, heavy structure that resembles a haystack. First you built a tepee shape and filled it with tyres, crates, plastics, anything that would burn. Then, working from the outside, you built it up from base to apex with bracken, going as high as you can. In the end, your bonfire’s shape was more of a giant rectangular prism, the top slightly peaked, like a mountain.
Why’re we doing this? Leon asked. We know we can build bonfires. It’s a cinch.
Because we want to build the biggest bonfire ever, says Stefan, and become famous.
Ah, that’s bull, says Ziggy.
And we can’t blow up any more letterboxes or tie bungers to dogs’ tails, I say. Remember how the kids in Elaine Street copped it when their dog jumped off the railway bridge and got run over by a train?
Apart from letterboxes and dogs’ tails, another trick of ours was to drop fireworks from one of the railings on either side of the bridge in Mary Street, below which Duck Creek ran. This required perfect timing and skill in lighting the bunger. First of all, because you were dropping the bunger and not throwing it away, you had to be careful and get the angle between the wick and match right, otherwise you burnt your fingers. Once you lit the bunger and watched the wick burn down, you dropped it just in time so that it exploded as it hit the water. We called these “water bombs”. Let go too soon and the bunger didn’t go off — it plopped into the
water and you wasted a good bunger. Let go too late and you risked getting your fingers burnt or blown off. If it exploded in mid-air, in the mouth of the tunnel, that wasn’t too bad — at least you heard an explosion that sounded like something in the movies. The side-effect was that it left a ringing in your ears that lasted for days and your parents thought you’d become deaf.
Every year since moving into Mary Street, I’d buy my fireworks at the local papershop and build my own bonfire while the others built theirs. On the big night we’d watch one burn, then another, another and another. Our faces became reddened from the heat of burning wood and smudged with soot and ash. Our clothes got dirty. That didn’t matter. As long as we had a good time. That did matter. Next morning, the air still heavy with the smell of fires and gunpowder, we’d sift through the cold ashes and search for “fizzers”. It took a long time for the image of glowing faces to recede from our memories and disappear into the nights of advancing winter. The sound of barking dogs faded and screaming cats disappeared over grey paling fences.
There was a boy in our neighbourhood whom we never insulted, whom we avoided if we could. He lived in Elaine Street and came from a poor family. He was already in high school, probably in Second or Third Year. His mother had a speech defect and his father limped noticeably, as if one leg was shorter than the other. There were rumours that his parents once worked as circus acrobats and that he had a “mad” brother in an asylum, whatever that meant. The family lived in a Housing Commission cottage and the grass in front of their home looked like it had never been cut.
His name was Neville Johnson, but his nickname was Rocky and this probably referred to the fact that he was so solid he resembled a walking rock — or maybe because those who’d been hit by him said it was like getting hit by a rock.
If he met one of us on the way to school he’d ask, Hey, kid, wat’cha got for lunch?
Sardines in tomato sauce, I’d say.
Nah, that wog food’s rubbish. Why doesn’t your old lady give you some devon? Hey, wanna wag school today?
No.
Don’t be scared of them teachers. They’re all sissies … Got any money?
If I was walking with Leon, Ziggy or Stefan, or one of the girls, he’d leave quickly, otherwise he’d trail behind, flexing his muscles, sounding tough, proposing we go down to the canal for a smoke. Or, if I waited, he’d sneak into the papershop and “pinch some fags”.
No, I’m not wagging. My parents would kill me and I’d get caned at school, too.
The cane don’t hurt much. You gotta be tough, kid. Otherwise you’ll grow up a sissy too.
The Foleys were a dark-skinned family who lived not far from the Johnsons. Maurice was the only boy among seven or eight girls. He was tall, thin, weedy, and walked as if his backbone was collapsing. His mop of black greasy hair was combed back in a wave. His clothes were bright, flashy, often a yellow or red shirt that contrasted with his black trousers. He wore boots with high heels like cowboys did. He giggled a lot and trotted after Rocky like a lamb after its mother. Rocky’s name for him was “Doris”. C’mon, Doris, you’d hear Rocky calling. Catch up, you little sheila!
Coming, Rocky, right away … and off he’d run on his spindly legs, his praying-mantis shape contrasting with Rocky’s solid frame. Rocky seemed to tolerate him, as if he didn’t like him but still needed him. They both truanted, and stole from shops, especially cigarettes from the papershop or corner milk bar beside Regents Park station.
Empire Day itself was an anticlimax for our group. We’d built the biggest bonfire on the block and there was nothing left to do. After school and on weekends we’d worked with axes and tomahawks like social insects assigned to a task by our instincts.
Gee, it is big, sighed Leon, when it was finished. We all stood back, our hands, arms and legs covered in scratches.
Wow, I said.
Yeah, said Ziggy.
Told you we’d make the biggest! Stefan yelled in triumph, punching the air. He ran and threw himself into it. See, it’ll hold!
Hey, be careful! Leon screamed. You want to knock down all our hard work?
Nah, never, he replied. This is so strong.
