Who? Why?
The dog followed as I ran screaming outside, protesting, Put it out! Put it out! even though I couldn’t see anybody else there, until, in the distance, running towards the middle of Jensen Oval, I spotted Rocky and Maurice, laughing their heads off, pointing back to the fire.
Revenge! This was their way of punishing me for what I’d stumbled across. But why, what had I seen? I wasn’t even sure anymore.
I climbed back over the fence and, without thinking twice, broke off a wattle-tree branch and started beating and swearing, trying to do the impossible, trying to save what was left to save. Stefan appeared, screaming as he ran over, Hey, what’d you do that for?
You dope, I didn’t do it. Help me! Come on, hurry up!
Help? It’s impossible, can’t you see? We’ll never put it out. He broke off a branch from a nearby tree and began attacking the burning heap — but it was impossible. No sooner would we extinguish one part than another would start burning. Our eyes were watering from the smoke. Hey, let’s get our crackers and have some fun! Stefan suggested.
No way, I said. I’ll let mine off somewhere else tonight.
Suit yourself, he said. That’s probably a better idea.
We stood back, defeated. The fire gave a roaring whoosh as a gust of wind blew through it. It was a pity that Leon and Ziggy weren’t here to see how their bonfire was burning. It was a wonder that more kids or even grown-ups didn’t turn up to ask why a bonfire was burning this early on Empire Day.
Stefan asked, How do you think it got started?
I’ve got no idea, I lied.
We smelt of smoke and ashes. Our skin and clothes were blackened, dirty, and we looked like a pair of chimney sweeps by the time we were ready to leave the remains of our bonfire. The awful smell of burning rubber lasted long after the last branches collapsed into heaps of ash. When Ziggy and Leon came around in the afternoon we went to have a look. The stink of burning rubber lingered. Ashes still glowed. Smoke trailed in wisps like the tails of kites. We agreed it was terrible to find your bonfire destroyed. Down in the dumps — that’s where our feelings were. We’d been reduced to bags of misery. Worst of all was not knowing how the fire started.
But what had I seen?
Rocky had threatened to kill me if I told what I saw — and I didn’t want to die.
Weeks later, on a cold June morning, I met Rocky on the way to school, along the track that ran beside the pipeline. He walked straight up to me like he owned the world and asked me, Didja tell anyone?
I shook my head, feeling one hundred per cent scared stiff.
Good. If yer smart you’ll keep yer gob shut. If you don’t, then we’ll burn yer house down. Okay?
I nodded.
With that he knocked my school case from my hand, hit me over the head, connecting with my ear, and walked off, flexing his muscles like he always did to emphasise his strength.
My ear burnt as I thought about Cracker Night and what just happened. I resumed walking along the track and sparrows hopped beside me, twittered, flew up on to the pipeline and back again. Why was Rocky so worried? That I might tell? What I’d seen had become something of a blur. It didn’t mean anything to me that I understood or could explain. If he hadn’t burnt down our bonfire I might not even have remembered it.
Two Boys Fighting
I am in the office of the Headmaster, Brother J. Magee, at St Patrick’s College, Strathfield. The room is more like a parlour than an actual office but it does have a desk and chairs. There is paperwork on the desk. It is the last school term of 1955 and my mother has brought me along to be enrolled for the following year. Brother Magee is a tall man with black hair and a big smile. He looks a happy man, a man pleased with his calling in life, as my father would say.
We have a reference from Dr John O’Brien for whom my mother has been working in Strathfield since 1952. He sent his sons here until secondary school, after which they attended Riverview College in Hunters Hill. We also have all my reports from St Peter Chanel’s, but I’ve noticed that the letter from Doctor O’Brien is what Brother Magee is most interested in.
