Satan’s little helpers
by
John Kelly
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Published by: Aquinine Books,
51 Roy St. Donvale, 3111 Victoria, Australia.
This book is a work of fiction. Apart from its historical time and setting, the characters and incidents portrayed are the product of the author’s imagination, as are the Religious Orders with which they are affiliated. 12th Batallion RAR is ficticious. Any resemblance to actual events, referred to in other Military Units, or persons or real organisations similar in name and description, is purely coincidental.
First published in 2004
Copyright 2004 by John B. Kelly
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations contained in critical articles or reviews.
The National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Kelly, John Bernard, 1945- .
Satan's little helpers.
ISBN 0 646 43679 1.
1. Catholics - Fiction. 2. Baby boom generation - Fiction.
I. Title.
A823.4
Permission to reproduce in part, Harold Holt’s speech 29thJune 1966 in Washington D.C., granted by the Department of Communications, Information Technology and the Arts, Commonwealth Copyright Administration, Intellectual Property Branch. Reference No. 7540.
Cover painting: Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, Melbourne, reproduced by permission of the artist, Ted Dansey.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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ACKOWLEDGEMENTS
My thanks to Diana Schaffer, Kathleen Kelly, and Suzann Knott, who took on the task of editing, and for being as frank and forthright as they were. To Rita, Nancy and Frank, for giving me a crash-course in Italian. To my wife Joanne, who endured long, lonely hours watching television while I laboured on the computer, my special thanks.
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‘ the truth shall set you free.’ (John 8, v31)
‘And what is truth?’ Pilate asked. (John 19, v38)
SATAN’S LITTLE HELPERS
1. The Aquinine Legacy
I remembered my brother Mark telling me the school’s days were numbered, but I let it slip my mind. I had even forgotten the local paper reporting some months earlier that it was about to become a luxurious residential estate, to be crammed with fine homes only the rich could afford. Not so surprising. It was sold for a bundle of money, after being paid for by the sweat of thousands of parents who sacrificed a better life to give their children the opportunity of receiving what was perceived as a good Catholic education. But now, as I drove closer, it was actually happening.
It was a mild morning in September and I was on my way to an appointment. The sun was shining brightly in the east; the pale, grey moon setting in the west; the car was running smoothly, I was happily humming to the music on the cd player and it was one of those days when it felt good to be alive. As my car rounded the bend, trapped in a single line of traffic that snaked its way toward the city, something caught my eye. I stopped humming as I sensed a disturbance. As the traffic allowed me to inch closer, my eyes widened, my jaw dropped, and the adrenalins began to flow freely. My mental reaction was, 'Jesus, can it be true?’ As I came yet closer, a voice from within me asked, ‘Is this a vision…am I dreaming?’ It was the dust that caused my uncertainty. It covered almost half the property, and sat suspended about ten metres above the ground, spreading its wings as if about to take flight. However, there was no wind, so it sat there, hovering above.
Below the eerie mist, I beheld my old school, Placidus College, run by the Order of the Aquinine Brothers, founded by one Father Henri Aquinaux, a somewhat eccentric 19th Century French Aristocrat turned priest. He had an enthusiasm for Roman History, so the story went, and he encouraged his charges, at the time of their profession, to adopt a religious name consistent with his obsession. He showed the way by choosing for himself the name Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, who he wrote, ‘ruled the Empire with integrity, morality and wisdom.’ My old school however, was now the subject of a different kind of wisdom. It was being bulldozed and demolished with all the integrity and morality the wreckers could muster. I was listening to Tchaikovsky’s 1812 overture, and the cannons were heralding the battle at Borodino, as the wreckers let loose with the great metal ball. As it thundered into its rendered brick target, the cannons fired yet again, and instinctively, I exclaimed, ‘yes’, delighted to see the wrecking ball crash its way through another external wall.
As I continued staring, my mind in a confused state of awe and delight, I failed to notice the amber light appear at the pedestrian crossing six or seven cars ahead of me. Suddenly my attention was drawn to the car in front of me braking. ‘Jesus I’m going to hit him’. I slammed on the brakes, and stopped millimetres from its rear. The driver behind managed to respond in kind. I listened to the dreadful sound of brakes screeching behind me, but mercifully there was no sound of metal to metal. Time to exit. I could not let the moment pass that quickly. I made a left turn, hearing the protests manifested in the bleating of car horns, and one very audible, “You fucking idiot,” coming from the driver of a blue holden utility. I ignored him, made a three point turn and waited patiently for the traffic to pass. I decided my appointment could wait. The company’s fortunes could wait. I longed to see more. From the intersection I could make out the mangled wreckage, the broken concrete, the twisted steel reinforcing mesh, and the bricks piled up in pyramids. My first thoughts were of the proceeds of the sale, which one could only surmise, would now be used to house these retired old men, these imitation Caesars, who taught me all those years ago.
Did I say taught? I am generous. For years, each time I drove past, I continued to feel the stress and sense of incrimination that long ago had become synonymous with this place; the desperation felt when you expected something bad to happen. It was a feeling of guilt. Someone had seen me, and was about to stop and interrogate me for something, only I didn’t have a clue what it was. It’s not that I was stupid. A bit simple maybe, but not stupid. One does not teach oneself to play the piano if one is stupid. However, being raised Catholic, seduced by the power of the pulpit, the Aquinine Brothers, and an ever-present fear that Satan would grab me by the balls and burn me alive, obviously did nothing for my confidence.
