Racing the Moon Page 3

  My response was short, sharp and wounded: ‘No!’

  I got up from my bed and banged on the door. ‘Go away!’ I shouted. I needed time alone. My mind was still racing: Why should I go away to boarding school when there’s a perfectly good high school a few blocks away? This was my home, I was born here, and so were Noni and Kit. So was Matilda, but she died nearly three years ago.

  It makes me sad every time I think of her. She was only two weeks old, and never made it home from hospital. She had Kit’s blue eyes, my ears and Noni’s long fingers and toes. I’ll never forget the funeral and the little white coffin in the horse-drawn carriage. It was covered with pink and white flowers. Everyone we knew was there. They formed a guard of honour from the park on the corner all the way to the church. We cried for days until Dad told us to shut up and get on with it – whatever that means. I’ve never seen Dad cry. Whenever anyone asks me how many brothers and sisters I have, I always say ‘two sisters and one brother’, because that’s the truth.

  ‘Joe, open the door – it’s late – I’ve got to go to bed,’ Kit said, banging on the door. There was no point delaying the inevitable, so I got up and unlocked the door then went back to bed. ‘I don’t want you to go away,’ he said.

  I was still too angry and upset to speak. ‘Goodnight, Joe.’

  I pretended to be asleep. I knew that it wasn’t Kit’s fault, but he wasn’t the one being sent away to boarding school – I was.

  THE OLD OAK TREE

  CHAPTER 7

  ‘You don’t get it, do you, Joe? You’re the lucky one. I wish I was going away to boarding school instead of having to stay home, making dresses and curtains, darning holes in smelly old socks, and sewing on buttons, hundreds of damn buttons. Mum and Dad have worked really hard to save money to send you to a good school and this is the thanks they get!’ Noni was looking up into the tree, squinting, trying to find me and avoid the blinding rays of the late afternoon sun.

  ‘They can keep their bloody money, I’m not going!’ I said, looking down through the branches of the tree at the bottom half of Noni’s pink and blue dress and her skinny white legs. ‘He hates me! He wants to get rid of me!’ I shouted.

  ‘What do you expect after all the trouble you’ve caused? Dad could go to gaol if the police find out about his bookmaking business.’

  ‘Who’s going to protect Mum when I’m miles away at boarding school?’

  ‘That’s a bit rich! Most of the fights have been about you lately.’

  ‘Piss off !’

  ‘I’m telling Dad.’

  ‘Yeah? And I’ll tell Dad about your secret kissing and cuddling sessions in the backyard with what’s-his-name every Saturday night.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare!’

  Kit climbed up the tree onto the branch below me. ‘I don’t want you to go,’ he said. ‘We won’t win the cricket shield without you.’ I can always rely on Kit to lift me up when I’m feeling down. ‘Who’s gonna keep Chicka Barnes away from me? He wants to chop me up into little pieces and use me for bait!’

  ‘He’s just trying to scare you.’

  ‘Have you seen the size of the fish he catches?’

  Kit has a lot of growing up to do. Maybe he’ll grow up faster if I’m not here to look after him all the time, I thought.

  ‘I’ll pick you up from school,’ Noni called out. ‘Chicka Barnes doesn’t scare me. It’ll give me a break from sewing.’

  ‘But you’re a girl! He’ll pick on me even more if he sees me walking home with you. Nobody ever picks on me when Joe’s around.’

  ‘Please yourself, I’ve got work to do. Mrs Hargraves is collecting all of the dresses in the morning. The wedding’s on Saturday. I hope it doesn’t rain or the silk will be ruined.’

  ‘I hope it pours and all the classrooms at St Bart’s are flooded and the school is closed for good!’ As soon as I started throwing acorns at Noni, Kit joined in.

  ‘Ow! You little bastards!’ She yelled, running towards the back door. ‘I’m telling Dad. You’ll get a belting for this!’

  ‘Hey Joe, you’ll miss out on Dad’s beltings while you’re away,’ said Kit. ‘Maybe boarding school won’t be so bad after all.’

  Always the optimist – he drives me mad sometimes.

  ‘You think so? Harry says they use a bull whip on the boys at St Bart’s.’ Kit looked alarmed. ‘They’ll have to catch me first!’ I said, as I swung down onto the branch next to him. We sat and watched the sun set then waited for the full moon to appear above the rooftops.

