

###### Satan's little helpers

by

John Kelly

SMASHWORDS EDITION

# Published by: Aquinine Books,

# 51 Roy St. Donvale, 3111 Victoria, Australia.

This book is a work of fiction. Apart from its historical time and setting, the characters and incidents portrayed are the product of the author's imagination, as are the Religious Orders with which they are affiliated. 12th Batallion RAR is ficticious. Any resemblance to actual events, referred to in other Military Units, or persons or real organisations similar in name and description, is purely coincidental.

First published in 2004

##### Copyright 2004 by John B. Kelly

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations contained in critical articles or reviews.

The National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

Kelly, John Bernard, 1945- .

Satan's little helpers.

ISBN 0 646 43679 1.

1. Catholics \- Fiction. 2. Baby boom generation - Fiction.

I. Title.

A823.4

Permission to reproduce in part, Harold Holt's speech 29thJune 1966 in Washington D.C., granted by the Department of Communications, Information Technology and the Arts, Commonwealth Copyright Administration, Intellectual Property Branch. Reference No. 7540.

Cover painting: Saint Patrick's Cathedral, Melbourne, reproduced by permission of the artist, Ted Dansey.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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*

ACKOWLEDGEMENTS

My thanks to Diana Schaffer, Kathleen Kelly, and Suzann Knott, who took on the task of editing, and for being as frank and forthright as they were. To Rita, Nancy and Frank, for giving me a crash-course in Italian. To my wife Joanne, who endured long, lonely hours watching television while I laboured on the computer, my special thanks.

*

' the truth shall set you free.' (John 8, v31)

'And what is truth?' Pilate asked. (John 19, v38)

SATAN'S LITTLE HELPERS

1. The Aquinine Legacy

I remembered my brother Mark telling me the school's days were numbered, but I let it slip my mind. I had even forgotten the local paper reporting some months earlier that it was about to become a luxurious residential estate, to be crammed with fine homes only the rich could afford. Not so surprising. It was sold for a bundle of money, after being paid for by the sweat of thousands of parents who sacrificed a better life to give their children the opportunity of receiving what was perceived as a good Catholic education. But now, as I drove closer, it was actually happening.

It was a mild morning in September and I was on my way to an appointment. The sun was shining brightly in the east; the pale, grey moon setting in the west; the car was running smoothly, I was happily humming to the music on the cd player and it was one of those days when it felt good to be alive. As my car rounded the bend, trapped in a single line of traffic that snaked its way toward the city, something caught my eye. I stopped humming as I sensed a disturbance. As the traffic allowed me to inch closer, my eyes widened, my jaw dropped, and the adrenalins began to flow freely. My mental reaction was, 'Jesus, can it be true?' As I came yet closer, a voice from within me asked, 'Is this a vision...am I dreaming?' It was the dust that caused my uncertainty. It covered almost half the property, and sat suspended about ten metres above the ground, spreading its wings as if about to take flight. However, there was no wind, so it sat there, hovering above.

Below the eerie mist, I beheld my old school, Placidus College, run by the Order of the Aquinine Brothers, founded by one Father Henri Aquinaux, a somewhat eccentric 19th Century French Aristocrat turned priest. He had an enthusiasm for Roman History, so the story went, and he encouraged his charges, at the time of their profession, to adopt a religious name consistent with his obsession. He showed the way by choosing for himself the name Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, who he wrote, 'ruled the Empire with integrity, morality and wisdom.' My old school however, was now the subject of a different kind of wisdom. It was being bulldozed and demolished with all the integrity and morality the wreckers could muster. I was listening to Tchaikovsky's 1812 overture, and the cannons were heralding the battle at Borodino, as the wreckers let loose with the great metal ball. As it thundered into its rendered brick target, the cannons fired yet again, and instinctively, I exclaimed, 'yes', delighted to see the wrecking ball crash its way through another external wall.

As I continued staring, my mind in a confused state of awe and delight, I failed to notice the amber light appear at the pedestrian crossing six or seven cars ahead of me. Suddenly my attention was drawn to the car in front of me braking. 'Jesus I'm going to hit him'. I slammed on the brakes, and stopped millimetres from its rear. The driver behind managed to respond in kind. I listened to the dreadful sound of brakes screeching behind me, but mercifully there was no sound of metal to metal. Time to exit. I could not let the moment pass that quickly. I made a left turn, hearing the protests manifested in the bleating of car horns, and one very audible, "You fucking idiot," coming from the driver of a blue holden utility. I ignored him, made a three point turn and waited patiently for the traffic to pass. I decided my appointment could wait. The company's fortunes could wait. I longed to see more. From the intersection I could make out the mangled wreckage, the broken concrete, the twisted steel reinforcing mesh, and the bricks piled up in pyramids. My first thoughts were of the proceeds of the sale, which one could only surmise, would now be used to house these retired old men, these imitation Caesars, who taught me all those years ago.

Did I say taught? I am generous. For years, each time I drove past, I continued to feel the stress and sense of incrimination that long ago had become synonymous with this place; the desperation felt when you expected something bad to happen. It was a feeling of guilt. Someone had seen me, and was about to stop and interrogate me for something, only I didn't have a clue what it was. It's not that I was stupid. A bit simple maybe, but not stupid. One does not teach oneself to play the piano if one is stupid. However, being raised Catholic, seduced by the power of the pulpit, the Aquinine Brothers, and an ever-present fear that Satan would grab me by the balls and burn me alive, obviously did nothing for my confidence.

However, every cloud has a silver lining, as my mother used to say, and on this particular day the clouds were about to deliver. This day those negative memories gave way to sheer elation. There it was. Or more correctly, there it was not. All twisted and mangled in a cloud of dust that looked more like a bombsite than a school, it was in a state of partial demolition. 'Oh joy oh rapture.' A feeling of utter delight shot through me. 'What a joy to behold. What poetic justice!'

The line of traffic ended and I made quickly for the side street. Parking adjacent to the school, I slipped Tchaikovsky's Cappricio Italien into the CD player, and sat and watched those huge machines rip the place apart. It was better than sex. Well, almost. I stayed there for over an hour, watching classroom after classroom being reduced to rubble. The memories of my time spent sitting in those rooms, listening to men in black cassocks fill my head with their peculiar, and narrow-minded attitude to life came flooding back.

As I sat, watched and silently cheered the school's demise, I recalled its only redeeming feature, the one positive reflection I could muster. It had been the common link that brought the three of us together. The three of us, all born within four hours of each other under the same roof, in the same hospital. Megan, Michelle and I. My name is Simon Hickey and, but for this school, the three of us might never have met. Suffice to say that although the place did have this redemptive side, my joy at watching its demise was absolute. Megan probably would not have agreed. She would have seen it differently; with more compassion and with the sentimentality only a woman can muster. Not for me however. Seeing it erased from the landscape was for me, ecstasy, and for the time I spent sitting and watching, no redemptive quality was going to interfere with my joy

2. Men in Black Cassocks

Do I sound too harsh? Perhaps you think I am overstating my feelings. Perhaps you recall your own experiences at school and wonder if my negative recollections are exaggerated. It is possible that my view is distorted. However, first impressions are generally lasting impressions, especially when experienced at a very young age. I still see that frightening image today. That figure, in a black cassock, with a black cord around his waist knotted on the side leaving two ends that extended all the way down to his enormous black shoes. His big arms folded, partially concealing a crucifix hanging from his neck, he stared down on me, his eyes drooping, hair protruding from his nose and ears, and his smile exposing his yellow tobacco stained teeth.

Each day as I walked up the front driveway of the school, there he waited. I wanted to go left, toward my classroom only I could not, because this great hulk was blocking my way, and forcing me to walk straight ahead to the big house, up a few stairs, and into the chapel.

He was known by a variety of names, Decius, Quintillus, Tiberius, Titus, but he did not speak, he just pointed. Only when you played dumb, pretending not to understand the very clear direction being given, did he deign to speak.

"Over to the chapel lad, and pay a visit to the Blessed Sacrament lad, a short ejaculation before you go any further. Jesus Mary Joseph, I place my trust in thee."

"Yes Brother."

So I did his bidding, and visited the chapel. I splashed my forehead with holy water, genuflected, dropped to my knees in pretence of devout homage, ejaculated my most earnest prayer, 'Please God don't let them hit me today', waited a moment, then rose up to make a quick exit. Once released from duty, I was free to go to my classroom and try to be normal. The man in black would remain where he stood, on guard, waiting by the roadway for the next errant student, as if appointed by Marcus Aurelius Antoninus himself, to see that each and every boy who walked into that school would first pay homage to Caesar's God in the big house. Caesar's enforcer never liked me. Actually, he did not even know me, he just controlled me.

3. Elaine

I should have displayed more grit. I should have asserted myself as an equal member of the human race with certain rights. I should have demanded more respect, shown a greater degree of independence and self-assurance and told him ' No Brother, I do not wish to ejaculate before the Blessed Sacrament today. I did that yesterday and the day before. I'm sick of it. Nothing ever happens when I ejaculate before the Blessed Sacrament. It's like talking to a brick wall. The Blessed Sacrament never replies. When I ask that I not be given the strap today the Blessed Sacrament never listens'...but I didn't.

Looking back, I suppose one could say it all started that day in 1957. I was on my way home from school. I was in year seven, and it had been a bad day. Not in all of my twelve years could I remember carrying such a burden of mis-happenings home with me as I did that day. As I sat in the back seat of the bus, I noticed several times the girls from Villadon Girl's Anglican School giving me strange looks. They seemed disturbed by something about me, about my face it seemed. Why were they looking at me? They could not have known the nature of the torment I had suffered, although I felt it would not be too long before someone would blurt it out and the very thought of it made me shudder. What would they think once they all knew? Would this be the last time I would be able to face them? I liked being on the same bus as the girl's from Villadon. As a twelve-year-old, there was something about being near girls that I liked. They made me feel warm all over. We shared the bus every day. They even departed from the same stop each morning. They walked off to the left to their school, and I walked off to the right. I did not know any of them well, although occasionally they did speak to me. I liked the one they called Elaine. She was older than me by four years, the same age as my brother Damien, and I often saw the two of them talking together at the bus stop in the morning. On this day, Elaine boarded the bus one stop further down the road. She smiled at me as she walked to her seat. Then her face registered a look of dismay at my state of appearance. Instead of sitting in her usual seat with her friends, she walked toward me.

"What on earth happened to you today?" she asked as she sat beside me and then added, "Have you been in a fight?"

I was desperate to tell the woes of the day to someone, and Elaine seemed genuinely concerned.

"I've had a bad day," I said.

"Well," she said sympathetically, "You had better tell me all about it then."

"This morning, I was late for school," I began, "Mass had gone late, so breakfast, cleaning my teeth and checking my school bag all made me even later. I thought there was still time before catching the 8.30 bus, so I took a few moments to listen to the radio. They played a few of my favourite hits and I didn't notice the time.

"Then what happened?" she asked.

"Then, in the middle of a song," I continued, "my mother called out, telling me to get a move on, that I would be late for school. I raced up to the back gate, down the narrow lane behind the house, and out into the street, but it was too late. The bus had left. The next bus was the 8.45 which got to school ten minutes late. I was not even at school and already I was thinking of excuses. Brother Tiberius would want to know why I was late, but what could I do? For the next fifteen minutes, I stood by myself at the bus stop waiting, watching the cars and trucks coming up the hill."

"That's all right, don't worry about it," she said as I started to blubber. She rested her hand on my shoulder. "What happened next?"

"I thought about what I would say to Brother Tiberius," I told her. "Tiberius was always suspicious and besides he could easily ask anyone of my three brothers if I was telling the truth. Finally the bus came up the hill and stopped for me. I was on the bus heading for school when suddenly I realised my cut lunch was still at home. Sandwiches with apricot jam, vegemite and cheese and something else. It was still sitting on the breakfast table waiting for me to pick it up. I had no money to buy anything, and I would have to ask one my brothers for some of theirs."

"Oh you poor thing," Elaine said as she patted me on the back.

*

There is something very lonely about walking into a schoolyard when nobody is around. It's the silence and the ever present realisation that up to four hundred sets of eyes are watching, as you make your way across the deserted quadrangle to your classroom where your school mates are already seated and have commenced the first lesson. It is a lot for a twelve-year-old to handle. I bypassed the chapel. Man in black was no longer on duty. I opened the door and the whole class turned around to see who it was,..."although they already knew because they saw me walking across the quadrangle," I said to Elaine.

"I walked up to the front of the class and told Tiberius I was late coming home from mass because the priest asked me to clean the sacristy. It was a lie, but at least my own brothers knew I had been to mass and would agree with that part of the story. They left for school about the time I arrived home from mass. I thought if Tiberius knew I was at mass he would not ask for more detail, that just telling him would be good enough. It worked." I said smugly.

"That was cheeky," Elaine remonstrated. "Then what happened?" she asked brushing some dirt off my shoulder.

"Tiberius nodded, and I walked to my desk and sat down relieved, but also a little tired from all the energy I spent sorting the whole thing out." Elaine laughed when I told her that, and I felt very warm and comfortable sitting with her.

"All through the first three periods of school, I wondered whether my brothers would give me anything to eat at lunchtime, and that made me feel hungry." Elaine laughed again, and patted my leg. She had deep brown eyes, and dark hair under her school hat, and lovely white teeth. When she smiled or laughed, I felt my heart go faster, and I wanted to touch her leg too.

"At morning recess," I told her, "I looked for Mark, but I couldn't find him anywhere. He usually played football in the schoolyard with his friends. Morning recess was very short, only fifteen minutes, and I needed to go to the toilet, which took longer than expected because of the queue."

"Why was there a queue? " she asked.

"There aren't enough toilets." I said. "There are only nine places to pee and sixty boys all wanting their turn."

Elaine burst out laughing so much that others further up the bus turned around. She quickly controlled herself. I began laughing too, and continued with a new confidence.

"Brother Trajan was always close by, to see that nobody pushed in, or that there was no one misbehaving while the boys were pointing their little willie at the porcelain." Another hilarious squeal from Elaine.

"I spent too long looking for Mark and I was still waiting in the queue when the bell sounded. I had to line up in my grade, and march back into the classroom. It was then that I saw Mark playing the drums. Mark always played the drums. I should have gone to see him earlier but it was too late now; I was in formation, marching off to the classroom and couldn't talk to him. And I missed going to the toilet."

As I sat in the back of the bus telling Elaine my story, I thought about the whole rotten day. The bus driver kept looking at us through the rear vision mirror. I began to check my clothes. The pee stain on my pants was dry and even so, it really wasn't that bad. Besides, Elaine could not see it. I had pulled my jumper down as far as I could and covered the effected area. Maybe it was the bloodstain on the collar of my shirt that caught the driver's eye or maybe he was wondering why I did not have my cap on. He was used to seeing me with my cap. It was part of the official school uniform. A boy without his school cap was out of uniform.

"So you never made it to the toilet then?" Elaine asked.

"No. First period after morning recess, the class said the first three decades of the rosary." I told her. "I could not ask to go to the toilet when we were saying the rosary. Tiberius would not allow it. He said that any one who asked to go to the toilet when class was about to say the rosary, didn't wanted to say it, so he never gave permission. Besides, we had just come back from morning recess."

"What did you do then?" she asked.

"All through the rosary I was thinking about going to the toilet. I pictured myself standing at the urinal letting it all pour out. The first mystery, the second, the third... Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee... The very thought of standing at the urinal would bring on a rush of pee that I struggled to hold back. Thee, rhymes with pee. It did not matter what I said or thought. Everything rhymed with pee. She, he, mystery, and me, all rhymed with pee."

Elaine tried hard to contain her laughter and touched my leg again running her hand up and down.

"You'd better keep your voice down. They might throw us off if they think we are too noisy," she warned.

"I looked out of the classroom window," I continued. "A boy from grade five was walking across the quadrangle toward the toilet. There, in the middle of the quadrangle the boy vomits up all over. It was a rich pinkie milky vomit."

"God how gross!" she said.

"The boy must have drunk a strawberry malted milk during recess and now he is vomiting everywhere," I went on. "Of course, everyone looked out the window and made disgusting sounds, and I forgot about wanting to go to the toilet for a while. Ten minutes later we finished saying the rosary and I asked to go to the toilet. I explained to Tiberius that I couldn't go at recess for the queue. He nodded and I raced off and finally I could stand there in front of the urinal and let it all pour out. The boy who vomited in the quadrangle was still vomiting in the cubicle and making dreadful sounds. My pee took a long time. There'd been a lot building up inside of me and it was coming out at full pressure."

Elaine laughed loudly again, looking lovelier by the minute.

"Vomit boy starts to groan." I continued. "I finish my pee, take a quick look at vomit boy and begin to feel sick. I head back toward the classroom and see Chris Dyer and Barry Kase walking toward me. They tell me I'm to help them fill the wheelbarrow with sand and shovel it on top of the mess that vomit boy left. Disgusting!"

Just then one of the girls at the front of the bus came toward us.

"Is everything all right Elaine?" she asked.

"Yes it's okay." She answered still laughing. "This is Damien Hickey's younger brother Simon. He's had a bad day. I'll stay with him."

"Are you friends with Damien?" I asked Elaine.

"Yes " she said, "We are good friends."

"Why don't you come to our house then?" I asked.

"Damien hasn't asked me," she answered. "What happened then?"

"We find the wheelbarrow and the sand near the sports shed," I told her, "where all the footballs and cricket bats and balls are stored. It is not a nice thing to have to do, but all three of us, cover over the three different spots where vomit boy stopped on his way to the toilet, and all three of us begin to feel sick too, but somehow we make it back to the classroom."

"What then?" Elaine asked.

"At 12 noon the bell sounds for the Angelus. We stop everything to pray. Three lots of three bells, then nine long bells. We stop whatever we are doing and stand at our desks. Tiberius begins.... 'the angel of the Lord declared unto Mary.' Everybody replies.... 'and she conceived of the Holy Ghost. Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee.' Because the Angelus is boring, I try to count the number of Hail Mary's I say everyday. Fifty-three for the Rosary, one at Morning Prayer, another three for the angelus. That is fifty-seven Hail Mary's at school and another fifty at home each night when the family says the rosary again. One hundred and seven Hail Mary's everyday. Also eleven Our Father's, eleven Glory Be's, and lots of other prayers besides. Finally, the bell sounds for lunch."

"I can't believe you Catholics do all that everyday," she said. "What a waste of time. Maybe that's why Damien doesn't ask me home to your house. He probably thinks your mother will ask me to join in saying the rosary. Anyway, so then what happened?"

"As we leave the classroom," I told her, " there is either a mad rush for the tuckshop or a stroll to the quadrangle. I open my schoolbag to get out my lunch and suddenly remember that it is still sitting on the kitchen table at home. I go outside and see all the boys who line up at the tuckshop to buy their lunch. They have money and they can have a pie with sauce, a cream bun and a bottle of orange drink. A lunch bought at the tuckshop always looks so much better than a sandwich in a brown paper bag. I have to find Mark, Paul, or Damien and ask if they can give me some of their lunch. Brother Quintillus blows his whistle and warns those in the queue waiting to buy their lunch to stop pushing and shoving. All the classes are now out in the quadrangle, and there are boys pushing and shoving everywhere. I see Mark and run towards him. Mark says I can't have any of his lunch because he has already eaten half at morning recess, and if he gave what was left to me, then he would not have any for himself. Mark says to find Damien and ask him."

"So, did you find Damien?"

"Yes. I saw Damien walking out of his classroom toward the tuckshop. I catch up with him and ask if I can have some of his lunch. Damien gives me one sandwich. It is all he has left because he ate half of his at morning recess too. Damien says that I now owe him a shilling. He then goes off and joins the queue at the tuckshop. He has a Saturday morning paper round and is paid five shillings."

"Yes I know. I'm sure he was only joking about the shilling."

"Chris Dyer and Barry Kase are sitting together in the quadrangle and I join them to eat my one sandwich. All the boys in the quadrangle keep well away from where the mounds of sand are, because they know that underneath the sand are the remains of vomit boy's malted milk."

"Keep going," she said. "This is all very interesting."

"Then Brother Quintillus blows his whistle," I continued, "which means that those who are finished their lunch can leave the quadrangle. There is suddenly a mad stampede as everyone runs toward the sports store to get the footballs. Almost everyone plays football. We play kick to kick, although a few boys prefer not to, and after lunch, they just walk around the playground together, sit, or play handball. Mark says they are all poofters. I don't know what that means, but I don't think it's a very nice thing to say about someone."

"It certainly isn't," Elaine said with a disapproving frown.

"I like to play football though, so I know that I am not a poofter. Each class is supposed to keep to their own area when playing football, so that the bigger boys do not hurt the smaller ones. Sean O'Rielly is in my class but he is very tall for his age. He is thirteen, and he already has to shave. Sean is supposed to play with the boys in the next grade but he doesn't always do that because he reckons he can't get a kick. He is lying. Quintillus says he could easily get a kick even if he was playing two grades up, even three. When Quintillus goes into the Brother's house to have his lunch, Sean O'Rielly comes over and plays football with our group."

The bus stopped and Elaine's friend waved to her as she got out.

"See you tomorrow" Elaine called out to her friend. "Then what happened?" she asked.

"The football is kicked very high and three boys jump up to mark it. I get close in, hoping that they drop it and I can catch it off their hands, and that's exactly what happens except that Sean O'Rielly then comes and takes it straight out of my hands and runs off and kicks it. I become very angry with Sean and walk up to him telling him that it was not his ball, that he pinched it, and then I punch him in the stomach. He punches me back hard against my arm, and then he stands there with his fists at the ready."

"Oh no! Don't tell me you started fighting?" Elaine asked.

"To everyone standing around, the sight of the two of us standing there, fists up, is better than playing football and they all crowd around, shouting at both of us to let each other have it. It is not fair. Sean is taller than me by at least half, and heavier. He punches me hard in the eye, and the nose, and my nose begins to bleed. The crowd groans and one boy calls out 'Simple Simon'. Other boys call out to me to get a punch in first, but I can't, my arms are too short."

"Didn't anyone try to stop it?"

"One of Damien's friends stops it. Mick Harvey, who is four years older, comes over and tells everyone the fight is over."

"Yes I know Mick too." She responded.

"He tells Sean that he should pick on someone his own size, and takes me off to the drinking taps to clean my face. There is blood on my face, and on my shirt. I look a mess. When we are well away from all the other boys, I begin to cry."

he bus pulled over and two old ladies climbed on board. They came down toward the back where we were sitting, but after taking a quick look at me they decided to move up a seat closer to the front. Elaine told me she wanted to tell one of the other girls further up the bus not to wait for her. I got tired of people looking at me and decided to finish my homework. I pulled out my geometry book and studied the questions. I hated geometry so I put the book back into my bag, and pulled out my geography book. The hard cover was damp. My cap had been lying on the top. Then Elaine came back and sat beside me again.

"Tell me what happened after Mick Harvey stopped the fight." she said.

"While Mick was helping me to clean myself up, Brother Decius walked past the drinking taps and saw the two of us together. He comes over, takes a closer look at me, and asks Mick what happened. Mick explains to Decius that there was a fight and that he broke it up. Decius wants to know everything that happened and so I have to tell him about Sean O'Rielly. I didn't want to tell him but Decius stares straight at me, and there is no point in trying to lie. Then Mick Harvey tells Decius that he saw it happen and it was Sean O'Rielly's fault. Mick is not afraid of Sean O'Rielly, and he doesn't want anyone thinking that I was a snitch. Decius walks off, and Mick tells me not to worry about Sean O'Rielly because he and Damien will scare him off."

"Did Brother Decius do anything after that?"

"Yes. The bell sounds and the lunch break is over. All the boys assemble in the schoolyard. As I come away from the drinking taps Mark walks past with his drum and sticks. Mark looks at me and asks what happened. I tell him about the fight with Sean O'Rielly. Mark asks if I want Damien and him to fix Sean O'Rielly. I just shrug my shoulders. When all the boys are assembled, Decius calls everyone to attention and orders Sean O'Rielly and me to stand out the front. When both of us are standing in front of the whole school, some of the boys laugh at me because I look all ruffled with my hair all over the place, and my shirt hanging out and there is blood on my collar. Decius gets angry and calls for silence. Then he instructs us that fighting in the schoolyard is forbidden, and that he is going to make an example of Simon and Sean. We are told to hold out our hand, and each of us receives the strap twice. Decius tells the assembly that in addition, we both have to remain back after class for one hour. He then warns that anyone found fighting in the schoolyard, or anywhere else, will be treated the same way. He then calls everyone to attention again, and soon we are all back in our classrooms. All except vomit boy who has been allowed to go home."

"Is that all that happened?" Elaine asked.

"No. The afternoon classes are slow and boring. My hand is still stinging and made worse knowing that I will have to stay back for one hour afterward. When the bell goes at 3.45 in the afternoon, the boys in my class begin to pack up their books. Brother Titus who has our class for the last period says the final prayer and gives permission for everyone to leave except the two boys who have to stay behind. Some of the boys snigger and laugh and Titus sends them off. As all the boys from the other classes begin to leave, there is a lot of noise, shouting, and laughing but after a while everything goes silent, and Sean O'Rielly and I are the only two left. Titus tells us to do some study and leaves the room saying he will be back soon. I look over to where Sean is sitting on the other side of the room, and ask him what he is going to do. He says that he might as well do his homework. It's a good idea and I do the same thing. The hour seems to pass quite quickly, and Titus comes back into the classroom and tells us we can go home now, and let this be a lesson to us. I have finished all my homework except for geometry and geography. I hate geometry but I am pleased because when I get home I will be able to kick the football in the street."

"Did the two of you make up and shake hands?"

"No. I pack my bag and walk out of the room and put on my school cap and go to the toilet. I am standing at the urinal as Sean walks in. He stands at the urinal alongside me and just as I begin to pee, he leans across and pushes me off balance. I have to take one hand away from my Willy to regain my balance and then O'Rielly leans across shoving me off balance again. I have to use both hands to stop myself from falling back. As I do so, I wet my pants with my pee. The pee goes all over the front of my pants and I can feel it running down my left leg. I yell out at O'Rielly who just laughs and then he pulls my cap off my head, and throws it into the urinal where it gets all wet. O'Rielly then zips up his own pants and walks out of the toilet laughing."

"Oh God, your pants are not still wet are they?" she asked as she stroked my hair."

"No I'm dry now," I told her, hoping she would not stop fingering my hair.

The bus was now nearly empty. Elaine was the only girl from Villadon remaining and she normally got off, one stop after mine.

"This is your stop," she said. "Tell Damien that if he makes you pay him a shilling for lunch I will never speak to him again."

"All right," I said. "Thank you for sitting with me."

"That's all right. Don't worry about it. Everything will be better tomorrow, I promise."

"I know why Damien won't ask you to come to our house," I told her.

"Oh really? What's the reason?" she asked.

"It's the holy pictures on our walls."

"Holy pictures?" she asked.

"We have holy pictures on our walls. Damien hates them. He says he would be too scared to bring any non-Catholic home with holy pictures on the walls."

"Oh really," she said as the bus slowed down.

When the bus arrived at my stop, I got off through the rear door and waved goodbye. I didn't want the driver or anyone to see my pee stain although my pants were now dry. My mother Elizabeth Margaret, watched as I walked through the back gate from the laneway, and with a look of horror on her face, came toward me asking what happened. It was all too much, and in my haste to tell her of the day's events, I began to sob uncontrollably. She took me into the bathroom, and I looked in the mirror to see one very pronounced black eye, together with a large blob of clotted blood just below my nostrils. My hair was all ruffled and there was blood on my collar. Now, I realised why everyone on the bus was staring at me, but somehow it didn't matter. I was home.

And the best part of all, when Damien heard the whole story, he promised that he, and Elaine would take me for an ice cream on Friday.

4. Quintillus

Damien's crude attempt at extortion, did not change the fact that my brothers were my only true refuge. I considered myself fortunate to have Paul, Damien and Mark close by, particularly when men in black cassocks intimidated and frightened me. For the Brothers, the strap was a first strike policy whenever we transgressed. Quintillus, Tiberius, Decius, they all carried it, hidden underneath their cassock. They used a one inch wide strip of rubber matting about twelve inches long, and brought it down hard onto the palm of an outstretched hand as many as three or four times. It left the palm of the hand numb for about three or four minutes, and then it began to sting. The hand was very tender for several minutes afterwards, until the pain finally subsided. Sometimes they brought it down hard on the palm and then quickly brought it back up again to connect with the back of the hand. A double dose, so to speak. Economically very sound, two for the price of one. Delinquent acts such as talking in class, or throwing pieces of paper across the aisle were sufficient. But also for fighting, not doing our homework, or doing something on the way home that caught the eye of some nosy old woman, who reported us. Sometimes we were given the option of taking it on the hand, or on the behind. It didn't make any difference to the pain.

Quintillus was the main offender. He experienced no difficulty at all in shouting abuse, threatening physical bodily harm, launching missiles at anyone without notice, and even storming out of the classroom to recover his composure, only to return moments later to continue where he left off. As a sometime football coach, he was intensely competitive and hated losing a game to an opposition college. He would pace up and down the boundary line, shouting, screaming, getting very red in the face and embarrassing both players and parents. His frustration was demonstrated all too clearly when he selected me to play full-back one sports afternoon. A bad idea from the beginning. Everyone except him, knew that I played on the forward-line. I was a champion on the forward-line. The opposition feared my versatility on the forward-line. On the back-line I was a wandering dog, lost and searching for the way home. Placing me at full-back was literally handing the game over to the opposition. And we did. Despite the overt cries from the rest of the team, Quintillus could not be dissuaded. During the game he twice stormed onto the field to remonstrate with me about the nature of my folly in defence. A very public and humiliating lecture followed in full voice, to the cheers and jeers of the opposition. Not satisfied with that, and still seething with anger after the game, he walked past me muttering something inaudible as I was dressing after my shower. When I turned and said, "Sorry Brother, I didn't hear you," he swung around and slapped me across the face. Quintillus was a thug.

Not that his violent outbursts were the exclusive reserve of the sports field. Quintillus taught geography. How much he actually knew about geography was anyone's guess. During most of his lessons we simply read from a book, or copied material from the blackboard. Even then, he struggled to control himself, and succumbed to moments of sheer madness when he lost his temper. His tone could change as quickly as the weather when he became annoyed. We could hear him shouting from three classrooms away. Watch out whoever happened to cause the weather to change.

One hot afternoon in March, Sean O' Rielly caused the weather to change. Quintillus was writing on the blackboard when Frank Addams farted in class. Frank was always farting in class. It must have been the baked bean sandwiches he ate for lunch. On a hot afternoon, his farts would rise slowly and then stay suspended in the still hot air. They could be suffocating. Addams sat directly in front of Sean O'Rielly and on this occasion Sean lashed out at him, with a slap across the back of the head.

"Arrkinel, you pig," he said to Addams as his hand clipped the back of his head.

Quintillus suffered a slight hearing problem and thought someone spoke without permission.

"Stand up the person who spoke," he called out, still facing the blackboard.

Just as Quintillus turned around to see who spoke, O'Rielly lashed out again at Addams. "Dirty prick... Arrkinel," he said again.

When Quintillus saw O'Rielly lashing out, he exploded.

"What's going on here?" he demanded as he strode down the aisle towards O'Rielly.

"Just what do you think you're up to lad?"

"He farted Brother, he's disgusting." O'Rielly told the truth.

"And who gave you the right to hit him?" Quintillus said as he raised his own hand to O'Rielly's head, and knocked him with a jolt, sending him crashing into Barry Kase sitting next to him.

O'Rielly was momentarily stunned. "Arrkinel," he said without thinking.

"Do you think you can take the law into your own hands, do you lad?" Quintillus bellowed as his hand lunged down a second time slapping O'Rielly across the side of his face.

"No Brother." O'Rielly answered.

"Don't ever let me see you do that again," he shouted even louder as his hand came down a third time.

This time O'Rielly ducked his head and Quintillus missed him, which only served to make him even angrier.

"Sit up straight," he screamed. O'Rielly obeyed tentatively only to endure another slap across the face.

"Arrkinel, cut it out will ya?" O'Rielly pleaded.

Quintillus glared around at the rest of the class who were all staring at him.

"Face the front all of you," he yelled as he began walking back to the front. In his outrage, he had failed to decipher O'Rielly's slang. Quintillus' face was so red and flustered, we thought he was in the first stages of meltdown. When he returned to the front of the class, he just stood there looking at us, saying nothing. Eventually, he told us to continue the work already prepared on the board. For the rest of that period we could have heard a pin drop. After school that afternoon, O'Rielly and Addams settled the matter their own way. It was a dust-up in the tunnel underneath the roadway near the bus stop, each combatant ably supported by a host of seconds. It was a brutal affair and little wonder neither showed up at school the next day. From that day on, I could only ever view Quintillus with fear and distrust. I vowed never to be the one to cause the weather to change, and never to take my eye off him whenever he appeared within slapping distance. Damien suggested that to me. Damien had once witnessed his anger in an earlier encounter.

If there was one of my brothers that I simultaneously looked up to and feared it was Damien. He had charisma, that special something, a presence about him that generated the belief that something exciting could happen at any moment. Girls liked him. He was confident and exciting. Most exciting of all, he had a non-Catholic girl friend. Harbouring little respect for most men in black cassocks, less for Quintillus, Damien showed no fear, and in the dark corridors of God's scullery, I suspect the angels gave a muffled cheer.

5. Family

I was one of nine children, a third generation product of my great grandparents Mark and Julia Hickey, late of Glanmire, County Cork Ireland, who left Ireland's shores around 1864 for better or worse. Great Grandpa Mark drowned in the Barwon River at Geelong four years later, so for him, the poor fellow, it was for worse.

My sister Kathleen was the first born, then Paul, Damien, Mark, and then me, followed by Bridget and the twins. We all arrived at the approximate rate of one every eighteen months to two and a bit years or so, making allowances for at least two miscarriages. There was a girl called Anne who died after a few months, but my mother never spoke of her. It was Kathleen who told me about her.

Kathleen's childhood was hardly her own. Being the first born, from the moment she could walk she became a live-in baby-sitter, child carer, you name it, always having to look after one or two of the younger ones, while my mother was knee deep doing the same. When Kathleen was having lessons on the piano, I loved sitting in the dining room listening to her play. It was not surprising though, that when the opportunity presented itself, she entered the convent. Looking after her siblings was not her first choice, but a legacy of being the first born in a large family. The convent was her escape. She was the first to leave home in pursuit of the service of God. She became a woman in a black habit.

Paul, seen through the eyes of a much younger brother, was something of an authority figure. He did not allow himself to get too close, preferring to remain aloof and staying within himself. Paul was the second born and the second to enter God's service when he entered the seminary of the Order of the Missionary Society of Saint Bartholemew.

Damien you have met. Mark was the quiet one who had inherited our grandmother's artistic talent. For the greater part of our childhood, we slept in the same room. Mark was the one who took me to my first day at school, showed me how to stay out of trouble, how to handle the Brothers when they spoke to me.

Bridget was born the sixth child, following an unbroken run of four boys. My mother, by this stage somewhat desperate for another daughter, promised Our Lady, our Virgin Mother in Heaven, that if she would intercede to ensure a female birth, my mother would complete the nine first Fridays, and the five first Saturdays concurrently. Heaven agreed. Thus, Bridget grew up in a house full of boys and to avoid the crassness of male life on a daily basis, she spent most of her time in her room playing with her dolls. In my mother's eyes, it was either that, or see all the feminine qualities of this heaven sent treasure evaporate before her eyes.

The arrival of the twins, James and Andrew, constituted a family population explosion. The neighbours could not get enough of them. On that exciting day when they arrived home from the hospital, the whole street celebrated. All the mothers came to visit and congratulate my mother.

"Oh aren't they just gorgeous," one neighbour said.

"Oh, just look at them will you, have you ever seen anything like it?" said another.

And the dumbest comment of all.... "Oh Mrs. Hickey, I just do not know how you do it." This from a supposedly intelligent woman with three of her own!

James and Andrew did get a lot of attention, although it disappeared around nappy changing time. They were the 'babies' and that is how everyone referred to them for the first five years, at which time they simply became known as the 'twins'.

This was my family of siblings and it was my mother Elizabeth Margaret, a devoutly religious woman totally committed to her family, who held it all together. She was the main influence in our early life. My father was a travelling salesman, and away for much of the time. He left each Monday morning on country trips not returning until late Thursday night. While he was gone, Elizabeth Margaret was the authority figure, the supervisor of everything, the champion of every cause.

Her sense of determination and duty to that role was extraordinary. Cooking, cleaning, washing, shopping, she was mistress of it all. The house was always neat and tidy, meals were always on time, and there was always time to help with homework and always, a time for each of us to receive a moment or two of personal encouragement, a private moment. She could do that with all eight of us. However, her strong suite was religion. To her, this life was a passing phase to be done and dispensed with, that we might enjoy the main event for all eternity. The main event was heaven. If we did not make it to heaven, then what was the point? 'What does it suffer a man to gain the whole world and lose his soul' she quoted to us. For my mother, the very thought of any of us not making it to heaven was worse than a horror movie.... No, it was the ultimate horror movie. Little wonder that she disapproved of Damien's association with Elaine.

"Why can't he find a nice Catholic girl?" she said one day to me in passing.

"Elaine is nice Mum" I told her, "I like her."

"Well why doesn't he ever bring her home then, so I can meet her?"

"It's the holy pictures, Mum," I said.

"What holy pictures?"

"On the walls, everywhere. The Sacred Heart, St Anthony, Our Lady."

"What do you mean...is she afraid of them?"

"No, she's not. Damien is."

"What do you mean?"

"Damien thinks the holy pictures will spook her off. That's why he won't bring her home."

"I don't believe it," she said.

So, religion played a major role in our house, and because we were Catholic, we were the one true faith and there was no room to consider other faiths. I always thought Damien to be very brave having a non-Catholic girlfriend. They were all somehow wrong and we were right. I absorbed all this with a great sense of relief. From where I was standing, all of that seemed to make sense. This was my mother's role in life, and it was my father's role to go out into the world, and do what he did, to bring home the money to keep us all fed, clothed, sheltered and warm in the winter. Genial Jim Hickey, as he was known to his friends at the corner bar, owned by the father of Sean O'Reilly, did that well, because despite all our family peculiarities, we were all well fed, clothed, sheltered and kept warm in the winter. Genial Jim Hickey who, devoted as he was to his wife and family, was also devoted to his twin brother Frank, and a circle of male friends who collectively sort refuge from the pressures of life, with a sip of the golden brew at O'Reilly's, and a Saturday afternoon at the football.

*

From the time the twins were welcomed into the family they slept in their cots in the front bedroom with my parents. It was a stop gap remedy in a house that was too small. As the twins grew it became clear that the family needed a bigger place to live, and house hunting became a regular weekend activity.

After months of searching, we bought a house in Eighth Avenue. It was close to our existing home, so no need to change schools or parish church, and my father still shared his Saturdays with friends sipping the golden brew at O'Reilly's. Paul and Damien slept in two separate outside bungalows, Mark and I shared a sleep-out attached to the back of the house, the twins shared a room, Kathleen and Bridget shared another, and my parents were once again together in the front bedroom free from the midnight crying and the curious little eyes. No sooner had we moved in than my mother set about tastefully decorating the house with the pictures of the Sacred Heart and St. Anthony, who helped us find lost objects, and Our Lady dressed in blue and white, but without any breasts. We thought she was going to leave them in the old house to help the new owners settle in, but no, here they were, dusted off and just as threatening. Damien pleaded with her not to put them up but she would have none of it. They were everywhere; in the lounge, the dining room, the kitchen. She had my father nail our very own holy water stoup to the wall in the dining room so we could dip our finger in and bless ourselves every time we entered and left the room. It was right next to the light switch, and dipping the finger and switching the light either on or off in one movement, became an art form.

"Get used to them," she told Damien. "Anyone who is too ashamed to acknowledge the one true faith should examine their conscience and talk to Father Michael."

Fr. Michael was our parish priest, and he blessed the house for us in return for one of my mother's lamb roasts one Sunday afternoon, and all the aunties, uncles and cousins came to celebrate the occasion. It was all perfect, except for Damien. He still wouldn't bring Elaine home. And then, when I met Geoffrey from across the street I realised Damien was right.

Geoffrey was playing football in the street with a friend. I walked around our front lawn watching, trying to figure some way of joining them without appearing to beg. Soon a wayward football torpedoed its way toward me. There was no option but to mark it in spectacular style. The two of them stood there stunned at the sight. I took two steps back and returned it with a left foot thrust that sent the ball back with bullet like speed and accuracy. Geoffrey marked the return and stood there for a moment, looking at his friend. His friend nodded as if some telepathic message was transmitted and then uttered the words I wanted to hear....

"Do you want to play with us?"

So we journeyed to nearby Greystoke Park, to play. We were the same age but not the same religion. He attended St. David's College an Anglican private school, but as he was Protestant, I knew that he was destined for eternal hellfire. It was not his fault, he was just born that way, but it bothered me. Of this, I was supremely confident because that is where all Protestants were sent when they died. The Aquinines told me that. I thought perhaps this was the reason God put me on this earth. God wanted me to bring Geoffrey into the bosom of the Catholic Church, and save his everlasting soul. So I brought him home into the lounge and the dining room and the kitchen, so he could see all the religious pictures my mother had on display. Surely this would be enough for him to realise his destiny. Geoffrey did not quite see it in the same light. His eyes nearly popped out when he saw the gallery of religious art.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Those pictures," he said.

"What do you think of them?" I asked.

"I think they are a bit spooky, but don't tell your mother I said that," he replied.

I suddenly found sympathy for Damien. I realised that some people did see holy pictures as superstitious, and yes, even spooky. Geoffrey still wanted to be friends but for some months baulked at any subsequent invitations to come inside.

6. Vocation

So much for 1957. But there was a strange irony. As I was growing up, I observed many things that made we Catholics look and feel different from others. I felt there must have been a reason why God made me a Catholic. When I thought about the future, I realised that even though there were times when I didn't like the Brothers, I could see that the ultimate to which one could aspire in a Catholic environment, was a religious vocation. A priest, a nun or a brother in a Catholic family of the 1950's said more for that family than if they were rich or famous. My mother Elizabeth Margaret, would often discuss it with me, and compounded the issue one day by giving me a special present to remind me of the calling. It was a pair of Rosary beads, but not just any pair. This pair she said, was blessed by His Holiness, Pope Pius X11. Such a honour made them a pearl of great price to my mother, and to please her, I rarely left home without them.

At school, the Brothers would often talk about vocations. There were regular visits from Fr, Michael, and other priests who would talk about the religious life, telling us what it was like; how satisfying, how fulfilling. Damien and Mark were unmoved. "Not in a million years." They said.

I felt I wasn't clever enough to be a priest. I would have to stay at school and finish matriculation before I could start training at a seminary, and even then it would take another seven years to finish. It all looked too hard. The Brothers, on the other hand were less demanding, and their training schedule was not as daunting.

So despite Damien and Mark's assessment that a million years would have to pass before they could be enticed into the religious life, throughout 1958 the idea of life as a Aquinine Brother started to develop inside my mind. Not all that surprising, there was little else happening.

7. St Patrick and the 'Old Fart'......

By 1959, at the age of fourteen, I had developed a fearful respect for the likes of Quintillus and the keepers of the twelve inches of rubber matting. Such respect however, was developed to ensure the survival of the species. The logic was self evident. Boy gets into trouble, boy gets hurt. Better that boy not get into trouble. But alas, when such logic was asked to adjudicate in the matter of some of the more tribalistic rituals of Catholic life, logic more often than not, met its match. Each year in March the school prepared for the St. Patrick's day parade through the streets of Melbourne. For several weeks earlier, the men in black cassocks would keep us back after school, so to practice our marching, to arrange us in height order, starting from the tallest, down to the smallest, then back up to the tallest again. Viewed from a centre profile we resembled a concave picket fence in navy blue. Try as Tiberius might, he could never motivate us to move off at exactly the same time. Stretched out for almost one hundred yards in the side street alongside the school, we stood. The drummers at the front, at the ready. When the order came for 'mark time', they began. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. Tiberius then bellowed, 'Quick march', and the front row would lead off. The middle section where I was, followed a second or two later. The rear section a few seconds after that. The inevitable gap of varying degrees quickly developed, and Tiberius roared his frustration down the street, screaming at the rear marchers to close ranks. He warned that we would be the laughing stock of the whole parade. Every Catholic school in Melbourne would be marching and we would be the laughing stock of the whole parade. Ye Gods! His grace Archbishop Daniel Mannix, the 'old fart' as Damien called him, would take the salute and Tiberius was damned if he was going to have 'the old fart' think we were the laughing stock. We would learn how to move off together if it took all night. It took Brother Decius the principal to curb Tiberius' enthusiasm. More than once he came out on to the street to tell Tiberius that it was time to dismiss the squad and let them go home. Tiberius obeyed with a mournful scowl and we were let loose.

*

On the day of the march, we assembled at the corner of Queen Street and Little Bourke Street. From there we would march along Queen Street, make a left turn at Bourke and go the full length of Bourke Street, up to Parliament House where 'the old fart' would be sitting in the back seat of a big car with the roof down, ready to take the salute. The St. Patrick's day march always attracted very big crowds, and from that fact alone, I accepted that whatever the reason I was doing this, it was more important than kicking the football in the park with Geoffrey, although the reason itself was somewhat obscure. While the logic of it escaped me, the presence of the upper echelon of the church was enough to demonstrate that some higher purpose existed. Unfortunately not everyone felt that way. To assemble the masses in the same order we had practiced after school was, for Tiberius, a logistical nightmare. Difficult to say the least, because so many students did not arrive as promised. There were mass absentees. Tiberius was frantically doing his mandatory head count and the numbers were not adding up. He paced up and down the line, up and down counting and looking increasingly stressed. From further along the assembled multitudes, we could hear the sounds of drums which in his exasperated state, he interpreted as the beginning of the march. "Where is everyone?" he begged with a look of desperation. More drum rolls started up. By this stage Tiberius was slowly going berserk. He wanted names. "All the boys who haven't turned up must be punished. I want names. Who hasn't come?" He started writing down names. We could see he was fuming, and my thoughts flashed forward to the blood bath on Monday with the twelve inches of rubber matting.

Full compliment or not, the march began and we were on our way. We set off from Queen Street, and turned left onto Bourke Street, where initially the crowds were fairly thin, just two to three deep. Every school displayed their banners so the crowd could identify them. The communists were also big supporters of St. Patrick's day. They displayed their banners too. Our marching was slovenly at best and descended into a disaster. Every school positioned their drummers at the front. Each school backed up one behind the other, effectively denying those at the rear, the sound of the drums at the front, due to the noise of the drums coming up behind them. The two sets of school drums were never synchronised, so the front section of the school marched to one beat while the rear marched to another. My group in the middle was forced to make a choice. What drum beat should we follow? Naturally we chose the dominant one, and the result was a maelstrom. Nobody was in step with anybody.

We travelled down the hill crossing over Swanston Street, and began the long climb up the hill toward Parliament House. I could just make out Tiberius' voice above all the din, calling out from somewhere behind me, 'left, left, left, right left'. He probably thought that his military style commands would snap us out of any lethargic supposition that this was no more than a walk in the park. Why on earth did he bother? His commands were neither in step with our drums at the front, nor with the equivalent ensemble coming from the school at the rear. At best he was an amusing distraction. At worst, he was if anything, causing us to look more of a rabble than we otherwise were. I strained my eyes toward the top of the street where I could see a big black car with its roof down. This I deduced must be where 'the old fart' was waiting. As we edged closer and closer the crowds grew thicker, perhaps six or seven deep. The crowds responded to our marching with supporting cheers, an occasional 'good on yer lads', and the obligatory hand clap. Children cried out when they saw their siblings in the march. Barry Kase's sister screamed, "Barry, Barry," and those of us close to him repeated the dose. "Barry, Barry." It was more like a picnic parade than a demonstration of Catholic solidarity. Barry Kase thought it was more a meat market for his sister, and her two friends. "They only came to tease us," he said trying to mask an embarrassed blush. "They should be marching too, but their principal decided only the two senior years would participate." "What a pity Tiberius didn't see things the same way," I called out. As if tuning into our conversation telepathically, Tiberius bellowed out from five or six rows back, "No talking in the ranks up there."

As we marched toward the official party the crowds grew even larger. It was as if being closer to the Archbishop of Melbourne ensured the best view, or was it that they thought being closer to God's man made them think that they were closer to God?

As we reached the top of Bourke Street, we advanced under the shadow of Parliament House, with its ten enormous Corinthian columns straight and vertical stretching up, taking the full weight of the building. It was an inspiring sight and for a moment I imagined none other than the imposing figure of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus appearing at the top of the stairs, standing head and shoulders above his loyal Roman subject citizens to take the salute and receive the adoring plaudits of the masses. Alas, nothing quite so dramatic. While the building itself, a grand structure, silently asserted its unmistakable authority as the seat of government of the great state of Victoria, 'the old fart' came into view taking up a far less imposing position. He presented himself as a somewhat pathetic figure sitting in the rear of the car, at the front of Parliament House. He was noticeable more for the purple hat than any dominant physical features, for in point of fact, he had none.

As we passed him by, the crowd applauded louder than at any other point. Again, it was hard to tell if the applause was for our marching or simply the faithful manifesting their support for the Archbishop. Either way, their solidarity and support was nothing less than that expected under such circumstances. I was marching on the outside column and as we passed by the Archbishop's car I could have leaned over and touched him. To me, he did look like an old fart. Damien was right. He was so old and pale. His eyes were closed as if fast asleep and white hair protruded from underneath his purple hat. I was sure if his mother saw him like that, she would never have let him out of the house. He was asleep and never even saw us. Our marching could have been perfect and he would never have known. Is this what Tiberius was getting so upset over?

On the steps of Parliament house, some banners on display showed more interest in Prime Minister Robert Menzies, than St Patrick. They called him 'pig iron bob' for some strange reason. More signs followed. 'Ban the bomb', (whatever that meant) 'Evatt out' (nope....lost me there). When we turned the corner and moved away from the official reception, the crowds disappeared and the march halted with an abrupt thud. The show was over. Tiberius gave us a short lecture telling us how good we were and then spoilt it all by warning us that we were still in school uniform. Any skylarking or inappropriate behaviour would be viewed dimly and corrective action would be taken at school the next day. Then we were dismissed.

My father suddenly appeared from nowhere and gave the distinct impression that he was glad it was all over for another year. Always the one to see through the façade of a superficial demonstration, he said it was all a bit of flag waving, a show of strength and he simply lamented that it being Sunday, he could not adjourn to the bar at O'Rielly's for a sip of the golden brew. He too advised me not to linger and be sure that I was home for dinner. With official formalities concluded we were set free to find our way home by whatever means we chose. As we dispersed, I teamed up with Barry Kase when his sister and her two friends caught up with us. The girls were laughing and giggling as most girls did, and they looked at me as if I were their prize for the day. Barry introduced me.

His sister's name was Monica, his twin sister, and her friends were Megan and Michelle. The three of them were dressed in casual clothes and each wore sunglasses making me very conscious that I was in school uniform. Somehow schoolgirls looked so much more grown up when dressed casually, more so than boys, something I found intimidating. They had no plans other than going home and invited me to join them. Moments later however, as we crawled through the myriad of students all dispersing in a variety of directions, we ran into Damien and Elaine and they were holding hands. Mark was with them too. They both had jobs now, and came to watch the march as an outing. Suddenly, my plans to spend a pleasant ride home with three girls were dashed.

"Dad said you are to come with us," Damien said with all the authority of a second in command.

"Dad told me to be home for dinner," I replied in a desperate attempt to stave off the inevitable. Elaine tried to come to my rescue.

"Oh let him go with his friends," she said smiling at me.

"We just saw Dad a moment ago," Mark said, "and he told us to find you and to tell you to stay with us." That was that. Snookered! I turned to Barry and the three girls, said "sorry" and we parted.

That was the first time I met Megan. It was a very short and mildly sweet encounter, and apart from the initial thrill of being with three girls for a few moments on a warm March afternoon, that was all it offered. Little did I know then, the impact that girl would have on my life in the years to come.

  8. The day Tim Bowerman came to school...

On the following Monday, Tiberius was even more frustrated. Every boy who's name had been recorded, it seemed, carried a note from a parent explaining why their son was unable to attend the march the previous day. Poor Tiberius. There was less work for his twelve inches of rubber matting than he had been anticipating. His disappointment manifested itself in his scowls, growls, pouting and sulking.

"Stay out of his way," Barry Kase warned. "He's in a shit of a mood."

On Tuesday, while I was on the bus travelling to school, I remembered that Brother Titus had asked us to read the chapter about the Great Trunk Road in Rudyard Kipling's 'Kim'. He would ask us questions about it, and I had not yet had time to read it. The Cashman's were hosting the statue of Our Lady of Fatima that week, and each night my mother had pencilled in our attendance at their home in the next street, to say the rosary. Last night I had barely finished my homework before my mother called us together and said it was time to go, despite universal protests from Bridget, James, Andrew and myself.

"I don't want to go," I told her. "The rosary is boring. Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee, over and over again." But then my mind suddenly went into overdrive. I realised that at least I would see Jenny Cashman, beautiful Jenny Cashman, the prettiest girl in our neighbourhood and she was Catholic, thank goodness. If she wasn't Catholic, it wouldn't matter how pretty she looked because I would not have been allowed to talk to her. She might lead me into sin and then I would burn in hell which was where my mother was convinced Elaine was taking Damien. Going to the Cashman's meant that I would not be able to read about the Great Trunk Road either.

It was a full house of course, all from our local church, mostly parents. We all knelt down in the lounge room and said the rosary... 'Hail Mary, full of grace the Lord is with thee,' over and over and over again. I looked over to where Jenny was kneeling but she had her back to me. I waited patiently until the rosary was finished, when everyone climbed up off their knees to mingle and chat.

As a student in 1959, I would have been classified average, perhaps not even that. I suffered from a lack of interest. Did I really care that Napoleon wanted to conquer Europe? Was Latin an appropriate subject if priests and doctors were the only people who ever used it? The Brothers seemed unable to generate any academic enthusiasm within my developing senses. The school curriculum was much the same as that of my father before me. The world it seemed had yet to move forward. My experiences of the world up to that point were achieved more through watching the silver screen at the Saturday afternoon matinee than through books. Prince Valiant taught me about England, Kit Carson and Jesse James showed me America, Ali Baba taught me about the Middle East. It was the images of these celluloid heroes living in the forefront of my mind that activated my imagination and sense of creativity. Not Latin, not Algebra. The fourteen year old mind absorbs the visual image far more effectively than the academic. The fourteen year old mind thinks not of the future but of the present.....of the more immediate matters at hand, of what lies before one's very eyes. Standing before my very eyes was Jenny Cashman.

"Titus can get annoyed when we don't do what he asks," I told Mr. Cashman when asked how I was faring at school. "He shouts and throws chalk at us and keeps us in after school," I said.

"They did the same to me as I recall," he huffed. I made a move to speak to Jenny when Chris Dyer grabbed my shoulder. Chris was in my class and like me, his mother had dragged him along to the rosary as well.

"He doesn't realise that my only interest in coming to his house is to see his daughter Jenny, and doesn't know how much better it is seeing her each night of the week, instead of reading a stupid chapter of some stupid book about some stupid Indian boy," I told Chris when out of earshot of her father.

Yeah she's really pretty," said Chris. "Take me over to your sister," he said nervously.

"Bridget?" I said somewhat surprised, "You like Bridget?"

"Keep your voice down," he said. "Just take me over to her, and then leave."

As we wandered toward Bridget, I glanced at Jenny. She had lovely dark curly hair and brown eyes, like Elaine, and I got a funny feeling in my stomach as she smiled at me. The Cashman's house was identical to ours (the product of a bulk builder devoid of imagination) except that there weren't eight children living there, just three and they were all girls. Jenny was the youngest, the same age as me, and her two older sisters were the same age as Mark and Damien. Mark and Damien didn't seem very interested in the two older sisters so I said nothing to them about Jenny. They would only have teased me and embarrassed me. Chris Dyer had overcome his embarrassment and had taken up a conversation with Bridget. I didn't recall him ever mentioning an interest in Bridget before but I left them to it, then scanned the room for Jenny. Sadly, she had vanished. 'Bugger'.

Today, there was no one on the bus to talk to, so I reached for my book and began reading about the Great Trunk Road. Suddenly the bus driver braked and swerved as he tried to avoid a schoolboy on a bike. There was a pretty woman with long blonde hair sitting in front of me, and as the bus swerved, she fell out of her seat onto the floor in the aisle facing toward me. When she fell, her legs were up in the air, and her dress had lifted up around her waist. Suddenly I was staring at her blue underpants. I should have helped her, but I couldn't help looking at her blue underpants and her soft white legs.

"Please help me," she said, and held out her hand. I reached out and took her hand. It was so soft and nice to hold and I didn't want to let it go. She got back up on her feet and thanked me and I said "that's all right", but I couldn't help staring at her until she sat down again in front of me. The bus driver slowed down and called out, "Is everyone all right?" A few people called out "Yes," and so he continued on. A few more stops along the way, the young woman got up, turned around to where I was sitting, smiled and said, "Thanks again for helping me." She then pulled the cord and walked to the front of the bus. The driver stopped and she got out. In a minute she was gone, and I kept staring back at the place where she had disappeared from view.

Then I remembered last night at the Cashman's, Jenny smiled at me too. I began to wonder if she wore blue underpants, and how nice it would be to hold her hand. I wasn't able to speak to her while we said the rosary, with her at one end of the room, and I at the other. After the rosary she smiled at me, but when we finished her mother made her go and finish her homework.

I got off the bus at my stop, and walked up Candleburn Road toward school. When I walked into the schoolyard, I remembered that I hadn't read anything about the Great Trunk Road and wondered if I should have a quick look, or go and tell someone about the woman with the blue underpants. It didn't matter because the bell rang and it was time to line up in my class.

"And now all I can think about is blue underpants," I told Barry Kase as we marched into class. "And soft white legs and her smiling at me, and I get another funny feeling in my stomach. It's the same as the one I get when I think of Jenny Cashman, only this time I get a funny feeling in my penis too, and I don't even know the lady's name." Barry's mouth was wide open.

"And I haven't read about the Great Trunk Road either," I told him. Somehow I didn't think he had either.

Titus took us for first period and after Morning Prayer, told us that a new boy would be starting that day. His name was Tim Bowerman and he was from the United States of America. We all had to make him feel welcome. Everyone gasped with excitement, and Edward Caulfield picked up his ruler and pretended it was a rifle and began shooting everyone as if he were Jesse James. In a matter of seconds the whole class was playing Cowboys and Indians until Titus shouted out for everyone to stop. Then he gave us a lecture on how childish we were.

"I have never met an American before," I told Titus. "Why is this boy coming to school here?" "His father has been transferred here with his job and the whole family has moved here." Titus replied. So I began to wonder if he might have a sister, and if she wore blue underpants.

Twenty minutes later there was a knock at the classroom door and Decius opened up and walked in with a boy who was dressed in a green suit, white shirt and green tie, and who had a very short haircut. The Brothers didn't like short haircuts. They thought it a sign of larrikinism and warned us we would be sent home if we came to school with our hair cut short. Everyone was silent, as Decius told Titus who the boy was. Then Titus told us, as if we didn't already know, and we all said "Hello Tim" and Tim said, "Hi" and we all laughed because the only place we ever heard anyone say 'Hi', was on Jack Davey's radio programme when he said 'hi ho everybody'. Titus started yelling again and told everyone to be quiet and showed Tim where to sit, and then told us to open up our history books at page twenty-eight.

For the rest of the time before morning recess, our classroom was strangely quiet. No one played up, no snickering, no deliberately dropping books on the floor to annoy Titus. He hated that. Sometimes he went off his brain when he was explaining something important, and someone dropped a book on the floor. Nobody farted or did anything stupid because nobody wanted to be the first to look like an idiot in front of the new boy from America.

At morning recess, the word spread around the school that there was an American in year nine and the whole school came looking to see if it was true. It was a pathetic sight. Boys from the junior grades as well as other boys in year twelve, congregated outside year nine classroom trying to see what a boy from America looked like. Tim Bowerman had no idea they were here to gawk at him. We sat with him on the bench seat in the quadrangle, and he told us he had just arrived last week from Illinios, and that his father was in the automotive business. He said that his school uniform wasn't ready on his first day, but that it would be when he got home tonight. I asked him if he had any brothers or sisters. He told us that he had two sisters. One was sixteen and mad about boys, the other was only eight. Then I told him and the others about my adventure with the lady with the blue underpants, and everyone stared at me with their mouths wide open. Chris Dyer said the best thing that happened to him was seeing his sixteen-year-old sister naked in the bathroom, but even then, only for a second because she saw him staring, called out to her mother and slammed the door shut.

Lunchtime was a circus, and Tim Bowerman was the star attraction. There was plenty of room for all the boys to have their lunch in the quadrangle, but everyone wanted to be near Tim, so they all congregated into just one corner of the quadrangle. Some were pushing forward to get a glimpse of Tim, others were pushing back, trying to get out of the crush. Some boys continued eating their sandwiches in the crush, and so bits of bread with jam, and honey rubbed onto other boys' shirts. Some had bottles of soft drink that spilt over as each boy jostled for a better position. Then, worst of all, someone let off the biggest fart they could muster and that really was disgusting because it was so hard to fan a bad smell away, when everyone was so close. Eventually Decius' patience expired. He blew his whistle and everyone went silent.

"Get away from there," he screamed, "Give the lad a bit of breathing space" he said.

"You" he said, pointing to one group, "Have you finished your lunch?"

"Yes Brother," they answered meekly.

"Then get off away from here and go and play football or something. Go on, go on." he said. Slowly some of the boys started walking away. Finally the bell sounded and the circus was over, at least for the time being.

Returning to the classroom, we began the last two decades of the rosary. Then Titus reminded us about our homework the night before, and wanted to know who had read about the Great Trunk Road. Naturally nobody put up their hand, so Titus assumed we all had.

"Okay ," he said, "What about you Caulfield, what can you tell us about the Great Trunk Road?" Edward Caulfield suddenly went very pale. He fiddled with his pen and looked down onto the floor and across the room and it was pretty obvious that he knew nothing. "You haven't read it have you Caulfield?"

"No Brother ," came the quick reply.

"Why not?"

"Didn't have time Brother."

"Rubbish, who else hasn't read it?" Titus said with a very annoyed look on his face. A few hands went up but not mine, because I was too busy looking around at everyone else.

"Okay Hickey what can you tell us?" he said, staring straight at me. "And make it good for the benefit of all those lazy ones who didn't do as they were told."

"Jesus, you're fucking dead," Barry Kase whispered to me from across the aisle, and it suddenly dawned on me that I was in serious trouble. Then, as the entire class turned to look at me, Kase's prophecy passed through my mind. 'Jesus! I am fucking dead!'

