KEEP RIGHT OUT OF TOWN (1994)

 



 In 1954 I turned 21. It was a memorable year in many ways. It was to be a great mix of drama, challenge, achievement, daring and nose-to-the-grindstone. Strangely enough there wasn't any wild celebraton that I had reached my voting age or 'warrior status" - as a volunteer to fight for "king and country". In fact it was such a modest celebration that I can't recall any detail.  But there is a haunting memory and  a sour taste has lingered over the years, having been declared a near outlaw in the little sugar town of Innisfail.

I had ridden out my stormy first year as teacher of the all-important Scholarship, with commendable results. Folk in NSW would not understand how pivotal this public exam was for the boys of eighth grade in the Sunshine state. Getting a scholarship meant that your secondary education was free. It was a real bonanza for our struggling school. A pot of gold, 20 pounds in all went to the school and not the parents. In our case this was double the paltry fees we were charging and which many people ignored. I could attribute my success to my old Master, Br Ronald who had advised me to find the best teacher in town and learn from him. So, it was I became friends of Hughie McCarthy, an old pro, principal to the East Innisfail State school and whose class topped the town each year. An old CBC Nudgie boy he was so gracious and helpful. I have to admit, however, that I was not going to use his unrelenting cramming. I wanted to enjoy teaching by making it interesting and expanding the students’ activities and horizons. And so we did indulge in music, art,  leatherwork and revelled in poetry.



GRADE 8 - Mike - 3 from L back row

 The following year began disastrously. Asian flu clobbered our little town and I was one of the casualties. In fact it was almost epidemic proportions, as reported by the Sydney Sun with blaring headlines ASIAN FLU WIPES OUT NORTH QUEENSLAND TOWN. The first I knew of it was waking in the night and feeling violently ill. I was soon perched over a wash basin and hoicking up the previous day’s and week’s meals, to the stage where the green bile had exhausted, to be followed by dry retching. Br. Colgan must have contacted Doc Cotter, a local legend and I was whisked away to hospital just the other side of the hill and with a glorious view along the Johnson river.

It was there that I learnt a great truth. It was not the police chief, the magistrate, the bank manager, the parish priest or minister that was the most feared, infallible and most powerful person in the town. It was, without a shadow of a doubt, MATRON BROWN. She really was the arbiter of death and life. Luckily for me she was a Catholic and I was this pathetic, young, struggling Brother. Hence I found myself in a sort of lordly splendour in the corner room with views all round and with aura in the air. It seemed to me that nurses, whose fear of the matron was absolute, would enter on tip toe and barely raise their voice as they assisted. All was hushed. And of course, I was so proper and distant. No glimmerings of romance here.



Mike king of crocs 40+ years later.



I don’t recall what awful cocktails of medicines they plied me with. I certainly was so crook and could have died. Mostly,  from shame and embarrassment. A Brother was not supposed get sick and scarper off and leave his depleted staff battling along with extra classes. Of course, it was decades before replacement teachers appeared. And the general rule was that the “boss” or principal taught a full load anyway. All those pesky jobs, like school accounts for instance, were done in spare time, over the weekend. The fact that we boasted only 130  students  in our school didn’t make it any easier for the primary teachers, who already were saddled with double classes. This weighed mightily on my mind.

I schemed to escape. Blessedly, the worst of the nausea and sickness had ameliorated but I knew I was still sick and should not try to hasten the process of recovery. There was a struggle going on: wisdom versus duty. I decided to act…stupidly, as it turned out. On the matrons daily sweeps I would brighten and explain how much better I was feeling and appreciated the wonderful treatment in her hospital. I knew she wasn’t convinced. But I wore her down. After some 3-4 days she relented. Yes, I could go home.

But how to get back home when all were in school? I suddenly thought of our friendly chemist, another legend, Gordon Rothnie, whose boys attended our school. Soon enough, Gordon is pulling into the driveway in his big Chev and I’m making a bold display of striding down to meet him, aware that the hawk eyes of the matron were peering down. And so I returned home. Joy all around. Next day, I was stalking the poop deck of the classroom. It didn’t last long. By mid morning I had collapsed and had to stagger down the hill to our bungalow. It was a week before I was strong enough to take on a full days teaching. I just hoped matron never found out.

FNQ Brothers mid 1950s

In 1954 there had been a seismic shift in the composition of our community of four Brothers. The oldest, in his early forties at least had gone south at the end of 1953. We’d lost Urby,  a remarkable monk, top tennis player, fine gymnast, uncanny card player, a whiz at cryptic crosswords and a committed and persistent teacher who made sure the kids learnt. In fact, his feat of churning through 100 chapters of Jones’ French Grammar (the driest, most soulless book ever printed) in just one year, still must stand as a record in dour teaching. He never lost his cool, a placid man, and with a twinkle he would share the latest jokes he’d culled from the latest Readers’ Digest. We would miss his quiet presence. Astoundingly we waved him farewell from atop Mount Fox, outside Ingham as we watched that wondrous snake of lights glide through the darkening day as the Sunlander “sped” south. At that stage we were belting back north to beat the wet season after adventures at Valley of Lagoons.