  It’s the same tree I’ve been climbing and the same moon I’ve been watching for as long as I can remember. It’s where I’d come to hide from Dad and to dream of other places I might go, things I might do, people I might meet. I could’ve stayed up there in that old oak tree all night, staring at the moon all night. You can’t do that with the sun, you’d go blind.

  ‘Hello moon,’ I said to myself. That was how I’d greeted it ever since I was a little boy. I didn’t feel much like that boy anymore.

  LEAVING

  CHAPTER 8

  I couldn’t get to sleep – my mind was racing and my head was spinning. My business empire was being destroyed and I couldn’t do anything about it.

  Joe and Harry’s Extra Large Farm Fresh Eggs – twenty shillings a week. Harry said: ‘No problem, easy enough to get rid o’ “Joe” from the business name – a slap o’ paint should do the trick. I’ll just hafta catch the train out to Rooty Hill by meself to pick up the eggs.’ He’s big enough and ugly enough to do that, I thought. ‘A piece o’ cake!’ he said. ‘And I get to keep all the profit.’ Good ol’ best friend, Harry.

  My paper run – three shillings a week. Kit wants to take it over but he’s only ten years old. Harry’s too busy with the egg business and helping his dad with odd jobs. Not that bloody new kid from Cowra! Over my dead body!

  Altar duty – two shillings a week. Not technically a business but it keeps me in cigarettes. Father Dennis said I’ll be a hard act to follow. That was the best he could come up with after three years of dedicated service?

  I hadn’t even left and I was already the spare leg, the old billycart, the has-been. All that work down the drain.

  That night I dreamt about a tall man in a black hooded robe and shiny black shoes who was chasing me between rows of desks and then down a long, white, deserted corridor into a classroom that only had one door, no windows, no way out. I was trapped. He got closer and closer until he was towering over me. As he raised his arm, light reflected off the long metal object he was holding. His hood fell back – he had no face! I screamed and woke myself up.

  I looked across at Kit’s bed, but Kit wasn’t there. I sat up in bed in front of the open window. The leaves on the old oak tree were rustling in the cool breeze, but I was sweating. The sun was rising and burning off each cloud, one by one. It was going to be another scorcher.

  I took off my pyjamas and threw them into the open suitcase on the floor. It was really happening – I was leaving home, leaving everything I’d loved and worked for. I was going away to St Bart’s – St Bartholomew’s College for Boys. My prized possessions were in that case: a cricket ball (courtesy of Don Bradman’s bat at the Sydney Cricket Ground), rosary beads (a present from Mum for my Holy Communion), three blue ribbons for athletics (first over fifty yards, three years in a row), a family photograph (I cut Dad out; he wasn’t smiling anyway) and five pounds, ten shillings and sixpence.

  There was a pile of things on the end of my bed still to pack: spare shirt and socks, sandshoes, satchel, underwear, new comb and toothbrush. I threw them into the case, closed the lid and did up the metal clips. I looked at the school uniform hanging on the wardrobe door and snarled: a woollen blazer with a stupid school crest on the pocket, a blue shirt, and a red, blue and gold striped tie with another stupid crest. Laid out on the chair were grey woollen shorts and socks with more stupid red, blue and gold stripes. Polished black school shoes were under the chair, while a hat (
with stupid red, blue and gold striped ribbon) was hanging on the back.

  ‘I can’t do this!’ I said, looking at myself in the mirror. I’d become a spectator in my own life. I was shivering. I couldn’t stand there naked all morning, someone might see me. After kicking my case around the room, I got dressed into my uniform, except for the stupid blazer and tie.

  ‘Breakfast is ready!’ called Mum.

  Suddenly Kit ran in, spear-tackling me. ‘Rumble time!’ he shouted.

  I fell, broken-arm-first onto the floor. ‘Idiot!’

  ‘Come on, one more wrestle before you go!’

  Grabbing onto each other, we rolled from side to side on the floor, both trying to get the upper hand. The little monkey was getting stronger. Finally, he forced his way on top of me, almost in control, when I took a deep breath and, with every ounce of strength I had, pushed him off, pinning him down. I wasn’t about to lose a wrestle with my little brother.

