MY TWO YEARS WITH GOD – by Paul Williams

“Big Jim would like to see you in his office.”

 Would he now? Well, naturally he would get his way. After all, Brother Simon was the Captain of the Good Ship Edmund Rice Juniorate, wasn't he?

Going up the echoing stairwell, it struck me that it still carried that smell of concrete and brick that bespoke a young building. The office door was open, and as he saw me, the Headmaster motioned me in, and I was left perched uncomfortably just inside the door. His pen scratched busily for a moment, and what it wrote I am not sure, but what it said was “You will wait upon my pleasure, for I am the Boss here.” Brother Simon sat with his back to a large window, taking up the whole width of wall behind him.

 If it were my office, I thought, I would turn the desk round to face the window.

I would then have had the view out across the quadrangle, the dull silver of the classroom roofs, past the fields of yellow grass, the aqueduct and the little canal, all the way to Mount Macedon, hazy and blue. But of course he had his back to the outside world, and faced a wall with a clock, a statue, some flowers and maps, and two flanking walls lined with bookcases and filing cabinets. I knew there would certainly be a fat file on me. It struck me that the office was perched atop the school like a prison watchtower. Over the Boss's broad shoulder I could see the gap between the Science Room and Classroom 5, which I had had to negotiate, unseen, in my midnight rambles. I wondered whether the grey blanket I had held squarely in front of me was as effective a camouflage as I had hoped.

 “Sit down” he said, in a strange, tired and weary voice I was not used to. Was he about to launch into another marathon of religious propaganda? His voice didn't have that sound to it, that buckled up, ready-for-action, Church Militant sound.

He looked at me in a way I found hard to fathom. Was this the man who had terrorised and tortured us for two years, whose thundering voice had held us spellbound, who had lectured against the Evils of the World in such a way as to perversely promote their attractions enormously? Yes, certainly it was the same man, and what was he saying now? I had to ask myself, for I had already drifted off in my speculation. It was annoyance, unmistakeably, that I saw in his eyes now, as I re-focused.     

He seemed eager to get to the point now. The deep, resonant voice murmured on .

“I have asked your father to come to the school tomorrow at three o'clock to take you home. You can pack during the afternoon while the others are in class. I would appreciate you not mentioning your departure to anyone else.”

As he spoke, a surge of elation rose in me. I tried not to smile or smirk, but could feel the hope rising up from my chest, through my throat and up through the top of my head. I think I must have turned pink and possibly my eyes sparkled. I would walk once more on the footpaths of my town, their friendly cracks leading to the houses of my old mates and their sisters, I would see my parents every day, and my brothers and sisters. I would read what I liked and I would sing songs out loud and I would embrace life.

 He was looking hard at me, and was clearly annoyed. What, had I said anything? He folded a paper in a most business-like way and closed a drawer, signs that this interview was to be mercifully short. But he also hadn't finished. His sorrowful look was back.

 “Paul” he said, and he spoke slowly and deliberately “I have known some bad boys in my time – but you are the only evil one.”

It was three years later. I had returned from training camp with the Army SAS Reserve unit, then known as the CMF. I had joined in order to do parachute jumping which I yearned to experience. However, upon selection, which was not easy, it transpired that it was not my choice, that I might just as easily be committed to mountain climbing or diving. Neither of these appealed to me and I was fast losing enthusiasm. Several of the boys were hospitalised during the training, which was brutal. I was constantly hungry, and very bored, missing my music and my girl-friend. Of all the boys there was just one I enjoyed talking to.

 During outdoor weapons classes, I noticed the instructors eyeing me, and knew I was marked for the post class demo. Sure enough, they couldn't wait to wrap up in order to put me on the spot, so I worked hard, without showing it, to commit the final summing-up section to memory, and generally managed a decent showing, to the annoyance of the professionals.

“Would you like to know what your instructors think of you?” I was asked at the de-briefing session a week later, by a trim officer, sitting at the controls of a large, but rather plain and utilitarian military desk. His uniform was neatly creased and clung to his spare frame dutifully.

 “Yes Sir.”

“They feel you have high survival potential,” and there was a pause, while he tapped his pencil, top down on the desk.

“But your friends might not be so lucky.” And he looked up without further comment.

“I think I can explain that Sir.”

“Yes? Go ahead.” At least he seemed interested.

''I don't have any friends here Sir.”

He laughed and said

“What do you want to do?”  

I walked on air as I made my way back to the classroom. I had to think heavy thoughts to stop myself from levitating, and I was giddy with the thought of freedom. It was early next morning that Leo, a classmate, rounded on me suddenly, and demanded “They say you're leaving. Tell me you're not leaving!” So I did as I was told and said “I'm not leaving.” Was that evil? I was annoyed, and refused to accept the weight of guilt which I knew had been loaded on to us all. Later that afternoon I absented myself from class and waited in the parlour by the Chapel till I heard the crunch of tyres on gravel. My father seemed very pleased to see me, and I was overjoyed to be sitting in the family saloon, now wending our way out of that picturesque property, every square inch of which I had come to know so well. The early Summer flowers glowed in the sun, the young lambs gamboled madly and the air was alive with bees and birds.

 

THE BEGINNING

It was oh so different from my first glimpse of the place two and a half years before, when, with a group of like-minded, earnest and sincere young colleagues, I had entered the place in a Melbournian Winter miasma. The school emerged from the fog like a mediaeval beacon, its tower gently lit and its melodious bells pealing. Coloured sports outfits glowed from the football field where a fine standard was obvious. The pretty little cemetery was picturesque, with the roses freshly pruned ready for Spring. On to the Chapel where the ageless Gregorian chant wafted through the beeswax and incense. Through the classrooms, with fine library collections and science equipment in tip-top order. In the recreation room a couple of good-looking youths, freshly showered after sport, handled their billiard cues with ease and grace. They chatted easily to us and our superiors and I estimated their age at sixteen or seventeen, in contrast to my fourteen and a half.

The kitchen was a highly professional set-up and was stocked with much produce from their own farm. In the school lived about seventy boys, mostly in years 11 and 12, and about 25 Christian Brothers, some teaching, some pursuing tertiary study and some running the farm.

“And remember boys” the teacher had said “you are in no way committed, but if you think, even think, that you have a vocation to the religious life, this is the place where you can try it out. You don't make a commitment, but try the life out. Only after you finish school, after year 12, do you take your first vows. Of course you are free to go anytime.”

As an earnest young Catholic, I felt I had no recourse but to think about the religious life. A weight of selective quotation from the New Testament had accumulated with nagging persistence. Here are some of the gems we had to consider at great length.

 “Go and sell that thou hast and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come and follow me.”

This advice to the rich young man was hardly problematic. The poor would be very annoyed with all I had to give away.

“He that is not with me is against me.” I supposed Hitler had said the same thing, but this had a certain stern authority.

“Ye have not chosen me, but I have chosen you, and ordained you.” Difficult, this one. This was a vocation, a holy calling, and who was one to ignore the summons from on high?

“It is easier for a camel to go through a needle's eye, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.” The eye of the needle, we were told, was a small emergency gate in the city walls to allow stragglers in – not built for camels, but we clung to the hope that even if difficult, it was possible. Lady Marchmain's sophistry would have been welcome had we known of it (“But of course” she said “it's very unexpected for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle, but the gospel is simply a catalogue of unexpected things. It's not to be expected that an ox and an ass should worship at the crib. Animals are always doing the oddest things in the lives of the saints. It's all part of the poetry, the Alice-in-Wonderland side, of religion.”).

“I came not to send peace, but a sword. For I am come to set a man at variance against his father, and the daughter against her mother, and the daughter in law against her mother in law. And a man's foes shall be they of his own household. He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me: and he that loveth son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me.” This seemed almost treason. Hadn't He said, in a past life, “Honour Thy Father and Thy Mother”?

“Ye cannot serve God and mammon.” Okay.

“Come ye after me, and I will make you to become fishers of men.” Sounds like a bit more fun at last.

 “No one, after putting his hand to the plow and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.” And the other place doesn't bear thinking about. What choice does one have?

“I would that you were either hot or cold, but if you are lukewarm I will begin to vomit thee out of my mouth.” Strong language indeed, especially if you believe in “moderation in all things.”

No doubt those of a sturdy nature and a robust scepticism were unshaken, but as one who wished his life to have the greatest meaning possible, I felt I had to look seriously at it. The “try before you buy” option therefore had considerable appeal, and eventually, I took it.

 

 

 

 

 

UNDER WAY

At the beginning of the next year, in the full blast of the late Melbourne Summer, I was back, and with a manly shake of the hand I said goodbye to my father. He said in passing to one of the old hands “What's the food like?”

 “Great – if you like spaghetti.”

Laughs all round, but a nagging doubt began to grow. I needn't have worried. The food was fine. However, the old family joke “Our rule is you must keep one foot on the floor” was a hollow jest indeed as we sat, six to a table, presided over by a prefect, in the bright refectory.

Not having yet turned 15, I was somewhat surprised to see boys of 19 or 20 in the school, nuggety specimens with tenacious stubble turning their faces blue-black. I would be playing football against these fellows, and I could imagine them rubbing their hands with glee at the thought of barreling into this new fellow, six feet two and  slim as a reed. Oh dear, I knew I would have to rediscover my clumsy elbows again, for even united in the common cause of the Lord, man is a competitive beast. The older boys, most of whom seemed to be called Jack, were friendly and helpful. We soon were involved in voting in the current crop of prefects, most of us, presumably, voting for the most personable and friendly ones.

 Discipline was severe by normal standards, but since we had committed ourselves to the life, we were ready for it. Out of bed at 6.15 at the first sound of the bell, we were washed, shaved if necessary, toileted, beds made up, in no time at all. This was done in silence, in fact, in the Great Silence, during which you could not communicate with others, not even eye contact. Morning prayers, a lecture and meditation followed before we were recalled to the Chapel for Mass at 7. We sang hymns through the mass, and then retired to breakfast, still in silence. The silence was now a more companionable silence, and moderate communication, as might be necessary, was allowed.    

During breakfast, we took it in turns to sit at a microphone and read from a novel or a book of etiquette or some history or a biography. At a mistake or mispronunciation, a light on the microphone would blink, and the reader would have to hastily assess, and correct, his error. The Headmaster, Brother Simon, or “Big Jim” held his finger to the buzzer and pressed it often. Toward the end of the meal, we were read the newspaper headlines and allowed free conversation. After the meal, we returned to light silence, and pre-school chores. Dormitories and corridors were swept and the entire washup and re-set for lunch were done in about 15 minutes.

 At lunch, a short prayer and a reading of the life of the Saint of the Day sufficed as we started a full cooked 2 or 3 course lunch.

After school we dispersed to sport (football, basketball, handball, cricket) or a club (bird, camera, music etc.) or farm work (once a week) or a free day (once a week).

After showering, we met for the Rosary, a fifteen minute chanted meditation while walking in a group, then another 3-course cooked meal of good quality, and good conversation. The meal over, more chores and then evening study, followed by recreation, time out with table tennis, billiard and music options followed by evening prayers, and maybe some cake and cocoa, after which we plunged back into Great Silence as we silently finished our study and made our way to bed, there to think deep and holy thoughts until roused by the morning bell, to do it all again.

There was no uniform other than “smart casual” and I had enjoyed buying up my outfit. My school outfit was a pink shirt with little broken black horizontal stripes, like the symbol for water in Chemistry, grey trousers and a blue sports jacket. I wore them in at the end of 1959 as I completed my last term at my day school. I wore this to school one day while I had my navy school outfit dry-cleaned for Speech Night, but was lambasted by the Headmaster as a “bodgie”. How ridiculous! I realised that he was unaware that this very outfit was the approved, even prescribed, wear for his own order's recruiting school.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SCHOOL STARTS

Now, in February 1961, as I prepared my bed in the 7-boy dormitory, I checked the look and appearance of my new young schoolmates. Bob was lean, cocky and friendly, and sported a fine flat-top. The other end made a similar statement, for he wore the thickest ripple-soled shoes I had ever seen, boosting his height and rendering him a surprise around many a corner, with his noiseless, gliding walk. And I was the bodgie?

