CHAPTER 17
A New Kid And An Old Bomb; and The King Of Ingham
When we returned to Gower Abbey College after the Christmas holidays it was to discover a number of major changes had been made to the establishment. Most prominent among these was a new school building adjacent to the old one, its two large classrooms still smelling of fresh paint.
Alterations had been made to our accommodation and dining arrangements as well. The open veranda next to the ablutions block had been closed in, with louvered windows fitted to provide ventilation. The room so created had been partitioned into two, the larger part becoming a new bedroom, the smaller third an extension to the dining room – after breaking through what had previously been the outer wall.
Direct access to the toilets and showers remained, however, via a door in the dormitory’s new exterior wall. And the reason for all the building and extensions soon became obvious: departing Seniors included, our numbers quickly lifted to forty five as the new Grade-eight boys arrived.
The most obvious change within the dormitory was the absence via graduation of Gower Abbey’s favourite son, the one we all loved to hate, our one and only (ta daa!) Peter DeRosario – Prefect, bully, playwright and, latterly, slave to the dark-eyed Maria.
Poor Rosie. Despite Mrs Finnegan’s predictions to the contrary he’d remained an emotional mess right up to the beginning of the school holidays. He’d just lain in bed like someone in the final stages of a terrible fever, refusing all company and most of Mrs Finnegan’s nourishment. Little improvement was evident right up to the time his parents came to take him home.
My earlier hilarity about his plight didn’t last. In fact I began to feel quite sorry for him. One day I asked if there was anything I could do to help, or something I might get.
“Yeah, Casey! Get bloody lost!” he’d bellowed. “Just get away an’ lea’me alone!” His demand lacked the usual death-threat, which showed just how serious it really was.
Mrs Finnegan knew the circumstances of my own end of term palsy, and right from the start had been very sympathetic and motherly. Nor did I hesitate to tell her about seeing Rosie and Maria from under the tamarind tree – in the strictest confidence of course; I do value my life.
“Oh dear, so that’s who it is,” she replied. “Now I understand. Peter has not said a word to me about any of this, you know, but I believe Maria’s parents have sold their property and are moving to the Atherton Tableland. Still,” she added. “It’s not as if it’s the end of the world.”
I never did work out whether she was referring to Rosie’s outlook or the actual distance.
When Father O’Long finally succeeded in wringing an explanation from her his response was fairly predictable: he would tell Rosie to “…pull himself together and get on with things”. Mrs Finnegan’s reaction to this was such that Father found it prudent to keep well away.
What an amazing person she was. “That’s exactly why I wasn’t going to tell him,” she commented to me later in the day. “What does a confounded priest know about heartbreak?”
Dear Mrs Finnegan. What was the heartbreak she knew, I wondered.
There was no doubting Rosie’s part in our lives, though. For better or for worse he’d loomed large among us these past few years and – whether you liked the fellow or loathed him – his name and achievements would become well and truly woven into the fabric of the College’s legends and tradition. Underpinning all of this would be the remembrance of our Bluey and Curley presentation, and the stories and accounts of what had taken place that night.
Before his departure Rosie had handed his original script to Father O’Long, ever hopeful that one day the play might be considered again for production. This happened every year, of course, and before long it had become a treasured historical document.
Midway through every third term, on the evening of our first speech night planning-session, we boys would assemble in the church hall. Father would then bring forth the document for a ceremonial reading, during which the remaining cast members would recount in hilarious detail the play’s collapse into anarchy and the burning truck being saved.
We never attempted to produce it again though – at least not in my time – knowing in our hearts that we could never hope to recapture the utter chaos and magic we had created that night – without even thinking of setting fire to an old Blitz wagon.
When I took my things into the dormitory I discovered a slightly bewildered-looking newcomer there, sitting on the edge of my corner bunk. On the floor by his feet stood a battered suitcase and on his lap was a canvas clothes bag. He was hugging the bag tightly – the only reassuringly familiar item available to him, I suppose, in these unfamiliar surroundings.
We two were the first to arrive and for a moment I thought I’d have to claim my bed by prior right, but as I approached he said, “Is this your place? ...Sorry. I wasn’t trying to take it. I was just waiting to see where I should go.”
He seemed a decent sort of kid, so after dumping my gear I investigated the beds in the new section, then suggested he take his pick of them before anyone else arrived. After stowing my things I returned there to see how he was faring ... and found him sitting on one of the new bunks, all lonely and homesick and trying not to cry.
And when he explained it was easy to see why, as the poor little bloke had had to travel all the way from Mount Isa by himself, without an introductory visit even – cast from the bosom of his family, you might say, straight into our Halls of Academe … or whatever this was.
In an effort to get his mind off his problems I asked him some questions about Mount Isa, and soon had him talking. Mostly it was about his home and family, as you’d expect. They lived in an old house on the northern outskirts of the town, apparently – his Mum and Dad, him, plus his two brothers and three sisters.