I stood up slowly, feeling the perspiration ooze from my forehead. my mind going blank. Then, almost automatically, all sense of nervous embarrassment evaporated, and I was overtaken by the grandeur of this occasion. Suddenly I felt in control. 'I can do this', I thought to myself, 'I can do this!' I focused immediately on the scene from the movie I watched two weeks earlier at the Saturday afternoon matinee. They screened a film about Ali Baba and the forty thieves, and I could still remember the scenes of the markets, and the road that led into the old city of Baghdad. I saw all the people coming and going, the soldiers on guard, the half dressed ladies dancing, the snake charmers, the music, the laughing and all the shop keepers calling out, asking people to buy their goods. As I pictured these scenes in my mind, I began to describe it to the class, pretending that it was the Great Trunk Road or at least some part of it. And the more I talked about it, the more interested I became in what I was saying. It might not have been the Great Trunk Road, but I thought to myself, 'Baghdad wasn't all that far from India ...maybe they did things the same way there, too.' I was standing there talking about things I had seen at the pictures, and decided instinctively to embellish. I included bits about robbers waiting in the nearby hills ready to attack the merchants as they journeyed by, bringing their wares into the city. Then I sensed that everyone was silent and listening to me, and Titus was listening to me too, and I could see from the look on his face that he really believed that I had read the book. Tim Bowerman was looking at me too. So I continued and included other experiences I had seen in films. Men in groups discussing important political matters, more soldiers walking through the streets patrolling; mothers putting out their washing, children running wildly, and suddenly I became embarrassed and began to falter in the telling of my tale. But just then, Titus decided that I had said enough, and told everyone to give me a clap because I had done a very good job of describing the Great Trunk Road.

For a few minutes I couldn't believe my luck. I had stolen the moment, won the day. I didn't have to read some book to have the right answer. I only needed everyone to think I had read it. I liked expression, I liked imagining things, far away things from far away times, and I always remembered the scenes from the films I watched on Saturday afternoons. I wished I could have lived during the time of Prince Valiant and the Knights of the Round Table. It's a pity the Great Trunk Road wasn't in England during the time of Prince Valiant. Had it been so, my description would have been even more exciting. Or even better again, I could have lived during the time of Kit Carson or Billy the Kid, and maybe even ridden in the Cavalry charge against Geronimo. But that didn't matter now. I did it. I tricked everybody.

That afternoon, going home, the bus was full of the girls from Villadon, but there was no one I could talk to and tell what happened. I couldn't tell the other boys that I didn't read about the Great Trunk Road because they would only blurt it out to someone else, and it would eventually get back to Titus, and if he ever found out there would be hell to pay. So when I arrived home, I wanted to tell my mother everything, but before I had a chance, she asked me to go down to the shops to buy some bread, and milk and a pound of firm tomatoes. I wanted so much to tell her about Tim Bowerman, and the Great Trunk Road, but I could see she was busy, so off I went down the street. As I turned the corner that took me into the street where Jenny Cashman lived, there she was, walking towards me. Jenny Cashman with her long black curly hair underneath her school hat, her light blue short sleeve summer school dress just covering her knees, her arms exposed, walking towards me. Her eyes and mine locked together. My heart started pumping. I said hello and blushed. I hated it when I blushed. I felt so exposed. Why did I have to blush every time I talked to a girl? As if it wasn't bad enough, that boys always needed to make the first move with girls we liked, we suffered blushing and made ourselves look stupid as well. She smiled at me and said hello, and asked me what I was doing. I told her I was going to the shops and she said she needed to get some shoe laces at the shops, and asked if she could come with me.

I couldn't believe my luck. In one day, I held the hand of a lady on the bus after staring at her blue underpants. I met a boy from America. I tricked the entire class into thinking I read all about the Great Trunk Road, and now Jenny Cashman was asking me if she could walk to the shops with me. Was God rewarding me for something? Had I done something really good, something that had pleased him? Not really, I didn't say the Rosary very well, I lied about the Great Trunk Road, I stared at a lady's blue underpants...no it wasn't God. Maybe it was the devil. As we walked to the shops my social skills began to falter. I didn't know what to say, resulting in this long period of silence. Then she began speaking. She said she liked it when I came to her house to say the Rosary. I said that I liked it too. More silence. Then she asked if my parents were going to have the statue of Our Lady of Fatima at our house soon and I asked why, and she said that if they did, then she could come to my house. Wow! Now my heart was really pumping and I felt a little uncomfortable in my pants. More silence. I thought to myself, 'What on earth do I say to that? Does that mean she likes me?'

We arrived at the shops, and I told Jenny what I had to get, and she said she would get her shoe laces and wait for me. 'Wait for me! She wants to wait for me'. This was better than being with the lady in the bus. The boys at school would never believe this. I raced off to the Milk Bar for the bread and milk. Then, in my haste to continue on, I crashed into the man opening the Milk Bar door as I was running out. "Steady on," he said. 'Fuck him', I thought to myself. Considering the circumstances in which I found myself, I felt that was an appropriate thought, so long as I didn't say it out loud. Anyway, fuck him, I had to find the greengrocer to buy a pound of firm tomatoes. My mother always wanted firm tomatoes, not those mushy ones that collapsed every time you cut them. She couldn't make good sandwiches if she didn't have firm tomatoes. 'Firm tomatoes, firm tomatoes'. There was a lady in the greengrocer shop, who had breasts that looked like firm tomatoes, wearing a dress that was low cut at the front. You could see the top part of her firm tomatoes. She came toward me and said, " Hello young man what can I get for you," and like an idiot, I said, " A pound of firm breasts please." I was dead. The whole shop went quiet. I blushed. I went redder than a pound of firm tomatoes. "What did you say?" the lady asked. "Tomatoes, a pound of firm tomatoes" I said. She glared at me forever. Then she walked off, to get the tomatoes. "One and sixpence please." I gave her the money.This had to be the most embarrassing moment in my life. She gave me the change, and took a hold of my hand, giving it a little squeeze. I was afraid to look her in the eye, but she woudn't let go so I looked up, and she was smiling at me. "Come back again, won't you," she said. I was out of there as quickly as I could, and turned to look up the street, hoping to see Jenny. She was there waiting. I was relieved, happy, nervous and excited all at once and it felt great.

Walking back toward home I was more relaxed with her. The mistake with the lady at the greengrocer had made me feel more adult, more able to talk with Jenny. I actually said 'breasts' to a woman and lived. What could be harder than that? Certainly not walking home with Jenny, who, I then noticed as I looked at the front of her school dress, didn't have much in the way of breasts. 'That doesn't matter,' I thought, 'What do I want with breasts anyway?' I asked her what the nuns were like at school. She didn't like them. She asked if the Brothers were always going on about mortal sins and things like that. "They never stop," I said. "It doesn't matter what subject we are doing, religion, history, maths, whatever, they will always find a moment to warn us about mortal sins and the dreaded occasion of sin." She asked me if I had ever committed a mortal sin. I said I wasn't sure, so I would tell the priest everything at confession just in case. She said that she did the same, but added, "There was this girl at school who was always boasting about being with boys, and kissing them and things like that, and when we told her it was a mortal sin, she said it wasn't, it was just being normal."

Then she asked me, "Have you ever kissed a girl Simon?"

"Just my Mum," I said and added, "but I don't think that counts."

Then she said, "You can kiss me if you like." All of a sudden my heart started pumping and my penis felt thick, my face went as red as the firm tomatoes in my shopping bag and I didn't know what to say.

"You're blushing" she said.

"I can't help it," I said. We were standing there looking at each other in the street, and suddenly she pressed her lips to mine. They were so soft and warm. We stared at each other for a moment, before I pressed my lips to hers.

"That's nice," she said and continued walking again. Then, as if nothing happened, she asked me what I wanted to do after I left school. I said I didn't know. I wasn't going to tell her I was thinking about being a Brother, not at this point anyway. This was the first opportunity I had to get close to her. I wasn't going to blow it all away by telling her that I was thinking of cutting myself off from girls altogether.

We returned to the laneway where I first saw her, and I wished there were more things that we could talk about, so that I could stay with her and maybe continue with the kissing, but I couldn't think of anything. Just then her friend Lynette called from across the street, and Jenny looked back at me and said, "I'll have to go now, see you later." And that was it. She walked toward Lynette, just like that, and I was left standing there like I was nothing any more. I thought, 'If that's what girls do, then I might as well go off and become a Brother. Why doesn't she ask me over to talk with her and Lynette? Why doesn't she ask me more about mortal sins and why can't we do some more kissing?. And what does she mean when she says , 'see you later'. What am I supposed to think now?'

I walked home. It had been a big day. There was a lot to absorb, so perhaps the confusion I was feeling would sort itself out. At home, I was about to blurt out all the day's happenings to my mother, when I saw Brother Trajan sitting in our lounge room. He was a friend of my mother's. He didn't teach me any classes, but he did toilet supervision, and also supervised us on sports days when Tiberius was otherwise occupied attending University lectures. Mark said he was a bit odd. I didn't know what a 'bit odd' was, but I knew that he liked to pat our bottoms when we came out of the shower on sport's days. My mother said he had come for dinner. 'Bugger! I can't tell her about the Great Trunk Road now, not with him here'. It would all have to wait, and we would all have to be on our best behaviour while Trajan sat at the dinner table with us.

*

Our behaviour for Trajan was exemplary. No fighting at the table or complaining about uneven servings. We all spoke properly, no 'ain'ts' or dropping off the g's when we said, 'going or giving or getting', but every time I spoke correctly Mark kicked me under the table, and I needed to hold myself back from a squealing protest. We all used our knife and fork properly, and ate with our mouths closed. What a pain, so unlike the Hickey boys at meal time. Then my mother, Elizabeth Margaret, dropped the bombshell. She said to Trajan,

"Simon is thinking about being a Aquinine Brother." I was mortified.

"Is that so," Trajan said. "And how long have you felt this way Simon?"

'Bloody hell,' I thought, 'what do I do now'? Here I sat feeling all gushy about Jenny Cashman, and how much I liked seeing blue underpants on ladies who fell over in buses, and suddenly I need to pretend to be holy.

"Not long Brother," I replied in the least convincing tone of voice I could manufacture.

"Oh yes you have," my mother chipped in. "You have been thinking about it for some time. Don't be fooled Brother, Simon's just being coy."

"Well," said Trajan, "That's very interesting. It's a rewarding life Simon, giving yourself to God's work. You should pray to God that he gives you guidance on the matter, and when the Brother Provincial comes to visit later this year we can arrange for him to have a chat with you."

"Yes Brother."

And so there it was. No longer a passing thought. No longer just an idea. The matter was officially on the table, and me now squarely in their sights, all thanks to my mother, Elizabeth Margaret's ambition for one more of her own to embrace the church and have the church embrace me. Suddenly it seemed my opinion on the matter was secondary. But as I quickly scanned the faces of my siblings around the table and noted what I interpreted as a faint tinge of jealousy, another thought surfaced. The idea that I would be the focus of attention, for whatever reason was itself appealing. Life could be annoyingly competitive in a house with seven siblings. One had to be inventive, or get eaten up and spat out. 'Perhaps the prospect of another Hickey vocation to God's service wasn't such a bad thing after all. Why not go along for the ride, at least for the moment. What harm was there in showing a little ecclesiastical ambition?'

What harm indeed!

9. An interview or two...

In year nine, the talk of vocations to join the Order of the Aquinines was commonplace. It was the same with the other teaching orders, the Christians, the Marists, and Salesians. It was not unusual for the odd subtle remarks to be dropped from time to time, reminding us of the noble nature of a vocational calling; sometimes in the most unlikely of places. Three weeks after having shown Trajan the hospitality of an evening meal, he decided to drop another bombshell on me.

"They could do with someone like you at the Juniorate, Hickey," he remarked in the dressing room in front of the whole team after I starred at football on sports day. He was not our coach but as Tiberius had other pressing matters to attend to at University, he took over for the day. "Their team never won a game last year," he added, walking the full length of the shower block closely monitoring those still under the shower. Meanwhile a dozen wet, naked bodies drying themselves around the room, progressively turned their eyes toward me. It annoyed me. He had no right to speak of confidential matters in what was clearly an open forum. I was relieved when Barry Kase inadvertently redirected everyone's attention.

"Hickey couldn't kick his way out of a brown paper bag Brother, he's a receiver. Where would he be if it wasn't for my bullet like passes to him?" He called out.

There was much cheering at this unsolicited assessment of my football prowess from the other naked aspirants. "Well, if I was not there to receive them, just how good would they be?" I asked. More jeers, more cheers and it seemed the intimidating reference to the Juniorate was foiled. Kase then flicked his towel toward my naked bottom. He missed, but it was his intent that mattered so I responded in kind. A free for all ensued, a most un-Catholic naked frolic of bums and genitalia but with all the innocence of young boys at play. For however long we cavorted up and down the dressing room in that state, we were utterly unaware of the gleaming eyes of Trajan, who in hindsight gave every indication of enjoying the orgy for what must have been a minute or two, until Richard Keely accidentally slipped and lay prostrate on the concrete floor. The frolic stopped suddenly and we gazed down upon Keely's full frontal naked state, wondering if he had broken anything when the good Brother stepped in, helping him off the floor and onto the bench seat. Sitting Keely up on the bench, his back against the wall, Trajan ran his hand up and down Keely's left leg while asking if he was injured. Keely said he wasn't and Trajan told him how fortunate he was as he continued with the massage of the upper leg. When it finally dawned on him that his actions were in full view of some twenty boys he stood up, rubbed his hand into Keely's head of hair, and judiciously decided that everyone's safety, not to mention Christian modesty, was under threat, and called for all the skylarking to cease.

Later as Kase, Keely and I walked toward Highfield Junction on our way home, Barry asked me what Trajan meant when he referred to the Juniorate. I told them, "My mother mentioned something when he ate dinner with us one night. He thinks I want to be a Brother. Just don't say anything about it. I don't know what I'm doing yet. I don't want the others to know in case nothing happens."

"Hmmm, interesting. But it'll be a pity if you do go." Barry said.

"Why?" I asked.

"Oh nothing," he answered coyly. "It's just that Megan, the girl you met at the St. Patricks Day march was asking about you."

"How do you know?"

"My sister Monica said so."

"Bugger," I said, "She was nice."

*

A week later, a special information session on the vocational life, was given by Decius which as always, took the place of our normal Religion period. More information was given out in subsequent classroom discussions. Official training we were told, took place at Aurelius College at Pangarra, in country Victoria, and part of the soft sell included lengthy descriptions of the facilities available, the wide open fields, the variety of sports available, football, tennis, hockey, swimming. There were challenging excursions to the nearby mountains, and weekends at the snowfields. It was all quite intoxicating. So much so, that when we were asked to indicate if we felt such a calling ourselves, I decided to throw caution to the wind, and submitted my name.

It was a well acknowledged way of getting out of the classroom for a half hour or so and it felt more important than the humdrum of history or geography. My intentions were duly noted and the interview process began. They wanted genuine applicants of course, not dreamers. They wanted to see if I was made of the right stuff. Did I pray often? Did I feel that God was calling me? Was I willing to devote my life to his will? I kept giving them positive answers because I knew it pleased my mother.

A few weeks later, as Trajan promised, the Brother Provincial arrived and there was another interview. The Brother Provincial was a rare visitor to our school. That made it more important and therefore made me feel more important.

Unless I had been camping out on the Russian Steppes for the past two years, it was impossible not to notice how proud my mother was, that Kathleen had entered the convent and become a nun, and Paul had entered the seminary to be a priest. It was a major topic of conversation for the rest of us at home and also with our relatives, and Catholic friends at our parish. I liked talking about them too. Being able to tell my friends about my sister and brother was fulfilling. The idea that I too, might be talked about in similar vein only served to consolidate my feelings.

As the end of year nine loomed, the interviews with the Brothers began to take on a greater sense of urgency. The Brother Provincial arrived on a special visit, and a second interview took place. He asked what it was, that attracted me to the Aquinine Brothers. I said I wasn't sure beyond a feeling inside that this was what I wanted. Then he asked me how I felt about leaving home and living in a boarding school with a lot of other boys. I said I thought that would be all right. It seems I gave the right answers because my parents agreed that I should answer the call while continuing my schooling, at the Aurelius College Juniorate, at Pangarra, 170 miles from Melbourne. It was decided that I could go there the following year. Not a cheap decision for them. I needed to be fitted out in a completely different uniform, extra sets of trousers, shirts, jumpers, even a dressing gown. They were making sacrifices for me, but in their hearts, they believed that this would be an important step in my future and more importantly, lead me on the right path toward eternal salvation. 'Alleluia'.

10. Don Harris

On the day I left home, in late January 1960, my mind went haywire. 'What on earth was I doing? Where was I going? What possessed me to go along with this?' I climbed out of bed and began to dress in my new school uniform which, despite its newness, looked so strange. It was grey instead of the navy blue I had worn for the past seven years. Everything was new, and it all felt very strange. Damien had left for work and I realised that I would not see him for a whole year. When I was ready, my mother told me to run up the street to a building site where Mark was working as an apprentice carpenter to say goodbye. I'd never said goodbye to any of my family before. 'What would I say? What would Mark say? Should I shake his hand? That's what Dad did when he said goodbye to Fr. Michael. How embarrassing would it be shaking my brother's hand!' All the way up to the top of the street, I thought about what I would say to Mark. When I arrived at the building site, Mark was on the roof of the new house, and at first didn't recognise me in my new uniform. When he did, he just smiled and said,

"Are you going now?"

"Yeah', I said.

"Okay, see ya, Watch out for the ones who don't play football."

Mark 's advice was always difficult to understand, but what ever he meant, I knew he meant well.

*

We arrived at the station, my parents, Bridget, the twins and me. There were a few men in black cassocks here and there, but boys in grey uniform were everywhere. The Brother Provincial was there, and he spoke to my parents. My mother was all smiles. She may have been saying goodbye to another child but its purpose seemed to overtake any sense of sadness. She was delivering yet another into God's safe keeping and for her the heaven's were open, the angels were singing 'Hosanna in excelcis' and all was well with the world. An announcement bellowed over the loud speaker to board the train. This was it. I kissed her goodbye, shook my father's hand, and waved off Bridget and the twins. That being the full extent of the emotional outburst, I climbed aboard, found myself an empty seat in one of the compartments where other boys in grey had settled, and waved goodbye as the train pulled out from the station.

The train journey from Spencer Street station to Pangarra had begun, and the whole carriage was full of young boys all dressed in school uniform. All those strange faces, and here I was, day one, a new chapter, a new adventure. I was leaving behind everything that I was familiar with, to try something that up till then, was no more than an idea, growing from within the comfortable surrounds of home and spurred on by my mother, with the no doubt delighted approval of the Aquinine Brothers and the Church.

All throughout my schoolboy life, I never once questioned this authority, this belief that above all else, what these people were telling me, was true. As a consequence there was in my mind a false sense of security; So long as I believed what I was told, and did all the things that were expected of me, I would be safe. I would not come to any harm, spiritually anyway, and thus I believed that in time, I would grow up a normal, healthy, ordinary person. But in the here and now, as I was making that very first break from home and family, I wasn't so sure.

The train journey began quietly, travelling north through Melbourne's urban sprawl and offering little by way of interesting landmarks for a fourteen year old. I turned my attention to the other boys in the carriage. The sooner I began to learn about these new faces with whom I was to spend at least the next twelve months, the better. We were mostly city boys with similar backgrounds and as we began to talk to each other, the conversation centred on what we might expect when we arrived at the college. Not all the boys were first year, and those who were returning for second and third years were able to tell us what we could expect when we arrived. The detail was helpful but I found myself looking out the window of the train more often as the journey continued. It was all farms now, we were out of the city. I realised that I would not see Jenny Cashman for a whole year and she didn't even know I was going away. Perhaps my mother would meet up with her mother at mass on Sunday, and pass on the news. I wondered what she would think. I wondered why she asked me to kiss her. I began to imagine kissing her now. Hardly an appropriate thought for someone about to enter the first stages of a lifetime of celibacy.

*

We were less than an hour into the trip, and somewhat settled down for the journey ahead when Don Harris, one of the boys returning for another year at Pangarra, took it upon himself to suggest that this would be a good time to begin saying the rosary. 'Bloody hell,' I thought, 'not in a train surely'. Don exuded an air of authority. He had a very serious look about him, something I found a little intimidating and at odds with his blond hair and short stature which suggested a more open and friendly nature. He recommended we keep our rosary beads out of sight and if any strangers opened the compartment door for any reason then we should stop saying the rosary and wait until they moved away. I had said many rosaries before, at home, at school, at church, at other people's homes, but never in a train, and never fingering my rosary beads in my pocket before.

' The guys back at Placidus won't believe this!' Don led us saying the Our Father, and the first half of the Hail Mary and we responded at the appropriate time, in low, rhythmical tones but I felt uncomfortable in this strange atmosphere and fingered clumsily trying to determine how many Hail Mary's remained to complete the decade. Bad enough there were ten to a decade, but not knowing how many were left was frustrating. As we prayed the rosary, the train stopped at Castlemaine, where a few passengers came on board including another boy dressed in the same uniform as ours. By the third decade our carriage door opened and two men entered with suitcases in hand. We immediately stopped saying the rosary and subdued ourselves as these two strangers settled in. There were two seats available, theirs for the taking. It was not as if we had a mortgage on the compartment. I just stared at them, wondering enviously where they were going. Eventually Don Harris, impatient to re-start the rosary, asked them their destination.

"Coolangatta," one of them replied. Don took a moment to let it sink in and then asked, "Is that before or after Pangarra?" Don's geography needed some work but I was not going to be the one to tell him. The man grinned and said, "A little bit further son." His friend laughed and said, "Yeah, about a thousand miles further."

Time passed and Harris was looking a bit on edge. Up until this rude interruption, he was clearly enjoying the supervising role entrusted to him, and these two intruders were making a shambles of it. It soon became apparent they were never going to leave the carriage, and we were never going to finish the rosary. That was a relief to me but also a timely reminder. If we were to be so forward as to attempt saying the rosary on a train where all sorts of interruptions could occur, what other more ambitious projects lay ahead? Twenty minutes passed, and Don's annoyance was camouflaged only by the open book he held up to his face. Another twenty and he finally gave in. He suggested that we could go to the snack bar carriage and buy something to eat. My mother, ever the one to think ahead, packed some ham and tomato sandwiches for me so all I wanted was a soft drink. The rest of the trip passed quietly. As the sun went down, there was less to see out the window and a sense of anticipation developed, as our journey was drawing to a close. Soon we would be there. 'What would it be like? What if I hated it? What if no one there liked me? What if? What if?'

We arrived at Pangarra station about nine in the evening.

"Here we are finally." Don Harris said, as we struggled to recover our luggage from the overhead rack. "Another year begins," he said with a sigh. The tone of resignation in his voice moved me to ask,

"You don't sound too happy, anything wrong?"

"Nope. I'm fine, just a little tired," he answered checking his luggage. But he wasn't. I didn't know it then of course, but Don Harris was hiding something; a secret, a horrible secret only spoken about behind closed doors, in huddled whispers, such was its evil nature.

We gathered our belongings and stepped out onto the platform, and the reality of my decision to come to Pangarra struck me as never before. Men in black cassocks were everywhere.

11. Pangarra....

"Hello boys, welcome back, welcome back. Carry your bags out off the platform to the waiting bus." The voice was deep but gentle, coming from an elderly, somewhat overweight white haired man called Brother Probus. He seemed so delighted to have all the boys back in his care. Other black cassocks climbed into the bus, greeted us politely and then began talking quietly with one or two older boys as the bus began its ten minute trip to the college. Probus however was beside himself. He was anxious to know the names of all the new boys and from where we had come. He walked down the bus greeting everyone in a similar fashion to my mother's daily greeting each day when I arrived home from school. Each time he saw a new face he said,

"And what's your name lad?"

"Simon Hickey, Brother." I replied.

"Oh, the boy Hickey, Yes, and where are you from?"

"Melbourne, Brother. Placidus College."

"Oh Placidus. Yes, we have other boys here from Placidus. Yes, oh good, you'll settle in nicely. Yes." It was difficult not to like him. He possessed an infectious disarming quality not at all consistent with the Brothers thus far experienced at Placidus.

When we arrived at the college, more boys were waiting for us, and predictably, more black cassocks. The boys who were returning to the Juniorate for a second year were more relaxed and greeted each other as long lost friends. I just stood there, watching, not knowing what else to do. Adapting to these new surroundings was not easy, particularly at night. The college was an imposing two story building with long external parapets similar to those at the convent where Kathleen was posted. In fact the whole building looked very similar to Kathleen's convent. Then I heard a familiar voice.

"Did you have a good trip Simon?"

I turned around to see the Brother Provincial behind me.

"Yes Brother," I said, relieved that someone recognised me and spoke to me.

"I suppose this all seems a little strange for you. But don't worry, you'll settle in quickly I'm sure."

"Yes Brother." I replied. What else do I say? I was hardly about to tell him that I was sick of it already and wanted to go home.

Then he walked off and stood on a dais and welcomed everyone with a short speech asking the older boys to make sure the new boys were looked after. Then it was time for a cup of hot chocolate and a sandwich before visiting the Blessed Sacrament, and finally to the dormitory. Our beds were already allocated. Our names were called and we stepped forward and were shown where we would sleep for the next ten months.

I spent a few minutes unpacking some of my clothes and placing them in a closet alongside the bed. I felt a little self conscious about taking my clothes off and getting into my pyjamas, surrounded by people I had never seen before. But as others began doing the same, I followed their lead. With toothbrush and paste in my hand, I followed the procession toward the bathroom. It was huge. I had never seen anything like it. Enough room for fifty boys to wash their faces, clean their teeth and all at the one time. Not enough room for all fifty to use the toilet though. Just one tiny toilet in one tiny little cubicle. I brushed my teeth, and then returned and jumped into bed. Not a clever move as it turned out. I looked down both sides of the dormitory and quickly noticed how many boys were on their knees saying their night prayers. 'Shit, how embarrassing.' I thought. 'Perhaps I should do the same. No, too late. They would only think that I was faking it. And they would be right. I'll start doing that tomorrow.' As I lay in my bed that night, looking up at an unfamiliar ceiling, I realised that home was now far, far away.

*

That first night and the next day at the college were very strange. So many rules. We were woken at six by Brother Antonius Pius, who walked the length of the dormitory performing a slow handclap. Automatically everyone who knew what to do fell out of bed onto their knees to say their morning prayers. It was going to take several days before I could mentally adjust to this new routine. I followed, and waited there on my knees, wondering what would happen next. Would we engage in vocal prayer or was it silent meditative prayer? Pius then mumbled something in Latin, and half the dormitory replied in Latin. Then silence. I waited for someone to make a move. A few minutes passed and finally, the one they called 'Muscles', who's real name was Graham, stood up. They called him 'Muscles' because he looked like a character from a fitness advertisement on television. His morning prayer obviously finished, 'Muscles' grabbed a towel from his closet, and took a walk. That looked good. I did the same. What ever he was going to do, it looked right. He walked to the bathroom. I followed.

Ablutions completed, I returned to my bed. 'Muscles' was getting dressed. I did the same. Bad move. Not butt naked. There was a procedure to follow and that was not it. Blissfully unaware of my folly I sat down on the bed and asked the boy alongside what we did now.

"Don't talk," he whispered.

"Why not?" I whispered back.

"We're not supposed to talk yet," he said

"Right," I replied, as if I already knew but just forgot.

"You should use your closet to help cover yourself when you get dressed," he added.

Antonius Pius strode down the aisle towards us with a condescending look that reminded me of every man in black I had known at Placidus. I looked as innocent as I could as he gently leaned over the bed and said, "We observe great silence at this time. You may proceed to the chapel through the double doors for Morning prayer now if you wish, but please remain silent. Don't talk to anyone."

"Yes Brother," I said and made for the double doors.

The chapel was adjacent to the dormitory. It was four times the size of the chapel at Placidus and I suspect it was used more often. I quickly deduced that I was going to spend a lot of time here, whether I liked it or not. Morning prayer began with the singing of the 'Salve Regina' and lasted about half an hour. After that we were released and asked to return to the dormitory, make our beds and then return again to the chapel for morning mass. This was going to be the early morning routine for the next ten months?

After mass, we headed for the refectory where breakfast was served. It was a huge room full of tables and chairs, windows on three sides, and double doors leading off to the kitchen from where the aroma of the early morning cooking wafted its way across the room. I was directed to sit at a nominated table. Each table had its leader. I walked to the nominated table and sat down. Another bad move. The leader of my table was a former Placidus student, Peter Newman. I vaguely remembered him as being someone in Damien's class, but the memory was hazy.

"We stand until grace is said, Simon," came Peter's paternal word. I stood up.

Pius stood at the front of the refectory and said grace. Finally we began to eat. Breakfast was cereal, toast and a hot plate of eggs and mashed potato. 'Mashed potato', I thought. 'Who has mashed potato for breakfast?' Breakfast at home was cereal, toast and the occasional bacon and eggs. Never mashed potato. The refectory was terribly noisy during breakfast. The sounds of all the boys talking, bounced off the brick walls, and we all had to raise our voices to be heard. The only boy I could speak to without shouting, was Len Keating. He was from Castlemaine. It was deafening and annoying. A big room full of boys shouting at each other was not a good way to start the day. There was not one girl in sight, and I thought of Jenny Cashman who was probably sitting in her kitchen with her mother, eating cereal and toast and I bet no one would be shouting at her. She would probably be wearing a brightly coloured dress with short sleeves and looking really nice. 'God,' I thought, 'She doesn't even know I'm here.'

12. Severus

After breakfast we gathered around outside the refectory. It was a time to loosen up, get into some lazy chat about where we were from, try and remember a few names, make some sort of connection that would help us settle and feel more at home. The Brothers were keen for the new boys to settle. About twenty of us were brand new recruits. The Brothers were very cordial, often asking if we needed any help. It was still about three days before the school year was to begin, and in two days time the boarders would arrive. It was January, and it was already hot.

Thirty minutes later, the bell rang. I looked to see what 'Muscles' would do. He began walking toward one of the classrooms and others followed. So did I. We assembled in the grade six classroom. Outside, across the way, I could see Probus in the vegetable garden. He looked as if he owned it. His black cassock was folded up and pinned at his waist and I could see that he wore long trousers. It was the first time I saw what a Brother wore under his black cassock. A revelation already, and it was only day one.

Soon the ever reliable Pius walked into the room. Everyone stood up, he said to sit down, everybody did, and then he sat at the teachers desk.

"Boys," he said, "To all of you who have returned, I want to welcome you back. To those who have joined us for the first time, welcome to our Juniorate. We want you to feel that Aurelius is your home. There will be many things you will need to learn over the next few days before the school year starts, and if you are in any doubt, just ask any of the Brothers or any of the senior boys." From there Pius explained how our days would be spent, what we were to wear at different times, when we could speak, when we could not, how we were to behave during great silence, how we were to maintain appropriate degrees of modesty in dressing and undressing. He outlined the program for the school term about to start, and a host of other things that became too numerous to absorb. I decided that I would just have to play it, as it happened.

That afternoon, finally some blessed relief from the heat. Brother Severus invited us to go swimming. The school grounds were an open plain containing several football fields. I knew that because goalposts were strategically placed here and there. I knew there was some system and order about. Beyond the fields there was the college farm consisting of a few cows, a milking shed and not much else. Beyond the farm, the Silver River. It was a fifteen minute walk through bush scrub. Here I felt a certain camaraderie with my new friends. This was more relaxed, more normal.

"Watch out for snakes boys," Severus called out from the back of the line.

"Watch out for Severus," I heard someone whisper from behind.

We had already changed into our swimming costumes before heading off to the river. When we reached the sandy bank it was off with our shirts and straight in the water. Twenty of us jumping, diving, splashing. We temporarily reversed the northern flow of the river. Severus did not join us. He sat on a log, atop the river bank and read his book.

After just two days at the college, I could see that there was something odd about Severus. He was everything I imagined of the evil Cassius from Shakespeares' Julius Caesar. The long nose, a thin face, short hair combed toward the front to disguise the onset of baldness. He had that lean and hungry look. But hungry for what, I wasn't sure. He sat on a log appearing to read but every time I looked up at him, he was looking at all of us swimming. Sometimes he looked straight at me and I quickly turned away.

We swam and frolicked in the water. Some of the boys held their own Olympic games, racing each other from one bank across to the other and back again, pretending they were the new undiscovered Murray Rose. Others investigated some of the snags and fallen tree trunks scattered both upstream and downstream. One or two of the more adventurous navigated the eroded cliffs on the far bank, climbing onto the branch of a tree over-hanging the water and dive-bombing the rest of us. It was a good afternoon. When it was time to return to the college, Severus blew his whistle and we left the water and began to change. I removed my trunks and began to dry myself. Bad move.

"That boy, what's your name?" I turned to see Severus staring right at me.

Hickey Brother, Simon Hickey."

"Cover yourself with your towel Simon Hickey. We do not expose ourselves to the dangers of the flesh."

"Yes Brother."

"What's he frightened of?" I heard Len Keating giggle.

Peter Newman came over to me when he was dressed.

"It has to be done with a towel firmly wrapped around us, and always facing away from everyone else. No talking while we are getting dressed, and no peeking," he said quietly and added, "We are always under the watchful eye of a supervising Brother or 'senior' junior."

"Okay!" I said. "Sorry if I have offended anyone." Upon which Len Keating cracked up with a muffled laugh. "I think you offended the snakes," he said. "They must have all bolted."

13. The way it was done....

By the third week of school, I had developed a sound appreciation of the routine. Our day began at 6.00 AM with the slow handclap followed by morning prayers said kneeling at our bed. That was followed by more morning prayers in the chapel at 6.30 AM sharp, and Pius would start things off by singing 'Salve Regina'. If Pius wasn't there to start us off, any one of a half dozen men in black would take his place. There was Hadrian, who took us for Science, Florianus who spoke with a cultured English accent and not surprisingly was our French teacher. Even Probus lent a hand in the morning if he wasn't in the vegetable garden. There was Commodus the maths wizard, and the sinister looking Severus, who, when he wasn't sitting on a log at the river bank, or in the chapel, or the classroom, could be seen wandering about the school grounds in a state of intense meditation. After morning prayer it was back into the dormitory to make our beds and clean up our lockers. Mass would begin at 7.00 provided the priest arrived on time from the town. When he was late, we just waited until he did arrive. Finally, we had breakfast around 7.45, and after that, the real day began.

It began with another morning prayer, was interrupted several times throughout the day with prayers of some description, and finished with a final prayer. It didn't matter what the subject of the moment was, there was always time for a prayer. At midday each day, the bell sounded and we all stood and said the Angelus at our desks. On the weekends, we went into the chapel to say it there. If we were away from the college, we were expected to say it quietly wherever we were, at the time. Throughout the day we were often encouraged to 'utter a short ejaculation', 'Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I place my trust in thee.' A few weeks later, I learnt courtesy of Len Keating, that this odd sounding word harboured another meaning far, far removed from that most noble definition to which we were introduced.

Our normal schooling was the same as at Placidus, and enrolments included day students from the area and a large number of boarders from the outlying country towns. These boys were mostly farmers sons and their routine did not include all that we were doing. Apart from those matters that set the juniors apart, the general curriculum, and style of teaching was the same for everyone. It was the common standard set by the Aquinine Brothers for all their schools. At the end of the school day, the day students would go home, and the juniors and the boarders would either play sport or attend work detail, depending on the day of the week.

Sport I loved, work I didn't. I was given the job of cleaning the concrete floor that led from the kitchen past the refrigerator rooms to the back door. It was the busiest part of the building and no sooner was the floor clean than it was dirty again. The cook was a man named Sam. He was Dutch or German or something like that, and he took delight in saying to me, "floor dirty now, you wash, yes." It wasn't a request. I cleaned it as best I could, but then he would walk to the refrigerator in his big boots, caked in scraps and drips from the kitchen, leaving marks along the way. Then he turned to me, pointed to the floor and said, "floor dirty now, you wash, yes."

After our evening meal the bell sounded at 7.00PM. We then settled back into the classroom for two hours homework, ending the day with a short religious instruction before we climbed into bed at 10.00PM. The evening religious instruction was only for the juniors, not the boarders, and was a reminder that we were here for other reasons. Life was well regimented and well disciplined. Discipline was an important word. It meant order, obedience, submission.

We did our own washing and ironing. I quickly realised that if I wore the same shirt two or three days running, I could cut down on a lot of washing. I became good friends with Len Keating from Castlemaine. He was a dairy farmer's son. We seemed to hit it off, and he kept saying to me that I should come and stay at his farm for a week during the summer holidays. As the weeks turned into months, I felt I didn't need 'Muscles' to guide me any more. He never knew he was my guiding star anyway.

14. Trying to be normal.....

Confessions were held at least once a week, usually on Saturday morning. Confession became quite monotonous after a while. Living as we were, with all the devotional apparatus on hand, it wasn't all that easy to commit a sin, yet from very early in the piece it became apparent that some boys went more often.

One morning, while we were in the chapel waiting for mass to start, the priest was preparing himself. Suddenly, Don Harris rose up from his seat and walked to the sacristy. The priest bade the altar boys to leave and Harris went into the sacristy and the priest closed the door. It took me a while to work out that Harris was going to confession. "How odd," I thought. "After all, we normally went on Saturday. What he could have done that made him want to go again?"

"What's Harris up to?" I said to Len Keating who was sitting next to me.

"He wanks himself at night." Keating said.

"He what?"

"He wanks himself."

"What's that?"

"Jeez how simple are you? You don't know?"

"No."

"Don't worry about it, I'll tell you later."

After mass, as Len and I walked toward the refectory for breakfast, I learnt about wanking.

"He goes off to the toilet, drops his pants and masturbates."

"What's that?" I said.

'You don't know?"

"No."

"He plays with his dick so it will get hard and then rubs it until the creamy stuff comes out." I was shocked. That was a mortal sin. How could he do that?

"How do you know he does this?" I asked, now more curious than ever.

"I walked into the toilet the day before yesterday and saw Severus in there with him telling him off."

"Severus was there in the toilet with him?"

"Yeah, but Harris is not the only wanker. Most do it in bed at night. You haven't gone through puberty yet, but you will soon. Then watch out. Haven't you heard anyone groaning at night after lights go out?"

I couldn't remember hearing groans at night. My penis did get hard sometimes and it felt nice and I wanted to touch it but I knew that would be a sin. So I simply waited until it went soft again and I fell asleep.

"What's puberty?" I asked Len, who seemed to be an expert on the subject. As I did, Brother Severus walked past on his way to the Brother's dining room, and glared at Len.

"Shit, did he hear what we were talking about?" Len asked.

"Don't know," I replied. "What's puberty?"

"Jeez have you got a lot to learn. Let's leave it at that for now, I'm hungry" he replied.

As the weeks rolled on, this practice of asking to go to confession before morning mass became a regular event with a number of other boys. It would only take one brave soul to start the ball rolling and before too long a queue gathered at the altar rails. I wondered, 'What's going on here? We go to confession on Saturday, this is only Tuesday, what on earth are these boys up to that they need to go again after just three days? Surely they are not all wanking themselves. Nobody can sin so often that they need to go to confession after just three days.'

Pius tired of it too. This constant procession each morning was holding up mass and breakfast. Pius decided enough was enough. One evening during our talk after evening homework, just before going to bed he raised the matter.

"Boys, about the matter of going to confession before daily mass. Could I ask that in the interests of all of us waiting to hear mass, and have breakfast, that unless it is really necessary, might you refrain from doing so. Should you feel it a necessity, then that's another matter. But I would ask you to consider the interests of the rest of the group and, of course, the time given us by the priests from the town."

That fixed it, nobody was going to go after that. From that point on, anyone who wanted to go to confession might as well have stood up in front of everyone in the chapel and cried out, 'I'm a wanker and I have to confess.' Nobody was going to do that, not if it meant telling everyone they were groaning the night before.

15. Dressing...Undressing...Showering....

Each bed in our dormitory included its own locker alongside, where we stored our clothes and toiletries. The prospect of fifty boys undressing for bed in front of each other, then dressing again the next morning was, I guess, too much for the Brothers to handle. They had devised a set of rules to minimise any possible temptation we might have to "take a peek" at someone else undressing. One essential item included in our clothing array was a full length dressing gown and, at all times while dressing or undressing in the dormitory, we were to wear that dressing gown. The purpose being to cover our rear, while we were facing the dressing locker. The door of the locker would be opened, thereby creating a mini cubicle for ourselves. 'Fucking brilliant!'

But it wasn't enough. To further eliminate any opportunity of seeing something that might cause an 'occasion of sin', we were required to observe a state of 'great silence'. In its simplest form, and in the context applicable to the surrounds of Juniorate life, silence simply meant not speaking to anyone. 'Great silence', took us a step further, and meant not even making eye contact. Thus when disrobing, there was body coverage that would do justice to any Jane Austen novel. Strike one! There was 'Great Silence', to avoid engaging in wayward conversation that would only lead to goodness knows where. Strike two! And to overcome the possibility of our curious little minds causing our eyes to wander, we were to keep them fixed firmly within our makeshift cubicle. Strike three! And just in case someone thought of something that men in black cassocks overlooked, there was always one of them roaming around the dormitory, checking to see if everything was being done correctly. What possible chance therefore, was there to fall into sin?

If the dormitory was a logistical problem for the Brothers, the shower room was a nightmare. The paranoia displayed, to protect our wandering eyes, to ensure that nobody saw anything that could compromise modesty and purity of thought, was worthy of a military classification. We queued outside the shower rooms and filed in, eight at a time, to individual dressing cubicles complete with curtain covering the front. Undressed, we covered ourselves with a towel and waited for the signal to emerge. When the order was issued we walked in single file to the nearby single shower cubicles that were covered with a shower curtain at the front.

The showers were already running at this stage and the trick was to slip behind the curtain before removing our towel, yet keep the towel dry. Three minutes of shower time over, the exercise was further complicated trying to wrap a dry towel around our naked wet bodies when ordered to come out, without exposing either buttock or penis, then return single file, back to the dressing cubicle, to dry ourselves and get dressed. While we showered however, the next wave were ushered into the same cubicle where we undressed, and as we emerged from the shower, they were making the single file journey toward us. To avoid an obvious collision here the traffic was all one way. Once we completed the journey back to the dressing cubicle, one that required walking another half circuit of the whole shower room, we were greeted by another set of clothes either hanging or neatly arranged but separate from our own. It was therefore very important to make sure that we dressed in the same clothes that we wore when we first entered.

It was a similar story when swimming in the Silver river. It was an isolated part of the river, and we never came across any other people swimming there. But the same attention to modesty prevailed. It didn't matter that it was isolated. We were not being protected from the preying eyes of local strangers. We were being protected from ourselves.

As I paraded through this weekly ritual, I recalled the parallel circumstances back home, playing football for Placidus. By way of comparison, shower time after the game there, was a den of decadence. Bums and genitalia were freely on display for all to see and compare. Not to mention that ugly little penis, flopping around everywhere. But it was something no one seemed to notice, or pay much attention to, except Trajan. He liked to walk around the shower rooms and pat our tender little bottoms as we dried ourselves, but we regarded our actions as quite normal. The Brothers, however, were entrusted to teach us the way to live the Catholic faith. We were to uphold the highest standards of morality, in a way that would ensure the long tradition continued. Yeah right!

16. Classic garbage.....

It must have been a great relief to Pius and his staff having to manage showers just once a week. It is doubtful they could have handled the associated stress of a daily parade of male nudity in steamy hot cubicles. Having progressively more odorous bodies gathered in class and at meal times, was the preferred option to the ever present potential of the dreaded 'occasion of sin'. Nor did it seem to bother them releasing us, smelling like stale vegetables, to the broader community.

One morning shortly after classes began, we were told that we would be attending a concert being given by the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra that afternoon. How exciting! We would escape a few classes for the day. Listening to an Orchestra playing classical music clearly was better than enduring maths or french.

After lunch, three buses drove into the school grounds, and we were instructed to climb aboard. Only the three senior classes though. They weren't going to waste quality time on the lower grades. Michael Stewart in year twelve commented that he attended an orchestral performance once and enjoyed it. Len Keating said his father played classical music to the cows each morning. It settled them he said, to the point where they gave a better quality milk. At home my father treasured his Mantovani LP's, playing Swan Lake and the Nutcracker Suite and as much as I liked those records, that did not prepare me for what was to follow. When we arrived at the Town Hall there were students everywhere, from practically every other school in Pangarra. It was my first live orchestral performance and as we were escorted to our seats, each school allocated its own block, an air of excited anticipation spread through the crowd.

Once everyone was settled, the lights dimmed and the conductor strode across the stage where the musicians were already tuning up. He stepped onto the podium, thence turning to face the musicians now silent, and a hush descended upon the audience as he acknowledged the people in the hall. As he raised his baton I took a deep breath sensing that something extraordinary was about to happen. The music began. Although I didn't know it then, they were playing the Die Moldau from Smetana's classical orchestral work Ma' Vlast, and I thought it was the most beautiful music I had ever heard. It sent me off into a fantasy world of my own where I dreamed of being far away, running along a river bank to save a maiden in distress. I delighted at the multitude of instruments, and the co-ordination that brought them together, and the beautiful sound they produced. At its conclusion, I applauded with vigour but when the applause subsided, there came a muffled cry from a student behind me,

"Shit, who stinks around here?"

It prompted localised laughter and jeering from behind us and disturbed the ambience.

"It's those college boarders," came a voice from behind, "they hardly ever wash."

I suddenly felt very self-conscious and put my arm up to my nose as if to reassure myself they could not be referring to me.

"Keep quiet down there," came a girl's voice from further back.

I could not tell if they were right, but it occurred to me that there were times in class when offensive effluva did waft its way across the room.

"Shush," echoed from several directions.

The conductor raised his baton once more and my thoughts returned to the music. This time they played Tchaikovsky's Cappricio Italien. It was so beautiful, so romantic, it overtook both my rapture for Smetana and my apprehension that I was part of a mobile garbage unit. During a break in the music, the conductor took time to introduce the wide variety of instruments used. He highlighted the violin, french horn, trumpet, cello, drums and with each, a demonstration of their unique qualities. Our less than discreet detractors, however, continued their guerilla insults.

"Do you fellas sleep on top of manure bags?" from behind left.

"More like rotten cabbage stacks," from behind right.

"KEEP QUIET," came a very angry voice from adjacent left. It was a lady teacher who took it upon herself to admonish the boys behind us.

"If you boys can't behave yourselves properly then leave," she added, standing up and turning on them. Such was the outburst, it caused the conductor to pause. A deadly quiet settled. Not a word whispered. The conductor waited a moment, then satisfied all was back to normal, resumed his role leading his entourage in Bach's 'Jesu joy of man's desire'. Both Commodus and Florian were with us that day, but neither showed a willingness to take on the High school students. The lady who did, taught at the local convent.

That particular music became permanently etched in my consciousness from that day on, along with several other pieces. So too, the realisation that one shower each week was hardly satisfactory. While for me, that afternoon marked the beginning of a long love affair with classical music, it also marked the turning point in both the nature and frequency of our ablutions. Whatever Commodus and Florian reported back to Pius, there was a notable change in policy. Showers became more frequent, a new soap provided to us contained a light perfume, and a hair shampoo was made available.

17. Retreat....

I treasured that excursion to the orchestral concert. It was a watershed in Juniorate life and a huge lift in morale for the remainder of first term. When the holidays came, the boarders packed their bags and journeyed home, but no such joy for the juniors. Over the next two weeks we engaged in a variety of activities that ranged from a trip to the mountains to playing sport. Pius ensured our new shower routine continued however, and also decided it was time for a retreat.

Four days of 'great silence'. Everyday, the same priest came from the town to deliver a sermon on the evils of the world. He was also on hand to hear confessions each day. It became a somewhat automatic process. See priest in box, go and confess.

While waiting in the chapel, Len Keating said to me, "Do you know what to say when you have no sins to tell?"

"What?" I asked.

"You say...Bless me Father for I have no sins to tell."

I could always count on Len for a chuckle.

At the time I hadn't given much thought to what I was going to say to the priest and there wasn't anything particular on my mind so I decided to give it a try. I walked into the confessional, knelt down and made the sign of the cross.

"Go ahead now," came the voice from behind the curtain.

So I started, "Bless me father for I have sinned, but I have no sins to tell." I let it out without thinking.

"Then what are you doing here?" he enquired.

"Er, I don't know father."

"Well," he continued, "have you been speaking out of turn in class?"

"Yes father."

"Have you been late for the angelus in the chapel?"

"Yes father."

"Have you failed to observe great silence?"

"Yes father."

"Have you engaged in acts of impurity, either thought word or deed?"

"No father."

"Right, well, we'll just add the sin of pride to that, for thinking you were without sin, and for your penance you can say three Hail Mary's, one Glory Be. Now make a good act of contrition!"

"Did you notice anything unusual in there?" Len asked after I had finished with penance.

"Yes I did," I replied. "That priest smelt like a toilet."

"Worse than that," Len said. "He smelt like one of Dad's cows crapping in the milk shed."

I liked Len Keating, he was easy to be around, but that little episode in confession warned me off listening to any of his bright ideas in the future.

As we walked out of the chapel I noticed something else. The Infirmary door was half open and I heard voices. Turning my head I saw Brother Severus, talking with someone hidden behind the partly open door. He appeared to be annoyed about something. Not until a few moments later, when I looked back, did I see Don Harris walk out of the infirmary looking somewhat distraught. Severus followed but headed in the opposite direction.

18. Enter Ginger And Fred....

The information sheet pinned to the notice board read as follows:

'It has been decided that all students in years Ten, Eleven and Twelve will participate in dancing classes this year, including Juniors. No exceptions. Check below for class times.'

I stood there reading the notice alongside Len Keating and Michael Stewart. Michael thought it was great. Len was keen. I did not know what to think. Dancing classes?

"What are we learning to dance for?" I asked.

"It's not for us," Michael answered, "It's for the boarders, but if they don't include us, then Pius has to run another class to occupy the juniors. It didn't work last year so he has decided to throw us in with the boarders."

"What is it for?"

"The end of second term social with the convent girls. They do it every year."

"So we learn to dance but we don't go to the social?"

"Yep, that's it." Michael replied.

The best thing, I decided about dance classes, was that it took the place of science class one day each week. Learning to dance was worth the effort, even if all it did, was get me out of science class.

In the first week of second term, on the first Tuesday, we filed into the science room, somewhat bemused and not at all in the mood to take this too seriously. I never liked this room. It smelt of sulphur. It was full of bottles of all shapes and sizes, containing bright coloured chemicals that sent off repulsive smells when heated. But at least this time we weren't here for science. Our dance teacher was a man with a very dainty walk. He reminded me of Kathleen once when she was demonstrating how to cross a room with a book on top of her head. He spoke to us with a high pitch voice and wore very colourful clothes. He walked around the room when he spoke to us. All the desks and science equipment had been moved to one side. We were lined up around the wall. As he walked, he held his left forearm out to the side as if he were about to pick up something off the desk, but he never did.

"Good afternoon boys my name is Andrew but you will call me Sir. Everyone clear on that?"

Nodding of heads all around accompanied by a few muffled murmurs.

Len Keating murmured, "Madam might be closer to the point." Sir didn't hear him.

"Today we will begin by learning a very simple and very popular dance that will always keep you in good stead on the dance floor. It is the Waltz. Firstly I want you to listen to the music and watch as I move around the floor."

Sir then turned on the record player and as the music began so did he.

"One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three." And on he went, gliding gracefully around the floor, engrossed in the gentle sway of the music, always explaining the movement of the feet. He then stopped the music and asked if anyone knew how to dance the waltz. One of the boarders raised his hand. 'Idiot!'

"Excellent, lets do it together." Sir said. The boarder was mortified.

"Don't turn your back on him," Len murmured as the boarder walked out. I didn't know what Len was talking about, and again, Sir heard nothing over the laughs and chuckles of a slightly embarrassed group of boys, who were about to see two males dance together. The music came on again, and Sir took the boarder's hand.

"You lead," he said

And off they went around and around. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. We laughed and giggled but not so much at them, as with them. I liked it. I thought it was very graceful and I thought how nice it would be, to be able to dance the waltz. Then came the hard part.

The music stopped, and Sir broke the news.

"Right, now it's your turn. Take the hand of the person along side you, decide who will take the male roll and let us begin." 'You must be joking', I thought to myself.

But he wasn't. At that point, thirty or so very embarrassed students slowly and reluctantly adopted a variety of dance positions that resembled something more like a cattle muster than a dance floor. The music began and the shambles followed. I was standing alongside Michael Stewart. He looked at me and said,

"It's all right, I know how to do this. You take the man's part and I'll teach you."

And with that we began to move, one two three, one two three, one two three. As we circled around the floor we couldn't help but notice a lot of body crunching. Few were clear on the correct moves, and the inevitable collisions came thick and fast. But nobody seemed to mind, they were enjoying the fun. Sir looked to be enjoying himself too. We practiced the waltz for the rest of the period. It was a well timed release from the pressures of our normal class routine. Sir finally called us to order, thanked us for our attention and enthusiasm and said next week we would learn the 'Pride of Erin'. When we moved out to return to our classes, it was a peculiar sight to watch the complete loss of inhibitions as student after student waltzed his way back to his classroom. And each week thereafter, we looked forward to the next lesson. We learnt the Pride of Erin, the Evening three step, the Modern waltz, and many more.

'Sir' said that Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire had little to worry about.

19.The Piano.....

We called the room adjacent to the Science Laboratory a store room, but the only thing stored in that room was a piano. It was a rather dilapidated unpolished piece of furniture suffering the ravages of both time and much rough handling over the years. It's timber frame was both chipped and permanently stained with coffee circles on the top. It was available for anyone to play during our free time and would-be Liberaces were plentiful. There were many pretenders whose repertoire was limited to chopsticks or heart and soul, but few who played as well as my sister Kathleen. One Saturday afternoon, I was walking with Len Keating along the outside parapet near the science room wondering what boring movie Pius was planning for the evening's entertainment, when I heard someone playing. I recognised the music immediately, 'Fur Elise' by Beethoven, one of my favourites so often played by Kathleen. Michael Stewart was playing and his gentle style resonated within me such that I deserted Len, and sat silently listening to Michael as I did at home with Kathleen. When he had finished, I asked how long he had been learning. He said he was never taught formally and had more or less just picked it up over the years. His answer surprised me. Kathleen had been learning for years. How could someone simply 'pick it up'? How could someone discover the secret of 'Fur Elise' without the benefit of a tutor? Inspired by his response I asked him if he could teach me how to play 'Fur Elise'.

"Are you familiar with the melody?' he asked.

"Yes."

"Then sit up here and watch me."

I sat up beside him and he began to play slowly pointing out the notes with his right hand.

"Now you have a go," he said.

So I did. And that was how it began; a rather shaky and very tentative attempt to be something I was not, but, as my hands pressed softly against the yellow ivory keys, enthusism quickly overtook any sense of inadequacy.

Over the next few weeks it was almost impossible for anyone else to get near that piano. It had mesmerised me to a point where nothing else mattered. Nearly every free moment, I raced down to the end of the east wing to practice 'Fur Elise'. Once I had mastered the melody with the right hand, Michael showed me how to harmonise simply with the left. I'm not sure if it was quality playing but either way, I was l learning to play the piano. I suspect, however, in those very early days, it did irritate some of the other students who after taking the time to listen to me would occasionally stick their head in the door and say,

"Can't you play anything else?"

Keen to broaden my repertoire, I asked Michael if he could teach me to play something else and he replied that it was up to me now. He said all I needed to do was to choose any song that I knew and liked, listen to the melody in my head, and using my right hand, find the notes on the keyboard. Then, use the left hand to harmonise one or two octaves below.

"Oh yes," he added, "there are three other things you must do."

"What are they?" I asked.

"First you must practice and then practice some more, and when you've done that, practice even more."

From that time on, the piano became a major form of recreation for me. Although it would sound pretty monotonous I knew that if I persisted and learned as many songs as I could, eventually I would get better and better, even though I couldn't read a note of music. My head was my music sheet. I could hear the notes inside and as I gained more confidence, I began to improvise. I would let my fingers play for me. I would allow whatever came into my head to find its way down into my fingers. As the weeks passed, students began to poke their heads in the door and say,

"That's nice, what's it called?" 'What a compliment,' I thought. 'I have taken a major step forward.'

"I don't know, I just made it up." I replied.

They just looked at me with a disbelieving smirk, and said, "Yeah, right."

I began to see Michael Stewart as something of a mentor. He had taught me to waltz and was now teaching me to play the piano. He was also awakening my mind to other more worldly ideas; politics, philosophy, matters beyond religion.

20. The Dark side....

Our dormitory was on the second story of the building's east wing. It housed some fifty beds, a gigantic washroom with enough basins to accommodate a football team, and a row of lockers to store some of our toiletries. With such a large area set aside for ablutions it was perplexing to note that there was just one toilet. One toilet, fifty boys and one rule. We were only allowed to use this particular toilet if we needed to go at night. In the mornings once out of bed, dressed or not, we were to go downstairs. Well, rules are rules, but boys will be boys, and sometimes because I was running late for morning prayers, I didn't bother going downstairs. I preferred to wait until everyone left the dormitory for the chapel, and then made a quick trip to the washroom toilet. No ill intended, not a major indiscretion one might say, all easily explained to a sympathetic ear. Right? Wrong!

There was a secondary reason beyond the inevitable queue that would develop should open use of that toilet be allowed. It was discipline. Obedience. One had to learn obedience if one was to join an order of Brothers, one had to submit to the will of the Lord. I had not quite learnt that part of the contract yet. Using the dormitory toilet was for me a matter of convenience. It was efficient. Less running up and down stairs. The shortest distance between two points. Less time wasting. All very sensible I thought. But, with such an outward display of insubordinate arrogance for someone so young, I suppose it was inevitable that one morning I would be caught in the act. Had I realised the subsequent ramifications of that arrogance I would never have gone near that toilet....ever.

"What are you doing up here at this time Simon?" came the voice. I knew immediately who it was. _'Why him? Why Severus?'_ I thought _. 'Why not Probus, gentle easy-going Probus, funny, fat Probus, who would forever be inviting students to tour his vegetable garden. Or Commodus, the serious one, always carrying his leather briefcase full of papers to correct, who would probably be wondering if I had done my math homework last night. No, it had to be bloody Severus, with the piercing eyes, looking down on me, ready to swoop the moment he detected any minor indiscretion.'_

"I had to go Brother."

"You know you are supposed to go downstairs at this time."

"Yes Brother."

"Simon, you are weak."

It was as blunt as anything ever said to me and it hurt. It was not as if I had broken a window or stood on somebody's clean washing. I just wanted to go to the toilet.

"You'd better come and see me at four this afternoon and we'll have a talk."

"Yes Brother."

That took care of the rest of my day. My impending visit to Severus occupied my mind from that moment on. Breakfast tasted awful. So did Lunch, and it seemed everywhere I walked that day, everyone was staring at me, as if they knew I used the upstairs toilet after the 6 am slow handclap.

At four o clock, I knocked on the classroom door and Severus called me in. He acted somewhat more kindly than earlier that morning, and without any note of harshness began talking about my general behaviour, remarking on my late attendances.

"Is there anything that is bothering you at the moment Simon?"

"No Brother."

"Are you getting along all right with the other boys?"

"Yes Brother."

He hesitated for a moment and then asked, "Do you know what puberty is?"

"No Brother."

The next part of the discussion didn't even register in my brain until he asked if I was experiencing a thickening of my penis.

"Yes Brother."

"How often?"

"All the time Brother."

Then he asked me if I was experiencing a warm sensation of pleasure while I was sleeping and noticing a dampness on my pyjamas.

"All the time Brother."

He told me that this was known as an 'emission'. He said it was quite normal and said a whole lot of things about God's plan for procreation and his goodness to us, but was also quick to remind me that purity of thought and mind was the best way we could thank God for his goodness and that it was very wrong to take deliberate pleasure in these moments. That, he said, would be a mortal sin. All sins of impurity, he told me, were a mortal sin. When I felt like having an impure thought, he said, I should say a short ejaculation.

"Yes Brother."

He suggested some ointment or cream might help and that he would come by my bed to give it to me. Later that night, after we had gone to sleep, I woke up to find him at my bed. He said that he was going to put some ointment on me and as he pulled back the sheets, told me to undo my pyjama cord. I did as he said, and he then put the ointment on his fingers and began to rub it around my penis where the pubic hairs were growing. I began to get excited, but I knew that if I took pleasure in what was happening I would be committing a mortal sin, so I forced all thoughts of pleasure out of my head and tried to think of something holy, like Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the holy family and all the saints. My penis hardened and Severus kept rubbing. I told myself that what he was doing was acceptable, because he knew better than I did about all these things. After a short time he stopped with the rubbing and told me that would help me. But I never understood in what way it was supposed to help me. I was glad when he finished because I didn't have to keep thinking holy thoughts any more, and I could go back to sleep.

The next morning during recess, I was in the school quadrangle and he called me into his classroom. He asked me if I remembered the word that he taught me the day before.

"Yes Brother," I said, a little embarrassed. "Emission, Brother."

Then he continued,

"If you have anything you want to ask me about in the future concerning these matters, just come and see me when you are on free time, all right? And don't let me catch you using the upstairs toilet again after you get up."

"Yes Brother."

As I left the classroom, the morning bell rang to signal the end of recess. I walked out toward the assembly area and Michael Stewart walked toward me.

"What's going on," he asked, "Why were you in with Severus?"

"He caught me using the upstairs toilet yesterday morning," I said.

"Stay away from him if you can, there's something not quite right about him."

Stewart's remark made me realise that what happened to me the night before was not quite right either.

"He put some ointment on me last night," I said to Michael.

"He what?"

"He rubbed it on my dick when I was in bed."

"Jesus Christ," Stewart muttered, "He's at it again."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

Michael turned his head around scanning the assembly area, as if he was looking for someone. His face was stern and anger shone in his eyes. Then he turned back to me and asked if I had mentioned this to anyone else.

"No."

"Then don't for the moment," he said, "but stay away from Severus, and don't let him touch you again. If he tries it again tell him you will report it to Pius. That should keep him at bay for the time being."

Stewart walked off in a hurry. He was looking for someone and as he walked away he turned his head back to me and called out, "I'll talk to you later. I need to see someone." With that he gave me the thumbs up. I took it to mean plans would be put in place for Severus to be brought to account.

*

At the rear of Probus' vegetable garden, a boiler room buttressed the day student's bike shed. It was the perfect place to dry our clothes on wash days if the weather was foul. Some say that Probus deliberately established his vegetable patch between the main building and the boiler room just so everyone wishing to use the boiler room would walk along the carefully constructed gravel pathway, through the middle of the vegetable patch and admire his work. Probus spent a lot of time standing in the middle of the pathway doing just that. The weather was getting colder now and the variety of vegetables was limited. Mostly potatoes, cabbages, radish and cauliflower, but it didn't stop him from visiting his favourite place for meditation.