 Our school year didn't start with our academic work, but with many social events based around sport, food and exploration of the nearby countryside. At the end of the fierce Melbourne Summer, the bush was furnace-like, with grasses stiff and yellow and the only sounds the drone of insects and a staccato chorus of seed pods bursting in the heat. We explored the creeks, the quarries and forests until we were only too willing to subside into the cool and contemplation of Chapel, bodies glowing from the sun and smarting from the miniature sword cuts of a hundred grass blades.

There is an old joke which seemed to sum up the situation. In an essay about the police, a child wrote “Police is pigs.” Dismayed, the teacher took this to the Police Station, suggesting that the Police had an image problem. Within the month, a Police contingent visited the school. They gave out ice creams, showed off their weapons and gave the children rides on their motor-cycles. A couple of days later, the teacher asked for another essay on police. Opening up the same child's book, the teacher found “Police is cunning pigs.”

Well, the cunning pigs finally declared getting-to-know-you week over, and we started in on our academic preliminaries. What subjects did we choose? Now this was novel indeed. No-one had ever given me a choice before and I noticed some fascinating possibilities. Will you be doing Latin or Geography, for instance? I had done Latin for three years and loathed it. I loved only the drawing of Mucius Scaevola thrusting his hand into the burning brazier, and that only because of the morons who pronounced it “brassiere”. We were always being told that we were being taught, not facts, nor knowledge, but how to think. So I applied another attribute always encouraged, that of initiative, and approached the Latin teacher.  “May I drop Latin, Brother?”

 “If it's all right with the Head.” Goodness, there's a start.

“May I drop Latin, Brother?”

 “If it's all right with Brother Killian.” Looking good.

“It's all right with the Head, Brother.”

“It's all right with the Latin Teacher, Sir.”

“Don't call me Sir.”

“Yes, Brother.”   

Should I have felt guilty? Probably. Did I feel guilty? Possibly, but I certainly didn't let it worry me till 12 months later, when both teachers approached me and suggested I do Latin for Year 12. But that's another matter. For the meantime, Year 11 unrolled smoothly, the daily routine keeping us busy and tired. I occupied my mind earnestly with thoughts of sanctity, and wondered how I might improve myself and better the world. After the initial round of sports fixtures, hikes and picnics, we had settled into the school routine. The boys were from Victoria, Tasmania, South Australia and Western Australia, so family visiting days, once a month, were hard on the inter-staters. Already the absence of female company was starting to tell, and the families of the Victorians were treated with great hospitality by the boys, especially the families featuring girls in their Sunday best.

 As the last car purred down the long drive to Plenty Road, a musky male gloom seemed to settle on the place again.

 One day, on a hike, one of us slipped on loose scree at the edge of a golfing green, grazing his knee. Immediately a women's foursome descended upon the lucky boy with antiseptic cream, band-aids and motherly comfort. How we silently cursed his luck as the elderly ladies (they must have been 40) sent him off, cheered and repaired.

Meanwhile, the burning question really, was, should I be here? The Headmaster addressed the issue squarely, and in the wind-up to a long peroration said “Boys, you are here, and you are asking yourself that important question – am I meant to be here? Do I have a vocation? Is this a true calling?

It's an important question, and you are right to ask it. How many religious do we need in this world of ours? I think you know the answer already. There are not enough people doing God's work. Look around you, and you will find there are many doing the Devil's work. You only have to read the papers to find the catalogue of horrors visited on humanity every day, by men. It is up to us to live Christ's life, to give an example, to show the way, to give up all that we have and follow him.

St. Ignatius Loyola once estimated that one person in a hundred has a true religious calling. One in a hundred!”

 He lowered his voice.

 “Boys, we are not getting one in a thousand. Do you really think that the call that has brought you here is a false one? Nine out of ten are not heeding the call. No, boys, the idea that you may have a false call is an unworthy one and you should dismiss that thought.” And here his voice rose on an assertive but gentle and reassuring note. “You are here because God wants you to be here. Live Jesus in our hearts” he finished with the usual sign-off.

“Forever” we replied, each deep in his own thoughts. For my part I was annoyed and resentful. My old friend Terry, from home used to say “Hit me, but don't 'shit me.” I suddenly knew exactly what he meant. Another thing that was made clear to us was that this school was physically removed from “The World” just as we were to remove ourselves from “The World” and to devote ourselves to the life of the spirit. Appropriately, the school was set in farmland, scrub and forest just beyond the then urban fringes of Melbourne. Not long after arriving, I found myself outside the quadrangular setup of the entire school complex. Not far away was the farm fencing, stout and new. Sheep were being corralled through a gate, leaping and jumping as they went, the kelpie working overtime, harrying and hunting them  through the small gap. The last sheep through, though, took his time, and seemed bad-tempered toward his canine overseer. No wonder, I thought, as I saw with horror and sympathy, that this poor creature was suffering a dreadful deformity, for it appeared to have a massive rupture around the genital area. Suddenly, the musing was shattered by a loud, cheerful and obviously highly amused voice, that of Tom from Nar-Nar Goon. “Alright you city boys, you can take your eyes off that fine animal. He's perfectly normal, and he is a ram, the male of the species.” He even elaborated with the story of the ram in Spring – “Thank you maam, thank you maam, beg pardon sir, thank you maam.”

The school year was freely littered with feast days, celebrated in ritual and repast, but as the season of Easter approached, the religious intensity ramped up considerably. We were assured by  the older boys that Easter was a celebration to remember, and we anticipated it keenly. Already, the kitchen had been boosted by the arrival of Brother Aloysius, and the meals, already quite decent, became quite special. Brother Aloysius entered many a cooking competition in the wider community, and won most of them.

 It was considered our duty to work up an appreciation of his cuisine, and woe betide the fool who transgressed. Was it David, yes it was, who applied tomato sauce to his savoury meat loaf? This brought a Headmasterly tirade of titanic proportions, culminating with “Brother Aloysius devises a blend of herbs and spices to flavour his meat loaf, and to educate your taste buds, and what do you do? YOU BURN THEM OUT WITH ASCORBIC ACID.”

 “Gosh, I just like tomato sauce, that's all” Dave said later.

David was what we would call a dag. Completely inept at sport, he was good company and had a nice, ironic sense of humour. Suffering a stomach complaint which he said had turned his motions into coffee, he resorted to sick call, after dinner, where we said aspros were dispensed for broken limbs. “This will do the trick” he was told, upon being given one of the standard cure-alls.

“And did it?” I asked.

 “It was a miracle like the bread and wine” he said. 'It turned the coffee into concrete.”

He was also a useful lightning rod to draw off the anger of Big Jim.

“Am I working you too hard?” challenged BJ one day in a manner both jocular and threatening, as he was leaving our study. Of course no-one was game to speak the truth – except David.

“No sah, Missah Legree sah” he answered. Big Jim, whose religious name was Brother Simon, didn't quite catch the Simon Legree reference as he was already half-way out the door. But David was due another lecture on flippancy.     

Of course, Big Jim was also the Science teacher. One day, in the lab, I accidentally got a mouthful of an alkali which left my mouth burnt. I was spitting out bits of paper till I realised it was the lining of my mouth and tongue. Big Jim was very amused and made me some lemon cordial, but was keen to see that I understood that this was a weak acidic solution designed to neutralize the alkali.   

The season of Lent arrived, and Brother Brendan decided he could teach us the entire Easter service, from Holy Thursday to Easter Sunday, in Gregorian. Armed with the sheet music in the ancient musical script, and bereft of any musical training, we guessed at the contours of the melodies as he steered and guided us through the paths and byways of these centuries-old stories. Little by little we absorbed the conventions of the little square notes, their groups, runs and clusters until the ragged chorus of adolescent voices began to blend, to become a unified voice of immense dignity, joining us to a musical brotherhood extending back farther and farther, back to Renaissance times, farther back to the Middle Ages and beyond, to Byzantium.

By the time Easter beckoned, the music flowed like a fine old wine and a sense of anticipation hung over the school community.

 Along with the others, I looked forward with great anticipation to the feast ahead. However, when Brother Simon announced that there would be a “poultry squad” I felt a deep foreboding. I knew what was coming, and had even given the issue some thought separate from this occasion. The issue was – if you are prepared to eat it, are you prepared to kill it? The conclusion I had come to was that, yes, I certainly was prepared to eat it, and yes, I did not have the right to refuse my part in the preparation of that food. In other words, I should be prepared to face up to the slaughter and preparation of these animals. A few days later, a grim group of boys trudged down to one of the farm sheds, where various tools rested, and pens of poultry awaited their fate. The tumbrils rolled, the axes fell and boys fainted. Cheerful country types weighed in with knives, axes, scrapers, gloves and strong stomachs. Before long, a discreet approach from one of the farming Brothers saw the faint-hearted corralled into a working group doing basic fetch and carry, cleaning and washing. We gratefully accepted these menial positions and worked out way through the session with dignity almost intact.

 

 

 

 

 

 

EASTER

The Easter service was impressive and moving. It was also arduous and demanding, with much ritual to memorise and much dwelling and meditation on the gruesome subject of the crucifixion. The celebration on Easter Sunday, however, was unrestrained and the Easter Feast was everything that was promised. It seemed to us almost Medieval in scale, with trestle tables groaning with food, as we ourselves were to do later. All the meats were prepared in superb style, while the salads, dressings and sauces were colourful and piquant. The desserts and cakes were similarly stimulating. Great care and pride were exercised in the presentation of the meal, which was long, ritualistic and highly enjoyable. It was quite some time later that one of my friends told me that he had gone to Confession wondering  whether or not he might have committed a sin of gluttony.

 “What do you mean” asked his Confessor “when you say you think you might have committed a sin of gluttony?”

“Well, I just don't know what exactly would constitute a sin of gluttony.”

“Did you walk away from the table by yourself?”

“Yes father.”

“Go in peace, my son.”

One thing was very striking, and that was the proclamation against “particular friendships”. This was explained to me in later years as a precaution against homosexual attachments, and this may possibly have been true, but the stated reason was that such a friendship was bound to be uncharitable and un-Christian, as it would almost inevitably mean that someone else was precluded by default. In practice this worked very well, and prevented cliques from forming. Everyone had to circulate, and everyone was brought into the group. I though this was a very good thing. Therefore I was rather surprised, but also flattered, when a senior prefect, handsome and popular and two years older, sought me out for games and conversation. After some time, I demurred, feeling that the situation was a little too cosy, whereupon he boldly asked “But aren't you my PF?” This was heady stuff, and I thought that as long as I didn't neglect others maybe it would be OK. So the friendship blossomed and I began to watch out for Jack at breaks, at meetings and sport. I began to feel jealous when he, no doubt observing his Christian duty, chatted amiably to others. Occasionally I felt neglected, and one day, rushing to meet up with Jack, I noticed another friend in a great hurry. I slowed down, and sure enough, he was one of the small group I had often seen in Jack's company. The scales fell from my eyes, painfully, it must be admitted, and I learned one more small lesson in the art of growing up.

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

AND MUSIC

Television was still new in Australia, and we were too busy to miss it. The radio was banned except for football broadcasts, which were all on the Saturday afternoon. There was a small collection of Classical vinyl and some oddities, amongst which the American gospel choir provided a welcome injection of rhythm and harmony. Its earthy appeal seemed to be at odds with the elevated tenor of school life, and there was a suspicion that this one had slipped under the radar. Those of us who drank it up were careful not to provoke an issue by playing it too loudly.

