There’s an ant going up my nose, Donny called out. An ant’s biting me. I’ve got to scratch my nose!
It was Leon who was shaking, trying hard not to laugh. Hope it goes right into your brain, he said to Donny.
How can it? asked Gregory. He doesn’t have a brain.
Shut your faces, Donny yelled back. All of youse!
Hey, Stefan screamed, I’m going to fall.
Now we’re all laughing, Ha ha ha!
Sister Brendan was glaring at us, going red in the face. Sister Anne looked embarrassed, sad. I thought she was going to cry. Father Donovan looked amused. The spectators couldn’t believe their eyes. Some were smiling, some giggling, some looked scared.
Stefan came tumbling down first, crying as he hit the ground, My arm’s broken! Ouch!
The two rows below him collapsed.
There were arms and legs and shoulders and heads everywhere, coming down on top of bodies, straight down and sideways, tangled up in each other. Sounds of laughter and pain came from every part of the jumble. Someone was crying. Someone laughing. There were grunts, groans, swearing.
Ouch, ouch!
Aah, oh, ah!
Hey, that’s my head!
You don’t have a head.
Who said that?
Not me.
Just wait, I’ll find out.
Get off, I’m not a pincushion.
You look like one!
Ha ha!
I think my nose’s broken.
That’ll improve your looks.
What looks?
You oughta talk.
We straightened up, rearranged our clothes, a sorry lot of young athletes, wondering what lay in store for us. We knew we’d let down Sister Anne, and in our hearts we were sorry for her. This was supposed to be our moment of glory; instead it was going to end up as our day of shame. I hated to think what fate lay in store for us next day at school.
Donny whispered, Gee, I’m sorry, fellas.
Wait’ll I get my hands on you, Leon hissed. I’m going to rub my bruises into your face.
The playground suddenly became a sea of applause, an eruption of clapping, cheering and whistling that hit us like a wave breaking on the beach, lifting us with its strength and holding us up high, shining in the sun, then dumping us back on to the sand, back to a different kind of reality.
The entire assembly, school children and visitors, was applauding us, even the nuns and Father Donovan.
We were stunned. Left speechless.
Donny whispered just loud enough for the pyramid boys to hear, There wasn’t any ant. Fooled youse!
Stefan yelled out, What did you say? He broke formation, ran straight at Donny and gave him a dead leg. You nearly busted my arm! he was screaming. Take that!
Hey, watch it, squirt! Donny rubbed his thigh, trying to pretend that it didn’t hurt. He pushed Stefan away.
Don’t shove me around, you liar, Stefan answered back, throwing a punch and hitting Donny on the arm.
That’s it. You asked for it, you little pipsqueak.
Before you could blink twice they were both rolling on the ground, swearing at each other, throwing punches, missing more than they were connecting.
Donny was bigger and stronger than Stefan, and so Leon and Ziggy and I ran over to help him. Blindly, we threw ourselves into the brawl. As we did, I felt a fist hit me in the mouth and I tasted blood, hot, as it ran from my bottom lip. Hell’s bells, I cried, I was only trying to help Stefan!
Once again there were arms and legs in a tangle. Punches were collecting me in the head, on my back and on my neck. This was serious. All ten boys had now joined in the fighting. We were all trying to help one another. Leon was laughing his head off. This was fun. Hey, Greg, stop picking your nose! Can you believe it, he’s picking his nose instead of fighting?
A whistle was blown over our heads, loud and long, and into our ears.
Sister Brendan, of course! Who else?
All of you, break it up, you bold, brazen lads! Such disgraceful behaviour in front of your parents and visitors and Father Donovan himself. Such un-Christian-like behaviour! What would the Lord and the Mother of God think if they were here?
They’d think Donny was a rat, Sister, for doing what he did, said Stefan, wiping his face. They’d think Gregory was rude for picking his nose in public, too. He did, Sister, honestly he did. It was during the fight but we all saw him, didn’t we, didn’t we?
We all nodded while Gregory took deep breaths, his eyes two black smouldering coals beneath his thick black eyebrows. Shut your face or I’ll shut it. Little wog!