However, every cloud has a silver lining, as my mother used to say, and on this particular day the clouds were about to deliver. This day those negative memories gave way to sheer elation. There it was. Or more correctly, there it was not. All twisted and mangled in a cloud of dust that looked more like a bombsite than a school, it was in a state of partial demolition. ‘Oh joy oh rapture.’ A feeling of utter delight shot through me. ‘What a joy to behold. What poetic justice!’
The line of traffic ended and I made quickly for the side street. Parking adjacent to the school, I slipped Tchaikovsky’s Cappricio Italien into the CD player, and sat and watched those huge machines rip the place apart. It was better than sex. Well, almost. I stayed there for over an hour, watching classroom after classroom being reduced to rubble. The memories of my time spent sitting in those rooms, listening to men in black cassocks fill my head with their peculiar, and narrow-minded attitude to life came flooding back.
As I sat, watched and silently cheered the school’s demise, I recalled its only redeeming feature, the one positive reflection I could muster. It had been the common link that brought the three of us together. The three of us, all born within four hours of each other under the same roof, in the same hospital. Megan, Michelle and I. My name is Simon Hickey and, but for this school, the three of us might never have met. Suffice to say that although the place did have this redemptive side, my joy at watching its demise was absolute. Megan probably would not have agreed. She would have seen it differently; with more compassion and with the sentimentality only a woman can muster. Not for me however. Seeing it erased from the landscape was for me, ecstasy, and for the time I spent sitting and watching, no redemptive quality was going to interfere with my joy
2. Men in Black Cassocks
Do I sound too harsh? Perhaps you think I am overstating my feelings. Perhaps you recall your own experiences at school and wonder if my negative recollections are exaggerated. It is possible that my view is distorted. However, first impressions are generally lasting impressions, especially when experienced at a very young age. I still see that frightening image today. That figure, in a black cassock, with a black cord around his waist knotted on the side leaving two ends that extended all the way down to his enormous black shoes. His big arms folded, partially concealing a crucifix hanging from his neck, he stared down on me, his eyes drooping, hair protruding from his nose and ears, and his smile exposing his yellow tobacco stained teeth.
Each day as I walked up the front driveway of the school, there he waited. I wanted to go left, toward my classroom only I could not, because this great hulk was blocking my way, and forcing me to walk straight ahead to the big house, up a few stairs, and into the chapel.
He was known by a variety of names, Decius, Quintillus, Tiberius, Titus, but he did not speak, he just pointed. Only when you played dumb, pretending not to understand the very clear direction being given, did he deign to speak.
“Over to the chapel lad, and pay a visit to the Blessed Sacrament lad, a short ejaculation before you go any further. Jesus Mary Joseph, I place my trust in thee.”
“Yes Brother.”
So I did his bidding, and visited the chapel. I splashed my forehead with holy water, genuflected, dropped to my knees in pretence of devout homage, ejaculated my most earnest prayer, ‘Please God don’t let them hit me today’, waited a moment, then rose up to make a quick exit. Once released from duty, I was free to go to my classroom and try to be normal. The man in black would remain where he stood, on guard, waiting by the roadway for the next errant student, as if appointed by Marcus Aurelius Antoninus himself, to see that each and every boy who walked into that school would first pay homage to Caesar’s God in the big house. Caesar’s enforcer never liked me. Actually, he did not even know me, he just controlled me.
3. Elaine
I should have displayed more grit. I should have asserted myself as an equal member of the human race with certain rights. I should have demanded more respect, shown a greater degree of independence and self-assurance and told him ‘ No Brother, I do not wish to ejaculate before the Blessed Sacrament today. I did that yesterday and the day before. I’m sick of it. Nothing ever happens when I ejaculate before the Blessed Sacrament. It’s like talking to a brick wall. The Blessed Sacrament never replies. When I ask that I not be given the strap today the Blessed Sacrament never listens’…but I didn’t.
Looking back, I suppose one could say it all started that day in 1957. I was on my way home from school. I was in year seven, and it had been a bad day. Not in all of my twelve years could I remember carrying such a burden of mis-happenings home with me as I did that day. As I sat in the back seat of the bus, I noticed several times the girls from Villadon Girl’s Anglican School giving me strange looks. They seemed disturbed by something about me, about my face it seemed. Why were they looking at me? They could not have known the nature of the torment I had suffered, although I felt it would not be too long before someone would blurt it out and the very thought of it made me shudder. What would they think once they all knew? Would this be the last time I would be able to face them? I liked being on the same bus as the girl’s from Villadon. As a twelve-year-old, there was something about being near girls that I liked. They made me feel warm all over. We shared the bus every day. They even departed from the same stop each morning. They walked off to the left to their school, and I walked off to the right. I did not know any of them well, although occasionally they did speak to me. I liked the one they called Elaine. She was older than me by four years, the same age as my brother Damien, and I often saw the two of them talking together at the bus stop in the morning. On this day, Elaine boarded the bus one stop further down the road. She smiled at me as she walked to her seat. Then her face registered a look of dismay at my state of appearance. Instead of sitting in her usual seat with her friends, she walked toward me.
“What on earth happened to you today?” she asked as she sat beside me and then added, “Have you been in a fight?”
I was desperate to tell the woes of the day to someone, and Elaine seemed genuinely concerned.
“I’ve had a bad day,” I said.
“Well,” she said sympathetically, “You had better tell me all about it then.”