His father was a miner. He and two other men worked a little copper show about sixty kilometres south of the town. “Gougers”, he called them.
It must have been hard going. His parents couldn’t afford the fares to accompany him, so explaining why had to do the train trip to Ingham by himself.
All arrangements to get him to Gower Abbey had been made and paid for by Father Kelly, the local Catholic Priest. This included swindling Father O’Long into an extra enrolment without notice or fees in a situation where, after the dust had settled, the available accommodation was about minus two beds.
In Townsville the connecting north-bound Sunlander had been twelve hours late. Kelly had advised the local convent of his movements and they’d rescued him from the platform and taken care of him for the night.
The new boy’s name was Zack Reiff, “Zack” being short for Zachariah. He was a fair-haired little kid who, on first impression, seemed quiet and a bit lightly built for his age. But first impressions can often be wrong, and later that day we learned to afford our new pupil from western Queensland a good deal of respect – little or not.
This came about when a couple of my grade ten classmates tried to muscle him out of the new bed he’d claimed. Goozie and Sinker were their names. I could hear Zack protesting and was going in to back him up when Gooz thought he’d get a bit tough and force the issue. Zack hit him three times before he could move then grabbed Sinker by the front of his shirt – before he could move.
“Just lea’me alone,” he said in a hard flat voice. “I got here first.” His feet were spaced wide, his free arm and fist cocked-back ready for a quick response. Sinker’s position was seriously compromised by this. So was his shirt; two buttons had been ripped off.
“I’m sorry I’m sorry!” he was shouting as I arrived. “It was Goozie who wanted that bed. He said you’d be easy to shift. Bloody serves him right, ay. I told him to leave it.”
Goozie was in terrible shape. By then he’d found his way to the door – blind with pain, blood pouring from his nose, winded and doubled-up with cramp. I had never seen anyone so quickly and comprehensively disabled.
Zack let Si
nker go as Gooz stumbled out to the shower block. Sinker followed.
“I come in to give you a hand,” I said, “but I can see I needn’t have worried.”
“Thanks Kev. Gees, I suppose now they’ll go and tell on me and I’ll get into trouble for bashin’ ‘em up.”
“What?!! Come on, Zack; you can’t be serious. You don’t think two boys from grade ten are gunna go round and tell Father a new grade eight kid give ‘em a belting, do you?”
“So what d’you reckon they’ll do?”
“Nothin’ ay. Only I bet in future they show you a bit of respect.”
Life at Gower Abbey soon settled down again as we slipped back into the school routine. Brother SanSistez’ general workload was eased to some extent by the arrival of a Brother Aufmein, an athletic type with scientific qualifications. He was to take over Maths, Physics and Chemistry classes from Mr Fulcrum-Barr – the retiring lay teacher who had visited Gower Abbey two days a week.
The real surprise for us on our return was the presence of the old Holden sedan Brother SanSistez had “arranged”. (He was as surprised as we were.) It certainly drew a lot of attention and, in the minds of some boys, had the added advantage of allowing a good deal more elbow room around the machine gun project.
On coaxing the engine to life we asked Brother SanSistez for permission to test drive it around the sports ground. He watched our progress with a look of great satisfaction, too, mainly due to his feelings about our “killing machine” (as he would have it). None of us thought this an appropriate moment to remind him that these things had killed a great many more people than any machine gun had ever done.
Its engine rattled and issued clouds of oily smoke, the radiator leaked, the suspension clattered noisily, the brakes made a horrible grinding sound and the differential whined appallingly. In short, it was perfect.
Our assessment required the car be driven two laps around the ground by each boy claiming the ability to do so, complemented by a number who claimed so but could not.
Then it ran out of petrol. Most of the boys were yet to have a turn, so we all dipped into our pocket money to get some more from Father O’Long.
Apart from the minor defects mentioned earlier – and the almost universal rust – the only problem worth mentioning was a tendency for the boot door to flop open due to the lock being broken. This was easily resolved; we simply removed the door, thus making way for six extra boys to participate in the tests. We may have managed a few more on board, too, but the tyres were starting to look a bit doughy.
No one could understand why. We’d pumped them up by hand and in relays to at least fifteen pounds (about a hundred kPa).
Then Winkle had a go and somehow managed to stall it in second gear. This locked-up the gearbox and left the gear lever flopping about uselessly – a common trait on an old FX Holden column-shift that was half worn out. Duffy lifted the bonnet and the senior boys all crowded around to try and see what was wrong, while the rest of us just stood there wondering if the car would ever go again.
At that point Zack stepped forward and, inside seven seconds, had established for himself the unqualified respect of the entire senior aristocracy. On realising that no one knew what to do he pushed through to the driver’s side mudguard, took a quick look at the situation, jumped up and lay across it on his belly and – legs kicking about for balance – reached down to the steering column and manipulated the gear linkages, two handed.
