DRIFTWOOD ON BONDI BEACH

I can’t remember my baptism. But I’m sure that as that group of proud Murphies gathered around that font at the glorious church of Mary Immaculate church in Waverly, the clouds parted and a voice from on high shone down with “This is my beloved son, Terry and I have high hopes for this boy”. Apparently nobody heard but me. But my memory of this earth shattering event is very dim.

Oh, but I do remember my First Holy Communion at the newly built, prize-winning church of  Saint Anne’s of Bondi Beach. That was a H U G E event.  For at least a month in the preparation you were the favourite son of the family. Now, while we were an egalitarian family, with no favourites, muscle and age difference did play a part, with Peter cock of the walk and Mark the darling with those “damn stunning blue eyes” , I was a bit of a discard type with sort of greeny-brown, nondescript eyes and with a strange tuft of hair which stood up embarrassingly to evoke negative comments even from the priest baptising my youngest brother. But, at this time of blessing, I was the anointed one. Mum, a skilled seamstress would be whirring and humming away on the peddled Singer as she “ran up” those classy brown short “duds” and the fawn shirt which was made to my specifications!! In fact I persuaded her that I needed TWO button down pockets. I reckon I must have been the best dressed of the score or so boys.

At the faith level, it was much more serious. First Confession and First Communion were great landmarks on our life’s journey as Catholics. Sister took her role very seriously. She drilled us in the Catechism, so that, parrot-like we could respond instantly to the question. Understanding what grace and mortal sin was a little more difficult to grasp though I was sure I could own both. The practical skills were not overlooked either. Our first encounter with a possibly angry God in the box where Father was the arbiter of life or death, was an awesome affair. You certainly had to know the Act of Contrition and be really, really sorry. But the main concern was to have a respectable list of sins that would merit a respectable penance. And so we each tallied up a range of venial sins and who knows, a mortal or two. Disobeying parents, telling lies, being unkind, getting angry were the main fodder. We might have been a bit young for impure thoughts, or worse, touchings……horror.

I can’t recall any special trauma as Fr. O’Sullivan shrove me. Maybe he even smiled a little. But the BIG DAY of First Communion was very different with some unexpected drama. It was a hot day and for seven year old kids to fast from mid night, no drinking or eating was a big demand. Mass was at 9 o’clock and so little Jimmy O’Toole couldn’t quite cope with his first experience of dying from thirst. Very covertly, he snuck over to the bubblers and sipped. Some little snitch of a girl- they were always ‘crawling’ to Sister and were born dobbers spilt the beans. There was a whirr of black as Sister sizzled across the yard and snatched up poor Jimmy. I seem to recall that there was some mercy shown and the snivelling child was no “excommunicated”. But I could be wrong.

The packed church with proud and expectant parents craning to see their little treasures process down the aisle to take the front seats seemed unusually alive and so stuffy. This was 1940 and the range of hats was impressive. We sang some pretty hymns in an otherwise dirge of a Mass- with Father all alone up front there and talking to the wall in some strange language. His sermon would surely have been memorable for its emphasis on the importance of this day, but with an extra appeal to be “generous with the plate”, knowing that he would not be seeing some of his congregation until at least the next First Communion in the family. Then came the BIG  moment, receiving Jesus, body, blood, soul and divinity in Communion. There was certainly awe and we kids were caught up in the holiness of the moment. But alas, again, there was some drama. Despite Sister’s most efficacious training there was a bad mistake. It seems (and I’m not prepared to be utterly honest here) one boy’s tongue was not thrust out fully, or was he a little nervous? But disaster struck as the sacred host slipped to the floor! Bedlam, Mayhem, panic! Damage control. Sister had to rush off to bring a bowl and towel. Father had to rectify the situation before proceeding. Now I can recall watching this in a certain horror. Was it I who failed so badly? I really can’t answer the question. But a quote I just came across would throw some light:

The reason says, ‘ I couldn’t have committed that act’.

The heart says ‘ I really know it was me.’