“This morning, I was late for school,” I began, “Mass had gone late, so breakfast, cleaning my teeth and checking my school bag all made me even later. I thought there was still time before catching the 8.30 bus, so I took a few moments to listen to the radio. They played a few of my favourite hits and I didn’t notice the time.
“Then what happened?” she asked.
“Then, in the middle of a song,” I continued, “my mother called out, telling me to get a move on, that I would be late for school. I raced up to the back gate, down the narrow lane behind the house, and out into the street, but it was too late. The bus had left. The next bus was the 8.45 which got to school ten minutes late. I was not even at school and already I was thinking of excuses. Brother Tiberius would want to know why I was late, but what could I do? For the next fifteen minutes, I stood by myself at the bus stop waiting, watching the cars and trucks coming up the hill.”
“That’s all right, don’t worry about it,” she said as I started to blubber. She rested her hand on my shoulder. “What happened next?”
“I thought about what I would say to Brother Tiberius,” I told her. “Tiberius was always suspicious and besides he could easily ask anyone of my three brothers if I was telling the truth. Finally the bus came up the hill and stopped for me. I was on the bus heading for school when suddenly I realised my cut lunch was still at home. Sandwiches with apricot jam, vegemite and cheese and something else. It was still sitting on the breakfast table waiting for me to pick it up. I had no money to buy anything, and I would have to ask one my brothers for some of theirs.”
“Oh you poor thing,” Elaine said as she patted me on the back.
*
There is something very lonely about walking into a schoolyard when nobody is around. It’s the silence and the ever present realisation that up to four hundred sets of eyes are watching, as you make your way across the deserted quadrangle to your classroom where your school mates are already seated and have commenced the first lesson. It is a lot for a twelve-year-old to handle. I bypassed the chapel. Man in black was no longer on duty. I opened the door and the whole class turned around to see who it was,…“although they already knew because they saw me walking across the quadrangle,” I said to Elaine.
“I walked up to the front of the class and told Tiberius I was late coming home from mass because the priest asked me to clean the sacristy. It was a lie, but at least my own brothers knew I had been to mass and would agree with that part of the story. They left for school about the time I arrived home from mass. I thought if Tiberius knew I was at mass he would not ask for more detail, that just telling him would be good enough. It worked.” I said smugly.
“That was cheeky,” Elaine remonstrated. “Then what happened?” she asked brushing some dirt off my shoulder.
“Tiberius nodded, and I walked to my desk and sat down relieved, but also a little tired from all the energy I spent sorting the whole thing out.” Elaine laughed when I told her that, and I felt very warm and comfortable sitting with her.
“All through the first three periods of school, I wondered whether my brothers would give me anything to eat at lunchtime, and that made me feel hungry.” Elaine laughed again, and patted my leg. She had deep brown eyes, and dark hair under her school hat, and lovely white teeth. When she smiled or laughed, I felt my heart go faster, and I wanted to touch her leg too.
“At morning recess,” I told her, “I looked for Mark, but I couldn’t find him anywhere. He usually played football in the schoolyard with his friends. Morning recess was very short, only fifteen minutes, and I needed to go to the toilet, which took longer than expected because of the queue.”
“Why was there a queue? ” she asked.
“There aren’t enough toilets.” I said. “There are only nine places to pee and sixty boys all wanting their turn.”
Elaine burst out laughing so much that others further up the bus turned around. She quickly controlled herself. I began laughing too, and continued with a new confidence.
“Brother Trajan was always close by, to see that nobody pushed in, or that there was no one misbehaving while the boys were pointing their little willie at the porcelain.” Another hilarious squeal from Elaine.
“I spent too long looking for Mark and I was still waiting in the queue when the bell sounded. I had to line up in my grade, and march back into the classroom. It was then that I saw Mark playing the drums. Mark always played the drums. I should have gone to see him earlier but it was too late now; I was in formation, marching off to the classroom and couldn’t talk to him. And I missed going to the toilet.”
As I sat in the back of the bus telling Elaine my story, I thought about the whole rotten day. The bus driver kept looking at us through the rear vision mirror. I began to check my clothes. The pee stain on my pants was dry and even so, it really wasn’t that bad. Besides, Elaine could not see it. I had pulled my jumper down as far as I could and covered the effected area. Maybe it was the bloodstain on the collar of my shirt that caught the driver’s eye or maybe he was wondering why I did not have my cap on. He was used to seeing me with my cap. It was part of the official school uniform. A boy without his school cap was out of uniform.
“So you never made it to the toilet then?” Elaine asked.
“No. First period after morning recess, the class said the first three decades of the rosary.” I told her. “I could not ask to go to the toilet when we were saying the rosary. Tiberius would not allow it. He said that any one who asked to go to the toilet when class was about to say the rosary, didn’t wanted to say it, so he never gave permission. Besides, we had just come back from morning recess.”
“What did you do then?” she asked.
“All through the rosary I was thinking about going to the toilet. I pictured myself standing at the urinal letting it all pour out. The first mystery, the second, the third… Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee… The very thought of standing at the urinal would bring on a rush of pee that I struggled to hold back. Thee, rhymes with pee. It did not matter what I said or thought. Everything rhymed with pee. She, he, mystery, and me, all rhymed with pee.”
Elaine tried hard to contain her laughter and touched my leg again running her hand up and down.
“You’d better keep your voice down. They might throw us off if they think we are too noisy,” she warned.