Gregory, mind your language! Sister said. Or you’ll have your mouth washed out with soap.
Father Donovan strode over like Old King Cole, big and important, waving his arms, restoring calm. The school spectators were cheering and whistling again, obviously having enjoyed the fight. Some men were calling out, More, more! Let ’em slug it out!
Now, boys, said Father, we’ll be having no more of that. Let’s see you all shake hands with the boy next to you … Like he’s just brought you a bag of lollies and he’s your best friend … Come, now, Gregory, Terence, Joseph … That’s it, all of you, shake hands.
We all shook hands, some seriously, others trying not to laugh.
Thank you, boys … Oh thank you all, each and every one. Sister Anne was running over to us. I’m so proud of you all. She’d been forgotten in the fight and there she stood now, like an angel, wringing her hands, weeping with gratitude.
Off we went in all directions, like lambs or calves that’ve been separated from their mothers, returning instinctively to where we knew our parents waited, in whichever part of the paddock, some of us with bloodied noses, with bruises, with scratches, skinned knees and elbows. Never mind, our parents would say, you are all heroes, the pyramid boys who made the impossible possible.
There they go, Sister, Father Donovan was saying as he waved us off, the future leaders of Australia.
Would you be coming to the convent for a wee dram of refreshment, Father?
Why, thank you, Sister, yes, I will avail myself of your kind invitation … Yes, and why not? A little drop in the tumbler would be just the thing at the end of an unforgettable day in the life of our parish. First I must say farewell to some of the parishioners, if I may?
Certainly, Father, whenever you are ready … My, my, won’t it be a grand day when this bunch of little hooligans marches off to high school?
Now, now, Sister, boys will be boys …
II
Bullseye!
Something in the vegetable garden behind the garage catches my eye. The small gate is dilapidated, hanging to its post by one hinge, but it still manages to stay attached to the picket fence.
It’s a “lucky stone” — one of those flat, polished stones you find in riverbeds or in watercourses. How did it get here? It’s probably been in the soil for years and has now come to the surface. Picking it up, I turn it over, as if I expect to find something rare.
The colour is a pale grey, with a swirl of white around its edge in a marbling effect. Lying flat in my right palm, it resembles a miniature flying saucer, waiting for a command.
Without a second thought as to why I’m doing it, I pick it up in my left hand and send it spinning over the back fence, hoping, as I bite my bottom lip and hold my breath, that it will land in Duck Creek. From the sound of grasses or weeds, I know it does.
At first it spun and swerved horizontally, inscribing an upward arc, before levelling out. Still spinning, it fell forward quickly, until I lost sight of it over the fence. That was when I listened for the sound of it hitting the ground. That was when I heard myself cry out “Bullseye!”, forty-four or forty-five years earlier.
Before Mary Street was settled fully there was an abundance of bushland on both sides. We lived on the western side, and in front of our house there were two vacant blocks, heavily overgrown with gum trees. A track — a shortcut to the shops and railway stati
on — connected Mary Street to Elaine Street behind these blocks.
Three of us were playing on the vacant blocks with shanghais, trying to hit birds and cats or dogs that happened to come into view. There was a boldness in that kind of venture that adults would condemn as careless. Nice boys didn’t shoot at birds and try to hit other people’s pets. In those days, there was nothing nice about us because we were wogs, foreigners, and children of Bloody Balts from across the sea who were displacing the True-Blue Aussies. It didn’t matter when the True-Blue Aussies’ sons and daughters committed violations against Nature or Society. However, because we spoke a different language and ate black bread and salted herrings, we were different and our actions were often frowned upon and derided. So we learnt to retaliate with defiance, bravado, wilful acts of disobedience. As we grew into adulthood we would learn that this was the wrong way to go about proving ourselves. We were to discover that success at school and in the workforce counted for a lot more than retaliation with stones and sticks.