  Looking him in the eyes, I thought: God, I’m going to miss you! I let him go and called it a tie then ran downstairs with Kit right on my tail.

  Mum was in a flap. She wasn’t making much sense. ‘How will they know you like your bacon soft or your sausages crisp or your eggs well done? Maybe there are no eggs? It’s the Depression, after all …’ Mum rambled on and on, and at the same time managed to pack a string bag with enough biscuits, cakes and fruit to feed the whole family for a week. Food was the least of my worries but I knew I’d never win that argument.

  Dad shook hands with me at the front door. ‘Goodbye son. Do us proud.’ That was it from Dad. Kit and I had a secret handshake that ended with a big bear hug and growl. Noni kissed me on the cheek and messed up my hair. I was going to miss them all, maybe even Dad eventually.

  GETTING THERE

  CHAPTER 9

  Mum talked all the way to the tram stop but when we finally got on the tram she went quiet. I looked out the window as we rattled along Glebe Point Road past the post office, Donato’s fish shop, the general store, Uncle Les and Aunt Lil’s greengrocers, Mr Thompson’s paper shop and four pubs, stopping every couple of blocks to drop off and pick up passengers. We turned left onto Parramatta Road where the abbey used to be before it was moved stone by stone to Bridge Road a few years ago. The tram picked up speed as it headed downhill onto Broadway, stopping at Grace Bros and then Railway Square, where a lot of people were queued outside one of the buildings.

  ‘They’re all out of work,’ said Mum, ‘waiting to collect their susso – you know, relief money and food, just like we had to for a little while. Remember when I picked up those vouchers from the booths at Circular Quay and then walked all the way down here? Nearly two miles – makes no sense. You can’t afford tram fares when you’re on susso. Most of those poor sods would’ve had to walk from home in the first place.’

  It felt strange sitting on a tram in my private school uniform watching poor, unemployed people queuing to pick up food and money to stay alive.

  The tram took off again down George Street, past more shops (some of them boarded up), a theatre, pubs on nearly every corner, Anthony Hordern’s department store, up to Woolworths, the Town Hall, the Queen Victoria Building and more boarded-up buildings and closed banks, and then past the GPO and Martin Place until we arrived at the Circular Quay ferry terminal.

  We caught a ferry that went under the Harbour Bridge. They started building the bridge when I was eight years old. It still wasn’t finished, just the big arch. There’s going to be a roadway, railway tracks and footpaths all hanging from the arch. It’ll be one of the wonders of the world.

  The ferry chugged past a long row of wharves and ships being loaded and unloaded. Mum pulled a booklet out of her bag and started reading it. I looked over her shoulder – ‘Prospectus’ – whatever that means. It was all about St Bart’s: ‘Catholic boys only will be accepted. Preference will be given to boys with academic and/or athletic ability. Donations gratefully accepted.’ There’s no way that Mum and Dad would’ve made a donation to the school. That left two out of four. St Bart’s must be desperate, I thought.

  When we arrived, I felt like I was walking the plank off the ferry, about to jump into deep water and left to drown. There was no-one waiting to get on, and Mum and I were the only ones to get off. Water splashed up through the holes in the rotting timber wharf as the ferry took off again. We followed a stone wall all the way up a steep hill. The sun was getting higher and hotter. ‘I’ve got blisters, I hate these shoes!’ I said, kicking the stone wall.

  ‘Stop that! Look what you’ve done to your new shoes,’ Mum whispered, looking embarrassed. I’d scuffed the leather on the toes and my blisters were hurting even more. She looked really hot and bothered but kept walking. The stone wall seemed to be going on forever until I saw two enormous sandstone pillars at the front gates. As I stopped to read the sign, Mum grabbed my arm and pulled me inside. We were late.

  We joined a crowd of people waiting on a large circle of lawn. I suddenly felt like a small fish in a big pond. The loud hum of voices went quiet as soon as a tall man wearing a long black robe and a ridiculous hat tapped on a microphone, making it screech. That’s him – that’s the man from my dream! I said to myself. He stood proudly behind a lectern that was set up on the verandah between sandstone columns.