The boiler room was a known hide-out for those who bribed day students to buy them cigarettes. It was their lair and I had joined them once or twice. It was not the first time that I had drawn in the deadly substance, but it never really appealed to me. On those occasions when it was raining and there was a constant procession from the laundry through the vegetable garden to the boiler room, one could see the smoke coming through the gap above the door. The boys thought they were safe from detection because the door faced away from the main building. Time and time again, they were caught in the act. The punishment was to study or do additional homework on Saturday night while the rest of us watched a movie on Pius' 16mm projector. The punishment was too lenient. The films were never that good. 'Miracle of Fatima' was overdone and boring, and should have been confined to the celluloid cemetery. We were all a bit old for 'The Wizard of Oz' and somehow, 'The Five Fingers' starring James Mason was a bit beyond our comprehension.

The boiler room was also the perfect place for a meeting of the aggrieved. It was one week after Severus' unwanted attention, and one by one, four of us found our way around Probus' rotund frame as we walked through the vegetable patch with our washing draped over our arms. He smiled as we passed him, happily humming _'faith of our fathers'_ , suspecting nothing and beaming with pride as we made note of how healthy the cauliflower looked, and also that the potato plants were coming into flower. It was Saturday and activities for students and staff focussed on sport. Some played tennis, others football. Some just walked around the grounds talking, doing the same as those at Placidus about whom Mark had made uncomplimentary and unwarranted remarks. The sight of four boys carrying their washing to the boiler room to dry on a fine Saturday morning should have rung one or two alarm bells with someone, and unknown to us at the time, it did.

Our party entered the boiler room. Michael Stewart, Peter Wilson, Don Harris, and I all gathered inside. Peter Wilson was a student in a lower grade. I hardly knew him. The one thing however that we all had in common was that Severus had 'known' us and I was about to learn the true extent of Don Harris' horrible secret. We began to arrange our clothes carefully, draping them over the vacant lines that stretched across the room to ensure they were nicely dried within a few hours. Michael ungently ejected two other boys. They were still choking on their last puff, their faces as red as Probus' radish leaves, a natural reaction caused by the fright they received when we walked in. Michael shut the door and kick-started the meeting.

"Well, let's get down to it. We all know why we are here. We are here because that slimy little arsehole Severus has played around with us, either this year or last year or both. I can't believe that we are the only ones. He's probably been doing it for most of his life. The point is, what are we going to do about it?"

Dead silence. Michael continued,

"Simon Hickey is the most recent victim. Perhaps Simon it might help if you tell us what happened." With a somewhat quivering voice, not my usual style, I recounted the circumstances surrounding my experience with Severus. It was somewhat unnerving sitting there talking about matters which would, under normal circumstances, be the sort of thing one discusses with one's doctor, not a group of peers, but I soon began to realise these were not normal circumstances. "That's the only time it happened," I concluded. "But I'm not sure if he wouldn't try it again."

"He's been too busy elsewhere," Harris said, "That's why it's the only time for you. There are probably others who haven't spoken up and it is clear that Severus has no intention of stopping. So we need to stop him," he said defiantly.

"What has been happening to you?" I asked Don, who glanced quickly in Michael's direction. Michael gave an encouraging nod. It was then I learned about the horrible baggage that Don Harris had been carrying. Two and a half years of molestation and threats of expulsion. For two and half years this boy had been shielding a guilt burden. For two and a half years, Severus had preyed upon him, in the toilet, in his bed at night in a similar fashion to my experience but more often; in the infirmary, and even when swimming at the river after the others had begun to return to the college. When Don finished telling his story he was crying and a long silence followed, before Peter Wilson, the youngest in our group, volunteered the one occasion similar to mine, when Severus paid him a midnight visit with the 'ointment'.

"Does anyone have any suggestions?" Michael asked.

"We should go to Pius," Peter Wilson said.

"Pius knows what he's up to. Severus just keeps saying he will reform." Michael replied. "They are intent on protecting him while trying to correct him. We need to do something ourselves, without relying on Pius."
More silence.

"I suppose we could kill him," Harris suggested. The three of us turned our heads toward Harris in shock at his suggestion.

"You know, lure him down to the river, hit him over the head with a log and throw him in. That would stop him," he said.

We continued staring at Harris, momentarily stunned, until his stern face relaxed and allowed a wicked smile to float through.

"Just kidding," he said, "just kidding, but let's face it, what he is doing is a criminal offence and someone should do something to him."

More silence while each of us pondered the gravity of our plight.

"I don't think we need to kill him, " Stewart said, "But we could wreck his career."

"How do we do that?" I asked.

"We expose him. Or at least we threaten to expose him unless he is kicked out."

"How do we do that?" Wilson asked. More silence until Stewart hit upon a possible solution.

"I know. We write a letter," Michael said. "Better still, each of us writes a letter. In that letter, we detail everything that has happened to us. Each of us will have to sit down and write his own account and sign it. We will have to give all the details we can. Then we write a joint letter attaching all the other letters, and address it to Pius. We don't fuck around. We tell Pius that unless Severus is sacked, and I mean kicked out of the Aquinine Brothers, not just transferred to some other college where he can start up again, unless they sack him, then we will take our stories to the police."

"Great idea" Harris chipped in. "And we also threaten to give the story to the newspapers too. My Uncle is a journalist with the Clarion. He would help us. He used to write for the Argus. He loves this kind of stuff. The last thing the Brothers would want is to have their name splashed across the front page of the Clarion."

There was a sense of achievement among us that Saturday morning, not to mention the excitement of it all. Multiple crimes had been committed, the guilty party identified and we four were going to see to it that justice would be done.

"What if Pius refuses and kicks us out instead?" asked Wilson.

"He would have to be supremely confident that we would not go through with it." Michael replied. "I just don't think he would risk that. It's a blemish on him that Severus has come this far. I don't think he would push his luck any further. What do you say? Do we go ahead with this? If we do we must stand firm. There can be no going back. No change of heart here."

The call was unanimous. "Let's do it!"

And so it was agreed. A criminal would be punished. Honour would be restored. We would do as Michael Stewart suggested. The detailed individual accounts of Severus' behaviour would be written in duplicate, and given to Michael. It was agreed he would write the covering letter to Pius. It was also agreed that the copies of the accounts and the joint letter to Pius would be kept by Michael in the event we decided to send them to Don Harris' uncle at the Clarion. Don would also provide Michael with details of how to contact his uncle. Either way, Severus' days we hoped, were numbered.

As we began to file out of the boiler room, all of us feeling a sense of relief, excitement and achievement, Stewart quickly jumped back from the pathway.

"What's up?" I asked

"Severus is there talking with Probus," Michael answered.

"Fuck," I said without thinking.

A careful look around the corner and sure enough. Severus was chatting with the jovial Probus just thirty feet away, only he did not share Probus' jovial optimism. He looked like he was on the hunt.

"The little shitbag, I wonder if he saw us come in?" Harris quipped.

"Better he doesn't see us just now," Michael said. "He just might put two and two together and we don't want him doing that just yet." He signalled to Wilson who was last out of the boiler room, to head back the other way, behind the bike shed.

"We will go one at a time. You first Wilson."

Wilson moved off walking behind the lattice that was used to prop up the day student's bikes. Harris soon followed. Stewart took a quick peek around the corner to see what Severus was doing.

"Fuck, he's coming this way. You go with the others now," he said to me.

"What are you going to do?" I asked

"Don't worry, he doesn't scare me."

I scampered off, behind the bike shed towards the tennis courts where I could see Wilson and Harris waiting. They could see Severus heading towards the boiler room and they could also see Stewart waiting at the rear. Then Probus called out to Severus pointing to one of his cauliflowers. Severus stopped, delaying his progress toward the boiler room. He looked across the vegetable patch and nodded approvingly. Probus' delay gave Stewart just enough time to whip back into the boiler room. I caught up with Harris and Wilson and turned around just in time to see Stewart emerge from the boiler room. He began walking back along the path toward Severus, with his washing under his arm, as if he had decided that it was too fine a day to bother putting his wet clothes in the boiler room. He walked straight past Severus without so much as a nod. Severus turned and watched him for a few moments, and then continued toward the back of the boiler room. He opened the door, and took a look inside.

"Christ, I hope he doesn't look at the name tags on our washing," Harris said.

Looking somewhat confused but satisfied the boiler room was empty, Severus walked back towards Probus, who was still romancing the cauliflower, this time with a rendition of _'Hail Queen of Heaven'_. Or was it _'Hail Redeemer King Divine?'_ Whatever! He was always hailing somebody, always bursting with song. As Severus passed him making some comment, Probus turned around quickly with the hose still pointing in front of him, showering Severus with water. Severus jumped back suddenly. "Shit", we heard him cry. Probus apologised but struggled to hide a grin. Wilson, Harris and I cracked up. The evil one's cassock was soaked and he stormed off to change. Then, as if by telepathic suggestion, Probus turned his head in our direction, and still with a huge grin, shrugged his shoulders as if to say, 'Well, goodness me, how on earth did that happen?' The three of us shrugged back grinning from ear to ear. Probus waved us off, and we melted into the melee of boys nearby. Stewart hung his washing on the line, and I joined in a game of handball with a group of other boys. As I did so, I pondered the things I would write in my account of Severus' dirty deeds.

21. Girls......

It was a few weeks later, and a group of us went to the local football match. I enjoyed going to the football. It was like being home again. I liked the crowd, the shouting, even abusing the umpire for making stupid decisions. I tried to put the incident with Severus out of my mind. We liked to congregate behind the goal square. This was the best vantage point for much of the scoring action and it was where other young people from the town gathered. It was also where some of the girls from the local convent school gathered. They were supporting the Pangarra team, so as a means of attracting their attention James Roach, Len Keating and I decided to barrack for the visiting team from the next town. James, a junior, was a country boy himself from Albury, two years older than me and far less inhibited. He began a friendly conversation with one of the girls who seemed to enjoy his company, and he kept bringing me into the conversation, even though he could see that I was feeling a little uncomfortable. James managed the initial innocent flirtation like a seasoned professional and before I realised it, he progressed into second gear. The girl's name was Judy and of course she came with a friend, Sandra. The five of us were suddenly engaged in friendly banter and didn't even notice that the rest of our group had moved away. James wasn't worried, but I felt quite relieved when the final siren sounded and it was time to return to the college. Len Keating thought it was amusing, but as we walked back to the college he quietly suggested that I think twice about teaming up again with James Roach. Len suggested that James' mind was not focussed on the celibate life, and that if I were serious about my vocation, it would be better to stay clear of him.

A month later, it was time for the Pangarra Show, where the best of stock and produce from the region and surrounds was on display. So too, were the obligatory side shows, and rides for the children. We were given permission to go to the show. Several of the juniors came from a pastoral background and it was of genuine interest to them. James Roach and I went together. I would have preferred to go with Len Keating but he was nowhere to be seen. While James and I were wandering the grounds of the show, we came across Judy, who was on her own. James immediately took up from where their last conversation ended. Suddenly I recalled Len's advice and wished that I could just disappear, but James was too smart for that.

Perhaps it would not have been so bad had we just talked for a while, and then gone our separate ways, but James invited Judy for a ride on the giant octopus. She accepted, and like a fool I went along for the ride. From that simple mistake, the three of us spent the rest of the afternoon together, unaware that our actions were noticed by several day students from the college, who were only too willing to spread the word that two of the juniors were flirting with a girl from the convent.

Three nights later, I was called into Pius' office and asked to explain. I told him how it all happened. He stared at me, that long deep stare. Only one other Brother could do that to me. Decius at Placidus. Pius must have been his star pupil. I began to buckle at the knees. I explained to Pius that I was an innocent bystander, that I only went along for the ride, and even then only with great reluctance. It didn't matter to Pius.

"I'm very disappointed in you Simon, I was only speaking to your parents on the phone last week telling them how well you were doing. It will be very unfortunate for me to have to tell them of this matter now." he said.

It was then I noticed on his desk the letter Stewart, Harris, Wilson and I had signed. It was stapled to our individual accounts of Severus' activities. Pius looked down at the letter and then back at me.

"And what's all this about?" he said, pointing to the letter. "Who put you up to this?"

"Nobody, Brother. It's all true."

"You have mistaken Brother Severus' intentions. He did not mean anything. He was trying to help you. He felt you needed some counselling."

"He touched me." I said, no longer afraid.

"You have made a low-level assessment of this matter. He was simply trying to help you through a time when your body is going through some significant changes. Most of the boys who come here go though these changes. It's a difficult time for all of you. His intentions were good."

"I wasn't the only one," I replied, confident that Pius would then have to explain a litany of complaints.

That stumped him. He offered no answer to that. He began to fiddle with his papers. He did not know where to go from here. Finally he found his voice again.

"I was completely unaware Brother Severus had done this before." He lied. His voice began to falter. "Err...., have you mentioned anything of this to your parents?"

"No Brother."

Have you mentioned it to any of the students other than Stewart, Harris and Wilson?"

"No Brother."

"I think it would be wise of you to remain silent at this time. The matter should not be discussed with anyone. It will have to be given a great deal of thought and prayer. You should offer up your prayers that Almighty God give us the true direction He wants us to take for everybody's sake."

"Yes Brother."

' _Yeah right,'_ I thought to myself, _' The true direction would have been a good swift kick up his arse sending him sailing into the Silver River with a ghost gum tied around his fucking neck.'_

"And I too will pray for direction," he continued. He then gave me a short lecture on associating with the wrong company, whom I took to mean James Roach, although he was not specific, and then let me go. He could have punished me and perhaps he did mean to intimidate me, threatening to tell my parents. But given the invidious position in which Severus had placed him, that would mean fighting a battle on two fronts. I guess he thought better of it. Not so, poor Roachy. He was given six of the best on the backside, expelled the next day, and sent home to Albury.

22. Breaking the News....

I never quite felt the same after that. Coming as close as it did to all the drama associated with Severus, the James Roach saga, was for me, the beginning of a declining interest in the vocational life. I continued on as if there was nothing wrong, and said nothing about how I felt, but I became very homesick. I thought much about home, how nice it would be to be sleeping in my own bed, to get up when I felt like it and not have to adhere to so much rigid discipline. In one of my letters to my parents, I expressed a wish they could come for a visit. Two weeks later they did. They came and spent the weekend with me, staying in one of the local hotels. Pius, it seemed, had arranged everything. That first night, we dined at their hotel. My mother told me how helpful Brother Pius was in obtaining accommodation for them, and how pleased he was to see them. He also told them how well I was doing. 'Yeah right!' I told them I was having second thoughts about the whole idea of a vocation and that I didn't want to come back to the college next year. If my mother was anything other than a bit surprised she didn't show it. She just told me not to worry and suggested that I take a while to think about it. The next day, Sunday, they came to the college after mass in the town, and we drove to Shepparton, a hour away, to see Kathleen who was teaching music at the convent.

Getting away from the college even for just a day worked wonders for me. We spent the afternoon with Kathleen and during the course of general conversation I told her that I could play 'Fur Elise' on the piano.

"Oh yes, this should be good," she said with a big grin on her face.

My father gave a little chuckle, as if to say, 'Let's humour the boy'. Kathleen took us all into another room where there was a piano, and I sat down, looked at the keys and then turned around to see if they were settled.

"Having a change of heart are we son?" my father asked. I didn't answer. I just began to play, doing everything that Michael Stewart taught me; the gentle caress of the keys, the timing, the gaiety. When I finished, I turned around to look at the three of them. They were stunned. The silence told me I must have done it well. They just sat there with their mouths open.

Finally Kathleen said, "How did you learn to play that?" I took her comments as an expression of her approval and sensed her amazement at such prowess. It felt wonderful.

That weekend helped lift a heavy load off my mind. I did not mention Severus to my parents. I was prepared to give Pius the chance to get rid of him. If he did that, I would say nothing. That is how I rationalised the whole sorry mess. Stewart, Harris and Wilson were less forgiving and would have been happy to help him fall on his sword. To some extent I felt the same way, but I preferred to have the matter finalised quickly. I felt more mature for taking a stand, and lamented those before us who did nothing. At least we were doing something. As we arrived back at the college that evening I felt a new sense of freedom. There was no more pretending needed. No longer did I feel guilty about not wanting to be here. I didn't belong here, but it seemed not to matter any more. I hugged my mother, shook hands with my father and as I did so, he said quietly, "Don't worry about anything. Just finish the year out, concentrate on your exams, and the rest will take care of itself ."

In the weeks following, Severus seemed to change. He was quieter, staying within himself. It was obvious Pius had placed him on notice. He did not smile or engage in conversation with anyone. His classes were subdued. When I had occasion to pass him along the parapets, he would not speak to me or even acknowledge me, avoiding my eyes. He could not look me in the face. He was rather like a cowering dog, wary of his vulnerable and uncertain state, choosing to keep a safe distance, ears back, tail between the legs. Some more weeks passed but when his time came, it was done quietly. He left early one morning. No fanfare. I rose early before slow handclap to go to the toilet. As I returned to my bed I heard the sound of a car engine below and looked out the window. It was a taxi. Severus was waiting dressed in formal black. The driver took his case and placed it in the boot of the car. Severus climbed in the front, and the car drove off. A brief announcement later that day confirmed his departure. They said it was for medical reasons. _'Yeah, right!'_

*

Underscoring everything we were taught at the Juniorate, was the belief that the Catholic church's unique position in society made it superior to other faiths, even other Christian faiths. It was a belief that manifested itself in some less than Christian behaviour. The end of the year was close and it was time for final exams. The exams were conducted externally, in the Anglican hall a few miles from the college. The Anglican church was next door. A small group of us arrived in plenty of time and believing as we did, that non-Catholic churches were not real churches, our curiosity took the better of us and we looked inside.

There were obvious similarities to own church, but we knew from our Catholic upbringing, our Catholic teaching, that it was different. There was no tabernacle, therefore no 'real presence'. Therefore this was not really a sacred place, and it did not command the same degree of spiritual respect that we accorded our own church. Once inside the church, our arrogance was let loose. Len Keating and I ran up and down the aisles shouting to one another. Don Harris gave a mock sermon from the pulpit and someone began playing some less than sacred music on the organ. When subsequently caught in the act a few moments later by an outraged minister, who ordered us out, we left quietly and sheepishly but without the slightest hint of remorse, and continued on to sit for the exam.

Back at the college, I began felling guilty and told Michael Stewart what had happened.

"Don't worry, nothing will come of it," he said with an air of supreme confidence.

"How do you know?" I asked him.

"Think about it," he said. "We have been told time and time again during the course of our religious instruction over several years, that the Catholic church was the one true church, that traced it's authority all the way back to St. Peter. With this in mind we rarely show the slightest respect for any non-Catholic's beliefs, or their sense of spirituality."

"Do you think that is right though?" I asked him.

"No, of course it's not right, but that's what they teach us isn't it!"

"Why do they teach us this way?"

"They're afraid of other faiths," Stewart said.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"We are not allowed to attend non-Catholic services without first obtaining permission from the local bishop, we cannot even go to a non-Catholic wedding without permission and remember when Billy Graham came to Australia. We were told we were not to go to his rallies but it was okay to watch it on television. What was it that they feared about us being there?"

"I don't know," I replied. "I think they are afraid of the communists," I said, hoping that I was making a relevant contribution to this enthralling conversation. "My parents always talk about the communists as if they are the church's worst enemy."

"They are terrified of communism, Stewart replied. "Look at what's happening at the moment. The Soviet Union is asserting its authority in eastern Europe. The Hungarian uprising of 1956 is a daily discussion item in school. In China, Mao Tse Tung's leadership is presented as the most fearsome of regimes. At home the Trade Union movement is seen as being infiltrated by the communists and their link with the Australian Labour Party is often demonstrated. As a child I was more conscious of the threat of communism than anything else. In some ways the Brothers are paranoid about it. Listen to the stories we are told concerning the persecution of priests, brothers and nuns in the mission fields in communist countries. You can't help but get the impression that the communists were more intent on annihilating the Catholic population of the world rather than dominating the world itself."

Stewart was right about that. This impression tended to be re-enforced when from time to time we would be reminded that in the event we were captured by communists, we were duty bound under pain of mortal sin to acknowledge our Catholic faith, even under threat of death.

"I remember once at Placidus, Tiberius explaining that, if we were captured by communists, and under threat of death, we should not allow fear to overtake us or be tempted to deny our faith, because if we did, they would probably shoot us anyway, and we would suffer eternal hellfire." I told him.

"Anyway, that's enough of that. But you can see now why you will hear no more of your foray into the Anglican church."

He was right. I don't know if the minister who caught us ever reported us to Pius, but I never heard about the matter again.

*

The school year came to an end and I cruised through final examinations. I said nothing to my friends before we all left to go home that summer, except Michael Stewart. For some reason I felt that I would never see him again and I wanted him to know that I learnt more from him that year than anyone else.

"Just keep practising on the piano as often as you can," he told me.

"You will get good at it if you practice."

It was the final year for him and the next step was the Noviciate.

"Will you be going to the Noviciate?" I asked him.

"I don't know," he answered. "I want to go to University. I'm hoping my parents will go along with that. Otherwise I will go to the Noviciate, and then go to University, but I just don't know yet." And with that we shook hands and said goodbye.

I said goodbye to Len Keating. He kept saying that I must come to his farm and stay for a week. I said I would have to ask my parents.

The train journey home was exciting. Everyone was in high spirits. It was in sharp contrast to the journey in the opposite direction just eleven months earlier. The rumble of the carriages was telling me a different story this time, a happier story. A few of the boys played up a little and needed to be warned by the train guard to settle down. For some, it was like being let out of prison. No one suggested we say the rosary. I'm not sure anyone would have joined in. It was a huge release of energy and it felt wonderful.

23. Coming home.....

Four hours later, the train pulled slowly into Spencer St station. I was back in the city again, with people everywhere, lots of noise, traffic, and I couldn't remember feeling better. Damien met me at the station. He was working in the city and he took me up to Collins Street and made sure I caught the right tram. He said I was much taller now. Home never felt so good. I walked in the door for the first time in eleven months. The sights, the smells, the sense of belonging were so deeply ingrained into my sub-conscious, that everything was instantly familiar. It was as though I had never left. My mother was vacuuming the floor. Not on my account I hoped. She saw me walk in and switched off the vacuum. She hurried over to me and gave me a hug, told me how good it was to have me home again and asked after my trip. We didn't talk about what I would do next year, that would come later. I think she felt I might change my mind and go back, but that wasn't going to happen. I never mentioned the incident with Severus either. I don't think she would have believed me, and anyway, what good would come of it? She said I had grown since she and my father came to visit. I took my bags to my room. I was home again.

*

That night around the dinner table, it was so relaxed. Gone was the formality of standing at the table waiting for Pius or Florianus to say grace. Bridget and the twins were full of questions about my year's exploits. After dinner it was everyone into the lounge room to watch the news on television. It was my first look at television in almost a year. After the news, to the groans of just about everybody, the television was turned off, and we knelt down and said the rosary.

Christmas came and went. I renewed my friendship with Geoffrey who was now getting ready for his second year at boarding school, and we made some interesting comparisons between Catholic and Anglican boarding schools. He cracked up when I told him about the shower drill, the silence and mass every morning. Geoff's mother said I was taller. I thought of Jenny Cashman and wondered if she was still living in the next street. I even took a walk once or twice and scouted the area close to her home, but there was no sign of her. Her next door neighbour told me the family moved just a few streets away. As the days wore on, I began to feel a little lost. I felt I needed some sort of de-briefing. It was one thing to be home and free again but I felt I needed some contact with the life I had recently left. Not because I missed it, but simply because it seemed natural to want to talk to someone about it, someone who had shared the same experience. The memories of all that happened were still very fresh and vibrant in my mind. I remembered Len Keating's invitation to come to Castlemaine and decided to give him a call.

24. Castlemaine

When I travelled to Castlemaine for a week in early January, Len met me at the train with his father and his sister Anne. He was as excited as I was to be able to talk to someone from his own recent past; two boys laughing and joking all the way to his farm; reliving some of the more bizarre moments that we had experienced while his father and sister tried to make sense of it all. It was good therapy.

Len's father was a dairy farmer and also ran a few sheep. I waited until the next morning when we did the milking, to tell Len that I wasn't going back, and the reasons why, although I made no mention of Severus. He was disappointed.

"Why don't you give it another shot?" he said, almost pleading.

"Because I was unhappy there, even though there were some good times." I replied. "Sometimes I think what we were doing wasn't normal." I added.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Well, the silence thing, not being able to talk to someone at night before going to bed. And the showers, that was really weird. And not being able to talk to girls at the football. You heard about what happened to me and Roachy didn't you?"

"Who didn't?"

"Well that's what I'm getting at. What Roachy and I did was perfectly normal. We simply showed some interest in some girls at the footy. So bloody what, yet he was expelled and I was let off with a caution. All for doing something perfectly normal."

"Yeah I suppose, but after all, we are supposed to be training to be Brothers and they don't get married so what's the point of getting interested in girls when you don't plan to get married?"

"Well," I said, "That might be true, but if the Brothers don't know anything about girls, how are they going to teach others about them?"

I told Len of the good conversations with Michael Stewart during the year, how he taught me about life.

"The piano you mean?"

"No, not just the piano. He knows a lot about the world, and about how the church thinks. It's not all prayer and penance."

He thought Stewart was too deep, to far within himself and not easy to talk to. I thought otherwise.

25. Awakenings

As I spoke, I sensed that he understood why I was thinking the way I did, although he still thought I would return to the Juniorate. However, he also saw the situation as an opportunity to introduce me to his cousin Deirdre, whose parents owned the adjoining farm, but he warned me first.

"Be careful with her. She's a bit of a flirt. She can be a handful if you know what I mean."

I didn't, but I was about to find out.

Deirdre was on the doorstep at eight in the morning. She was very attractive, with lovely blue eyes and blonde hair down to her shoulders. She said hello to me with such a wicked smile that I thought she was going to grab me and kiss me too. Perhaps that's what country girls did or perhaps that was wishful thinking. We all had breakfast together, a big country style breakfast, with cereal, followed by bacon and eggs, and fried toast and coffee. Len's mother certainly knew how to turn it on. I thought how strange it would be if we were at home and one of my cousins just wandered in at eight in the morning and invited themselves to breakfast. No, that would never happen. I began to like the country way of doing things.

When Deirdre left to attend to her daily chores, the mental image she had imprinted remained on my mind, and I found myself thinking of little else, other than to wonder when she would return. She was back in an hour and the four of us, including Len's sister Anne, walked into town. In just one day I became infatuated with her, and for as long as she was with us, I couldn't stop looking at her. She noticed too. Every time her eyes caught mine, she smiled that wicked smile, and I buckled at the knees. We saw each other every day. She was on the doorstep each morning at eight ready to join us for breakfast and later, before we went to town. In the afternoons we walked two miles for a swim in the reservoir with Len and Anne. It was difficult not to notice her breasts under her swimsuit. We thrashed about in the water throwing a beach ball and playing 'keepings-off'. Len threw the ball toward me; it landed just a little short and both Deirdre and I swam toward it. I reached it first, but only just. Deirdre tried to take it from me, and grabbed me around the waist. Her hands rubbed against my stomach and then a little lower and I felt a tremendous feeling in my lower regions. My penis became very hard and I completely lost any concentration for the beach ball. She grabbed the ball and threw it to Anne. I just wanted to grab Deirdre and hold her tight against me. While I had long suspected a connection between the hardening of my penis and the proximity of a girl, only at that point was I certain. I was fifteen.

On the third night the four of us went to the pictures. Deirdre and I sat together, and as the lights dimmed, I reached out and took her hand in mine. She gave my hand a little squeeze, and I thought I was in heaven. So did my penis. As long as the lights were down it didn't matter. But what would happen when the film was over and the lights came back on again, and I needed to stand up? I couldn't. She would see this big bulge in my pants. 'How would I explain that? God! Should I let go her hand? Should I try to adjust my penis so it didn't bulge as much? Have I gone too far, too soon?' All these things were running through my mind and the picture hadn't even started. By the time the movie began it didn't matter of course. The fear of having to expose my bulge was enough for it to disappear all on its own. Then, just as I was really settling in, Deirdre began running her hand up and down my lower arm and it started itself off again. A few moments passed and I turned my head toward her. I wanted to see if she was looking at the screen. Simultaneously, she turned her head toward me, and our eyes locked on to each other. 'God! What do I do now?' She must have thought country girls don't have to wait for city boys. She leaned over and kissed me on the lips, then drew back, and stared straight into my eyes. My penis went into overdrive. I leaned over toward her and we kissed again, this time it was for a little longer. It was incredible. Suddenly my mouth opened and I pressed harder against her lips. She pressed harder as her mouth opened and suddenly my tongue was in her mouth playing with her tongue. At that point all hell broke loose in my pants. 'God! I'm having an emission. What do I do? What can I do?' I was utterly powerless. My mouth weakened as the overpowering sensation of the moment took over, and I wished this moment could last forever. We stayed there mouth locked, my mind lost in an ocean of warmth, as if Heaven's gate had opened and the angels were beckoning, calling me inside. We stayed lip-locked, until it had finished, and my body muscles began to relax. Then, both with regret and relief, we drew back, our eyes still locked together. She turned her head toward the screen, and I dropped my eyes down to see the top of her breasts, through her open blouse. How beautiful, I thought. But surely such a mind blowing experience as this, had to be wrong, had to have some negative side to it. Surely there had to be an accounting.

We leaned back against our seats and settled down to watch the movie, our hands clasping each other's. I felt moist inside my pants and wondered if there would be a stain. I wondered if life would ever be the same again. Then came the guilt. I had just committed a mortal sin, or had I? 'It wasn't deliberate. I'm not a wanker, it just came. Do I need to go to confession? Oh God, what if I die before I get to confession?'

When the movie finished and the lights came on, I did a lightening check of my trousers. It had not come through, there was no light stain and it was now dry. Deirdre and I looked at each other, and smiled. It was a smile that said something more than an ordinary smile. This was a special smile that said there was something more to this. But what was that something? What was supposed to happen now?

Two days later, it was all over, time to go home. My week with Len Keating, initially intended to satisfy a yearning for contact with someone with whom I shared a common institutional experience, had run its course. Whatever that week did for Len, I knew that I was clear and relaxed in my own mind about my decision not to return to the Juniorate. I could never be a Aquinine Brother. Not now. Not if it meant that Deirdre and I could never lock mouths and suck tongues again. Or if not with Deirdre, then some one else. No, I couldn't go back now, not after all that.

Len, Anne and Deirdre came to the station to see me off. As I said goodbye to her at the station, I asked if I could write to her. She agreed. I asked Len to write to me and tell me what was happening at the college too.

"What for?" he asked, "You'll be back, just wait and see."

The train pulled out of the station and as I sat back and reflected on the past week's experience, I realised that Len was deeply disappointed. He was committed and found it difficult to accept that I did not share his enthusiasm. He knew nothing of the Severus affair and I judged it prudent not to tell him.

26. Back home again.....

"Bless me father for I have sinned. It is a month since my last confession."

"Go ahead"

"I have had six emissions father."

"Were they deliberate?"

"No, er I mean yes, well three were, the other three sort of came."

"Were you alone?"

"I was for five of them father."

"And the sixth?"

"I was kissing a girl father."

"Were you both clothed?"

"Oh yes father."

What on earth did he think we were doing? Was there something I hadn't learnt yet?

"Do you see this girl often?"

"No father," I answered, feeling a deep sense of regret, "I don't think I will be seeing her again."

"A wise decision, I think. Our Lord is inviting you now into a very special time of discovery. It is in His great plan for us that you are now being called. It is His wonderful world of new creative life and it is so important that we do not stray and abuse this great gift. Girls can unwittingly place you in the occasion of sin. That is something you must avoid. When the temptation comes, say a little prayer that He will guide you through this difficult time. It is good to say a short ejaculation at this time. Jesus Mary and Joseph, I place my trust in thee. Something like that."

"Yes father. Does that mean it's a mortal sin?" I really had no idea what he was saying, although I was now already familiar with another definition of ejaculation.

"Yes lad, all sins against purity of heart and mind are mortal sins. Impure actions are a betrayal of God's trust, you see. So to place yourself in the occasion of sin, is also a serious offence against God's love."

"Yes father."

"Then for your penance say five Our Fathers and five Hail Mary's. Now make a good act of contrition, while I give you absolution." Fr. Michael never spoke to me like that before. It was a sign of the times, a sign that I had grown and must now accept responsibility for my actions. No more pathetic little excuses. It was also a sign that he was back in charge.

As I walked away from confession that Saturday morning, still three weeks before returning to Placidus, I felt a great sense of apprehension. I was sexually aware and easily aroused. A simple mental picture of any female dressed, half dressed, or naked sent the blood rushing south. Where was all this leading? What lay ahead? Confession was the only way to cleanse my soul thoroughly but the thought of having to front up each week was not encouraging. Having to tell Fr. Michael of those uninvited innermost thoughts would be a huge embarrassment, not to mention just plain bloody tiresome. And what about school, my old friends? Surely they too were having the same problems. What would be their reaction when they saw me return? Were they also staining the sheets every night? Could I continue on to finish the last two years of school with all the distractions that were going to crop up, and if so, what then? What did I want to do? Would I ever see Deirdre again and what would happen if I met a girl here at home? How would I handle that? What if I suddenly bumped into Jenny Cashman, or someone else? How could I still see girls and not be in the occasion of sin? Would my life ever be the same again? I thought not. On the way home I called into the local milk bar to buy a soft drink only to be confronted with the sight of naked girls on the front cover of magazines displayed across the counter. There they were for all to see, right next to the chocolate bars and the all day suckers. Beautiful naked girls with breasts that mesmerised the brain and set the penis off in a violent northerly direction. 'Oh God, I've just come from confession, and I'm off again. Jesus Mary and Joseph I place my trust in thee.'

"Can I help you?" came the voice from behind the counter.

"A pair of breasts please."

"What?"

"Aahh, a bottle of orange drink please."

'Oh God, this place is an occasion of sin. I shouldn't be here.'

27. Adjustments

My return home to post Juniorate life meant re-adjusting to the ways of the family, which understandably, were not the ways of the Juniorate. Things weren't done with the same military precision. One didn't have to ask for permission to go for a walk, play football in the street, or leave the dinner table before saying grace. I didn't get up and go to mass every morning, we didn't have a communal prayer time before bed each night, and we didn't have a supervised two hour study period each night after dinner. I came to see my family as being closer to normal. Perhaps not as normal as Geoff's family who never attended church, never said the rosary, and preferred framed prints of Monet to icons of Jesus and Mary around their house. And Geoff didn't run off to confession every time he thought about girls and felt the explosion in his pants. To top off all of that, I could watch television as well. I saw the inauguration of President John Kennedy in my own lounge room. And of course, I could play the piano anytime I wanted. It was a very old piano, passed down from deceased members of the family now floating about in heaven. Several of the notes did not play and that made it difficult to practice and learn new tunes. But it was still a piano and I was able to develop my new-found talent. My mother asked me if I wanted to take lessons. Bridget had taken lessons but didn't like it and stopped. I certainly wanted to play better, but the thought of lessons conjured up thoughts of school and teachers yelling at me, and being criticised, so I said no. I should have jumped at the suggestion.

28. The pains of Puberty.....

At mass on Sunday's, I began to notice the girls I had been with at primary school. They weren't little girls any more. They had changed. Their faces were attractive, they wore clothes that made them look mature, they wore make up and they had breasts. Some of them spoke to me and asked if I remembered them from primary school. Of course I remembered them. But not the way they looked now. I began falling in and out of love on average, every week. I only had to look at a girl to fall in love. Their names are now blurred. Patricia, Maureen, Sandra, Pamela; they were all good Catholic girls of course, not the other kind. I would shy away from any non-Catholics for fear of falling into the dreaded 'occasion of sin '. To experience the explosion in bed at night when it wasn't really my fault was one thing, but I doubted that there would be a repeat of that full on experience with Deirdre. I tried to take Fr. Michael's advice seriously. But they all looked and smelt so good and they wanted to socialise, their hormones just as active as mine. I joined the parish tennis club even though as a sport it held little interest for me. When the girls appeared in those tiny white dresses that showed their legs way up above their knees, I was suddenly transformed. I became another Ken Rosewall or Lew Hoad. Playing the role of senior partner in a game of mixed doubles brought out the competitive edge and smashing the ball down the sideline or serving an ace brought out the champion instinct that I thought would earn my partner's sighing admiration. Winning became important until it was evident that losing had its advantages too. Fortunately, I was quick to realise that girls didn't care all that much about winning. They just wanted to have fun. So, if a little comedy at the expense of a winning serve scored more points with my partner than blasting the opposition off the court, then fine, I could do that. If so doing, excited my partner enough for her to laugh and jump with delight, it could also excite me. But in a different way. The dreaded bulge became difficult to hide and to camouflage it, I walked along, holding my tennis racket in front of me. After tennis, a group of us went to the milk bar for a drink and social chit-chat. The girls would stand close, while sucking on a straw looking up and talking at the same time and I had to reach for my tennis racket. There they were; Pamela, Maureen, Sandra, whoever, looking up into my eyes, their mouths closed over and around a simple straw, drawing up the liquid contents of a bottle while running their fingers up and down the straw. Up and down, up and down. God, what was I to do? Did they have any idea what they were doing to me? I thought not? Then I walked them home. Our conversations were simple. Someone was having a party next week. 'Are you coming?' 'What are your plans after you finish school?' We would never talk about sex, although that was really the only thing on our minds, and generally I was home by six o clock, just in time for dinner. Occasionally though, I would hear stories of the older sisters of one or two girls becoming pregnant and getting married rather suddenly. I couldn't figure it out. The boys they married were Catholic. How did this happen?

That summer holiday finally surrendered to the inevitable, and much to my mother's and Len Keating's disappointment I did not return to the Juniorate. They had for some reason still held out hope that I would have a change of heart. Those incredible procedures practiced by the Brothers however, remained permanently etched in my memory. I realised that those practices said more about them than us. I felt sure that they had the best of intentions, but to go to such lengths, to make the most normal of daily functions such as having a shower, look so abnormal, was I can only presume, a product of their own environment, their own celibate way of looking at the world. With the benefit of hindsight I realised with a touch of sadness, that they believed we were all bad people, that it was in our nature to be sinful; that it was their responsibility to do what they could to minimise the opportunities we had, to succumb to the temptations of the flesh. Their perceptions were a product of their training, and, as I reflected on my decision not to return, I was relieved that I would not be caught in that web, that mindset. However, life at the Juniorate, for that one year, became a stepping stone experience, and all the lessons learnt would be stored away until a time in the future when circumstances might decree, they be needed .

But now things had changed. Deirdre Keating had been the catalyst that set me on track to discover my own sexuality. To suppress it, as juniors were supposed to do, seemed ridiculous. Besides how could I? As I began to engage myself in the everyday affairs of home life, every time I thought about girls my penis hardened. It was hard every time I woke up in the morning. Sometimes it was hard as I received communion at mass on Sundays. It was hard when I watched television at home. How could I suppress it? At night in bed it was hard, and I had to roll over to feel more comfortable. Then I would rub up and down on the sheet and oh God, more, and then more, oh God, oh God, and finally it came. A warm frenzied explosion that lasted a few utterly, glorious, fantastic moments, before gently subsiding back to normal. Then came a momentary sense of guilt before falling into a deep sleep that lasted until the early morning. When I awoke, and discovered the errant member, I started the whole process off again. Why would I want to suppress that?

29. Return to Placidus.....

My first day back at Placidus was difficult but full enough of surprises to keep my attention focused on the positives. Decius was gone, so too Trajan, the patter of little boy's bottoms. The angry Quintillus was gone. The word in the school yard was that both Quintillus and Trajan had left the Aquinine Brothers and were now just ordinary people working as teachers. I couldn't imagine either of them being ordinary. Titus had taken over from Decius as school principal. I didn't know what to do, either cheer or boo. There were a few new faces amongst the men in black. One of them was Brother Gordian. I knew that name. The boys at the Juniorate spoke of a Gordian who left the college the year before I arrived. I quickly deduced that he had been sent to Placidus. The onset of puberty had clearly brought on a heightened sense of deduction. It became obvious that the onset of puberty was something that my former school mates had also experienced. Many had grown out of proportion to the size of their clothes. Many had begun to shave. Some had not survived the rigours of study in the previous year and were repeating year ten. I realised that were I not at the Juniorate in year ten, I might well have been amongst their numbers. A warning sign if ever there was one. I quickly adhered myself to Barry Kase and Richard Keely, and they very generously guided me back through the rigours, the idiosyncrasies and the pitfalls of day- college life that I had simply forgotten.

The Leaving certificate was an important year. Get through this successfully, go on to Matriculation, and that was it. I would be out of school forever. I would be free from men in black cassocks. Gordian was an experienced secondary school teacher. He taught us English and Geography. I liked these two subjects and found them easy to understand and to discuss. Another new face, Hadrian who came from who knows where, was our maths and physics teacher. He would also have been my chemistry teacher, but I chose not to take chemistry. We had a new lay teacher for French, a portly man who spoke with an English accent far more polished than that of Florianus at the Juniorate. His name was Mr. Knot. He dressed very smartly, always wearing a suit, sometimes grey, sometimes blue, always with a spotless white shirt and red or yellow tie. Titus took us for two history subjects, British and Modern. Compared to Knot he dressed like a garbage-truck driver. I was taking seven subjects and to progress to matriculation, I had to pass in six of them. It was always going to be a tough call.

*

There was a strange new atmosphere about school life doing the Leaving Certificate. It was difficult to define but easy to sense. It was about achievement, it was about going beyond the old boundaries of the teacher controlling your every move, thought and action. In English, Gordian asked us to search inside ourselves to find expression, Hadrian explained that while we followed a set curriculum in Math and Physics, the world was in a new state of discovery. New and exciting things were being tested in the laboratory. He encouraged us to read newspapers, look for scientific magazines, even to think about new ways of doing things. Titus told us that History was a pre-requisite for an expansion of the mind. He said that if we understood the past, we would be better placed to cope with the future. Knot, wanted us to lose our inhibition. Learning to speak French confidently would help us. It would open our minds, help us realise our full potential for expression and self management. Just how it would do this he didn't say, but it made sense nevertheless.

It was one thing to speak to us in such terms concerning our academic studies, quite another when it came to religious studies. It was more evident to me than ever before, that a vast chasm existed between the realities of the everyday world, and the narrow minded advice we received in the teachings of the faith. They were two different worlds. It was one thing to say to us, 'Open your minds, dream dreams that never were'...and on the other, tell us not to mix with non-Catholics, be wary of comments being made by Anglicans, and others who were not of the true faith. The dreaded 'occasion of sin' took on a broader perspective. It included associating with socialists and communists, and other enemies of the church. Books were being published that challenged the origins of the Christian faith, and the historical accuracy of the gospels. Experts in their field claimed that the concept of a human deity born of a virgin, was a popular mythology of earlier cultures, and that the gospel writers simply adopted this style of storytelling to establish their claim about Jesus. The church vehemently opposed this view. This was heresy, we were told. These books were not to be read. Films were condemned; mostly to do with sexuality, but some challenged the way we thought about war, politics, medical advances, all of which as it happened, challenged Catholic doctrine.

It wasn't long however, before I realised that these new challenges came with baggage. I was back in an environment that lent itself to distraction, the kind that quickly effected my studies. Whereas previously study time was stage managed, with a particular time of the day set aside for homework and other special projects, now it was up to me to show the initiative, and despite the best of intentions, my heart wasn't in it. I had gone through puberty at the Juniorate and my coming home had brought with it a whole new interest. I was writing regularly to Deirdre and our letters were very romantic. She was also helping me expand my writing style. They began with 'Dear Deirdre,' and progressed through 'My dear Deirdre', 'Dearest Deirdre', to 'My Darling Deirdre'. But she was somewhere else and I was here. As much as I wanted to, I could not travel to Castlemaine, anymore than Deirdre was able to come to Melbourne. Writing to her was stimulating, and good for my English studies, but it was not going to substitute for having a girl friend that I could see and speak to on a regular basis.

30. Megan ...

While I struggled through that first term, living off the novelty of renewed friendships and basking in the relaxed atmosphere of a normal school day, it was the non-academic intellectual emphasis that captured most attention, an emphasis centred more on puberty than prayer. Little did I realise at that point, that my life was about to change so dramatically that even today as I look back, I recognise this as the real beginning.

A few weeks into second term, it was Barry Kase's birthday. He was sixteen and he and his twin sister Monica, invited me to a party the following Saturday along with Sean O'Rielly my sparring partner of earlier years. Sean and I had matured sufficiently to let bygones be bygones. Besides, we were both on the football team this year, and a ruckman and his ruck rover had to learn to work together. Barry asked Richard Keely too, and Michael Allen who was one of those very quiet boys, somewhat lost for a friend, who just happened to tag along with us during most school days. Barry thought a little social interaction would be good for him.

"My sister is inviting her friends from L'Aquila." He told me. "Megan will be there. You met her two years ago, remember?"

"I did?" I asked.

"Yes, at the St. Patrick's day march. We were all going to go home together until your brothers stopped you."

"Oh yes, now I remember. That'll be nice." I replied, as my memory flashed back to three girls wearing sunglasses, and dressed so casually while I was in uniform and feeling decidedly inferior.

The party sounded exciting. Sean and I lived close together, so we met around five that Saturday afternoon and walked to Highfield Junction where Keely and Allen were waiting for us. Keely knew the way to Kase's house. We had all tried to look as cool as we could. I borrowed some of Mark's clothes, a nice jumper, a pair of trousers and I wore my new suede shoes. I rubbed a little cream in my hair to prevent it blowing in the wind, and sprayed myself with Damien's deodorant. It was a good move considering the length of time it took to get to Barry's place. We arrived at Kase's house about six. There was a number of adults there already. Barry came out to greet us, dressed in some very modern gear and I concluded that either he had a weekend job or his parents were wealthier than mine.

Sean asked what all the old folks were doing here, somewhat surprised that a party for Barry and his sister seemed to have attracted such a senior crowd. Barry explained that it was also his mother's birthday, and a few more people were expected. Barry took us all inside, and as I took a brief look around the front of his house, I quickly confirmed that his parents were wealthier than mine. Once inside, he took us over to meet the family and in particular his sister and her friends who had also arrived earlier. There were Barry's parents, and Uncle George and Aunty Gwen, two typical relatives who never stopped smiling, laughing and always looking as though they didn't have a care in the world. There were other guests to whom we simply nodded and smiled before we were ushered into the next room to meet Monica's friends. There they stood, waiting expectantly. There was Katie, Sophie, Megan and Michelle and they all looked so pretty in their colourful party dresses with their lovely hair done up to look like they were all on 'Bandstand' with Brian Henderson. Monica introduced us and, although the process made me feel a little awkward, I smiled and nodded gracefully as each of the girls was introduced.

I will never forget the moment our eyes met. I felt a weird sensation all over. I felt a sense of anticipation and an expectation; something that I could not define. Megan smiled as I took her hand and our blue eyes pierced each other. "Hello," she said, "it's nice to see you again." I did not want to let her hand go. I was momentarily overwhelmed by a force never before experienced. Grateful I was, for the earlier experience with Deirdre. It made me feel a little more mature having already locked tongues with a girl in a movie theatre. There's nothing like a bit of experience to boost the confidence level. But even with that, the flash of light that came from within told me there was something altogether different going on inside of me at this moment, and Megan was the cause of it. "Hello," I said back, or at least I think that's what I said. Try as I could I did not remember what she looked like on that first meeting two years earlier. "Where have you been hiding?" I said, trying to utter something remotely humorous. Megan smiled and we stood there as if captured and frozen in time, unable to move, me not wanting to move. It was Monica who brought me back to earth with a little nudge of the elbow as she continued the introductions. I let go Megan's hand slowly. She seemed in no hurry to claim it back, or was that wishful thinking on my part?

Men in black tried to teach us about sex, but no real or practical information came across. They invested so much time telling us about the union between body and spirit, purity of thought, and a celebration of spiritual and human love, when all we wanted to know was what we could do and what we couldn't. In situations like this, the Brothers were no help at all.

Meeting Michelle, too, was like a new experience. "Hello again," she laughed. "Goodness," I replied, needing a little light relief, "I suppose this is what a lost friends' reunion feels like." I could not remember what she looked like either. At least that remark achieved some group laughter and allowed us all to move on. Sean guffawed his way through his introductions. Keely and Allen did much the same and mercifully that was that. Michelle was more of a blond than Megan and looked gorgeous in a yellow dress. Introductions completed, at least four somewhat timid young men stood before four lovely teenage girls and wondered what on earth we did now. Barry seemed quite at home among the girls but then he had a twin sister and was probably used to having Monica's girlfriends in the house all the time. At least Monica was alert enough to put on some music. Elvis was a good choice. A little bit of 'Hard headed Woman', loosened everybody up and the girls ever the party type, started dancing together. They were bopping up and down, with a sway to the left and then to the right, their party dresses swaying with them and occasionally lifting just high enough for me to see they had thighs above their knees. Barry's mother brought in some food from the other room where the 'old folks' were laughing and talking. The food looked better than dancing at that point and feeling a little uncertain about how to get into the swing of things I jumped into the food. Party pies, nice and hot, dipped in tomato sauce. Cocktail frankfurts with tooth picks to lift them out. I hadn't eaten since lunch time. As I tucked into the food and looked around the room, noticing the birthday decorations, the streamers, the balloons, the colourfully handwritten sign across the door that said, 'Happy birthday Monica and Barry', the music stopped. Then, as if in answer to a silent prayer, Megan came over to the table and joined me. She was hungry too. Our eyes pierced each other again, and I searched desperately for something intelligent to say.

"Would you like some frankfurts?" Pathetic, I know, but it was the best I could do.

"Thank you, I would love one, I'm starving," she replied smiling and revealing dazzling white, well spaced teeth.

"You look different from last time," she said, alluding to the St. Patrick's day march meeting.

"So do you, although I'm surprised you remember," I said.

"Of course I remember you. I remember that you were going to come home on the train with us and then your brothers caught up with us and made you go with them. Actually I remember being disappointed when that happened. How am I different?" she asked.

I was temporarily stumped. I couldn't think of a suitable reply. What did she mean she was disappointed. How do I answer that? Finally I chanced a 'safe' answer.

"You've grown a bit."

"So have you," she said. And so with a momentary stumble, a slight faltering but plenty of positive intentions we were off the blocks.

We talked a little. Small talk, the talk you talk when you don't know what to talk about, but find the person you are talking with to be delightful and definitely worth going through all the initial difficulties associated with a first time encounter. As the music started up again she asked me if I liked dancing. I looked over to see what the other girls were doing.

"I do but I haven't done that before." Then I quickly added, "Er... but I'm willing to try."

So we began to bop up and down simulating the style of the day learnt from watching the kids on 'Bandstand,' when she asked me if I could jive.

"No, I've never tried it," I said. I don't like answers in the negative but what's the point in saying yes if it isn't so?

I'll show you," she said. She took my hand and began to show me how to jive. It was pretty easy. I just stood there and did the directing. It was she who did all the work.

"Hey, go Hickey, not bad," yelled Sean O'Rielly.

"Nothing to it," I said. "It's all in the feet," I said. Sean seemed impressed as he looked down. "Not mine, hers," I had to tell him. Sean then displayed a vague sense of interest in both our feet. My only interest at this point centred on Megan's first impressions of me and her aforesaid mentioned disappointment two years earlier, but common sense told me this was not the time to ask.

Megan was also a Leaving student. All the girls were which by quick deduction, meant we were all about the same age. She wore a bright blue dress and smelt wonderful. She had high cheek bones that accentuated her smile that carried all the way to her eyes. Her golden brown hair lapped around the top of her shoulders. She carried the scent of musk and for me her presence became all engrossing. Sean began dancing with Monica and Keely and Allen had taken up dancing with Katie and Sophie. Michelle was dancing with Barry, and it looked to me like they were already more than close friends. I felt such a comfortable feeling with Megan, as if we had known each other for some time. As I began to relax I allowed my eyes to drop a little, just enough to notice she had well formed breasts below the cut of her modest neck line. We danced a little more, ate a little more. Some of the 'old folks' in the other room came into to see how we were all getting on. I wondered if they liked being reminded of what it was like to be young again. Barry's Uncle George was a live wire. A very portly fellow, balding but with a smile that seemed to suit his ageing features, he began to mimic Elvis and Bobby Darin. The girls thought it was hilarious. We young men thought it was pretty ordinary but pretended to laugh. After an hour or so, Barry, who was smart enough to see that everyone was matched up, suggested we go outside, where we could still dance but escape the inquisitive eyes of the older generation.

We trooped outside into the back yard. It was a large area, plenty of room to play a game of football, I thought. Lucky Barry. It was a warm evening, the sun had gone down and there was a romantic feeling in the air. We began dancing to some slower music and I held Megan close. I could feel her soft breasts against my chest as we moved, and that prompted things to begin moving down below. When we danced slowly, I was more assured. She placed her arm around my neck and I could feel her fingers touch my hair. We moved backward and forward in a variation on the cha-cha. She had a small problem with her left leg and we laughed together when we fell out of step.

Conversation flowed freely. We talked about the Leaving Certificate and the differences between the two schools. Sophie asked about the Brothers. She had heard about the existence of the twelve inches of rubber matting, the strap as she referred to it. In unison, we assured her that her source of information on that point was impeccable. We asked what the nuns were like; did they use the strap? We learned that there were only six nuns left at their school. The rest were lay teachers, and no, they did not use the strap. Sophie started talking about sex education. That was a good move. That brought us all into the conversation.

The girls told us they were expected to imitate the purity of Our Lady; they were warned never to wear red dresses as this excited the boys, and not to wear shiny shoes for fear boys would see the reflection up their dresses. They were told it was their responsibility not to allow things to go too far. Whoever it was who came up with all the rules by which Catholic boys and girls were supposed to live, made it near impossible for both sexes to have a natural relationship. Unless of course, we were prepared to ignore most of what we were told. As I listened to the discussion, I noticed Barry and Michelle slip quietly away from the rest of us and walk around toward the front of the house. Megan noticed too. She looked at me. I looked at her. She grinned, I shrugged my shoulders and began to imagine doing a little tongue-locking with her.

At school, there was this 'one to ten' scale, that some boys would use to measure the degree of success they reached with a girl on a date. Number one, was simply holding hands, two meant kissing, at three they were lying down and kissing, four was 'feeling around', and so on. When some of them boasted a seven or eight, the point they claimed, at which either they or the girl, began to get undressed, I knew they were lying. I knew these boys better than they realised, and I could tell from the manner of their description that they were describing something they had read or heard from someone else, rather than a full-on personal experience. But when I saw Barry and Michelle disappear around the corner, I began to wonder.

Up to this period of my life however, my greatest fear, beyond anything else, was that if I were to die in the state of mortal sin, I would go to hell. And the issue of sex, of impurity before God, going 'too far' with girls, looking at pictures of naked girls, even just looking at myself naked in the mirror, was as I saw it, the easiest way to get there. I remember once Antonius Pius explaining to our class that it was possible for us to live a life of near perfection, to be the absolute model of the imitation of Jesus. It was possible, he said, that we could do everything right and proper for years and years and years, and then just once, to fall under Satan's influence. It was possible to commit just one mortal sin, in one unguarded moment, just one impure act was enough, and then to be killed crossing the road on the way to confession, and ending up in hell. It was heavy stuff for a fifteen year old.

But I was a little older now, and other influences were invading my thoughts. When it came to the crunch and I was weighing up the relative advantages of doing a bit of tongue-locking with Megan against the prospect of eternal hellfire, I suddenly became the supreme optimist and diplomat. Everything was negotiable. A bit of tongue-locking tonight and confession tomorrow, or next Saturday or sometime, seemed to me a perfectly reasonable compromise. After all, my father once remarked that the threat of eternal hellfire, didn't stop some popes of the middle ages fathering children, and it wasn't unusual for bishops of the same era, to be caught visiting whorehouses. They had obviously weighed up the pros and cons as well. Okay for them. Okay for me.

In the warmth of that Saturday evening as we progressed from dancing to sitting outside in the back yard of Barry Kase's house, the only light being the rear light above the back door, we were all fairly relaxed and the prospect of eternal hellfire was probably the last thing on anybody's mind. In that half light Megan looked stunning. We were both sitting in two barely comfortable chairs next to each other. I caught her eye and pointed toward the bamboo armchair with the cushion seat. I moved across. She followed me, and to my incredible delight, sat down on my lap in the more spacious and comfortable armchair. I placed my arm around her waist and her hand closed over the back of mine. My heart was pumping, my penis hardened, and she was sitting right on top. This was awkward and a shade uncomfortable, and I tried to move a little. She turned her head, looked into my eyes and asked,

"Am I too heavy for you?"

"No, Not a bit!" I told her.

She stayed her eyes, fixing them onto mine for a moment or two, and I wondered what was going to happen next. I didn't have to wait long. She leaned down and placed her beautiful soft lips onto mine and let them rest there for a few moments. 'God! She's kissing me.' We broke for air and she nestled her head on my shoulder. Her hair brushed against my cheek. It smelt of musk. 'This must be heaven,' I thought. 'I must be dead. I have lead a good life after all, and this is my reward.'

She turned her head toward me and this time I kissed her. We broke and I was about to go for the tongue-lock when she said, "Barry told me that you were at some kind of boarding school last year. Were you training for something?" Happy to give my lower regions some respite I told her about the Juniorate, the reasons I was there and why I did not return.

"Does that mean you no longer want to be a Aquinine Brother?"

"Yes." I said, "I gave it a try, moreso for my mother than anything else, but it just didn't work out." Before I could say any more she kissed me again. This time I rested my hand on her cheek. It was so soft. Not so my penis however. It started up again and felt about to snap in half. I think she sensed my moment of discomfort.

"I think you are a bit uncomfortable with me sitting here on top of you," she said and added, "Why don't we go and see what Michelle's up to? Or would you like to go for a little walk?"

"Great, walking sounds good," I said, thinking that my penis was not going to be able to handle this sort of pressure for much longer and I had better get up before it broke. Besides, 'walking could mean anything.'

When we wrestled ourselves up from the bamboo seat only Sean and Monica were still there. The music inside was a little louder now and the old folks were dancing to Frank Sinatra. Megan took my hand in hers and walked me around toward the front of the house. It was dark and the stars shone brightly across a clear sky. Suddenly she stopped walking, turned toward me, thrust her body hard against mine, put her arms around my neck, opened her mouth and locked onto mine. It was magnificent, extraordinary, dazzling, brilliant and divine and trust someone to come along and stuff it up. As we locked our arms around each other, the ear piercing shrill of Aunty Gwen's voice cried out from the back door.

"Barry, Monica, everybody come inside now, time to have the speeches."

'Fuck,' I thought. What a time to get formal. We broke for air, stared each other in the eye, and simultaneously burst out laughing. From out of the darkness, Barry and Michelle appeared from nowhere, looking a little unkempt. So did Allen and Sophie, looking equally dishevelled. Keely and Katie had disappeared altogether.

"Come on," Barry said, "lets get it over with, it won't take long."

"We're all going to sing happy birthday are we? How nice." Michelle joked.

31. Uncle George....

Everyone filed into the lounge. It was a large room, leading off from the front hallway. The furniture was modern but some of the pictures on the walls were photos of what looked like family members of a previous generation long since passed away. It was a comfortable house and I noticed the absence of anything religious. It felt different but warm and very peaceful. Uncle George started with a short introduction and said he had to tell us a joke. Megan and I stood there hand in hand listening as Uncle George began.

" You all know that Bob Menzies has just come back from meeting President Kennedy in the United States. Well, while they were in session together, Menzies asked the President what the procedure was for choosing his running mate. Kennedy said that his campaign members would suggest a number of candidates as well as other senior members of the party and then he would look at each of them and make a choice. Menzies asked him how he came to choose Lyndon Johnson. Kennedy then said, Well, Bob, I just asked him one question...I said Lyndon, if your father had two sons and your brother was one of them, who was the other. Lyndon answered, well, Jack, that would be me of course. Menzies was very impressed with this procedure, and when he returned home he called the Deputy Liberal Leader, Harold Holt into his office and said to him, Harold, if your father had two sons and your brother was one of them, who was the other. Harold hesitated for a moment thinking this must be a trick question. He then said, err... can I get back to you on that Bob. Menzies said sure, so Holt then left the office and as he began walking down the corridor he saw Black Jack McEwan. Jack, he called out, I have a question for you. If your father had two sons and your brother was one of them who was the other. Black Jack didn't like tomfoolery and said, me you idiot, and walked off. Harold thanked him, ran back to Menzies office and said, hey Bob, I have the answer for you. Yes, I'm listening said Bob. Harold then said, the answer is, Jack McEwen. Menzies looked at him very disappointed and said, no it's not Black Jack you idiot, it's.... Lyndon Johnson."

Everyone in the room burst out laughing and applauding. Uncle George was the hit of the moment, a little eccentric but a popular family member. He spoke about Barry's mother and said that if his brother had not won her first he would have been the next to try. Laughs all round. We then sang happy birthday to Barry's mother, Barry and Monica. Good old Uncle George led the singing. It was impossible for any of us to know then, that in less than one hour from basking in the plaudits of a grateful audience, good old Uncle George would be dead.

After singing 'Happy Birthday' to Barry's Mother, Monica and Barry, we stayed in the Lounge room and someone put the music back on. It was a samba, and Uncle George and Aunty Gwen were good at it. So was I. I took Megan's hand, but she hesitated and said, "I can't do this."

"I can, it's easy, I'll show you," I told her. And with that and a little help from me, we matched it with George and Gwen doing the samba in the lounge room of Barry Kase's house. The four of us attracted the attention of most of the guests and they stood around the room clapping their hands in rhythm, watching us. It was a moment for me. All that dance instruction at the Juniorate was finally being put to some worthwhile use. We noticed that George was sweating somewhat, the drips running down the side of his face, but he carried a fair bit of weight and we all thought after this he would probably lose some of it. After the samba the music switched to a modern waltz and I held Megan close. We danced head to head. I had seen couples do that on television and thought how great it would be to do the same. Others began to dance too. There were about eight of us on the lounge floor. George and Gwen sat the slow dance out. He was tired but still animated as he sat back in the big arm chair regaining some lost stamina. The music changed again. This time it was the Charleston. As much as George might have needed the rest he wasn't going to miss this one. He and Gwen danced at full pace. Megan declined, and Barry's mother joined me on the floor. We danced to the sounds of Lester Lanin's band. There was something about Lester Lanin that brought out a better than average performance in most dancers. It enveloped you, picked you up and carried you out to the limits.

"Where did you learn this?" Barry's mother asked

"At boarding school last year," I told her.

"You're good," she said.