Repairs effected, he slid back to the ground and wiped his hands on his shorts like an experienced mechanic. “It’s right again now,” he said to the astonished Seniors. “Just don’t pull up in second gear again, that’s all. The gearbox’ll jam up every time if you do.”
“Hey! Wait a minute!” said Duffy. “You’d better show us what you did in there before somebody does it again.”
This statement was very revealing. It demonstrated that in all likelihood Brengun Duffy would prove a far more congenial prefect than our illustrious playwright of recent departure. It also showed he was able to accept the possibility that traces of intelligent life might actually exist among the junior rabble, while demonstrating as well that he could accept advice without imagining it would diminish his stature and authority somehow and so wound his pride. (It was things of this nature, I’m sure, which lay at the heart of Rosie’s bullying streak.)
“—My Dad does it all the time,” Zack explained to me later, “then he makes me get out and fix it. But all you have to do is set the rods back into position. She’ll be right after that – or will be until someone pulls up in second gear again, anyway – like my Dad. He always forgets, ay.”
As for myself... Well, I was simply on top of the world. We’d had a wonderful Christmas at Hopeless Farm, with all my grandparents coming up on the train from Brisbane to join us for the holidays. But that was only the start.
A couple of days after Christmas Mum and Dad went to a charity fete in Ingham. And there, for heaven’s sakes, they were introduced to Julia’s parents – just another of those uncanny coincidences that make you certain the angels deliberately fiddle with things.
They hit it off, so to speak, and by afternoon’s end had exchanged invitations to visit.
I didn’t know anything about this and neither did Julia, and our parents were certainly unaware we had met. Mum simply said we were having some visitors out for lunch. Never could I have imagined what was to follow…
When the Sandersons arrived a few minutes earlier than expected I was in the bathroom washing my hands ready to help. “Oh dear, are they here already?” Mum bleated as she rushed off to the bedroom. “Go out and welcome them please Kevin ... and do show them in. I’ll only be a minute. —And could you find your father and let him know our guests have arrived,” she added through the bedroom door.
“Righto Mum,” says Kevin, who shambles out the door and heads around to the driveway – where he gets halfway through the “G’day, I’m Kevin and Mum says...” routine and not looking properly at who it might be – just some friends of Mum and Dad’s —when there she is! The Princess! Delivered willingly to the door of the slave! ... who continues his welcoming speech by saying, “I er ... I ah...
“ —I mean, I didn’t...”
And her father says: “I see you’ve met our daughter.”
Well, he probably has to deal with this sort of thing all the time, boys going past the house and being reduced to gibbering idiots on a regular basis, neighbours waking up to what’s going on and forming vigilante mobs. The hurried packing; the 2.00 a.m. getaway. Trying to settle down again in some other town.
I mean, what else could he do with a creature like this? ...And here she is for glory’s sake. So God is in His Heaven, there are miracles, and all’s well in the world of Kevin Cassidy and Hopeless Farm. And perhaps he might be raving but there’s nothing wrong with him.
“Hello Kevin,” Julia says, and gives that gentle, mind-deranging smile. “What a lovely surprise.”
“—I a haahgh...” says Kevin, as the remaining fuses melt and the last circuits go down. By this time her parents have given up and found their own way into the house.
“Sorry about your son, Shirley, but there’s nothing we can do. Better ring the Funny Farm.”
Then Julia takes Kevin’s hand and floats him back into the house ... where he gradually comes down to earth.
I mean, where was I? “—You must be Mr and Mrs Sanderson. Pleased to meet you.”
As a result of this Julia and I got to know each other quite well and soon became very special favourite friends. She was charming, elegant, graceful, intelligent, witty, plus about forty million other things – including gracious, thoughtful and just plain mind-numbingly beautiful.
In her presence I felt like an inarticulate clod, though her friendship and affection indicated she didn’t regard me as such. At other times she made me feel like Tarzan, Superman, The Phantom and Captain Marvel, all rolled into one.
But wheneve
r she reckoned I was getting a bit full of myself she’d reduce me to a jelly with one of her paralysing green-eyed stares. Thank heaven it was friendly; the same treatment in anger simply defies rational thought.
After this Julia and I kept in touch by writing to each other two or three times a term. And didn’t the other boys all give me a razz when her first letter arrived!
I just ignored them. When I’d finished reading it I handed it over.
They nearly tore the thing to pieces as they tried to find the juicy bits – only to be disappointed.
“Gees, Casey,” said Sash. “What sort of love letter do you call this? —I mean where’s the pain? Where’s the heartbreak?”
“…Yeah,” muttered Doogle. “This looks like a letter from my mother, ay – only it’s even more boring.”
No one bothered much about Julia’s letters after that, though the following ones weren’t quite the same as her first one. That was something of a furphy.
But I didn’t care; they could read my letters as much as they liked; I didn’t have anything to prove.
Julia was my girl. I could go into Ingham, mate, and walk around like a KING.
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