After all our fervent little prayers we went to the school playground to be engulfed by our parents and relatives. It was chaos until Sister took control and ushered us into these long tables, stacked with such attractive food- gifts of the mums. It was a grand feast. But I knew there was something not quite right about all this, and I know it took away my appetite as I watched other greedy boys and girls tuck in. Where were the parents? They were kept well away!! In this sort of controlled splendour I could see mum at the window and was so disappointed. Her cakes were the best too!

Like some prize poddy calf I was then paraded around. The highlight was a visit to pop and nanna Murphy whom we rarely saw but who lived close by. Sadly mum’s parents lived way out west and we had no car. How we got to the Murphs at Waverly I’m not sure. Maybe uncle Peter lent his car. But this visit was significant. Oohs and aahs from an Irish grand mother, ( ‘a real saint’, I was told many years later) and being wrapped up and kissed was an unusual and not pleasant experience. But pop ‘came to the party’, drawing a gleaming coin from his vest, resplendent with god watch and chain, and presenting me with the shiniest florin (two shillings) that I could ever wish to possess. That two bob was the crowning glory of MY day.

The next time I got undivided attention was for all the wrong reasons. I fell off dad’s motorbike and broke my arm. It’s not as dramatic as it sounds. Dad wasn’t zooming down

Blair Street

with Terry hanging on. The bike was parked in our front yard at 65 Beach road, Bondi Beach and I was clowning around. I had climbed aboard and was standing upright on the seat when it overbalanced and I toppled over with it. I landed heavily on my right …or was it my left…arm? I was in pain and sneaked into the bed room to hide under the blankets. There had been no witnesses but the perpetrator would soon be revealed as I was not able to stand up dad’s pride and joy, a Coventry Eagle of modest horse power. The pain was searing and I was whimpering under the blanket when I heard “Where’s Terry?” Shortly, dad appeared at the door and saw me cowering and all so contrite and in obvious pain. If he had planned to bring out the strap, his intention soon disappeared as he obviously felt very sorry for his silly son, and besides there was no real damage done to the bike.

Next day mum took me to Saint Vincent’s hospital at Darlinghurst. It was all pretty scary as I was going to have “an operation” and I was very anxious. Mum sat with me in the park, opposite this famous hospital which would feature several time in my life, to repair some of my self inflicted wounds. The operation was all a blur. I just recall returning home in splints. No doubt a green stick fracture.

I had to return on a few occasions for check ups. I convinced mum that I knew the way and I’d be ok on the bus to Taylor’s Square and could walk down. With all her other concerns she was happy enough to let this 7-8 year old take the bus and get himself down to St. V’s. I had one frightening moment in this taste of trust and freedom. I had sauntered up

Victoria St.

and was gazing over at the splendid courthouse with gaol attached, not realising that some famous murderers had taken the drop there over the decades. I must have looked a little uncertain or lost. Suddenly this scraggy old man grabbed me by the arm and said

“I’ll help you sonny boy if you’re lost.” In a panic I wrenched myself away and went scampering down Oxford St. I must have been half way to Bondi before I jumped on a bus, looking back now and again to see if this old codger (pedophile??) was following me.

Mum, like all mums at the time, allowed their kids plenty of room to roam. In those everlasting summer days the beach was our world. That famous slice of  white sand with ‘serried’ ranks of mounting waves marshalling out there in the blue Pacific to launch with rising force and thrill to break and tumble towards the beach never ceased to fascinate a small boy. Soon enough Mark and Peter had mastered swimming and could crack a wave. I was slower. We must have been there on “Black Sunday’ on 6^th February 1838 when over 30,000 packed the beach. Around 2pm, with 1000s in the surf and with strong waves pounding with great backlash, one of the sandbanks collapsed. There was panic and soon hundreds were in trouble. Some 250 were rescued by gallant life- savers, some 35 were unconscious and needed resuscitation. Five did not make it. I simply can’t recall the event.