 The only counterpart of this music within the school was the piano-playing of Bill, who may or may not have been particularly gifted, but whose repertoire of popular pieces, standards and blues never palled on us.

 Insofar as most of us were supposedly destined for the role of teacher within the Irish Christian Brothers, our educational experience was tailored to render us fit teachers with as many strings to our bows as was possible. There were no music subjects as such, and this was not unusual at that time. But we were given as much experience as was possible with those limited budgets, and we were regularly seated, once a week, for a music session of kinds. In the muted lighting we listened to an authoritative American voice explaining the joys of music, as he heard them. It was magic, from start to finish, and the excerpts which he played and explained sustained many of us through the week. The themes of Mendelssohn's violin concerto could be heard, hummed or whistled, through corridors and halls the whole week long, and we were eager for new experiences the next time. Then it would be the magical notes of Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony which haunted us. It was at least thirty years before I discovered that these were the famous Bernstein lectures. Leonard Bernstein, the charismatic conductor of the New York Philharmonic, was probably the most influential musical educator of the post-war period.         

Surprising visitors would drop in as well, and Dame Joan Hammond was simply sensational as she introduced and performed her favourite arias for a highly attentive and deeply moved audience. Cyril Richard, the Shakespearian actor, was also prevailed upon to entertain in his own theatrical and eccentric way. We were mesmerised by the thrilling timbre of his magnificent voice, and his artistry with language. When the headmaster, Big Jim, thanked him afterwards, we were highly amused to hear his impressive baritone reduced to pipsqueak status by comparison.

In the following term, we began many lessons in the afternoon session with a ten-minute session of voice training, with attention to correct posture and breathing habits, an initiative, no doubt, of one of the teaching brothers who was similarly impressed.

Another who graced us with his presence was the young Stephen McIntyre, about to embark on his overseas studies, and not much older than us. His artistry and imagination were a revelation, and his piano playing was in a league altogether superior to anything we had heard. It is strange to think that the young Stephen McIntyre and I would meet again, on stage at the Melboune Arts Centre in 1982 or so, when he played the Ravel piano concerto with the Orchestra for whom I was playing bassoon, accompanying. Stephen was soloist on many occasions before and after.

 Jean Starling, a fine Melbourne pianist, was another who was able to pass on her love of music, and with her gift for teaching, provoked lively discussions for quite some time. A host of kind performers was pressed into service by the Brothers, and their gifts were manna from Heaven to the boys in this isolated spot.

 The concerts were coming to us, and in those days, most of us hadn't been to many concerts. I remembered well a concert I had attended while at Primary school. We had been encouraged (in the name of Catholic solidarity) to attend the von Trapp family concert at, of all places, Dallas Brooks Hall, headquarters of the Masons in Victoria. The real Maria presided over an entertaining and skilful show, with a goodly amount of humour and showmanship.

 The next time I was in that hall was to play bassoon with the early Australian Chamber Orchestra, accompanying the Spanish guitarist, Alirio Diaz, in a performance of the Guitar concerto by Rodrigo. Robert Pikler, violist and Australian Chess Champion check was the conductor. We had performed the same concerto in Sydney, where the banner on the Town Hall (the Opera House was still under construction) read ...Guitar Concerto by Rod Rigo (making it a geetar concerto, presumably).

Robert Pikler was the “real deal” in providing a personal focus for the great music of the Western World for the music lovers and musicians of Sydney, and Australia in general. As a raw player on bassoon, which I had not long played, I worked with him with the Sydney Conservatorium Orchestra. He would call me into the office just before a concert and run over contentious moments most helpfully. He was most amused at the black cardboard bow tie I had hastily cut out when I realised I didn't have a real one with me. In the last few stabbing chords of an overure, which go CHORD REST CHORD REST CHORD, there is always the danger, in a young orchestra, of someone crashing in during the rest. Sure enough, it happened, one of the trumpets dobbing in. Where many others would grimace and glare, Pikler merely adjusted his downbeat on the next chord to a throat-slitting gesture, accompanied by a smile that endeared him to the whole orchestra. He was a fine player, who played in pain because of torture endured during the Second World War, when his Japanese captors had damaged his finger tips. One of the younger members of that orchestra was Gillian Catlow, who studied with him some years before taking off to Europe. She was playing some Bloch. “That's very nice” said Pikler, “but actually, this music is not very nice. It's Hungarian music, and it's whingeing music. You see, the Hungarians are the world's worst whingers, and I know because I am Hungarian...except for the Jews of course, and I'm a Hungarian Jew.”    

The next time I was at the Dallas Brooks Hall was to see the Kuijken brothers playing their early instruments in period style, a novelty then, but de rigeur now. And there many more occasions when I liked playing there, apart from the inadequate backstage facilities.

But the Dallas Brooks concert I liked most was the Australia Day concert hosted by Mary Kenneally and Steve Blackburn, aka Tim and Debbie. In their inimitable style, they introduced act after act, every one of which came from ethnic minorities who provided a program of mixed delights, all  charming and some unwittingly amusing. When it came to the turn of the Austrian contingent, the audience, somewhat confused about the nature of the concert (presented under the umbrella of the Comedy Festival) tittered throughout the beautiful and elegant first couple of items. It drew the following response from Werner check, who said “Ladies and Gentlemen, I am pleased that you seem to have enjoyed this item which indeed is an amusing litle story which I doubt you understood as it all in German. Although this is part of the Comedy Festival, it is not necessary to laugh. In fact, we would prefer it if you didn't.”  

Film nights, too, were eagerly awaited, about half of the films being of the black and white variety. These were dangerous of course, and innocent films could wreak havoc. Jean Simmons in “Macbeth” lingered long in my imagination after the final credits had rolled.

 “The Dam Busters” screened in the heat of early Summer, and there was much amusement as, to the drone of Lancaster Bomber engines in the opening credits, the first blowfly of Summer wound his zig-zag way from bottom right to top left of screen on cue.

Danny Kaye films had some wonderful scores and sensational dancing, infecting us with restless energy with little hope of expression.   

There were two documentary films which left a deep impression. One, little seen at that time, has now become a commonplace viewing experience, in fact, one of the lingering images from World War 2. It was the film taken as the camps were opened by the Americans and shows the state of the prisoners and the fate of their families and colleagues. Before the film, Brother Simon, the Headmaster, said

 “We're going to show you a film and it's not very pleasant. Some people have misgivings about showing this, but it happened not so long ago, and there are some things you just have to know – about people and the way they behave. These are events that can't be swept away, and you are now of an age where you should be informed.”

 We watched in stunned silence as the emaciated bodies were bulldozed into mass graves, and the barely-living faced the camera with empty, faraway eyes.

I began to think of our neighbours in Brunswick, a Polish Jewish family whose children would often be sent up to play with us or be minded by my mother. We would ask Mrs. G to show us the numbers on her arm, which she always did with perfect serenity and poise.

The other film which affected me deeply was also black and white, a documentary and which featured an American angle. I don't even recall whether it was the first or second World War, but it was a familiar and set presentation dealing with the call to arms across the United States. To the usual dramatic “War clouds gathered over Europe.....” we saw the roll-out of tanks and the gearing up of factories. To the further chant of “From all corners of the country they came...” we saw boys emerging from their farms, young men leaving their cabins, groups tramping down the country lanes to their enlistment posts. “From the crags of the Rockies, from the plains of Texas, from the Bayou country they came...” droned the heavy, dramatic voice. And I don't even remember where it was, but one of these scenes hit me like a sledgehammer.

 A tremendous feeling of deja vu swept over me and my heart pounded. In years to come I would dabble in the occult and psychic, and would have some experiences to tell. I always included this occurrence in my list of significant events, but never ever knew why it should have been significant, only that this powerful feeling told me so. It was 49 years later that I discovered that the shadowy figure of my father's grandfather, Frank Williams, would emerge complete with his family history. The only thing was that he wasn't Frank Williams, born in Wales, but Ira Coan from America. He was a Civil War soldier and his grandfather fought in the War of Independence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE SINS OF THE FATHERS, THE BROTHERS AND OTHERS

Of course, it was the earnest hope of the Brothers that we would proceed to take vows, and to become, in turn, teachers, ministering to the Catholic community, which meant, in reality, the Irish Catholic boys. It had never occurred to me that my parents might not have wanted me to join. In fact, they didn't as I found out much later. But it was inconceivable then to think they might not approve. For them not to approve, and for me not to respond to my musings would have seemed sheer dereliction of duty all round. It was painful in later years to read of the predatory behaviour of many members of the clergy, including the order which taught me, and which I was aspiring to join. “Of course they are paedophiles” people would assert with great confidence. “Why did they join in the first place?”

This response always dumbfounded me, for I felt certain that the vast majority, like me, were earnest and sincere, and wanted to do some good, to make a difference and to leave the world a better place. It seems that this motive is incomprehensible to certain folk, maybe pragmatists or materialists. We were also aware that we were truly making a great sacrifice, principally in committing to a celibate life, i.e. no sex – nothing at all. This was difficult, right from the start, though at that time, our lives in any year 11 and 12 school were likely to be celibate also. Nonetheless, we knew that no respite was in sight and we hoped we would be strong enough. These matters were discussed with us, or rather, we were directed how to think and behave, and given advice in dealing with problems.

 At my previous school, the Headmaster, who had called me a bodgie, had gathered us together before the year 10 social. “No girl is to be left unattended. You are to talk to the girls. You are to use your sex-appeal.” This was novel indeed, for few of us considered any of our peers to have any trace of that precious commodity. The Headmaster himself, who had written the Year 12 Chemistry text book, retired from the order to join the Carthusian order of contemplative monks, where he did further research and, presumably, drew a veil over his sex appeal.

 By the time I eventually left, I admit that the issue of sex loomed large, so to speak. But surely it was just as difficult for those I left behind. As the reports emerged many years later, first a trickle, then a flood, about priests and brothers offending, I was perplexed and puzzled and did give the matter some thought – and did come to some conclusions. It seemed to me that most of the offences were in isolated places like orphanages and boarding-schools where there was little parental presence.

 Amongst the New Testament quotes which were delivered with some vehemence was   

“And whoever shall offend one of these little ones that believe in me, it is better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he were cast into the sea.”

 This is not reckoned to deal with paedophilia, but was more of an injunction to respect the simple, meek and worthy believer, and not to abjure or despise him. This was never really explained, and the passage always seemed to have something to do with children, and was certainly frightening in tone. Even when I started dating I felt uncomfortable unless the girl was virtually my own age to the year and month.

 Here it is dear reader – I believe that some of these men, having entered their order and taken permanent vows at a young age, over a period of years lost their faith, and the consolation of religious belief. Unable to return to their families who did not relish receiving a “failed priest” (this was the cruel perception of the Catholic community of that time) they were trapped in an unnatural life, and turned to perversion for an outlet. I feel that almost all of the boys who entered did so in a whole-hearted spirit of dedication, most in their mid-teens. My Aunt Mary had left Mackay for Sydney at the age of 15, then joined an order of nuns, never to see her parents again. She left the order at the age of 40, never thanked, but only made to feel as guilty as they could possibly make her feel.

Married clergy of course is one answer. Limited service is another, whereby one commits to a period of service and is honoured and thanked for it at the end. A female presence to limit the access of lone males in vulnerable situations would also appear vital, as male sexuality is all too often predatory and opportunistic.

At the risk of being repetitious, I quote here from my own book “Ouija Nights” on the same subject, but with a slightly different slant. I include it for a little extra perspective.