The contrast in his replacement could not have been more dramatic. Gil Larkin, my classmate, was a tearaway, a firebrand who would set our sedate community on its head. Gil had a great appetite for life and he was in a hurry to embrace it. Now, that was not easy for a Brother in those days of our “fortress Church”. (Personally I preferred the alternative title “Ghetto Church”) Of course this was a decade before the great revolution of Vatican 2, threw open the windows and gates and the Catholic Church welcomed the world. In those days of regimented routine we lived in a MONASTERY…even though we were but another bungalow in Owen St.  A tough daily program that saw us leaping from our sweaty beds at 5.30am and pushing through a punishing days teaching, followed by prayers at 5.00pm and after dinner, two solid hours of study with the fans whirring to give some relief. Night prayer followed at 9.30pm and bed followed in silence.

 Weekends saw some let up. Saturday afternoon was the great escape. Sunday still included two Masses, study and the evening topped with 7.30 Rosary and Benediction.  Around 8.30pm we’d cluster around the radio and enjoy some wonderful BBC stuff. I often wonder ‘how did we ever do it?’

Gil certainly chafed against the bit. Many evenings he was asleep at his desk and gentle snores battling with the whirr of the fans. But he strove mightily, for a while. Thankfully he replaced me in the Brothers’ Cricket Competition- after my lacklustre year. With his uncanny eye he certainly could clout a ball and as a medium pace bowler he could inflict some damage.

The boss- Colgan and home

But he needed more outlets for his restless energy. After a month or two he “blew”. After school he would disappear and engage in harmless activities, visiting families (which was verboten according to the sacred RULE) playing with the kids, fishing up at Dinner Creek. Weekends became full of fun for him. The Boss didn’t know where he was or what he was up to and fretted. A top priority for him was to learn to drive. Luckily, Colin Wieland was in his class and so very soon the local Ford dealers were friends of Gil. In no time he had his licence and also the “licence” to range far and wide. He became well known in town and was a hero to the boys.

Meanwhile, I, as a sober-sided, unimaginative, unadventurous type enjoyed his escapades from a distance but toed that hard line pretty closely. Mid year his “empire” nearly came crashing down. As the sports master and coach he followed the local football very closely. This extremely wet day he went to Babinda with the team. Apparently, there was not a complement and Gil donned the Innisfail colours. Again, verboten.  Now, he was a fair footballer, but he boasted a royal lineage. His sister had married the Australian Rugby League test halfback, Clem Kennedy. In fact Gil used to wear the hero’s cast off NO 7 of the Green and Gold. Kids were sure he had played for Australia!

That night as we were munching on the stew that I had cooked, I looked across at my mate Gil and noted a certain purple welt around the eye. In a harmless question, I scored:

“Gee it must have been pretty rough up there at Babinda today Gil”.

He gave me a murderous look and kept eating. The boss didn’t seem to notice it!

Elwyn and Des on Innisfail golf course

Gil was kind to me and catapulted me into a great challenge. In fact, without him I would not have even considered the notion of getting a licence to drive. But I needed one for the coming event. My mother was flying to Innisfail as a 21^st birthday present, quite some time after the modest celebration we had. In fact, I’m not sure that we even had a birthday cake with 21 candles. Again, as part of that “monastic” culture when we shunned that wicked world, such celebrations were considered trivial by some.  But mum was coming and I was going to need a licence. Thanks to my big-hearted eldest brother, Peter, she was committed to fly those 1500 miles, a feat, that for her would rival The Southern Cross’ trans Pacific epic. In fact I still can’t believe that she would succumb to Peter’s promises, blandishments, threats to board that DC3 – or Biscuit Bomber as it was called in WW2.  A family anecdote reveals that she near perished as she crossed a low bridge at Parsley Bay in Sydney in her courting days. Dad obligingly carried her in a swoon to safety.

But there was another source of pressure- a wonderful bunch of friends, from around the Daradgee area: the Davis, Treston and Ryan families. She had met them at Mittagong when her son David and their sons had become Marist Brothers on July 2^nd. They had persuaded this lady with the paranoiac fear of heights, to respond to their invitation and fly to Innisfail.

Johnny Dowling a champ.