The building we’re in is on the corner of two streets and set well back from the footpath, opposite the secondary school building where a statue of Our Lady stands, on top, with arms outstretched. Two large pine trees grow between the monastery and the brick fence. Roses blaze in the sun like red, yellow and pink fires. The air around them glows with a light that is unique, that is created only around roses and brightens the immediate area, making it seem that the roses are burning. I know this from the roses we have in our own garden. When I’m at home, it actually hurts my eyes to look straight into the faces of roses in full sunlight, into their centres where bees circle and buzz. Their perfume is fragrant, strong, so heavy I can almost taste it.
My mother has taken a fancy to the roses and has been saying, Aren’t they beautiful? Isn’t this a beautiful school? A college, Peter. You must be on your best behaviour at all times. The Brothers have an excellent gardener. Have you ever seen more magnificent roses, Peter?
Yours, Mum.
Other boys and their parents are also waiting outside on the lawns, sitting on benches in the sun. Some of the mothers wear gloves and hats; the fathers are dressed in suits. Nearly all of the boys are wearing uniforms from the different convent schools they attend. I’m wearing a white shirt because my mother always makes me wear a white shirt when I go to church and on other special occasions. Anything to do with church or priests is always a special occasion. Now, anything to do with Christian Brothers will be the same; but my school tie gives me away and I notice that it’s the same as most of the other boys — that navy woven silk with gold bars and cut straight across the bottom.
Two of the boys are pushing each other around. I can hear them through the open door. Brother Magee is ignoring the noise, which keeps getting louder. Their mothers shake them by the arms and the two boys glare at each other like they’re about to break out in a fight.
So, Mrs Skrzynecki, Brother Magee says in parting, as he escorts us from the parlour. We are happy to have Peter at St Patrick’s College next year. Dr O’Brien is a good man, a pillar of the Strathfield community. He shakes our hands and pats me on the back. Peter will be looked after here. We give our boys the best education. We train them in the Spirit of Our Lord, Jesus Christ, to be ambassadors for Our Blessed Lady, and to be Christian gentlemen. He points to the statue of Our Lady.
As he says the words “Christian gentlemen” there is a loud noise, like a roar, and the two boys that were pushing each other around fall to the ground.
My gang’s going to be called Robin Hood. Yours — yours can be the Sheriff of Nottingham, says the boy with straight brown hair that was slicked back but has now fallen across his face. He’s laughing into the face of the other boy, the one with blond hair — and that’s making this second boy even madder.
The Sheriff of Nottingham was the Black Prince — and — I — don’t — want to be the Black Prince! I — I — want to be Robin Hood! The second boy is almost screaming. He has freckles, a solid build. He is slightly chubby. His hair is shorter and combed straight back, not as long as the other’s. I can see that both are strong. Their hands are pushing into each other’s faces and chests, but there’s also anger in their eyes. This is not a sudden flare-up. This has been building. These two must know each other. Maybe they’re mates? They are getting redder and redder in the face and both think they have a point to prove. Each one wants to win. Their mothers are calling out for them to stop this fighting, but the boys ignore them. Other parents are watching, hands held up to their mouths in shock. Their sons, who will become new pupils at St Patrick’s next year, are laughing, trying hard to hide their enjoyment. In the tumble of wresting of bodies, before Brother Magee can come out and separate them, the blond boy straddles the brown-haired boy and pins his shoulders to the ground with his knees. He yanks his tie up and down very hard, very quickly. Using both hands now, he p
ositions the knot and pulls the tie tight, into the other’s Adam’s apple. The brown-haired boy coughs, splutters, throws his arms around as if he’s drowning. Now, tell me, Charley Kiggins, the blond boy screams, Who’s going to be the Black Prince? He is defiant, ignoring everybody who is telling him to get off Charley Kiggins, to let him go or he’ll be expelled before he’s even enrolled. I don’t care! he is calling back. I’m not going to be the Black Prince! He steals from people — and I’d never do that!
Somehow, even though his face is turning purple and his eyes are rolling, though he’s given up the fight to try and heave the blond boy off his chest, Charley Kiggins manages to scream back, Never, I’ll never give in!
Say it — say you’ll be the Black Prince!