This was in the boarding school where boys seriously considered the possibility of life as a religious. As I may have mentioned, this was not for me. This will surprise very few. What has surprised people over the years is the idea that anyone would consider it at all. Many friends and acquaintances have opined that such a calling would be attractive for the undersexed and the deviate. However, the great majority of those I knew appeared perfectly normal in every way. In other words, what they were proposing to do was in the nature of a sacrifice. They would give up the possibilities of wealth, sex and autonomy in the service of Christ, or, at any rate, religion. Even at the age of fourteen this was a daunting prospect, requiring powerful motivation. And that motivation came from a combination of romantic idealism and religious indoctrination, with a genuine desire to make the world a better place.

How sad then, to read in later years of the "sins of the fathers" committed by those who taught us. I had never heard of such a thing, but then, I was a trusting person, probably naïve.

The received wisdom from more worldly people was that these people were paedophiles who had entered religion in order to have access to children. This was always declared with that air of inside knowledge which tends to be convincing, and makes one feel somewhat gullible, and a chump.

But the disciplines of religious life are not lightly endured, and I believe very few people have approached their religious life in this way.

I believe that different motivation was in operation.

 Once in "the system", there was tremendous coercion. Religious (that is, priests, nuns and brothers) have to be co-opted from generation to generation as they have a tendency not to breed. The Catholic school system continually trawled for "vocations", understood to be literally a calling (to the religious life) from God.

And to many, this was the most honourable calling possible. Once in the system, however, it could be difficult to leave. Those who gave up their (life-time) vows were somewhat of an embarrassment to their families, and were referred to in the  Catholic community as "failed priests" or "failed religious". Most families managed this in good spirit, but the stigma was there.

 In the course of my two years at boarding school, there was a continuous drift of boys back to their old world, referred to in fact as "the world". We were not of the world, and were getting ready to renounce "the world".   

In most cases, one would simply be aware that a friend, who had been with us at breakfast, had not attended classes, and was simply absent. His bed was unoccupied, and his locker was empty.

We were not to speak of these people. They were "dead" to the community (Barbara Thiering was considered to be drawing a longish bow with this sort of analysis of language in the Qumran community of the Dead Sea Scrolls). In fact, when we whispered amongst ourselves of the departed, we said that they had "gone to Egypt". This was a reference to those Israelites who left Moses in the desert and returned to Egypt, where they were at least sure of a meal.

Imagine going into such an order at fifteen, with high ideals and moral standards. Imagine ten years later, at twenty five, with a lifetime of frustration behind you, and cracks appearing in the façade of Faith. Unable to return to one's family without shame, not sure that one could cope in that world, besieged at every turn with reminders of what one had voluntarily surrendered, in the world but not of it, it was just too much for some.

 Male sexuality is opportunistic, and victims are primarily the vulnerable – those who are unprotected. It seems to me that much of the abuse that has occurred has been in isolated places with little supervision. Also in places where a strong leader has carved out a fiefdom which others have been loth to invade. This is not dissimilar to those business leaders of the 80s who dominated their enterprises with a bullying personality. Invariably, when colleagues were finally asked why they had not investigated suspicious activities, they gave one of two answers, which were "It was more than my job was worth" or "Oh. Mr. X was not the sort of man to question."   

When my longing to be with my parents again, to be free to think for myself, to meet girls and to play music grew unbearable, I began negotiations to quit.

A classmate got wind of it, and approached me.

"Tell me you're not leaving" he demanded.

"All right" I replied. "I'm not leaving."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE WISE OLD MAN

Peter and I were good friends (no, not PFs) and often played chess together. One day, he said to me  

 “You know, there's a stock figure in literature – I've been reading about him forever, but I've never met one.”

“Yes – and who would that be?”

“The Wise Old Man.”

“Yeah-s'pose you're right...what about any of the Brothers?”

“Nah...” in chorus.

 “P'raps you'd have to be a wise young man first.”

We looked at each other and burst out laughing, knowing each would veto the other.

We discussed it again many years later, when we had children of the same late school age.

 “Remember the Wise Old Man?”

“Yep. Sure do.”

“Whaddya think?”

“On reflection, I say it's true –we actually acquire wisdom as we travel through life.”

“Yeah, but you know what?”

“Yeah, what?”

“Just when you realise that you do have something worthwhile to say, you also realise that no-one wants to hear it.”

“Sorry – what was that?”

“Shuddup.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

IRISH?

As the months passed, the “World” receded. We were far removed from the hustle and bustle of everyday life and business. Every morning, selected headlines were read to us so that were were abreast of current affairs

The ethnic nature of our order  was also a puzzle. I think we were used to universality as a general concept. After all, wasn't the Church not only Catholic, but catholic? So our religious order of Christian Brothers seemed to be oddly named, for what else would they be other than Christian? Irish now, that was different. But did that not exclude others? Even as a Primary school child I had been made to  feel not the real McCoy for not having an Irish name. With a name like Williams and a good Catholic family pedigree this was unexpected. So, if I felt just a little un-Irish, what would be the feeling of my friends from elsewhere? Among our friends were children from Italy, Austria, Czechoslovakia, Germany, Poland, the Baltic States, Hungary, The Ukraine and Holland. Why would they go to the Irish Christian Brothers? Just because it was Catholic of course, but for some, the Irish brand was somewhat severe and puritanical. We began to realise that  there could be more than one kind of Catholic, and then to realise that there could be more than one kind of Christian. In turn, it seemed that the rest of the world was not all bad either, and we wondered at the egocentricity of a system which seemed to see the Australian Irish Catholic as the ultimate channel for the way, the truth and the light. These doubts were not welcome either. We would cringe when the naïve ones, motivated perhaps by the spirit of open enquiry encouraged in the Science laboratory, would begin,

 “Brother, if we are all equal in the sight of God, why didn't he send his son amongst the Chinese, who are far more numerous. Wouldn't that have been more effective.”

 The answer would generally run

 “We must not presume to guess the mind of God. He knows everything, he knows best.”

 Or perhaps

 “Brother, I just don't see how there can be three persons in one.”  

This honest approach to the Trinity would certainly exasperate, and a typical response was

 “Of course you can't son. That's why it is called a Mystery of Religion. There are some things that have to be taken on Faith, and who are we to question the word of God. You can always say the prayer for faith, Lord I believe, help thou my unbelief.” We knew it well.

 “But Sir, isn't that a circular argument?”

 “It's not an argument at all son. It's a prayer asking for a favour.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE AFTER-LIFE

When I had been at the school some little time, we were told to prepare ourselves for a special occasion. It was the funeral service of an older member of the order, and his friends and colleagues came from all over the state to celebrate his passing. We hosted, sang at the Mass and helped serve the copious refreshments as they partied in honour of their deceased colleague and brother. They believed he was going to his reward and celebrated accordingly. Some of them possibly didn't believe, and just celebrated anyway. One of them, also, was given the task of writing his obituary, which would then be read in the Chapter houses of all the order on the anniversary of his death for many years. I enjoyed hearing these obituaries, when they came up, during the morning meal. They were well written and full of human interest and were a little insight into the life of the older generation.

We lined up for the interment as well, the coffin being lowered into its place alongside the pretty rose-covered picket fence.

One funeral was a little unusual. It was actually the re-interment of a brother who had died some years earlier, and who was being moved to be with his friends. We formed a guard of honour round the graveside and waited for the hearse to arrive. Across the football fields and paddocks we could see the far-off traffic on Plenty Road. Amongst them we saw the sleek black beetle that was the hearse, unencumbered by the usual flotilla of mourners.

 “My God, he's traveling fast” someone said.

“Wouldn't you, with that in the back behind you?” answered another.

 I grew quite fond of the Cemetery, and would spend pleasant moments meditating there, or rather, sitting and thinking of very little at all. Some Sunday mornings I could see the city of Melbourne laid out before me, on its wide flat flood plain. In the distance, little plumes of grey-blue smoke rose in indolent fashion from chimneys and gardens. Here and there the glint of a car window, an occasional plane. Tiny droning noises wafted occasionally on the still, balmy air, and a pleasant haze seemed to render the whole panorama slightly surreal, or was it impressionistic? I thought of all the Sunday roasts crisping up right at that very moment, the shed where I might potter, the pickup game of football I might play, the girls I might meet at Church or the Tennis Club, and knew very well that it was all going on right at that moment. In that kaleidoscope of tiny coloured dots that stretched all the way to the Bay was my home, my friends and my family. I though it would have been easier if I'd come from Western Australia.

I suppose we were all interested to see how others coped, but our conversations were limited, while our instructions were many. We had to be holy, there was no two ways about it – but it was the kiss of death to appear so. But it was also made clear to us that the “holy Joe” or “creeping Jesus” type was not wanted, so that it was a “push-pull” situation. Surely, we must have thought, it couldn't hurt if just a little of our religious zeal somehow showed through. Who of us doesn't have just a touch of theatricality? And so it proved, for it became quite a game to pick out those whose devotion transfigured their faces, cut them off from normal communication and gave them an extremely funny walk. Brows furrowed with deep concentration, they appeared to move up and beyond the realm of ordinary mortals, the cost, perhaps, of having a conversation with God. This was their own business of course, but it became everyone's business at a quarter to six, when, after sport and showers, we convened in groups of fifteen or so, to chant the Rosary while walking a set path within the quadrangle. Particularly holy people tended to invest the timeworn prayer with deep meaning, pausing respectfully where grammar demanded and articulating each syllable precisely, nothing less being good enough for God, before whom, after all, we are mere worms, vermin, dust. Having lost time to a rival group on a nearby path, the next prayer leader would move it along just a little – nothing obvious, even taking time over the first phrase to allay fear, then gradually running everything together in a smooth, efficient chant that got the job done nicely. As the tempo increased however, a loud, braying, assertive response might be heard dragging us back to respectability. Occasionally the delivery would become pointedly and painfully slow in order to chastise by example the neighbouring group, who had progressively upped the tempo, and were charging back and forth to the quickfire delivery of their version of the prayer. I sometimes think of these groups many years later as the driver in front holds to his lane, veering neither right nor left, maintaining a maddeningly slow pace. I know I won't really get there much sooner if I get past him, but I just want to drive faster. The saintly ones were also the stars of meditation time, Rodin's Thinker, Churchill in his study and Napoleon surveying the Battle of Waterloo might all have been their models. Maybe I tried in an earnest way, but fortunately wasn't able to carry it off.

We were encouraged to “mortify the flesh” by offering up discomfort in a spirit of prayer. One activity which was much encouraged was to finish one's shower with a cold burst. This was also considered healthy. I would run mine forcefully while I stepped aside from the downpour, then emerge shivering for good effect. We were to wrap ourselves in our towel for modesty, and talking was forbidden in the change room. One day, I noticed a boy gesturing to another. He could hardly hide his smirk.  Looking down to where the informant was pointing, he discovered that he had very dirty knees. When he was a pre-pubescent, his knees were about the only thing that needed a wash. He obviously now had more pressing grooming needs.  

I prayed of course, to Jesus, naturally. However, we also had an army of Saints to pray to, not to worship of course, but to ask them to put in a good word for us. We all had our favourites. We liked their little tasks in after-life. St. Gabriel, the angel who delivered the message to Mary concerning her future role as the mother of Christ, was the official patron of postal workers, while St. Joseph Cupertino, a young monk who is reported to have levitated, is the patron saint of aviators. I had a special devotion to Mary, the mother of Jesus, and I don't think I was alone. After all, she was a fifteen year-old virgin when she received the good news, and some of the models for the paintings were obviously young Florentine beauties. It made respectful worship much easier. And speaking of fifteen-year old virgins, isn't that exactly what we were, in a manner of speaking? At Primary school, we wondered what happened to the souls of the children who had not been baptised. After some thought, the nun told us that they went to Limbo – it was like Heaven, except that they were not in God's presence. Well, we thought, that would be like playing games with Mum until Dad came home from work. We could manage that.