Stefan was right. Being a combined effort, it represented more than just another bonfire. The frames held because we’d worked the base of each pole into a hole dug before we positioned them. Several tyres were first placed down the centre pole, which was tied with coils of wire at the top. The space between wood and rubber was stuffed with any kind of debris that would burn. Lastly, the interior and exterior were padded with as many branches and bushes as we could lean against the whole structure. We even put bricks into the centre, stacked around each pole. So when Stefan threw himself against the bonfire it didn’t budge. Maybe if Leon had done so it would have been a different matter.
Try it, Stefan urged Leon. Go on, see if it holds your weight.
Don’t you dare! screamed Ziggy. You’re too heavy. If you knock it over you’ll be the enemy. I’ll have to strangle you like this! He jumped into the air, put his hands around an invisible throat and, by the time he landed on his feet, the non-existent person was dead. See, that’s how it’s done. Buzz off, he threatened Leon again. But Leon just ignored him and walked away.
See you all on Cracker Night, he said.
Leon knew that when Ziggy became agitated like that, it was best to leave him alone. When Ziggy felt threatened, you backed off, showed him you meant no harm. Soon he would calm down, the bright red colour would drain from his face and he’d laugh a quivering, nervous laugh, stare at you with his big blue eyes and you’d be left wondering, What was all that about?
By the time Empire Day arrived, the bonfire was a week old and sufficiently dried out to burn quickly. From the back steps of my home I could see its peak rising among the treetops. Tonight would be special. Not even the excitement of New Year’s Eve or Christmas Day could match it — though Christmas Day meant presents, and that was a different kind of excitement.
My parents had gone to work and let me sleep in. Breakfast had been left on the table for me, and after I’d eaten it I got dressed and headed off for Duck Creek and our bonfire.
No one else was there. I wandered along the back fences and creek. Where were the others? Surely one of them might have come down earlier? Maybe they’d gone down to New Africa?
I felt an urgency rising in me. Time. The warm weather. Trees. Everything was crowding me — even the sky seemed to be pressing down.
Without realising it, I’d blundered and lost my way. That kind of thing happened rarely in this part of our suburb, but I’d walked too far and now had to cross Duck Creek at an unfamiliar spot. Never mind, I quickly doubled back to where I knew we’d built one of our crude bridges. Getting lost was no big deal anymore. We’d placed a plank at one of the narrowest parts of the creek. I hurried across it, clambered up the side and heaved myself on to the bank that skirted the fence running across Jensen Oval. The paspalum was tall and thick.
In several places there were openings in the fence; palings had been torn away because it made entry to the park easier and you could watch a game of cricket or footy for free. As I passed these openings I glanced in without expecting to see anyone — but at the fifth or sixth opening my blood froze. I couldn’t move!
In front of me, in the tall grass, were two bodies, Rocky and Maurice! Both had their trousers down around their ankles. They looked like they were wrestling or fighting, one on top of the other, puffing and grunting.
I was too scared to move away. My heart was beating like a sledge hammer. Rocky must have heard it because he turned his head towards me and I spun around.
You little rat! Quick, get ’im, Doris!
I don’t know why I had to run but I knew that I did — I had to run faster than ever before in my life. Rocky would pulverise me if he caught me. The whole incident happened so quickly, so unexpectedly, it was like part of a dream — except that this dream had turned into a horrible nightmare. I was dumbfou
nded. Struck by fear. Fear of Rocky was making me run.
Reaching the creek, I didn’t bother with finding a bridge. I jumped in and leaped through the water. One. Two. Three. Water. Bulrushes. Weeds. I finally waded through it all and scrambled up the bank. The voices were still in pursuit, yelling, threatening, gaining on me.
I’ll kill yer if yer tell! Rocky was screaming, over and over. Wait and see!
Wait and see! Maurice echoed.
Only our back fence separated me from danger. I leapt at it, one leg up, with my hands grabbing the top simultaneously. Pulling myself up and over, I fell and landed, full force, on both knees. God! That hurt! Maybe I’d broken my kneecaps? Even my jaw shuddered from the impact. Bobby was barking around me, acting like a protector. That was good. The noise would help to keep Rocky and Maurice away.
I ran inside, slammed the door, locked it. Bobby was barking, growling, sensing there was danger outside. Now I couldn’t hear anything except the dog’s barking and my own deep, grating breathing as I gasped for air. I needed water. My heart was still thudding. Boom. Boom. Pounding in rhythm with my blood.
Quieting Bobby, I stood at the kitchen sink and gulped water. I splashed my face and arms with it, then dabbed my throbbing knees with a wet washer. Flopping on to the kitchen mat, I waited, waited, regaining my breath and senses.
The kitchen sink was beneath a window that overlooked our back yard, our fence and the bushland beyond; it was the same view as from the back steps where I’d stood earlier in the day and proudly viewed our bonfire rising majestically among the trees. But as I looked out, my pride was replaced by despair when I saw that the best bonfire in the world was smoking — thick curls and loops of smoke disentangled themselves from dry branches and leaves, rose in a long yellow-and-grey column that turned into flames. Tongues of fire began to leap out from the sides, orange-coloured tongues that were becoming knives and swords slashing the sky, destroying all our hard work, all our effort.
The Sparrow Garden Page 14