One unusual event stayed in my mind and maybe sowed the seed that resulted in my passion for story. As I was straggling back home I noted a bunch of kids on the green park lawn by the pavilion. Why weren’t they down enjoying themselves on the beach? This looked suspiciously like some class with a teacher our front and a sort of blackboard. Whatever it was, they were quite oblivious to the low thunder of breakers inviting them to some action. I approached and lurked at the back, now inquisitive. Soon enough I was roped in too. This young ‘teacher’ was telling a marvellous story and was illustrating it quite expertly with some simple sketches. After a while I heard the word ‘Bible’. That alerted me to some danger. Of course, I had been warned about such a dangerous word. Apparently, it belonged to our ‘enemy’, with a vague name of ‘proddies’. I’d better be careful here. But the story was too good to wrench myself away. So, I stayed. It was some years before I realised that this was the most powerful story that Jesus told to shock us into getting some glimpse of the overwhelming love of the Father. At school, we had Bible History with some good stories and appealing pictures. The story of ‘The Prodigal Son’ was surely there, but it certainly did not have the impact of ‘my’ storyteller at Bondi Beach.

In our quest for an extra penny, we resorted to an early form of capitalism. With those 1000s and 1000s of visitors during the summer, there were always plenty of soft drink bottles, especially Marchants and Shelleys to gather. We would scour, trawl the beach, with a polite

“Can I have that bottle mister?”

Generally our winning ways and cheeky smiles would score. There were no clear lines of demarcation but you certainly were wary of some of the bigger kids who could muscle in and grab your loot.

One day we struck it really rich. There had been a tremendous storm. Over a day or so, mountainous waves had pounded the beach churning it up. As we boys roved along the shattered shoreline, with so much detritus spread around, Peter bent over, held up a shiny coin and yelled

“Hey, look at this.”

We clustered around to see a very, very old coin gleaming. That started a search up and down the beach with the occasional whoop as we found a possible treasure from that ravaged beach. In all we must have gathered a dozen and more. Some were from the previous century. One or two were about a hundred years old. We showed to mum and dad and they were encouraging enough but didn’t rave over the find. Finally, we found there was a man up at Bondi Junction who dealt in old coins. The great dreams of fortune evaporated as he casually ran them through his fingers, totally unimpressed. Finally, he offered us one shilling and sixpence or thereabouts. It was only later, when I read of Fagin and Simon Marner that it struck me that he probably diddled us and is still living in Cote D’Azur on our plunder!!

Another person who put the wind up us was Bondi Mary. We were generally quite scared of this strange apparition who would also trawl along the promenade, delving into garbage bins and filling up an assortment of chaff bags she had hanging off some kind of old pram. She was definitely an eccentric. She was dressed like some walking garbage bin of caste off clothing herself. The main accoutrement was a greasy old overcoat that reached to here ankles. Under that she seemed to have endless layers of dresses and the like. On top of that straggly head of hair was an old felt hat.  But it was her race that scared us. She had sprouted hair and it looked revolting. Generally, we high tailed it if we saw her approaching. She certainly had the best beach views, as she lived in a shack of old sheets of galvanised iron, bags and cardboard in a nook on Ben Buckler. In retrospect I admire the Waverly council which must have had so many complaints about this verminous old woman. Others might have had her locked up in a “lunatic asylum’ where many such people lived out their days. Bravo Waverly.

Just the other day,(2010) Mark and I took the ferry to Manly. We’d done this 1000 times, but each time new fish gleam in the net of memories as various sites stirred us.

“Do you remember when we kids, I think I was 5 or 6, walked all the way from Bondi Beach to Nielson’s Park?”

He couldn’t remember. I tried to jog his memory by adding that it was Peter, our dare-devil big brother who took us on this adventure.

“The main reason I remember is I saw the greatest moving mass, sliding down the harbour. It was an immense, white ocean liner. I had no concept that anything so big could move. I think it was the Strath aver”.

He remembered then.

“Yes, I can remember that, flying down the hill, hurtling down Old South Head road, storming through

Six Ways

. I wrecked my finger trying to stop us by putting it under the wheel.”

Thank God there were so few cars around those days. And mum and dad never knew anything about it. We certainly were on a long leash.

It was Mark, sadly, who abandoned me and gave me my first experience of being truly lost.