 

 

AND THE MONASTIC LIFE

 The year progressed, with its medieval rhythm. While the rest of the city nine to fived, week in, week out, our weeks were broken up by feast days, founder's day and the like, with their associated feasts and rituals. Many picnics and hikes were held mid-week while the communities around us beavered away at their daily tasks.  Through the paddocks we walked, tramped, marched and sang, through little townships all but deserted, on our way to a bushland rendezvous with the provisions utility laden with fresh foodstuffs and a little fuel if necessary. Many hours later would find us making our way back in the twilight, or later. The lights of the school belfry sent a beam heavenwards and brought us in through a maze of tracks and meadows, many occupied by large cattle of indeterminate temperament. Showers, recreation and a light supper saw us sleep well, and we drifted off to a blur of rippling creek waters, the rising spiral of camp-fire smoke and the waving of wattle and gum crowns. And the various scents of the bush and the camp fire lingered as we dozed.

“And he grew in knowledge and wisdom...” said the Gospel of check about the young Jesus.  

 Was I growing in any of this? I tried earnestly but the only real measure of progress was in one's schoolwork. I liked English, because it allowed me to read books...like Persuasion by Jane Austen, Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte, Shakespeare's Hamlet, The Lady's not for Burning, as well as a fine cross-section of Poetry. It was wonderful to read Gerard Manly Hopkins, and to not only read that “the stooks arise around”, but to look out of the classroom window, and see them doing so. The farming brothers in their toy-like tractors would sweep across the billowing expanse of golden grasses, leaving behind them a flat brown mat strewn with a trail of bales, the modern stooks. We got to know these bales more intimately in the late Spring, when we were co-opted into a work gang. The country boys were most generous, letting us off first at the bottom of the hill, while they went on up to the top. They would have the weary walk back they told us. Nevertheless, they seemed quite cheerful and we soon found out why. The grass at the bottom of the hill was considerably wetter than that at the top, and the weight of the bales varied accordingly. We were ready the next year.

Another ritual which was well established was the retreat. This is a period of withdrawal from the world for the purpose of prayer and contemplation. Silence, for a period of days, is the general rule. Though irksome to many natures, most of us managed it quite well, and benefited from it. In fact, the habit of silence was extremely effective in many ways. Firstly, it created great efficiency in chores and tasks, which were performed in minimal time at a good standard. Secondly, it encouraged a certain amount of introspection, in which the imagination was given scope, for better or for worse.

 Quite early in my stay, I noticed that a couple of the older boys seemed to be missing. They stayed missing, and nothing was said. Finally, it was the whispered “Gone to Egypt” that gave the game away. With a shock of disappointment one felt that we had been abandoned, and it was a blow to morale. You hoped that no-one else would follow, but there was a small trickle ongoing, some of them expected, some not, and the rest of us huddled together hoping no-one else would break ranks.

 Year's end approached. I had made it thus far. I liked my friends and hoped I would not let them down. The life was challenging and I hope I would be up to it. My academic work was adequate, but I had found that I could slack off without my parents to oversee me. English I liked, but it was more an excuse to read a great many books, and I was intrigued with the music I was hearing, so that I read The Listener and other English music journals, often when I should have been studying.

The year finally came to an end. I realised as we made our preparations that some of the boys really had nowhere to go, and were going to stay there with the brothers. They were probably from the West Australian orphanages, and were following the path of their teachers and mentors. This made me quite thoughtful as I made my excited way home.

 As far as I am aware, the Christian Brothers have never been regarded highly as Theologians, but it seems to me in retrospect, that their theological line was almost directly what we regard as Jesuitical. That word now may be pejorative, implying a tricksy and legalistic bent, but it also denotes a thorough and rational approach which has lasted a long time. Other visitors were the Pallotine Fathers and the Redemptorists. All these priests and orders influenced, not only us, but our teachers. The Redemptorists were well known as powerful hell-fire preachers, but the Palatine priest was a one-off, a handsome, worldly-looking man who was said to have been a fighter pilot in the War. I had little doubt that he was a poster boy for the religious life, and have to admit he was impressive.

The absence of female company was certainly a problem, but the older boys told us with a smile that all was not gloom and doom, that we did indeed have a regular female visitor. Who was this? We asked. Why, the herd-tester, they replied. The farm, like any farm, was subject to Government inspection, and the lady scientist arrived regularly to test the cows for TB. In due course we met, or at least saw, her. Off in the distance, on the farm perimeter, moved a stout figure in a voluminous raincoat topped by a souwester. It (sex was indeterminate) carried a bucket in one hand and a long pole in the other. An hour later that figure returned the way it had come, and we were no better or worse off than we had been before.

 The rituals of a Melbourne Winter came to a close, with the football Grand Final an “allowable broadcast” for us, and the Melbourne Cup also permitted.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

BACK TO EGYPT

The journey home was exciting, with home seen with new eyes. The hustle and bustle of December, work, life and shopping was heady, and home itself was more organised, with my Grandparents and Aunt ensconced in the new flat at the back. My two brothers and sisters were still at home, and my Mother cooked and washed every day for ten. The house itself seemed shrunken in scale, and my long strides propelled me through the place in no time. But it was Summer, and I spent much time swimming, at the Baths or at Port Melbourne, then an unfashionable working port. This didn't bother me, my brother Brian or friend Terry. From an early age we had been used to day-long expeditions on our bikes, laden with picnic provisions, a small price for a mother to pay for ten hours of peace. We would swim, dive from and cavort on the wharves, jetties, piers and ships at the port. Nothing would induce me to enter those waters now, but it was a marvellous mid-teens playground for us then.

Christmas and New Year were wonderful with the family, but the grand scale of our medieval routine was missing, and I missed the ceremony and dignity of the formal celebrations. It was hot, everyone was in holiday mode and there was little in the general community to foster the “spirit of Christmas”. I spent a lot of time listening to the radio, and challenged myself, so I thought, by listening to more recent and contemporary “classical” music, including much Bartok, Britten and Stravinsky. I also listened to a great deal of popular music, and occasionally some interesting blues-inflected music that we chanced on. By the time February rolled round, I was eager to see my friends again, to hear their stories, and tell mine.

 

AND MY BROTHER CAME TOO

When the time came, I was in for a couple of shocks. Firstly, my young brother, Brian, was coming with me. This was amazing, as I had thought he'd not a religious bone in his body. This could seriously lessen the currency. I felt. Perhaps I felt offended that God had not only chosen me but Brian also. Did such a god really know what he was doing? It also seriously compromised any decision I might have taken to quit. “Whoever shall offend these little ones....” rang in my ears, and I felt I was stuck, for the moment.

Arriving back at school, I discovered that a couple of good mates were not returning. We were sad, upset, and felt abandoned by them. They had “gone to Egypt”, and after a couple of murmured exchanges, they were not mentioned again.

The school year, our final year of high school, had been planned ahead, so I was apprehensive when I was approached by the Headmaster and the Latin teacher together. This looked bad. They didn't mention my abuse of their confidence twelve months previously, but suggested, in a pleasant but firm tone, that I was still capable of doing year 12 Latin, and they would like me to do so. In a way, I didn't mind the prospect because I had had a year's respite, and the Latin syllabus looked interesting, with Virgil's Aeneid and the speeches of Cicero listed. I blithely acceded and began my classes the next week. The first task was to learn some vocabulary, but I frittered away my study time reading, and when we were tested the next day, I performed very poorly. I expected to be thoroughly chastised, but was reprieved with “Ah well, I don't suppose we should expect too much from you for a while.” If I had taken my foot any further off the accelerator I would have been in reverse.    

In fact, I soon did go into reverse, as I lost my book, and was told not to come back till I found it. It took a month and they had to come looking for me. Of course, I was provided with a new book.

Eight years later the same tactic came in handy when I was an Army Bandsman. My white pith helmet, used for ceremonial occasions, had a nasty coffee stain on it, so I covered it with toothpaste. This eventually turned into a worse, greasy, bluish stain, which I was ordered to remove. I scrubbed hard enough to abrade the fabric, and was rewarded with a new hat.

 Having plotted to set an abysmally low standard, I had the sort of year that disgusts me in children now. If I avoided Latin syntax like the plague, I was intrigued by the literature, and felt that might be the easiest way in to the subject. We had a brand new swimming pool under construction, and there arrived two chlorinating tanks. These were capsules inside which one could sit, sheltered from the weather, out of sight and probably out of mind. I actually performed some study there, reciting the Aeneid in the intoxicating acoustic, and thundering the speeches of Cicero.

 In the 80's, I travelled some time in Germany, a natural for an orchestral musician, so I took German lessons. “But now”, Miss Gertrude said in an anxious way, “we will find it hard to proceed with your German without Grammar. You see, there is here a notion of movement toward something...”

“As in the Dative case” I broke in.

“Oh wunderschon! You have done Latin.”

And indeed, in my travels through Germany, I found that recourse to Latin roots was most valuable when my stock of honest German was exhausted.

Arriving back at school with Brian, I was divided in my attention. Of course I wanted to catch up with my mates, the old hands now, but felt constrained to stick around to help Brian. How on earth would he take to the prayers and silence? As it happened, Brian was not interested in protection and made himself scarce. Some of his friends though, seemed to consider me a “good bloke”. I realised that I wanted to be a prefect, and why. I had never wanted promotion in my school or scout groups, and also knew why that was so. I was always being asked to take on leadership, and although I saw that some were eager, I felt strongly that there was quite a price to pay in the form of coercion, obligation and duty. And in my first year, I had come to loathe the sanctimonious prefect, Big Jim's self-righteous deputy. The only way to protect myself was to become one, so like the most self-serving politicians, I was the gregarious host and helper to the new boys who duly voted me in with a generous response.

Another perk by now was the occupation of a single cubicle upstairs, my window facing North, with a view ranging to Mount Macedon, fifty check miles away from Melbourne. That mountain range represented the wide world – what lay beyond it I hardly knew, but I imagined setting off to spread the Gospel house by house, town by town. Thunder storms would come in over the mountain, putting on a spectacular display, and I would watch for hours. On other nights, unable to sleep, and with overtures and symphonies running through my head, I would conduct magnificent and stirring performances, in total silence. For all I know, every cubicle was occupied in the same bizarre manner, but I doubt it. A chorus of gentle and not-so-gentle snoring would seem to confirm my suspicion.

 Saturday morning was chores morning. Serious cleaning was the order of the day, with floors scrubbed and polished, boys working in teams and chatting companionably. I drew the toilet block, no-one's favourite, but in fact not too onerous a task, as the block was well-laid out, was easy to clean and did not even require arduous work. The block also boasted an excellent acoustic, and I tested it out with the songs I remembered from my holidays. I saw that these secular songs mildly offended the sensibilities of some of my colleagues, but I thought they were harmless, and persisted.

It was almost five years later. I had been called up in the Vietnam draft, the only lottery I have ever won, but applied to join the Regular Army in the Band and was accepted for a three year term. I did this because it was the only way I could see to acquire the practical musical skills I needed to make a life in music. During training, my aptitude tests qualified me to apply for officer training. This, however, would not have furthered my musical career, so I declined, giving offence it seems. I was handed over to the foulest-mouthed sergeant, a grisly fellow who told me I would be sent for latrine duty. I resigned myself to doing the job, and doing it well, for I believed that no-one is above any human task. When he saw that I was unfazed, he began to question me. “Do you know what you're doing son?”

 “I think so sergeant. I'm headed for the Band, and I need the training there to go on and become a musician. I can't get that with officer training.”

“Are you sure son? You could be a major at 27, you could retire at 47 and you need never see action.”  

Only then did I realise that I was rejecting what he could only dream of.

 “Ah, look son – have you got somewhere to go for a coupla hours?”

“Yes , Sergeant.”

“Off y'go”, and off I went to the Chapel, an oasis of peace (it was so little frequented) where I read a book for “a coupla hours”.