“I looked out of the classroom window,” I continued. “A boy from grade five was walking across the quadrangle toward the toilet. There, in the middle of the quadrangle the boy vomits up all over. It was a rich pinkie milky vomit.”
“God how gross!” she said.
“The boy must have drunk a strawberry malted milk during recess and now he is vomiting everywhere,” I went on. “Of course, everyone looked out the window and made disgusting sounds, and I forgot about wanting to go to the toilet for a while. Ten minutes later we finished saying the rosary and I asked to go to the toilet. I explained to Tiberius that I couldn’t go at recess for the queue. He nodded and I raced off and finally I could stand there in front of the urinal and let it all pour out. The boy who vomited in the quadrangle was still vomiting in the cubicle and making dreadful sounds. My pee took a long time. There’d been a lot building up inside of me and it was coming out at full pressure.”
Elaine laughed loudly again, looking lovelier by the minute.
“Vomit boy starts to groan.” I continued. “I finish my pee, take a quick look at vomit boy and begin to feel sick. I head back toward the classroom and see Chris Dyer and Barry Kase walking toward me. They tell me I’m to help them fill the wheelbarrow with sand and shovel it on top of the mess that vomit boy left. Disgusting!”
Just then one of the girls at the front of the bus came toward us.
“Is everything all right Elaine?” she asked.
“Yes it’s okay.” She answered still laughing. “This is Damien Hickey’s younger brother Simon. He’s had a bad day. I’ll stay with him.”
“Are you friends with Damien?” I asked Elaine.
“Yes “ she said, “We are good friends.”
“Why don’t you come to our house then?” I asked.
“Damien hasn’t asked me,” she answered. “What happened then?”
“We find the wheelbarrow and the sand near the sports shed,” I told her, “where all the footballs and cricket bats and balls are stored. It is not a nice thing to have to do, but all three of us, cover over the three different spots where vomit boy stopped on his way to the toilet, and all three of us begin to feel sick too, but somehow we make it back to the classroom.”
“What then?” Elaine asked.
“At 12 noon the bell sounds for the Angelus. We stop everything to pray. Three lots of three bells, then nine long bells. We stop whatever we are doing and stand at our desks. Tiberius begins.... ‘the angel of the Lord declared unto Mary.’ Everybody replies.... ‘and she conceived of the Holy Ghost. Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee.’ Because the Angelus is boring, I try to count the number of Hail Mary’s I say everyday. Fifty-three for the Rosary, one at Morning Prayer, another three for the angelus. That is fifty-seven Hail Mary’s at school and another fifty at home each night when the family says the rosary again. One hundred and seven Hail Mary’s everyday. Also eleven Our Father’s, eleven Glory Be’s, and lots of other prayers besides. Finally, the bell sounds for lunch.”
“I can’t believe you Catholics do all that everyday,” she said. “What a waste of time. Maybe that’s why Damien doesn’t ask me home to your house. He probably thinks your mother will ask me to join in saying the rosary. Anyway, so then what happened?”
“As we leave the classroom,” I told her, “ there is either a mad rush for the tuckshop or a stroll to the quadrangle. I open my schoolbag to get out my lunch and suddenly remember that it is still sitting on the kitchen table at home. I go outside and see all the boys who line up at the tuckshop to buy their lunch. They have money and they can have a pie with sauce, a cream bun and a bottle of orange drink. A lunch bought at the tuckshop always looks so much better than a sandwich in a brown paper bag. I have to find Mark, Paul, or Damien and ask if they can give me some of their lunch. Brother Quintillus blows his whistle and warns those in the queue waiting to buy their lunch to stop pushing and shoving. All the classes are now out in the quadrangle, and there are boys pushing and shoving everywhere. I see Mark and run towards him. Mark says I can’t have any of his lunch because he has already eaten half at morning recess, and if he gave what was left to me, then he would not have any for himself. Mark says to find Damien and ask him.”
“So, did you find Damien?”
“Yes. I saw Damien walking out of his classroom toward the tuckshop. I catch up with him and ask if I can have some of his lunch. Damien gives me one sandwich. It is all he has left because he ate half of his at morning recess too. Damien says that I now owe him a shilling. He then goes off and joins the queue at the tuckshop. He has a Saturday morning paper round and is paid five shillings.”
“Yes I know. I’m sure he was only joking about the shilling.”
“Chris Dyer and Barry Kase are sitting together in the quadrangle and I join them to eat my one sandwich. All the boys in the quadrangle keep well away from where the mounds of sand are, because they know that underneath the sand are the remains of vomit boy’s malted milk.”
“Keep going,” she said. “This is all very interesting.”
“Then Brother Quintillus blows his whistle,” I continued, “which means that those who are finished their lunch can leave the quadrangle. There is suddenly a mad stampede as everyone runs toward the sports store to get the footballs. Almost everyone plays football. We play kick to kick, although a few boys prefer not to, and after lunch, they just walk around the playground together, sit, or play handball. Mark says they are all poofters. I don’t know what that means, but I don’t think it’s a very nice thing to say about someone.”
“It certainly isn’t,” Elaine said with a disapproving frown.
“I like to play football though, so I know that I am not a poofter. Each class is supposed to keep to their own area when playing football, so that the bigger boys do not hurt the smaller ones. Sean O’Rielly is in my class but he is very tall for his age. He is thirteen, and he already has to shave. Sean is supposed to play with the boys in the next grade but he doesn’t always do that because he reckons he can’t get a kick. He is lying. Quintillus says he could easily get a kick even if he was playing two grades up, even three. When Quintillus goes into the Brother’s house to have his lunch, Sean O’Rielly comes over and plays football with our group.”