It was a gala occasion. The new KINGS cinema was to open with a showing of a stupendous Walt Disney movie- JUMBO. We must have pestered mum nearly to death. Soft hearted as always she relented. She gave ‘Marky’ a whole shilling which would pay for him and me, Terry. “And don’t let him wander off. Hold him by the hand, and Terry, keep close to Mark”.

When we arrived the cinema was under siege. There must have been 1000 clamouring, screaming, seething kids, all determined to get a ticket and get inside. In the mad scramble I let go Mark’s hand. I was suddenly in some maelstrom and being carried away to the periphery. I was aghast at being abandoned. I burst into tears. Blubbering away for some time, I was unaware of the continuing drama around me. Quite gently, a hand was placed on my shoulder. Through my tears I saw this “old man”. He was so kind.

“Now, sonny, don’t cry, we can fix this. What’s happened?”

In tear stained words I told of my brother’s abandonment.

“Well, it looks like the picture has started. Where do you live? I’ll take you back to mum”.

And so I arrived home in my despair. And I never did forgive my brother.

It was truly a seismic shift when I left the clutches of the Sisters of Mercy, where a certain Sister Brigid seemed to hover like an ever present storm cloud to me and I stepped across the threshold to the Marist Brothers’ school. Unusually, in fact I’m about the only one I know of, who was taught by the Brothers in Year 2. Apparently the numbers had outstripped the classrooms available and I found myself with some 30 others crammed into a car garage! I feel blessed that we had a certain Br. Fulgentius as our class master. In our little Siberia, ostracised from the main school we were kindly treated by this rubbery faced, bobbing Adam’s apple, keen and kindly teacher. Later, I found his nickname was ‘Grock” after a famous Russian clown, and it seemed to fit him to a tee. I was not an outstanding pupil. In fact I was told

“You were the worst writer I even taught!”

But nevertheless, for some obscure reason I seemed to be Fulge’s pet! IN the class photo of the time, not all that clear, I’m the little snowy haired kid up the back. Appealing in a sort of way. But it was a family relationship that might account for my favoured status. Dad’s eldest brother, George, after his WW1 experience had returned home and wandered around disorientated for some time before he met the Marist Brothers. He was a waiter working at St. Joseph’s college and was attracted by these young Brothers. He had found his star and hitched his wagon to it. From all accounts he was a winning man, with a great sense of fun, very artistic, an excellent teacher who excelled in May Altars and producing superb concert items. Sadly, he died only six months after I hit the planet. But, Fulge must have known and liked him. I profited by their friendship and could prove it by the cracked glassed picture of the sorrowing Mother of Jesus that was a centrepiece on my “altar” for many years.

I never did see much of the other Brothers, I saw them dismount from the trams in the morning and walk to school, having come from a larger community at Bondi Junction. (It took that ‘mean’ Fr. O’Sullivan some years before he purchased them a simple and most impractical bungalow just down the street. The first principal was Br. Nilus, a pallid and near transparent, mystic type who launched the school with the strangest school uniform of any in the city. I sometimes wonder where did he ever get the idea from. I expect he wanted it to be different so that ‘his’ school would cut a different profile. And so we dressed in brown trousers, brown suit coat and a fawn shirt and a brown tie with purples and gold slashes. It certainly was eye appealing.  With that exceptional skill that Australians revel in, we were dubbed ‘chokos’. That same Br. Nilus astounded me years later when I met him at an athletics carnival of Marist schools at Concord. Of course, Mark and Peter were representing Eastwood, a rising power in the sports arena. I was skulking around when I bumped into this rather distant Brother.

“Hullo, it’s Terry Murphy isn’t it?”

Many, many years later, I returned with my younger brother, Denis. Sadly, the old house no 65 has been obliterated by progress. But we had a certain consolation. The REX hotel offered certain opportunities for a “wake” and “bringing closure”. We were able to pace out where our front door would have been.

“Here we go Den. I reckon this would have been our lounge room.”

It was all so “congruent”. We were in the lounge of the pub and here we imbibed, brimming with memories.