I was missing my music, and I found it hard to sleep many nights, so I took to roaming the school at night. As we slept, the cassocked figures of a lone brother would sweep softly along the corridors, bridging  lights-out till midnight or so. I took a dark grey blanket to cover me as I made my way to the English classroom – there was a large valve radio there. As I passed through the beam of light thrown by Big Jim's study, I moved very slowly with the blanket held out square in front of me. In the classroom the radio valves threw a lot of light, and I tented the radio with the blanket. Under the blanket I luxuriated in late night jazz and lounge music. All was new and exciting, and I had new songs to sing with my chores. I loved “In a Persian Market Place” sung by Sammy Davis Junior, but was unclear about the words and consequently had to fudge them as I felt there was something odd about “Came the dawn and she was gone, but her smell still lingered on.” It was years before I realised it was “spell” – of course!

 My roaming didn't seem to hurt anyone, and I didn't suffer from lack of sleep. I was still trying to remain virtuous, and to set a good example for my brother. I certainly couldn't go, and leave him in the lurch. His attitude was less than exemplary and his attitude was flippant, to put it as kindly as possible. I saw him, during light silence at breakfast, slap a classmate on the thigh. He explained to me later that he'd noticed Dan's pockets bulging, and deduced that he had helped himself to extra grapes. He was right, and very pleased with his joke, which was quite good when you think about it, unless you have to wear, or clean, the trousers.

My tenure as a prefect was quite pleasant, for as I had planned, no-one could bother me, and the only real disciplinary action I had to take was to impose silence on a boy who delighted in telling grisly, stomach-churning stories while others were eating.  The same boy declared one day that he hated me. I was surprised till he added “Because you always look so warm.” Some of the West and South Australians found the Melbourne cold hard to take.

 Brian's attitude was becoming embarrassing and I asked him why he had come. He said, “Because you seemed to be having such a good time, in your letters, but there's a lot of stuff you left out.” That was true, and it wasn't long before Duff (that's what I always called him) left us, and I think there were a few sighs of relief.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE DOWNSLIDE BEGINS

The school was soon stricken with glandular fever, and I was one of the few who was not affected, but some time after this I did have a day off, sick. I had coppeda kick to the leg at football, and when the leg swelled, and stayed up, it was  discovered that I did have a glandular condition after all. Bed rest, and late starts were okayed. What luxury! While the others were at prayers and mass, I slept, then showered and shaved. I had a companion in my Dutch friend, Herman, and we enjoyed a normal-type chat as we shaved, just as Big Jim wandered through! I ate my next three meals, not sitting up, but kneeling at the table, and forbidden to talk at all. But it didn't stop me from pulling faces – subtle ones of course.

I don't know what else I did, but it must have been something which annoyed the powers that be, because I remember being told that I had forfeited my right to the prefecture. I was stripped of office, and deprived of my cubicle. That hurt, for I had to return to a dormitory of seven. At this stage my nocturnal absences must have been noticed, and I can remember seeing the eyes above the counterpanes as I went out either through the window or the door, depending on who was on duty. If the night was warm, I sometimes went to the cemetery to think, or sing softly in the breeze. One night, perched on a headstone, I sang and made up poetry until I gradually became drowsy. It was an unseasonably warm night, and I had felt no desire to go back to bed. Musing upon the fate of the brother six feet below me, I was alarmed to feel him rising up out of the earth, pushing the headstone up with supernatural strength. My heart almost fled my body in fright, and a moment later I found myself on my back among the roses. The headstone was not fixed, and had simply toppled backwards as I sat on it. I suddenly realised how tired I was, and shortly there was one more body in the dormitory, heart-rate gradually becoming normal.

Ten years later I woke up one night as I had felt something heavy hit my chest as I slept on my back. I could feel this thing resting there, and not moving. Was it some sort of animal? My heart raced, and I waited a moment. Nothing happened, and I gingerly moved my left arm to feel what it was. I felt something thick and tubular, and as I felt along it I realised it ended in a hand. My whole body felt like ice, but I didn't die. I reached quickly back along the arm ready to seize whomever it might have been, and felt utterly foolish as I clutched my own shoulder. My right arm, wedged against the wall, had become numbed and had fallen on to my chest. The irony was that, if I had died of heart failure, I would have been found lying on my back with my hands clasped together on my chest – the very image of a peaceful passing.

About this time I was confined to bed while the rest of the school attended a concert in the recreation hall. I had read all I wanted and was daydreaming, half asleep and half awake, in the scented presence of a lovely girl half-remembered. In my dream we held hands, we embraced, we talked and I became very excited. This idyll was shattered by the booming voice of Big Jim through the window by my bed. It felt as though he could read my thoughts. “How's the leg?” he cried in jolly fashion and strode round by the door. “Er, a bit stiff” I muttered and wished I had chosen another expression. “Well, let's have a look” he went on. This was appalling. There was nothing for it but to peel back the covers, whereupon I discovered that God in his goodness had exercised the natural law, “What goes up must come down.”    

A POWERHOUSE OF PRAYER

 It is not generally realised that the Berlin crisis check of 1961was held short of war almost purely by the power of  prayer, provided by the boys of the Edmund Rice Juniorate, Bundoora. It was our intervention also which secured the ascendancy of John Kennedy to the presidency of the U.S., the first Catholic President. Monasteries were seen as powerhouses of prayer, a spiritual counterbalance to the here and now of the busy world. The contemplative orders, such as the Carthusian and Cistercian monks, were held in some awe by us, as super-charged dynamos of spirituality, and occasionally, in a romantic fit of religiosity, I would contemplate complete withdrawal from the world to enter one of these orders.

One of the alternatives, of course, would have been to become a priest, but the prospect did not really appeal to me. At the age of eleven I had been invited out to the Chapter House of the Oblates of Mary Immaculate in Camberwell. At this early age I had already been earmarked for some sort of Church career. I duly and dutifully attended, along with other boys of similar age, with whom I had no bond and in whom I had no interest, for a day of lectures and games. I declined to follow up. At about the same time, as an altar boy, I went with the local priest to his alma mater at Werribee, an Italianate Mansion well-known to Melburnians now as an historic precinct, but then a rather run-down, gloomy old pile with a lot of atmosphere. The altar boys' picnic was pleasant enough, but the tactic was mildly coercive, as it seemed to take one step closer to becoming a priest, and that didn't appeal. The lives of the priests I knew appeared lonely, and the responsibility seemed enormous. One would have to be perfect and the standard of personal sanctity might, I felt, be beyond me. It is the priest who administers the sacraments, who absolves sinners in Confession, who dispenses the body and blood of Christ in Communion, who marries and buries people. The brothers, on the other hand, had no such powers. They took vows of povery, chastity and obedience, but did not administer the sacraments. They lived in communities where they were company for each other. They seemed to play a lot of sport,and they taught young fellows just like me, so that they always had interesting and lively company. This is how I saw it. In fact, the Irish Christian Brothers, founded in an Ireland long suppressed and abused by the English, had come with the Irish to Australia, where their mission was to gain opportunity and education for boys who might otherwise have missed out.

We had enormous respect for priests, whether they were the diocesan priests who ran the parishes, or priests working in an order, like the Franciscans, the Jesuits or the Redemptorists. When, forty-eight years or so after entering the Juniorate, I discovered a website which dealt with offending clerics, I was interested to find our old priest, who had been so keen to recruit us. I was truly surprised. Two incidents then swam into focus from those early altar boy days. Tidying up after 7 o'clock Mass one weekday morning, I was about to leave when Father X dropped in, companionably chatting in a way that a 10 or 11 year-old boy might find flattering. “Would you like to make your Confession now Paul, save you coming on Saturday?” Saturday night was Confession night for us, but this was a strange one. I didn't like the idea one bit. I had always felt safe in the ritual of Confession and I had always felt that my privacy was guaranteed. One might guess who was on the other side of the grill, but the facade of anonymity had always been maintained, in my experience. Now I might be expected to confess to someone who chatted like an old friend, and I generally didn't like that in adults anyway.

 So I just said “No thanks. Good morning Father” rode home on my bike and thought no more about it for several decades. Nevertheless, this did not bother me at all at the time.

The same priest, however, did offend me in a regular confession, when, at the end of the ritual, he spoke to me directly by name.

 “Paul, are you able to serve at the altar for the eleven o'clock mass on Sunday?”

 I was truly annoyed that the protocol of detachment and anonymity had been broken.

My first experience of Confession was at a new school. When my mother fell ill at her parents' place in Glenhuntly, we stayed there for a while, and I went to the local school where the children had already been prepared for Confession. I knew none of this, so arriving back late for school after going home for lunch, I found my classmates going into the Church. I slid on to the end of the queue which moved into  pews in the Church. One by one they entered the Confessional by a wooden door. The door would close, then a red light went on, whispered conversations were discernible, then the door would open and a new person enter. There was another door next to it, and beyond that a third door with a light and people going in and out. Finally, the door opened, the boy ahead of me emerged and I went in, not knowing what to expect. The tiny cubicle was gloomy and smelt musty. I wondered if this was a holy lift, in which case I expected movement to be upwards towards Heaven. Then through the wall I could hear one of those whispered conversations, the rumble of a male voice, the response of a child's treble. I peeked downwards and saw a metal grill at waist level. While I was looking at it, a wooden partition behind it shot back, outlining a craggy, half-lit face, the face of the local priest, but it might have been Vincent Price in one of his masterpieces for the effect it had on me.

 “Ssst” said the face.

“What?” I said rudely, jumping back.

“Kneel down.”

I looked down, and just managed to make out a triangular platform. I knelt and as I did I felt a slight give and a click. This was the spring and light switch that lit up the occupied sign outside, but I didn't know that.

“Haven't you got something to tell me?”

“No.”

“Haven't you done something wrong?”

Aha. Someone had been talking. Could it have been my brother Brian?  No, I didn't think so. Although he was six, just eleven months younger than I was, he didn't generally talk to Priests, or teachers for that matter. Mum had to be called back to Kindergarten to take him home as he had climbed on a cupboard, refusing to come down and biting anyone who tried to prise him off it. He got what he wanted – to return home with Mum. All this was done quite cheerfully, or more probably, gleefully. Quite impressive actually, and he wouldn't have blabbed. Anyway, any villainy we had done would have been committed together.

 But this chap seemed to know something. I thought I had better play along. Had I done something wrong?

“Yes.”

“Yes, Father” he prompted.

Alright. “Yes, Father.”

He waited. I didn't normally blurt. I waited to be accused, but he seemed to be waiting too. Finally, he said “Well, what would you like to tell me.”

I dredged for an answer. “I threw stones at the horses.”

“That's not very nice. The animals are here to help us and we must be kind to them.” I could see that was true, and I felt a little embarrassed. “Isn't there something else?”

What a pest this man was. “Um, I had a fight with my brother.” This could have been true almost any day of the week, but neither of us felt guilty about it. On the other hand, I had been in a fight after school a couple of days earlier, when an older kid picked on me as a new boy, and started pushing me around. I didn't want to fight him at all, but I pushed him back, and then we shoved and then we hit, which actually hurts. Then I got mad and wrestled him to the ground, got on top of him and began to bang his head onto the pavement, which was apparently against the rules, but my only rule was to win. No-one had come to help me when I was attacked, but they were there to tell me I was playing against the rules.

I thought I wouldn't tell this man about it, as he probably wouldn't like it and it was  his school anyway. He looked dubious and said “Are you new here?”

“Yes.”

“Ah. You can go now. Sister will tell you all about it.”

At the Juniorate we went to Confession once a week, unless you had committed a mortal sin during the week, in which case you sought out a priest in order to make a confession and cleanse your soul. If you were in a state of mortal sin, you dreaded the unexpected fatal accident which would send you speeding to Hell, for ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever. On the other hand there were spectacular sinners who'd had a mighty good time, but had made sincere repentance on their death-beds. Oh, they would do a lot of time in Purgatory to try to atone for the dreadful insults to God which their lives had been, but ultimately they would be up there with a ringside seat, for ever and ever and ever, Amen.

