MUM SHIRL BLACK SAINT

27. BLACK SAINT AND MUM SHIRL (1975-6)

Right now, in 2010, Australian Catholics are starting to fizz and bubble at the prospect of our very first dinki-di, true-blue Aussi Saint: Mary MacKillop. I recall with pleasure getting swept up in the euphoria when 200,000 (or was it a million?) of us swarmed out to Randwick racecourse in 94-5 for a gigantic beatification ceremony. Yes, we screamed and yelled and waved flags and chanted  VIVA IL PAPA as Pope John Paul II paraded around the track in his bullet-proof Pope mobile, blessing us adulating thousands. It was a truly grand day.

It had been a long haul for Mary. Of course, she had muddied her chances in insisting on rights for her sisters.  Apart from some scurrilous talk about her being a drunkard, from some evil rivals, there was worse. You just don’t take on the hierarchy, especially in those days when bishops were absolute potentates. Being clobbered with an excommunication certainly did not look good on her CV and this proved one of the most formidable hurdles. But, in the end, there was no staying the ways and wiles of the Holy Spirit. Her impact on the Catholic scene in Australia was immense and anybody with half a brain could see she was a saint. And it’s coming to pass.

I’m grateful for the many “saints” who have touched my life. Well, for a start, there is mum- Mary. But bias would preclude her maybe. But seriously, I have been blessed in the mums and dads of students I’ve taught, the many friends who squander goodness and love on me, colleagues and acquaintances. And yes, I have lived with some wonderful, saintly Brothers who really do radiate Jesus in so many ways.

But, if pressed the name my top contender for the big SAINT I would have no hesitation in naming a woman who could stride out with Mother Teresa and the best of them. And yet, she was surely rough-as-guts, tough-as-teak, no-nonsense, straight from the shoulder AND with a heart as big as Uluru. Like Jesus she never ceased reaching up, lifting up, comforting and giving hope to the most desperately oppressed. Her name was MUM SHIRL.

For just a few weeks over Xmas in 1975 I worked as a volunteer, along with Br. John Roland with Mum Shirl and Father Ted Kennedy at their Redfern “refuge”. What a combination those two were. In our racist culture they provided a haven.

When Fr. Ted had been appointed as PP at the newly refurbished residence at Redfern he saw the huge problem confronting the community with a growing number of urban Aborigines living off the streets, comforted only by booze and drugs. With Mum Shirl he opened up his presbytery and part of the school to offer a “home” for desperate people. Each morning and evening they would provide a good hot meal and then provide lodgings in the fine old 19^th century house.

When John and I arrived there to assist there were about 40-50 for breakfast and a few more at night. In the winter these numbers swelled of course. During the day they would mostly head out around the pubs or stay drinking from a flask of cheap sherry on site. I found it all very depressing and a bit scary. There could be sudden bursts of anger and violence.  Being a white man did not win friends.

We had a short induction: some ten of us sitting around on the floor, chatting and drinking and sharing stories. Mum Shirl was really holding court. We drank in much of her wisdom. John and I were replacing a group of Jesuit novices who had finished their gig. Mostly, we were there to assist in all sorts of ways: taking people to hospital, or to Central railway, or helping with the serving of food, cleaning up and just hanging around. They were long days. But the nights were quite scary. There we were, three of us: Fr Ted, John and myself in Ted’s small room which opened out on a large carpeted (much needing cleaning!) and the door could not be locked.

 Right outside there could be a group or two, gathered around the sweet sherry flagon and boozing on. Voices snarled, yelled, whimpered and floundered on. Now and again it seemed that murder was imminent! But I did get to live with it- secure that Fr. Ted, their hero, was there. One night I woke up in fright as shouts crescendoed only metres away and hell was about to unleash. I blanched. There was no Ted or John. I quailed. Then, though this maelstrom I heard a tenuous, trembling voice- John’s. It was such a polite request.

“Would you please mind lowering your voices just a little.” I think there was a momentary pause, like a locomotive topping the rise before plunging on. I’m not even sure whether they even saw John, let alone hear this quavering request. I just know I was so glad when he came to protect me!

Later on, I proved to be a hero myself, but that can wait.

I found the best way of passing the nights was to slip down to the kitchen block where mum Shirl had a room. I prize those long chats at night. I suppose it was the first time I had a deep encounter with an Aborigine. There was so little literature even then that could help you understand the suffering and oppression that they had suffered going back so far…at least to Governor Philip who was such a “saint” with his enlightened approach. Here, in 1975  was less than ten years after the referendum when we finally accepted them as “Australians” and they were given the right to vote.

She had so many sad stories of growing up on “a mission” which was virtually a prison camp out of town- which was mostly off   limits. Sadly, the Catholic Church was part of the national culture and apart from outstanding people who rocked the boat, we followed the Government’s line and policy. And yet, Mum remained a staunch Catholic.
“I’m an MRC” – a Mad Roman Catholic” she would say.