The bus stopped and Elaine’s friend waved to her as she got out.
“See you tomorrow” Elaine called out to her friend. “Then what happened?” she asked.
“The football is kicked very high and three boys jump up to mark it. I get close in, hoping that they drop it and I can catch it off their hands, and that’s exactly what happens except that Sean O’Rielly then comes and takes it straight out of my hands and runs off and kicks it. I become very angry with Sean and walk up to him telling him that it was not his ball, that he pinched it, and then I punch him in the stomach. He punches me back hard against my arm, and then he stands there with his fists at the ready.”
“Oh no! Don’t tell me you started fighting?” Elaine asked.
“To everyone standing around, the sight of the two of us standing there, fists up, is better than playing football and they all crowd around, shouting at both of us to let each other have it. It is not fair. Sean is taller than me by at least half, and heavier. He punches me hard in the eye, and the nose, and my nose begins to bleed. The crowd groans and one boy calls out ‘Simple Simon’. Other boys call out to me to get a punch in first, but I can’t, my arms are too short.”
“Didn’t anyone try to stop it?”
“One of Damien’s friends stops it. Mick Harvey, who is four years older, comes over and tells everyone the fight is over.”
“Yes I know Mick too.” She responded.
“He tells Sean that he should pick on someone his own size, and takes me off to the drinking taps to clean my face. There is blood on my face, and on my shirt. I look a mess. When we are well away from all the other boys, I begin to cry.”
he bus pulled over and two old ladies climbed on board. They came down toward the back where we were sitting, but after taking a quick look at me they decided to move up a seat closer to the front. Elaine told me she wanted to tell one of the other girls further up the bus not to wait for her. I got tired of people looking at me and decided to finish my homework. I pulled out my geometry book and studied the questions. I hated geometry so I put the book back into my bag, and pulled out my geography book. The hard cover was damp. My cap had been lying on the top. Then Elaine came back and sat beside me again.
“Tell me what happened after Mick Harvey stopped the fight.” she said.
“While Mick was helping me to clean myself up, Brother Decius walked past the drinking taps and saw the two of us together. He comes over, takes a closer look at me, and asks Mick what happened. Mick explains to Decius that there was a fight and that he broke it up. Decius wants to know everything that happened and so I have to tell him about Sean O’Rielly. I didn’t want to tell him but Decius stares straight at me, and there is no point in trying to lie. Then Mick Harvey tells Decius that he saw it happen and it was Sean O’Rielly’s fault. Mick is not afraid of Sean O’Rielly, and he doesn’t want anyone thinking that I was a snitch. Decius walks off, and Mick tells me not to worry about Sean O’Rielly because he and Damien will scare him off.”
“Did Brother Decius do anything after that?”
“Yes. The bell sounds and the lunch break is over. All the boys assemble in the schoolyard. As I come away from the drinking taps Mark walks past with his drum and sticks. Mark looks at me and asks what happened. I tell him about the fight with Sean O’Rielly. Mark asks if I want Damien and him to fix Sean O’Rielly. I just shrug my shoulders. When all the boys are assembled, Decius calls everyone to attention and orders Sean O’Rielly and me to stand out the front. When both of us are standing in front of the whole school, some of the boys laugh at me because I look all ruffled with my hair all over the place, and my shirt hanging out and there is blood on my collar. Decius gets angry and calls for silence. Then he instructs us that fighting in the schoolyard is forbidden, and that he is going to make an example of Simon and Sean. We are told to hold out our hand, and each of us receives the strap twice. Decius tells the assembly that in addition, we both have to remain back after class for one hour. He then warns that anyone found fighting in the schoolyard, or anywhere else, will be treated the same way. He then calls everyone to attention again, and soon we are all back in our classrooms. All except vomit boy who has been allowed to go home.”
“Is that all that happened?” Elaine asked.
“No. The afternoon classes are slow and boring. My hand is still stinging and made worse knowing that I will have to stay back for one hour afterward. When the bell goes at 3.45 in the afternoon, the boys in my class begin to pack up their books. Brother Titus who has our class for the last period says the final prayer and gives permission for everyone to leave except the two boys who have to stay behind. Some of the boys snigger and laugh and Titus sends them off. As all the boys from the other classes begin to leave, there is a lot of noise, shouting, and laughing but after a while everything goes silent, and Sean O’Rielly and I are the only two left. Titus tells us to do some study and leaves the room saying he will be back soon. I look over to where Sean is sitting on the other side of the room, and ask him what he is going to do. He says that he might as well do his homework. It’s a good idea and I do the same thing. The hour seems to pass quite quickly, and Titus comes back into the classroom and tells us we can go home now, and let this be a lesson to us. I have finished all my homework except for geometry and geography. I hate geometry but I am pleased because when I get home I will be able to kick the football in the street.”
“Did the two of you make up and shake hands?”
“No. I pack my bag and walk out of the room and put on my school cap and go to the toilet. I am standing at the urinal as Sean walks in. He stands at the urinal alongside me and just as I begin to pee, he leans across and pushes me off balance. I have to take one hand away from my Willy to regain my balance and then O’Rielly leans across shoving me off balance again. I have to use both hands to stop myself from falling back. As I do so, I wet my pants with my pee. The pee goes all over the front of my pants and I can feel it running down my left leg. I yell out at O’Rielly who just laughs and then he pulls my cap off my head, and throws it into the urinal where it gets all wet. O’Rielly then zips up his own pants and walks out of the toilet laughing.”