It put one in mind of the old rhyme...

King David and King Solomon led merry merry lives

With many many lady friends and many many wives

But when old age o'ertook them both, with many many qualms

King Solomon wrote the Proverbs and King David wrote the Psalms.

Here were different ways to deal with sin. You would not have thought it a problem out there in that isolated school, but one of my good friends felt the need, one morning, to see the Priest. It was most embarrassing. checkSeventy or so boys, twenty or so Scholastic Brothers, median age 20, ten farming Brothers and eight or so Teachers all waited at the end of prayer and meditation, as a car crunched on the gravel outside. The Sacristy door clacked shut. One boy rose from his kneeling position. It was my PF, well no, just a good friend. “Don't do it” my thoughts screamed. But he edged his way out past his companions, making his way to the Sanctuary, genuflected and entered the Sacristy, closing the door on a hundred and eight pairs of eyes and ears. A few minutes later he emerged, looking much the same, and with tremendous dignity and courage, resumed his seat. It was necessary to be in a state of grace in order to receive communion during the Mass, and we always went up in strict order. Anyone declining communion would have been glaringly obvious, and my friend obviously felt that he had no option.

I, however, made a little prayer. I said “Dear God, you know and I know. However, I do not believe it is in your Divine Plan to embarrass me in front of my friends, my enemies and my teachers. You also know I cannot scandalise my neighbours by refusing the sacrament of Communion, so if it's alright with you who every day performs the miracle of turning bread and wine into your body and blood, I'll go right on up there and you can do it the other way, and just turn it back into bread and wine. Thanks.”

This, no doubt, was the worst sin of all, the sin of Pride.

 It's hard to know exactly how to categorise these sins. Check One boy told me that after the tremendous Easter feast, he thought he might have committed the sin of Gluttony, which is one of the Seven Deadly Sins. Although I have mentioned this before, I shall do so again. He explained in more detail, that there was no way he could have fitted one more morsel of food into his system, so he wondered what more would he have to do to commit the sin of gluttony? So he confessed “Father, I think I may have committed the sin of Gluttony.”

“What do you mean, you think?” asked the priest, who was one of the visiting Pallotine fathers. He sat sideways behind his screen with his feet stretched out sideways in his cozy-socks and best leather slippers to get the full benefit of the holy radiator placed there for his benefit.

My friend explained.

“Did you walk away from the table by yourself?”

“Yes Father.”

“Go in peace, my son.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

GRAND-DAD

However, there was one person for whom I thought Confession would be a very good thing – my  Grandfather. I knew he didn't have a very good opinion of the Church. In fact, he didn't have a very good opinion of men. He would tell me stories of the First World War where he was at Gallipoli and The Somme, was wounded, came home then returned to France. His stories were never of the War, but of his travels and the people he met. He loved Charlie Chaplin for his ability to unite people in laughter. One of his main tasks in the trenches was to write letters home for those soldiers who couldn't write. How odd then that my daughter, Adelaide, dancing at the Moulin Rouge in 2008, should say “A strange thing happened. Two Australian girls came to me and said we understand you can write letters, Would you help us write letters home?”

My mother had warned me that Grand-dad  might not survive the Winter. I agonised over his fate. Could I stand idly by and let the old reprobate go to Hell, for he was most unlikely to die in a state of grace? In the end I thought that I could not possibly enjoy a state of eternal bliss (and I sincerely wanted to) if one of mine was suffering everlasting torment down below. So I took up my pen and wrote.

“Dear Grand-dad,

I suppose you have had a pretty good innings as innings go, but like all innings it must come to an end one day....”

 Even now I shudder at the thought and can hardly bear to recollect what I must have gone on to write, for I can't quite recall the wording, but of course it told him to go  to confession and ready himself for his maker. I think I told him it couldn't hurt to be on the safe side. Grand-dad survived the Winter and died the next one. Nothing was said.

About forty years later I asked my mother about it.

”Mum, while I was at Bundoora, I wrote a letter to Grand-dad. Did he ever receive it?”

“Oh yes” replied my mother with a smile.

“Was he offended at all?”

“Oh no, he thought it was wonderful. He roared with laughter, and every time someone came to the house, he'd wave it round, and say “Hey, come and see the letter my Grandson wrote to me.”  

 Before he died, Grand-dad spoke on three consecutive evenings to my Aunt Elsie, only nine years older than me. She told me that on the first night, as he spoke about the slaughter and carnage, his face became all twisted, and in front of her eyes, turned into the mask of tragedy. On the second night he spoke more, and on the third night, as he talked about the mud, the same thing happened to his face. He then said he couldn't talk about it any more, the nightmares were coming back. They had agreed, he said, not to tell the women what it was really like. And he never spoke about it again.

 

 

 

 

THE DECLINE CONTINUES

The brothers were raining us to become teachers of the future, they hoped, and every little skill we learned, anything that could “value add” was treasured, so some of the brothers were given a free hand to pass on their specialised knowledge. Brother Brendan was  a beacon of civilisation with his interests in literature and music. He sang well in a Harry Belafontesque style easily adapted to various genres and accompanied himself on mandolin. He was erudite and charming with an urbane manner, almost the voice of the Enlightenment. It was wonderful to study Chaucer with him and to delve into the roots of the language, to feel the flux of peoples and tongues jostling for expression prior to Shakespeare. Shakespeare's “Hamlet” provided us with much innocent amusement and Paradise Lost was a grand and glorious experience. A born actor, Brother Brendan would enjoy reading the parts in a completely committed and convincing manner, making the text live. I feel, in retrospect, that much of this, particularly the Latin-inspired Milton, helped me in my Latin studies.

 There was a constant flow of visiting brothers, most of whom participated in our sporting fixtures, and were very good. Beefy types could lift a cricket ball over the large gum tree with the “slog over cow corner”, Brother Michael could intimidate with his demonstration on the parallel bars, and Brother Callistus could out-leap men a foot taller at basketball. Brendan revelled in the physical clashes on the football field and, like most of his colleagues, did everything with complete enthusiasm and dedication.

 In later years, Brendan was superannuated to further study and research in Rome, doing historical research and writing. One of his colleagues, whom I shall call Brother Robert, was a highly disciplined individual and teacher, with a distinctive style in everything he did. It was clear that he was on the path to perfection, as he was meticulous in every detail of life, from his dress to his speech. All was ordered and measured, and in perfect balance. This was fascinating to watch, for even at sport one could see that his sock tops were perfectly aligned and that he walked and ran completely upright, as near as possible to a perfect vertical. This worked very well for him and he was a highly respected academic, but as a role model he was a difficult choice. One friend suggested to me that he must have found the natural imbalance of the testes (one being always larger than the other) to have been an irritating reminder of human imperfectibility, and surmised that he may have resorted to a little trapezoid support to remedy that deficiency. I saw him forty years later, mellowed but not much changed, at a former teacher's funeral. The deceased had been known to us as Bill,  had taught in various places, and had joined the Brothers at 13. He told my father that he had cried himself to sleep for many night after arriving, and would often say “We were too young.” Bill's favourite school was St. Virgil's in Hobart, which was co-educational, and of course he enjoyed teaching the girls. One day, two girls, past pupils, greeted him.

 “Hello Brother Bill” said one.

“Why hello Mary” he replied.

“Oh you even remember my name” said Mary.

Gallantly, he replied “I always remember the pretty ones.”

Turning to the other girl he said “Er...ah..ah”

“Elizabeth, Brother” she said, with a generous smile.    

Now my enthusiasm began to wane. Oh, for an extra half hour in bed. The daily ritual was so repetitive and the prayers seemed so dry. We were warned of this repeatedly, and told to expect it. “The dark night of the Soul” was the enemy, visited on every saint we ever knew of. Of the boys who had come with me from my old school, Peter and John had now left, and only Chris was still with me. I had found in the library some novels by Louis De Wohl, whom I had never heard of. His genre appeared to be that of the historical novel in a Catholic setting. This was enough to qualify them for the “suitable for our boys” list. I have never read one since, but remember only that I enjoyed them tremendously as romances, and was powerfully moved by by the action. I wrapped the cover in a material similar to our prayerbook so that I could read it during Mass.

Around about this time I found that the kick in the leg which I had received playing football, and which showed up the glandular fever complication, now gave me a problem in my right leg and I had to sit rather than kneel too much. Occasionally I felt so sick that I had to leave the Chapel, and recovering outside in the sunrise, I felt my head clear and my spirits revive. I tended to make a habit of it and my imagination worked powerfully to produce dismal effects on my complexion. Unfortunately, I eventually recovered, but worked out another good ruse. I would draw my tie up tightly till I couldn't stand it any more, then release it, and as the blood drained away from my face, I would totter grimly out to freedom, wondering how many times I could pull this one off.

At about this time too, there were a number of close calls on my midnight rambles. I would feel peckish, and knowing what fine food was available so close by, I would make my way through the ghostly refectory to the kitchen and the pantry, which were a number of refrigerated rooms with prepared food, and fresh farm supplies in their separate rooms and cubicles. On several occasions I had to draw into the shadows while a brother returning late from town swept past, or someone with a flashlight did a quick sweep. A couple of times too, someone would walk quietly through the dormitory. My number appeared to be up, but I hadn't actually been caught. Now I took to raiding the pantry, and not only taking food, but giving insult in so doing. One of our favourite desserts was a chocolate confection. It had a shortbread biscuit base, covered with a mild, light chocolate filling and topped with chocolate-sprinkled cream. It was prepared in large trays, set aside to keep cool. Taking a knife I would carve a neat piece out of the very centre, and enjoy it immensely. Shortly after one of these occasions I decided to scale a wall at around midnight. I intended to cross a wall about fifteen feet above ground, working with handholds, projecting pipes and architraves above a garage. When a good way across I became aware of car lights from afar, and realised that someone had entered the property from the main road and would soon be driving into the garage directly below me. It wasn't the sort of task that could be hurried with impunity, but I certainly got a wriggle on, and as the car rounded the curving garage entrance, I leapt the last few feet from the wall over a brick wall bordering a stair. I imagined the driver getting a glimpse of dressing gown and little else. I was back in bed in no time, and by the time a head poked in the dormitory door, I was the picture of exhausted youth, deep in slumber.

 It must have been about this time too, that I was called in for a chats about “my vocation”. Most of this material was covered in our religious classes and in general moral guidance. Now however, things looked more serious. Did I think I had a vocation?  Well, whether I did or not, it had been made clear that those who mattered considered that I did. I had heard all their arguments, and no-one was putting the case for the negative. I was going to get another round of ear-bashing on the subject. So I decided to make it short, and said yes. How was I travelling, in respect of this? I admitted I had a few troubles, without elaborating. This seemed to help.

These interviews had us jousting for advantage, but ultimately, all argument was based on Church authority, which was non-negotiable. I decided to avoid the issue or confrontation by asking for help. I was handed a book which, as I seem to remember, was “for Religious failing in their vocation.” It was dynamite. No pornographic material could have hit me harder or clarified my mind better. Its gentle and detached explanations of natural processes and relationships was meant to allay my fears and doubts, but instead fanned the burning coals of un-named yearning that were disturbing me. The ties of loyalty that had been keeping me were loosened, and I began to think more about myself. I would be a bad cleric if I stayed, and if I were to be any good, be of any use to the world, I would simply have to do it on my own terms.