By God’s great providence she and Fr Ted Kennedy had met, some fire had flared as their kindred spirits and hearts of deepest compassion committed themselves to this people who had lived here for 10s of 1000s of years- even before Jesus was born! They had survived but at terrible cost. Mum Shirl and Fr.Ted would be their greatest support in desperate times. What a great team they were! She told me that she often used take a pistol as back up in extreme situations. At one stage when some young, angry blacks had cornered Fr.Ted on the stair case, in the early days before they knew him, and were about to beat him up, she yelled from downstairs:

“Back off you blokes or I’ll put a bullet in you”. The message was soon learnt.

One night I was trusted with an amazing revelation. She told me that her greatest day as a Catholic was when she learnt that there was a BLACK SAINT. Surely there had been more, like the martyrs of Uganda but she’d not heard and certainly there were no pictures or statues.

“He was a south American black saint, a brother who helped poor people. His name is MARTIN DE PORRES. “

It was amazing what they meant to her.

“And I take him with me wherever I go”, she explained as she opened her handbag and showed me the little15cm plastic statue of the Dominican saint. I was most impressed, imagining it would be quite snug beside a .22 or.38 pistol !!

“But there’s more” she said. With this she opened a wardrobe. Marshalled up on one shelf I could see a whole platoon of Martins ready for service.

Now, if the Vatican would be more wise in its choice of saints, they would make more impact on the people in need. Do we need more popes, nuns, priests, celibates?  Why not more mums and dads and ordinary people to allow us better to identify with them. And why the hell isn’t Archbishop Romero a saint and martyr?

It was in one of these night sessions that I shared a few of my problems with her.  I mentioned “old Jack” who used to sit on the fence after breakfast, a real loner.

“Just watch him and never turn your back on him.”

He was a pretty nasty feller. I was watchful and tried to be courteous. But I had my revenge in some sense. I returned late in the afternoon from a sortie and as I walked into the yard there was a stoush in progress, judging from the mob gathered up the top end and yells of

 “Hit the bastard Larry” And worse. Warily I approached and my heart gave a little leap as big Larry whacked old Jack and sent him to the dirt.

 Now, I had become quite friendly with Larry, a big, light skinned man of mid thirties. I’d helped him out in a critical situation. I was aware that if he continued the bashing he could have murdered the older man. Besides both were pretty drunk. His backers were urging him on. Suddenly, I felt sorry for Jack. Compassion had struck me.  Quite resolutely I pushed into the ring and grabbed Larry by the arm- gently of course.

“Larry, I reckon you’ve proved your point. Let’s call it quits here”. Or heroic words to the same effect. Larry gave a half grin with “OK Bro”. And it was over.

But then, only the name of Fr. Ted saved me from a belting. It was Christmas Eve, and strangely it was very cold. Fr. Ted was to say an evening  Mass. After tea I went from the kitchen over to the house to grab a jumper. Lying sprawled at the entrance was a young black, drunk and out to the world. I couldn’t carry him but had to get him into the warmth. As I was dragging him in, two young “bloods” loomed up.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” came with much menace. It could have been ugly.

“I’m here helping Fr Ted and Mum Shirl” I said.

That did the trick. After some consideration they grunted something and disappeared.

 I arrived at this bizarre Mass, attended by some 20-30 people, mostly Aboriginal and mostly drunk. There was barely a clink of coin in the plate. But after it was put on the altar an very drunk woman staggered up with $5 and slurred very loudly

“And that’s for you, Fr. Ted.”

It was very different at St. Mary’s Cathedral when we buried SAINT MUM SHIRL. It was packed, with many standing outside. I was able to push in the east door and was standing quite close to Leah Purcell who sang most feelingly. Near the front was our esteemed Governor General , Sir William Deane. (John Howard, the PM was nowhere in sight)

It was a triumph for this illiterate woman who had blazed across our sky with a fierce glow to fight injustice and give hope.
                          SAINT MUM SHIRL HELP US IN THE QUEST FOR RECONCILIATION.

CLOBBERED BY CANON LAW

30. CLOBBERED BY CANON LAW (1967)

The explosive force in Fr. Bill’s rebuttal left me wasted and wordless. I still cannot quite fathom the thinking behind the outburst, which would have to be at least heretical and maybe deemed worthy of punishment by burning at the stake!! But maybe, in that twisted theology of Inquisition times, his response might have been hailed as truth faith! He certainly could not understand my disgust which connected strongly with my story going back some forty years.

We Murphy boys were blessed as we “journeyed” through our basic Marist formation at Mittagong in the 1940s. Yes, Mark, Terry and David had a hovering angel in our Aunty Sta or Sister Mary Honorine, a Josephite nun and dad’s eldest sister. Most months we’d receive a chatty, and encouraging letter in her beautiful hand-writing from distant Hilston in the west of the state. The top left hand corner was always emblazoned with. May the hearts of Jesus and Mary be praised.  Being a Sister of St. Joseph of the Sacred Heart, this made a certain sense. Their whole life was dedicated to the Lord. And of course, usually, we responded, with Mark’s fine hand writing highlighting my miserable scrawl. Later, she was moved to Port Kembla- what a culture shock- and from there was able to attend our profession in 1951. The memory of that day still embarrasses us. We had to scramble to scrounge a dinner for her which was barely basic.