“Oh God, your pants are not still wet are they?” she asked as she stroked my hair.”
“No I’m dry now,” I told her, hoping she would not stop fingering my hair.
The bus was now nearly empty. Elaine was the only girl from Villadon remaining and she normally got off, one stop after mine.
“This is your stop,” she said. “Tell Damien that if he makes you pay him a shilling for lunch I will never speak to him again.”
“All right,” I said. “Thank you for sitting with me.”
“That’s all right. Don’t worry about it. Everything will be better tomorrow, I promise.”
“I know why Damien won’t ask you to come to our house,” I told her.
“Oh really? What’s the reason?” she asked.
“It’s the holy pictures on our walls.”
“Holy pictures?” she asked.
“We have holy pictures on our walls. Damien hates them. He says he would be too scared to bring any non-Catholic home with holy pictures on the walls.”
“Oh really,” she said as the bus slowed down.
When the bus arrived at my stop, I got off through the rear door and waved goodbye. I didn’t want the driver or anyone to see my pee stain although my pants were now dry. My mother Elizabeth Margaret, watched as I walked through the back gate from the laneway, and with a look of horror on her face, came toward me asking what happened. It was all too much, and in my haste to tell her of the day’s events, I began to sob uncontrollably. She took me into the bathroom, and I looked in the mirror to see one very pronounced black eye, together with a large blob of clotted blood just below my nostrils. My hair was all ruffled and there was blood on my collar. Now, I realised why everyone on the bus was staring at me, but somehow it didn’t matter. I was home.
And the best part of all, when Damien heard the whole story, he promised that he, and Elaine would take me for an ice cream on Friday.
4. Quintillus
Damien’s crude attempt at extortion, did not change the fact that my brothers were my only true refuge. I considered myself fortunate to have Paul, Damien and Mark close by, particularly when men in black cassocks intimidated and frightened me. For the Brothers, the strap was a first strike policy whenever we transgressed. Quintillus, Tiberius, Decius, they all carried it, hidden underneath their cassock. They used a one inch wide strip of rubber matting about twelve inches long, and brought it down hard onto the palm of an outstretched hand as many as three or four times. It left the palm of the hand numb for about three or four minutes, and then it began to sting. The hand was very tender for several minutes afterwards, until the pain finally subsided. Sometimes they brought it down hard on the palm and then quickly brought it back up again to connect with the back of the hand. A double dose, so to speak. Economically very sound, two for the price of one. Delinquent acts such as talking in class, or throwing pieces of paper across the aisle were sufficient. But also for fighting, not doing our homework, or doing something on the way home that caught the eye of some nosy old woman, who reported us. Sometimes we were given the option of taking it on the hand, or on the behind. It didn’t make any difference to the pain.
Quintillus was the main offender. He experienced no difficulty at all in shouting abuse, threatening physical bodily harm, launching missiles at anyone without notice, and even storming out of the classroom to recover his composure, only to return moments later to continue where he left off. As a sometime football coach, he was intensely competitive and hated losing a game to an opposition college. He would pace up and down the boundary line, shouting, screaming, getting very red in the face and embarrassing both players and parents. His frustration was demonstrated all too clearly when he selected me to play full-back one sports afternoon. A bad idea from the beginning. Everyone except him, knew that I played on the forward-line. I was a champion on the forward-line. The opposition feared my versatility on the forward-line. On the back-line I was a wandering dog, lost and searching for the way home. Placing me at full-back was literally handing the game over to the opposition. And we did. Despite the overt cries from the rest of the team, Quintillus could not be dissuaded. During the game he twice stormed onto the field to remonstrate with me about the nature of my folly in defence. A very public and humiliating lecture followed in full voice, to the cheers and jeers of the opposition. Not satisfied with that, and still seething with anger after the game, he walked past me muttering something inaudible as I was dressing after my shower. When I turned and said, “Sorry Brother, I didn’t hear you,” he swung around and slapped me across the face. Quintillus was a thug.
Not that his violent outbursts were the exclusive reserve of the sports field. Quintillus taught geography. How much he actually knew about geography was anyone’s guess. During most of his lessons we simply read from a book, or copied material from the blackboard. Even then, he struggled to control himself, and succumbed to moments of sheer madness when he lost his temper. His tone could change as quickly as the weather when he became annoyed. We could hear him shouting from three classrooms away. Watch out whoever happened to cause the weather to change.
One hot afternoon in March, Sean O’ Rielly caused the weather to change. Quintillus was writing on the blackboard when Frank Addams farted in class. Frank was always farting in class. It must have been the baked bean sandwiches he ate for lunch. On a hot afternoon, his farts would rise slowly and then stay suspended in the still hot air. They could be suffocating. Addams sat directly in front of Sean O’Rielly and on this occasion Sean lashed out at him, with a slap across the back of the head.
“Arrkinel, you pig,” he said to Addams as his hand clipped the back of his head.
Quintillus suffered a slight hearing problem and thought someone spoke without permission.
“Stand up the person who spoke,” he called out, still facing the blackboard.
Just as Quintillus turned around to see who spoke, O’Rielly lashed out again at Addams. “Dirty prick… Arrkinel,” he said again.