The O’Sullivans lived in Elaine Street and had two daughters, Christine and Lynette. Mrs O’Sullivan was small as a mouse; she walked with her head tilted to one side, as if her neck was paralysed. When I passed her in the street she would swivel her body around, look up, say, Oh, it’s you. Hello, then she’d break into a giggling fit. I truly believed that she was slow-witted. Once I laughed a reply behind her back, Ha-ha, and ran off. She waved a finger at me and threatened, I’ll tell your mother, you know, I will. She giggled, screwing up her thin face as she did, balanced herself on her toes, pirouetted a full circle and continued walking away from me.
Mr O’Sullivan was an accountant who worked in the city. Dressed in a white shirt and black tie, he wore arm bands and his sleeves rolled down. Fully dressed in a black suit he looked like an undertaker. He carried a wooden brief case to and from work. Short like his wife, he walked with a briskness that made it seem like he’d been wound up. His hair was combed back, slick and impeccably clean, like Mandrake the Magician’s.
Some altercation occurred between Christine O’Sullivan and me. She was pointing from her front gate at me, taunting, laughing, Go on, I dare you! Bet you can’t hit me, bet you can’t!
Go on, said Stefan and Ziggy together. Go on …
I didn’t bother putting the lucky stone I’d picked up into my shanghai; it flew from my hand like it had received a papal blessing. Nothing was going to stop it.
Bullseye! Ziggy and Stephan yelled together, slapping their thighs and gasping, as Christine O’Sullivan put her hand to her forehead and dropped to her knees as if she’d been poleaxed. Her sister screamed and ran into their house. I was in big trouble.
It just couldn’t happen!
How?
How could I have hit Christine O’Sullivan from such a distance? And, as I was to find out afterwards, right between the eyes.
I took off as fast as my legs would carry me, first into the house and then into the bush, my shanghai inside my shirt, out of sight. Bullseye or no bullseye, there was no way in the world I was going to surrender it. Stefan and Ziggy came with me, providing logic and solace with phrases like, She’ll be okay, don’t worry. Or, Mate, at least you didn’t kill her. The truth was — and I knew it — that I was in plenty of hot water. Silly small Mrs O’Sullivan didn’t worry me, but once my mother discovered what I’d done, that was it!
When Stefan and Ziggy left and quiet returned to the bush, I came out of my hiding place and returned home. The dog met me on the back steps and licked my hands and face in sympathy. In my mind’s eyes, all I could see was Christine hitting the ground on her knees, hands up to her face. Hell, what if I’d scarred her for life? Somehow damaged her permanently? What if her parents took me to court? What if … What if …
My father returned from work first and changed into his home work clothes. I managed to avoid him, or at least to avoid his eyes.
Nothing’s wrong? he asked.
No, I lied. Why do you ask?
You seem strange. Are you sick or something?
Sick! My stomach was turning like a cement mixer! How could he tell? No, I’m not, I lied again.
Alright. Stay inside if you want to — but put the dog outside.
Bobby went outside promptly, wagging his tail, down to his kennel. I read comics in my bedroom until I heard my mother returning. She would change her clothes as well, then busy herself with the preparation of dinner. In the summer months, when light lasted longer, first of all she would help my father in the garden. While he dug rows of earth she would plant seeds or seedlings. Sometimes they argued over what should go where, but no matter how drastically their opinions differed, they would end up agreeing. Afterwards, the whole garden would be watered.
No sooner did I hear her moving about in the kitchen than there was a loud knocking on the back door.
I could hear Mrs O’Sullivan’s voice calling, Mrs … Mrs … !
She couldn’t pronounce our surname and mangled it as she continued knocking at the door. Mrs … !
My mother went running through the house like it was on fire. I could hear Mrs O’Sullivan’s raised voice, see her contorted face in my mind’s eye as she blurted out the accusation. I heard my name called out sternly in Polish.
Mrs O’Sullivan and Christine stood at the back door; Bobby was licking Christine’s hand and she was smiling through her tears, patting the dog’s head. Between her eyes was a purple lump the shape and size of a thimble. I had expected it to be bigger.
Sparrows were twittering among the tomato rows, playing their own games.
He nearly killed my daughter, Mrs … Her pronunciation sounded like Skaznatski or Skanerski … Look, will you — oh, just look, will you!