Suddenly, Gwen let out a frightening scream. I turned around to see George collapsing onto the floor, clutching his chest. Gwen was in a frantic state. "Help him someone! Help him please." Everybody rushed in to see what had happened. Someone turned the music off. One of the men knelt down over George, loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. George was now unconscious. The man began to pump his chest. Gwen was crying and Barry's mother took her aside to console her. Monica rushed forward and screamed and ran to her mother. Some of the other women showed signs of distress and began to cry. The man continued with the pumping of the chest and when he stopped I could see Uncle George's stomach move up and down. I took this to mean he was still breathing. Then the stomach stopped moving and the man began pumping him again. When the man rested, the stomach would continue going up and down and then stop. An air of depression set in among all the guests and I looked to see what Megan was doing. She and the other girls were together trying to console each other. Barry and Monica stood with their parents, both in a state of shock.

*

It was forty-five minutes later when George's doctor pronounced him dead. The police had come, a priest had come, and the silence and loneliness that everyone felt was extreme. With reverent care, George's body was lifted up off the floor, taken outside and placed inside the ambulance, and the shock of what had happened rained down its devastating impact. Some of the guests had now begun to leave, more out of a sense of helplessness than sadness. I sat next to Megan who made no attempt to hide her tears. It was only when I saw her tears that I realised I was not crying. I was in a state of shock, but conscious of the sombre necessity of the living taking care of the dead. I thought to myself, we live and then we die, it was an inescapable fact of life.

There would be no more music in this house that night. Barry Kase had lost an uncle and he was in shock. Barry's father had lost a brother and Barry's mother wrapped her arms around her husband, his eyes wet with sorrow, as she tried to console him. Amidst the tragedy of a family death it seemed almost sacrilegious to ponder my own discovery of the evening. Despite the tragedy, a momentous joy had sprung up within me. In the midst of death, I had found life, a soul, and a feeling so uplifting that not even death could contain it. Her name was Megan and somehow I knew that for me, life would never be the same.

As her father arrived to take her and the other girls home, I desperately wanted to express myself to her in some way, and to hear something from her that I could hold on to, until we could see each other again. The occasion however was such that any move beyond a simple farewell would have been most inappropriate and I resisted. As she walked out the front door she turned her head toward me with a smile and a half wave. I responded in kind, and an altogether different feeling welled up within me as she disappeared from view. An eerie quiet descended upon all who were still there. We said what we thought was appropriate to Barry and Monica and with that, Sean, Richard Keely, Michael Allen and I started the long, silent walk home.

*

The shock of the 'Uncle George' experience was real. Its legacy lasted for at least a week, manifesting itself over several days at school where I simply gazed out the classroom window, reliving the event over and over again. Talking about it with Keely and Allen did not seem to help. They too, were struggling to deal with it. Barry did not come to school for a couple of days and I felt a genuine and unusual concern for him. But as they say, time heals all wounds, and after a week of mourning Uncle George, my thoughts turned toward Megan. Perhaps because of her, my sorrow was somewhat cushioned. At least I had something to distract me. There had been other girls I had met since Deirdre but none evoked within me such a feeling of joy and purpose. She was drop-dead gorgeous and just thinking about her caused heart pain. I had an intense desire to see her again. When Barry returned to school, the four of us kept together during recess periods reliving the event, a therapy that gave each of us the necessary support that allowed us to move on. When I decided to broach with Barry the subject of Megan, the news wasn't good.

"It's going to be difficult for the both of you," he said when I asked him for her telephone number. "About two months ago she started going out with Richard Keely's older brother James, and her old man wasn't all that keen on it. On their second date they didn't get home until four in the morning and her Dad blew his top. She was grounded, James was banned from the house. Last week's party was the first time she had been out since, and that was only because she, Michelle and Monica are best friends. I think you'll have a problem getting past the old man, but I'll give you her number anyway."

For the next three weeks I tried to talk to her but there was always a reason why she could not come to the phone. I suspected that she was not getting my messages, that there was some conspiracy within the household, so I wrote her a letter telling her how I felt, placed it in an envelope, gave it to Barry and asked him if he would give it to Monica to give to Megan at school. A week later I received a reply that sent my head into a spin and made my heart ache even more. Barry handed me the envelope in the school yard during early morning recess.

"Here, you had better read this," he said. "I haven't read it but Monica has told me what's in it."

At first the news was good. She thanked me for writing to her and said that she really enjoyed being with me at the party. She said her feelings for me were the same as those I had expressed for her and that she thought of me often. As I continued reading however the news became progressively more negative. She said her parents wanted her to concentrate on her studies and told her there would be plenty of time for social relationships later. They had decided that it would be best if we didn't see each other again until the end of the school year. That was her father's rule. She said she wished it were otherwise but there was nothing she could do and hoped that I would understand. She signed it, 'Fondly Megan'.

'A year! A whole fucking year. Some fathers can be bastards,' I thought as I read disbelievingly. I needed some time to absorb this. It was not what I wanted to hear. In my mind I had built up an expectation of something better. Deeply absorbed in the moment, I headed for the drinking taps and as I did so, I inadvertently brushed through the middle of a group of boys immersed in deep discussion.

"Watch out fella," one of them cried.

"Fuck off arsehole," I fired back. I was angry. I said it out loud at the wrong moment. Not in the school yard should such language be spoken let alone heard, and most certainly not heard by a man of the cloth charged with the training of we young soldiers of Christ. Brother Gordian yelled across ten feet of quadrangle.

"That boy there, Hickey." I froze in my tracks.

"Yes Brother."

"What do you mean by that outburst lad?"

"Sorry Brother."

"You'll need to be better than sorry son. Where do you think you are?"

"Sorry Brother."

"This isn't a football match you know."

"Yes Brother."

"You go back to the classroom now and sit there and wait for me."

"Yes Brother."

As if just being told that it would be at least the end of the year before I could see Megan again wasn't bad enough, now I had to quickly invent a story to keep Gordian from turning a slip of the tongue into a major event. Despite all my efforts to dream up a plausible reason for my outburst that would satisfy and quench a thirst for twelve inches of rubber matting, I struggled hopelessly. Megan's note had shattered me. I walked off to the classroom and as I walked, I felt the chill on the back of the neck as I imagined a thousand eyes watching, staring. Five hundred minds contemplating the impending twelve inches of rubber matting. As I sat in the classroom waiting for Gordian's imposing frame to block the sunlight pouring in through the door, depression set in. I concluded that the simplest way out of this was to tell him the truth, and let him have his fun. He could not wound me any more than Megan's father had just done. A few wicked thrusts of the twelve inches was minor compared to the pain now snaking its way through my veins.

*

He allowed me about ten minutes to sweat it out for before coming into the classroom. He asked me to explain my behaviour. Perhaps I embellished one or two details. Perhaps it wasn't all that necessary to mention my brother Paul, the trainee priest or Kathleen at the convent in Shepparton, or how I was one of only five people at mass this morning; something I threw in at the last moment thinking that it might save me a lash or two. He listened intently to my story, but as it eventuated, he wasn't interested in any of my embellishments. He cared about the swearing and gave me a short lecture on the need to control such outbursts. However, it soon became apparent that there was something else on his mind. The bush telegraph, he told me, had passed certain information to him that a certain Aquinine Brother at Pangarra had received his just deserts for crimes he would not mention and that the same bush telegraph had mentioned that I had played a major role in bringing that about. He wanted to let me know that there were Aquinine Brothers who greatly admired my role in precipitating that errant Brother's downfall. He told me that when he (Gordian) was teaching at Pangarra, rumours had persisted for some time about the Brother in question but that nothing concrete could be established because no one had come forward and complained. He said that to my great credit, I had changed that. He even apologised that in telling me this, he might be reviving in me some unpleasant memories.

"Brother Severus used to be my friend." he said. "We went through the novitiate together. I never suspected anything then. There were no indications that he was inclined to this sort of behaviour. I feel ashamed now, that I was not able to do something about it earlier."

I slowly began to realise that this was a gracious, forthright and magnanimous gesture on his part. Not an easy thing for a man of the cloth to face up to. Not an easy thing to admit, and out of a sense of respect suddenly developed for him, I told him that mine was a minor role in the whole exercise and that it was Michael Stewart who motivated the rest of us to take some action. I told him I was not experiencing any unpleasant memories, that the issue was now in the past. He nodded his head as a gesture of encouragement. I asked what had happened to Severus. He told me he was teaching in the state school system. As an afterthought, I asked him if he knew of Michael Stewart's whereabouts.

"Have you not kept in touch with Michael then?" he asked

"No I haven't." There was a lengthy pause. Gordian looked perplexed. He looked straight at me then to the hoards outside, then back to me.

"Well...er," He faltered, suddenly appearing somewhat uncertain as to where to go. Then he steadied. " I'm sorry to be the one to tell you Simon, but Michael has not been well."

"What's the problem?" I asked.

He looked down toward the floor, his face went solemn and I could see from his general manner, a serious and painful revelation was coming.

"About four weeks ago Michael complained that he was not feeling well. He had lost his appetite and was losing weight. His parents took him to the doctor but his GP could not diagnose anything specific and sent him to an oncology specialist who undertook some tests. Those tests revealed that Michael was suffering from Leukaemia. It's well advanced and I'm afraid Michael has only a short time to live."

I was stunned.

In an instant my mind centred on Uncle George lying dead on Barry Kase's lounge room floor. Then my entire association with Michael flashed across my mind. The dancing, the piano, standing up to Severus, all the advice he had passed on to me. A young healthy boy just a couple of years older than me. How could he be so sick? Gordian could see that I was shocked and offered some appropriate thoughts.

"It's a rotten thing to happen to such a gifted young fellow. Highly intelligent. Potential leader. He had a lot of promise and a lot to offer," he added.

Gordian was expressing the same qualities I had recognised in Michael.

"If you would like to see him I could let you have his address and phone number. I would suggest you call his mother first and check that it's allright before going to his home, but I'm sure Michael would be pleased to see you."

I was still in shock.

"I saw a man die a few weeks ago," I said.

"Where?"

"At a party."

"That wasn't Barry Kase's uncle, was it?"

"Yes, how did you know?"

"I heard about it. I didn't realise you were there."

"Yes I was. So were a few others from school. O Reilly, Allen, Keely."

"I'm sorry, I did not realise you had witnessed that."

Gordian's kindness was an unexpected turn of events and for a few minutes my pre-occupation with Megan's letter and its depressing contents was put aside.

"I would like to visit Michael," I said.

"He won't look the same," Gordian warned. "He's a lot lighter, somewhat gaunt. Perhaps it is a bit soon after the experience at Barry's party."

"What's gaunt?"

"He's thin, a bit meagre looking."

"That's okay, that doesn't matter." I told him. He hesitated, probably trying to weigh up whether or not at such a tender age I was ready for the experience, but eventually he agreed.

"Okay, leave it to me. I'll get the details for you by the end of the day."

It was then he revived the pain that precipitated my outburst in the school yard asking if he could see the letter I was holding. I gave it to him not even thinking that it was none of his business and who the hell did he think he was, anyway. After reading it and musing a moment, he said,

"Did you meet this girl at Barry's party?"

"Yes Brother." A modicum of formality had crept back into the discussion.

"Well, it doesn't sound too bad to me. She likes you. Perhaps you could continue to keep in touch by writing to her occasionally. I'm sure her parents wouldn't object to that."

"Yes I could I suppose," I replied, now taking him into my confidence. "Still, the end of the year seems such a long time."

"Not that long ," he said. " Not that long."

With that our conference came to an end. No lash. No twelve inches of rubber matting. Instead a feeling of relief and surprise that an unexpected source of support had found its way into my world. While my thoughts for the rest of the day had shifted from Megan to Michael, both aspects had caused me to think that perhaps there was something worthwhile to be said about some men in black cassocks after all. By the end of the day as promised, Gordian had given me Michael's phone number and address, and my mind was now pre-occupied with how I would handle this difficult development.

32. Michael Stewart

Our parish church, the parish I was born into, and where I had grown up, was still the place that generated the bulk of my social activities. Fr. Michael had been moved on to another parish earlier in the year. It was sad to see him go, but everyone knew that it would happen sooner or later. Still, with all the farewells he received it was a long time before he actually departed. Our curate Fr. West had won himself a promotion and had taken over as parish priest. He was relatively young for the job and 'good looking too,' my mother remarked. She also said he had a lot of 'get up and go' in him. My father said he was a 'mover and a shaker' whatever that meant. The youth of the parish were close to his heart, and one of his early tasks was to establish for us, a proper location to meet and socialise together. A place we could call our own.

The adjoining primary school where I spent the first two and a half years of my education under the scrupulous eyes of Mother Mary Angelina, had some makeshift classrooms. By simply opening the centre sliding double doors, they automatically converted into a hall when required. It was the original church way back before the funds were raised to build a new one. There was an old piano in one corner sadly in need of tuning, and every time we were there, I would monopolise it, even though there were others who could play far better. Perhaps those more qualified chose not to compromise their competency on such a neglected looking piece. I just couldn't help myself. Martin Barnett, a friend from school and budding trumpet player, listened to me play and came up with the idea that we should put a band together.

"A band!" I said. "We need more than a trumpet and a piano to put a band together."

"I know," he replied. "We need someone who plays the drums, and maybe a guitar player and I can play the bass too," he said. "That's a start isn't it?"

I knew a guitar player. It was my friend Geoff from across the street. He played Spanish guitar, but he was a versatile fellow and would have no difficulty in compromising his Segovian dreams if it meant being part of a group that would entertain and delight the throngs. For that, he could adapt to anything.

We decided to approach Fr. West about it. He pretended to be impressed with our endeavours and said he thought it was a good idea. In reality, it was exactly what he was looking for. He gave us permission to use the hall on Friday nights for practice and Saturday nights too, provided the hall had not been booked for a paying function. We agreed to meet each Friday and Saturday night to practice. Martin, Ian Wardley on his drums, Geoff on guitar and me. I felt it was time to bring Geoff out into the open. A non-Catholic in our midst might just help loosen the chains. Besides he played a good guitar. I also had this deep seated notion that it was my responsibility to convert him to Catholicism. 'Yeah right!'

After our first session together, Martin came over to me and said,

"Geoff plays a good guitar."

"Yes," and he's not even Catholic," I said in a somewhat sarcastic tone.

"I know what you mean." Martin replied, "I'm not sure if I am myself these days."

*

The phone call was difficult. I had no idea what to say. When a woman answered, I asked if Michael was there.

"Who is calling?" she asked.

I gave my name and told her I was a school friend from the Juniorate at Pangarra.

"Michael is asleep at the moment, I am his mother, is there a message I can give him?"

I asked if I could come and see him.

"Michael is not well at the moment," she replied.

I told her I had been made aware of his illness by Brother Gordian, and that if at all possible, I would like to see him.

There was a pause and then she asked me to wait. Some moments later she returned to the phone and suggested I come on Saturday morning. I agreed.

*

Michael lived in Essendon on the other side of the city. It took a tram, two trains and another tram, two hours to get there and I felt by the time I arrived that I was in another country. His parents' home was set well back on a generous block of land, displaying a beautiful front garden full of daisies and impatiens. They complimented the liquidamber standing straight and tall, its leaves now a brilliant fiery red, and beginning to fall. She greeted me at the door and showed me in to the lounge room where Michael was resting on the settee. He was sitting up with a rug over his legs to keep warm. The room was large but homely with elegant furniture and soft carpet. But for the earlier warning of his appearance by Gordian, I would have been shocked. He was very scrawny and looking somewhat desolate, not at all like the boy I last saw over six months ago. He turned his head toward me and smiled. I greeted him with a handshake and the raw boned feel of his hand unsettled me. 'Get your act together Simon,' I thought, 'You need to be strong here.' The conversation began with the usual 'how are you' which on reflection seems trite but I had never been in this position before and was woefully unprepared. He seemed unable to move but spoke in clear, lucid tones.

"I guess you never expected to be seeing me like this?" he said.

"No I didn't," I replied happy to sound normal in what was to me an abnormal circumstance.

"Are you in pain?" I asked.

"It comes and goes," he replied. "I have stuff I can take when it gets bad."

He seemed relaxed and helped me settle with a good flow of conversation. We did not speak of death, at least not directly, but its inevitability was there in spirit as we scouted around its dark perimeter. He expressed his disappointment that he would not be going to University. He wanted to study Psychology. He wanted to help people who suffered 'internally' as he put it. He said people suffered from psychological abuse as much as the physical, but that the former lasted longer and often went untreated. I could see clearly now that he had depth in his thought patterns, a depth beyond someone of his years. His mother brought in morning tea, and some biscuits. Thankfully the conversation then drifted to the things we had in common.

"Any regrets at not returning to the Juniorate?" he asked.

"No, not one," I answered and added, "Things have been happening."

"What things?"

"Girls," I said.

"That's great," he said. "That's the way it should be."

"I spent a week with Len Keating during the holidays and met his cousin Deirdre. She was very friendly. A couple of months ago I met someone else. Her name is Megan, she's fantastic."

"That's terrific, I'm pleased for you. How's the piano going?"

"I practice all the time. There's a boy at school who is trying to put a band together. He asked me if I was interested. I said yes, but I don't know if I'm good enough."

"Don't worry about how good you are, just do it." It was typical of Michael to encourage the best in someone. "The experience will be great and if you are no good, the worst thing that can happen is they kick you out."

"I guess so," I said. "We've already had a few practice sessions and it is a lot of fun."

"How did you find out that I was ill?" he asked.

"Gordian told me. You remember him don't you from a couple of years ago?"

"Yes I know him. He's already been here. He's a good bloke, he's okay."

"He caught me swearing in the school yard and hauled me in for a lecture but then told me that he was grateful for what we did to Severus. I dobbed you in. I told him it was all your idea. That's when he told me you were sick. He reckons Severus is teaching at a state school."

"I feel sorry for Severus actually," Michael volunteered. "He probably can't help himself. It's probably a form of mental illness or something. He should try and get some treatment of some kind. I don't think he's bad, he's just mixed up inside."

"I'll just be happy never to see him again," I said.

"I still have them you know," Michael said.

"Have what?"

"The letters, the copies of the letters we wrote to Pius, the ones we were going to send to Don Harris' uncle at the Clarion."

"I'd forgotten all about them. What are you going to do with them?"

"I don't know, destroy them I guess. There's no need to keep them now I suppose."

"Well," I said to him, "you do what you think is best. It doesn't matter to me."

As we continued our discussion the doorbell rang and his mother answered. It was his local parish priest paying his regular visit to administer the sacrament of communion and I realised it was time for me to go. It was difficult to know what to say before leaving and I took the easy way out and said that I would come again, even though at the time, I thought it unlikely that I would see him again. As the priest entered, I shook Michael's hand, and his mother thanked me for coming. As she showed me to the door, I could see the strain in her eyes, the sadness that she felt. She asked me not to be a stranger, to come again as often as I wished and I realised that my selfish motives, of not wanting to face a dying person, of trying to avoid a feeling of discomfort at being in this house, would have to be put aside. Those feelings, I realized, would have to be overcome if I was to grow to a level of maturity proportionate to the strength of character Michael displayed, and which he clearly thought resided in me.

*

Over the ensuing days I spent a lot of time thinking about Michael. I eventually decided to put my self-centred motives to one side, throw caution to the wind and become a small part of the remainder of his life. I made regular visits to him, each subsequent visit proving easier and more enjoyable, and the effort expended became a character building exercise for me. Even though I had no formal piano lessons, I somehow connected Michael with my playing. Despite his failing health, after just a few short visits he had become my de-facto teacher. I cherished the tips he generously passed on as he sat with me at his parents' piano. I was now able to play almost any tune that was familiar to me. He showed me how to memorise the notes and their location. As I applied his teaching to the practice sessions with the band, I realised that with all the other noise going on, nobody really noticed if it was good piano playing anyway. As long as the melody was coming through it worked fine. Michael's fortitude in the face of adversity became the yardstick by which I would make decisions in my own life. His strength of character became an inspiration to me.

The weeks passed and the band continued practicing, forsaking any other social outlet. We swore ourselves off girls for the duration and with Michael's invaluable assistance we began to take on the semblance of something remotely acceptable. And so it was with extraordinary confidence and outrageous conviction, Martin decided it was time to put our efforts to the test. He approached Fr. West, with a proposal to go public. Westy, ever the risk taker, allowed us free use of the hall, and we advertised a 'jam session' the following Saturday night, without charge. We told everyone to bring their own soft drink and any food they wanted, that we would provide the music, perhaps a cup of coffee but nothing else.

On the afternoon before our inaugural performance, we gathered together to convert what was essentially a classroom, dull, lifeless and boring, into a venue that would ooze all the atmosphere of a coffee lounge. The mysterious, haunting strands of live music would filter out into the street, inviting passers-by as yet uncommitted to join with us in something different with perhaps, an air of risk. It was a big job, moving all the desks, opening up the double sliding doors, setting up a few trestles and chairs, wrapping coloured paper around the lights to dull the painful jab of a 60 watt glare. Martin, Ian, Geoff and I, our hearts set on making a statement, doing our thing, making a splash. Brotherhood at its best.

As we worked away, Westy came in through the rear entrance. 'He must be impressed with this,' I thought. He spoke briefly with Martin who explained the arrangement and the plan for the evening, and I joined them.

"What do you need?" he said to Martin.

"Two double adaptors would help. Just to have, in case we need them." Martin answered.

"There are some in the kitchen of the presbytery," Westy said.

"I'll go get them if you like," I volunteered, adding, "Is the front door open Father?"

"Use the rear door Simon, I never lock it. You'll find them in the cupboard above the refrigerator." Westy said.

He seemed impressed and smiled approvingly. It was a satisfying feeling knowing the support for your efforts was there in the right quarter. I went to the presbytery and sure enough, the back door was unlocked. I went into the kitchen and located the double adaptors. A brief look around the kitchen revealed something I had long suspected.

'Holy pictures...everywhere!'

*

That night, they started coming through the door at about eight o clock. First it was just one or two, the occasional couple who were simply checking the place out, ready to make a quick exit should it not come up to expectations. Martin Barnett, ever the entrepreneur, started playing a Dave Brubeck record as background music creating a warm, inviting atmosphere sufficient to attract interest until the band began to play. As individuals found friendly faces among the early arrivals they delayed their departure in favour of peer group conversation. Then more came, groups of four or six, gender balanced in favour of the girls. The noise overtook the music and it was nearly nine o clock. The time came to play our first number and its arrival induced an attack of the nerves. Geoff kept making lightening trips to the toilet. Ian kept dropping his drum sticks, and my fingers went all clammy, sticking to the keys as I mimicked a few bars. Realising that we were under no obligation, we decided to throw caution to the wind and began playing. After all, nobody had paid anything. If it were a monumental stuff up, all we would suffer would be a huge egocentric personality disorder, which at the time seemed a reasonable risk. So we began playing, starting with 'It ain't necessarily so', adapted from the Oscar Petersen rendition but with limited improvisation. Under the circumstances, a full belt of Oscar would be asking a bit too much. As we played, I had my back to the dance floor. I didn't dare look over my shoulders for fear that if I took my eye off the keyboard, I wouldn't be able to find the notes again. I didn't hear anyone laughing though and I took that as a good sign. The number lasted about four minutes and at the end of it some encouraging applause, at least enough to keep us going. As long as they didn't throw anything at us, I figured we could get through this.

As we gained in confidence, I took a look over my shoulder to see what everyone was doing. Those kids who were on the dance floor were bobbing up and down to our music and really enjoying themselves. Others just used the evening as somewhere to go. Some stood around the hall chatting while one or two couples found a dark corner where they were sucking mouths relentlessly. As the night wore on we all became more confident, more relaxed. It was all working out fine and Martin suggested to me during a break that we were fools not to have struck a small admittance fee.

"Are you kidding?" I said, "the fact that it's free, is the only reason they are here!"

Fr. West came along later in the night to check up on things. Fortunately the mouth suckers were taking a break. The following morning I could not wait to phone Michael Stewart, and tell him how successful the evening had been.

33. Megan.....and Tchaikovsky

Despite her father's embargo, and his best intentions to enforce it, Megan and I did stay in touch. I took Gordian's advice although not quite the way he had suggested. Through the underground resistance movement comprising Barry Kase and sister Monica, notes were passed between us and delivered to the school grounds. It was indeed a clever network. I suspect the CIA would have been impressed, not to mention MI5. The notes were brief; there was not a lot we could say to each other. Sometimes she would write, "missing you," and I would reply, "missing you more." On very rare occasions, we were able to see each other when her school netball team played on Saturday mornings. I walked nearly two miles, then took the tram to L'Aquila, to see her play. Once she noticed me walking through the gate while she was playing, and it distracted her to the point where she lost the ball to her opponent. The crowd groaned and she looked very embarrassed. She looked across to me and I blew her a kiss. She grinned and continued on with the game. I thought what terrific legs she had. When the game finished we were able to talk together but for only a few minutes.

On the second such occasion, Michelle was with her and it was then we discovered the three of us, were de-facto triplets. We discovered we were all born within the same twenty four hour period in the same hospital. It was spooky. Megan was the eldest, born on the 25th June 1945. Michelle and I were both born on the 26th, all three of us at nearby Our Lady of Lourdes Hospital. Being born at Lourdes was not really a coincidence. It was a Catholic teaching hospital and practically half the Catholic population of Highfield and surrounding suburbs were born there. Judging by the Leaving class sizes at L'Aquila and Placidus, 1945 must have been a torrid time for mothers at Lourdes. They were pumping out babies at a record rate. When I told my mother of our discovery, she recalled that night, she said, with a renewed sense of hope, as all indications at the time suggested that the War was finally coming to an end.

*

I joined a record club and began to compile a collection of my favourite classical pieces. It was better than pouring over the classical music section at Allen's music store. All too often when I tried to find something at Allen's, someone from school came into the store, saw me and wanted to know what I was doing. Somehow, I felt that to say I was looking for the last four songs of Richard Strauss, was not a suitable reply, and I pretended instead that I was looking for Little Richard or Elvis. I was then told that I was in the wrong section, and that the pop section was somewhere else. Joining a record club gave me the opportunity to choose without having to explain myself. Peer group pressure was such a pain in the neck. Megan and I discovered through our letters that we had a mutual love for classical music. I told her I loved to listen to Ferrante and Teicher play movie themes and she shared with me that they were her favourite pianists; that they played Chopin and Bach too. Sometimes, in her notes to me, she would mention a particular composer, and I would reply with my favourite composition.

She wrote, "Bizet."

I replied, "In the depths of the Temple." I wrote, " Debussy."

She replied, "Claire d'Lune." She wrote, "Puccini."

I replied, "Your tiny hand is frozen."

On one occasion her note to me simply read, "Tchaikovsky's Cappriccio Italien."

I simply replied, "Bellissimo!"

Her reply came back, "He's Russian you fool."

My response, "Ah yes, but he composed it when he lived in Italy!"

Her reply, "Ah, bella Roma."

My reply, "Ah, bella Megana."

While our band continued to send people into a wild, frenzied state of euphoria, Fr, West and some others on the parish council were planning something else. They decided that it was time to get something more formal for the youth up and running. Westy took great pride in announcing one Sunday morning, the imminent formation of a Youth Group. An inaugural meeting was scheduled for the following Friday and he encouraged everyone from sixteen to twenty two, to come along. He also asked Martin if we would play something on the night, just as an interlude to other items on the agenda. Martin agreed. He had no choice. It was pay-back time and to refuse, would put us in the dog house with Westy. We couldn't do that, not after all the help he had given us.

Over one hundred people attended the inaugural meeting of the Youth Group. There were people I had seen before but didn't know. There were people I had never seen before, and people I had seen and wished they had not come. The business of the evening took a long time. Everyone from the year twelve students to the young twenties wanted to have their say about what they wanted. The longer it progressed the less interesting it all sounded. There was something about consensus and procedures of democratic processes that I found tedious. I wasn't the only one. After an hour and a half of mindless consultation, a few started drifting out the door. Westy, ever aware that the moment of collective inspiration had passed, moved to elect a steering committee. Actually he had much earlier decided who were going to be the members of that committee and carefully accepted prearranged nominations. It was a set-up, but a very good lesson in mob manipulation. Formalities concluded, he suggested we break for supper.

"But before we do that," he said, "can I say that I am most impressed with the efforts of Martin Barnett and his music group who have been practicing here in the hall for many weeks and have put together a very good sound. They have been playing to the youth here in the hall for a few weeks now, and I think it would be a great thing if they could play us a number or two, what do you think?"

That prompted manipulated applause from the West camp all around the hall.

My hands were sweating. The man was truly a crowd worker.

As we played 'It ain't necessarily so', my fingers were sticking to the keys and a trickle of perspiration ran down my forehead. A short interlude from Martin on the trumpet, which to his creative credit, was never in the Oscar Petersen arrangement, gave me a chance to compose myself. I had a bit to learn about public performances. Mercifully, we completed the piece and I breathed a sigh of relief. I thought it was a very flat performance, but everyone cheered and wanted more. Westy saw to that. Feeling a little more relaxed, we gave them an up- beat version of 'Younger than Springtime'. This was a much better performance and by the end of the night everyone was happy and positive, thinking the Youth Group was a great idea. 'The man's a genius,' I thought. I was sitting with Martin and the boys, each of us feeling in good spirits when Westy walked toward me. He had a serious look about him and I wondered what we were doing that would cause him to be annoyed. As he approached me, he rested his hand on my shoulder and told me he had received a call from my mother earlier.

"She asked me if I would let you know that your friend Michael Stewart passed away earlier this evening," he said.

I was stunned.

"I'm very sorry Simon, is there anything you would like me to do?"

I couldn't speak.

*

Overriding the numbness present in my mind, I dealt with my sorrow as best I could. I could not find the words to explain Michael's death. It left an emptiness inside such as I had not previously experienced. A nagging emptiness that prompted a longing to run to his bedside and find him sitting up, well and lucid. I could not explain my sorrow to myself let alone share my grief with others. I tried to block it out.

Westy stood there for a few moments watching me. He asked me if I was okay. I said yes, but I wasn't. Michael was still there, haunting me.

Westy departed and still numb, I said to the others, "Lets keep playing."

We began to play a new bracket of songs. I played with a passion I had not previously felt, and all the time I played, Michael's face was etched in my mind. He was here with me, smiling, approving, encouraging. I played with every ounce of passion and enthusiasm I could muster, and only toward the end, did I notice droplets falling on to the piano keys, falling from my eyes. Only then did I grasp that I was crying. If it were not for Michael and his generosity in giving me that initial confidence, I would not be here playing now, and I could not hold back the sense of loss. It had to manifest itself somehow, and it did so without my realising it, in the simplest of ways.

*

They buried him three days later. Michael's funeral was a packed house. It was standing room only at St Monica's, Moonee Ponds, such that the police were called to control the traffic on busy Mt. Alexander Road. Needless to say, Aquinine Brothers were everywhere. Michael was to all intents and purposes one of their own, even though he did not return to the fold after his final year at school. The senior members of the Juniorate made the journey down from Pangarra, his local primary school turned out in full force. The parish where his parents were well known and loved, responded in generous numbers. I sat there with Len Keating and some former school friends from the Juniorate humbled that Michael had impressed himself so indelibly upon so many. The choir from the primary school sang beautifully, the priest spoke with conviction but with pauses that revealed an inability to conceal his sadness.

Not until I rose from the altar rail after communion did I see him. I was returning to my seat. He sat in the back row as if to avoid any contact with those who knew him. As I walked down the side aisle intent on locating where in this massive assembly I was seated, my eyes caught a glimpse of his unmistakable profile and my heart lurched forward and back in a violent thrust. It was Severus. 'Why had he come?' Finding my seat I could think of nothing other than his presence and its overpowering imposition. As much as I may have convinced myself that he was no longer of any interest or concern to me, my reaction told me otherwise. I looked up to the front and fixed my eyes on Michael's coffin. As I did, I remembered Michael's words to me when we spoke briefly of Severus on my first visit. "He probably can't help himself," I recalled him saying.... "It's probably a form of mental illness or something. He should try and get some treatment of some kind. I don't think he's bad, he's just mixed up inside."

Even in death Michael was exercising his influence upon me and I resolved quickly not to let this intrusion overtake the broader solemnity of the occasion. At the end of the Requiem, the throngs followed the coffin out of the church where everyone gathered to talk, console and remember better times. By the time I made my way through the front doors, Severus had disappeared, the knot in my stomach eased, my heart rate slowed and all was well again. I chatted briefly with my friends from Pangarra, I thanked Michael's mother for giving me the freedom of her home during those final weeks. I then made my way home, still somewhat numb, from the all too abrupt manner, in which a strong influence had entered into my world, and then even more abruptly departed.

34. The Poleaxing of Quintillus.....

Despite a renewed sense of optimism about the Aquinines, generated by Gordian, there were other skeletons in the cupboard. The local football season was in full swing. Damien cajoled me into playing football for the local suburban side with himself and Mark. He suggested I come to Greystoke Park and play in a reserves match. I was uncertain about playing with boys who were really men, who were bigger, heavier and possessing little of the true attributes of skilfully trained footballers. Damien thought I would fit in just fine. I wondered if there was any likelihood I would learn anything. To my surprise, I discovered that Sean O' Reilly was one of the team's star recruits. He was tall and his solid build made him a good acquisition. After just one game played in the reserves match, I was selected to play in the main game the following week, even though, except for Sean, I was at least two years younger than any other player.

On game day, we assembled at our home ground at Greystoke Park. We ran uphill onto the ground after changing behind a wall of cars so positioned to substitute for the dressing sheds we never had. Those cars were vital in helping us maintain our dignity, when throngs of girls from the local school would run by and whistle while our pants were down. The opposing team's fortunes were no better. Some say it was a deliberate ploy on our part to unsettle the opposition. This wasn't true. The local council had been promising to build dressing sheds for years, just as they had been promising to level the ground and even build a fence around its perimeter. But like most council promises, it was the eloquence of the promise and its resultant expectation that counted at election time, not the actual building of same. Still, the girls didn't mind.

We ran uphill onto a field that was in the literal sense, not a level playing field. It ran uphill from wing to wing and, not surprisingly, the less fit members of the team began feeling the sharp jabs of exhaustion before they reached the centre. Tactically, the bulk of field play was located on the lower wing. Only when the wind blew from the west did play lift and transfer to a point not far from the centre of the ground, and if the wind persisted, play usually remained at some point along a line directly between the goals. Consequently scoring was always at a premium, and quite often two to three goals scored by one side was enough to win the game. Our team was used to it. They had been playing on this pathetic excuse for a football ground for a generation, and most of the support base, were the fathers of present day players and former players of a golden era now long gone. When ever the team was in trouble, the fathers would simply encourage us to play down the hill. No one could score from the bottom of the hill, and only our team knew how to bring the play back up the hill.

Our Coach, Col Peacedale, welcomed me in a short peptalk before giving us his instructions and sending us on the long uphill grind to take up our positions. The game began, and immediately, the coach of the opposing side sounded familiar.

He was a playing coach and he was sprinting up and down the ground shouting angrily at his team right from the first bounce of the ball. I strained to get a closer look at him. I was sure I knew him from somewhere. As the play came toward me, so did the mouth. It was Brother Quintillus from Placidus. I remembered him well. The one who humiliated me on the field in front of the opposition. The one who slapped my face in the dressing rooms. The one who ranted and raved in the classroom, threw projectiles at students at will, and slammed doors as he stormed out of the room, but who had disappeared by the time I had returned from the Juniorate. He wasn't Brother Quintillus any more though. He had left the cassocks, and now he was just an ordinary man. His coaching methods clearly hadn't changed much, and he spent most of his time screaming and shouting at everyone else. Nothing had changed. He was supposed to be playing on Damien, but when the ball came his way, Quintillus was never close enough to catch him. If ever I had cause to like this man, at this point I should have felt sorry for him. But I didn't like him and I didn't feel sorry for him. I began to think of ways I might even the score for past years of abuse and the basic fear he had engendered within me. I couldn't take him on, he was bigger and stronger; besides, he was already flaunting a broken nose and I felt safe in assuming he didn't get it walking into a door or tripping up on the church carpet.

By half time we were enjoying a comfortable lead. Half time with our team was interpreted differently from that in serious sporting cultures. Half time, was time for a drink and a smoke. A swill of Victoria Bitter was seen as a panacea for all ills, bumps, scratches and even deflated egos. I checked with Damien and Mark. Yes, they had recognised Quintillus, and so did Sean O'Rielly, who recalled his own not so fond memories, of the man he called, 'shit for brains'. It was Sean who suggested a game plan that might send 'shit for brains' home with a few not so fond memories of his own.

Back on the field, Quintillus appeared to have learnt little from his team's disappointing first half performance. He continued to rant and rave, hurling abuse at his own players as he loped up and down the field paying no attention to his own game. He was unsettling his own players. Our players up the field, sensing the weakness, started playing the ball through me, and I kicked three goals in five minutes. Quintillus reached new heights of outrage, anger and frustration but he didn't recognise me, in fact I doubt if he would have recognised his own mother such was his total absorption in what he perceived as his team's failure. He decided to play closer to me. Sean O' Reilly signalled this as the right opportunity to put his plan into action. Both he, and Mick Harvey moved in to cover me when the ball came close. Damien was also close by. Mark hovered in the background.

Nobody at the game that day, quite remembers exactly what happened next. The official report was vague. It was generally believed that the ball came down field and player S. Hickey (that was me) led to receive the ball, while Player No. 21 for the opposition, known to us as 'shit for brains', attempted to contest the mark. As he did so, players D. Hickey, and S. O'Rielly, came in from either side, and within the five yard zone, a collision of sorts occurred. The subsequent aftermath, including player S. O' Reilly accidentally falling on top of him, resulted in player No.21, lying unconscious on the field for several minutes while medics of his club tried to revive him. He was carried from the ground to the cheers of our team, and if the truth be known also the cheers of some of his own team. He was neither seen nor heard from again that day.

*

The poleaxing of Quintillus was a minor watershed. It didn't change the world but it did release some of the tension that had built up as a consequence of being back at Placidus, and dealing with Michael Stewart's death. I felt sad that there was not one man in black that I wanted to emulate. Despite Gordian's kindness, I felt a student would need to hold some of his teachers up as icons if he was going to apply himself sufficiently. I saw no one I could utilise in this way.

As the year dragged on, my academic prowess was taking a battering. I could not grasp Physics or Maths. My strengths were in English, the Histories, and Geography, but my interests were recreational, and not even a natural ability for expression, or a photographic memory were a proper substitute for dedicated application. I found playing in the band infinitely more satisfying than study. My social calendar was my default guide when a regular pattern of homework and study would have been the wiser option. 'My social calendar? What social calendar?' That was limited to nothing more than going to the pictures. And I really missed Megan.

35. Fr. Paul......

While my sojourn into the religious had run its course, Kathleen and Paul had vocations that were more enduring. Kathleen took her final vows and settled into general teaching. Paul was ordained at St. Patrick's Cathedral in Melbourne. That was a proud moment.

Up to that time, in its short history, Placidus had produced just one priest. Now it was about to get not just one more, but two. The day Paul was ordained he was joined in the limelight by another who had attended Placidus years before and then entered the diocesan seminary. The cassocks were beside themselves. This was a great moment for the college. These two ordinations vindicated all their efforts. St. Patrick's was full, it was standing room only. Half the college was bussed in to witness the happy event. Paul was one of some twenty young men ordained that day. Bishop Simonds, dressed in purple, could have been Marcus Aurelius Antoninus himself. He looked the part better than Frank Thring's portrayal of Pontius Pilate in 'Ben Hur'. Men in black cassocks would record this day in the annals of their history, as like no other day.

My parents seemed lost in the crowd. Their pride, their happiness and moreover their contribution to this day, it seemed, ran a distant second to the grandeur of the moment. Their simple commitment to the raising of their son was lost in the celebration of a collective achievement, claimed by the cassocks, and mostly manifested by the smiles, the handshakes, the back slapping and the congratulations extended from one to another and finally to Paul, from people Paul had never even met.

The ordination was followed by a series of first masses. Paul said his first mass at our parish church the next day. Fr. West, ever keen to take the stage, welcomed him home to the bosom of family and friends, even though he too had never met Paul before. Then came the first mass at Placidus. That was on the following Wednesday. This time the whole school was invited to participate. The newly ordained old boys said mass together. I became an accidental celebrity. I was the brother of Father Paul Hickey. Somehow I was seen as partly responsible for having a half day holiday to celebrate the occasion. It was the first time I recalled Titus ever smiling at me. Or was it only because my parents were there and Titus was suddenly reminded that Paul actually had a family? Gordian was there too, and made a special point of introducing himself to my father.

Whatever they really thought about it all, the Brothers had their moment and the celebrations finally petered out. Paul spent a few days at home with us and then returned to the seminary. A month later he was posted to the Missionary Society of Saint Bartholemew's 'house' in the Phillipines. His appointment was for five years and his departure nearly broke my mother's heart. She had long known that his chosen path would take him away, but until that day arrived it could be blocked out and happily concealed amidst other more satisfying events and memories. The day the ship pulled out from Station Pier at the Port of Melbourne, there was little anyone could do to console her. Her sorrow, her tears, her external show of unashamed emotion, ran to a depth within her, that none of us could possibly imagine. My father too, shed a tear but said little. His sadness would have to be endured in silence, as he tried to comfort a distraught wife and mother.

36. Goodbye Deirdre.....

Six weeks after Paul's departure things had settled down at home. We had received his first letter. He had arrived safely in Manila, and was settling in to his new routine. My mother had also settled down, and the household returned to some semblance of normality. Early one evening Mark and I were back at football training. We were on the field going through the usual routine when two girls came to the ground. One of them was asking for me.

"Hey Hickey," one of the guys called out.

"What?" I shouted back across the ground.

"There's a couple of girls here to see you."

My heart leapt inside as I contemplated the possibility that Megan had broken out of gaol and was fleeing to my protective arms. I looked beyond the two darkened outlines walking toward me to see if yet another was following...like her father. No, the coast it seemed was clear. As I walked toward them, the outline I recognised was not Megan. It was Deirdre Keating waving to me with her cousin Anne walking alongside. I had not seen her since that week spent with Len in Castlemaine, although we had continued to write. Our most recent letters had tapered off somewhat from the earlier romantic tone, but were still very friendly. We greeted each other warmly with a hug and a kiss. The two of them had come down to Melbourne for the day to do some shopping and decided to come out to home to say hello.

"Your mother said you were down here, I think she was a little surprised to see us."

"Mum's not used to having girls come calling for me." I told her.

Training had more or less finished so I asked the coach if I could call it a night. I changed behind the safety of a car, embarrassed and thankful for the onset of darkness, and the three of us walked off to have coffee at a local cafe. Deirdre had changed a little over the nine months since we first met, and she looked really nice. I was just beginning to entertain the idea that there might be something worth rekindling here when she gave me the news.

"I have decided to become a nun and will be entering the convent in Bendigo in a few months." She took me by surprise and I came out with a silly comment.

"Wasn't anything I said was it?"

"No, of course not. But I hope you are happy for me?"

I was genuinely happy for her and said so. We talked for a little longer and then they had to go. As we said goodbye I kissed her on the cheek, and as I did I remembered our night at the pictures. She was the first girl I had kissed in earnest. She was my first love. I wanted to keep in touch. She thought it would be better not to. She smiled and as the two of them walked off together, I wondered if I would ever see her again.

37. Staying down....

The end of the year came, I sat for the Leaving certificate examinations and failed. I scored well in English, Modern History and French but found the remaining subjects painfully boring. I wanted to leave; not because I was going anywhere, but because I couldn't face going back. The only subjects I truly enjoyed were English and History. A liking for English stemmed from my mother's constant efforts at home in encouraging all of us to speak well, not to slur our words, to speak clearly, and to write things down in much the same way we spoke them. 'That way', she told us, 'everyone will understand you'. I'm not sure what it was about History, but it didn't really matter. I had reached a level that was sufficient to walk into a junior clerical position in the Public Service. Feeling secure in that knowledge, I was more than happy to get out of that place and settle into a new routine, a new way of life. That meant a new independence, and a socially active calendar, of parties, picnics, girlfriends.

My father would hear none of this. He wasn't angry that I had failed, but he wasn't going to allow me to walk off into a savage competitive world that he knew only too well would eat me up and spit me out like yesterday's scraps. He wasn't going to let me out into the real world without a proper start. He sat me down in the quiet surroundings of his rose garden, and explained why it was in my best interests to return to Placidus for one more year. He told me I didn't have to matriculate, but a pass in the Leaving certificate was essential. He told me that he understood why I was no longer interested in the Aquinine Brothers and said frankly that he was relieved. "They don't live a normal life," he said. "There are some strange ones amongst them," he added. He asked me not to repeat that to my mother, just to keep it to ourselves. I guess that did the trick. My father and I had something we shared together. Something that no one else knew, and from that moment I knew that this was a man I could trust. In the poignancy of the moment, I felt the urge to talk to him of the experience at the Juniorate with Severus. There was a rush of emotion from within, I opened my mouth to speak but the words would not come.

"What is it?" he asked in anticipation. But I found myself unable to articulate.

"Is there something you want to tell me?" he persisted.

Finally I blurted it out.

"Something happened at Pangarra that I've never told you or Mum."

"What was it?"

"One of them touched me."

"What?"

"It was Brother Severus, he touched my penis. He rubbed it with cream." My father was stunned. His face went blank. Finally he spoke.

"In what way did he do this?" he asked. It was at this point I told him the whole story warts and all, starting with the incident in the upstairs toilet, indicting myself for my laziness, the pep talk after school where Severus inquired into my developing stages of puberty. Then the midnight visit to my bed with the cream that he said would 'help' me. As I spoke, my father became progressively more unsettled. He fidgeted, folded the newspaper several times, got up, walked around the garden, took deep breaths. I continued my recalling of the events that transpired subsequently; the meeting with the other three victims in the boiler room; the suggestion we kill Severus, later commuted to wrecking his career. And then the plan to write the letters and present Antonius Pius with a demand for his removal. He listened intently as his rational side fought to gain control of the emotional furore building up inside, then he spoke slowly.

"Pius knew? Are you saying Pius knew this was happening?"

"I don't know if he knew before we wrote the letters. Michael Stewart thought he did. Michael said Pius was protecting Severus."

"Was Michael Stewart one of the other boys Severus interfered with?" my father asked.

"Yes."

"When did this happen? Was it before your mother and I came to visit you?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me about it then?"

"The four of us agreed to say nothing. We wanted to give Pius the opportunity to get rid of him. We felt that if Severus was sacked and sent away, we need not bother saying any more about it."

My father was silent. His anger was obvious but he seemed conscious of my fragile state and controlled his demeanour.

"You should have told me then," he said after thoughtful consideration. "I could have helped you. I could have spoken with Pius. I might have been able to save you and the other boys some of the anguish of facing up to Pius. However, that's water under the bridge now. What happened after that?"

"Nothing for a few weeks, and then Severus left early one morning. Pius said it was his health. The four of us felt really good; as if we had achieved something really important, not just for ourselves, but for all the others who had been abused and said nothing."

My father sat down beside me, looked straight at me and then in an approving gesture, placed his hand on my shoulder.

"You did the right thing. Don't misunderstand me. You and the other boys have done something significant...but," he added, "that may not yet be the end of it."

"What do you mean?" I asked as he shook me gently by the shoulder.

"Do any of the Brothers at Placidus know about this?" he asked.

"I think all of them do. Brother Gordian spoke to me about it earlier in the year. He even apologised for what Severus' did. He was angry with Severus. They used to be friends."

"Gordian, oh yes, I remember meeting him at Paul's ordination. Okay, don't worry about it any more. I might have a word with Brother Gordian though. The important thing for you now, is to put this behind you and go back and repeat the Leaving."

So I did his bidding and returned to Placidus for one more year, utterly oblivious to the subsequent train of events that would culminate, one shocking day in the future.

38. The Goddess...Megan

Then came the worst possible news. It was early in December that we learned Damien and Elaine had broken up. It seemed they had a huge argument after which he decided to see the world and take ship to England. He had tired of the same job and apparently he also tired of Elaine, and besides, so many of his friends were heading overseas. He had saved for some time keeping his intentions to himself. Nobody had any wind of it. My mother discovered it when he carelessly left a booking confirmation letter on his bedside table. She found it six weeks before he left. He said that he was about to tell us all in a week or so. He said he didn't want every one to know too early in case he changed his mind. For my mother, Damien leaving home was like Paul's departure all over again. Somewhat relieved to hear that the non-Catholic Elaine was no longer in the picture, she had not expected matters to result in Damien leaving the country. She did not take the sight of her children walking out the door very well. My father accepted it in silence.

The summer passed quietly. There was no special Christmas magic in our hearts that year. My mother had always been the engine driver for our Christmas and this year she did not have the energy. It was a quiet celebration ever mindful of the absence of Paul, Damien and Kathleen. I sent a Christmas card to Megan and she sent one back. She said that they were going away for the summer holidays and I wouldn't be able to see her until February. She said she would wait and hoped that I would too. The flame was still alive, but the warm romantic nights of January seemed empty and lifeless. We were able to keep the band going at regular intervals, but every time I saw someone groping in the corner of the hall, I would pine for Megan. I found myself waiting impatiently for the start of the school year, uplifted somewhat with the knowledge that this would be the last.

First day back at school and things were not as bad as expected. I wasn't the only one to repeat the Leaving. There were some surprises; Barry Kase for one, Martin Barnett too. Funny how he didn't mention it when we played in the band over the summer. I steeled myself for the jeers that I thought would come from students who had moved up to Matriculation. But on the whole there was little or no reaction. There were a few new cassocks transferred to Placidus, and a couple disappeared from sight. One new Brother was Balbinus, who offered us a new subject, Commercial Principles. Balbinus was different from the others, in that he was the first one I knew, who had completed a university degree, before becoming a man in black. He had also been a teacher before becoming a Brother. Commercial Principles was something new and interesting, learning about the law, and I took to this subject quickly. Balbinus was the first man in black to have a sense of humour too. He had some pet nicknames that he shared around the class fairly generously. 'Muggins', 'Face ache', 'Useless', and 'Fizgig', were the four most common. The nicknames were based on the level of intelligence we showed at any given moment, or the quality of our responses to his questions. Anyone so nicknamed, knew he had to lift his game. It was better than slamming doors and throwing projectiles. He knew our hormones were raging too. When he noticed anyone sitting with their hands below desk level, he groaned, "keep your hands out of our pockets lad. Play with your pen if you have to."

*

Then finally it happened. God decided that I had been punished enough already. Recent tragedies were set aside. I was let out of purgatory. The sun came out. The sky was blue again, and my life was about to go to the land of the orgasmic bliss. Out of the blue, Barry Kase asked me if I was interested in going out with Megan again.

"Is the pope a Catholic?" I said. It was as if all the lights in the world had just been turned on.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Give her a call. She's waiting!" he said, as he walked into the classroom for English that third week in February.

My knees went weak, my penis hard and that was the end of any concentrated effort at school work for the rest of the day.

*

The following Friday night, Megan and I were together again at the pictures after ten months of celibacy. The movie was 'West Side Story', and we could barely contain ourselves. I loved this movie. This was the third time I had seen it. I could never forget the scene at the dance when Tony arrives to be greeted by his friends the Jets, and Maria arrives with her brother Bernardo, and his friends, the Sharks. There is this magic moment when these two lovers to be, catch a glimpse of each other from across a crowded dance floor. As if totally oblivious to anything and everything else around them, they are drawn to each other by an irresistible, invisible force. It's a force strong enough to captivate their very being. Yet a force gentle and persuasive enough to allow the two minds to make contact, and their two bodies to respond in a choreographic glide across a sea of nothing, into each other's arms.

At that magic moment, I blindly reached out for Megan's hand. It wasn't there. Instead, my hand landed on her lap between her legs. She immediately opened her legs, my hand slipped down between them and she clamped her legs tight again. My hand was trapped between her thighs, and it was her fault. Was this Heaven or what? She then placed her hands over mine and lightly stroked my arm up and down. Wow! I turned to look at her, our eyes met and a second later so did our mouths. Yes it was Heaven! We broke for air, and rested our heads together. The rest of the movie was punctuated by clasping, watching Bernardo get a knife in the gut, stroking each others arms, watching Tony and Maria pretend to marry, kissing with my hand on her leg and hers on mine, and watching Tony get shot by Chino, and more kissing.

After the movie, we were entwined again outside the butcher's shop in Burkett Road Highfield, and again further down the street in a laneway between a ladies lingerie shop and the railway station. She was wearing a low cut summer dress and undid the top button exposing cleavage. My lower regions underwent an orgasmic explosion as she pressed hard against me while I was pressed up against the English elm in the park adjacent to the Town hall. When I told her what she had just done, she burst out laughing and began sucking on my neck. Any previous notion at any other time of Heaven on earth was hereby superseded, overtaken, replaced, exchanged. She was the most exciting person I had ever known.

39. Father West.

"Bless me father for I have sinned. It is a month since my last confession."

"Go ahead."

"I have been inattentive at school. I swear a lot, I've had five emissions. That's all father."

"Were the emissions alone or with others?"

"Alone father." My mind was temporarily blurred in respect of the one up against the elm tree in the park with Megan.

"Was it in bed at night then?"

"Yes father."

"Did you touch yourself?"

"No father." I didn't mention about the rubbing up and down on the lower sheet.

"Well my son, if it happens under circumstances where you are not in complete control, I would not worry too much about them. That's just a natural release of the body. Each night before bed just say a short ejaculation that Jesus will protect you from any sins of the flesh."

"Yes father."

"For your penance say three Our Father's and three Hail Mary's. Now a good act of contrition."

*

The Youth Group was flourishing. Fr. West had seen to that, and guarded over it, as if it were the most important project of parish life. At one of the monthly meetings someone suggested that we start a drama group and put on a parish play. It seemed a fairly ambitious project but there was no shortage of enthusiasm. Everyone was keen on the idea so in accordance with proper democratic principles a sub-committee was established to look into it. I was on the sub-committee and our first job was to find a play and a Cecil B. De Mille to direct us. We advertised in the parish paper in the hope that some local hopeful might see this as their big chance. A local parish man came forward to offer his services. His name was Peter Brown. Westy took on the job of interviewing and reported back to everyone that he was impressed with Brown. He had the right credentials. He had been in lots of amateur plays before, and even had a part in a police television drama. Peter Brown also had one other major factor working in his favour. He was the only applicant. Peter Brown was our man. He suggested that we consider doing Agatha Christie's 'And Then There Were None', a mystery about someone trying to murder ten people on some lonely island. As no one thought we were quite ready for 'A Streetcar Named Desire', we agreed and set a date for first auditions.

I suggested to Barry Kase that he and Monica come along to the first night of auditions and asked if they could bring Megan. I told them I had a few committee errands and needed time to set up the audition night. Not true! I didn't want to be in Megan's father's face too often. I didn't want him thinking that maybe we were spending too much time together. In the space of a few weeks, Megan had transformed my life. The trauma of watching my mother slowly slipping into depression, watching two brothers leave home and failing the Leaving was not without its effect on me. I needed something or someone to deflect my attention. It was not lost on me that she was now studying Matriculation and therefore a year ahead of me. But there was no indication that it bothered her, and it certainly didn't bother me. She was just the distraction I needed. The last thing I wanted right now was her father stuffing things up.

Audition night at the church hall was like preparing for a football game. It was difficult to know who came to try out and who came to lend the necessary moral support. As Peter Brown explained the procedure we would follow, the throngs of hopefuls listened intently, possibly convinced that this was their big moment. This would be that first small step that would lead ultimately to stardom, fame, lots of money and for the male aspirant, lots of lovely young ladies draped over each arm as they walked the red carpet to the premier of their latest blockbuster. Wow! There was a sense of expectation in the air. It was a combination of nervous tension and high levels of concentration. When the readings began the nervousness could be heard through the faltering laughter as one by one we gave our best shot at the few lines Peter Brown had selected. Megan came with Barry, Michelle, and Monica. We all sat together and Megan and I started playing with each other's feet. None of us could boast any previous experience on the stage, nor were any of us aware how much hard work this acting thing was going to involve. When my turn came to audition, I gave it my best shot. My few short lines were of a somewhat philosophical nature, and I cast my mind back a few months when I saw 'Witness for the Prosecution' at the pictures starring Charles Laughton. He played a top gun English barrister in a murder trial and spoke so eloquently and with as much polish as one could imagine of any Englishman. I delivered those lines exactly as I imagined he would. It was a brilliant imitation of Charles Laughton....and it worked.

I was given the part of Philip Lombard, the hero, and all I could think about at that stage was, who would be the heroine to be kissed at the end, and the villain that I would kill off. One young man who read for a part had only been with the Youth Group a few months. His name was Barry Eastside, a cadet officer at the nearby Farnboro Air Force Academy. He was from Queensland and came to us looking for some social company. I admired him. He was a long way from home and our Youth Group was his way of overcoming the loneliness of distance that separated him from his loved ones. He read well. He had a deep commanding voice, one that would send the shivers up the spine if you heard it in a dark alley on a Saturday night. He would do well in the air force just bellowing his voice out at trainees, I thought. It did not surprise me that he won the part of the villain, Lawrence Wargrave. How he would find the time to put into rehearsing I didn't know, but I surmised, he knew what he was doing.

Then Peter Brown turned his eyes towards Megan. She was asked to read. At first she didn't want to. It wasn't her thing she said. She was more the backstage worker, and besides, she was too busy with her studies, she said. But with a little encouragement from me, and just about everyone else she read anyway and as she did, a hush descended upon the room as everyone listened to her voice. She sounded so sweet, so fragile and vulnerable. There was a slight quiver in her voice that blended with a cultured eloquence that reminded me of Jean Simmons. When she finished, the room was deathly quiet. You could have heard a pin drop. An angel had just breezed in, and captivated every heart. The heroine of the play was Vera Claythorne, and Megan Macleod won that part. She was not a little reluctant and shocked by what had happened. From her point of view, what had begun as a simple evening's intention to kick on with a little neck-sucking in a resurrected relationship so rudely interrupted ten months ago by Uncle George's untimely demise, had become something altogether different. Overtaken by the moment, and not a little bewildered she looked at me and I at her, and we both beamed. The evening had suddenly placed her in the limelight as leading lady in an ongoing production with a blurred use-by date. In my own simplistic male approach to the occasion, I just enjoyed the idea that I wasn't going to be concerned any more about her father. Let's see him get around this!

For Westy this was pig heaven. So much fruitful activity going on, all under his careful executive direction, was a testament to his leadership style. You could see his chest swelling with delight. For Peter Brown it was the opportunity to demonstrate his prowess as a director in a production that could carry his theatrical ambitions to previously unattained heights. The stage was set.

*

Rehearsals began almost immediately and were held twice a week. The first problem was transport for Megan. She didn't live all that far from the church hall, but it was far enough to require a car. Her father was willing to bring her on Fridays bless him, but on Wednesdays he was otherwise engaged. 'Oh what an opportunity lost,' I thought. To think that I could have been her constant caller in my sleek green Aston Martin, so similar to that of James Bond's in Goldfinger. We could have been photographed and written about in the gossip columns of the daily papers. Our names might have been linked in some romantic off-stage scandal, that made us the constantly pursued target of the paparazzi. Reality can be so uninspiring. I didn't even have a driver's licence. Peter Brown agreed to call for her on Wednesday. 'Bugger'.

The entire production team, spent the next twelve weeks, casting, reading, building sets, sorting out costumes, searching antique stores for props, and a lot of other backstage matters besides, all under Peter Brown's careful direction. Monica and Michelle, not to be out done by Megan's rise to stardom, took on the backstage roles of costume design, make up and hairstyling. They were made for the part. As more weeks of rehearsals passed, Monica argued intensely that Phillip Lombard should have a moustache and black hair. 'God no!' I thought. Michelle wanted to experiment with Megan's hair. She felt the Veronica Lake look, was the way to go. Megan was horrified. As the weeks passed, there was neither time nor energy for anything else. Any ideas I had, that our romance was going to thrive were quashed, simply by the intensity of the work rate. We were both balancing our acting agenda against a school study curriculum, hers more demanding than mine. We did sneak some time together, but we were simply too tired to bother taking it beyond a kiss and a cuddle. The pressure was building daily and became relentless as the opening night drew near. The cast and crew needed a break. We needed something to distract us from an ever looming and overpowering sense that we were out of our depth. Westy was conscious of the demands the whole project was having upon everyone and, determined not to allow anything to interfere with his vision, he came to the rescue.

*

In summer, the still, flat waters of Port Phillip Bay beckoned like an oasis to thousands of sun lovers and beach goers. On the southern tip of the peninsula, Sorrento nestled peacefully. The cypress trees spanned the concrete pathway along the shoreline of the bay, their branches extending out giving shade to the sandy front beach, and the soft buffalo grass where the crowds sat at the concrete picnic tables. Jutting out from the shore, the pier was a magnet for line fishing. That was in summer. This was autumn, it and was even better. The warm weather was still with us, but the crowds had gone. Westy had decided that the hard working cast and crew of what would be his finest moment, could have their break. This was where he brought us, to frolic, to play and enjoy the company of friends, and let off some of the tension. This was Westy's idea of good wholesome organised Catholic activity. This would keep everyone out of harm's way, keep us together, bond us, demonstrate to the world that there was more to Catholicism than Sunday mass, confession, the rosary, mortal sin, venial sin, occasion of sin, the stations of the cross, abstaining from meat on Friday, more mortal sins, venial sins, more occasion of sin, and the Mothers' Auxiliary.

The bus was full, about fifty all told. It was an even split, male and female. The girls laughed and chatted to each other as the bus curled its way around the beach road, through Dromana, then McRae, and Rosebud. The boys were more subdued, not quite sure if 'macho' role play was appropriate. Some of them too, were no doubt wondering which of these lovely girls they would try to romance on the way home. A little bit of cuddling and kissing in the partial privacy of a darkened bus was pretty much what happened on such occasions of sin. I didn't have to think about that. I had my own occasion of sin.

Megan was popular with the girls. Why wouldn't she be. She was beautiful, smart and unassuming. She had an easy going nature. She listened to people and enjoyed conversation. Just having her come was a major thrill for me. Knowing that she wanted to be with me, still blew me away. Thank goodness Deirdre was no longer in contention. I didn't want any complications with Megan. No way. This one deserved and demanded my total concentration. She laughed and joked with girls I was with at primary school, and I couldn't help but wonder what they were telling her about me.

Barry Eastside and I chatted together. I liked him. He was away from home, and that can be lonely. I knew what that was like. He thought Megan was gorgeous and told me I was a lucky dog. I told him I was much luckier than a dog, and he got the message, that there was no way I would ever take Megan for granted. No way! He asked about Michelle and I had to tell him that she was well and truly spoken for. Barry Kase had a mortgage on her. It wasn't Eastside's day, although it was clear that he was on the hunt.

For five or six years, during May school holidays, my family stayed at Sorrento. We rented a three-bedroom house each year with a bungalow outside. We spent two weeks here and although the weather was cold, it was generally fine and there were plenty of things to do. There was a certain magic about Sorrento in May. In the early morning, a fog descended on the bay area, and looking out along the misty shoreline, sent an eerie thrill though the bloodstream.