When Quintillus saw O’Rielly lashing out, he exploded.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded as he strode down the aisle towards O’Rielly.
“Just what do you think you’re up to lad?”
“He farted Brother, he’s disgusting.” O’Rielly told the truth.
“And who gave you the right to hit him?” Quintillus said as he raised his own hand to O’Rielly’s head, and knocked him with a jolt, sending him crashing into Barry Kase sitting next to him.
O’Rielly was momentarily stunned. “Arrkinel,” he said without thinking.
“Do you think you can take the law into your own hands, do you lad?” Quintillus bellowed as his hand lunged down a second time slapping O’Rielly across the side of his face.
“No Brother.” O’Rielly answered.
“Don’t ever let me see you do that again,” he shouted even louder as his hand came down a third time.
This time O’Rielly ducked his head and Quintillus missed him, which only served to make him even angrier.
“Sit up straight,” he screamed. O’Rielly obeyed tentatively only to endure another slap across the face.
“Arrkinel, cut it out will ya?” O’Rielly pleaded.
Quintillus glared around at the rest of the class who were all staring at him.
“Face the front all of you,” he yelled as he began walking back to the front. In his outrage, he had failed to decipher O’Rielly’s slang. Quintillus’ face was so red and flustered, we thought he was in the first stages of meltdown. When he returned to the front of the class, he just stood there looking at us, saying nothing. Eventually, he told us to continue the work already prepared on the board. For the rest of that period we could have heard a pin drop. After school that afternoon, O’Rielly and Addams settled the matter their own way. It was a dust-up in the tunnel underneath the roadway near the bus stop, each combatant ably supported by a host of seconds. It was a brutal affair and little wonder neither showed up at school the next day. From that day on, I could only ever view Quintillus with fear and distrust. I vowed never to be the one to cause the weather to change, and never to take my eye off him whenever he appeared within slapping distance. Damien suggested that to me. Damien had once witnessed his anger in an earlier encounter.
If there was one of my brothers that I simultaneously looked up to and feared it was Damien. He had charisma, that special something, a presence about him that generated the belief that something exciting could happen at any moment. Girls liked him. He was confident and exciting. Most exciting of all, he had a non-Catholic girl friend. Harbouring little respect for most men in black cassocks, less for Quintillus, Damien showed no fear, and in the dark corridors of God’s scullery, I suspect the angels gave a muffled cheer.
5. Family
I was one of nine children, a third generation product of my great grandparents Mark and Julia Hickey, late of Glanmire, County Cork Ireland, who left Ireland’s shores around 1864 for better or worse. Great Grandpa Mark drowned in the Barwon River at Geelong four years later, so for him, the poor fellow, it was for worse.
My sister Kathleen was the first born, then Paul, Damien, Mark, and then me, followed by Bridget and the twins. We all arrived at the approximate rate of one every eighteen months to two and a bit years or so, making allowances for at least two miscarriages. There was a girl called Anne who died after a few months, but my mother never spoke of her. It was Kathleen who told me about her.
Kathleen’s childhood was hardly her own. Being the first born, from the moment she could walk she became a live-in baby-sitter, child carer, you name it, always having to look after one or two of the younger ones, while my mother was knee deep doing the same. When Kathleen was having lessons on the piano, I loved sitting in the dining room listening to her play. It was not surprising though, that when the opportunity presented itself, she entered the convent. Looking after her siblings was not her first choice, but a legacy of being the first born in a large family. The convent was her escape. She was the first to leave home in pursuit of the service of God. She became a woman in a black habit.
Paul, seen through the eyes of a much younger brother, was something of an authority figure. He did not allow himself to get too close, preferring to remain aloof and staying within himself. Paul was the second born and the second to enter God’s service when he entered the seminary of the Order of the Missionary Society of Saint Bartholemew.
Damien you have met. Mark was the quiet one who had inherited our grandmother’s artistic talent. For the greater part of our childhood, we slept in the same room. Mark was the one who took me to my first day at school, showed me how to stay out of trouble, how to handle the Brothers when they spoke to me.
Bridget was born the sixth child, following an unbroken run of four boys. My mother, by this stage somewhat desperate for another daughter, promised Our Lady, our Virgin Mother in Heaven, that if she would intercede to ensure a female birth, my mother would complete the nine first Fridays, and the five first Saturdays concurrently. Heaven agreed. Thus, Bridget grew up in a house full of boys and to avoid the crassness of male life on a daily basis, she spent most of her time in her room playing with her dolls. In my mother’s eyes, it was either that, or see all the feminine qualities of this heaven sent treasure evaporate before her eyes.
The arrival of the twins, James and Andrew, constituted a family population explosion. The neighbours could not get enough of them. On that exciting day when they arrived home from the hospital, the whole street celebrated. All the mothers came to visit and congratulate my mother.
“Oh aren’t they just gorgeous,” one neighbour said.
“Oh, just look at them will you, have you ever seen anything like it?” said another.
And the dumbest comment of all.... “Oh Mrs. Hickey, I just do not know how you do it.” This from a supposedly intelligent woman with three of her own!
James and Andrew did get a lot of attention, although it disappeared around nappy changing time. They were the ‘babies’ and that is how everyone referred to them for the first five years, at which time they simply became known as the ‘twins’.