  ‘Good morning parents, teachers and students. Welcome to St Bartholomew’s College. I am Monsignor Reynolds, the head of this esteemed college for Catholic boys. We are embarking on a journey together in which we will instil strong Catholic beliefs and principles by which all men can live, whatever their chosen path in life. This morning’s proceedings will commence with Mass in the school chapel followed by morning tea on the lawn around our magnificent rose garden. All boys are expected to help in serving tea to their parents and other special guests. At twelve o’clock, students will bid their farewells then assemble outside the Great Hall. Brother Felix will now lead us to Mass.’

  We all squeezed inside a chapel about half the size of St James’s at Glebe. I watched with a critical eye as four senior boys assisted on the altar. They were not as good as I’d expected: a little stiff and a bit too solemn. Amateurs. Boring! I looked around the chapel – no donation boxes that I could see.

  After I helped serve morning tea in the rose garden, it was time for Mum and the other parents to leave. ‘Goodbye, Joe. I’ll miss you,’ she said, her lip trembling.

  ‘I’ll miss you too.’

  ‘Before you know it, you’ll be back home for the holidays,’ she said, sniffing and wiping away the tears rolling down her cheeks with the hanky she’d been clutching. ‘Do you have your rosary beads?’

  ‘They’re right here,’ I said, putting my hand over my heart and blazer pocket. Then I gave Mum a big hug, but forgot about my broken arm. I almost knocked her over with my plaster cast. My eyes started to water and my throat felt dry.

  ‘That sun is really bright,’ I said, rubbing my eyes. Mum smiled at my pathetic excuse and squeezed my hand. I tried hard to be strong. My tears were trapped inside for a more private time.

  ORIENTATION

  CHAPTER 10

  I sleep in a dorm – that’s boarding school talk for dormitory – with nineteen other boys. It’s like a hospital but without the doctors and nurses. I have a single bed, two drawers and a coat hanger. The blankets look like they were left over from the Great War but my bedspread looks new. There’s a bathroom at one end of the dorm with concrete walls and floor, which I’m told, makes it easy to hose down. The communal shower has no taps, five shower heads and cold water only. There was no mention of that in the Prospectus. I can’t complain as that’s pretty much the situation at home where we have to boil the kettle every time we want hot water. Showers are in one-minute shifts with two bars of soap between five boys.

  Brother Sebastian watches us from a dry distance, controlling the tap, barking orders and giving helpful advice like: ‘Under the shower – don’t be shy – don’t waste water – it’s only cold if you t
hink it’s cold – ten seconds to go.’

  At my first shower, I tried thinking hot but the water stayed cold. I hate to think what it’s going to be like here in winter. With any luck, I’ll be home by then, I thought, shivering under the cold water.

  Every morning to wake us up, Brother Sebastian walks through the junior dorms ringing a loud bell and turning on the lights. The keen ones jump out of bed and are kneeling down and praying by the time he gets back.

  ‘Out of bed the rest of you! Get cracking!’

  When he calls out the morning drill, it’s a race against time: pray, make bed, go to the dunny, get dressed, polish shoes, pack satchel, run to Mass, eat breakfast (a large bowl of cold, lumpy porridge), clear tables, wash or wipe up (see kitchen roster), assemble in the Great Hall, go to class.

  Orientation on the first two days was hard work, but nothing compared to my initiation. While two senior prefects held me upside down over a dunny, another prefect with a bad breath problem yelled in my ear: ‘What are the three Rs?’ When I didn’t answer, Bad Breath yelled at me again.

  I knew it was a trick question but I had to say something. ‘Reading, Riting—’ But before I could say ’Rithmetic, one of them pulled the chain and the water from the cistern flushed all around my head. I tried to scream, but swallowed water instead. I was thrashing about and kept hitting my head on the porcelain.

  When the water cleared, I coughed and spluttered to the sound of: ‘Rowing, Rugby, Running!’ The problem was, I couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying until after the third flush. I can vouch for the fact that being held upside down does nothing to help your brain work any faster. I took Brother Sebastian’s advice and tried to imagine that the water was warm. That didn’t work either. When I finally managed to say, ‘Rowing, Rugby, Running,’ my torturers cheered, helping me to my feet. I was officially a St Bart’s boy.