I knew this place well, and when the bus pulled up outside the Koonya hotel at the bottom of the hill before the road climbed up to the town, I took Megan, Monica and Sean O'Rielly out onto the pier where I used to fish for flathead. Barry and Michelle went walking in the opposite direction. We knew what they were up to. They couldn't keep their hands off each other for more than five minutes. I would liked to have done the same with Megan, but Monica and Sean were not as romantically attached, and Megan didn't want to desert her best friend just yet. We watched as two girls were fishing on the pier. They were concentrating intently and one of them said, "Be careful, be careful." They had just caught a fish and it was very exciting watching, as they reeled it in. Sean walked over to them and in his official fishing voice, said "Hello hello, what have we here?" Both the girls turned around to look. As they did, one girl let the line slip and it fell into the water. It was unfortunate that Sean's attempt at spontaneous socialising with the opposite sex was to end so quickly. Naturally he was blamed for the loss of the fish, and the line, and neither girl wanted us to stay and watch any more. One girl screamed out, "Fuck off moron," and we retreated gracefully, if not a little stunned at how savage some girls can get when they have been dealt such a degree of treachery.

Back at the picnic tables, the rest of the group had set up camp. Some of the girls had dressed down to their swimsuits and boy, had I been walking around with my eyes closed or what? Breasts bulging out from inside a bikini top like they were about to pop. Did I really go to primary school with these girls? Before I could gather my thoughts, Megan had removed her top and her summer skirt and my head went into a spin. Her bikini was a heart-starter. She said, "Come on, lets get wet," and ran off toward the water. I followed as if I was running a four minute mile, hoping I could disguise the ever increasing bulge in my trunks. We went out until the water was up to our waist and madly splashed around before grabbing on to each other. We drew each other close, and drop to our knees so that the water covered up to our shoulders. Our lips locked together. This wasn't what Westy had in mind when he organised this outing. Poor fellow. Did he have any idea what he was missing? We came up for air and stared into each other's eyes. At this point, I couldn't help myself. I told her I loved her. She smiled, and to my enormous relief, she told me that she loved me. I promised her I would always love her, and she said she would hold me to that. If ever there was a moment in my life when magic and reality fused into one, it arrived then, and as we stared into each others eyes, we smiled a smile that spoke a thousand words.

We were just about to go into tongue-lock again when a football splash-landed right in front of us, and we were joined by Barry and Michelle who appeared from nowhere but still, could not keep their hands off each other. Monica and Sean finally waded out to where we were, and the six of us did the keepings-off thing with the football. Barry threw the ball high in the air towards Michelle and she leapt out of the water to catch it. She too was well endowed in the breast department. Sean and I just loved it. Then Megan swam across to Michelle, talked quietly for a few moments then separated, each with a positively wicked look on their faces. A few moments later Megan swam over closer to me.

"Don't think I haven't noticed what you two were gaping at with your mouths open just then."

"I cannot imagine what you are referring to." I replied.

"I bet you can't and after what you just told me a few minutes ago. Really!"

With that she moved toward me, placed her hands around my waist and just when I thought we were about to kiss, she ran her hands down my trunks and pulled them off right down to my knees. I was exposed, naked below the water line. She backed off and called to Michelle.

"Throw the ball Michelle, throw it to Simon now. Throw it high. Let's see how high he can leap out of the water." Michelle obviously knew exactly what had happened and threw the ball high to me. I wanted to leap high and mark it but I could not. I wasn't wearing anything. 'God...what do I do?...should I hold back?....the ball is coming toward me...yes...no...yes...'

"Jump up Simon, go on." Megan screamed.

Suddenly in a moment of impulse, I leapt out of the water as high as I could and took a spectacular mark. Everything was exposed. Those behind me got the cheeky end. Those in front (almost everybody), were momentarily treated to a three second flash of the source of all life. What an embarrassment! But at least I took the mark. The girls screamed and doubled over in fits of laughter. Barry and Sean were coyly amused, somewhat indignant for the male loss of face. In no more than a few seconds I was back under the protective waters of Port Phillip bay. Round one to Megan. I pulled up my trunks and began to go after her. 'Perhaps I should remove her bikini bottom? Perhaps her bikini top?' I was considering the possibilities. What does one do with a girl to whom one has just expressed his love, who, when she sees him eyeing off her best friends breasts, reacts by pulling down his pants? As I drew closer to her, still somewhat undecided, a familiar voice called out from the shore.

On the shore the barbecue was sizzling and Westy was waving us in for lunch. He had seen all the goings on and he was not happy. As we emerged from the water, a soaking wet bikini top with a generous exposure of cleavage donated by all three girls was much too much for Westy and he forgot about me, diplomatically suggesting to the girls, they cover up in case they caught a cold. 'Yeah right!' He had this bewildered look about him as if he was thinking a trip to the mountains might have been a better idea. 'No, I don't think so. This, was the best idea he had ever dreamt up. This has to be the most erotic thing that has ever happened to me!' The girls dried themselves off, pulled on their t-shirts and opened up their baskets of food. That's when the taunts began.

"What did you see?" asked one of the girls.

Instinctively, Megan and Michelle replied, "Not much actually." Monica and Megan cracked up with laughter. Struck by the simultaneous nature of the reply the girl asked,

"Are the two of you twins?"

Instinctively, I joined the chorus and the three of us, Megan, Michelle and I replied together,

"No, we're triplets."

"I beg your pardon?" came the question.

"We were all born on the same day at Our Lady of Lourdes," Michelle explained.

"But you each have different parents don't you?" asked another.

"A minor technicality," Megan quipped.

"How did you know that I would jump?" I asked Megan.

"Sean told me. He said you can't resist a mark."

"Did he just? That's one I owe him."

"No!" she blurted out, " We owe him. That was the best show in town today." With that she embraced my head onto her breast while Monica and Michelle cracked up with laughter all over again.

The sausages and hamburgers were ready and we sat down with others in the group to eat. Barry Eastside joined us. He had no food other than what we all shared on the fire, so Megan prepared some bread and butter for him.

"What did I miss?" he asked.

"Very little," Monica said, and all the girls cracked up with laughter again.

Westy tucked into the food and walked around the tables chatting and joking. He was good at socialising and he clearly enjoyed his role. But he wouldn't come near our table, as if he was somehow intimidated by the nature of the laughter.

"What you missed," I told Eastside, "was a good demonstration of primal man's determination to overcome any obstacle to achieve excellence."

Quick as a flash, Michelle quipped, "Simon, we saw the primal part, but do tell us, what was the obstacle and where was the excellence?" The three M's doubled up in laughter so much I thought they must be wetting themselves. I was enjoying this little repartee enormously, even if it was at my expense and as I watched Westy, I could not help wondering why he would not also want to enjoy some female company. The life of a priest must be incredibly lonely. Camouflaged by day with a near endless schedule of appointments, interviews, meetings, masses, and the like, but at night, what was there at the presbytery but a sad lonely silence. Did he have doubts? Did he wish it otherwise? As I wondered, I felt a sense of relief my vocation to the Aquinine Brothers had evaporated. Still, each to his own.

After lunch a group of us walked up the hill to the town. We passed the Continental Hotel, built before Jesus was born, and moved along past the shops. The girls window browsed. We came to a record shop and went inside. Instinctively, most headed for the latest pop records. Megan and I headed for the classical LP's. We cast our eyes over the selection. She studied a few, San Sans, and Mozart. I picked up a new release of Jussi Bjoerling, and we both droolled over it. It had Robert Merrill, Zinca Milanov and Renata Tibaldi singing lots of Puccini and Bizet. Barry Eastside came across, and looked at the LP.

"Don't tell me you like that high brow stuff?"

"Actually Barry, yes we do," I told him. Megan remained silent but I could see she was amused by the inference.

"It is an acquired taste Barry," I added, "Not for everybody." Megan giggled with delight.

We strolled our way through the rest of the shopping centre before returning to the bus. The driver was waiting to take us to the back beach, a rough, rugged and beautiful part of the Victorian coastline, that in stark contrast to the serenity of the bay, roared out its magnificent splendour, and warned of its treacherous swells and currents. We spent the afternoon climbing over sand dunes and rocks before taking another swim in the rock pool at the bottom of the cliffs. This time it was done with all the propriety of a vicarage tea party and Westy's sense of balance was therapeutically restored. As the afternoon drifted on to early evening, it was time to climb aboard the bus, and begin the journey home. Megan and I sat together as we travelled home. We cuddled up together as the sun went down, and soaked up the remnants of a day that had brought us closer. We had declared ourselves to each other and it was a grand feeling. 'She loves me', I said silently to the sand at the water's edge along the bay. 'I love her', I silently whispered to the silhouetted outline of two children playing in the sand. 'She loves me', I quietly told the mongrel terrier as it cocked its leg on the grey, slightly leaning lamp post in the middle of the shopping strip. The dog looked up as if it heard me, then continued the discharge, content that no harm threatened.

The following Wednesday night after rehearsal, Megan told me that Barry Eastside had asked her out to an Air Force function at Farnboro. She told me that she had politely declined his offer.

"What did you say to him?" I asked

"I told him that I was in a relationship with you."
"You told him that?"

"Yes. I was right wasn't I?"

"Yes..... of course we are. I'm just a bit knocked out that you told him."

"Last week you told me you loved me, and that you would always love me. I was drawn to believe you. Besides he doesn't even like Puccini so what point would there be in going out with him?"

"Well.....er....precisely," I said.

I loved her even more for declining Barry's invitation and for what she had said to him, but that did not stop me from seething. At rehearsals, I would be watching him, wondering how I could wrap his balls around his neck, or better still, stuff them down his throat. Such was my distraction, that I began to fluff my lines or forget to come in on cue, and there were these long silent breaks before Peter Brown roared out at the top of his voice.

"Lombard, where the hell are you?'

"Right here Peter, what's up?" I replied, as if I was the epitome of professional concentration. Brown thought I was being lazy. I wasn't. I pretended I was tired. In fact I was livid and exhausted from thinking up ways of sending Lawrence Wargrave 'alias' Barry Eastside up river on a slow boat to China. My only joy was the knowledge that I was going to shoot this 'son of a bitch' stone dead three times in front of a full house. Once during rehearsals when the time came for me to do the deed, I pointed the gun at him only to be told by Peter Brown to lift it higher; more towards his head. I was pointing it at his balls.

*

That first night performance hit us with the speed of an asteroid. It was upon us before we realised. We were all like jelly but Peter Brown somehow held us together. It was the first of a three night performance schedule. Monica had all the right costumes ready. She was very good at applying make up and Michelle took care of any last minute hair problems. I avoided having to wear the moustache only because the prop we rehearsed with would never stay on properly, and we could not find an alternative. I had to have my hair smothered in hair cream to create a darker image. It was better than dyeing it, something I refused to allow.

The curtain came up and there was no going back now. We were on the stage and from this point on it was crash through or crash. We started rather nervously, a little slow coming in with our lines. We moved uneasily across the stage relying on the assistance of various pieces of furniture to hold on to. Some chained smoked to hide their sense of discomfort, others drank so much pretend gin, that had it been real, would have had them rolling off the stage and stumbling into oblivion. We relied heavily on back stage prompting when we forgot our lines. We made a lot of mistakes that first night, before an audience made up of local school pupils and peers. They were responsive and laughed occasionally but not necessarily where they were supposed to laugh, and probably did not even notice most of our mistakes. But after ninety minutes or so, we did finally get through it, our credibility relatively intact.

For the next two nights' performances, the audience consisted of more astute and critical eyes, and we had to be right on the mark. Each night too, I had to kill off the dastardly Wargrave. I did that with relish and very deliberate poise. Then there was that kiss with Megan that was supposed to bring the curtain down. First night, we were a little hesitant. The kiss was nervously interesting. The second night, it was interesting, and I was feeling more relaxed. Megan liked it too. Third night kiss, we were both quite relaxed and the kiss was definitely with feeling, such that we made it last that little bit longer, encouraged by the knowledge that this grinding schedule was finally coming to a close. After this, we could get back to a normal life. The audience responded with approving applause, or were they too, simply relieved that it was all over? Those three nights were performed before a full house of parents, friends, workmates, and parishioners from our parish and three neighbouring parishes. Even some cassocks came along. Gordian and Balbinus were sitting with Westy in the front row. It was a huge project with maximum parish involvement, perhaps over one hundred people all told, and most were recruited from the Youth Group.

It was a triumph for Fr. West, parish priest, producer, and entrepreneur extraordinaire. After the final performance everyone was exhausted. There was no big after-party. No one had any energy left. I struggled home to bed and slept for nearly twelve hours. So did everyone else. We all felt a tremendous sense of achievement, and a huge feeling of relief that it was all over. A theatre critic came along to the final performance and wrote about us in the 'Advocate' newspaper, a Catholic weekly. The critic was not all that complimentary in her review. The word 'amateurish' was used, but we didn't care. What did she know anyway? More importantly, Megan and I were now free to be two ordinary people again, away from the constant pressure of the tabloid photographers, and the grubby little producers ever keen to re-sign us for their new production. We were now free to return to the simple lives each of us knew before fame reared its ugly head.

Two days later at school, Balbinus gave me an approving nod and said that one day what I had done would count as a subject on the school curriculum. 'Great!', I thought, ' When it happens I can't wait to come back and do it all again. Yeah right!'

As the weeks wore on, Westy wanted to do it all over again. Some members of the committee were quite keen to go full bore into another production. They weren't the ones who had put in the blood sweat and tears for Agatha Christie, the ones whose minds were still exhausted with the efforts expended killing off Wargrave each night. But Peter Brown put the brakes on them. He told the committee that for personal reasons he would not be able to continue to direct us. That blew the stuffing out of them. We had long realised that it was Peter Brown's driving force that kept the project on track and without him, and his personal knowledge of each of us, there was a huge void in their plans.

40. Freedom...

With all the effort involved in producing the parish play, and all the time it took, 1962 seem to pass with breathtaking speed. The world was on the brink of madness. Nulclear Testing by the two super powers, race riots in America's deep south, the Cold War, American Military advisers in South Vietnam. On it went. Every day a new crisis. No wonder my mother was looking depressed. The final examinations produced the required results though. I passed. Megan, Monica and Michelle each passed their matriculation and were on track for University. I realised that when submitting job applications, seven subjects grouped together looked impressive. I wondered if I could get away with omitting to tell a prospective employer that it took two years to achieve that result. Except for Balbinus, who seemed to have a better grasp of the real world than other men in black cassocks, but whose appearance on the scene was all too late, and Gordian, who had helped me through a difficult time, the impressions left by my twelve years at Placidus, were all negative. Its legacy was a form of mental indolence that the Brothers could not have anticipated, and even if they did, I don't think that there was anything they could have done about it. From their limited and narrow minded perspective, they had done their job in teaching me the fundamentals of Catholic faith and morals, at both the Juniorate and at Placidus. But now, at the tender age of eighteen, I knew that the future course my life would take, was going to be in my hands.

*

In the early sixties, labour was in short supply. The nation's economy was booming with full employment. Immigration levels were at an all time high, and people came from all over Europe, Ireland and the United Kingdom. Jobs in the public service were walk-in unseens, subject to an entrance examination, something marginally above a competency test. I was offered a clerical position in the Department of the Army and it was that simple. I was earning an income, paying board, buying clothes and independent.

The Youth Group was fulfilling an important social need for so many of us. We were the baby boomers now emerging out of adolescence. My mother wanted me to take up some tertiary study but I just couldn't face it. The memory of school was too close and from where I was sitting, that's what tertiary study seemed to be, more school. My mother persisted though and I relented and enrolled for an Accountancy course. I attended classes but after a few months I tired of it and dropped out. I know she was disappointed, but I thought it was better to tell her, rather than to continue the deception.

41. The Debutante...

It was perhaps understandable that Uncle George's sudden departure from planet Earth eighteen months earlier, impacted upon Monica Kase, such, that when the time came for her to take part in the Debutante Ball for that year, she found she could not bring herself to do so. In a righteous display of common sisterhood, both Megan and Michelle, stood shoulder to shoulder with their friend and did the same. 1963 however was different, and the three M's were ready to rejoin the society season. All three were now at university but were still welcome to return to L'Aquila and complete their coming out. Megan asked me to be her partner. Not, she told me, because she wanted every opportunity she could to nibble on my neck and me hers. She openly admitted to having two left feet, and after witnessing me samba Uncle George to death on Monica's lounge room floor, she wanted someone who would take charge of her dancing and promise to bring home the goods on the night. How could I have possibly refused? Besides I knew she really wanted to nibble my neck.

Megan's parents were very friendly but always seemed to be a little uncertain of me. Can't think why! We both came from good Irish stock. She was the eldest of four children. Perhaps there was a certain apprehension on their part that our romance had blossomed. Perhaps the thought of their eldest daughter, now a university student, teaming up with a less than ambitious young man uncertain about what he wanted in life, wasn't quite what they had in mind. But love won out, and despite those uncertainties, Megan and I were a teenage item, and I was now welcome in their house.

We rehearsed every Sunday afternoon in the church hall at St Mary's, opposite L'Aquila and I played the roll of partner to the letter, dutifully calling for her and paying her fare on the tram. Now we could date without incurring any suspicion from her father. We rehearsed together with eleven other couples, including Barry and Michelle. Monica was able to convince a hesitant Sean O' Reilly that he would have the time of his life.

Spending so much time at her house was unusual for me. In some ways it was like a second home only it wasn't. In some ways I looked upon Megan's younger siblings as ex officio distantly related kin of some description. That felt strange but, hey, who said this was going to be easy? I was even permitted to visit that most thrilling and erotically appealing of rooms; Megan's most private area, her bedroom. Mostly with the door open of course, unless it was otherwise possible to escape unnoticed for a moment or two. My first visit into that inner sanctum revealed some home truths about girls rooms that I previously thought were confined to my sister Bridget. It was a teenage bomb site! Tastefully decorated in colourful floral wallpaper, and furnished with a bed, bedside lamp, a dressing-table, wall mirror and built-in wardrobe, it seemed unable to cope with her retinue of dresses, magazines, brushes, books, records, nail files, sweaters, stockings, coat hangers, bras and countless other items of apparel that were (she assured me) systematically displayed all over the floor, leaving the most narrow of pathways by which she negotiated me from door to bed. When the door was open we sat together looking through her school album. Door closed, we kissed passionately lying across the bed our legs dangling over one side until footsteps down the hallway caused us to quickly resume the sitting together position, album in hand.

At Debutante rehearsals we practiced our special presentation dance each week always to Chopin's Etude no.3 in E Opus 10 . Week in, week out, we listened to Chopin until it became so utterly a part of our persona we were humming it to each other on the way home in the tram as it rattled its way along Rivervalley Road At times, we became aware of other people in the tram staring at us, and realised we were singing out loud. At work, I was often caught in the act of singing while at my desk, my supervisor breaking my concentration as he commenced to sing with me. I hummed along, as I mowed the front lawn on Saturday mornings, as I showered in the bathroom, even in the toilet. Our presentation dance was a hybrid dance originating in part from the Pride of Erin and part Evening Three step. We called it the Evening Pride.

Megan was a spontaneous person. Not that I was complaining. I loved her spontaneity. Decking my trunks in the water at Sorrento was testament to that. One day, on our way home from rehearsals, as we walked through the park, she led me off the pathway and up over a rise.

"Let's walk over there," she said.

"What for?" I said.

"You'll see. I want to show you something."

She backed me up against an elm tree, and we began with a few torrid moments gripping, groping, and grabbing. Then, she took my hand and placed it underneath her jumper, onto her breast, over her blouse and I realised she was not wearing a bra. It was the most erotic thing I had ever done. Before I could say anything, her tongue was in my mouth. She had mesmerised my brains so utterly, that most times I didn't even see her coming.

Her dancing wasn't nearly as bad as she lead me to believe. She didn't have two left feet at all. She had one lazy foot that tended to sleep a lot. I discovered a way to keep it awake. When I became aware that the errant foot was not going to perform, I touched her on the breast where I reckoned the nipple was. The thrill of arousal awoke her sufficiently that she would wait for me to do it again when the oncoming step was upon us. Hardly orthodox but we both loved it.

*

On the night of the Ball, I called for her in a taxi. I was decked out in a rented tuxedo and thought I looked the goods. Her mother answered the door dressed in a dark blue full length evening gown with jewellery cascading from her neck. For a mother, she looked pretty spunky. She was all smiles and showed me in to the lounge room. There Megan stood ready, dressed in a pure white full length gown, white gloves and just a hint of cleavage. Knock me over with a feather, blow my balls away, this was a drop dead gorgeous fairy tale princess. For one brief moment, my thoughts centred on James Keely, Richard's older brother. 'Eat your heart out. Behold this heaven sent goddess and weep. All this could have been yours if only you knew how to tell the time'. My lower jaw dropped when she looked at me and smiled. All I wanted to do was take her into the bedroom and rip it all off.

"What a knockout." I said.

Her mother told her that was boy-speak for 'You look nice dear'. Her father came into the room dressed in a tuxedo, also all smiles and the four of us could have been mistaken for royalty. Her siblings took it in turns to operate the camera. Megan explained to her parents that this night was a one-off, and that there was an after-party at someone's house and that we might be a little late home.

"How late?" her father chipped in.

"About four?" she pleaded like a little child asking for a lolly and not without a hint of uncertainty. Her father looked at her, hesitated, then looked across to me.

"Well, see you take care of her then, young man."

"I sure will." I said, relieved and also a touch humbled for the responsibility thus conferred.

We drove to the venue sitting together in the back seat of the taxi holding hands. The radio was on and it was playing some gentle romantic classic, I had heard a hundred times before. Megan said it was Rubinstein's melody in F. I had never seen her look so good or smell better. She carried the scent of musk. My thoughts took us away, far away. We were on a desert island alone, about to get completely naked. I was James Bond. She was 'What's her name'. I could see myself unzipping the back of her gown, watching it drop to the ground. I could see her unhooking her bra and watching it drop at her feet. I could see her move toward me, push my tux away from my shoulders, and begin to unbutton my shirt. I could see the two of us standing there on the sand locked together in lust. I took her gently at the waist and laid her down on the sand. I ran my fingers up her long sleek legs from the foot to the thigh. I leant down to kiss her. Suddenly my thoughts copped a sudden jolt.

"Don't kiss me, you'll smudge my make up," she said, as we passed a stationary tram. And then she whispered, "Wait till later."

'Later?' I thought to myself, 'later? Will later ever come?'

When we arrived at Starlight Receptions, an attendant was waiting to open the car door and show us in through a rear entrance, up some stairs and inside to where the other debutantes and their partners had gathered. As a group we resembled a mass wedding party. The nerves were there too. We were on display again. It was as if this was our second great performance together. Only this time the crowd was more sophisticated and worldly. Our dance instructor called for everyone to take up their positions. We heard an announcement from the other side of the curtain. We were being introduced. Our presence was imminent. Chopin began his Etude. The curtains at the rear of the reception centre opened wide and out we came. We began our walk down the centre, arms lifted out, holding hands at eye level, surrounded by friends and family, moving to the music with which we were now intimately familiar. This time, Chopin was live, played by a small chamber orchestra, and this time it sounded sweeter then ever. We were gazed upon by the multitudes as we progressed down the centre aisle. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers presented themselves to the Auxiliary Bishop and then together with the other members of the deb set, dazzled a delighted audience with our own improvised version of Evening Pride. We brought the house down. The applause was deafening. Megan's parents were over the moon, and if the reaction by her father toward me on this night was any indication of what was to come, then I was delighted to think that the 'Iceman' had begun to melt.

With the official presentation over, and Chopin now consigned to next year's group, we could relax and act like normal people. However, the evening remained a formal affair. We were still on display, and the girls were expected to be at their best whether they were on the dance floor or circulating around the ballroom. We had our own table of twelve, but apart from eating, rarely did we sit together. I sat with Frank and Irene Macleod for a while. They had Monica's parents with them and Aunty Gwen. It was now over eighteen months since Uncle George was taken to Heaven, but Gwen was still hurting. You could see it in her eyes. Her eyes had lost their sparkle. Frank asked me what I wanted to do with my life. It wasn't a trick question, but I wasn't going to put my foot in my mouth either. I told him I needed more time to think things through.

Michelle came to the rescue and took me over to her parents table. Her mother Maria, and father Joe were very friendly. They were the old 'any friend of...is a friend of ours' type of people, and Joe liked to shake hands. He did it so enthusiastically that when he finally released his grip, my whole arm was still vibrating. Michelle told her mother that I was the other baby born that same night at Lourdes with her and Megan. I guess that made me a little more interesting.

"Oh!" she said as her eyes lit up. "So this is the young man who makes up the trio. It's very nice to meet you Simon."

"Thank you, it's nice to meet you too. We have become de-facto triplets," I said to her, and the both of them laughed.

I asked her if she remembered my mother.

"No, I'm afraid not. It was a busy place those few days we were there. All I remember is a lot of labour ward staff running around like headless chooks. But isn't it wonderful that the three of you have met." I then turned my attention to Joe.

"What do you remember about that night Joe, anything?" Suddenly Joe stopped smiling but it was Maria who explained.

"Joe is really Michelle's step-father. Michelle's father was killed in the war two months before Michelle was born."

" I'm so sorry, I didn't know," I told them.

"Not to worry. It's a simple mistake, don't worry about it. You two run along now and enjoy yourselves. It's really nice to have met you Simon," she said.

"You too," I said as my whole body shook hands again with Joe.

"Well you all look splendid, enjoy your evening," he said as Michelle and I returned to the dance floor. I felt like an idiot.

"I'm sorry for putting my foot in it," I told Michelle.

"Don't worry, it's nothing. I should have told you earlier."

"You never knew your real father?" I asked.

"No" she said as she took my hand. "It's not like I have missed anything. Joe is a terrific father. It's not as if I have been deprived of anything."

As we began to dance again, I took another look at her parents. Certainly Michelle bore no likeness to Joe in any way. But then, I didn't think I looked much like my parents either.

Later, Megan and I danced together, doing our best not to jump down each other's throats, although that's exactly what we were thinking and wanting to do. I danced with Monica and even with Megan's mother. She liked me, I could tell. And I liked her too.

42. After the ball....

The after-party was held at one of the Deb's parents' house. I thought to myself, 'What parent could be so understanding?' I couldn't see my parents agreeing to an invasion of two dozen hyped up young adults at one o clock in the morning till who knows when. But when your parents are rich and own a mansion that is so big you need a cut lunch to get from one end to the other, it's not so hard to understand. We arrived in a convoy of taxis, and filed inside. For most of our peers that night, it was a time to let their hair down, and make a mockery of Chopin. Megan and I would have none of that. We had been together all night and not been able to so much as peck each other on the cheek. We quickly found a quiet corner of the house, a small enclave between the laundry and the door to the triple garage. In the space of the next few minutes, or was it a little longer, we unleashed all the pent-up passion that had accumulated as the evening wore on. We were all over each other's face, mouth, neck, and in my case, the beautiful, tender upper part of the ever so slightly exposed left breast. She even accommodated my lust further by lowering the top of her dress to allow my mouth even greater access. As I was otherwise engaged, she pushed her left leg between my thighs, moving it up and down gently and the pressure on my already extremely active groin caused the inevitable explosion. 'Oh God', I moaned, ' Oh God, Oh God'. My whole body slackened as the experience overtook me. She relaxed for a moment, allowing time for me to recover.

"Has it come?" she asked.

"Yes, yes , yes," I replied. I was the quintessential premature ejaculator.

There was a further moment's relaxation, as we lay down on the floor. Then she looked into my eyes and whispered as softly as an angel,

"Would you do the same for me now. I want you to touch me. Would you do that for me?"

I looked into her eyes not quite knowing what she meant. I didn't need to.

"I'll show you how," she said, as she rather indelicately removed her panties. Taking my hand in hers, she ever so gently guided me to a place underneath her dress, a place between her legs, a place I had never been before, and suddenly I realised that life would never be the same again.

43. Satan's little helpers....

"Bless me father for I have sinned, it is three months since my last confession"

"Go ahead my son."

"I have had twenty emissions father."

"Twen...er alone or with others?"

Dead silence. I can't think.

"Alone or with others?" He persisted.

"I'm not sure. Two were not alone."

"You were with a girl then?"

"Yes Father."

"Were you in a state of undress?"

"No father, only in my thoughts." He asked if I was in a state of undress. I wasn't. He didn't ask if she was.

"This is very serious my son. Does being with this girl present to you an occasion of sin?"

'Oh God, here we go again'.

"Yes father."

"Have you been intimate together?"

"What do you mean?"

"Have you had intercourse?"

"No father." I hadn't learnt how to do that yet, but I was excited at the prospect of him asking.

"Then you should stop seeing this girl or at least avoid those occasions when you are at risk of serious sin."

"Yes father."

"How old are you?"

"Nineteen father." Not exactly true, but I didn't like where he was going with this.

"You're too young for a relationship of this sort. You should be mixing with lots of girls and boys. Every woman should be regarded in the same way we regard our blessed mother in heaven. Pure and chaste my son, pure and chaste. Remember that Satan is everywhere. He roams the world seeking out the weak. He never sleeps, and he has an abundance of little helpers who constantly prey on our weaknesses. They come in the form of temptation, from ourselves, and from other people and things, that place us in the occasion of sin. They can be in a suggestive song on the radio, an ambiguous expression in a book, even in the all but innocent flirtations of a young woman.

'Innocent flirtation,' I thought.'That was no innocent flirtation.'

"Satan and his little helpers revel in delight when they trap an unguarded soul." He continued. "This girl might be for you, an occasion of sin. There is great joy in hell when one lapsed soul finds refuge in lust. Satan has won, he has destroyed that soul's love for Mary."

"It's Megan, father."

"What?"

"My girlfriend's name is Megan father, not Mary."

"I'm not talking about your girlfriend, it's the Virgin Mary, your heavenly mother my son."

"Yes father."

"There's plenty of time for a more permanent relationship when you're a little older. Marriage is God's great gift to you, and unless you broaden your social connections you won't be in any position to know if you want this girl to be the mother of your children, will you?"

"No father." There was no point arguing.

"I think you should stop seeing this young lady, or avoid those intimate moments that you know will lead you to sin. You don't want to risk your eternal soul now, and forsake all the wonderful things that God has planned for you, do you?"

"No father."

"Or hers too. Remember you are as responsible for her, as you are for yourself. When the temptation arises you should excuse yourself in some way and pray a short ejaculation. For your penance say three decades of the rosary and now a good act of contrition."

"Yes father."

*

As I walked home after that confession, questions invaded my mind from every direction. 'Was Fr West right about Satan's little helpers? Were they really everywhere, roaming the world, seeking out the weak and simple-minded? He said they came in the form of temptation through other people. Did he mean Megan? In what way did the intimacy that Megan and I shared, risk my eternal soul? How could the feelings we shared for each other be destructive?'

'If Satan's little helpers were everywhere,' I thought to myself, 'were they not also in the Brother's house at Placidus? Were they not also roaming the wide open spaces of Pangarra? Were they not therefore in the Presbytery at our parish church? Did they not also prey on the loneliness of a priest in the confessional listening to good but simple people, who's minds had been influenced by a greater and more powerful intellect? If they could influence me to confuse good with evil, could they not also influence and confuse those who were charged with the responsibility of teaching me?' ....Maybe they could, maybe they couldn't, but if Westy thought that I was going to take his advice and avoid intimacy with Megan, he was sadly mistaken. The experience, the night of the after-party when Megan had shared herself with me, was like ascending to a new plateau. She had guided me across a forbidden boundary of knowledge, and opened a doorway to something that had to be explored. 'Stop seeing her.....avoid intimate moments?' He might as well have told me to stop breathing. 1963 had become my year of discovery. A new world was waiting, beckoning a new life. Suddenly I was alive in a way I had never been before.

Not so everybody. 1963 also had its shocks. Not the least of which were the deaths of Pope John XX111, and the 'old fart' himself, Melbourne's Archbishop Daniel Mannix. Mannix had almost notched up the ton, but not quite. The whole town was in mourning. Well, not the whole town. Given the wedge that he had so successfully driven through the community, Catholic and Protestant, it was really a case of choosing sides. The Catholics mourned. The Protestants cheered. His body lay in state in St. Patrick's Cathedral in Melbourne, and it was a case of compulsory viewing or risk being type-cast disloyal. Along with thousands of Melbournians, Megan and I filed past his open coffin. It was a ceremonial tribute one would have thought more appropriate for Kings and Presidents than for a local Bishop. The biggest shock for 1963 was reserved for November, when President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. Did that blow the stuffing out of everybody or what? Indeed it did, but all the collective agonies of the world, all the disasters and political intrigue, the corruption, crime, hunger, pestilence and disease, were a mere blimp on the radar when compared to the euphoric bliss that had now engulfed and possessed me.

44. A Time of Discovery

We loved each other more deeply every time we were able to be together. We had gone to a new level and expressed it in a variety of ways. A look, a smile, an unguarded moment observing the other when the other wasn't watching. A bunch of daisies plucked from the front garden of an unsuspecting suburbanite, while we walked the streets on Sunday afternoons. We loved to walk together, and we would even travel by train to places where we most enjoyed walking. The Botanical gardens, in South Yarra were a favourite. We sat on the lawn at the edge of the lake, and fed the swans. We picnicked in the Fitzroy gardens on the city's eastern edge, and lay on a rug together underneath the English elms. It took no more than a laugh, a look from afar, a wave, or a public embrace that generated the most wonderful feeling. When we caressed I was overtaken by the scent of musk, and my love for this girl, and would have surrendered any and all of me, even my soul, to be with her forever.

There were other more intimate moments, when we found places and ways to pleasure ourselves privately. We found a room in East Melbourne, owned and run by a very large, and very brown Tongan woman. For a small fee, she allowed us to use it frequently, and it was on these wonderful excursions that we discovered new and exciting things about each other. Once secure behind a locked door, knowing that we would not be interrupted, we undressed each other, and felt the tingling sensation of anticipation. With curtains drawn and only the half light of a grey Melbourne Sunday filtering through, we journeyed our way around and over each other. We lay naked together enthralled in the joy of each other's touch, exploring each other's body. I discovered her beautiful breasts, the hardening of the nipples. I discovered the flow of moisture when I touched her opening, and my fingers explored inside her. She made me come effortlessly with the gentle rubbing of my penis, and held it firmly when it exploded. It was messy, but we didn't care. Our love grew deeper and deeper as we immersed ourselves in the awesome wonder of these experiences, but I never entered her. Well, not then anyway. We did not want to get pregnant and our knowledge of contraception was limited. Her periods, she said, were all over the place, and not to be trusted. Up to that point, I knew nothing of such things. Afterwards we showered together, restored ourselves, and re-entered the world. When we came out of the room we witnessed the beaming smile of our Tongan friend who sat waiting patiently in the kitchen. When it was time to leave she offered us afternoon tea, always with a huge smile on her face, seemingly delighted that she was playing her part in one of love's great adventures.

We shared too our common love for classical music. She had her favourites, Faure, San Sans, Mozart, and I mine, Puccini, Smetana, Tchaikovsky. Some Sunday afternoons we were content to dance around the dining room of our house in Eighth Avenue, swirling to Waldteufel's waltzes and polkas played on our radiogram. We waltzed through into the lounge where my parents were watching television, down the hallway, into the kitchen and back into the dining room. At no stage did they seem to mind the minor interruption. Andrew and James thought we were practicing for a competition. Bridget tried to get them to join in with her, but they ran off appalled at the very prospect of being seen dancing with their sister.

My mother adored her. Megan was the spark that helped rekindle a breaking heart, a heart struggling to recover from the departure of her three eldest. Megan helped my mother prepare a roast on Sunday, and forgot to turn on the oven. She burnt a saucepan trying to boil an egg, because she forgot to put in the water. From no more than these simple little adventures my mother was laughing again, and showing signs of a renewed interest in everything around her. It was my mother who admonished Fr. West when I overheard him expressing some reservations about our relationship one Sunday, when she invited him to lunch. He said that it was not in our best interests at this time in our lives. Did he know it was me behind the confessional curtain? My mother, a stalwart of the church, turned on him. This diminutive and frail woman, spoke out defiantly against a member of the very institution she cherished, and told him not to interfere, that it was not for him to say. She said Megan was an angel. Fr. West, parish priest, producer of plays, entrepreneur extraordinaire, had been put back in his place, well and truly, by the most unlikely of sources.

Perhaps Megan's greatest act of kindness, her special gift to my mother was her piano playing, a secret she kept from me until the night of our coming out. On that memorable night of discovery, once we had regathered our composure and restored our disturbed state of dress, we returned to the lounge room where the others were singing. Monica asked her to play the piano. She ruffled through the pile of music on the shelf, selected a piece and sat down to play. It was Mozart's Concerto No. 21. We all knew it as 'Elvira Madigan'. She played with feeling such as I had only heard before when Kathleen was home. Not content with that, she then teamed up with Monica and Michelle and while she played Bach's 'Jesu joy of man's desire' the other two M's stood by the piano looking as pure as the driven snow and sang as sweetly as a bellbird in the park.

And, now Megan was playing for my mother. She sat at our broken down, out of tune, wooden cabinet, and played so beautifully, reviving in Elizabeth Margaret the memories of past joys. Mozart, Chopin and Bach. We played the piano together. Sometimes it was on our broken down cabinet, other times at her house on something more appropriate for her. Sometimes she would help me with my unorthodox style. Other times she would just let me play whatever I wanted, however I wanted. I found such charm in her quiet unassuming manner and delighted in the tranquil way she shared control of my life.

My father saw what she did for my mother, and adored her even more. To him, she gave such joy to rival his English rose garden, and his daffodils flowering in the late spring and early summer, all because she brought back my mother's smile. He would carefully cut the stem from a prized rose bush and hold it out to her as she walked down the front steps of our house, when I was about to take her home. My sister Bridget delighted in her company, ever mindful that she was a past pupil of the school where Bridget had now begun her penultimate year. They laughed and joked about common experiences and Bridget screamed with laughter when Megan told her some of the more intimate embarrassments of her life at a convent school. Bridget found in her, a sister to replace Kathleen. She captivated Mark, who never quite understood her spirited and lateral mind. We did not think much beyond each day we spent together. There was no need. There was no timetable. I worked, she studied, we spoke everyday on the phone. We spent every weekend together, we socialised with our friends, she regularly took my place at the piano and played in the band. Sometimes Monica and Michelle provided vocal support. They were always a hit. We loved dancing, and going on picnics to the beach and to the mountains. We attended mass together occasionally although it was more a matter of form than substance. She always took communion and not to be left sitting alone conspicuously, I joined her as if we were the epitome of pious devotion. So deeply and blindly were we consumed with each other that Catholic doctrinal teaching was relegated to the middle ages, sexual impurity was something others did, mortal sins vaporised, Hell was rapidly fading from our consciousness, and when the cruel hand of fate raised it's ugly shadow, we never saw it coming.

45. Dark clouds appear....

Not at any time did I imagine that this state of euphoric bliss could ever be interrupted, let alone by events so remote from our own lives, so beyond our control and reasoning. But interrupted it was and our life as we knew it, was about to be put on hold. The ongoing serenity and joy that we had experienced these two years following her coming out, was about to be given the acid test. The Australian Government had reacted to the ever increasing tensions of the political world of South-East-Asia, deciding that its military strength needed reinforcements. In November 1964, Prime Minister Robert Menzies announced the introduction of conscription for all twenty year old men. I was right in the gun, and I was ordered to register.

Over the next six months, the mood between Megan and I changed from the carefree and fearless frolic that we enjoyed so much, to something more sombre. There was a knot in the pit of my stomach, as I tried to come to terms with the likelihood of us being apart. I shuddered at the very thought of it. We kissed and held each other as if we were waiting for someone to tear us away. For the first time since we met, the words would not come. We stumbled, even argued, as we tried to express our feelings.

In April 1965, Menzies ordered a Battalion of regular soldiers from the 1st Royal Australian Regiment, be sent to Vietnam. My birth date, June 26, was plucked out of a ballot barrel. By May of 1965, I had received my call up notice and told to pack my bags.

Of all the eligible young men of my age that I knew, I was the only one to be called up. It was a pathetically unfair system affecting just one in twelve of those eligible, and the protests were loud and defiant. Many refused to register. Many others who did register and receive their call-up notice, burnt them in a public display of disobedience. The ugly reality was that our country's politicians, allowed their political zeal to exceed their good judgment. Ever eager to impress our most favoured ally and trading partner, the USA, they volunteered their country's young men into a civil war in Vietnam, and conceded that innocent, happy, carefree young Australians were going to die as a result.

*

A week before my departure, the Youth Group staged a farewell party. Westy told everyone that I was a small part of a very big effort to stem the flow of communism throughout the world. He spoke volumes for the former Catholic Diem regime in South Vietnam and said we would all be praying that I came home safely. He had me fighting in the jungles already and I had never even held a rifle. He never missed an opportunity for a little speech. All my friends were there including my parents. I think I must have had a dance with every girl who came to my send off. Each in turn, seemed to want to hold me close and press themselves against me, as if I was their man going off to war. But it was Megan that I took home after it was over. No one could replace the excitement, the joy, the confidence that she generated within me. That evening we sat together out on the front fence of her home. We talked, but there were also long moments of silence. These were new experiences for us. There were now uncertainties in our relationship. She turned to me, anticipating my very thoughts, placed her hand on my cheek and said,

"We can get through this. We will just take things as they come each day at a time, the same as we always have, and we will deal with them." It was exactly what I expected her to say.

The front veranda light of her house came on and her mother walked down the driveway toward us.

"Hello you two. Have you told him yet?" She asked Megan.

"Not yet," she replied.

"Told me what?" I asked suddenly intrigued that there was some kind of conspiracy in play.

"I have something for you," she said. "Come inside and I'll show you."

46. The Plan.....

The very idea of it blew me away. That it was coming from her and not me, gave it credibility. That she had gone to so much trouble to prepare it, was humbling.

She had drawn it with remarkable precision. A perfect sketch in black and white on a blue rectangular sheet of paper.

"I did it on blue because it's your mother's favourite colour." she said.

The white notes perfectly spaced, the black notes above them. Each note was numbered starting from the left. The white notes were even numbered, two through to one hundred and two. The black notes given odd numbers, one to seventy one.

Below the keyboard, a second sketch, identical to the first. This time each note mark with its proper name, a,b,c,d,e,f,g. The sharps and flats identified with the letters, s and f . F sharp noted as Fs. B flat as Bf.

I looked at all the detail but the purpose of it all eluded me. She explained.

"You know how sometimes you sit down at the piano and just play what ever comes into your head?"

"No."

"Oh don't say no. You do it all the time, I've watched you."

"They are just bits and pieces, it's nothing special, I have no idea what I'm playing."

"Well, it might seem that way to you, but you have a real gift being able to do that. I've been learning to play the piano for seven years and I can't do that. I can't play a note to save my life unless I have a piece of music in front of me, and you who have never learnt can just sit down and play what you like. Not many people can do that."

"Okay, so ?"

"I have sat and listened as you play some of your bits and pieces as you put it, and they are really beautiful, and I thought that you should learn to write them down."

"But I can't read or write music."

"That we already know my love." It struck me that she called me her love without any inhibition right there in front of her mother. She continued.

"So that's why I've drawn up these two keyboards. I'm going to teach you how to do it. I've numbered all the notes on the piano, the white notes are even numbered and the black are odd numbers. When you ramble away, I want you to keep this sheet with you so you can write down the notes you play. It means you will have to concentrate more on what you are playing and less on rambling. The second keyboard has all the notes correctly named. You can use either. If the numbered notes are easier then use them. Eventually you will become familiar with the proper names and you won't need the numbers, but at least this will get you started. You just write down the note numbers on another sheet of paper."

"Do you really think I can do this?" I asked, thinking that if she thought I could, then that was really all I needed.

She faltered and her voice began to quiver.

"I thought this would be something we could share together while you're gone. I thought if you did this and then sent them back to me, I could write them up on proper music sheets. I could then write the harmony and arrange the timing. I thought this could be something that would be ours to share."

"What about a piano? Where would I find a piano?"

"Dad said that when he was in the Army, there were pianos in every unit he served in. He said they were always tucked away in some dark little corner just waiting for someone to play them. You'll find one. And besides it will keep your mind focussed on me and not someone else."

"That could never happen," I replied and kissed her gently on the lips. She had gone to all this trouble, preparing the way for me to compose music, something I had wanted to do since I first began playing the piano at Pangarra. She had recognised that there was something of value there in my playing. She saw into my mind. It was humbling. As she walked down the driveway with me that night, she shared something else with me.

"There's something I'd better tell you, but you mustn't say anything to anyone, promise?"

I promised and then she blew me away.

"Bridget thinks she might be pregnant."

"What?" I said.

"You heard me." she answered.

"Jesus Christ!" I said.

"No, Chris Dyer." she said.

"What?"

"Don't you dare say a word to anyone. Your mother would die if she found out. I'll let you know if it's for real or a false alarm. She's only ten days over but she's panicking and that is only exacerbating things. I thought you should know, and I needed to tell somebody. I hate keeping secrets. She and Chris obviously have not been as careful as we have."

"Bloody hell." It was all I could say. I realised that for all the time I had been so overtaken with Megan, I had not noticed my own sister growing up.

47. And so it began.....

It began just five days after I turned twenty. It was a cold, misty, Melbourne morning in July. Megan arrived at eight, driving her father's car. I felt a mixture of excitement and distraction about it all, but my mother felt only the sorrow of another child going out the door. When Bridget came running into the kitchen to tell me Megan had arrived, my mother accidentally dropped a plate. I was packed and ready to go. My mother was very subdued. My father tried to make light of it all. They both felt somewhat reinforced when Megan came in through the back door. I hugged Bridget, punched Mark in the stomach, ruffled the twins' hair, shook hands with my father, punched Mark in the stomach again, and embraced my mother in silence allowing her to hold me as long as she wished. She didn't cry, but there was clearly no joy in her eyes. There was none of the joyous expectation I witnessed six years earlier when I left home to go to the Juniorate. For her, it was another child leaving home but this time the reasons were far, far removed from similar previous experiences.

Megan drove, I sat in the front passenger seat. Not a lot was said. The radio was playing 'Mr.Tamborine man', by the Byrds and then a throw back to the late fifties with Johnny Mathis singing 'Twelfth of Never'. In the silence I suspect she, like me began to reflect on the melancholy nature of the music and its calming influence. I was submitting myself to the call of the nation and as we battled our way through the early morning peak traffic, one could have forgiven the presence of a little tension. But there was none. The music overtook that. As she drove, I wondered what it would be like over the next two years. What would I learn? What harm threatened? How would I relate to those I would be living with, and how would I cope being away from Megan for extended periods? We drove to the Signals Corps centre in Swan Street, in Richmond. There were protesters there that morning demonstrating their opposition to our involvement in the war. The police were there too, in large numbers and a lot television cameras and people from the newspapers. Megan found a parking spot a hundred yards or so short of the entrance, turned the engine off, and for just a few minutes we sat in silence staring at the melee in front of us. Then she spoke.

"Do you remember the night we first met?"

"How could I forget it. Four years ago I met the girl of my dreams, and Uncle George dropped dead with the excitement."

We laughed a little at Uncle George's expense. We figured he wouldn't mind.

"How long was it before we were able to see each other again?" she asked.

"An eternity."

"How long?"

"Nearly a year, apart from a few netball chats."

"Well, we survived that didn't we? I know we didn't feel as intense about each other as we do now, but we survived it," she insisted.

"Yes we did."

"So, we will get through this too, won't we?" It was a plea for support.

"Yes, of course we will."

"You have the music sheet?" she asked.

"Yes."

You will try and write things down?"

"Yes."

"You will call me when you can?"

"Yes."

"You will write to me as often as you can?"

"Yes."

"The way I see it," she said, "I have two years of university left, you have two years of soldiering. After that the world is ours to do with as we wish. Do you believe that?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember when you first told me you loved me?" she asked.

"Yes"

"Do you remember what else you said?"

"I said that I would always love you," I told her, looking directly at her. Then she said,

"I haven't said this before, but I want you to know that whatever happens, I will always love you too. In fact I want you to know that I'm willing to commit myself to you for life....if that's what you want."

There was a moment's silence before she spoke again and I began to see that she had been building up to this moment.

"Could you do that for me?" she asked. "Are you strong enough to do that....could you commit yourself to me....for life?"

Suddenly I found myself taking a very deep breath. The enormity of the moment was clear to me and somewhat overpowering. Megan was not only exposing her feelings for me in a very poignant and honest way, she was exposing her vulnerability, and I found it incredibly humbling. I considered my thoughts carefully.

"There are times," I told her, "that I realise I am not a strong person in some ways. I let people ride over me when I should stand up to them. I hear things said that I just don't believe, and I should speak up but I don't...mostly at church. One of the Aquinine Brothers at Pangarra said I was weak once, all because I went to the wrong toilet. I broke a golden rule...and then he..." I hesitated, wishing I had kept my mouth shut.

"Then he what?" Megan asked.

I could not bring myself to tell her. Not then. Not under these circumstances. I quickly concocted a half truth.

"Nothing," I said. "He just showed how much of a hypocrite he was. I continued, anxious to reverse out of a blind alley.

"The thing is, what I'm trying to say is.... I know I can dither around a bit, be indecisive and in truth I have no idea how I am going to handle the next two years but, if there is one thing I know I can show you, if there's one thing I can promise you without any uncertainty, without any fear, without any confusion, it is that the very thought of anyone or anything coming between us makes me shudder. The thought of not having you near either in person or in spirit, would devastate me. My life could not possibly be the same without you.....ever. I can't think of any other way to answer you than that."

There was a silence of voice, a tranquillity in the moment, a timeless calm as we stared each other in the eye; a deep piercing stare that knew two truths had been spoken and found their place in the heart of the other. Finally she spoke.

"I don't think those things you mention are a weakness. When the important moments arise, you will speak out, I have no doubt of that. And I don't mind your dithering, in fact when you dither you make me laugh. If we hold on to what keeps us together, the time we are apart will pass quickly. So just kiss me now, know that I love you and go off and be a good soldier and don't try to be a hero or do anything silly."

"You'll let me know about Bridget?" I asked.

"Of course."

With that we kissed with a gently loving caress, not helped by the position of the gear stick that stood erect between us. It was however a tender reminder that our relationship, however fulfilling, was a relationship where total consummation had not yet been shared. We pressed our foreheads together, looked into each other's eyes, affirmed our love, and parted.

I walked toward the melee, my heart dragging about six feet behind me. The crowd was noisy. One or two protesters called out telling me not to go in. 'Jesus, it's a bit late for that now!' I showed my papers to an Officer at the front gate, and was told to go to the rear of the building, and get a cup of tea. I turned once more to the car, raised my arm to wave. I could see her outline through the glaze of sunlight pouring in through the windscreen. I watched and waited a moment, then saw her arm come out from the side window and wave back. My heart wrestled with the knowledge that I would not see her for some time. It was a painful throb, and I wanted to run back and hold her once more. Somehow the reality of the occasion overtook my heart's desire, and I continued walking toward the rear of the building.

48. Day one.....

A new form of institutional life began for me, at the rear of the Signals Corps administrative building. An hour or so after waving goodbye to Megan, and mingling with about forty other young men of all shapes and sizes, we assembled under the direction of Staff Sergeant 'Whatsisname'. He ordered us into one of the waiting buses, and we were soon heading out along Swan Street. We passed through the line of shouting protesters. There was a police officer on a horse and the horse became a little agitated as the protesters tried to surge forward. The police on foot held their ground as we passed through, and the television cameramen ran forward of the bus as they filmed. From inside the bus, I looked for Megan but we moved so quickly I could not tell if she was still there. I looked straight into a camera as we continued down the road. We were on our way to Puckapunyal, sixty miles north of Melbourne. As we drove over the Swan Street bridge, I could see the entrance to the Botanical gardens where Megan and I lay on the lawn and fed the ducks at the lake. The bus driver asked 'Whatsisname' if we were going to stop anywhere along the way. The staff sergeant told the driver, "We'll stop at Kilmore... let 'em have a piss and nothin' else."

As the bus found its way out of the city and onto the Hume Highway, the inevitable question crept into my mind. 'Was I really ready for this?' Alone and unprotected, I wondered if my life's tutors thus far, the cassocks, my family, and the girl who loved me, had adequately prepared me for what lay ahead. My twenty years thus far, had seen me survive the cassocks, but not without a foul residual taste. I had performed in front of the lights before a full house with a leading lady. I had danced with Ginger Rodgers at the ball. I had even explored the nether regions of the female body...well, most of it. But was I ready for this?

We had our break at Kilmore, and arrived at Puckapunyal a half hour later. I had barely spoken to anyone in the bus, and as we drove up the main road toward Battalion Headquarters, the media had gathered once again. They had followed us all the way from Melbourne, passed us at Kilmore, and were now waiting to continue the story of the day. There were more television cameras. There was also a strong Military Police presence, and officers waiting for us. Already dazed and confused we stumbled out of the bus, lined up in three rows, and by way of roll-call met our platoon commander. Wonderful news! We were welcome! Everyone wanted to make us feel at home. Just follow instructions our commander told us and we would all get along splendidly. I felt somewhat intimidated by the whole affair and reluctant to engage in conversation with my fellow conscripts. Just the odd nervous 'one-liner' in a feeble attempt to demonstrate my bravado. Others did the same. I could tell. Their 'one-liners' were no funnier than mine. From the moment we arrived at the Recruit Training Battalion it became an almost endless parade of appointments. We had to draw our uniforms at the Q store. Jungle greens, gaiters, boots black leather, slouch hat not yet slouched, jumper, army issue underwear. The underpants reminded me of something that my father wore, something that didn't button up and had the potential to leave your penis hanging out as you climbed out of bed in the morning. Gross! We drew our weapon. 'Was this necessary? We wouldn't need this rifle thing for several weeks surely. The enemy was thousands of miles away.' We had another medical examination. Perhaps they thought some had faked their way in. It was too early for me to fake something terminal to get out, although the thought crossed my mind. My fellow inmates were as nervous as me, uncertain what to say, when to say it, how to say it. 'Would I be reprimanded if I swore? Why is that Sergeant looking at me? What have I done?' Names were not yet embedded in my mind. 'Don't I know that fellow from somewhere? That big hairy bloke looks a bit intimidating. Better steer clear of him.' It was a long morning but the lunch bugle finally sounded and we were bundled off to the ordinary soldiers mess.

We had lunch. Minced steak and mash potatoes. They also offered canned fruit with custard. A sandwich would have been fine. I didn't like big lunches. They made me sleepy. After lunch I had a dental check, followed by a haircut. We were finally shown to our barracks but only to deposit our gear, make up our beds, and re-assemble for a 'welcome to the Army lecture', from the Commanding Officer. We swore the oath of allegiance. Actually I didn't. I couldn't hear what the officer was saying and so I just mumbled along with everyone else. 'Does that count?' Somewhere inside that day, between dental and haircut, or was it medical and lunch, I had an interview with the Roman Catholic chaplain. He was a welcome figure, someone I was able to relate to in a very strange setting, and he not only spoke in a soft friendly manner, you could also see in his eyes that he meant it. Among other things, he told me that I no longer needed to abstain from eating meat on Fridays. For as long as I was in the Army I was exempt, whether on duty or on leave. 'Wow! My first fringe benefit.' We had dinner at 1730 hours. My watch told me it was actually 5.30 pm real time and very early to be having dinner, especially after such a big lunch. Perhaps I could talk to someone about that, so they could re-arrange things for tomorrow. Dinner was chops, baked beans, and vegetables and we walked along in a queue with a tray in our hands while the chef's assistant slopped it onto our plates. There were piles of bread on the tables and even though the quality of the food might have been questionable there was no chance of us starving. A Corporal walked up and down asking us if we had any complaints. 'Yes,' I thought to myself. 'I don't like this place and I think I would like to go home now.' I didn't think that he would agree so I didn't actually say it.

After dinner, I looked around to find somewhere to sit and watch television. I learned that there were no television sets available today, but I would be invited to sit through a three hour I.Q. Questionnaire in a matter of a few moments. Just as soon as everyone was finished in the mess. The bugle sounded fifteen minutes later and we were ordered to line up in threes. I realised that lining up in threes was going to be the order of the day for the next two years. We marched to a marquee some distance from our barracks, and took our places at the portable desks, so arranged as not to allow for cheating. The I.Q. test was laborious. Pages and pages of incredibly stupid questions. They were looking for officer material. Well, this was hardly the way to go about it. 'Why not ask for a show of hands first? That would narrow the selection process by at least one immediately.' I thought that first day would never end. It was ten in the evening before we collapsed into bed, but not before being told that because we were the first group to arrive that day, our platoon was rostered for kitchen duty the next morning. That meant reveille at 0400 hours. Forty eight very tired, confused and disoriented young men were finally able to sleep.

The following morning as promised, we were woken firstly, by a scratchy recording of a bugle playing reveille, and then by 'whatsisname' at precisely 4am. He burst through the door reminiscent of a fireman raging through a burning building, yelling at the top of his voice, "Wakey wakey hands off snakey. Get up, get up, get up."

We stirred uneasily wondering if this was a practical joke.

"What, you mean..... now?" someone called out. "It's only four o clock!"

'Whatsisname's' happy little rhyme was probably the product of years of regular recruit training, more suited to volunteer soldiers ready to serve their country, do their bit, fight the good fight, but it didn't work with us, we were no fools. 'Whatsisname' changed tack.

"All right you lot, out of the cot, up and at 'em, c'mon get up, get up." The uneasy stir drifted into an uneasy calm. He was not kidding, he really did want us out of the cot.

We slowly dragged ourselves out of what had become a very warm and cosy little cocoon in a barracks that boasted no heating facilities, no insulation, no carpet, only to be greeted by a freezing cold breeze that blew its way down from the hill several hundred yards away, and funnelled its way through the barracks door that 'Whatsisname' had so kindly left wide open. Few of us spoke, we were all still in a state of shock. Those that did speak, did so with such elegance and polish as to betray their privileged backgrounds.

"Fuckin' hell." Voice one.

"Christ Almighty." Voice two.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ what is this?" Voice three.

"Hey shut the fuckin' door ya mongrel." Voice four.

'Whatsisname' put a stop to it.

"Put your greatcoats on, and move outside for roll call, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon...move it....move it.

We climbed inside our one size fits all greatcoats. It felt like being engulfed into the furry belly of an upright grizzly bear smothering you with warmth, but cutting you off from any real contact with the outside world. They were huge. One by one, we then gathered outside, surrendering to the call to line up in threes. 'Line up in threes, line up in threes, line up in threes. Fuckin' hell!'

"Plaaatooon, Arrtenshon," he cried as we formed something remotely similar to a classroom assembly. "Stand at Ease..... Stand easy".....He paid no attention to the fact that hardly anyone made a movement one way or the other and proceeded with the inaugural roll call.

"When I call your names, you will answer, 'Sir'," he informed us, as he took up a position approximating the centre of the gathering.

"Anderson.". A short pause. "ANDERSON," he bellowed with a voice that made me jump in my loose laced boots.

"Sir."

"Allen," "Sir"... "Benson....BENSON"... "Sir"... "Caulfield"...... "Sir"...on it went.

'Whatsisname' was decked out in full uniform, right down to his spit polish boots. He meant business and wasn't about to take any crap from anyone. He roll-called, and each in our turn called out 'Sir'.

"Davidson,"... "Sir." "Eldon," "Sir.......on and on it went. Finally he arrived at the H's.

"Harris....HARRIS"... "Sir"... "Hickey." 'Thank God'. I was awake and ready. ... "Sir." "Hollyfield"... "Yeah." "Don't be smart son,...HOLLYFIELD"... "Sir." At this stage our timid little platoon members were not about to act up. Most of us were still reeling from the shock of being conscious at 4am. He finally arrived at the end of it all. "West" "Sir." With a very classy salute he seemed pleased to report to our Platoon Commander who was standing right alongside him that we were all here. The platoon commander was happy too. He gave us a short talk telling us that we would be having a busy day (something that in hindsight turned out to be the understatement of the decade), and when we returned to the barracks this evening, to make sure we wore thongs under the shower. He told us that we would be able to see the tinea growing up the shower walls.

"Great," came a whispered voice behind me. "Always wondered what tinea looked like climbing up a shower wall." The only way to avoid it was to wear thongs, our platoon commander insisted. He wished us a good day and told 'Whatsisname' to dismiss us. We filed back inside the barracks. We dressed in our newly acquired jungle greens plus jumper, gaiters and big heavy black boots. Some tried to thread their nice new thick green belt through their trouser belt holes only to be told that the belt goes on outside the jumper. We made our beds, combed our hair, and re assembled outside in the shivering dark, before being marched off to the kitchen. Things were not looking good.

*

Kitchen duty was a new experience for most of us. I had a slight advantage having been assigned such duty before at the Juniorate, but this was a nightmare. The kitchen was bigger than our parish hall where we played in the band. We started by having breakfast in the mess. Eggs and bacon, toast, coffee, at 0430 hrs. By 0450 hrs, we were ordered to return to the kitchen where a mountain of dirty greasy pots and pans awaited our attention. From that point on, the day deteriorated progressively. All day long, bus load after bus load brought more and more bewildered, confused young men through the mess hall. It was a short but necessary interlude, as they continued on their journey to the Q store, or was it the dentist, or the barber or the commanding officer's pep talk. They came through relentlessly, and every time they returned their plates to the kitchen, my happy little group of newly acquired friends and I had to wash them. Some didn't know what to do with their plates and simply left them on the table. The duty Corporal constantly nominated someone to go about the mess and collect the plates. We all became known as 'That recruit there'. The duty Corporal didn't know our names so he just said, 'That recruit there,' and pointed.

"That recruit there," I looked up to see he was pointing at me. "Yes you soldier, you go about to these tables here and pick up the dirty dishes. That recruit there." Now he was pointing at someone else, "Yes I'm calling you, you do the same over that side. On your way, on your way."

Occasionally we were mistaken for real soldiers by Conscripts who were coming straight off the buses, through the doors into the mess. We were in uniform. They were still in civvies. They didn't know that we had put on our uniform that morning for the very first time.

"What's it like?" one poor frightened looking fellow asked me.

"What's what like," I replied.

"This Army thing, is it hard?"

"Yeah, but it's a great life," I told him, "you're going to love it."

*

The kitchen pots and pans were enormous. I could have hidden in one they were that big, except that they were all filthy, greasy and slippery and most of the time it took three attempts just to pick them up. The wash basins were bigger than our whole kitchen at home. The hot water didn't stay hot and some of the pots emerged from the sink with more grease than before. We were constantly refilling the sinks. The floor became so wet and slippery, 'That recruit there,' was permanently assigned to carry a mop with him. I kept looking at the clock wondering if this day would ever end.

e were given time to eat lunch, a brief moment away from the war zone in the kitchen. That's when I first noticed him. It had been all of five years, and yes he looked older, but it was him, it was Don Harris, a fellow junior and classmate from Aurelius College at Pangarra. It didn't occur to me that anyone from that time would have been caught up in this act of madness, but realistically I should have been expecting it. We were all the same age. Don Harris, not just a fellow junior, but a fellow victim of the wandering hands of Brother Severus. Don Harris, a fellow collaborator whose initial contribution to the conference the four of us had in the boiler room on the far side of Probus' vegetable garden, was to suggest that we should kill Severus. Don Harris, someone I actually knew from a previous life, was here in this jungle green and brass belt maelstrom.