Never, Charley manages to answer back, but his voice is a strangled whisper, like the last drops of water running down a drain. His face is changing colour, from red to purple to blue, and back to red. His eyes are closed. Is he dead, dying, or just pretending?
Oh, Mother of God! He’s killing him! My mother turns me round. Don’t look!
Let me watch, Mum! This is a great fight!
Brother Magee is pushing through the circle of parents and pupils. He appraises the situation in the blink of an eye. He whips his cincture aside, puts his hand into his habit and pulls out a penknife. Opening it as he steps forward, he lifts the blond boy up by the shoulders, heaves him out of the way, kneels beside Charley Kiggins and cuts through his tie, sawing more than cutting because the silk will not part easily.
There, there, son, you’ll be right as rain in no time. He leaps up, briskly adjusts his clothes and stares at the blond-haired boy.
And what might your name be, son?
Anthony Tully.
Anthony Tully, Sir. Brother Magee stares at the boy. He sounds stern but friendly at the same time. I like this man already. I want to see how he will dispense justice. Will it be like Sister Brendan, with a clout to the head, or a prod in the back with his knuckles?
What school are you from, Anthony?
Holy Innocents Croydon, Sir.
Turning to Charley Kiggins, who by this stage has regained his feet but is still coughing and rubbing his eyes, he asks, What school are you from, son?
Holy Innocents Croydon, Sir.
And what is your name?
Charles Kiggins, Sir. The poor boy is rubbing his neck.
Ah, says Brother Magee, both of you are from Holy Innocents. What a coincidence. How is my friend, the school principal, Mother Brendan, boys?
They look at each other, surprised, but don’t answer. What can they say?
Mother Brendan? Is he joking? Does that mean there’s another nun in Sydney with the same name as the one that has tormented me for the last four years? I almost blurt out, I know a Sister Brendan, Sir, but manage to keep my mouth shut. Besides, I also want to see how this incident will turn out. Brother Magee continues … And who might your class teacher be, boys?
The two reply as one, Sister Mary Lawrence, Sir.
Ah, Sister Lawrence, Sanctity personified! Boys, boys, or should I say men, men — for that is what you are now: men, men of God. How would Sister Mary Lawrence feel if she witnessed your behaviour just now? Would she be proud of you? Look, look into the faces of your mothers — those walking saints — are they proud? Or are they ashamed of the behaviour of their sons? And, men, what will your fathers say when this is reported to them?
By now Anthony and Charles are standing with hang-dog expressions on their faces, and both look like they’re about to start crying. Neither one is game to look up.
All right, men, says Brother Magee, let’s see you shake hands and apologise to each other.
Reluctantly, as if there’s a gun pointed in their direction, they murmur, Sorry, Charley, and Sorry, Tony, and shake hands.
Now, says our new principal, I’ll see you both outside my office in a few minutes. Goodbye, again, Mrs Skrzynecki. Goodbye, Peter. Give my regards to Doctor O’Brien and his good wife, Molly … and to all the O’Briens.
He waves to us and my mother turns me around, but not before she says, You have beautiful roses, Brother.
That’s the fruit of the labour of a former principal — and gardener — Brother Quirke. He established those treasures. May God bless the man and may God bless you, Mrs Skrzynecki.
The fires of the roses continue burning, consuming the sunlight and giving up their own light and heat. My mother and I walk back to the corner, to the bus stop across the road where we will catch the 414 bus to take us back to Strathfield railway station. Wasn’t that great, Mum — that fight? Do you think Brother will give them the cane?
Here, the boys receive the strap.
Strap? What sort of strap?
Oh, just a little strap that doesn’t hurt much. You get it across the hand if you are naughty.
How do you know?
Mrs O’Brien told me.