To prepare for the coming event, Gil took me in hand to teach me to drive. Of course, the Brothers did not own a car. One good bicycle was our sole mode of transport. But Gil was equal to the challenge. Borrowing cards seems never to have worried him. Nobody would believe me when I tell them that we rocked up to the priests’ residence and conned that gentle Irish PP to lend us his Plymouth one Saturday afternoon. We enjoyed a romp around the cane farms, popping in to his friends for tea and scones and pushing on. We did have a slight accident that needed some remedial work on those flash chrome strips on the side, but Fr. Hogan was not unduly worried. I had a second lesson, borrowing a car from our neighbour, Tom Dowling just up the street in the house which had served as our residence before we moved to slightly better accommodation.

The Dowlings were a great family. Tom himself, always impeccably dressed, was one of those old stylish proprietors of Menswear store in the main street where he would “perform” in his genial way to invite, entice customers into his shop. His wife Josey, was a wonderful mum, so kind and a beacon of  good sense and generosity. The Brothers enjoyed her scrumptious cakes. Their family boasted a Marist Brother, Tom, my vintage, who was teaching in Sydney at the time. Johnny was in our school and had three lovely sisters. Dad’s snappy little Ford Consul was more manageable than the Father Hogan’s Plymouth and I made better progress. I knew I needed more lessons to feel competent and comfortable.

That timetable was blown away when Gil stormed in one afternoon around 4 and yelled:

“Des, get ready, we’re going to get you a test drive.”

“Fair go Gil, I’m not ready yet.”

“No, you’ve got to come NOW, you won’t get another chance like this. That bugger, Sergeant Smith (a terror to both the crim and ordinary god- fearing folk) has gone to Cairns and we must grab our chance.”

I was most uncomfortable but he was unstoppable. Within ten minutes I’m in my clerical regalia and Gil is driving me to the Police Station. I felt anything but confident but climbed the stairs in this large, weather board building. I entered the reception with its counter and lots of activity from both sides. I stopped dead in my tracks; the “horror” was there.

“Yeah, what do you want?” He spoke raspingly, obviously anti-catholic and riled even more at some whippet like me dressed up in that absurd dog-collar.

“Sergeant” I said with some forced reverence and confidence, “I’d like to take a test drive for a licence.”

He glared at me.

“Right” he spat. “Constable Walsh, you over there. Give this man a thorough test. No cutting corners. Try him in all situations and make sure he passes our standard”.

Without showing it, my heart sank. I knew it was impossible but I had to go through with it. As we crossed the road to the Consul I tried to engage him in friendly fashion. No go. I felt doomed. Now, Gil had slipped into the back seat as a sort of co- pilot. Walsh didn’t object.

“OK, take it away down the street and turn left into the river parade.”

There was just the slightest jolt as we moved off. Slipped it into second and took the corner carefully enough. The engine seemed to roar and Gil kicked me in the back, surreptitiously of course. Into third and we proceed for a few hundred yards.

“Now, turn up left, up the hill and stop. I want to try you in hill starts.” I quailed. I’m not even sure we practised this in my two lessons. So, I stopped and applied the handbrake and let it idle with my foot on the clutch.

“Now, take it easy and slowly move off”.

Now, I would prefer to forget what happened over the next several minutes. In fact nightmares are made of such stuff. I certainly came to understand the term “kangarooing”. I recall Gil jumping up and down in the rear vision window and gesticulating wildly. Certainly, there was much jerking and stopping. The copper was so polite…and understanding.

“How about trying it again?”

Ernie, Ivo and Errol with Des in 2006

Eventually, we jolted up that hill. Sweat was pouring from me and my nerves were shot.

“Turn left and when we get to the shopping centre I want you to reverse park.’

This manoeuvre consists of turning into the middle of the road and then backing up. By God’s good grace there was a lull in the normal traffic and so I turned smoothly enough, but much too far. As I paused before engaging the reverse, one of our prized students, oblivious of his danger was gliding by at our rear. With a jerk I’m reversing, much too fast. With alarm, John Rothnie pedalled furiously and barely escaped demolition. We hit the kerb harder that normal. I now knew that the whole venture was wrecked.

I continued on around the corner and pulled up in front of “cop shop” again. We stepped out. Even Gil looked defeated. Then some inspiration hit me.

“Well, I didn’t do very well did I?’

“No, you didn’t Brother”. That surprised me. He must be an ex students, probably of the Christian Brothers who ran a great system of schools all over the state. I decided to plead.

“You know, my mum is coming up from Sydney and I really need that licence.”

Walshie considered for a moment, looked across to see that the Horror was not in view.

“Well, I tell you what, I’ll give you the licence but I’ve got some serious advice.

HAVE PLENTY OF PRACTICE AND KEEP RIGHT OUT OF TOWN.