He had gathered together something called 'stew' on a plate and I watched him walk in my direction and sit down at the other end of the table where I was eating something called 'mash'. I called out to him.

"Don....Don Harris." He looked up from his plate. "Is it you Don....?" I asked, now just a shade uncertain.

He looked down toward me as if trying to decide whether or not it was worth his while interrupting his meal. Then, as if to indicate complete ambivalence, took another mouthful before nodding and then discharging that same mouthful around those near him as he called my name.

"Jesus, fuckin' Hickey. How the fuck did you find yourself in here?"

"Show a few manners fella," the soldier next to him said.

"Piss off shithead," came his reply.

Somewhat elated at the opportunity to talk to someone I actually knew, I picked up my plate and walked to his end of the table. His eyes followed me but there was no sign of him wishing to adjourn his 'stew'. It was then I realised I didn't know this fellow as well as I thought. We had shared a common problem and worked together to try and overcome it, but beyond that, we were not exactly close friends, certainly not in the same league as Michael Stewart or Len Keating.

"How are you?" I asked as I sat alongside him, in the chair vacated by the soldier with the better manners.

"Alright," he answered, "How 'bout you?"

"Okay, although I'm starting to have misgivings already about this place." I said.

"Bastards," he replied. "I was almost not going to come."

"They would have come after you, kept searching until they tracked you down. I think the smart ones left the country."

"Yeah that's what I should have done," he said, as he began eating the leftovers on the plate abandoned by the soldier with the better manners.

"I take it you heard about Michael Stewart?" I asked him.

"Yeah, poor bastard. I was planning to go to his funeral but didn't quite make it."

"Severus was there," I told him.

"Christ what?" He looked at me in shock.

In that brief moment of re-union, I was able to observe that Harris was not the same fellow I knew at the Juniorate. He was angry, bitter, twisted, unhappy and not much fun to be near. Neither did he endear himself to any of his new found workmates.

"I only saw him briefly in the church. By the time it was over he was gone." I said, referring to Severus.

"That fuckin' shitbag. Jesus, if I ever run in to him again I'll have him good and proper."

My discussion with Harris was interrupted by a Corporal who had decided our lunch break was over. The pots and pans were building up and the slaves were being ordered back to their work stations.

As the afternoon wore on, journalists and cameramen were given permission to enter the mess and film. 'Was I to be on television? Should I make a break for freedom now, and seek asylum with the members of the Media? Should I stand before the camera and plead mercy in the forlorn hope that my father might see me on the six o clock news and come to rescue me.' Some film footage was shot but the real reason they came into the mess was to eat. The Army extended them an invitation to a free lunch. 'This was bribery. How can they get away with this? Perhaps I can write a note and slip it into the hands of one of the journalists. What would I say? Help, I'm being held prisoner. Get me the fuck out of here. I'll pay you a thousand pounds to take me home now. Would anyone care?' I thought not.

At six o clock in the evening, we were still there. Nearly one thousand conscripts had come through the doors during the day. They had eaten, left their mess in the mess, and walked out. At least they could walk out. If I tried to walk out, I would be shot. Finally Corporal 'That recruit there,' said we could stop for dinner. What a great guy! Still, it gave me the opportunity to talk to Don Harris again. After just one meal, the others began calling him 'Scraps' prompted by his rather unhygienic habit of 'cleaning up' what was left on the plate of the soldier with the better manners, rather than walk back to the servery for seconds. His personal grooming was a tragedy of epic proportions, belying his boasting and recounting of his sexual conquests. He had the foulest mouth of any individual that I had ever heard, and possessed a quite unique capacity to include the word 'fuck' into just about any sentence on any subject, one could imagine. It was infectious. We all began to use that word when ever we needed to emphasise a point.

It was around nine in the evening before we were finally dismissed and escorted back to our barracks, but not before the kitchen area was subjected to the most critical of inspections by 'Whatsisname'. Pots and pans properly stored away, the sinks spotlessly clean and dry, the floor mopped and dried. We assembled outside the kitchen and Corporal 'That recruit there', took us home. We had to be shown the way. No one could remember where we lived. When we returned to our barracks, it was time for a shower. The shower block was a free for all. We all just dropped our gear, put on our thongs and grouped under together. Nobody gave a hoot for modesty. I had showered with the best of them at the football. I'd seen enough penis' to keep me going for a lifetime. I just wanted to get to sleep. Kitchen duty again tomorrow.

We young men of just twenty years had been assembled together as one, without regard to personal space, delicacy of sleep patterns or individual culinary preference. We were together for reasons quite remote from those that I experienced at the Juniorate. Although the setting was vaguely familiar, I realised that these young men with whom I was now inextricably linked, were not about to speak of their desire to serve God, or to live a life in the pursuit of godliness, carrying out good works toward their fellow man. No, suddenly, I realised that I was in a fucking concentration camp. It was time to do some quick thinking. I deduced that some compromise was going to be necessary. If I was going to be seen as one of the boys, I reasoned that it was going to be prudent for me to do a little pretending. That meant ditching everything I had ever learnt at home, and at school, and start learning about life in the fast lane. That meant telling lies about a lot of things. Where I'd been, what I'd done, how drunk I could get, swearing profusely, and bragging about how many times I'd slept with a girl. I was now on the other side of life, the side from which everyone thus far had tried to shield me. All this I worked out, inside the first forty eight hours.

*

Our platoon barracks housed sixteen soldiers, each of us had a bed, a locker, a small desk and a chair. We, and another thirty two soldiers in two other barracks adjacent to us were here for the next three months. This was our platoon. This was my new family, my team, my friends and my advisers. Don 'scraps' Harris, I quickly discovered, had a few other attributes worthy of mention. He smelt, he snored, he slept opposite me, and he farted when he slept. And as if that wasn't enough, there wasn't a positive thing one could say about him, and it was apparent as he abused his way from one task to another, that sooner or later, someone was going to take him to task. That someone, was most likely to be the soldier with the better manners, Recruit Santo Rizzo, an Italian-Australian, who took up residence next to me, but on the far side of Harris. Day two impressed upon my mind, one simple and harsh reality. It didn't take much intelligence to realise that I had reluctantly entered my own private hell on earth.

49. Day five.....

Kitchen duty lasted four days. On day five we were introduced to our rifles. A self loading, magazine fed, bolt action 7.62 calibre something or other. It was very technical and I really wasn't in to the technology of modern warfare. All I knew was that if I fired it, and someone was in the way, they would most likely be terminally hurt. It really wasn't for firing anyway. It was for holding while marching and doing other tricks that invariably caused me to drop it on my foot. There was nothing more cardinally sinful than dropping one's rifle on one's own foot, unless you accidentally dropped it on the foot of your drill instructor. Our drill instructor Corporal Hendricks, a veteran of the Malayan emergency, didn't like that at all. He became very upset and shouted his displeasure right into my face. The veins in his neck expanded and protruded all the way up to his head. You could tell he wasn't happy.

"Cum 'ere you 'orrible little man," he said, and I took one step forward. "What's your name recruit?"

"Hickey, Corporal."

"Recruit Hickey you dropped your rifle."

"Yes Corporal, it fell out of my hands."

"Noooooo It didn't. It didn't fall out of your hands lad, Yoooo dropped it didn't yooo?"

"Yes Corporal."

"Yoooo won't let that 'appen again will yoooo Recruit Hickey?"

"I certainly hope not Corporal."

Nooooooo you don't hope not Recruit Hickey, yoooooo know don't you? It won't 'appen again because you won't let it will you?"

"No Corporal."

I was anxious to please him. I thought that if his veins stuck out any further they might just pop out.

"Just to help you remember that Recruit Hickey, take your weapon up in your 'ands, raise your arms and run around the parade ground until I tell you to stop. Go, go, go."

The look in his eyes told me he was deadly serious. I felt I should do his bidding. Better not to cause a scene. There is something to be said for solidarity in the face of adversity though, and my obedience was the catalyst. As I ran around the parade ground with my rifle above my head, I notice that one, two, no, actually it was three more of my fellow recruits were doing the same. Did they drop their rifles in sympathy? It didn't matter. It was very reassuring to know that the brotherhood of the oppressed was alive and well in the Army.

50. Day six.....

On day six, we were finally able to sleep in. We had forgotten what day it was. We knew it only by number. When we paraded at 0600 outside our barracks, our Platoon Commander, who, I subsequently learnt had a name, was standing ready to address us after roll-call.

"Good morning gentlemen," Lieutenant Couples began. "Today is day six. Please pay attention. This is important for both you, and the Army in general. If, before you arrived here last week you had a love affair, and by that I mean that you had sexual intercourse, it may be that you will start to experience a burning sensation when you urinate. If you do, you are to report it to the Medical Orderly immediately. It may be that you are in the first stages of Venereal Disease. It is not a crime to contract V.D. but it is a crime not to report it. Make sure that you treat this advice seriously. That's all Corporal."

That address really put the wind up me. I cast my mind back to the night before my beloved Megan and I said goodbye. No, that wasn't a love affair, at least not the way Lt. Couples meant. No, I wasn't experiencing any burning, thank God. But oh God, how I missed her. Her tender, soft, gorgeous face was permanently etched into my brain and my heart ached for her. Her debutante photo took pride of place in my locker and each night before climbing into bed, I put two fingers to my lips, and then to her mouth. I desperately wanted to ring her, but there was no opportunity.

Lieutenant Couples had inadvertently set off a ticking time bomb with his comments about what we might or might not have been doing the week before we arrived. Homesickness descended upon our platoon. There was something truly melancholy that evening in the barracks. Grown men sitting in little groups, heads down, cigarette smoke wafting above, sharing a common lament. Benson started it off.

"Jeez I miss my girlfriend, I wish I could call her somehow."

'If I can't talk to my girl soon I'm going over the hill" said Anderson. 'Over the hill' was a metaphor for, 'packing my bags and going over the hill far away where no one will ever catch me'. One by one we began to talk to each other about who we had left behind. Each of us had our own story to tell, the rest happy to listen, gaining strength from the commonality of it all. Unashamedly, we poured out our emotional attachments, we announced our true loves, and to a lesser extent our intimacies to others we had only known a matter of days. Midway into the second week, that melancholy descended one step further into disarray.

*

51. What Grog does....

The ordinary mess was now open for business from seven to nine thirty in the evening. That meant grog on tap. The three phones outside the mess were now also open. It was a maelstrom. Approximately two hundred, disillusioned, homesick, 'fed up to the back teeth with this Army crap' young men attacked the bar and the phones. They joined two queues. The queue for the phone was only marginally longer. But when someone in the phone queue, realised that others in the bar queue were buying beers for those ahead of them, in exchange for a place in the phone queue, all hell broke loose. Threats to one's personal safety were uttered fearlessly. Dubious references to one's parentage were common place; the tenderness demonstrated to one another just days before was forgotten, and as could have been predicted, it wasn't long before fists started flying. It took the Platoon Sergeants from all five platoons of 'G' Company, plus some help from some less passionate recruits, to quell the disturbances. A time limit was placed on the phone call but no limit was placed on the grog. A more experienced officer would have arranged it otherwise.

I was unable to call Megan that night. The more subdued, the more patient in our ranks would have to wait another night. It took just one night on the grog, to reveal the true nature of our happy little platoon. We were a rabble, a hopeless target. A group of children could have staged a successful raid on our barracks that night without any help from any one else. Soldiers staggered back to their beds singing good songs badly, some heading straight for the latrines to bring it all up again. For others the effect of too much alcohol, revived in them the memories of loved ones not present, and that brought them to tears. We were back where we started, and the stories of loved ones emerged once more. Gone was the 'day one' bravado, the tough guy image, the John Wayne in his riding boots and hat, ambling down the bar ready to send 'that mean son of a bitch' to kingdom come. Gone too, the need for me to wonder how I was going to survive amongst all these studs. They were just as frightened and as vulnerable as me. I didn't have to pretend any more. In fact, the way they were descending into depression, I could have been elected their General on the spot, just by offering a consoling word.

The following evening I was able to call the love of my life and it hurt so much that at times I was unable to speak. I didn't want her to know the true extent of my experiences thus far. It was too hard to tell her, and better I thought that one of us be miserable, than both of us. She said that the newspapers were full of stories about Puckapunyal and the stories were all very positive. She said that some recruits had been interviewed saying the food was great, their new friends were great, every thing was great. Well, the newspapers would say that, wouldn't they! The media, it seemed, were only going to report the positives. The fact that two thousand civilian soldiers were utterly miserable and ready to respond immediately to any convincing champion of rebellion was not going to reach the ears of a gullible public. Only when she told me she loved me and missed me to bits and how proud she was, did I summon enough strength to resist going over the hill that night. And then she told me the good news.

"Bridget is in the clear." she said

"Not in the club then?" It was an expression I'd picked up just a few days earlier.

"No, the rivers run red," she said. It took me a while to work out what she meant by that, being the klutz that I was, but at least the panic was over.

"There's something else though." she added.

"What now?" I asked.

"Do you know someone called Elaine, a girlfriend of your brother Damien?

"Yes."

"She's in London with him."

"Your kidding."

"No I'm not. Your mother is in shock. She can't believe it. Damien wrote and told her. Is the fact that Elaine is not Catholic, the only objection your mother has to her?"

"Yes. She's one of Satan's little helpers."

"She's what?"

"Satan's little helper. Don't be shocked. You are too!"

"Me? Did your mother say that?"

"No, a priest did."

"When?"

"In confession once, when I told him about us."

"You told a priest in confession about us?" Megan said, sounding a little stressed.

"Well, not actually about us. More about what I was getting up to, with you."

"You told a priest in confession what we were doing together?" A little more stressed.

"Well, only in the beginning. I stopped going to confession when he told me to stop seeing you."

"A priest told you to stop seeing me?" Stress developing into exasperation.

"He told me to avoid intimate moments with you. Wasn't I brave to ignore him?"

"The bloody cheek of him. Who was it?" Exasperation gone, replaced with seething.

"I don't remember. Don't worry about it."

"And he said I was Satan's little helper?" Still seething.

"Well, not you so much. He said that Satan's little helpers were everywhere, taking many forms, roaming around trapping unguarded souls or something. Then he warned me that you were an occasion of sin. He said I was too young."

"Gesù Cristo!" she said, "The bloody cheek of him." Seething subsiding now.

"No, that wasn't his name. Anyway, Mum thinks Elaine will drag Damien off into everlasting hell-fire, so Elaine sort of fits the profile."

"Everlasting hell-fire? My God, is that where I'm taking you?"

"Yes, I think so, but we had better keep it to ourselves. Besides, thinking of you as Satan's little helper is kind of sexy."

"Gesù Cristo! The bloody cheek of him!"

"Forget about it. It's nothing. Anyway, I don't think priests are very comfortable around women. I think they are frightened of you."

Prompted by calls from other soldiers wanting to use the phone, the conversation ended. As I walked back to the barracks, alone, I felt momentarily uplifted, but also incredibly isolated. As I looked up to the night sky and gazed at the endless array of stars, a feeling of emptiness developed inside me. Gently, the soft moderate sounds of Smetana's 'Vltava' floated across the darkness and into my mind, the music surging forward, lifting my downtrodden spirit, offering hope in uncertain times, such that I drew strength from its powerfully inspired, but unknown source.

52. Seeing the light.....

A few days later, we had our first religious gathering. From this I deduced that it must have been Sunday. But it was day twelve so I also realised that the Army had tricked us, and missed one Sunday already. We were separated into three groups, Catholic, Anglican and 'the rest'. The Catholics were marched to the RC chapel, told to remove our hats and ushered inside. I sat with Don Harris, knowing that he, like me, was here only by order. He had told me days earlier that he was finished with religion. He told me that once freed from the greasy clutches of Severus and the whole 'vocation' thing, he wanted nothing more to do with church or anything remotely resembling institutionalised religion. He was seething when our chaplain, during mass, told us all during the homily,

"You have not come into the Army as soldiers; You have come in as Catholics, and you are old enough to know what is expected of you."

"The fuck I have," he whispered to me.

To me, the chaplain's words were a clear message from the top. I may have been removed from the watchful eye of parents, teachers and Father West, but I would never be free from the responsibilities that came with being born into the church, being born a Catholic. God would be watching no matter where I was sent; no matter what I was doing. Nothing had changed.

Except me! Frankly I didn't want any more of it either.

In the Army I did not have the luxury of scrutinising, of checking out my companions for the dreaded occasion of sin. I was living with these young men as closely as I lived with my own family. We were all new to this soldier business, a little bewildered as to why we were here, and most of us a little frightened. A mentally overpowering Regimental Sergeant Major could quite easily replace your fear of God, or suddenly appear to be God himself, when his voice reached high 'c' and he demonstrated his own special formula of ridicule and personal abuse. When that personage appeared on the parade ground to look us up and down, we simply held our breath, fixed our eyes firmly on something directly ahead, anything at all, and hoped that he could not smell fear.

A mere handful took communion that day. The good chaplain had a lot of work in front of him.

53. Being a Soldier....

Our training program began in earnest by the middle of the second week. Immediately it shattered my initial thoughts that this was going to be a great adventure. We learned how to wear our uniforms correctly. Jungle greens during the day, battle dress after training, a sort of dress for dinner outfit, including beige tie.

We learned how to line up, how to dismiss. How to stand to attention, how to stand easy. How to open order march, how to close order march, slow drill, double time, single file. How to clean, thoroughly, spotlessly, shine in your face clean, spit and polish clean. How to salute, and who to salute. Officers only, left hand to the side, right hand longest way up, shortest way down. How to hold a rifle, not to kill, only to march. How to shoulder arms, above the arms, below the arms, on the ground but for Christ's sake don't ever drop it. How to clean, thoroughly, spotlessly, shine in your face clean, spit and polish clean. How to walk single file in the bush, quietly, quickly, how to apply first aid and how to clean, thoroughly, spotlessly, shine in your face clean, spit and polish clean. The Army was the cleanest place I had ever seen.

"One simple rule covers all," bellowed our section Corporal. "Until you know what you are doing, if it moves, salute it. If it doesn't, clean it!"

What we learnt, was governed by how we learnt it. Our instructors had their own peculiar little ways of getting their message across. They did it by numbers and through effective use of the tactic of 'fear'. The most effective manifestation of that tactic was in shouting abuse on the parade ground while teaching us to march. In the middle of winter with the chill winds of July blowing down the hill, onto the Company 'G' parade ground, our left hand almost frozen to the handle of our rifle, we stood to attention suffering the weather, rather than provoke the ire of our drill instructor. But he was provoked anyway.

"Plaatoooon Arrtenshon!" Corporal Hendricks bellowed.

"One, one two!" we screamed.

"What the hell was that...Recruit Hickey? What the hell was that?"

"I was coming to attention Corporal."

"That wasn't coming to attention Recruit Hickey, that was a pregnant cow getting up off the ground. Lets try it again. Plaatoooon Arrtenshon!"

"One, one two!" we screamed again.

"Recruit Anderson, are you waiting for a bus?"

"No Corporal."

"Then stop leaning on your rifle you horrible little man, what are you?"

"A horrible little man Corporal."

"Plaatoooon Artenshon!"

"One one, two!" We tried a third time.

"That's half better. By the right, kaweark march. Ef, ef, efrigh ef. Plaatoooon Halt!"

"One two!" we cried.

"Where the hell do you people think you are? This isn't Sunday school!" He bellowed.

"Recruit Benson who do you think you're looking at?" He's not happy.

"I'm looking at you Corporal." Benson was trying to be friendly.

"What the hell for Recruit Benson? What the hell for?"

"I don't know Corporal." Poor Benson. He didn't deserve this, really!

"Don't look at me Recruit Benson you dim dozy dickhead. As long as your arse is pointing south you look to the front. At all times you will look to the front, do you understand Recruit Benson?"

"Yes Sir!" He didn't mean to call him 'Sir'. He was just a bit rattled.

"Don't call me Sir, Recruit Benson. I am not a Sir!"

"Yes Corporal!"

It didn't matter which instructor was in charge, they all did it that way. A wrong answer resulted in twenty press ups, or a run up and down a hill. Sometimes, for a minor misdemeanour, a soldier would have to run some two hundred yards across the parade ground to where another instructor was similarly engaged in his version of abuse with his squad of recruits. The soldier was told to say, 'Corporal Hendricks said that I am a dim dozy dickhead.' He would then be told to return to Corporal Hendricks with a reply.

When his moment came however, Don Harris couldn't resist the temptation. He ran just fifty yards toward the next group and stopped.

"Corporal Hendricks," he yelled out, "is a dim dozy dickhead."

The good Corporal did not understand the meaning of 'a little light relief', and Harris was down on the ground doing another twenty press ups.

Our P.T. Instructor was different, and always ready to provide a little light relief.

"By the Jesus, you fellows are going to get fit no matter if it kills you." He bellowed. "We'll be doing lots of running, marching at the double, lots of press ups, lots of good healthy exercise everyday and supplement that with lots of food, in fact everything that's good for you."

Recruit Hollyfield asked the obvious. "What about sex?" Everyone held their breath.

"Sex?" he answered, "Sex is good for you." Rousing cheers all round. He had won the hearts of the mediocre.

*

But sex wasn't good for us. At least unprotected sex that is. We found that out later, when we were ushered into the auditorium one night and given a lecture on Venereal Diseases and the importance of using condoms. It was followed by a graphic educational film on Syphilis and Gonorrhoea. I had never seen anything like it before and it made me nauseous. Full-blown pictures of diseased penises with ugly puss ridden sores. Not content with that, we were shown graphic pictures of how the disease can spread to other parts of the body. I had had enough and moved to leave. A few of the soldiers laughed at me.

"Fuck you," I shot back. As I walked toward the rear door, Corporal Hendricks stopped me.

"Where do you think you are going?" he asked.

I replied simply and honestly.

"Corporal, if I stay here, I am going to throw up. I can't take any more of this."

He hesitated for a moment and then said, "Okay you can go. Wait outside." I did.

*

We drew strength from our loved ones, because there was nothing to love about the Army, and the Army did not pretend to love us. For the Army, this was business as usual. They had no handbook response to lethargy and discontent. They were used to volunteer recruits. Men who came willingly, and did not complain or try to run away. They struggled to counsel rebellious conscripts whose lives had been abruptly turned upside down. So they handled the matter the only way they knew how. They either placed us on a warning, or responded with threats of their own. Simple violations, such as failing to obey an order instantly won a soldier twenty press ups. Trying to desert, going AWOL, merited a confinement to barracks with extra drill duty after hours. If a soldier went AWOL and it took a while to locate and return him to barracks, twenty one days in Holsworthy Military Corrective Establishment was the most likely response, with the 'missing time' added to the end of the two year contract. The threat of having to serve longer than two years was enough for most of us to try and knuckle down, no matter how much we hated it.

Megan and I spoke on the phone every second day. But it was our letters that gave me the greatest strength. She was very expressive, she could say things in a letter that I could re-read over an over again. A simple phrase, even a single word, could resonate in such a way, that helped me retain my sanity and my composure in the face of what I saw, as cruel and unfair punishment. I took great delight in replying in kind. I would carry her letters with me into field training, and read them again, as I tried to fend off the flies attacking my mess tins when we stopped for lunch. Others began doing the same.

54. Leadership......

We were six weeks into recruit training and it was time to head out on the 20 mile march. This was a test of endurance, a pass or fail assignment. Failing meant repeating it at some later time, and none of us wanted to contemplate that. It would require a great deal of stamina and mental concentration. There was one huge incentive attached to this assignment. Following successful completion, we would be taking our first leave break. We could at last get out of this place, if only for a few days, and rejoin the real world.

We marched in full battle order. Full pack on the back and rifle over the shoulder. Our standard issue Army boots came with leather soles and heels, that given the nature of their use, were impractical. For a small fee, most of us had taken advantage of the opportunity to have the leather replaced, with rubber ripple soles and flat rubber heels. It improved our walking performance in terms of both comfort and mobility. A local shoe repairer in Seymour was taking advantage of a golden opportunity. Some, of course didn't bother, a decision we thought they would regret during the 20 mile march. The march began well, morale was high, and our confidence level was good. It was sort of like marching off to war, without the fear of having to face the enemy. About five miles out we stopped for a rest, a cigarette and a drink. Everyone seemed fine.

As we continued along the dirty dusty unsealed road, some of the group began to show signs of discomfort. They were complaining of sore feet, and they were clearly favouring one leg or the other. Ten miles out and it was time to break for lunch. It was also time for the medical orderly to conduct a foot check. When we removed our boots and socks, some soldiers revealed blistering that ranged from mild to severe. For some it was the end of the road, and they were not permitted to go on. Don Harris was blistering, but not bad enough to retire. Clearly though, he was regretting not having re-soled his boots in the more comfortable ripple soles. We moved out again after lunch and some time later, he was falling behind badly and in some degree of pain. He had foolishly eaten a big lunch and that was taking its toll as well. It didn't diminish his capacity for verbal mouthing-off though, and I couldn't help but feel some compassion for him, as I kept looking over my shoulder at this pathetic sight, watching him struggle along, limping and swearing, swearing and limping, cursing at anything that came to mind. Eventually the misery of it all overtook him, and he called out, "Would one or two of you rotten bastards come and give me a fuckin' hand here?" How could anyone ignore such a plaintive call? Four of us dropped back to check him out. I made a gentle suggestion to him that if he could keep his 'filthy' mouth shut, we might be more inclined to see what we could do to help him.

"I'm fucked" he said, "both feet, but I couldn't stomach doing this again. Can you give me a hand?" Harris had a way with words.

I stared him straight in the eyes. His mournful look reminded me of a neighbour's dog back home after he had been caught out in a rain shower. That look of helplessness and embarrassment, that transcends any external display of bravado, is one almost impossible to ignore. We were about one hundred yards behind the rest of the group, sufficient to attract the attention of Lt. Couples who came back to see what the problem was.

"Is everything under control?" he asked. We assured him everything was fine, and asked when the next break would be. He took a good look at the five of us and in a voice that revealed to us he was aware of our problem he said,

"Would right now help?" We nodded.

During the break we carefully removed Harris' boots and socks and found some horrible blistering. We suggested to him that he give it away and take a truck ride home.

"No fucking way," he said.

I sought out the medical orderly and asked him for some cotton wool. He pointed to his bag on the ground about ten yards away and told me to help myself. He shouldn't have said that. When I looked in the bag I found some thick gauze bandages, as well as some tape and disinfectant. I took the orderly at his word and helped myself. On the way back to our makeshift surgery, I had to walk past Lt. Couples, who against all my hopes, called out to me.

"Recruit Hickey."

I stopped dead.

"Sir!" I replied. He walked over to me and in a big brotherly manner that took me by surprise said,

"How is he?"

"He's fine sir," I said, hoping that would be the end of it.

Then he stared me in the eyes with a look that told me it was impossible to hide anything from him.

"How is he, really?"

"Well sir, actually he's a mess," I said, "but I think we can fix him up and get him home."

The Lieutenant paused for a few moments, casting his eye in the direction of Harris, and then back at me. After what seemed to be an eternity he spoke.

"Okay, I'll leave it with you then."

"Thank you sir," I replied, and started back toward the group, asking myself why I was doing this, and was there something about all this that had eluded me.

We cleaned and taped Harris' feet as best we could, put his socks and boots back on, helped him to his feet, and started off ahead of the others. The four of us, Benson, Anderson, Hollyfield and myself took it in turns, two walking shoulder to shoulder with Harris, enabling the lower half of his arms to rest in ours. This way he was able to take much of the weight off his feet. The other two walked, one at the front of him and one at the rear, so as not to make it too obvious that we were partly carrying him. Despite the inconvenience, we were able to make good time. Two hours later, our camp was in sight and we took a rest, allowing the rest of the group to catch up and pass us. The main group, tired and sweaty, passed by, including Lt. Couples who gave us an inquiring glance, but chose to say nothing.

Realizing that our commander was not going to interfere we took a longer break giving Harris a fighting chance to finish. Twenty minutes or so behind the others and still with an hour's walk in front of us, we continued on. What struck us four good Samaritans at the time, was the absence of any sign of appreciation from Harris. He just didn't have it in him to acknowledge that he had been in deep shit, and four of his 'mates' had helped him out, without any expectations of an end reward. We finally arrived back at base, tired, filthy, smelling to high heaven, our own feet hurting badly and took Harris straight to the infirmary. He was strangely quiet for the last mile or so. I couldn't help feeling that we had all learnt something from this, something that went beyond the lessons of a simple endurance test, but he was never able to say a simple thank you. Somehow though, he returned to normal in the infirmary. He began to tell the nurses how tough it had all been, what incredibly pain he had suffered in getting as far as he did. He told the nurses how difficult it was to get to the point where he had to allow others to help him finish the march. He was his old self again, and we felt like picking him up and taking him out into the bush and dumping him.

The next day, as I was marching past Company H.Q. Lt. Couples called me into his office. I felt very apprehensive. The only time in the past I was ever called 'in' to somewhere, was for a lecture, or worse from a man in black. He asked me how I had come through the march. I told him that I was fine.

"You were right. Your friend was a mess," he said. "He'll be laid up for about three days."

I nodded but said nothing. Then an air of curiosity overtook me.

"Sir, I was just thinking, you could have put an end to it out there yesterday, and ordered him to be driven back at lunch time. I'm wondering why you didn't."

He sat down and to my surprise suggested that I do the same.

"Recruit Hickey," he began, "there's a strong possibility that within six months or so, you and the others, or at least some of you, will be going to Vietnam. What you are going to need there more than anything else is mateship, a bond, a relationship, that gives soldiers a confidence in each other, a confidence that will stand them in good stead when things get rough. It is a bond that the textbooks do not cover, something that each of us has to find from within. It's that special something that goes beyond rules and regulations. Yesterday's endurance march was not just about physical stamina, it was also about mental stamina and bonding, a sort of test of brotherhood. You and the other three soldiers who helped your friend were learning that yesterday and to me, that was more important than worrying about whether or not one soldier was up to it physically. Rules and regulations are one thing, but sometimes they have to be put aside to enable a more important lesson to be learned. Do you follow me?"

"Yes sir, I do, thank you." I replied.

"Good," he said, "You showed good leadership out there yesterday."

"Thank you sir."

"And here's another lesson for you. Next time you empty out a medical orderly's bag, try and remember to put back what you don't use; there are others who may need something from it, okay?"

"Yes sir," I said as I leapt to my feet, saluted and left, feeling good about the leadership wrap, but happy to be away from authority.

55. Megan and a three day pass.

As promised, at the end of the twenty-mile march we were given our first leave break. I was able to go home. The knowledge that I was going to see Megan made me go weak at the knees. It was only going to be for a few days, but it was like being let out of prison. I would have settled for a few hours. Army trucks transported us to Seymour railway station. There were hundreds of us milling on the station platform, all fired up like little boys on a trip to Luna Park for a day on the rides. It was probably the biggest logistical exodus the stationmaster had ever seen. The train pulled out of Seymour and I sat by the window. It was my first real look at the outside world since my entrapment and it was different. It had lost its innocence. It was now stained with the mental images I carried of my experiences over the past six weeks. I now had new experiences in my life, and they manifested in the way I viewed the simplest of country settings, the green of the paddocks, the cars waiting at the crossing, the children waving from the roadway. I was different.

*

We were not the first troop train out that evening, and as we slowed coming in to Spencer Street Station ninety minutes later, platform one was a sea of battle-dress brown. Any visitor to our city might have been forgiven for thinking it was a friendly invasion. As the train crawled along the station, I stuck my head out the window, scanning the hundreds of people waiting, hoping that I could catch a glimpse of her.

She was there, standing with my father, waiting by the ticket master's box, all rugged up to protect her from the cold, looking as gorgeous as ever. I tried to call out, but a great lump swelled up in my throat. For a moment, I could not talk. I waved furiously, eyes watering, heart pumping, legs wobbling. Finally, the voice came through. She turned her head toward me; I waved and called her name more furiously than ever. Then a moment of magic, as our eyes locked on to each other. The train was still moving slowly and drifting further down the platform. She began to follow, at first walking around and in between the army of bodies crammed onto the platform. The train would not stop; it just kept going and going. Megan began to show her athletic prowess. She was now running after me, darting in and out avoiding potential collisions to the left and right. I moved from the window to the door. Waiting for the train to come to a complete stop was like waiting for my exam results. I slammed the door window down, and again stuck out my head. I had lost sight of her. 'Shit. Will this fucking thing ever come to a halt. There she is, still coming; she is a stayer.' The train stopped and I was out in a flash. I could not remember moving so quickly. I began running back toward her. Finally, the anticipation was released, and there was a moment of sheer ecstasy as we locked together. Her arms clutching my neck, mine wrapped around her, we buried our heads in each other's shoulder, as we pressed our bodies together from top to toe. I lifted her off her feet and spun a full three hundred and sixty degree turn. We held each other so long we should have been charged rent. Our lips came together gently and the soft reassuring feeling of her tongue in my mouth lowered my heart rate from pulsating to passionate. A minor reduction on the scale, but for the moment anyway, a step in the right direction. Heaven was platform one, Spencer Street. The two of us just stood there for a few more moments, staring into each other's eyes, smiling, not quite believing that we were back together again.

We began the walk back to the ticket box. My father was there waiting, pretending to check for tickets as everyone passed through the exit. That was his little ruse for the night. I suspected that he had had one or two at O'Reilly's before coming to the station. This was the first time he had seen me in uniform and he grinned as we met. It was part pride and part apprehension. He was no better than I, at guessing what the future held, but it seemed as if he liked the idea that one of his sons was doing a stint in the Army. We hugged each other for the first time, and the three of us, my father, my girl and me, joined the station exodus.

"So that's her," Anderson remarked as he passed by. "Wow!" he added.

Megan wanted to know what I had been saying about her.

"Just that you are more beautiful than Marilyn Monroe," I told her. "I hope so," she said as we made our way out toward the car park. "She's been dead for three years."

My father drove, happy to be chauffeur for the evening, or was he just happy. Megan and I sat in the back seat holding hands, holding legs, holding anything we could touch and still stay decent in my father's presence. The journey home passed quickly. As we neared our house, I asked Megan how long she could stay. She told me she was not going home; she was staying at our house tonight. She said my parents were pleased to have her stay over, and she would sleep with Bridget. Heaven was Rivervalley Road, Highfield, in the back seat of my father's EH Holden.

I walked in the front door where my mother was standing in the hall. She threw her arms around me and hugged me. Megan and my father followed in behind me. It was so good to be home, to see my mother's smile again, to hear her voice. Bridget thought I looked so handsome, Andrew and James fought over who would wear my slouched hat, but all I wanted was to hold Megan. Mark had gone out with his girlfriend.

We sat up in the lounge and talked for hours. My mother was beaming. At last, one of her children had come home again, even if it was only for a few days. The television news was all about Vietnam and the student protests here and in America. Some of it was violent and it was obvious passions ran high on the subject of Vietnam. I had not seen any of this before. They showed some footage of our training, and I felt a strange sensation knowing that I was a part of it. However, sensation was soon tempered with reality. The reality was that I still had over twenty-two months of soldiering to serve. I had hardly started.

At midnight, my parents retired to bed. Megan and I stayed in the lounge. We cuddled up on the couch together, like two lovesick budgerigars, and slowly drifted off to sleep. At one in the morning we woke and decided to go to bed. Megan went into Bridget's room; I went out to the rear bungalow. I lay in bed in a state of mild euphoria tempered with a strange uncertainty and I could not sleep. So much had occurred in such a short time. It seemed I was on a wild merry go round and the view from every angle was different. Each time I came around the view was different again and there seemed to be no end in sight. It was half excitement half apprehension, but for now at least, I was home, I was away from that mongrel existence for the moment anyway, and my girl was sleeping under the same roof. It seemed all too unbelievable.

She came to me about an hour later. After nearly seven weeks of forced separation, finding ourselves sleeping under the same roof, but not together, seemed absurd. She came in to the room and called to me softly. I responded by opening up the coverlet and sitting up on the edge of the bed. She straddled my lap facing me and we embraced for a few moments. I felt her soft breasts against my face. She pulled back and lifted her nightie up over her head, exposing her beautiful breasts to me. We rolled over onto the bed proper, and locked ourselves together in a passionate embrace. The separation had taken its toll, and we ached for each other. We felt each other's tender touch. I ran my fingers through her golden brown hair, then down over her shoulders, and over her breasts, and played with her nipples.

"Do you want to.....is this a good time?" I whispered, every part of me longing for the right answer.

"More than anything," she whispered back, "more than anything," and then cautioned us both, "but it's a risky time for me. Let's just do what we normally do. There will be other times. I'm going on the pill from next month. Things will be different after that I promise."

Her hands ran down my side over my buttocks, and settled with a soft clench of my penis. I touched her with a gentle rhythm and her moisture flowed. We pleasured ourselves as we lay naked together and our sense of longing was satisfied. We drifted off to sleep wrapped together, and did not stir until the early morning when we locked ourselves together once again, before she rose and tip-toed back to Bridget's room.

*

I found it lying on the dining room table later that morning. My father had left for work taking Megan with him. She had lectures to attend and we had arranged to meet later. Everyone else had left for work or school, and only my mother and I were in the house. It was a doctor's appointment for Elizabeth Margaret Hickey to attend a radiologist for tests. When I questioned her about it, she said it was nothing, just a check up. I took her at her word and went for a walk around the street. I walked to the shops and bought some flowers. I wanted to give them to Megan later, but when I returned to the house, it was an instantaneous reaction to hand them to my mother with a kiss.

We sat in the kitchen and chatted. I realised that much of what she meant to me had been taken for granted. Her life had been devoted to her family and we had simply taken it as a normal part of our own lives, not thinking to question either her motives or what in another life, she might have wished for herself.

"You have to be a parent to understand," she said when I asked her how she coped.

"You have to feel fulfilled in what you are, and in what you do. Only then will you save yourself the trouble of questioning why things happen the way they do."

I sensed that she was referring to Damien and Elaine with that remark.

"I guess I am fulfilled despite the ups and downs," she said. "Fulfilment comes from within," she continued. "You cannot buy it. It comes from within; it comes from being content, knowing that your life has meaning. It is all of you, my family that provide that meaning, even when you do things that upset me."

In a rare moment of philosophical brilliance, I said to her,

"Perhaps as you have journeyed through life seeking your life's meaning, so we must do the same. Perhaps, we seek it in a different way. Maybe that's the way it was meant to be, that we all find our God, our happiness, in our own way. Perhaps for some of us that means going beyond traditional boundaries, searching new frontiers. After all, that's what Jesus did." She looked at me in silence for a long time. I had never spoken to her that way before. I don't even know where those words came from.

"That's not the way I was taught," she said, and turned her head toward the window and my father's rose garden.

She did not ask about the Army, but listened carefully to everything I told her. I did not tell her much; it seemed better that way. She placed her trust in a higher authority and accepted what life presented to her. If the Army became another part of the jigsaw in her life, it was to her, just another piece on the board, and she would deal with it the same way she dealt with everything else. That was her philosophy, that was how she coped. Then, as an after-thought, she mentioned that a man had come knocking at the door looking for me three weeks earlier.

"Who was it?" I asked.

"He said his name was Joseph. He looked a little nervous and didn't give his surname. He was dressed in black and he did look slightly familiar although I can't remember from where. I told him that you were in the Army, and asked if he wanted to leave a message."

"What did he want?"

"I don't know, he didn't say. When I told him you were away he apologised for bothering me and left." You haven't been running up any debts or anything have you?"

I assured her I didn't owe money anywhere.

"Well I don't know if he plans to call again or not. I guess we'll just have to wait and see."

*

Melbourne University was a cold, dreary looking place, no character, just concrete, bitumen, bricks and mortar and a million faces looking at a million faces. It was a sea of people coming and going. Its one redeeming feature, along the Swanston Street frontage, was the row of English elms that graced both sides of the street from Tin Alley up to Queen's College. At their peak in the late autumn, when they turned a brilliant yellow, they could melt the coldest heart, and brighten the dullest day. However, this was winter, and all that was left to melt the icy reserve was my Megan. It was three thirty in the afternoon as she walked toward me along Tin Alley, in her full length brown boots, and her pleated skirt, visible underneath an open coat that ran down to the mid-half of her legs. Her beautiful golden brown hair swayed from left to right above the scarf that protected her from the chill of a late Melbourne afternoon in August. She saw me, and we smiled as we both recalled the previous night, and suddenly the dreary, dull, lifeless nature of this prestigious place of learning disappeared. Her last few steps toward me were a hop, skip and a jump, into my arms.

"Ciao il mio amore." She said, " Sie la fonte della mia gioia e speranza" She studied Italian. I loved it when she spoke to me in Italian. She could have spoken to me in Italian forever.

She looked into my eyes and said, "That means, 'hello my lover. You are the source of my joy and hope,' or something like that."

With that we walked down Lygon Street, where there were more Italian restaurants than in all of Italy. We found a cosy corner table and drank coffee. As we sat there just happy to be with each other, holding hands and breaking only to sip a cup of coffee, I said to her,

"Why do Italian?"

"Because I love it, you know that. It is the language of romance. Languages are a part of my course and besides, I've always wanted to go to Italy." She squeezed my hand and added,

"Now I have you, I want us to go there together."

"Buy the tickets," I said. "I will meet you by the pier at midnight. No, wait " I said, "The guy in the bed next to me is Italian, Santo Rizzo, I'll speak to him. He might have Mafia connections and if we arrange to do a job for him, he might get us there for free."

"I thought you told me in a letter that the person next to you was a dirty filthy smelly loud mouth called 'scraps' or something?"

"No, that's Don Harris, he's on the other side. I spend the night facing the other way. I try to pretend he is not there."

Constrained laughter followed as I felt a tinge of guilt, not revealing the full extent of my association with Harris.

"Have you been speaking to Bridget about you know what?" I asked.

"About who she's sleeping with you mean?" she answered, always willing to be direct.

"It's not that easy to say it when it's your sister," I said in my own defence.

"Sister or not she's a vibrant healthy woman and yes, I have. She and Chris have stopped seeing each other, although she still likes him, but I think the experience has made her a little wary."

"Is she okay, I mean... is she happy?"

"She's fine. We talk a lot together. Everything is okay. She was petrified that she would have to tell your mother what happened. When her period came she rang me at five in the morning. She could hardly contain herself."

As we sat there, I thought about the future and the reality that this was but a brief moment of re-union, soon to be brought to an end.

"You don't have any problems with me going on the pill do you?" she asked.

"No, of course not," I said and added, "I can't wait actually."

"Mmm...well, you don't have much choice do you now?" She said with a great big grin.

"Tell me about Elaine," she pressed, eager to get all the gossip she could on this tantalising turn of events.

"She was always nice to me. I liked her." I said. "Damien would never bring her home thinking that all the holy pictures on the walls would spook her off. She was with Damien that St Patrick's Day march when we first laid eyes on each other.

"So that was her. I don't remember what she looked like, but I do recall a girl being there with your brothers. How interesting. Your mother is still a bit upset. I'd let the subject pass if I were you."

"Yeah, I think you are right on that." I said. "I'll leave that one well alone."

"Damien might have been right about the holy pictures though. They are a bit much. At home, we only have the Sacred Heart in Mum and Dad's bedroom. That's enough as far as I'm concerned."

Our mood was quiet and words were not necessary. We had found in ourselves a contentment that needed no explanation. However, I sensed a certain reserve in her, as if there was something on her mind, something she found difficult to address. A girl walked into the restaurant wearing a t-shirt with the slogan, 'no conscription'. Megan asked me how I felt about it. I had not given such things any serious thought up until then, but said I did not mind that people felt that way. I knew that there was plenty of opposition to the whole concept of conscription, and this one in particular because it was so selective. It was then she told me that there was an anti-war protest movement gathering on campus and she, Monica and Michelle wanted to join up and play an active part. She was worried that I might feel somewhat affronted at the prospect, being on the other side of the fence so to speak. I reassured her that if there was any activity she was involved with, that could in any way shorten the time that I had to spend away from her, I was all for it.

"I would join up with you, if there wasn't such an obvious conflict of interest." I said.

She breathed a sigh of relief, her face lit up and she jumped up from the table, leant over and planted her beautiful lips right on mine. Acting as if a huge load had been lifted off her shoulders, she was back to her usual self.

"Have you written our song yet?" she asked.

"No," I told her. "There is no sign of a piano anywhere yet.But, I still have your diagrams and I keep them in a safe place. All I've seen of the Army so far, is my barracks, the latrines, the Infirmary, several parade grounds and our Platoon Commander's office, and none of that offers any musical inspiration."

I stared at her, and I wondered for a moment about her plans to join the protest movement. 'If the three M's were going to protest the war,' I thought, 'Heaven help all those on the other side. They had no idea who they were up against, not to mention the havoc these three demure young ladies were capable of creating.'

We left the coffee shop and started home to her house. I was to be her mother's guest for dinner, but this night we would have to spend apart. She did not think her parents were quite ready to absorb the prospect of their daughter in lust. We would have to be a little careful, and more sensitive with them. I am sure my parents had no idea of the depth of our involvement either, but somehow Megan's relationship with my mother overshadowed any other consideration. As we walked along Lygon Street, heading for the tram, I asked her if she was aware that my mother was seeing a radiologist. She was not, and was startled at the suggestion. I asked her to keep this piece of information to herself, but at the same time, see what she could find out.

"Mum mentioned something about a man calling, asking for me. Do you know anything about it?"

"Your mother mentioned it to me, but from the description she gave, it didn't ring any bells with me." she replied.

"If he comes back, try and get his name or something would you?" I asked.

"Do you suspect something?" she asked.

"No, not really. It's just that Mum said he was dressed in black, and I am wondering whether it may have something to do with a former school friend of mine who died of cancer a couple of years ago."

"You never mentioned this before!" she exclaimed.

"I knew him at the Juniorate. His name was Michael Stewart and he died during that time when your father would not let me see you. We sort of bonded during his illness, but before that, he was very helpful to me at the Juniorate."

"And you think this person who called might have something to do with him?"

"I don't know. It's just a hunch, I have an odd feeling about it. I'm not sure, but whatever, if he calls back, see what you can find out."

It was not my intention to make known to Megan the depth of my feelings about the caller. When my mother raised the matter, my first reaction was in the form of a flashback to the day of Michael Stewart's funeral and the ever so brief sighting of Brother Severus. I remembered how fearful I felt seeing him that day. I did not want to recount that experience. To do so would necessitate revealing that I had been sexually molested as a child. I could not yet bring myself to share that with her. Nevertheless, I was convinced the caller was somehow linked to the events of that time, that it may well have been Severus himself, and that made for an uncomfortable feeling.

We boarded a tram at La Trobe Street, and headed home to her parents.

*

The next day the three M's with their menfolk, Kase, O'Rielly and I, went out on the town. We had dinner at an Italian restaurant in Hawthorn before dancing. At dinner, Monica gave Megan a nudge, and I heard her ask,

"Did you speak to him about you know what?"

"Yes," she said.

"And?"

"He's fine with it," Megan replied, "He would join us if he could."

Monica was ecstatic.

"It is going to be great, Simon," she said, unable at first to explain what she was talking about.

"We're going to have marches and protest rallies, all over the city and people are going to make up banners. There is so much feeling about things. The unions are going to get involved too. People everywhere are questioning the morality of it all. We are going to bring our involvement in this fucking war to and end," she said, and then thrust her hand up to her mouth, realising the slip of the tongue. We all laughed. The word 'fuck' was now so embedded in my psyche, that it really didn't matter if it came from a man or a woman. Barry Kase said that he wanted to get involved too. He said he felt like shit that I was where I was, while he was free of any risk of going to Vietnam.

"Besides," he said, "Mum says if I don't look out for my twin sister she will disown me."

"Just take it carefully," I told them, "I've already seen a bit of what is happening on television. Just don't get so carried away, that you suddenly find yourself under the hooves of a terrified police horse."

"That's exactly what I was thinking," Michelle said. "This is not going to be some picnic in the park. We have to plan this very carefully."

*

On any Saturday night, around eight-thirty to nine, the intersection of Burwood Road and Glenferrie Road Hawthorn, was so crammed with stationary traffic, it resembled a car park. Most of the traffic moved east to west into the city's cinemas, the restaurants and live theatre. Almost at the corner, the Hawthorn Town Hall was the venue for young people to dance away the night. They had been doing it since my parents were teenagers. This was Damien and Mark's starting point after puberty, their proving ground. Megan and I, and our four friends, were no strangers to this place either. Over the past two years the six of us came here regularly, and loved it.

After dinner, we all strolled in together, the three M's and their men. The girls were dressed to kill. It was wall to wall colour, party dresses with elegant accessories, and well sprayed hair standing as firm as a rock above perfect make up. The men wore collar and tie. The loners tended to congregate at the back of the hall, or go upstairs where they could view the female talent less conspicuously. The music was live and fifty, fifty, courtesy of a band of musicians, who despite the fact they never got to socialise themselves, were dressed better than some of the young men who came through the door.

Megan and I formed a partnership of reciprocation. She helped me play a better piano, I helped her amputate one of her left feet and replace it with one of similar length, size and texture that actually worked on the dance floor. Our afternoons at home dancing around the house had paid off. We could waltz and jive. We could 'Pride of Erin', we could Evening Three Step, we could Cha Cha, Samba, Boogie, Twist and Shout. We could even follow the throng of bodies in an anti-clockwise direction, and avoid the inevitable couple, coming the other way. No sooner were we inside the hall than she grabbed my hand and catapulted me onto the dance floor. The others followed. Even Sean had taken to tripping the light fantastic. His large frame was a commanding presence to be avoided by those who didn't want to be involved in a collision of sorts. We swapped dance partners in the middle of a medley, Monica and then Michelle took hold, gliding gracefully around the hall. They too were good dancers and good dancers made a good evening better. There was something about dancing with Michelle. For a girl I really knew only by group association, I felt surprisingly comfortable. Monica by contrast, was all get up and go. She was a livewire, and pity the poor fellow who could not keep up with her. The evening helped me forget the Army, until the occasional sight of a man dancing with his lady, revealed the one give-away sign of his enlistment. It was the light line of skin, across the side of the face, where the chin-strap of the slouch hat rested; a part of the face where the sun could not penetrate. I saw it, and I was reminded that there were other soldiers in the hall this night.

The Band Master liked interaction between himself and the dancers, and had us playing games of elimination. His minders walked around the hall tapping those on the shoulder when their time was up. By the time the music was finished, one couple had won two tickets to a local Cinema screening. They didn't have to be good; just happy.

We were all on the floor dancing when the music suddenly stopped. We were about to go for a drink when the Band Master turned to the floor and said, "Are there any ladies or gents out there who would like to come up and sing?"

No one volunteered, but as I was standing behind the three M's, and I knew they liked to sing together, I raised my two arms high and silently pointed down onto their heads. Our Band Master pointed down toward the three of them.

"Perhaps those three young ladies down there would like to come up and sing something?" he called out pointing in their direction. Wild bronx cheers erupted around the hall. It was Monica who first realised that he was pointing toward her, and she screamed half with fright, half with excitement. She turned to the others and there was much shaking of the heads, progressing to encouragement and then pleading from we three brave boys, who gently nudged them forward. They relented and climbed the steps to the stage to a welcome from the throng that matched that for the Beatles at Festival Hall. There was a short conference centre stage with the Maestro himself, who then turned and nodded to the ensemble.

One, two, three, and off they went. They impersonated the Crystals belting out 'He's a Rebel,' and the Town Hall was hopping and bopping so hard the chandeliers swayed from side to side, and I feared the floor would give way. They not only sounded good but the choreography and the finger clicking made me wonder if they had a future in the recording industry. They had obviously been practicing this routine for the odd impromptu performance at some University bash. When they finished, and made a move toward the stairs, the crowd would have none of it, whistling, shouting 'more, more', insisting on an encore. Another mid-stage conference took place and a decision was made. This time, it was a rendition of Lesley Gore's 'You don't own me,' and the crowd quietened, some singing with them, some just standing watching, reflecting. A big finish and a wave to the crowd and they were the hit of the night. As they moved back to their three brave men, the Hall was wall to wall applause. Megan melted into my arms, embarrassed but exhilarated. It was a night to remember, and as I held her, I realised it was our last night together, for how long, we did not know.

The next afternoon, we were standing alongside the train on Platform One at Spencer Street. Soldiers were everywhere, as they had been a few days earlier, but this time the excitement of returning to loved ones was replaced with the melancholy sense of separation once again. I held Megan in my arms. She nestled her head in my neck. Monica and Michelle stood a short distance away with Barry and Sean. Few of us wanted to go back but we did of course. We had no choice. The train whistle blew and it was time to go. Megan and I kissed, our fingers touched each other's lips, and our eyes told their own story. I climbed aboard and stood watching her, as she rejoined Monica and the others. She was not smiling. Neither was I. A final wave, as the train moved off slowly. As it veered to the left, she was gone and once more, dark shadows covered our days.

56. Becoming Soldiers.....

Arriving back at camp on the last night of leave, there was an air of resignation in our conversation. Some spoke of what they did over the past three days, but most spoke of what lay ahead. It would be more of the same; of getting through recruit training and moving on to corps training. After our long awaited leave break, we realised that we were no longer civilians in uniform. We were soldiers, and for many of us, the very notion, was absorbed with increasing discomfort.

Given the way Don Harris' general manner and deportment irritated other soldiers, I suppose what happened a few weeks later was inevitable. It was Saturday afternoon, I was sitting on my bed trying my hand at spit polishing my dress boots. Harris was doing the same. I had not witnessed the offending incident that had occurred earlier in the day. Apparently Harris had shot his big mouth off once too often, and referred to Santo Rizzo as 'that fuckin' wog.' That was the thin edge of the wedge for Rizzo, the soldier with the better manners. When told of the remark, he came into the barracks to confront Harris. He broached the subject and to his credit gave Harris the opportunity to apologise.

"Get fucked ya mongrel," was Harris' reply.

Santo Rizzo, the soldier with the better manners, suggested that they step outside and settle the matter like 'real men'. Harris seemed happy to oblige. The word spread through the barracks at a furious speed and the entire platoon was on the grassy field between our huts ready for the biff, before the biff began.

Surrounded by all of us, these two fellows fisted it out, with no quarter given or taken. Engaging in the lowest form of dispute resolution, they delivered a right cross after a left jab, and a right upper cut followed with a quick rap at the solar plexus. Or was it a left cross after a right jab, and an uppercut into the left solar plexus? Only the more astute, in our ranks, those experienced in the ways of the pugilist could make the call. Suffice to say, after about six or seven minutes, or was it rounds, it was over. Both men were bleeding freely, but Harris, the experts said, had met his match. He had taken a beating and he sat there stunned and bloodied, while the soldier with the better manners walked away in triumph, taking the gallery with him. I decided to stay. I decided to help the loser. I felt a kinship. We had a history. I had helped to patch this pathetic individual up once before and it seemed that I was the one to do it again. I pulled him up and took him into the latrine block. I grabbed his towel from the barracks, and commenced the job of wiping off the blood, applying some antiseptic to the wounds and shouldering him onto his bed. A sinister mood had crept into the atmosphere. Some of those who had witnessed the biff had returned to the barracks when I brought him in, but nobody spoke. I sensed that nobody cared. We were all suffering from civilian blues. We were fed up to the back teeth with soldiering, and it was starting to manifest itself in our behaviour toward one another.

Eventually Harris spoke, making a lamentable effort to acknowledge his own stupidity, as I applied some bandaids to his cheek. I tried to reason with him.

"Why do you do it?" I asked, "You must know that all you do is piss people off."

"Yeah, I know, I can't keep my fucking mouth shut." An understatement if ever I heard one. There was some muffled laughter from those close by. We began to talk. I asked him about his family. He told me that he had no recollection of his parents, that he was raised by his uncle who, it seemed, treated him well, but who also enjoyed the amber liquid, and allowed it to dominate his behaviour. Harris spoke of how his uncle's drinking habits frightened him and caused him to feel very alone.

"Is this the same uncle that was working at the Clarion, the one we were going to arrange to expose Severus?"

"Yeah, that's him, Jesus, you have a fuckin' good memory."

"Some things just stick in your mind," I replied. "Like when you suggested we lure Severus down to the river and hit him over the head with a log."

"I meant that. I know it shocked you guys, but I bloody well meant it."

I paused for a moment, continuing the first aid before asking the next question.

"Did you ever tell your uncle about Severus, about what he did to us?"
"Eventually.....Yeah, he knows." Harris replied.

"How did he react when you told him?"

"He was angry, he swore and then hit the bottle, and that was that. Did you tell your parents?"

"I told my father." I said. "I thought he was going to burst a blood vessel he got so worked up. He asked who else knew about it. I told him Gordian had heard it on the bush telegraph. I think he might have gone off and discussed it with him, just to help calm himself down."

"My uncle had his own way of calming himself down, and it always came out of a bottle." Harris said.

As we continued our discussion I began to realise this was good therapy for us both. Harris said he grew up spending a lot of his time on his own, and was never able to appreciate family life. When he was called-up for Army service he was hoping that this would be an opportunity to make some lasting friends, something he desperately wanted but was unable to do at Pangarra. It was not until that day on the march when some of us looked after him, bandaging up his injured feet, and helping him back to camp, that he realised he was part of something close to a family.

"You certainly didn't give me that impression at the time." I said to him. "Why then.... do you go around pissing people off all the time, and what was all that bullshit you told the nurses," I asked.

"Yeah well, that was just me wasn't it?"

"Yeah well," I replied, "Santo Rizzo, who just beat the crap out of you, was just being him too, wasn't he? If you want my advice, you are going to have to find a way to control your mouth. And it wouldn't hurt if you could find your way around apologising to Rizzo while you're at it."

Somehow, he seemed to get the message after that beating. He was still very much his old self most of the time, but one or two little things found their way into his behaviour. There was no more personal abuse of individuals. That, at least, showed he was thinking before speaking and even that helped him improve his standing with the rest of the platoon.

*

The next six weeks were consumed with weapons training, an overnight bivouac, inoculations and lectures as well as marching drill. Firing rounds from a SLR 7.62 calibre rifle left a filthy black residue in the barrel. It took a special skill to clean it; running a piece of weighted cord with a cloth attached through the barrel and pulling it out at the top. The skill, was being able to do it as many times as necessary to pass our instructor's visual inspection. Stripping our best friend had a whole new meaning in the Army. Our best friend was our weapon. We took it to pieces, gave it our tender, loving, cleaning, care, before putting it back together again. The same process applied to the other two weapons we used. The M60 machine gun, a weapon capable of quite lethal destruction of anything placed in its way, and the Carbine, a nifty little piece of metal that cut up anything at short range, so long as you could aim it accurately.

Weapons training involved firing at stationary targets, moving targets, targets that jumped out from behind trees and phantom targets. It involved discerning an enemy target from a friendly source. I just shot the lot of them and mostly missed. The afternoon of our final tests we advanced down the range in the blinding rain, I fired my weapon only to have it mis-fire repeatedly. The bolt jammed. I did not get off all my shots. Yet later, the notice-board showed that I had passed, scoring a miraculous fifteen hits from twenty discharges. When our target results were posted on the notice board, I suspected foul play. Some one in a position of authority obviously did not want to have to go back out into the rain to repeat the morning's work. I suspected some one fudged the paper work a trifle.

I spent my first night out in the open. My father never took us camping. One night out in the bush and I knew why. Man was not born to live in the bush. Man was born to live in houses. The bush was cold and wet. It contained little things that crawled into your pockets at night, thus proving that not even little things that crawled around at night, liked being there. There were no tables or chairs to sit at, when we ate. We sat on the ground or a tree stump and ate with one hand forking food into our mouths, the other to brush away the flies. We shaved in cold water. More blood was spilt that morning than at Custer's last stand. There were no toilets. It was disgusting and demeaning to be given a shovel and a piece of paper and told to follow your nose. The bush latrine was a communal trench in the ground, up to ten feet long. I had to squat. 'Jesus, how disgusting!'

We marched and marched, by the right quick march, by the right slow march, open order march, present arms. The instructors were becoming increasingly frustrated. We were not doing it right, and they threatened us with failure and a re-posting to Kapooka, the New South Wales equivalent of our training establishment, to do it all over again. We were smart enough to realise that this was a ploy. They were making the same threats in reverse to our brothers in captivity at Kapooka. When we began to rehearse the drill for our passing out parade, we were also smart enough to realise that it was to be a show piece to the media, to our families and to the rest of the country. We could screw up big time, or make an effort. This was not some fancy school where one could be expelled for poor performance.

A few weeks before the completion of our recruit training, I received a letter from my father, telling me that my mother was undergoing radiology treatment for a cancer growth in her hip. He said there was nothing to be concerned about, but I knew that was not true. My father had never written to me before. His news sent me into a state of shock. My mother was ill. She was diagnosed with some form of cancer in the hip and was undergoing ray treatment. This was a new experience for me, the realisation that parents don't live forever, that the time had come when I had to take these things seriously, that I was an adult and had to approach it as an adult. Throughout my remaining weeks of recruit training, the only thing that kept me going was Megan. Her letters, her voice on the telephone, our belief that one day this nightmare would be over. She kept me sane and responsible.

57. Passing out

Some weeks before pass-out parade we were asked to submit our preferences for the corps units we would like to join. I had no idea what I wanted, but I knew what I didn't want. The Infantry. The Infantry were foot sloggers, cannon fodder, and the lowest form of life in the Army. Infantry soldiers were sent to Vietnam and were shot at. They were always the ones engaging the enemy. The Armoured corps personnel were protected inside their tanks and personnel carriers. The Artillery were derisively referred to as nine mile snipers, for good reason. They never saw the damage they did. I nominated for Service Corps as a first preference because it seemed safe and administrative, less hard slog. Often referred to as green grocers, it sounded perfect. My second choice was Intelligence, because from where I was seeing things, it sounded like the Army needed some. Included in my request, I enclosed a copy of my father's letter describing my mother's condition. It seemed to have no effect. When the announcements came, along with the vast majority of my brothers in pain, I was assigned to the Infantry, and despite all the threats and lamentations about our poor progress, we were all promoted from recruit, to the rank of private.

Our passing out parade was a major moment for the Army, the politicians, the demonstrators, families, television crews, and if we were silly enough to believe all the hype, the North Vietnamese were shitting themselves in fear. Thousands of friends and relatives made the journey up from Melbourne. The roads were clogged with traffic banking up three miles out from RTC Puckapunyal. There were literally dozens of cameramen and journalists willing to shove a microphone in any face they thought would produce a story. The band played Waltzing Matilda, the Commanding Officer took the salute, the crowd roared their applause, we marched our hearts out, and thank Christ it was finally over, and we were dismissed to the waiting arms of family and loved ones.