My father walked over and stood with a hoe in his hand, his hat pushed back on his head.
Bobby was sniffing around Mrs O’Sullivan’s ankles.
Did you do this? my mother snapped at me, pointing at Christine’s forehead.
Yes, I said, but she dared me to.
Wait here. She whipped around and walked into the kitchen directly behind us.
I heard one of the drawers being opened. Cutlery rattled.
She came out with one hand behind her back.
Apologise to Christine!
No! She dared me.
Apologise! Her voice was raised. Her mouth was set. She was breathing quickly.
No!
Apologise, Peter. My father spoke gently but firmly, nodding his head; it was his way of coaxing words out of me.
My mother was having none of this playing around. For the last time, apologise.
For the last time, I blurted out, no!
Her hand appeared in less than an eye-blink takes and the wooden spoon connected with the back of my right leg. I will remember that flat sound of wood on skin for the rest of my life. My leg stung immediately; it felt hot and it was burning.
The faces before me were watery, blurry, and I knew I was trying to see them through my tears. Mrs O’Sullivan stepped back, grabbed Christine’s hand and started to leave.
No! my mother cried. He has not yet apologised. Turning to me, she commanded, Apologise!
No! Never. Not as long as I live!
In swift succession two more smacks followed on the other leg and I was apologising to Christine, her mother, the dog, my father and the rest of the world — anybody and anything that cared to listen. I didn’t care anymore.
Now, my mother said calmly, the punishment is over. He has apologised and will go to his room. You two may go home. I am very sorry about what he did. Christine’s swelling will go down and one day they will be friends again. Luckily, the skin was not broken.
All of a sudden Mrs O’Sullivan was jumping up and down, screaming, shooing Bobby away. Oh, goodness me! Look at what the filthy dog’s done. He’s wet my shoe … You people, what sort of country did you come from? Your animals are just like you — barbaric! … Come on, darling, let’s get out of here. She grabbed Christine’s hand a
nd stormed out of the garden, up the side of the house, slamming the gate behind her. Just as they disappeared from view, Christine turned around and poked her tongue out at me.
My father came over and put his arm around my shoulders. Come on, he said. Take Bobby with you and go to your room or help me out the back — whichever you prefer. My mother disappeared into the house. I wanted to hate her, to yell at her and blame her for the minutes of pain and shame. If I stayed outside with Dad I knew she would follow shortly, so I went to my room and curled up with Bobby, rubbing the backs of my legs. They were red. They hurt. They had welts. Bobby licked them and gradually the pain ebbed away. Or maybe it just felt like the pain wasn’t there … At least Bobby was on my side.
Hey, Bobby, that was pretty good — peeing on the old witch’s shoe. Thanks. I was laughing, unable to stop myself. Bobby wagged his tail madly.
That evening I was called to dinner formally. My mother knocked on my bedroom door and told me that food was ready. We ate in the kitchen, at a small round table that folded in the middle so that it became semi-circular. The flat side was placed against the wall and we ate in those three places for as long as we lived in 10 Mary Street: my father in the far corner between the walls; my mother in the middle so that access to the stove and sink was easiest for her; me, because I am left-handed, directly opposite my father, next to the door that opened into the dining-lounge room area.
The welts on my legs had turned from dark red to a kind of light orange colour, tinged with purple. But the marks still hurt and I wasn’t going to pretend that they didn’t. All my life, even now, unless I am at somebody’s home or out in public, when I sit down I automatically put my right leg under me and sit on it. Comfortable as a cushion. This time I couldn’t because it meant sitting on the welts.
We talked about the day, about my father travelling to and from work, about my mother cleaning the homes of the O’Brien and the O’Neil families. She remarked on the number of bedrooms in many of these big houses in Strathfield she had cleaned, how heavy the vacuum cleaners were to carry upstairs and how the numerous children sometimes drove her to annoyance. She had favourites in these two households, two small boys, Paul and Michael, who confided all the family secrets to her and loved her like an aunty. She loved them in return, and would take extra doughnuts and potato dumplings from our kitchen for them to share with her while she had her lunch.
The Sparrow Garden Page 16