At the bus stop we meet another Polish lady and her son. Her name is Mrs Tekla Milcz and her son’s name is Andrzej. Call him Andrew, she says to me. They, too, are returning to the railway station. Andrew and I nod to each other respectfully but he seems shy and it takes him a while to begin talking freely. I notice he turns away from us a lot and stares in the opposite direction. By the time the bus arrives, however, we have learnt that they arrived in Australia a year before us and live in Granville. Her husband, Oleg, was a lawyer in Lithuania, but now works for Murray Brothers in Parramatta. Mrs Milcz is a very beautiful woman and seems like she has come from an aristocratic family. When we get off to change trains at Lidcombe, Andrew and I have talked and found we both like drawing and painting, and collecting pictures of wrestlers from the newspapers. We say that we’ll be friends when school goes back and bring in our wrestling scrapbooks to show each other.
My mother and I don’t talk very much after that. The weather’s still hot and I feel sleepy. It’s a ten-minute wait for our train. I keep thinking about the fight, about Charley and Anthony, about Andrew and his mother. I ask my mother, Do you think I’ll be friends with those boys when I grow old and turn thirty or forty? My mother replies, I’m sure you will … Anyway, it’s all in God’s hands.
The carriage is half-empty and the train continues to rattle and jolt even after it picks up speed. My mother is quiet; her eyes are closed. I ask, What are you thinking about, Mum?
Roses, she says. I had a dream once that I died and went to Heaven. It was all roses!
Roses
My mother grew roses
whose names
belonged to a different era —
Apollo, Montezuma, Mr Lincoln,
whose petals and whorls
gave off such reflections
you’d shield your eyes
in mid-summer
as you walked through
the front garden.
They grew like aristocrats
in rows and circular plots
behind bricks
and grey paling fences —
those magnificent presences
that somehow gave
our suburban lives
a different kind of meaning.
People returning home
from the factories
in the afternoon
would stop to smell them
or comment on their beauty.
“Have some,” my mother
would offer. “I have plenty.”
She cared for her roses
with the same attention
you might in rearing a child —
watering, feeding, pruning,
knowing what needed doing
and what time of the year
it had to be done.
My mother never studied
history or mythology,
never debated what
immortality might mean.
Her home was her castle
and she was content
to work among roses to the end —
remaining, in
her own realm,
a woman who was neither
servant nor queen.
Last Performance
For the last Physical Culture performance at St Peter Chanel’s, a group of ten boys was trained by Sister Anne to build a human pyramid by getting down on their hands and knees, first four, then three on top of four, then two on three, and finally one on top of two. As one of the heavier boys, I was on the second-bottom row with Ziggy and Freddy McAlpine. Our “top boy” was Stefan, small and light. He enjoyed clambering up on to the backs of the larger boys while they steadied themselves. Look at me, look at me, he would laugh, I’m a monkey!
You’re a nut! Donny yelled back from the bottom row.
A coco-nut, Leon called out, also on the bottom row. Because of their size and weight, they were down there with Joseph Risotto and Gregory Hogan.
Boys, boys! poor Sister Anne, all flustered, would call, and come running.
Whenever we tumbled it was on to green grass. Bones hit bones, elbows connected with skulls, shoulders and arms hit the ground. There were no mats, nothing to cushion our falls. Apart from this display, Sister Anne also trained us in marching, captain ball, tunnel ball, relays, and novelty events such as three-legged races, egg-and-spoon races and bowling hoops. This pyramid was her crowning event, proof that she was a capable teacher, that she could train the boys of St Peter Chanel’s to perform something special.
Sister clapped her hands and we sprang into action just as we’d done so many times at practice. This was the finale to the Physical Culture demonstration. It had to be perfect.
First row, second row, third row. All was going well. Now Stefan had to climb over our backs and shoulders, as our bones creaked and muscles hurt with the weight on them and the strain of concentrating and holding the formation together. The effort was as much mental as it was physical.
Stefan reached the top and stood there, arms held out, feet spread, in a star shape. For whatever reason, the pyramid began to shake more than it had at practice. Not just wobble, but shake.
Somebody on the bottom row was laughing, trying to hold it in, but laughing, shaking. We could feel the vibrations spreading up the pyramid.
The Sparrow Garden Page 15