My parents made the journey up the Hume highway even though it was physically difficult for my mother. Megan drove up with Monica and Michelle. A television journalist made the mistake of approaching Monica when he saw her give me a kiss. He asked her if she felt proud. She suddenly let forth with a tirade of abuse at the government, saying that all these fine young men, and me in particular, should never have been forced to come here. She abused anyone and everyone that might have had the remotest connection with my incarceration. Not content with that, she turned her attention to Lyndon Baines Johnson, thirty something President of the United States, and uttered threats that would in his country, have seen her incarcerated as well. She told that poor berated holder of a microphone, that every time she watched a news report where soldiers were being interviewed, the soldiers concerned would always speak highly of the Army, of the training, the camaraderie, the food, anything. She said this was media manipulation of the masses, it was censorship and it was dishonest. The journalist and his cameraman never quite saw her coming and it was clear to me that they, and the world, were ill-prepared for Monica Kase.

My mother saw little to get excited about as I gave everyone a guided tour of the camp and my barracks. When I asked her about her treatment, she assured me everything was fine and that the treatment she was having would expel the cancer. I introduced her to one or two of those soldiers I could trust not to send her off into a state of depression. Benson and Anderson. They were ordinary guys just like me and they didn't disappoint me. The time I spent with Megan was limited to the few moments we could separate ourselves from the others for a quiet word together. There would be no leave after passing out parade. The big day came to a close; the Army brass had been able to strut their stuff before the cameras; the newspapers had their stories and pictures and the crowds were on their way home. We stood there together, Megan and I, holding each other tightly, until Michelle walked across, put her arms around both of us, and said it was time to go.

We were shipped out to our Corps training units the next day. I was posted to the Infantry Training Centre at Ingleburn in New South Wales, about thirty miles west of Sydney. It was as far away from home as I had ever been, and I was separated from most of those I had lived with, for the past three months. This included Don Harris. He was posted to Queensland. When we shook hands and said goodbye, he thanked me for what we did for him that day out on the road, and the talk we had later after the biff. He said that he would never forget it. I was surprised by this unusual demonstration of appreciation. I realised that behind his brash facade, he had learned something. From our platoon, only Rizzo, Anderson and Benson joined me at Ingleburn. We were assigned to a new platoon with others from other companies, and trucked out again to Seymour railway station, only this time the train travelled north, taking me yet further away from Megan.

58. Dealing with it....

At Ingleburn, it was like starting over again and homesickness reared its depressing head. I was worried about my mother. Megan continued to reassure me everything was okay, but I was sick of this Army business and wanted the whole thing to go away. The nature of the training was very similar, but carried out at a more intense level. We were introduced to deadlier weaponry; rocket launchers and hand grenades. We were taught contact drills, and jungle training, all with what seemed to be a greater sense of urgency. The instructors were all Sergeants not Corporals, more frightening and less forgiving. Watch out if we ever called them 'Sarge'; they did not like it. There was much talk about Vietnam, about a larger force being sent there, and I began to feel as if I were caught up in a net from which there was no escape.

*

There was something about the moral tone of the Army. My new platoon was no different. It was one track mind sex. There were plenty of opportunities for us. Liverpool was only ten minutes away and we were warned not to go there. On Friday night leave parade, the warning was always the same.

"Stay out of Liverpool," the Sergeant-Major said, "There's a lot of V.D. there."

For some, it was like talking to a brick wall.

"If you get V.D. you must report it." he continued. "It's not an offence to get it, but it is an offence if you fail to report it. Use a condom, I know they're bloody awful things to put on, but the alternative is much worse!"

The films shown to us at Puckapunyal were still very vivid in my mind. I wasn't going to get it! I didn't need a condom! I wasn't going to 'do it'! I realised my relationship with Megan had placed me in a rather enviable position. Few soldiers had what we enjoyed, and the animal urges that they so often expressed were foreign to me. It was like listening to advice that was not for me. It was for someone who's life was not fulfilled in the same way as mine.

It was October, the climate was warmer, and we had leave every Friday night. Leave usually meant Sydney and Kings Cross. My first visit there was a culture shock. The bars, the bright lights, the strip joints, the prostitutes, the traffic, and a million tourists looking at another million tourists. Moreover, there were hundreds of American soldiers on leave from Vietnam. We always travelled in twos or threes, but without anything specific in mind. We just walked up and down, up and down, and had a drink at some bar. Sometimes we heckled the barker outside a strip joint until he brought in reinforcements. Then we walked back to Central Station, and caught the train back to camp. They were mostly wasted evenings, but anything was better than staying in camp. One Friday, Benson, Anderson and I visited Sydney on leave. We were in the city when a demonstration against conscription took place at the corner of Pitt and King Streets. Protesters had staged a sit in, and were causing traffic chaos. When the police moved in to disperse them, violence erupted and it only barely fell short of a full scale riot. Bystanders were caught up in the fracas, and Benson just missed being crushed against a shop window. The papers reported the next day that over fifty people were arrested. It was a sobering reminder for us, and we thought twice before venturing into town again. I also thought about the three M's and their protest intentions in Melbourne. I was happy for them to be actively involved, but I didn't want to see them caught up in the violence.

Across the main road from the Infantry Centre was the R.C. chapel. Stopping off at the chaplain's office seemed a normal thing for me to do. He represented the only remaining remnant of the life I had left behind, and while I was no longer feeling much interest in going to church, it seemed natural for me to know the local padre. He was a recent appointee to the Army, and took the honorary rank of Captain, but discouraged soldiers from saluting him. He felt uncomfortable about it. I chatted to him about the demonstration we had witnessed and he showed little sympathy for the cause. That disappointed me. I thought the Church should have been more conciliatory. I thought they should have played a more prominent leadership role in pressing for more peaceful solutions. They were, in fact, a supporter of the military effort to stem the flow of communism in South East Asia.

*

In the soldiers' recreation room at Ingleburn, there was a bar, some tables to sit at, and a juke box with all the latest hits. The juke box was our musical entertainment centre, all for the cost of a coin in the slot. For those of us who found pounding the pavements of King's Cross a less than rewarding experience, more effort than it was worth, this became our evening and weekend retreat, our home away from home. In the far corner of the recreation centre, there stood a lonely piano. It was just as Megan's father had described, lonely and neglected. It looked like, and probably was, a relic from the second world war.

I ambled toward it one evening when the bar was quiet, opened it up and sat down. The keys had turned yellow, a testament both to its age and condition, but I never considered myself so good as to need a Steinway baby grand anyway. I began to play. The tuning needed a lot of work but it was playable. The tunes I played were those I most liked, they were my own compositions. When a soldier came across from the bar and asked me to play something popular I felt embarrassed. I was always conscious that my untrained hands would reveal an amateurish performance. It was easier to play something no one had heard before. That way they could not tell whether I was good or bad. As I played, I realised too, that I now had an opportunity to keep faith with Megan. If she really wanted me to learn to write down my music, this was a perfect opportunity, even though in hindsight her initial proposal was more the act of a lover searching for a way to keep two hearts connected.

The next time I visited the recreation centre, I took with me the rolled up sheet Megan had prepared. I was intent on making an effort to justify her confidence in me and do something that would in spirit, remove me however temporarily from the life of a reluctant Infantry Rifleman. I began to play some of my own compositions and record the notes on a separate sheet of paper. As I played each note interspersed with a notation on the sheet, Santo Rizzo, the soldier with the better manners was at the bar drinking with friends and when he saw me playing he joined me.

"How long have you been playing?" he asked.

"About four years," I said, hoping he was not a pianist himself, and would not detect the flaws that I knew were evident.

"What's all this then?" he asked referring to the sheets Megan had prepared. I told him what I was doing, that it was my girlfriend's idea, that I was interested in composing.

"Ever since I first heard 'La Boheme,' " I told him, "I have wanted to compose something. Megan, my girlfriend is helping me."

"She has studied the piano for a long time?" he asked.

"Much longer than me, and with a proper teacher."

"You are self taught then?"

"Yes, does it show?"

"No, I think you have good touch. Do you have a photo?" he asked.

"Of Megan?"

"I know what you look like, dummy," he retorted. I fumbled for my wallet never shy of wanting to show off the photo of the two of us which I kept with me constantly, and he looked at it intently.

"She looks fabulous. What does she do?"

"She's studying Arts at Uni, doing Italian as a language. She drives me nuts when she speaks in Italian."

"Ah....that's because Italian is the language of romance," he said with an air of authority while I continued notating.

"Your friend Harris, have you heard from him since Puckapunyal?" he asked.

"No, he went to Ennogera. 10th Battallion, I think." I replied.

"He's a very troubled man, I think."

"Yes" I said, "he is." Then after a moments thoughtful consideration, realising that Rizzo was a man with a sensitive nature and not in any way aggressive unless provoked, I extended my answer.

"He's had a shit of a life so far. Never knew his parents, raised by an alcoholic uncle, sexually abused by a so-called man of God at boarding school, and now he finds himself trapped in this madhouse. Not what you would call the best of starts, eh?"

Set aback, and somewhat shocked by this unexpected revelation, Rizzo hesitated before speaking.

"You know all this to be true?" he asked, looking at me intently.

Notating b flat onto the sheet, I replied, "Yep, I was there with him at boarding school." I quickly decided that I was willing to say that, and no more. Rizzo hesitated once more.

"I'm sorry," he said with genuine deliberation. "I wish I had known that before."

"Well, it's not exactly something one openly advertises," I replied. "Don't start feeling guilty. You weren't to know, and it still doesn't excuse the things he said about you."

There was a restful silence as I practiced my notations, then he leaned over toward the music sheet.

"If that's supposed to be b flat," he said, "you need to make a notation here, at the beginning on the middle line." Now it was my turn to be set aback, and in the delicacy of the moment, prudently gracious.

"Thanks," I said.

"No problem," he said. Then, in a magnanimous gesture, he took a blank sheet of paper from my pile, tore off a two inch section at the bottom and wrote down something in Italian.

"Next time you buy your Megan a gift, write this on the card," he said, handing the piece of paper to me. I'll catch up with you later. So long."

With that he returned to his drinking friends at the bar, while I tried unsuccessfully to interpret what he had written.

*

Field exercises were intense, and differed only in the length of time we were out overnight in the scrub. The longest was nine days. Nine days sleeping under the stars, or the rain, with only a very thin plastic poncho to protect us. The food rations left us continually hungry, unless we were smart enough to stock up on chocolate and biscuits from the canteen before we left. There were no showers, but there was a mandatory requirement to shave every day, and we still had to crap into an open trench, adopting the squat position, while trying desperately not to fall in. Sleep was interrupted because we had to stand on guard duty for two hours each night. Occasionally we would be 'attacked' at night by an 'enemy' firing noisy blank rounds for hours, continually interrupting our sleep and constantly calling out unsettling and abusive messages. On these nights, we didn't sleep at all, but we still had a full compliment of activities the next day. I came to hate the bush and the march flies that hovered over me while I tried to heat an eight ounce can of stew in a little hole, dug out to protect the tiny flame from the wind. Coming back to our barracks from field training was like coming home. A hot shower, some real food and a nice warm bed. On such occasions the barracks were Heaven.

*

Infantry corps training ended without too much hype or fanfare. There was another passing out parade, this time more subdued, but it didn't prevent me from stuffing up again. It was a simple mistake. I do remember being issued with my new Infantry corps badge, and I recall some soldiers applying the brasso to bring it up to peak condition. But I do not remember any one telling me that I needed it to replace the rising sun. Our slouched hat, an Australian Army talisman, was not the simple piece of equipment it appeared to be. The badge aloft the hat, that so proudly displayed the blazing emblem of the rising sun, was issued to us as recruits. Upon our graduation to the Infantry corps, a new badge specifically struck for the Infantry became the official issue. I just do not remember any one telling me so. Thankfully there was no crowd of proud parents, journalists or television cameramen to witness my neglect. It seemed that the initial interest had subsided. Maybe they didn't think we were newsworthy any more. Perhaps we were now yesterday's story. Small mercies.

We assembled on the parade ground for the passing out parade. The company Sergeant-Major was making a last minute inspection of the troops. He noticed that I had not changed my Infantry badge. He looked at my hat, then back at me, and let fly.

"Your badge soldier, where is your badge?"

"What badge is that sir?"

"The Infantry badge!" he said, "That!" he said, pointing to the hat of the soldier in front of me.

"In my locker sir." I answered.

"What's it doing in your locker soldier? You are supposed to fit it to your hat!" He wasn't happy.

"I didn't realise sir."

There was a long pause. He looked up the line to see how soon proceedings would begin. The Commanding Officer was making his way down toward the parade ground. The Sergeant-Major concluded that there was not sufficient time for me to return to barracks, replace the badge and rejoin the platoon.

"Get off the parade ground now," he ordered, pointing the way.

"Yes sir."

"Get back to the barracks. We don't want you here. Get away now."

I was dishonourably dismissed. He was very angry and I did not want to annoy him any more. I did his bidding, returned to barracks and waited for the inevitable recriminations. I had not endeared myself to anyone during this period of my training. There were no favours to call up, no plea bargaining. So I sat in barracks and waited, and while I waited, I apologetically fitted the new badge to my hat.

The passing out parade proceeded with piped music, the C.O. took the salute. An award was given to the most conscientious soldier and soon it was all over. The troops returned to barracks and as they made their way in, I thought, 'now I'm for it'. I waited for the call. It did not come. This was cruel and unusual punishment, making me wait like this expecting the worst, sweating out all the possible scenarios. 'What will it be? Extra drill, cancellation of leave, what?' An hour passed and nothing happened. I decided to tempt fate. I joined the assembly for dinner. The Sergeant-Major looked us over, looked me straight in the eye, and dismissed us to the mess. He had forgotten. Either that, or he was an enormously forgiving man. I blessed him, thankful that being a nobody in this man's Army had its advantages.

*

The letter from my father, that I had attached to my corps request application at Puckapunyal was to have far reaching consequences. When Infantry training finished, we were posted to our Battalions. We were given no opportunity to select a location this time. We were in the hands of the number crunchers. Most of the soldiers at the centre were posted to 5th Battalion R.A.R. stationed in Queensland, the next most likely Battalion, we were told, to be sent to Vietnam. I had not endeared myself to anyone of my instructors during this phase, and probably would have joined them. However, my father's letter had been attached to my file, and precipitated an alternative posting. I was posted to the newly formed 12th. Battalion RAR stationed at Puckapunyal, and for the time being at least, they weren't going anywhere. But I was! I was going home, back to Victoria. I had eluded the ever threatening prospect of overseas service, at least for the time being.

59. The Colours of love.....

For one glorious week, the colours of love filled our days. Megan bought us a car, a 1963 Holden EJ Hydramatic, paid for half by me, one sixth by her and one third by her parents. She chose red. What else? It was a good deal she said. Who am I to argue when I'm five hundred miles away? I deduced though, that Frank and Irene did the deal. What would Megan know about cars? Suddenly the grey clouds of separation were gone, as she drove north to join me. A week's leave followed my absentee graduation from corps training. My thoughtless blunder was completely overlooked, and the blue skies of early December in Sydney, released the warmth of summer's golden sun. Knowing there would be little opportunity for us to be alone together at home, she took a break after end of year exams. The timing was perfect in every way. We booked to stay three nights together and delighted in the dazzling blue water of Sydney Harbour. From our room at the Rocks, we viewed the magnificent steel blue harbour bridge linking north and south; and below, the white water swell, shaped by the myriad of small craft gliding their way underneath from Circular quay to the North shore. We walked arm in arm past Bennelong point; a construction zone for a controversial new opera house whose cost had blown through the roof and had politicians on both sides of the house running for cover. From there, we walked across to the lush green city parks that ran down to the water's edge. We took a ride on a ferry to Manly, and gazed out across the Pacific Ocean, later watching the brilliant red sunset from Taronga Park Zoo.

And that first night, we loved one another as never before. We dined in the restaurant two blocks away, and polished off a bottle of her favourite sauterne. As the evening sunset was nearly complete, the streetlights assumed command of the night sky. After the candlelight dinner we walked back to our room.......

.....The window is open, and the curtains sway as a gentle breeze filters through into our room. A lamp on the table, beside the bed, gives off a dim romantic light. We stand adjacent to the bed, facing each other, our eyes fixed to each other's dusky features, our minds resplendent with expectation. Slowly we begin to undress each other. I unbutton her blouse, one button, two, then a third. We are relaxed and our moment has come. Four years we have known each other and this will be our first moment of consummate intimacy, except that I cannot undo her bra. 'Rotten bloody clip, why doesn't it open?' She takes care of it, in an instant, exposing her beautiful white breasts. She unbuttons my shirt, slips it over my shoulders onto the floor and runs her hands over my chest. My stomach quivers. It is so exhilarating. I stroke her breasts with the back of my hands. They are firm, so white, so soft. Her nipples harden. She unzips my trousers and removes the rest of me exposing my now well aroused and expectant member. Her skirt falls away, and I slip my hands down inside her panties and run them down her legs. We go down on our knees naked together on the carpet, we wrap our arms around each other, our bodies pressed hard together. Our lips meet, our mouths open and we are overtaken with a happiness not previously experienced. But why stay on the floor when a softer rest beckons? We frolic together, like two puppies, wrestling on the bed and on the floor. We shower together taking turns to smother each other in soapy lather only to see it all rinse off again seconds later. Once dry and scented with talc we lay naked on the bed again, and feel that wonderful contentment of two bodies pressed together, two minds as one, resting, away from the demands of those who still hold our fate in their hands.

We lie facing each other. There is no rush to crush, no one will call, no one will interrupt, and we have all night. She rolls me over and slides on top of me. Her legs straddle me and her pubic hair is caressing my silently screaming penis. We run our hands over every part of each other, over and over again. So many different places, curves, crevasses and caves. Our hands lock together and our arms stretch out. She comes down onto my face and her mouth covers mine, her tongue goes deep inside. Her beautiful scented hair falls about my face. A police siren sounds outside in the street. It is not for us, although for the pleasure we feel, I think this must be illegal. She sucks my neck, then I suck hers, she runs her tongue down my chest and buries her head in my stomach sucking my navel. I roll her over. I am on top, and she wraps her arms around my buttocks as she continues to lick my navel. I begin to slide back and feel my penis nestle between her legs. She groans as I press forward against her opening. She clasps my cheeks and licks inside my ear. What ever she does, she gets back twofold. I have her breasts in my sights. What is it about a woman's breasts that sends rational, stable men to distraction? My mouth covers one, then the other. What is it about a woman's breasts that even a simple cleavage will excite? I do not know and right now, I do not care.

I suckle on her breast, my tongue running a circular motion around her nipple and I feel it harden. My legs open and straddle her thighs. She gently presses upward against me, slides her hand down, and takes my penis in the palm of her hand. I make room so she can spread her legs and my fingers rub gently between her legs, up and down and around, as I feel for the opening. A gentle trickle of moisture flows through and then more and my fingers are inside her. Her moisture is now a river. She opens her legs further and my fingers pulsate backwards and forwards as her groans become louder. Her hand is clenching my penis and it goes near berserk. I have to stop this otherwise I will come. 'Jesus, I don't want that, not yet!' I stop the pulsating of the fingers, and rest my hand. "Don't stop," she says. I tell her I'm about to explode. She laughs and releases her grip on my penis. We lie their for a few moments as I regain control of the errant member. We look at each other with a deep penetrating look that needs no words. I slide over on top again, my legs in between hers, and gently, ever so gently, I enter inside her. We both groan a deep grown. We lie motionless for a moment and look deep into each other's eyes. Never did she look so beautiful as at this moment. I begin the gentle rhythmic motion, back and forward and we both begin to pray. 'Oh God, oh God, oh God'. The groan escalates to a muted scream. The bed starts to rock backwards and forwards. It produces a rhythmic squeak. Perhaps it would be best not to alert the whole world outside. 'Bugger them, who cares about them.' The frantic thrust begins, thrust after thrust, after thrust, and I think that the bed is going to collapse until I come, and the cries come with me, mine louder than hers. It comes and comes and our past pleasures have never been like this. Heaven is more than I could ever have imagined.

We lie there motionless, panting, exhausted, and ecstatic in our love for one another, our bodies moist with perspiration. Nothing needs to be said. We lie there motionless, with only the rising and falling of our stomachs telling us that we are still alive. We lie there listening to the stars singing. Minutes pass and finally I retreat, slowly, slowly until the now somewhat pathetic little creature is exposed, and I flip onto my back. She lies there in silence momentarily, allowing her breathing pattern to return to normal, then rolls her leg over the front of my body, tucks her head into my neck, and slowly, slowly, sleep descends upon us like the fading light of a distant sunset.

Morning comes, and with it, both the light and the noises outside as a working world begins yet another seemingly endless procession of traffic. Then, more traffic and the sounds of angry people trying to cross the road indignant at the insults hurled from drivers whose momentum has been brought to an abrupt halt. We lie facing each other, eyes now open, our smiles reveal our thoughts more easily than words could ever express. She runs her hand over my cheek, draws close and we kiss. The noise outside is louder and becoming a distraction. Anxious to see what all the fuss is about, we get up from the bed and look out the window. It is a maelstrom. Sydney going through its normal morning madness. It takes but a moment to realise our bed is more inviting than watching the early morning fury. Breakfast will have to wait as we become absorbed once more, engaging in the various pleasures of the previous night.

*

Another boat trip that day, took us outside the heads north to the Hawkesbury river, the gentle green calm of the river a sharp contrast to the ocean swell. On that trip I discovered sea sickness. She said I turned green as the boat drifted up and down, up and down. I had to go below decks to the toilets. I wasn't alone. When I walked in, the sight of all those bodies lurching forward in front of the urinal, precipitated a similar reaction with me. I was now as white as a sheet. Some people had stomachs of iron. I wasn't one of them. She couldn't contain herself laughing. She laughed that wonderful laugh that told you... it doesn't get any better than this.

That night and the next, we loved each other again and again. We slept soundly, stirring only to feel the warmth of each other close by.

We left for Melbourne on the fourth day, in our 1963 red EJ Holden Hydramatic along Highway 31, through the vast brown expanse of a parched sun dried country, happy, refreshed and relaxed. For one glorious week the colours of love filled our days.

60. Collaboration

12th Battalion was a new Battalion consisting of veterans from 3rd. Battalion RAR who had served in Malaysia. The rest were National Servicemen. They were setting themselves up alongside 7th Battalion, also stationed at Puckapunyal. Much of the stringent discipline of recruit training and corps training was gone now, and replaced with a high degree of seasoned maturity, with soldiers who knew their job, knew when they could play, and when they could not. This, for we newcomers, was training you couldn't buy. We watched highly trained experts at work, followed their lead, their example, and as we did, we realised why Australian soldiers were held in such high regard. They were very good at their job.

I was now able to go home every second weekend. That helped me feel more relaxed about my mother. The army was now almost a nine to five job. I was assigned as batman to the Administration Company Commander, Major Kennedy. Six months down, eighteen months to go.

*

Megan and I sat together at her mother's piano, a baby grand, handed down through the family and lovingly maintained. It took up one corner of a large lounge room, and still left plenty of room for a three piece lounge, upright lamp, and two period chairs. Behind the piano stood a wall of shelves cluttered with sheets of music, and period novels by Jane Austen. A window to the left enabled us to see out to the front garden, the lights in the street and some of the decorations on the front door across the road. It was a warm Christmas Eve, 1965, and her sisters and brother, were in the rumpus room watching Carols by Candleight on television, with their father. Megan studied the sheets of music in front of her. She looked so beautiful, she rendered me utterly helpless to resist any request, any command. Her hair gathered around the bottom of her neck, home to the gold necklace I had just given her, and draped gracefully just above the shoulder. Her pale green soft pleated summer dress was cut to just above the top of the breast, exposing that tantalising inch of cleavage that would send any red blooded male to distraction. The wrapping paper and card which accompanied the necklace sat on the dining room table. The card read, "Alla mia carissima Megana. Con amore Simon," courtesy of Santo Rizzo. Needless to say, she was unexpectedly delighted with both.

"What did you mean to do here?" she asked as she studied the sheet. I showed her by playing it the way I wanted it played.

"Hmm, don't think so." she said.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Your timing is wrong, you have not allowed enough time to finish this bar and then float into the next bar. Also, this note is b flat, my sweet, not b. It needs to go like this." She played. Who was I to argue?

Her mother walked in, smiling as she saw the two of us at work. Megan played it through again.

"Oh, you do look so nice sitting there together, just like you were twins." She said.

"Triplets," we fired back.

"Of course, and what is Michelle doing tonight?"

"She has a family thing," Megan replied.

"I should take a photograph," Irene said and looked around for a camera. "And that's lovely darling" she said, referring to the music. "Did he compose that?"

"Yes, he did actually, and it is nice, but it needs a little work. I think we should repeat this line again at the bottom, and then make this a semibreve at the end."

I concurred although I had no idea what she was talking about.

She played it through again.

"Did you ever meet my mother?" I asked Irene, referring to the night Megan and I were born.

"I don't remember, Simon. I suppose I probably did, but I was not there very long and there were other mothers there as well. I'm just not sure. You should ask your mother what she remembers."

"I did. She says she can't remember. You need to go a little softer there," I told Megan.

"Okay, then we put in a little mp here so that we know that." she said.

"Don't assume that sharps and flats are always black notes. F flat is played on e here, see, its white, and b sharp is here on c, and it's also white, we call that an enharmonic change. Do you follow?"

"Yes," I lied. She turned and looked at me, a huge grin on her face, knowing I had lied. She laughed as she put her hand up to my face. We were working on our first piece of musical collaboration.

"Let's take a break!" she said as she pecked me on the nose, and left to help her mother prepare some supper. I played a few notes as her father walked in. He offered me a drink, and then got serious.

"Simon, while I have the opportunity to talk with you quietly, you probably know that I'm not overjoyed about Megan being involved in this student protest business. I don't suppose you have tried to talk her out of it have you?" I had to be sensitive here. This was delicate.

"Frank," I said. He let me call him Frank. It was a great honour. It was one old soldier to a new one.

"You know your daughter better than I do on that score. I don't think I would have any chance of talking her out of anything even if I wanted to. Besides, it's a sisters-in-arms thing. She, Monica and Michelle, the three of them are solid, and they have strong support from other students. What ever side you take politically, they seem to have gone a step further. With Monica it's almost an obsession."

He took a sip of his whisky, shook his head and asked me if I would try to 'keep a lid on it'. I promised him I would try. He was a veteran of the North Africa campaign. He was bewildered at the opposition to our presence in Vietnam. His firebrand daughter was causing him some consternation. He believed in the domino theory. I had to be careful with him. Besides, I liked him, but I didn't believe in the domino theory. I was also politically astute enough to see what was going on here. The Government would go to an election sometime in 1966, probably late in the year, and they were worried about their dominos falling. Anyway, only a fool would want to confront the three M's when they were in full battle mode.

61. Bonnie Doon and the Kew Town Hall

1966 began with a new Prime Minister. Robert Menzies, that instigator of so much misery amongst twenty year old men, their families and their girlfriends, decided to retire. Harold Holt, took over. In February, we were introduced to decimal currency and our beers were now ten cents instead of one shilling. In March, our Battalion was gearing up for a major company exercise. It was Major Kennedy's responsibility to seek out locations for mock attacks and ambushes, locations that resembled as closely as possible, conditions in Vietnam.

"Private Hickey, we are going bush on Monday for three days. Full battle pack. See Corporal Davidson for details," he told me.

"Yes Sir." I replied, resigning myself to the inevitable trench latrine, and things that crawled into your pockets at night.

Corporal Davidson was Major Kennedy's driver, a veteran of the Malaya Emergency, who knew exactly what was required, and arranged all the necessary gear. I was going along as cook. I couldn't cook to save my life but that's what a batman did when he was in the field. We set out on Monday morning and travelled a couple of hours by Land Rover to the high country near Jamieson. Kennedy and Davidson spent the day covering the countryside, looking for the right terrain while I remained in camp cooking, cleaning and reading. That night we lit a fire and the two of them spent most of the time talking about their combat experiences. The second day we moved on further north where the country opened up, and found in Kennedy's words, 'new and more exciting' locations near Lake Eildon. By our second night under the stars, the campfire chat was still on Malaya, and I felt distinctly inferior. It was all right for these guys to reminisce about their various exploits on Her Majesty's service, but what was I supposed to contribute? Did playing the lead role in a church play with the love of my life at my side qualify? I didn't think so. Major Kennedy finally realised that I was present but also 'not present.' He brought me into the conversation by asking me about my life pre-Army. We shared a common interest in classical music, but as so often happens in life, what we think we know, is not always so. He asked me if I was familiar with Faure's 'Pearl Fishers.' I should have let it slide. But I didn't.

"Bizet sir," I said.

"What's that Private Hickey?"

"It's Bizet's 'Pearl Fishers' sir. You said Faure. Faure didn't write the Pearl Fishers sir. Perhaps you are thinking of the 'Pavane' sir."

"Er...yes of course," he said. There was a tut tut tut, a cough and splutter and 'Jesus, why can't I just learn to shut up.' I moved on quickly and told him that I was in the public service on the public relations side of things and he became very interested. After explaining to him the nature of public relations work and its relationship with newspapers he had an idea.

"I think the Battalion can use your experience Private Hickey" He never called me Simon, he was 'too stiff-upper-lip' for that.

*

I spent the better part of March 1966, playing soldier in the rolling hills of Bonnie Doon, digging trenches five feet deep and six feet long. I was making coffee for the boss, and the signals crew who had set up shop in Admin Command. I felt I was doing time out on the road with the chain gangs, especially when it came to crapping in an open ditch while brushing away the flies as they zeroed in to feed on whatever they could. I was kept up all night because the 'enemy' was out there, firing off dummy bullets, and shouting obscenities at we poor besieged defenders of the democratic principle. While I was undertaking these and other such admirable exploits, Megan, Michelle and Monica, were in Melbourne, and about to engage upon a mission of havoc themselves.

There was campaigning for a by-election to replace Robert Menzies in the electorate of Kooyong. The Liberal Party's candidate was Andrew Peacock. Harold Holt decided to attend a campaign meeting at the Kew Town Hall to lend his valued support, and our three intrepid heroines who were part of a planned anti-war demonstration, were also planning to attend with several University friends. They travelled by tram along Cotham Road shortly after seven in the evening. The tram was unusually full, having to cater not just for its regular patronage, but also the Liberal party faithful who had come to hear their champion. The tram also carried the three M's and their party otherwise known as 'the enemy', who were clearly identified by their placards, and their lack of appropriate dress. The male Liberals wore collar and tie. The ladies could not attend such an occasion without their Sunday hats. By contrast the 'enemy' looked downright ordinary. But their placards told their story. The placards read, 'No vote, no voice, no choice.' They were talking about conscripts. They were talking about me. They were my voice. Another placard said something about a licence to kill, but I don't think that was referring to me. While on the tram the two sides kept a respectable distance from each other until the tram arrived at the corner of Glenferrie Road. That seemed the appropriate place for a cessation of 'niceties'. It was the point where our side alighted to join their team waiting at the corner, ready to march the remaining few hundred yards down Cotham Road to the Town Hall. A few uncomplimentary remarks were slung at the crowd on the tram, who were somewhat stunned when they realised they were actually being addressed, and froze in horror. Such comments however were minor compared to the orchestrated chants that were already in song by the throng that was waiting at the corner. It was as noisy as any football match at Glenferrie Oval, just a mile down the road. Up went the cheers as our team got off the tram. The cheers then turned to boos directed at those inside the tram, still stunned and silent, and probably wondering what the country was coming to. The tram continued on to the Town Hall. Our heroines took their place with 'the enemy' and began the march. For Monica this was Heaven. "This is it everybody," she called out. "Let's go!" She was ready to give it all she had. Barry was there to keep an eye on his unpredictable sister. Sean O'Rielly was there too, but just for the ride. If it became dirty, he wanted no part of it. Megan and Michelle felt a buzz. They were finally on the front line making a stand. Whatever happened from here on, they were in the thick of it. This was their baptism of fire.

Ten minutes later, the demonstrators arrived at the Town Hall, boisterously singing, chanting and conscious of a strong police presence. They gathered outside on the lawn adjacent to the front of the hall, where Holt and his entourage would arrive. The inevitable jostling and pushing began. The police did their best to maintain order. They had barricades erected to keep the roadway clear but barricades can't go on forever. They had to stop somewhere and somewhere was where our team assembled. Then someone yelled out, "Here he comes!"

When Holt arrived in his chauffer driven limousine, the barricades did not help much. The papers reported the meeting as out of control with police battling several hundred demonstrators. 'A violent brawling crowd howled down the Prime Minister' the papers said. I would not have thought a violent brawling crowd was needed to achieve that. Some of the demonstrators allowed their passion to exceed their good judgement, and tried to get past the police and into the Hall. A contingent of police officers was dispatched to contain this breach, and the errant scruffs finished up in the back of the Divisional Van. Monica was shaking her fist at the police, as if they were the object of her protest. Holt was finally ushered into the building after taking in much of the abuse, jeers and cheers hurled his way. He smiled and waved to everyone pretending they were all on his side. The pushing and shoving continued as the demonstrators each tried to have their own individual abusive message heard. In the thick of it, Monica let fly with her message. "End conscription!" she screamed, "Get out of Vietnam!" But as Holt disappeared from view, the noise began to subside and her protest cry fell on deaf ears. The police stood firm. The human barricades had held their line. The demonstrators now satisfied their hunger for justice with a conference on the lawn. They had done their best while remaining within the law.

The conference soon became a musical as small groups congregated, still keen for action but realising they had little left to offer. They turned to singing protest songs instead. Barry and Sean told the girls they did great work, but suggested that it was time to leave. Megan and Michelle agreed. Monica wanted to kick on, and needed a little more persuasion but eventually she gave in. After a few goodbye hugs with their comrades, our three heroines retreated back to Monica's house bloodied and battered for their efforts. Well, actually Monica lost a shoe and Megan said that her left stocking was ripped as some idiot ran past her dragging his placard and accidentally grazing her leg. Michelle said that some moron called her a 'commie sympathiser'. But they were pleased they had achieved their stated intention. It was their first major confrontation, and they had succeeded in pressing their message, telling Harold Holt in no uncertain terms, to bring the boys home.

Two days later in Sydney, two thousand demonstrators gave a big cheer when a handful of young men burnt their national service registration papers. 'Jesus, I wish I had done that!' Clearly matters were getting out of hand. A revolution was just around the corner.

*

A week after we returned from Bonnie Doon, the Battalion Commanding Officer, Lt. Colonel Clem Ceber called for me. When I reported to his office Major Kennedy was with him.

"Come in private," he beckoned. I came in, saluted, and waited for the bad news. They had caught me, I thought. The three M's were probably in gaol, locked away in some god-forsaken dungeon and I was about to follow them with twenty one days in Holsworthy Military Corrective Establishment.

"Major Kennedy tells me you have some experience in public relations?" The Colonel said.

"Yes Sir," I told him, a little surprised that I had not already been handcuffed. "With respect Sir, it's really very limited experience actually."

"Well, if you're interested, we have a job for you."

"Oh yes? What would that be sir?"

He told me that the Battalion would be going to Vietnam sometime next year and he wanted to find some way his soldiers could feel a sense of camaraderie, and pride in belonging to the 12th. Being a new Battalion without a history, it more or less had to make its own. He needed something to bond the troops.

"Do you follow me?"

"I think so Sir."

He said that he wanted the families and friends of the soldiers to feel a sense of pride at what they were doing.

"Do you understand?"

"Not really sir."

"What we would like you to do, if you can, is to get their names in the papers, their local home town papers that is, sort of like a human interest story. Local lad in Infantry Battalion, that sort of thing. Could you do that?"

"Yes Sir." I said. "That's easy." Then almost as an afterthought I added, "Er.. I'll need a camera Sir."

"What for?' he asked.

"Well if I'm going to sell these papers a human interest story, a photo of the subject in question would help. What good's a name without a photo Sir?"

"Great, good point, right, okay, yes, right, you will have your camera, right then." Lt. Col. Ceber agreed. He was happy. Kennedy was happy, I was just happy to get out of his office and happy also not to be on my way to Holsworthy.

Making Colonel Ceber's idea a reality was easy. The next day I visited some of the men in the rifle companies, and asked where they were from, and did their home town have a local paper. I took down the details of a dozen or so regional and country newspapers and wrote to their editors telling them who I was, and what I was doing. I asked them if they would be willing to get involved and publish a short story that I would write, about a soldier from their town and, perhaps print the soldier's photo too. I posted off the letters and waited for the response. I didn't have to wait long. The replies came back thick and fast. Yes, yes, yes. It was a 'yes please' every time.

So out into the field I embarked with my camera at the ready. Each soldier I photographed gave me a brief story together with his home town details, and I sent them off one by one. I sent them to newspaper offices from Bowen to Hobart, Broken Hill to Port Augusta, Kempsey, Kew, Gosford, Rockingham. Anywhere and everywhere, local community newspapers were publishing stories about boys from their town, who were in the 12th. Initially the photos I took were fairly ordinary shots, full face, and big cheesy grins. But then I began to look for something better, something with a bit of action and style. I began taking snaps of soldiers doing all sorts of things; charging through the scrub, wading through rivers, jumping off the back of trucks, always with the rifle at the ready. It all became utterly contrived but it kept me busy when Kennedy didn't require my services, and the feedback from the soldiers themselves proved Ceber right. They loved it, the newspaper editors loved it, Ceber loved it. It was the bit about going to Vietnam that I didn't love. Not one bit.

62. On the home front.......

Megan took the demonstrations seriously. They were her contribution to providing a voice for the voiceless. It was her way of saying she did not agree with or vote for these measures, and chose demonstrating as a legitimate expression of her outrage. She took them seriously, but not too seriously. Deep down she knew there was a certain futility about it. Matters were not helped when Prime Minister Harold Holt announced an increase in our commitment to Task Force level. That meant two Battalions, plus Air Support. Matters were served even less when news of the death of the first National Serviceman was announced on 26th May. Public opinion was clearly going in the direction of the Government, her father's direction. But to do nothing was to agree in silence and that was not an option. Besides to do nothing, would mean breaking ranks with her comrades in sleeveless tops, Michelle and Monica. That would not be an option either. They had come so far together these three. Their friendship was solid and enduring, made of stronger stuff. Megan took demonstrations seriously, but not too seriously.

Monica was the real firebrand, the engine room. It was Monica who sat in the coach's box, it was Monica who whipped up the troops, and ordered the tanks to start rolling. Hers was a mission, a date with destiny. She was Joan of Arc in pigtails, and the cause of some concern in the Kase household. Twin brother Barry, along with his parents, wondered if Karl Marx had kidnapped their little baby before she had been able to rationalise and look at both sides of the coin. Sean O'Rielly was no help either. Their friendship was not romantically motivated. Perhaps just as well. This spunky little blond firebrand in full sexual flight would probably blow Sean's balls to kingdom come, given the intensity she had for pet causes. Barry's attachment to Michelle kept him in close contact with his sister and her exploits, but there was only so much a brother could do to protect a sibling.

Megan and Michelle had a wider focus. Their studies were paramount. They had witnessed students lose direction through a variety of distractions and were determined this would not happen to them. But, if truth be truth, Megan placed my mother very high on her list of preferred causes too. She spent much of her spare time with her, helping her through her illness. The growth in my mother's hip had been arrested and for a short time she was in remission. Hopes were high that the wretched invader had departed. It had, in fact, departed one area for another; this time the thyroid gland. Radiation treatment was the chosen course of action. Megan, together with my sister Bridget and my father, took care of her, the two girls taking on board things that women happily do for each other, thinking nothing of it. When lectures permitted, Megan drove my mother to the clinic for treatment, waited for her and brought her home again. Between the three of them my mother was rarely left alone. Sometimes when I rang home to speak to her, it was Megan who answered the telephone. My sister Kathleen was able to make periodic weekend visits home from the convent in Shepparton. But for Paul in The Phillipines and Damien in London, distance was its own encumbrance.

Megan sometimes drove directly to our house from lectures, taking Monica and Michelle with her and staying until either Bridget or my father returned home. The four of them would sit around the dining room table and talk women's talk. They would tell my mother some of the more daring exploits of today's convent girls at university. My mother would double over with fits of laughter that expressed half shock and half hilarity, unsure as to whether or not it was all really true.

63. Getting serious....

12RAR was on course for Vietnam. We were advised that the pre-embarkation Battle Efficiency Course at Canungra in Queensland would be held in late June. I realised I was slipping back into the trap.

The Jungle Training Centre at Canungra was a primitive place, so designed to bring fully trained troops to the peak of their performance and fitness. It was a pre-requisite for any tour of duty in Vietnam. The course exposed soldiers to mines, booby traps, camps, tunnels and navigation. Even some American brass passed through the place to pick up a few needed skills. We travelled up by troop train, 1200 miles, leaving Friday night and arriving at Roma Street Station, in Brisbane, Sunday morning. Troop trains did not travel quickly. The weather was balmy, a strange experience for southern soldiers more used to the chill winds of June. From there, it was into the waiting trucks for the two hour drive to Mount Tamborine, and into the rain forest hinterland country of Canungra.

By the time the truck convoy reached the main entrance to JTC, our apprehensions were rampant. For many of the enlisted regulars who had joined 12RAR from elsewhere, this was not their first visit here. They shot live ammunition here they told us. There were assault courses here that made Puckapunyal resemble a vicarage tea party, they told us. There were rivers to cross, cliffs to scale, Warrant officers that even God himself feared. Nobody smiled here. Nobody walked here. Everywhere we went, it was to be at the double. I was far from sure of this place. I was still a civilian at heart, and far from certain that I was up to the battle hardened, beer swilling, womanising, gun toting, foul mouthed soldiering, that my more experienced comrades expected of me.

Our first morning confirmed my worst fears. Reveille was at 0600. We were hounded out of our four man tents, given the option of a cup of tea or coffee, and then began a five mile run. We were allowed one hour to complete the set route. That was not too difficult, but they would expect better results by the end of the course. Breakfast followed, but no chance to freshen up and boy, did we stink. After breakfast, we were ordered to assemble in full webbing gear, plus rifle. We were marched off to the beginning of the assault course, down towards the weir. The W.O. in command indicated to us where the assault course began and ended. It was horrendous. We were sent off in two's. He never mentioned whether or not we were to help each other along the way, or should one of us fail to keep up, let him suffer the humiliation. Jumping over a succession of pine logs wasn't so bad, I could do that. Then came the seven foot wooden wall. 'Why not just go around it?' I thought. I squatted at the wall. My partner planted his size nine left boot into my back, and lept up the wall. He was up there straddled over the top. Then it was my turn. He held out his hand. I tried to run up from a standing start. 'No bloody good!' I went back several yards. It was then, that the abuse began.

"What are you waiting for soldier?" a Sergeant yelled. "There are enemy coming up behind you." 'Jesus Christ what the fuck does he expect at this time in the morning on a full stomach?' I made another run for the wall. I planted my left foot as high against the wall as I could. My hand clasped my partner's hand. He pulled me up. We were over. We ran towards the barbed wire nailed to the top of a succession of posts. It was one foot off the ground. I took the easy way out, and prepared to jump through and over it.

"Not over it soldier. Under it. Under it," came the bellow from the same Sergeant whom I now hated with a passion difficult to express. We were crawling under the wire. My webbing caught, I was stuck. My partner couldn't help. Then they let off the smoke flares. Red smoke. I jerked back. 'Thank Christ, I'm free.' I kept going, and reached the end. My partner was ahead of me. 'The bastard, why didn't he wait? I would have waited for him.' We were running along a snake like trail, around trees, through bushes and then came the machine gun fire. Jesus, that frightened the shit out of me. Suddenly in my mind, I heard Tchaikovsky's finale to the 1812 Overture, with cannons roaring above the violin crescendo. It was a fitting accompaniment to my endeavours, although I doubt anyone in the immediate area would have appreciated the connection. I didn't stop. I just kept going until we reached the weir.

"You will cross over in your underwear, all gear and clothes must remain dry."

It was that fucking Sergeant again. I got out my poncho, lay it out on the ground, stripped to my underwear, placed everything I owned into the poncho, tied it up, laid my rifle on top of the poncho, and waded out into the water. For a brief moment I considered the possibility that crocodiles infested this waterway. 'No, surely that would be taking things too far. Where's my partner? Fuck him, let him drown. No, he's okay.' We got to the other side of the weir, pulled our poncho onto the bank, and got dressed. End of course? No!

On the other side of the weir was a fifteen foot high diving tower.

"Leave your gear where it is, and climb the steps up to the top," came the order. We did it. We got to the top only to be told, "Right now, over you go." He meant jump. I figured, 'What's the fucking point in arguing?' My partner and I jumped together, hit the water together, and waded back to the bank and finally, it was over. I was utterly exhausted, but I was alive. I asked the Sergeant the time.

"It's ten thirty," he said, "the day hasn't even started yet." 'Fuck! At least going first gives us more time to recover.' Once out of the water we assembled our gear and doubled back to the tents for a shower and change of clothing. 'Jesus if we do this everyday, I'll never be able to keep up with the washing.' By the time the whole Battalion had been through the course, it was time for lunch. Whatever it was that we had for breakfast, it had long since been burnt up and we were starving. The Warrant Officer directing our endeavours, seemed pleased with our morning's work. That would be all the physical activity of the day. The afternoon was spent attending lectures and watching training films. If day one was any guide, I wondered how I would get through this.

64. A Simple Distraction....

We were four days into our training, and it was my twenty first birthday. I could already feel my muscles growing. Mail had arrived from home. There was mail from my parents, I could tell by the handwriting, but Megan's letter was my primary interest, and I was reading intently as I walked back to the four man tent we called home. As I read her letter, I swear I didn't see the truck.

'My dearest one, what a way to celebrate our 21st. I only wish we were together as we were in Sydney. My Mum and Dad send you their love and congratulations, although I'm not sure what for. Staying alive I suppose. Neither Michelle nor I will have a celebration until you can get home. It just wouldn't feel right. I often thought to myself that when we turned 21, that would be the time we might take ourselves that one step further..."

"I remember nothing from that point on." I told him.

"You don't recall hearing the engine or feeling the impact?"

"What impact?"

"The truck private, the truck!"

"I only remember reading my girlfriend's letter, nothing else."

"Where is this letter?"

"I don't know Sir, I don't even know where I am."

The officer questioning me was a Major. I didn't know him, but he said he was also a doctor. I looked around the room and I saw other patients in bed. I heard traffic sounds outside.

"You are in Princess Alexandra hospital in Brisbane. You were transferred here two days ago."

"What happened?"

"You walked in front a moving truck at Canungra and you have sustained injuries to your femur, your ribs and your shoulders. There's some bruising on your face and head, you have concussion and you have a sprained wrist."

"What's a femur?" I asked.

"Your thigh, we may have to operate. That's why you are in traction. We are still waiting for more conclusive x-rays."

"Are you my doctor?"

"No, I'm a military doctor, I'm only here to find out what happened. You are in the hands of the medical staff here in Brisbane."

"How long will I be here Sir?"

"We don't know yet. Probably a couple of weeks."

*

There was talk of charging me with reckless disregard for my personal safety. The official report concluded that...

"...Driver Lance Corporal Michael Bick, momentarily left his vehicle, an 8 ton Transporter, parked, engine running while he made a quick stop for a toilet break, failing to apply the hand break. While the vehicle was unattended it was determined that the gear shift jumped into first, possibly precipitated by a large bulk of ordinance being thrown into the back while the Lance Corporal was absent. The vehicle began to move forward. At the same time Private Simon Hickey was returning back to his quarters from mail call and was reading a letter from home as he crossed into the path of the moving vehicle. He claims not to have heard or seen any movement approaching his direction. The truck knocked him to the ground, ran over him and continued down the hill, striking the side of the admin block which then caused it to swerve across to the other side of the road, and demolish five ordinary soldiers tent quarters. No personnel were in the tents at the time. The truck came to rest in a pile of rubbish bins that were sufficient to stop the vehicle's progress at that point even though some of the rubbish bins were sent flying over an embankment and landing on the canvas roof of the makeshift officer's mess. Two officers were in the mess at the time and were not harmed...

....Lance Corporal Bick has been charged with reckless neglect. After consideration of the injuries sustained by Pte. Hickey, LT Col. Ceber has decided not to proceed with charges against Pte. Hickey, although technically a case does exist. The damage sustained to the soldiers quarters and the officers mess is considered minimal, and the truck has been retrieved and repaired....

After due consideration of Pte. Hickey's injuries and the time required for rehabilitation, estimated at three months, he is considered to be unfit for overseas duty at this time and it is recommended that he be transferred out.....

And so it laboured, another two pages of it. The Army loved paper work. By the time I left hospital, my Battalion, soon not to be my Battalion, had completed the course and returned to Puckapunyal. I was left behind to recuperate, and ultimately limp back under my own steam, and report to Major Kennedy.

going to Vietnam, but I wasn't. I was medically downgraded and that was enough to rule me out. I had escaped the net again and for good, and I had to be re-posted out of the Battalion. I was in hospital for about three weeks. My femur wasn't as bad as first thought and it was healing itself although I had to use crutches. My ribs healed themselves, and the bruising faded. At least I had something, by which to remember my 21st birthday, and the letter from Megan that so distracted me was lost in the drama of the moment. Someone must have picked it up and put it in the rubbish bin.

*

It was Lieutenant Colonel Ceber who passed the news of my accident on to my father, who passed it on to her father, who passed it on to her. Megan's initial shock at hearing the news was short lived, and overtaken by a strange euphoria. She could not contain her joy, so well had she concealed her fear that I would end up on the wrong side of the equator in a land not noted for pianists and budding composers. So well in fact, that when the news of my marriage to eight tons of metal tooling was conveyed to her, she threw her arms around her father's neck, hugged him and then skipped around the house like a lovesick baboon.

"Beware the sorry symptoms of an emotionally desperate person," her father was heard to say. She ended the journey in the bathroom where she simply burst into tears. Her mother not used to such joyous emotional outbursts was at a loss as to how she should comfort her daughter.

As Megan learnt of the more graphic and tragic nature of my injuries, her joy became delirious. She opened the bathroom door, hugged her mother, her sisters and her brother. She walked out into the garden and hugged the family dog. In short, she was a basket case. She wanted to fly to Brisbane to be with me, and it took the collective wisdom of four parents and one sick, bruised, battered, but otherwise normal lover to convince her otherwise. I did not see her until my walking stick brought me home nearly six weeks later. She wanted to make plans. For the first time, since that day we sat in the car outside the Signals Corps building in Swan Street, fifteen months ago, when she told me that somehow we would get through this, she could see a light in the tunnel.

I returned home for two days before reporting to Major Kennedy. Megan met me at the station, and when she saw me and my walking stick hobble out of the train, the tears started flowing once more. As we sat together in our 1963 red EJ Holden Hydramatic, her eyes redder than a Sydney sunset, she composed herself and allowed the initial excitement to recede. Holding my hand, as if not to, would see me fly out the open window, she whispered in my ear,

"Ai un idea quanto ti amo? Se tu mi impaurisce un altro volta, io ti ucciderò ." I loved it when she spoke Italian.

For a while they didn't know what to do with me. Just when I had began to feel as if I belonged somewhere, I was thrown out into the street. No longer any good for cannon fodder, they didn't want to know me. I pleaded to be posted to a desk job in Melbourne. Eventually I was sent back to the Infantry Centre in New South Wales where I would see out my time. Certainly a magnanimous gesture to a less than outstanding candidate, but I cannot say that I was delighted. At 12RAR, I had become a part of that camaraderie that Colonel Ceber had achieved. In fact, I helped him create it. 'Still, all things considered, it was better than getting shot at', I thought.

65. All the way?

The Infantry Centre didn't know what to do with me either. Perhaps it was the walking stick that dissuaded them from assigning me to any active participation in field training. Perhaps I presented an image problem to new trainees. I was not a hero, I had not served with valour on active service in a war zone. I had simply walked in front of an errant truck. But as I moved up and down the footpath commuting with walking stick from barrack to mess, possibly it did look as if I was a hero. I must have inadvertently given rise for the uninitiated to think that way. A solution was found. They could tuck me away, keep me out of sight working as an assistant in the Infantry Centre Library. They made me assistant to the Librarian Sargent, responsible for issuing training manuals, operating the film projector, and showing training films to incoming conscripts who were undertaking the training I had completed here almost a year earlier. If I had a penchant for military history, or felt any way inclined toward the ABC of tactical warfare in the 20th century, this would have been pig heaven. I did not, and it was not! It was October 1966, and for me the year could not end quickly enough.

Then, out of left field as the Americans say, a momentary distraction entered my world. For no more than a blink in the moment of time I was rescued from the humdrum existence of a civilian soldier. Actually it was Harold Holt to the rescue. Yes, it was he who saved my mind from a total shutdown. He had through the sheer brilliance of his own diplomacy, or was it something else, acquired a true, loyal and appreciative friend in no other place than the White House. Yes, proclaim it from the rooftops, shout it out in the street, Lyndon Baines Johnson, thirty something President of the USA, and Harold Holt were mates. Holt had said so four months earlier. On the south lawn of the White House on the morning of the 29th June at a welcoming ceremony, he let 'em have it.....

"...And so sir, in the lonelier and perhaps even more disheartening moments which come to any national leader, I hope there will be a corner of your heart and mind which takes cheer from the fact that you have an admiring friend, a staunch friend that will be all the way with LBJ."

'..all the way with LBJ'. ALL THE BLOODY WAY WITH LBJ??? Ye Gods! Jeeeeeeezuz! Excuse me while I throw up. Shakespeare move over. There's a new bard on the block. Just who do you mean by 'friend.' I trust you were not including me in that reference!' He was.

'Good Ole Lyndon' was beside himself. He couldn't get 'down under' quick enough to tell us good folks just how close we all were. Mind you they kept it a secret. The news of the imminent arrival of the long tall Texan was released with just a fortnight's notice. He would be here towards the end of October.

66. Going gay for LBJ....

The news of the impending arrival of LBJ put every protest group, and every anti-conscription sympathiser on red alert. This was the first time an incumbent president had ever graced our shores. We usually crawled to them, hat in hand, begging for this, sucking up for that. Now their boss was coming here to do his own sucking up. What a turn-around! LBJ was taking a lot of stick for the huge American involvement in Vietnam, not the least of which was coming from an older and more trusted ally than us. The United Kingdom, under Harold Wilson, was far from happy with US foreign policy in south east Asia and Wilson told him so. LBJ, ever sensitive to criticism, saw the Australian Prime Minister as a lone supporter. The Australian Prime Minister said all the right things. LBJ wanted to hear more. The news of his imminent arrival put everyone on red alert. It put Victoria's Premier Henry Bolte on red alert. Johnson was coming to Melbourne. It put NSW Premier Robin Askin on redder alert. He wasn't going to let Bolte upstage him, not for one minute. The President was coming to Sydney and Askin was beside himself. The news also put Monica Kase on red alert. On that score alone, LBJ was potentially in very serious trouble.

*

President Johnson arrived in Melbourne on Friday afternoon 21st October. He was here for just four hours. Megan, Michelle, Monica and their band of long suffering demonstrators saw this as their moment. Whatever Harold Holt had been passing off to LBJ about how wonderful we thought he was, the three M's would let him know otherwise. About one thousand of her brothers and sisters in just cause, assembled along the route in Grattan Street, outside Melbourne University, waiting for his bullet proof bubble top. They waited, and waited and waited.

*

The next day, on Saturday morning 22nd October. I was in barracks at the Infantry centre. I had seen the direct telecast of Johnson's arrival in Melbourne on television the night before. 'Jesus, did he cop some stick.' His bubble top travelled along Flemington Road. There were plenty of banners extending a warm and courteous welcome. Others referred to him in a less friendly manner. One suggested he was a blood sucking arsehole. Then came the tomatoes and eggs. His official route was changed to avoid the students in Grattan Street. Down along Swanston Street, it was mayhem. Tens of thousands of people lined the route. He got out of the car at the Town Hall, to wave to the office workers in the Manchester Unity building. He was having the time of his life. Conservative Melbourne had gone off its head. He passed along St. Kilda Road toward South Yarra, turning into Domain Road He wanted to see an old friend. There, the banners really got nasty.

"LBJ, LBJ, how many kids have you killed today?"

"1,2,3,4, we don't want your fucking war!"

" Out of Vietnam!"

"End conscription!"

He popped in for a quick visit with Dame Mabel Brooks, in South Yarra, then got back into the car and just missed getting a mouthful of red and green paint from balloon bombs thrown from the crowd. Everyone was stunned. His trusted bodyguard, Rufus Youngblood wore most of the paint in his place. Rufus had already missed taking a bullet intended for President Kennedy, and he didn't want to make the same mistake twice. The black bubble top was now black, red and green as were about fifty in the crowd. The secret servicemen took a few swings at demonstrators here and there. Moomba was never like this.

*

The call came through at about 9am. It was Megan. She told me that Monica had broken ranks. She told me that yesterday, when the President changed his route, and the students in Grattan Street realised there was no opportunity to demonstrate, most of them headed for St. Kilda Road. By the time they arrived, it was all over. Monica was devastated but her spirit was not quite broken. She and a few others took the overnight train to Sydney. They were determined to press their case when LBJ travelled through the streets of Sydney today. Her parents were very worried. Was there anything I could do to help?

"Jesus, you are kidding aren't you?"

"No darling I'm not. Just give me something I can tell her parents. Anything to settle them down. They think we are all mad."

I tried to explain the situation to her. Robin Askin couldn't stand the thought of Henry Bolte getting more limelight than him, especially on such an important occasion as the first visit of an incumbent President. So Askin had spared no expense to put on the biggest welcome the country had ever seen. Sydney was officially gay for LBJ. They were expecting a million people to line the streets today. Anyone who went into the city was on a death wish. I asked if she had any idea where Monica and her friends planned to join the demonstrations. Megan thought the University of New South Wales in Anzac Parade the most likely, but given that the route in Melbourne was changed to avoid the University, they would probably change it in Sydney too, so it was anyone's guess. I told her I would try to think of something.

"Tell her Mum and Dad that I will do what I can." I said.

She said thanks and there went my Saturday.

My room mate was Jeff Roberts from Queensland. He was a later conscript, still having over twelve months to serve. We were not especially close friends, I had only known him a few weeks, but he did have a car. I told him my story, and asked if he would like to come into Sydney with me on the train. He wasn't interested. I persisted.

"What's in it for me?" he asked. I thought for a moment, and then it hit me.

"I think if we play our cards right, and we find her," I told him, "I could pretty much guarantee you a date with a spunky little blond who has enough fire inside her to rip through a rugby team, and still beg for more." Suddenly, he was interested. A sad indictment of the male fraternity, I know. They were one track mind sex, and Roberts was no exception. I told him if he played his cards right, he could be in seventh heaven in the sexiest romp he had ever experienced by six o clock tonight. I told him we needed to drive to Liverpool station now!

*

Fifteen minutes later, we were on our way to Liverpool station. We listened to the car radio and the crowds were already in the centre of Sydney. The radio announcer said not to bother trying to drive into the city, no one would get past Strathfield in the west. It was Roberts who suggested that instead of Liverpool we try for Strathfield Railway Station. He was already horny with anticipation. We took a train from Strathfield, and I carried my transistor radio with me for up to the minute reports on the progress of the President, and where all the student action was taking place. I was trying to work out a strategy. Where would we go? What was my objective? What was my plan? My nearly eighteen months of Army experience was coming to the fore. I was rationalising my plan of assault. What did James Bond do in 'Goldfinger?' Did he just charge in all guns blazing? No, he slipped in, unnoticed and penetrated the deepest recesses of the enemy's camp. It was only after he had achieved his objective that he also penetrated Pussy Galore. 'That's what Roberts was expecting to do with Monica. Idiot! Did he really think I would hand Monica over to him? Let him think it. I'll deal with that when the time comes. When the time comes? What time? We will never find her. This is ridiculous.'

The train arrived at Town Hall in the subway. There were so many people trying to get upstairs, that if we got out there, we'd be crushed in the stampede. It was so stupid. Mothers had brought their children in to see the President, and they were fighting their way up the stairs, just to get onto the street. Did they have any idea what they were doing? We remained on the train, and headed for St. James. At St. James, we could see what was happening at Hyde Park. The radio announcer reported that the President had arrived at Mascot, and Premier Askin was giving him the big welcome on the tarmac. Askin told LBJ that Sydney was the best place in the world except for Texas, and that we had provided some demonstrators along the route into the city, just to make sure he didn't get homesick. "Three cheers for LBJ." The radio announcers were struggling to match Askin's superlatives, but that didn't stop them trying.

There were more people in Hyde Park than in all of Adelaide, including the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. 'Jesus, Askin really has thought of everything!' There was even a skywriter in the sky writing an unreadable message. Askin and the President were on their way. The radio announcer said he was in Oxford Street, and demonstrators had broken through the barricades and were lying on the road. People were cheering, screaming, swearing, pushing, shoving, punching, kicking and the Mormons were singing 'The Yellow rose of Texas'. It was absurd to think that I would find Monica in this maelstrom. Oxford Street was raining with ticker tape. Confetti was flying freely from the tall buildings. Streamers, newspapers, screaming girls, children waving flags and banners were everywhere.

"Quit Vietnam!"

"No vote, no voice, no choice!"

"Viva el Presidente!"

"Get out of Vietnam!"

"Mormon youth welcome LBJ."

"Who could be gay with LBJ!"

"Silence is taken as consent."

I decided there and then, that this was a lost cause. I had done my best. I conferenced with Roberts. He was still keen. Why wouldn't he be? He thought he was going to score tonight. I suggested that we find a pub, have a drink, wait for the crowds to subside, and re-think the plan. He agreed. Besides, I was tired of the additional burden of my walking stick.

*

The pub was almost empty. We sat and rested. I had a whiskey and dry. Roberts had a beer. The barman asked what it was like out there. I said "It's blue murder." The barman said, "They're all a bunch of fucking twits. All that," he said, "to come and see one man. What a load of rubbish, people are such fools, it's a mockery of human intelligence." We stayed at the pub and had some lunch and a few more drinks. A few people came in and out. "Did you see those arseholes lying on the road," one said. "The motorcade broke down," said another. "Johnson had to change cars." he said. An hour passed and I was relaxed. Whisky and dry did that to me. I was not a drinker. Just the odd one now and then. "I can't stand the taste of beer," I told Roberts, "It makes my face ache." Roberts said he liked to drink it, not shave with it.

*

It was three in the afternoon, the show was over, the pub was full. The stories of the days events were told and re-told. Ordinary people had gone home. Those in the pub were the regulars. Only the lonely, and the disillusioned remained on the streets. I suggested to Roberts that we leave, and head back to Ingleburn. I suggested that we walk through Hyde Park and make our way up to Central Station rather than take the subway. That was fine with him. I wanted to ring Megan, but I didn't want to have to tell her our mission had failed. The streets and the park were a mess of ticker tape. It was almost as white as snow. As we walked up the park, a small group of people ahead of us were singing. We walked toward them, as they sang some sort of protest song, accompanied by a young man with a guitar. As we drew closer, one of the girls in the group turned around toward us...'Jesus Christ!'....it was Monica. She screamed my name. I held out my arms. She rans toward me and threw her arms around my neck.