 

It would be only a matter of months later that I found myself across a desk from another interrogator, grateful  for the discipline and detachment I had gained in my interviews with the Brothers. After working in an iron foundry till I gained a permanent job, I  had taken a position in the Weather Bureau. I had accepted the job, and at the age of not yet 17, I had stipulated that I would take it as long as I could work with the meteorologists. My conditions were accepted, but were not honoured. Whether or not  I was considered arrogant I don't know, but a deal was a deal, and there was no way the brothers would ever have reneged in such a way. Sent to the accounts Department, I objected, and was told it was only for a month. Thirty days later I presented to the Boss and said

 “It's a month today.”

“What's a month today?”

He had no idea, but when I explained, he did get moving and within two weeks, I was information clerk for the Bureau of Meteorology, with my own phone and office. The site was an old convent in Spring St., near the Princess Theatre. One day, at lunchtime, I saw a sign “Free IQ  and personality test.” Although I'd been IQ tested at school, I never ever really heard the result. So I went and sat the test, fairly lengthy, but just a preliminary run. And this outfit, I thought, wouldn't have an agenda, like the brothers, because it wasn't a religion, but a scientific outfit, which one could trust to be more detached. Their very name gave one this confidence – Scientology. The roots of the word, I knew, were “knowledge” and “the word” – “The record of Knowledge” if you like.

I was contacted with an invitation to sit a more thorough test now, which I duly did. It was very long and detailed, with IQ elements and personality profiling both well represented. There were variants of some subjects which seemed to test consistency of self-image. I was then recalled for another sitting, with an interviewer running an e-meter session. He sat in front of a machine with needle dials, and asked questions while I held two the metal cans attached by wires. He asked a question , I would give a short answer , the dials would flicker or jump, and the graph paper in the machine would roll on to the next subject.

The demeanour of the interviewer was calculatedly authoritative and detached, no chit-chat, nothing personal, no warmth. At one point, he showed me the display, where a needle was pointing constantly to “F”– for “female” he said. “You have a problem in this regard.” I couldn't have agreed more. Most seventeen year-olds I knew had the same problem. As I looked around the office, which was rather bare, like a doctor's waiting room, I saw leaflets. They were all related, with the same type-face and layout, and appeared to be advertising material.  

After this I was called in for analysis of the graph, which had been sent to me in the mail with a preliminary warning letter. I was in a bad way, and needed help urgently. A meeting was set, and I duly turned up.

 “Marvellous IQ, wonderful potential. However, you have emotional blockages which prevent you from accessing this potential.”

“There are a few more questions we need to answer before we can proceed.”  And he proceeded to tease out some more apparently innocuous items, before asking

 “Now, I have to ask you, do you masturbate.”

I'd had a feeling this was coming.

“I always chew my food well.”

“No – I mean – do you, er, play with yourself.”

I looked at him and thought “Look at you. You really are a weed. Who do you think you are to ask me this?” and I replied

“I'm an only child.”

The interview didn't last too much longer, and I don't think he could read my attitude at all. I asked for literature to take away to study, and he seemed delighted to hand over the material. I surmised that there would be something to pay for the training I would receive, and he agreed, outlining the modest amounts I would have outlay to get started. When I read it, I found it was obviously indoctrinational material designed to create a commitment. I had noticed the increments in fees as the indoctrination started to bite, and wondered what scale it would finish up on, in the hidden levels for those who had progressed that far, in knowledge and gullibility.

I wrote, saying that I had decided not to proceed any further, but received copious mail for a couple of years entreating, cajoling and demanding my attendance. Finally I wrote to say to desist, that I used their letters to start our heater fire (this was true). I received one more letter, and it started

 “When you first came to us, it was because you had a problem......”

I wrote back, for the last time, saying

 “No, when I first came to you, it was for a free IQ and personality test.”

These people were amateurs compared to the brothers. And I have to say, I liked the brothers.

 

 

 

HUMAN RESPECT

A great deal of our character training was to do with “human respect”. This meant we had to do what we thought was right, no matter what others thought of us. It was rumoured amongst us that in later training, some had been set down in strange parts of the city, with inadequate fares, and had to make their way back to their monastery by any means, asking for lifts, or abjuring the abuse of bus drivers who resented having to help these annoying passengers. It had not been uncommon, even in my previous school, for teachers to target an individual as a kind of test, or as character training. In my entire school life, from Prep to Year 12, the period from 12 to 12.30 had been set aside for religious training, and while this was often to do with Church ritual, rules and protocol, the main thrust was moral, ethical and character training. In practical terms, we analysed, from an early age, what constituted right and wrong, our social obligations and the consequences of our actions. We were also told that this was the most important period of the school day. “What shall it profit a man to gain the whole wold, yet lose his soul?” was constantly before us.

This push-pull dichotomy was a constant throughout our school years and many of us found it confusing, because for every innocent who took these messages on, there were a couple of worldly successes who were obviously highly esteemed by the teachers and clerics. Many seemed to just negotiate their way between the two extremes without too much concern.

The scholastic system was also a puzzle, for in year 12, the year leading to University entrance, University was hardly mentioned. The Catholic Education system was expert at getting people over the line.

 In Grade 2, when it was my turn to stand on my seat, in my class of 90 children, to read the next passage in the reader, concerning the little half-chick, I stood up straight, thinking “I can do this well”. I had barely started when the teacher said “Oh, sit down. You're alright”. She felt she had to concentrate her energies where they would be most effective. I was duly promoted to third grade, where the older children had deeper voices and seemed very knowledgeable. Aware that I had been promoted for presumed intelligence, I sought in vain for an opportunity to demonstrate this quality. I felt uncomfortable, an intellectual imposter. Finally, in Religious History, the chance came. The nun in charge wanted to bring up the subject of the Old Testament Prophets.

“What do we call those people who know things before they happen?”

At last – my opportunity to shine, and my hand shot up.

“Ah, yes Paul?”

“Know-alls Sister.”

A gentle smile from Sister and “No Paul. They are people who just think they know everything.”

 Crushing laughter from the rest of the class, in deep, mature, real third-grader voices.

This emphasis on “human respect” led to one of the most vituperative tongue-lashings from Big Jim. During Mass each morning, we sang several hymns, and these were unaccompanied. We had no problems pitching these and started by consensus around the right note. One morning we sang a hymn, the melody of which rose gradually higher and higher. Someone got in early, accidentally pitching it too high, and one by one we piked out before the high point.

“I have to speak to you about the disgraceful incident this morning” started Big Jim.  

 “You know what I'm talking about.” He paused, to let the silence grow.

 “In all my years I have never heard such a gutless, lily-livered performance. So you think you are big men now. Just because your voices have broken, you posture like middle-aged men. Not one amongst you, not one, had the character to continue to offer to God the music that we started. And why? Ask yourselves why. I'll tell you why. You are so worried about what the next boy will think of you. Do you know anything about the human voice? Do you know anything about yourself? Do you know anything about courage” he roared. “I doubt it. I doubt it. What an insult to God. What an insult to each other. What an insult to me and the Brothers who teach you. Just about all of you have the capacity to produce those notes, but not one of you had the courage to do so. I know frail little old ladies with more guts than you. And I know strong men with magnificent baritone voices who can sing higher than that. No-one questions their virility. God help you if your self-image is so thin. What use will you be to the rest of the community you are supposed to teach and lead and set an example for? You disgust me.”

 He was similarly annoyed by the Saturday night edition of the Herald newspaper, which featured mostly football reporting. Immediately after the comics there would be a full-page advertisement, all drawn, for women's underwear, mostly bra ads featuring attractive shapely women in a variety of contoured bras, mostly conical and pointed like an old-fashioned radiator element.

 “Just look at this” he cried, brandishing the offending publication. We craned our necks to oblige.

 “Typical – every Saturday night. You look for the news of the world. You look for intelligent comment. But what do you get? Football and women's underwear. Women's underwear – a whole page  full of women's underwear. It's on page 2, it's on page 5 and here is an entire page of it. You get women's underwear shoved down your throat.” We were sufficiently worldly to appreciate the mixed symbolism of his protest.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE PUSH-PULL SYSTEM

In retrospect, it seems that the academic system evolved by the brothers was another push-pull system. On the one hand it needed trained teachers with trained minds. On the other hand, it wanted to control those minds and direct them to its own ends. For those who continued on this path, the year after the final school year was not a University year at all, but one in which they entered the Novitiate. This was a campus at Lower Plenty, where, under a Novice Master, the boys renounced the World for a year, a year of prayer, fasting and introspection as well as a great deal of powerful indoctrination. Preliminary vows were taken, and the long, black clerical garb was worn. At the end of this year, this group, presumably smaller in number due to defections to the Land of the Pharaoh, returned to Bundoora, where they operated as a group apart, in a separate wing of the establishment, undergoing scholastic training, in what was called a Scholasticate. After this, the young teacher could be released to perform teaching duties in Catholic schools, or could undergo secular training. Most did not attend University at this stage, but in the next few years were released to do University subjects based around their teaching load, and most of the young brothers whom we knew were constantly back and forth to the University. The dangers of University were the perils of free thought and independent enquiry, and the presence of young, attractive women. Push-pull again, and the tensions were enormous.

 

 

 

AND A FAST FINISH

Already, in year 12, I quailed at the thought of a woman-less future. It gave me some idea of the notion of eternity.

The exams were fast approaching, and after a slack year, where even my supervised study was wasted reading novels and magazines, I slowly began to focus on the enormous backlog of work to be done. Too little, too late. Spring was in the air. The early Summer nights were balmy and heavy with blossom scent. Out in the pen the bull bellowed mightily.

 “Me too” muttered Des from W.A.

 Football season was over, and athletics were on again. We were graded into groups, based on our sprinting ability. While I was a good athlete, sprinting was never my forte, and I was graded low, giving me a useful handicap in competition. I then cleaned up, being good in most other disciplines. At evening study, one of the good boys spent a long time in earnest conversation with Brother Brendan. Shortly afterwards he asked me to come up. Fixing me with a steady look he asked “Did you run dead?” The question confused me, for it was sporting jargon I didn't know. When I realised what it meant, I was angry and hurt, and when I realised what the previous conversation had been about, I felt less compunction about any decision I would have to make concerning my future. Brendan himself believed me I am sure, based on reading my reaction, but I felt very annoyed to have been the subject of intimate conversation between a peer and a teacher. “Hit me, but don't 'shit me” again.

Now that I was looking forward to freedom, to getting a life, seeing my family again, meeting girls, and learning music, I found it hard to keep my mind on the job. Big Jim called me in again. What did I think now? I told him I had come to a decision. I wanted to leave. He had heard this many times before, and it must have often been a disappointment. He actually was very good about it.

“You are about to do your exams. Lord knows how you'll go, but I think until you have done them, you are better off here.”

I was disappointed, but saw that it was a well-meant and generous offer and thanked him accordingly.

 Before long, the first exam was upon us. It meant a trip in to the Exhibition building in the Carlton check Gardens, and there we were, surrounded by many hundreds of young folk of the same age, so many girls and impossible to take one's eyes off them. How pleasant they were, chatting companionably to me, so smooth-skinned, such lovely complexions. They talked of the year they had had, of their hopes and fears for the future, and by the time the exam started, I found my writing hand trembling ever so slightly.

One girl in the maths exam explained to me that if she got 25% for her first paper and 25% for her second paper, that should get her over the line with 50% in total. I didn't point out the flaw in her reasoning, as she was charming, but I did take a note of her candidate number, which was displayed on all our desks. She did rather better than I did.

 The hot Northerly winds, the heavy scent of jasmine, the trips into town and the harvesting season on the farm all whirled together in the last days. I couldn't sleep and was addicted to my radio sessions. My dormitory became a Mona Lisa dormitory, for as I left, by door or window, the eyes would follow me round the room.

It must have been at this stage that I was told..........

“Big Jim wants to see you.”

And you know the rest.       

          

TWO YEARS IN A MONASTIC BOARDING SCHOOL or

How I lost my vocation