This was my family of siblings and it was my mother Elizabeth Margaret, a devoutly religious woman totally committed to her family, who held it all together. She was the main influence in our early life. My father was a travelling salesman, and away for much of the time. He left each Monday morning on country trips not returning until late Thursday night. While he was gone, Elizabeth Margaret was the authority figure, the supervisor of everything, the champion of every cause.
Her sense of determination and duty to that role was extraordinary. Cooking, cleaning, washing, shopping, she was mistress of it all. The house was always neat and tidy, meals were always on time, and there was always time to help with homework and always, a time for each of us to receive a moment or two of personal encouragement, a private moment. She could do that with all eight of us. However, her strong suite was religion. To her, this life was a passing phase to be done and dispensed with, that we might enjoy the main event for all eternity. The main event was heaven. If we did not make it to heaven, then what was the point? ‘What does it suffer a man to gain the whole world and lose his soul’ she quoted to us. For my mother, the very thought of any of us not making it to heaven was worse than a horror movie…. No, it was the ultimate horror movie. Little wonder that she disapproved of Damien’s association with Elaine.
“Why can’t he find a nice Catholic girl?” she said one day to me in passing.
“Elaine is nice Mum” I told her, “I like her.”
“Well why doesn’t he ever bring her home then, so I can meet her?”
“It’s the holy pictures, Mum,” I said.
“What holy pictures?”
“On the walls, everywhere. The Sacred Heart, St Anthony, Our Lady.”
“What do you mean…is she afraid of them?”
“No, she’s not. Damien is.”
“What do you mean?”
“Damien thinks the holy pictures will spook her off. That’s why he won’t bring her home.”
“I don’t believe it,” she said.
So, religion played a major role in our house, and because we were Catholic, we were the one true faith and there was no room to consider other faiths. I always thought Damien to be very brave having a non-Catholic girlfriend. They were all somehow wrong and we were right. I absorbed all this with a great sense of relief. From where I was standing, all of that seemed to make sense. This was my mother’s role in life, and it was my father’s role to go out into the world, and do what he did, to bring home the money to keep us all fed, clothed, sheltered and warm in the winter. Genial Jim Hickey, as he was known to his friends at the corner bar, owned by the father of Sean O’Reilly, did that well, because despite all our family peculiarities, we were all well fed, clothed, sheltered and kept warm in the winter. Genial Jim Hickey who, devoted as he was to his wife and family, was also devoted to his twin brother Frank, and a circle of male friends who collectively sort refuge from the pressures of life, with a sip of the golden brew at O’Reilly’s, and a Saturday afternoon at the football.
*
From the time the twins were welcomed into the family they slept in their cots in the front bedroom with my parents. It was a stop gap remedy in a house that was too small. As the twins grew it became clear that the family needed a bigger place to live, and house hunting became a regular weekend activity.
After months of searching, we bought a house in Eighth Avenue. It was close to our existing home, so no need to change schools or parish church, and my father still shared his Saturdays with friends sipping the golden brew at O’Reilly’s. Paul and Damien slept in two separate outside bungalows, Mark and I shared a sleep-out attached to the back of the house, the twins shared a room, Kathleen and Bridget shared another, and my parents were once again together in the front bedroom free from the midnight crying and the curious little eyes. No sooner had we moved in than my mother set about tastefully decorating the house with the pictures of the Sacred Heart and St. Anthony, who helped us find lost objects, and Our Lady dressed in blue and white, but without any breasts. We thought she was going to leave them in the old house to help the new owners settle in, but no, here they were, dusted off and just as threatening. Damien pleaded with her not to put them up but she would have none of it. They were everywhere; in the lounge, the dining room, the kitchen. She had my father nail our very own holy water stoup to the wall in the dining room so we could dip our finger in and bless ourselves every time we entered and left the room. It was right next to the light switch, and dipping the finger and switching the light either on or off in one movement, became an art form.
“Get used to them,” she told Damien. “Anyone who is too ashamed to acknowledge the one true faith should examine their conscience and talk to Father Michael.”
Fr. Michael was our parish priest, and he blessed the house for us in return for one of my mother’s lamb roasts one Sunday afternoon, and all the aunties, uncles and cousins came to celebrate the occasion. It was all perfect, except for Damien. He still wouldn’t bring Elaine home. And then, when I met Geoffrey from across the street I realised Damien was right.
Geoffrey was playing football in the street with a friend. I walked around our front lawn watching, trying to figure some way of joining them without appearing to beg. Soon a wayward football torpedoed its way toward me. There was no option but to mark it in spectacular style. The two of them stood there stunned at the sight. I took two steps back and returned it with a left foot thrust that sent the ball back with bullet like speed and accuracy. Geoffrey marked the return and stood there for a moment, looking at his friend. His friend nodded as if some telepathic message was transmitted and then uttered the words I wanted to hear….
“Do you want to play with us?”
So we journeyed to nearby Greystoke Park, to play. We were the same age but not the same religion. He attended St. David’s College an Anglican private school, but as he was Protestant, I knew that he was destined for eternal hellfire. It was not his fault, he was just born that way, but it bothered me. Of this, I was supremely confident because that is where all Protestants were sent when they died. The Aquinines told me that. I thought perhaps this was the reason God put me on this earth. God wanted me to bring Geoffrey into the bosom of the Catholic Church, and save his everlasting soul. So I brought him home into the lounge and the dining room and the kitchen, so he could see all the religious pictures my mother had on display. Surely this would be enough for him to realise his destiny. Geoffrey did not quite see it in the same light. His eyes nearly popped out when he saw the gallery of religious art.