*

Triumph was the word that best came to mind. The whole day was a triumph. It was a triumph for President Johnson. It was his finest moment as he exited the bubble top with Lady Bird at his side and ascended the steps of the Art Gallery. He turned to the tumultuous crowd behind him, to his left and right and raised his hands to their acclaim. This foreign Caesar had come, had seen and with no more than a punch of the fist, he had conquered. He had successfully overwhelmed one million of Sydney's most gullible and simple-minded citizens. What a triumph! It was a triumph for Harold Holt. He had but five weeks before those same gullible and simple-minded Sydneysiders joined the rest of their interstate cousins, and voted in a general election. It was a triumph for Robin Askin. He had rubbed shoulders with the international man of the moment, and surely some of it would rub off onto him in the popularity stakes. At the very least, he had stuck it right up his Victorian opposite number, Henry Bolte.

It was a triumph for the Police. The cavalry, and the ground troops, the very best of the finest, had successfully managed the largest gathering of people Sydney had ever seen, and in the process, maintained law and order. It was a triumph too, for the protest movement. Despite being pitifully, miserably and utterly outnumbered, it was their efforts, their story that was plastered over the front pages of every newspaper in the western world the following day. It was a triumph for Monica Kase. This gutsy little blond firebrand achieved her goal. She waited by the barricades in Oxford Street, saw the motorcade slow to a stop, seized the moment, broke through, and thrust herself onto the roadway in front of the President's car. She eyeballed LBJ, did this pugnacious little spunk, shook her fist, gave him the Winston Churchill salute, and screamed from the very depths of her lungs, "LBJ, LBJ, how many kids have you killed today?" just as the police dragged her off to the side of the road. Eluding the police, she and friends in tow, then raced over to the Art Gallery and as Johnson mounted the steps she gave it to him all over again. And last but not least, it was a triumph for me. I could ring Megan and tell her to let Monica's Mum and Dad know their baby was back in the pram.

We escorted Monica back to the train at Central station, Jeff Roberts and I. He had to make do with an exchange of telephone numbers, a far cry from the moment of ecstasy he had been anticipating. But when he saw how elated, how incredibly over the moon she was at her achievement, he was smart enough to realise that for her, sex would have been a poor second to the heights she had reached that day. Megan said she was proud of me, her parents thanked me, Monica's parents thanked me. I really didn't feel that I did very much, but it was good to be thanked for whatever. Roberts and I took the train to Strathfield Station, where we had left the car, and from there, headed back to Ingleburn. Everyone was a winner. Well, everyone except Roberts that is, but he was happy.

67. A Song for Megan

After all the excitement of the first ever visit of an incumbent U.S. president died down and Harold Holt won his election, my days at the Infantry centre became those of a lame duck. I had no direction, no goal to strive for as a soldier. I was effectively on the scrap heap, left to serve out my time, engaged in a variety of mind numbing tasks the corporate sector would assign to junior clerks. Surely Library work couldn't be this dull. There must be some aspect that activates a sense of creativity. Apparently not. The days vaporised away; one more gone, one less to serve. Morning parades were a thing of the past. I just got up, had breakfast and went to work. I was a civilian in uniform.

While I tended to the academic needs of N.C.O's in training, I listened to people being interviewed on radio; people who in the main, had excelled in some area of their lives or made some significant contribution to their chosen field. Often the question was asked of them, 'Was there a teacher that had a special impact on your school life?' Invariably they would answer 'Yes'. They would then go on to detail the most wonderful attributes of one of their former teachers, why they looked up to them with such admiration, and how they influenced their students in going on to succeed in their chosen field. Sometimes they would nominate more than one teacher as having had this impact upon them. As I listened, I could not help but ask the same question of myself, 'Was there a teacher, through all my twelve years at school that had a special impact on my life, one that I looked back upon, as having set me on a certain track that led me in a particular direction; one that above all the others, was my icon, my source of the special encouragement that I have heard others speak of? Failing that, was there someone in the Army that I could point to, that turned my life around?'

The answer sadly, was no. I did not look back on my school days with any sense of fondness. I struggled to find positive things to say about those days or those who taught me. I often wondered if, as a by-product of my experiences during those days, deep within me there was not some log-jam, deep rooted and steadfast, that all this time, had prevented me from recognising what may have been my calling. And as I wondered about myself, I also wondered how many others must have felt similarly about their own early school experiences, and what might have been theirs, but for a good teacher or two. As for the Army, it remained a foreign environment.

*

My mind returned to music. It was my saviour, and I spent more time at the canteen piano than ever before. I played and composed each day after work, and the next day, when my mind was free from distraction, I ran the music through my head, trying to improve the tempo, the timing, using all the skills that Megan had taught me. I placed myself at the mercy of some of the harshest critics, who came into the canteen to drink and talk.

"Can't you give it a break?" said one loud mouthed half drunken slob.

"I'm working on something. When I'm finished I'll stop." I told him.

Sometimes I took a risk, and asked someone to tell me what he thought. The answer was always the same.

"Hmmm, sounds a bit like something I've heard before," he said. 'Idiot', I thought to myself. There were but twelve notes on the music scale, the source of millions of songs written over thousands of years. Of course some of them were going to sound similar. 'What a fuckwit.'

I sent Megan piece after piece, some good, some bad. She sent them back with comments...

'This is good, keep going.'

'Do not think much of this, try a different rhythm.'

'Sweetheart this is awful, what on earth are you thinking?'

We were apart but our minds were synchronised, and it kept me from all the distractions that came with loneliness. Loneliness haunted like a dark shadow at night. It played tricks on the mind. Our music kept us together in mind and spirit. I took her at her word. If she said it was rubbish, I started again. Each time I learnt a little more. I learnt to appreciate melody and harmony in different ways. I learnt to apply subtle variations, my skills improved, I became better, feeding off her skills, her knowledge, her expertise and secretly, I began to compose a special piece, that would be for her. I would use all the skills she passed on to me, to assemble a piece that when it was complete, would be consummate. I kept working on it, but revealed nothing to her. She would not see it, until it was ready. She would not see it until her graduation ceremony. Then, it would be hers and it would be perfect. 'A Song for Megan'.

*

Perhaps it would have been more dignified had I found out by some means other than reading it in a newspaper. How utterly callous and brutal to be wandering through a newsagency, pick up a daily and be shocked to the core. Perhaps a telephone call from a friend. Perhaps Rizzo, after learning himself and knowing the basis of my relationship with Don Harris, could have rung me and given it to me gently. But no, I had to read it in the bloody papers like everyone else. On the bottom of page one. 'Another digger dies...see page three'. Opening to page three I read that Don 'Scraps' Harris had been killed while out on a search and destroy mission in South Vietnam. I stood there deeply shocked. It had not occurred to me that I might have known someone who would suffer that fate. 'Christ not him...why him?' At the time I didn't even know that he was in Vietnam. I had avoided being sent there, more by good luck than good management, and my life would soon be going back to the way it was before conscription. I didn't realise that some of those whose lives had been interwoven with mine, might not be as fortunate, let alone someone I knew before I was conscripted, someone I went to school with. 'He died in a fucking chopper for Christ's sake, while it was transporting him away from an enemy contact. He had been shot in the stomach. Jesus'

I left the newsagency utterly stunned and remained that way for days. It took a long time to assimilate his death. I mourned for him and tried to compose a ballad for him, but neither words nor music would assemble in my mind in a way that would befit his sacrifice. There was no reward for what he did, no promise of something better. His death was not the result of any personal motivation other than to do his duty. I thought about that for a long time, and tried to put it in its correct perspective. For most of my life, my actions good or bad, had been modified in one form or another by my religious beliefs. Don Haris didn't have any time for religion, not after he left Pangarra. But as the quality of his death began to dawn on me, I realised that he had made the supreme sacrifice. A sacrifice that could not be expressed in any religious context. I felt humbled one moment, and the next, a richer person for the realisation. But the thought of what happened to him at Pangarra made me angry. The more I thought about his life, the more upset and irritated I became. His uncle had failed him. The Brothers had failed him. I recalled the enthusiasm he had shown the first day I met him on the train as we journeyed to Pangarra, when he gathered us together to say the rosary. How keen he was to do his duty, only to be abused and betrayed by Severus. And now his country had failed him, taking away his life for a dubious cause in a far away land to which he owed nothing. Indirectly, the Church again had failed him for supporting the conflict. 'The bloody Church', I thought to myself. 'In the cold light of day would not his entire life have been different, but for the bloody church? How was it that we continued to allow this interference in our lives? How was it that our minds were captured at such an early age, and overtaken with unprovable stories, unbelievable claims, claims that defied scientific reason? Was there in reality, one ounce of proof that any of their teaching was based on anything more than a collection of books written by primitive, superstitious people who simply invented stories to re-assure themselves, and overcome their fears? How did all this start? How did we get caught up in religion? Damn them! We were born into it, weren't we? We didn't ask to be Catholic. We were told that we were Catholic. Nobody gave us a choice did they? From now on, they would have to be more answerable. Damn them!' These things I pondered, then, I telephoned my father and gave him the news.

As the weeks passed, I kept working on my composition for Megan, trying to block out thoughts of Don Harris and the miserable life he had lived; his home life (or lack of it), the Juniorate, its tragic legacy, and the life imposed upon him, in the Army. His life was directed by far away people, well removed from the disasters they create, and the dead they count as collateral damage among the phoney causes they espouse. Causes that mask nothing more than selfishness, greed and incompetence. As I fingered the piano, searching for the melody, and notating, my mind drifted back to that first day I had met him in a train taking us to Pangarra, and the secret he carried. Even then, he was still keen to play the roll of guardian of the flock, a flock he desperately wanted to be a part of, but which through its evil elements, used him, abused him, chewed him up and spat him out. A flock, which in the end, did not deserve him. This made me angry.

Soon the weeks became months. Soon it was 1967, and summer gave way to autumn. Thoughts of Don Harris were still fresh in my mind, as I continued to work and re-work my composition for Megan. I had always loved autumn. It was the best time of the year. There was a sense of something special about autumn; a realisation that something very basic and profound was happening on our planet. I was inspired by the transformation of colour that took place in the deciduous trees. It started with a fading green leaf, and journeyed through a kaleidoscope of yellows and browns, of reds and burgundies. It was a joy to behold, one of the true signs of a beautiful world, a world largely unaffected by us, a world we were privileged to experience, a world at peace with itself, a world Don Harris would no longer see. The melody was intoxicating and the harmony was coming into play. The libretto needed some work but it was coming. And then, just like a rose that suddenly bursts forth in the spring, it was finished. It was ready.

68. Megan's day.....

I was late arriving at Essendon Airport. Mascot was a cow of a place to exit. I was in uniform. I didn't have time to change before leaving for the airport, and I still needed this wretched walking stick although less often. I took a cab to the University, and entered Wilson Hall.

It was a proud moment for everyone, not the least of whom were Frank and Irene Macleod. Their firstborn, was a graduate of Melbourne's most prestigious house of learning. She was an honours graduate. She was about to receive her Batchelor of Arts degree in the faculty of Humanities, majoring in Religious Studies. Frank and Irene were constantly wiping their eyes. My parents were the same. They had taken this girl to heart, as if she was their own.

The academic procession had already taken place and members of the various faculties were seated on the platform. The graduands had assembled at the front of the hall in faculty order. When Megan's time came, the senior member of the Arts faculty called her name, and she walked to the dais to receive her degree from the chancellor. She was popular with her peers, and they hooted and whistled. Her sisters in arms, Michelle and Monica were next to be called, and they too received a huge response. Monica, standing in the middle, ever the spirited one, and with a smile the size of Texas, turned to the assembled, took Megan and Michelle in hand, and raised up their arms to the people in the hall. The response was deafening. It was a most unorthodox piece of behaviour in this place, but after all, this was Monica. Michelle's mother Maria was all hankies, and her stepfather Joe, looked on with pride.

Afterwards it was time for photos, hugs, and kisses from all those who had gathered to share the moment. As Megan and I posed together with my walking stick, an elderly lady came up to me, and said what a wonderful thing it was that I had done for my country.

"No, not me," I told her, "I have done nothing. I have been nowhere. I was run over by a truck. It was all a careless accident." But she would have none of it.

"Oh you are just being modest," she said as she walked off.

I carried no medals, no colour bar. There was nothing except my uniform that revealed any detail about me. Some people simply believed what they wanted to.

I had to return to Sydney. I was given one day's leave to be with Megan on this occasion. One day, not two. A girlfriend's graduation did not sit high on the Army's list of priorities. I had to go back. I was literally weeks away from an honourable discharge, and I didn't want to complicate that with an AWOL charge. Flight schedules were too precarious a matter to trust any futher delay. As we said goodbye, I handed her an envelope, marked simply, 'A Song for Megan'. She looked at it and then back at me. I blew her a kiss and waved goodbye, but before I left, I had a quiet word with my father about Don Harris.

69. Getting out.....

Three days before my discharge, I was ordered to report to the Infantry Centre Admin. Coy. Commander.

"Come in Private Hickey, and take a seat."

"Yes sir."

Then he told me something I already knew.

"Well, your time is up."

"Yes sir."

"And how have you found it overall?"

I had two options here. I could say to him that it had been full of great experiences. I could say that I anticipated drawing on those experiences for the rest of my life. Or I could have said that on balance it had been an experience, highly disruptive, even disappointing, and I was shit glad to be leaving. I chose the former. I lightened up a little and told him I had come through it all relatively unscathed. I had learned a few vices, like getting drunk occasionally. But I never had to worry about catching V.D. and I felt good about that. He laughed a little, then gave me a pep talk about how I was correct in thinking that I would always draw on my experiences. He hoped that I would see my time in the Army as a rite of passage, as I journeyed through the minefield of life. A few more minutes of the same and that was that. He reminded me to hand in all my gear on the last day and then handed me my papers.

"These are not discharge papers," he told me. "They are the documents you need to show to the duty officer at the Watsons Bay Discharge Centre the day after tomorrow."

"You mean I don't get discharged from here?"

"No, you have to go to Watsons Bay for that. They open at 9 A.M. After you have finished there, you return here for your last night in the Army. The following morning when you wake you will be a civilian again. Just make sure that you return all your equipment back to the Quartermaster's store. I don't want to have to send the MP's after you."

"Yes sir, thank you sir."

One last salute and I left.

*

Megan said it was the most beautiful piece of music she had ever heard. Could this be true? Could this woman, a lover of Bach and Mozart realize what she was saying? Could this person fluent in the works of Debussy and Faure, have confused my piece with something she had heard before from someone more accomplished? Was the soldier in the canteen right? Did it sound like something he had heard before? Or was I selling myself short? It was true that I was a sucker for a good love story, but anyone who thought Puccini's 'La Boheme' was corny could not possibly have thought the same of his score. I adored it. But could my piece have surpassed all these?

No! She was clearly biased. It was a subjective call. But I took it nevertheless, in the spirit given. She said there was nothing about it she would want to change. That alone told me that where ever it stood in the minds of the more objective, it wasn't too bad an effort. Even at this point, I had not realised that part of its true motivation was the sense of loss I felt for Don Harris.

We were on the phone. Megan had a plan for my discharge. She had other plans too, but first my discharge. She wanted to be standing there waiting for me, across the road from the gates of the Infantry Centre, the morning I came out for the last time. It would be the first morning of the rest of our lives. It would be the first time in two years we were together totally unencumbered, free to be and do whatever we chose. She said I was taken from her two years ago without her permission, and she would now come, to claim me back. I told her I was taken at a different set of gates, at another unit, in another city. She said that didn't matter. It was symbolic. She planned to drive up the day before, in our 1963 red EJ Holden Hydramatic, and stay overnight at a local motel, but I would not see her. There would be no contact, until the following morning when I emerged from the front gate, a free man. "Take it or leave it," she said. "That's the way it's gong to be!" I protested. I put the case to her, that if she was staying alone at a motel nearby, without me there to protect her, what would happen should a handsome young man occupy the room next to hers? What if she was overcome by the moment, the hormones started raging and she was tempted to join the young man in his room for the evening? The thought of her alone in a motel close by, while I was confined to camp, was 'anathema'. She asked why it was, that she wasted her time with a man of such little faith. She told me that I was the man who had ushered her into womanhood, and that it was her wish, that I be the one to continue what I started. I went weak at the knees. It's a good thing she couldn't see me. But I could not argue with 'ma bella Principessa, ma bella Megana'.

It would be as she said. I told her however, that I would be there at 8AM sharp, and if she was not there, I would take off with the first floosey that came along. She laughed. Clearly, she did not believe me. Smart kid.

"Incidently," she said, "that man came calling again."

"Which man?"

"The one who called last year looking for you."

"Did you see him?" I asked.

"No, your mother mentioned it. I wasn't there at the time. You can talk to her about it when you get home."

*

At 9AM two days later I was at Watsons Bay. So were about four hundred other conscripts, all of us wanting the same thing, an interim discharge certificate. To say it was a shambles would be an understatement but then again, the Army had never faced anything like this since the end of the Second World War. There were bound to be a few hiccups, not to mention a few hot under the collar moments. The frustration of some, manifested itself in personal abuse of the clerks who were doing the best they could to process so many applications. Some soldiers had to be reminded that they were still officially soldiers and were subject to Army law. A Warrant Officer came in to see what all the fuss was about, and threatened to charge any soldier who stepped out of line. What I had expected to take an hour or so, was not achieved until about 4.30 in the afternoon. Still, eventually we were issued with a piece of paper that said we were free. There were one or two familiar faces from recruit training. Rizzo was there, and Benson, both of whom, like me, had avoided Vietnam and had been stationed at other units around Sydney. We travelled into the city, found a place to have a drink, a talk and a meal. There was no great sense of jubilation or a feeling that we needed to celebrate anything. I think we were all just relieved that it was over.

"Did you guys hear about Harris?" I asked them both.

They just nodded. What else could they do? What could they say? We exchanged addresses in the likely event we felt the need to talk to each other, and then said goodbye.

I had one more night to go, and then I would be with her once more. The thought that she was close by, was exhilarating. I found it hard to sleep. I could sense that she was near and, but for a promise, I would have gladly searched out every motel within a five mile radius to find her. Sleep finally came late in the night. The next morning I woke to the reveille bugle for the last time, elated at the thought that I was a civilian. I showered, dressed in civilian clothes, and walked to the mess for breakfast. I ate alone, bacon and eggs, toast and coffee, the usual. Breakfast completed, I rose from the table, and looked around for a familiar face to say goodbye. There wasn't one. I walked back to my bunk, checked the time. It was just on eight. I picked up my bag, closed the door behind me, and walked up the road to the front gate. I turned around and took one last look. A major episode in my life was now over. I walked out the gate, and, true to her word, there she stood alongside our 1963 red EJ Holden Hydramatic on the other side of the road.

*

There was a huge sense of anticipation deep within me as I walked across the road. It was not so much for the moment, as it was for what that moment both represented and heralded. But as I walked toward her, I could see that something was wrong. All was not well. Megan did not appear happy to see me. I knew her well, this was not a look I had seen before. Her face was grim, her eyes were wet, red and smudged as if they had been frequently wiped. Her mouth was tense, her lips clamped together. She walked toward me, said nothing but clasped her arms around my neck, burying her head in my chest. She held me tight in silence, but I could hear her gulping for words. I released myself from her hold gently, and looked into her face.

"What's up, what's happened?"

She broke it to me in bits, with a shaking quivering voice.

"Your mother." she said.

"What about her?" There was a moment's silence.

"She collapsed last night at home. She's slipped into a coma."

Now I could not speak. There was another long silent break before her words came once more.

"Your father says she's going to die." There was another long void before she finished.

"He says she might die today!"

70. Elizabeth Margaret

To be prepared for such news in any weather was impossible. Reactions ranged from shock to disbelief. 'No, there's been a mistake. A misunderstanding. She is ill, yes, but she will get better. I know she will get better. There will be something that someone can do, and she will get better. She is not going to die. Christ, she's only fifty-eight.'

*

We went inside the canteen. It was now open for those who didn't like Army food and were prepared to pay for breakfast. There were telephones there, and I called my father. We spoke for a few minutes. He had been up all night, and had tried to call me, but for some reason could not get through. Early in the morning he phoned Megan's father Frank, who caught up with Megan only a hour ago. My mother had been taken to St Vincent's Hospital in Fitzroy. She had suffered a cerebral haemorrhage and was not expected to last the day. He would try to get some sleep before he went back to St. Vincent's. He had called Paul in The Phillipines and Damien in London. They were both coming home. I told him that we were on our way home, and would be there around six that evening. While I spoke to him Megan hugged close, her head nestled below my shoulder.

Megan suggested that I fly home and she follow in the car.

"You can be there in two hours," she said.

"No! I won't leave you to drive home alone." I said. "You have been very close to my mother these past two years and have a right to be there as much as anyone. We will go home together."

As we walked towards the front door of the canteen, she looked through the double glass doors that lead into the bar, and saw the piano in the corner.

"Is that where you played?" she asked. "Is that where you wrote our song?" I nodded.

"Yes that's where it all happened," I told her. She stared into the room for a moment, as if to absorb some of the atmosphere. The bar was closed. It didn't open until four in the afternoon. She took an extra moment to survey the room from where we stood, then took my hand, and we walked out to the car.

*

The Hume highway was six hundred miles long and rarely along that highway, was there a double lane. It was the major trucking route between Australia's two largest cities. Semis abounded, and if caught behind one, it could take ages and great patience to negotiate a way past them safely. At least we would not starve. Truck stops cropped up everywhere along the route, open twenty-four hours a day, catering for the demands of sixty foot- long, twenty-two wheel semis, forced on by an unforgiving timetable. For the early part of the journey we said little to each other. There was no need. All I could think about, was not really having said a proper goodbye to my mother, the day I returned to Sydney from Megan's graduation. I wanted to go back in time and fix that. I wanted to say that I was sorry for that. I wanted to say sorry for a whole host of things and deep down, I felt that I would now, not have the opportunity. My mother had suffered a long time with this disease, and I knew that one day it would take her. Through it all, she hid from us, all but the most obvious of her pain. Even with her regular trips to the clinic, where she underwent her therapy, there was little hint of what she was going through.

After a short break at Yass, we changed drivers. Megan took the wheel and we continued the long drive south.

We stopped and refreshed every two hours, changing drivers to avoid the pitfalls of white line fever. After seven hours we were back in Victoria. The road improved slightly and we made better time. We passed a sign that pointed the way west to Pangarra, home of men in black cassocks, once home to me. Not surprisingly, the first thing that came to mind was the sinister Severus, who had indulged himself at my expense eight years earlier. I thought of Don Harris and Michael Stewart. 'How tragic', I thought to myself. 'How disappointing that for all the positives experienced at the college for that one year, the mateship, my first lesson on piano, it was the ever haunting memory of that one man that sprang to mind before all else. How many others' I wondered, 'had also shared my fate?' I didn't know it then, but I was soon to find out.

*

Two hours later, and we were now just one hour from Melbourne. The time was a little after five. I suggested we go straight to the hospital. Megan agreed. Before long, the city traffic, now mobilized for the journey back into endless suburbia, was slowing us down. Every traffic light lessened the time we had left. It was six thirty by the time we walked into the hospital and greeted my father. My brothers, Andrew, James and Mark were in the ward sitting, resting. My sister Kathleen whom I had not seen in two years was there too, dressed in her nun's habit. She could have be mistaken for a member of staff such were the numbers of nuns who floated around the ward. My family all looked exhausted. They had stood vigil for nearly fifteen hours. Bridget had gone to buy a cup of coffee.

Megan and I were ushered behind the privacy of a screen, and stood either side of my mother's bed. We looked down on her pale but peaceful face, each of us holding one of her hands. Her eyes were closed, her body motionless, unconscious. I spoke to her the best way that I knew how. For the first time in two years I offered a prayer, and while it was hopelessly inadequate, it reflected the true depth of my emotion. Megan stroked her hair, and cried as if unable to comprehend how it had come to this. It was a moment both of us wanted to make last, a moment from which to draw strength for a future life without her. Bridget came in, hugged us both, and the three of us stood there together for a while. A nurse offered to bring us coffee and we accepted, coming out from behind the partition and sitting together. Kathleen was sitting quietly, meditating, praying, doing whatever nuns did at times like this, and met Megan for the first time, a strange experience for both of them.

A nursing sister came over to sit with my father. She took his hand and spoke to him softly. Fr. West came into the ward. He had already given my mother the last rites. The sister then suggested to us that, if we would like to form a circle around the bed each holding hands, Fr. West would lead us in prayer. We did as she suggested. We stood together around the bed in silence while Fr. West offered prayers for her deliverance. For me, as for the rest of my family, it was the most devastating feeling. Each of us was alone, alone in a way we had never previously thought possible. We were there for about half an hour before a doctor came inside the curtain and checked my mother. He told us there was no change.

We remained there in the ward together as a family, each of us lost in our thoughts, one occasionally speaking to another, until about 9.30 in the evening when I decided to drive home, to unpack my bags, and give my mind some rest from the complexities of this day's events. Megan and Bridget joined me. We numbed our way through city traffic once again. Traffic lights were a nuisance, but what could you do?

*

The next morning Paul arrived home from the Phillipines via Sydney. Megan and I picked him up from the airport and took him straight to the hospital. Later, Megan and I spent some time walking together in the Fitzroy Gardens, as we had done in earlier, simpler years, a therapy that both of us found soothing and restorative.

As I told her of my mother's deep faith in God, a faith that promised eternal life, a faith I had lost, Megan shared with me her philosophy on life. She was, she said, a closet doubter of any supernatural influence in our lives. Her time at University had changed her outlook on matters. To her, it wasn't all black and white. The Church's teaching on creationism, she said, was at odds with what she had studied elsewhere. To her, a billion or more years of evolution of all life, was much easier to grasp than a seven day sensation.

"The trouble with us, is that we grew up with too many things to believe. That's the legacy of a Catholic upbringing. We allowed too much to be taken for granted, too many questions left unanswered, and those that were answered, were impossible for rational minds to accept." she said.

She was a rationalist, and felt that too much of the church's teaching was suspect. She was convinced that church teaching was based on a mythology placed inside history. The gospel stories about the virgin birth, the resurrection and the afterlife she said, were just that, stories. Stories made up by a curiously superstitious people who were trying to come to terms with their place in the cosmic order of things. "Subsequent generations took these stories as factual accounts of something they thought really happened. Human misunderstanding!" she said. "Human error!" And then added teasingly, "If thinking that way makes me one of Satan's little helpers, then too bad. After all, Tertullian said that women were the gateway through which the Devil came! "

"Tert..?" I queried.

"Tertullian was an early Church Father," she replied. "He's long gone now, but it seems his views on women still hold. Anyway, I think we should ring the hospital now, don't you?"

Megan volunteered to make the call from the public telephone outside the restaurant in the gardens. A few moments later she returned, her face unable to hide the truth she was about to reveal. Somehow, I knew what she was about to tell me.

"Simon", she said, as she placed her arm around my shoulder, "I just spoke to Bridget. Your mother passed away a few minutes ago. I'm so sorry."

I couldn't speak.

71. A Song for Elizabeth.

Over the next few days the shock of what had happened to my mother overtook all else. I was not involved in any of the funeral arrangements. My father, Kathleen and Paul took care of that. I did have a brief discussion with my father but not about the funeral. It didn't seem the time to talk in any detail with Elaine and Damien, who had arrived home tired and jet-lagged, other than to learn some of the incidentals of life in England. But it didn't take too long for Megan and Elaine to strike a chord with each other, so I knew that at some later stage I would get a full account of the 'affair'. I was deep within myself, and not at all aware of what others were doing physically, or experiencing emotionally. So in fact, it came to me as something of a surprise when, on the morning of the funeral, Kathleen approached me quietly and privately. She suggested to me that, as a mark of respect for our mother, it might be a good idea for me to go to confession that morning, before the funeral began. I asked her why, and she explained that I would then be in a state of grace and able to receive communion at the Requiem Mass.

This unexpected development sent my head into a spin. I had not given the state of my soul the slightest consideration, nor cared what anyone would think of me for not going to communion. And yet there it was, on the agenda. I had no idea that anyone was aware, that I had not been attending mass regularly for nearly two years. I had lost the faith. God did not exist. I had had enough. The fear, the guilt and for what? Was there anything in my life that had been given back in exchange? For most of my life, priests and brothers had thundered their message from the pulpit and the classroom, 'Be on your guard. Remain steadfast. Satan's little helpers are everywhere. Remember the flames of eternal damnation.' They were constantly warning against impurity of thought, word and deed. In my mind I pondered, 'Who are these narrow minded bigots who see sin in the most beautiful moments of love? Who are these people, and anyway, how did Kathleen know I was not in a state of grace? Did I blurt it out at some earlier unguarded moment? How did she know, and what did it matter anyway?'

I fended her off gently, suggesting that it was a very personal matter for me. She was suffering too, I could see that. If that had been where the matter was laid to rest everything would, I am sure, have proceeded as planned. But it wasn't. Some time later that morning she approached me again, this time not so privately, with the same proposition.

"This is ridiculous, Kathleen!" I told her. "This is not a matter I wish to discuss with you!" Unfortunately, this time my comments were overheard by Paul, who was prompted to enquire, within earshot of almost everyone else, as to the nature of the problem.

"What's the problem here? Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked.

I was now in an impossible position, under intense pressure to do something I did not wish to do, and being publicly humiliated, at a time of deep personal emotional upheaval. I refused to allow the conversation to go any further and stormed out, but the damage had already been done.

For the next hour or so, before the mass began, I agonised over what I should do. I did not wish to hurt anyone's feelings, nor however, did I wish to compromise my right to choose the direction my life would take. I kept seeing this mental picture of all our family in the front row of the church. I could see everyone moving to the altar railing, where communion would be distributed. Everyone that is, except me. I asked myself, 'Did that matter? Not to me. Did it matter to the rest of the family? Obviously it mattered to Kathleen.' Then I remembered Don Harris. I remembered the brutal treatment he suffered while in the church's care. I recalled the pain I felt when contemplating his life and death, and the church's betrayal of trust. I don't know how long I took to decide, but in the end I said... 'Fuck them'. Not my family...the church. 'What right did they have to interfere in such an intimate manner? What right did they have to dictate the terms upon which individuals lived? Yes I would give my family what they wanted. I could keep up appearances. But knuckle under to the church, allow them to dictate the terms? No! Fuck them. For all my life, thus far, they had been the great dictators and what had they given in return? What had they given Don Harris? No, fuck them!'

On arriving at the church with Megan, I asked her to go inside, telling her I would join her shortly. She never asked why. I waited outside for about five minutes, speaking briefly to a man in a grey coat who was looking for the rear entrance to the presbytery. I allowed sufficient time to pass that would satisfy Kathleen that a quick confession had taken place, and then entered the church through the side door close to the sacristy. I looked for Megan and saw her sitting with her parents, Frank and Irene, in the second row. The front row had been reserved for the Hickey family and my father sat on the aisle, closest to my mother's coffin, with Kathleen next to him, then Damien, together with Elaine, Mark, Bridget, James and Andrew. I looked directly at Kathleen. She wore a melancholy expression as her eyes met mine, and I volunteered a calming smile, and a faint nod of the head to indicate that I had met her wishes. Her plaintive expression suddenly altered to one of relief or joy or somewhere in-between, and I knew that she would no longer concern herself with the state of my soul. Mission accomplished! As I made my way to a seat, I noticed a piano had been placed just below the altar, and it occurred to me that she might have arranged to play something during the mass. I chose to sit with Megan not out of any disrespect to my family, but simply as a personal choice. It was my father who beckoned us both to sit in the front row. It was his way of saying that in his eyes, Megan was also a part of our family. The church was packed. It was to be expected. Our family had been a part of this parish community for thirty years, and Elizabeth Margaret's life and final struggle was no secret.

The church was full of relatives, friends and I suspect friends of friends. The men in black cassocks were represented too. Gordian and Balbinus were there. I had not seen them for several years. I nodded to Gordian. He nodded back. The Requiem mass began with the school choir singing 'Ave Maria'. It was my mother's favourite hymn. They sang it beautifully. At the homily, Westy spoke eloquently of my mother's commitment to her family and her devotion to God. He gave a few examples of those times he had shared special moments with Elizabeth Margaret, and praised her community spirit. Then Paul spoke on behalf of the family. I admired his strength and resolve at being able to continue without any apparent emotional fragility. I wondered if having been away from home so long, he had unwittingly distanced himself from his emotional ties and that perhaps for him, this was just another funeral. Perhaps he was not hurting as much as the rest of us. Kathleen too, seemed to conceal her emotions.

As the mass continued on to the communion rite, the choir sang, and all of our family, Megan and I included, rose to the occasion, and received the Eucharist. Only Elaine remained where she sat. In the course of subsequent reflection, I wondered if Kathleen had used the same guilty conscience scam on Damien. Perhaps she tried and won, or perhaps he too, just went along with the idea, convincing her in some way that he also was in the 'state of grace'. Beyond that, I realised it was possible, that someone in that church did notice that we all received the host. Perhaps by that action, we did demonstrate a lasting expression of our love and undying respect for Elizabeth Margaret. She was a woman who had devoted her very life to the task of ensuring the eternal salvation of those she brought into the world, and perhaps this was a fitting response from us.

I held no ill feeling for Kathleen or anyone else over that incident. Her intentions were good. It was a short-lived event that was dictated by the way Catholics were trained to think, and act. It was if anything, more a consequence of that training, than the act, of one who simply failed to see the gross intrusion inflicted on someone else's spiritual privacy.

At the end of communion, Westy rose up from his chair of repose, and came to the microphone. He announced to the congregation that three young ladies, Megan Macleod, Monica Kase and Michelle Carter had a special tribute to Elizabeth Margaret that they would like to present to us now. I turned to Megan. She squeezed my hand and whispered to me.

"This is our tribute. The music is yours, this is the song you wrote for me. I've changed the words. I want to give it to her. Don't be disappointed. I want us to dedicate this to your mother." Having said that, she joined Monica and Michelle at the piano. I was stunned. Suddenly Martin Barnett and Geoff appeared from the gathering having waited in the wings for their cue to join the girls. Geoff held his guitar by the neck as he took up a seat in front of the piano. Martin held a violin in his hand. The band was back together again, except for drummer Ian Wardley and me.

Megan sat at the piano and began to play. Geoffrey and Martin harmonised. Monica opened with the first two lines, Michelle came in with the next two. The next four lines they split, one singing harmony the other melody.

Lord, this be our prayer,

As we say goodbye.

We pray your journey safe and sure

Your heart and soul wing high

Oh Lord above and deep within,

We offer you our trust

Receive our precious gift to you

And with her a part of us

Then Michelle and Monica began a chorus in Italian:

O Signore dal cielo e profondo in noi,

Vi offriamo la nostra fiducia.

Recevi il nostro regalo prezioso

E con lei una parte di noi.

Lord, this be our prayer

Let us open up our hearts

To reveal our joy that she goes from here

To a better place by far

A place where no sadness fills the air

A place where happiness is there

A place where angels guide her on her way.

They sang so beautifully, making the moment all the more poignant. Kathleen finally broke down, and buried her head in her handkerchief. My father put his arm around her, and reached for his handkerchief. Kathleen set off a chain reaction along the front row. When the group completed their tribute, there was dead silence. No one was quite sure how to respond. A few moments passed and the girls prepared to return to their seats. From the rear of the church, it began. A hand clap, then another, then more and more again. The applause filtered up toward the front like a wave coming into shore. The applause persisted to Westy's consternation. This was not supposed to happen at funerals. But even he gave in, and allowed himself to flow with the tide. Finally too, Paul broke down, and fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief.

I was so overtaken with the moment, I could not help myself. I stepped out of the pew to embrace the girls as they walked back to their seats. The four of us hugged each other in the aisle alongside my mother's teak casket with the silver handles. My father too, rose up and embraced Megan and the girls. All this time the applause continued. The girls walked along the front row and kissed each member of my family. Then, as I returned to my seat, I saw him. He stood at the back of the church just as he did at Michael Stewart's funeral. My heart pounded, my stomach sank into my bowel, and an inexplicable fear overtook me for the moment. ' What does he want? What in Christ's name is he going to do?' In no more than a moment's observation I noted that he was dressed in black. I realised that it was he, who had been calling at our house. It was he, who had been asking to see me. 'Does he know about Don Harris? When will this end? When will the nightmare be over?' It was Severus.

As the mass drew to an end, the unsettling nature of Severus' presence continued to haunt me. As a special tribute to my mother, the choir sang 'The Rose of Tralee'. Then the funeral director beckoned to Paul and her five other sons to join him. He gestured to us, as would a conductor before a symphony orchestra, and we lifted the casket up onto our shoulders. As the choir began singing Mozart's 'Laudate Dominum', we took her outside to the waiting hearse. I glanced momentarily across to where I first saw Severus, but he was gone.

72. Severus

Outside, our mother, wrapped inside the teak casket with the silver handles, was placed in the hearse, and there was a time for gathering and thanking people for coming. Still there was no sign of Severus. Several people wanted to speak with the three M's, and tell them how wonderfully they sang. People I had not spoken to in ages, were shaking my hand and expressing their condolences. It really was overpowering but my mind was elsewhere. Paul found it difficult to speak to people, and wanted us all to get moving. He had forgotten the informality of western culture. He had been away too long.

As various people made an effort to speak to me, and I struggled to remember their names, my eyes caught sight of him, a lonely haggard figure standing some distance away. Dressed in black, his hat shaded the top half of his head as he observed proceedings from across the street. Suddenly, as I stared across, he removed his hat, and my heart lurched forward in a violent jolt. It had been seven years, but Severus' appearance was unmistakable. Temporarily stunned, my mind a confused mixture of grief, fear, anger and desire for revenge, I excused myself from those around me. As I made my way toward him, half expecting him to leave, he stood motionless, waiting, all the time staring straight at me. As I came closer, I saw how much he had aged. His balding scalp, grey hair on the sides, and sagging chin were a testament to the years now past. As I drew toward him he remained still, one hand in his coat pocket, protected from the chill morning air, the other holding his hat by his side. I stopped with just a few feet separating us, and for a moment, we stood there silent and motionless. Finally I spoke.

"Why are you here?" I asked and added, "You never knew my mother. What do you want?"

He did not answer immediately and I was joined by Megan, who had seen me walk to him from across the street.

"Is everything alright darling?" she asked. I continued looking directly at Severus and repeated my question. "Why are you here?"

Finally he spoke.

"I came to see you." he answered.

"Who is this person, darling?" Megan asked and I realised I didn't know his birth name.

"My name is Joseph," he answered, as if to circumvent a lengthy explanation and make the introduction easier.

"What do you want?" I asked him again, putting Megan's question to one side.

There was a pause as he struggled to disclose the reason for his being here.

"Your forgiveness." he finally answered.

"My what?"

"What does he mean sweetheart?" Megan was now concerned, and I felt the need to calm her.

"This is the man who has been calling at the house looking for me. He once taught me at the Juniorate," I told her, and as I look back at him added, "among other things!"

"I've come to ask your forgiveness Simon," Severus said again.

"My forgiveness?"

"Yes," he said. I felt utterly confused and searched for a reply that was appropriate, but not submissive.

"You want my forgiveness?" I repeated.

"Yes," he said. My mind wandered back in time, a time now past, but never forgotten.

"What about Don Harris, do want his forgiveness too? And what about the others?"

I became somewhat agitated and raised my voice.

"What about Michael Stewart and Peter Wilson...and....and... Don Harris? Jesus fucking Christ!" I shouted at him. "What about Don and Christ knows how many others? Do you also want their forgiveness? Do you have any idea of the miserable life Don had......because of you?" I shouted angrily.

"I've done wrong, I know that." he replied almost submissively. "I'm trying to make amends. I've done some dreadful things, I can see that now, and I am doing my best to put things right."

"Put things right? They are dead you fucking arsehole. Did you know that? Don Harris is dead!" I yelled at him.

"Yes, I know that. I'm sorry."

"He's dead. He gave his life for a fake fucking cause, after years of loneliness, after years of mental and sexual abuse. How do you plan on asking his forgiveness? These things as you put it are done, they are in the past. You can't put them right," I screamed into his face, utterly distraught.

"I know," he said as he hesitated and took a step back. "That was a silly thing to say. I didn't mean it that way. I just wanted those I've hurt to know that I'm sorry for what I did. I am receiving professional counselling and with God's help I will overcome these urges that haunt me." His voice was quivering and tears began to well up in his eyes. I stared at him intently, the anger inside me still building.

"How many?" I asked, my voice now under control.

"I beg your pardon?"

"How many were there...like me...like Michael...Don...how many did you molest?"

"Oh God," Megan interrupted, now showing signs of distress. "So that's what this is about."

"Michael Stewart thought you were sick." I said, recalling his words to me shortly before he died. "I thought of you in other ways, mostly as a pathetic old man lost to an obsession, but when Don died, I hated you. I hated you with an intensity so deep I frightened myself."

"When Michael died I was devastated," he said. "It was then I resolved to do something about it. Don's death pained me more than you will know. It has taken a long time. There have been many sessions of counselling to get this far, to see you and the others, and express my sorrow. But it is an essential part of the process. I don't expect anything from you but I ask your forgiveness anyway. It's important for you as much as it is for me."

"How on earth would you know what's important for me?" I said.

"Forgiveness is a critical part of the process. As long as you harbour ill feelings for what happened, you are weakened. Your ability to grow mentally and socially is compromised. That's what my psychologist says. It is important that this burden be lifted from you. Your forgiveness of me will help achieve that. It's important that you understand that....important for you."

"What's important for me is that you stay out of my life. I don't think that much about what you did to me. It's what you did to Don Harris that I can't come to terms with. That's what I hate you for."

Megan, who had been standing alongside me, listening to this seemingly bizarre discussion, suppressed her revulsion, and stepped in to make a contribution.

"Darling, I don't know the depth of what has gone on between you two, but what he says is right. Harbouring anger, frustration, animosity, and those sorts of things are all negative. Don't let them linger inside. What ever has happened, try and deal with it for your sake." And then she added, "And for my sake too."

"The lady is right," Severus agreed. "This process is as important for you, as it is for me."

"Don't you dare tell me what's right," I replied.

"There's no magic wand here," he said. "There is nothing that will bring about an instant fix. I don't expect you to suddenly find it in your heart to forgive me, but your whole life is still ahead of you. I don't want you to carry this sort of baggage around with you forever. It could damage you later."

"I wasn't aware I was carrying any baggage," I said in an irritated voice. "Don Harris was carrying the baggage."

There was a pause. Then Paul called for Megan and I to return to the proceedings across the road. Megan signalled to him that we were coming.

"We have to go, you have picked a bad moment for this." Megan told him.

"I'm very sorry about your mother, Simon. You didn't need me to land here on top of your grief. I didn't come to upset you any more. It's just that I did try to see you at your home on two occasions and I was unsuccessful. I came in sympathy. I won't bother you again, I promise. I just wanted the opportunity to speak to you, acknowledge my sin and ask for your forgiveness. I'm truly very sorry."

He stepped back, and replaced his hat back upon his head. Megan returned across the road to the family.

*

Megan told me later that she did not intend what happened next. Never would she have uttered what she did had she the slightest inkling of its consequences. Returning to the forecourt of the church, she told Mark that I was resolving a past issue with a former teacher from the Juniorate. That was it! That was all she said. My father, standing near Mark with his back to her, overheard, and immediately swung around.

"What former teacher?" he asked. Megan pointed across the road. "Some kind of personal matter," she said, now feeling distinctly uncomfortable at my father's abruptness.

I was about to see Severus off. My anger had settled and I was calm, even satisfied that his motives were genuine and, incredibly, even beginning to feel some degree of sympathy for someone who's life had gone seriously wrong. At the same time, my father quickly made his way across the street.

"There's no more you can say or do now," I said. "I can't suddenly say I forgive you and mean it. I can't do that, not for what you did to me any more than for what you did to Don and Michael."

"I understand that," he replied, both of us unaware of the fast approaching fury that was my father.

"I need time. Time to think things through. Time to allow things to settle." I told him.

"I understand that too. I could not reasonably hope for anything more."

*

Suddenly, from out of nowhere my father lunged at Severus, with outstretched hands that went straight for his throat. Such was his velocity that he nearly knocked me over. I had never before seen such rage, such anger in him, his eyes watering, his face blood red, his rage increasing his physical strength. Whatever the depth of emotion that had lain suppressed within him until now, at that point, boiled over and manifested itself in a vicious attack. Both men went to ground in seconds, Severus hitting his head on the concrete footpath. In a state of shock as he lay pinned by my father, Severus tried to free himself from my fathers tenacious grip. My father on top, forcing ever more against his throat, pressed his chest down over Severus' face as if trying to smother him.

"Dad," I cried out, "No, no, let him go. Dad no!" But still he pressed down. I could see Severus' arms struggling to gain some degree of leverage.

I grabbed the back of my father's coat and tried to pull him back. I never realised how strong he was. Damien and Mark who had watched him leave the gathering, stared in disbelief before running across the street and taking hold of both his arms, wrestling him back off the struggling, pitiful form underneath. Severus' face was white with shock as a trickle of blood flowed from the back of his head.

"You miserable bastard!" my father spat out attempting another lunge, but Mark and Damien's collective strength restrained him.

Relatives and friends had gathered around my father, trying to calm him. The others stood across the street outside the church, stunned by the events they had witnessed. Severus' ageing pathetic frame lay there, his head bleeding from the back, breathing heavily, mouth wide open, eyes staring directly above into the clear blue sky. I was suddenly drawn by some inexplicable urge to help him, as Father West stormed across the street, still dressed in his vestments.

"What in the name of Jesus is going on here?" he bellowed.

"Get him out of my sight!" my father cried out, pointing at Severus. I had never before heard him speak with such anger. Damien and Mark stood either side, keeping a solid grip on my father, and settled him down on the low brick fence outside the adjoining property. He too, was breathing heavily and going white. I moved toward Severus and knelt over him looking down, not just upon his face and ruffled clothing, but into his mind. 'What was he feeling right now?'

"Can you get up?" I asked. He nodded, but said nothing. A shadow suddenly covered us both. I looked up to see the imposing figure of Brother Gordian standing there, looking down upon the distraught face of Severus.

I pleaded with Gordian. "Help me Brother. He came to apologise and to tell me he's been getting help." Gordian responded with compassion, and knelt down over Severus.

"Can you get up Joseph?" he said, "We need to take a look at your head."

As Severus looked up and recognised a former friend, tears welled up in his eyes and he began to sob uncontrollably.

"He came to ask my forgiveness." I told Gordian. "He has apologised. I think he is really trying to reform. Can you help him?" I said, as I looked across toward Damien and Mark, standing either side of my father.

Within minutes a police car arrived, prompted by a call from the owner of the property whose brick fence became the recovery bench for both my father and Severus. She viewed the entire incident from behind her front window and clearly wasted no time in making the call.

Westy did not like unscripted, unexpected incidents. He was used to command, and with the unexpected arrival of the police, quickly assumed control. He suggested to Gordian and Balbinus they take Severus across to the Presbytery to clean him up, and encouraged those milling around to return to the church grounds. The man in the grey coat to whom I had spoken earlier, appeared and offered to help them. My concern was for my father.

"Are you all right? Are you feeling better?" I asked him as Megan crouched with me.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "I had no idea he would react like this."

"You weren't to know." I said to her, and then turned to look at my father. His eyes were on fire but his face displayed a vacant look of shock, as if he could not believe what he had done.

"He came to apologise, Dad. He meant no more harm. He says he's getting help. He was asking my forgiveness. They are taking him into the presbytery." My father then turned to look at me directly. Unable to speak, but with an expression that showed his own sense of finality, he squeezed my hand. Our eyes met each other's, both of us sharing and bearing the moment's significance.

In the maelstrom of events that followed, Father West skilfully corralled and convinced the police that nothing needed to be done, that it was all a misunderstanding, and that everything was now under control. Having the presence of mind to see that Severus was out of sight, and inside the presbytery, away from the questions that might lead to an assault charge against my father, was a testament to his quick witted, damage control capability.

"Having the police here is bad enough," he said. "Next thing you know the newspapers will be here sniffing out a story. That's the last thing we want."

*

The journey to the cemetery was slow and painful. My father rode in the mourning coach with Kathleen, Paul and Damien. Mark, Andrew and James followed in the other funeral car. Megan, Bridget and I drove together behind them. Several cars followed, each with their headlights on, to indicate they were with the cortege.

At the cemetery, my mother's teak casket with the silver handles was placed over the grave. Westy, who was now very much back in control of proceedings, said a few more prayers and then one of the attendants gently kicked a lever that automatically lowered the coffin into the ground. Standing there watching that coffin go down into the pit, was the most devastating moment. It was the worst moment of my life. We stood, not quite knowing what to do. We needed direction here. This was not something one rehearsed. Friends, aunties and uncles, cousins and second cousins approached, offering consoling words. My mother was the first of five sisters to die. My aunties were all distraught.

By the time we arrived back home, the neighbours had prepared food for everyone and my aunts and uncles mixed with neighbours, and shared stories of the good times spent with Elizabeth Margaret. There were times I retreated to my room to let the tears flow, and I was not the only one to do so. A couple of my aunts spent time helping console Kathleen in her room. She was suffering delayed shock, belated grief. She was not the only one. But there was worse news to come.

Later that night, I took the telephone call and heard the news of what had happened after we left the church for the cemetery. Gordian and Balbinus, together with the assistance of the man in a grey coat, had taken Severus into the presbytery and tended his wound. It wasn't serious, just a small cut at the back of the head. Balbinus found the first aid kit in the bathroom and applied some antiseptic to the wound. After helping patch him up, the man in the grey coat left and the two of them sat and talked with Severus over coffee and biscuits. Gordian and Severus talked about the past, the time they spent together at Pangarra. The two men entered the novitiate back in the forties. The three reminisced over the noble nature of their calling, the years they had spent teaching young boys, acting as pastoral advisers, and watching them grow into young men. They spoke of the satisfaction they experienced at seeing their young charges go out, and forge their way in an uncertain world. Balbinus the academic, lamented how in the early days, a number of the Brothers did not have University degrees, and were therefore limited in both academic and worldly experience. The two Brothers then prayed with Severus. He seemed in good spirits, he was even smiling again. The shock of my father's violent reaction to him attending the funeral had subsided. Then after being reassured he was fine, they left him alone. Severus told them he would simply rest a while before going home. They believed him.

None of the neighbours heard the shot. One said she thought she heard a car backfire but that was all. Set well back from the street, the presbytery was sound-proofed by a row of fully grown cypress pines. It was Westy who, returning from our house after the wake, found him slumped over an arm chair, shot through the temple, a gun lying on the floor beside him and blood splattered everywhere.

"How on earth did he get hold of it?" Westy asked rhetorically. "More alarming, he had it on his person when you spoke with him, when your father attacked him, when Brothers Gordian and Balbinus assisted him. He could have used it on any one of you!"

And now he was dead.

For the next few days, it was as if time stood still. Whatever else was happening in my life was on hold. Nothing else mattered, other than to allow whatever time necessary to give this most shocking event, the time it needed to find and secure its proper place in the depths of my spirit. As I tried to understand what had happened, I began to see the evolution of life. I began to see new life being born of the pain of death. It was in the parting of the seed from the parent plant that new life flourishes, bursts forth and flowers. The parent plant withers and dies. When new life begins something else must pass away. As the days passed, I felt the seed falling from the parent plant, and realised that my life, following my mother's death and the tragic nature of Severus' demise, was destined to change.

*

The days following the funeral, Megan and I spent together. My mind was occupied with things past. Memories of my mother from the earliest years kept flooding back, memories that under the circumstances could not help but surface. Megan understood this. I opened up and told her of my life at the Juniorate. Without omitting any detail, I told her all about the incident with Severus and I told her about Don Harris. She listened intently, with a remarkable depth of compassion and understanding.

"Why," Megan asked of me, "did you feel that you could not tell me about this before?"

"I thought that you would think less of me," I said. "I thought you might think our relationship had been compromised in some way, that I might somehow have been a willing party to what happened."

Shaking her head, she said tenderly, "No my love, I would never have thought that. I know you too well to think that." Sympathetic to my feelings and concerned for what psychological damage could be present, she helped me see the wisdom of Severus' advice, that forgiveness was good therapy.

"As best I know, there is no mechanism for redress," she explained, "and as long as you harbour anger, you are the only one in pain. To prolong it is self-defeating. His presence at your mother's funeral attested to a genuine sense of remorse on his part. Perhaps he was on a genuine road to recovery and rehabilitation too. To resist forgiving is negative, a hindrance. Forgiving him is the best thing for you, and if his intentions were genuine, then perhaps he also benefited in some way."

73. The Finding .....

At the Coronial Inquiry, Severus' psychologist stated that he was depressed but coping and progressing favourably. Some of his clandestine behaviour was disclosed, although no mention was made of Don Harris. Little was left to the imagination, however, and the coroner had no reason but to pronounce death by suicide. The gun, it was said, had been stolen from a friend, Mr. George Upton, a journalist with the Clarion newspaper who had kept it under lock and key. Mr. Upton stated that he had taken out a private detective's licence six months ago, and had commenced a small part time agency. He had an appropriate licence for the weapon and had known Joseph Ashford (Severus to those who knew him as a Aquinine Brother) for about two years through his local parish church, and at the state school where Severus was teaching. He stated that Severus knew he owned a weapon, and that he had shown it to him on just one occasion. Mr Upton maintained the weapon had been taken without his permission, although the how and the why escaped him. It was a sad and tragic end to a miserable life. Little wonder nobody really wanted to talk about it any more.

*

Paul stayed with us for some weeks before returning to The Phillipines. Damien much the same. He and Elaine were well established in London and this time they left together. Before they left however, we learned that their sudden break-up five years earlier was something of a ruse, to escape from the suffocating atmosphere surrounding their relationship. They decided to start a new life away from the narrow-minded attitudes that governed compliant Catholics. Elaine was adamant that she wanted no part of the church interfering in her life, and future family, and hilariously accepted the role Megan offered her, as one of Satan's little helpers. Damien felt that to defy tradition and marry outside the church would be too hurtful to his parents. So they compromised by living together overseas for the time being in the hope that attitudes would change. My father was always the more broad-minded and understanding. He wished them well, assured them they had his full support, and said they were welcome to return home whenever they chose.

Kathleen returned to the convent in Shepparton, to continue teaching music. She was staggered when we told her it was my composition the girls sang at the funeral. When she realised that it was Megan who was the driving force behind it, she too fell under her spell. Bridget assumed the role of part time housekeeper, in between her studies. But she received a generous amount of help from the rest of us, who found it all a welcome part of the grieving process to make our contribution to the running of the household. She and Chris Dyer started seeing each other again.

*

After everything was finally sorted out, Megan's long awaited plans materialised. For months prior to my mother's death she was busy setting out our itinerary. Her passion to travel was unassailable. It was as if nothing else mattered. "Let's see the world first before we decide on anything else," she said. Without so much as a whimper, I succumbed to the three M's solemn promise to each other, made at University two years earlier, that travel was the next great adventure, and the six of us were off to Italy. We basked on the sands of Capri and Sorrento, saw Vesuvius from the Bay of Naples. We rode in a gondolier along the grand canal in Venice, marvelled at the leaning tower of Pisa. We saw David in Florence, and then sat spellbound watching a performance of La Boheme at La Scala in Milan. And Rome; 'Ah bella Roma.'

Then one early Sunday morning in December 1967, while we were sipping coffee in the Piazza Navona in Rome, back home in Australia, Harold Holt went for a swim at Cheviot beach near Portsea. They never found his body. His legacy and that of his predecessor Robert Menzies in going all the way with LBJ, was the obscenity of five hundred Australian soldiers dead, killed in the paddy fields and jungles of Vietnam, at least as many wounded, with thousands psychologically traumatised for the rest of their lives, and a suicide rate among veterans, ten times the national average.......with absolutely nothing to show for it.

74. Innocence lost.

Five years later, by pure chance, I was back in Melbourne, roaming through the Victoria Market searching for that elusive bargain, a pair of joggers that didn't cost an arm and a leg. As I crossed an open square, grey shapes were moving back and forth, to and from the car park. They moved in unison, office workers from the thirty story skyscraper further down William Street out to soak up some lunchtime sun. One man walked apart from the others, tall and imposing his face was familiar. As he walked adjacent to me, he was distracted by a booming sound from a nearby construction site. His head turned in my direction, and our eyes met. Dressed in a suit instead of clerical black, he still cut an authoritative figure, and looked every inch the smart, elegant executive. As he recognised me, he hesitated, then altered direction and came my way. We shook hands in a warm friendly gesture as would old friends, even though that is not what we were. As we spoke, I told him that Megan, the girl he had encouraged me to write to all those years ago and I, were now married. He told me he had left the Aquinine Brothers, seeking a new life, a new beginning away from the haunting memories of the past, and had himself found that special happiness that only came with a soul mate, a life partner. His wife, he said, had transformed his life. "I should have done it years ago," Gordian said. We spoke of the events that occurred the day of my mother's funeral. It did not surprise me that he remembered all of it, particularly the trauma created by the appearance of Severus. What he then told me, sent shivers up my spine.

"Did you know that your father came to see me, that year after you left the Juniorate?" he asked.

"I guessed as much," I told him. "He indicated to me at the time that he would talk to you. When I told him about Severus he asked who else knew. I told him that you knew, and he mentioned that he would speak to you."

"When he came to see me," Gordian continued, "he asked if I had a photograph of Brother Severus. He wanted to know what he looked like. Without thinking, I showed him a photo of the two of us together at the noviciate. I also showed him something else."

"What was that?" I asked.

"I showed him the contents of a package Michael Stewart's mother sent me a year after he died. It contained copies of a number of letters written by you, Michael, Don Harris and Peter Wilson when you reported Severus' activities to Antonius Pius. I guess you know what's in them. Michael's mother sent them to me together with a note explaining how she found them among Michael's things. Do you know she didn't touch any of his things for nearly a year after he died?"

"When I visited him," I said, "Michael said he was going to destroy them. I guess he forgot."

"Well, anyway, she sent them to me." He continued. "She was shocked that Michael never told her what had happened. She left it up to me to decide what to do with them. Anyway your father seemed very interested in any information I could give him on the matter so, without thinking beyond that moment, I showed him the letters. They included the letter Michael Stewart wrote, warning that the four of you were prepared to expose Joseph to Don Harris' uncle at the Clarion. On the back of that particular letter, Michael had written the name and address of Don Harris' uncle and when your father saw that, he wrote down that detail on a piece of paper."

I hesitated for a moment as his words filtered through my brain.

"Do you think my father got in contact with him?" I asked.

"Well, that I don't know. Frankly, Simon, I don't want to know. The ramifications of that are somewhat disturbing and I really don't want to go down that path."

"What are you getting at?" I asked feeling a little uncomfortable. "Are you saying that maybe my father passed information on to Don Harris' uncle?"

"I don't know." His voice quietened.

"Well," I replied, "It really doesn't matter now, whether he did or he didn't. Severus took his own life. I guess that overtakes any other consideration, doesn't it?"

"Yes I suppose that's right although I can't help thinking it may go deeper than that."

"What do you mean?" I asked, now somewhat curious as to where he was leading.

"I think that...maybe...it's possible that Joseph's death.... wasn't suicide." he answered.

I looked at him, somewhat stunned.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

He continued talking, looking somewhat vague and distant. "Some men never change Simon. They try, they do all the right things to help them reform. But then comes that moment of weakness, and before you know it, they are right back where they started. Severus was like that. He would never have been completely trustworthy again."

His remarks confused me.

"What do you mean? I don't follow you." I replied. He hesitated for some time staring into thin air before continuing. Then he appeared to regain his composure.

"On reflection, I think you should have those letters Simon. After everything that's happened, they probably belong to you now. Can you give me your address and I'll send them to you. I know I certainly don't want to keep them."

"What's wrong?" I asked, as I wrote my address on the back of an envelope he handed to me. "What is it that's bothering you?" He was showing signs of increasing discomfort .

"It's over. It's behind us. We have all moved on, you and I included. You are at the beginning of a whole new life. We can't reverse the past, but we can make some of the more sordid elements of the past less relevant. Let's leave it at that!"

With that, he made a move to go.

"Hang on a minute....what are you suggesting?" I asked.

He paused a moment and seemed to be debating with himself as to whether he should continue. Finally he spoke.

"On the day of your mother's funeral, when Brother Balbinus and I took Joseph into the presbytery, a man in a grey coat helped us. I had never seen him before, and anyway he left as soon as we took Joseph inside."

"Yes," I replied. "I remember him. I spoke to him before the funeral. He was looking for the back door to the presbytery. What does that have to do with anything?" I queried.

"We both saw him again later, .....at the Coronial Inquest, remember?" Gordian said.

"Yes, I remember him at the Coronial Inquest. Who was he again?" I asked.

"His name was George Upton.....remember?" Gordian replied.

"Yes that's right, I remember now." I answered.

"Do you happen to know the name of Don Harris' uncle?" Gordian asked.

"No," I replied.

"It's Upton...George Upton." Gordian said, "Think about it Simon. That was him. He was at the Coronial Inquest. He's the owner of the gun that killed Severus. He was there, inside the presbytery at your mother's funeral. He had no interest in your family, but he knew Joseph, and he obviously knew somehow that Joseph was going to be at the funeral. He may even have accompanied him. Both Brother Balbinus and I physically held Joseph as we took him into the presbytery. Neither of us think he had any gun concealed on him. If there was one in his coat pocket I'm sure we would have felt it. Doesn't that strike you as a bit odd? I know it did me, and I always thought it odd that George Upton's relationship to Don Harris was never mentioned at the inquest....it's a fairly serious omission I would have thought, but then again, who am I to argue with the coroner's decision?"

"How do you know that George Upton was Don Harris' uncle?" I asked.

"Because that's the name on the back of Michael Stewart's letter," he said.

*

As he began to walk away, I tried to absorb the significance of that last comment. I looked up to speak, but it was too late. He was too far away. His story sent shivers up my spine. Had Gordian inadvertently stumbled onto the truth of the matter? Were all his suspicions concerning George Upton and, by association, my father, accurate? Did they conspire to kill Severus? Perhaps they had planned it together, waiting for the right moment, waiting for the circumstances to present themselves while never quite knowing what those circumstances were going to be. Perhaps George Upton had befriended Severus without revealing he was Don Harris' uncle. As morbid as it sounds, my mother's funeral may have provided the perfect opportunity, although my father's violent outburst that day could not have been part of any grand plan, surely? Perhaps they were hoping that one day Severus would place himself in a vulnerable position, exposing himself in some way and making a suicide look plausible.

My father, George Upton and Brother Balbinus are now long since passed away and Gordian lives peacefully with his wife in retirement. If I have entertained such irrational fears over the past thirty years, fears that Gordian would speak out at some unguarded moment and spark a further investigation, it has been a waste of energy. He has done no such thing. I keep in touch.