(When she retired to

Mount Street

in North Sydney I went to see her a few times. Sadly, I was out of the country when this marvellous aunt died in 1969.)

It was from such a visit that I returned to Dundas in a state of righteous wrath. Her story, told in good humour, upset me. How could a priest treat her so abominably?

 Her story was set in wartime years, when the ‘imminent’ Japanese invasion caused all kinds of hysteria. Country kids from boarding schools, moved to safety west of the ranges. Harbour side schools like Marist Sisters’ at Woolwich up staked and moved to Mittagong!  (Little did we know that our future sister-in-law, Claire Donovan was just down the road)

 And those poor nuns, working out in the blazing heat of the west were told to stay put and so miss their yearly treat, a visit to Sydney for a retreat and holiday. But, the indomitable Honorine was creative and knew her little community needed some sort of break. And so she arranged that they take a holiday over at Nyngan!  Now, if you look at the map you would not be thrilled with such a “holiday” from one flyblown town to another out near the black stump. It was at leat a break and had to be better than nothing. But there was a problem. How to get there?

With all her charm and daring she approached the grumpy parish priest. Her deft touch was able to move him around to accept the proposition. But, there was a snag. Petrol. In the wartime conditions it was rationed and he did have a far- flung parish. It was too much for him. But Honorine continued to search for ways. Why not split it with the parish priest of Nyngan? Couldn’t it be arranged that Fr. O’Sullivan drive them to a half way point and then Dean Sexton deliver them to Nyngan, with a similar sharing on the return? Several phone calls were needed to seal the deal. Honorine’s concern and diplomacy won over the reluctance of TWO parish priests.

It took hours along the bush road to deliver the five nuns to the halfway point. Fr. Tim “dumped” them there and took off in a cloud of dust; mission accomplished! Maybe there was an emergency at the Dean’s end as they waited and wilted in the midday heat, in that mulga country. (I have an image from one of my favourite movies Laurence of Arabia.  There in the middle of the desert, by a well, Laurence and his Arab guide are waiting for a vital contact. Sweating in the suffocating heat, Mahomed decided to break the code of the desert in taking water from a rival tribe’s well. In the act of taking the rope, he startled and looking into the desert. There,miles and miles away is this tiniest of dust smudges, which, mirage like, sways and pulses. Suddenly, there’s the crack of a rifle and Mahomed is dead.)  Now, with the brown clad sisters there was not the same dangerous drama, but it did take a long, suffocatingly hot time before they spied the tell tale dust cloud approaching. Dean Sexton was late. But it was all to the good, as they went to stay with a welcoming family for the evening. These good Catholics were honoured to give hospitality to the sisters and the parish priest. That evening was the highlight of their Xmas holidays.

They arrived in Nyngan convent next morning and settled in. It was purgatory and worse. Heatwave conditions made it almost unbearable. But what hurt them was the almost total ignore of the Dean. There was little food, certainly no treats. They were not even given ice for the icebox to at least cool the water from the tap. And of course they did not know the people or have friends as they would have had in Hillston.

It was almost with relief that they “saddled up” to return home after those punishing weeks.  This time they had to use a utility, with Honorine in the front with the Dean and the other four on butter boxes in the back. To make matters worse, there had been a dust storm! Now, I didn’t realise that after a dust storm it becomes very cold. One of the older sisters, bouncing up and down, was suffering from arthritis and needed to come inside out of the cold. Honorine was concerned and “begged” the Dean to let Sister to join her in the front. The Dean would not budge. And so the poor sister suffered, until they reached the halfway point where Fr. Tim, thankfully could put them into his sedan.

Understandably, this story upset me and unleashed some deep anticlerical feelings! When I returned to Dundas I was enjoying some relief in a beer or two. Good old Fr Bill, our chaplain, who was good company, and treated us to trips to the football in his big Buick and even take us to his favourite sport, WRESTLING chose that unpropitious time to walk in for a yarn. I couldn’t contain myself and after some time I’m venting my anger on the way my saintly aunt was treated by these unfeeling clergy. Of course, Bill jumped to the support of his fellow priest. An argument developed. It was time to bring out my heavy artillery.

“Now, Bill, I really can’t see your point and I have to say that JESUS WOULD NOT HAVE TREATED THE SISTERS LIKE THAT”

He was more than equal to that sort of attack.

“I DON’T GIVE A BUGGER WHAT JESUS WOULD HAVE DONE.

 IT’S CANON LAW”.

MARISTS MEET ON AUSSI BATTLEFIELD.

MARISTS MEET ON AUSSI BATTLEFIELD (1992 – 2010)

Sociologists of dubious repute make the claim that Australia is the most secularised country in the world. Put in simpler terms, they are severe in their judgments on us. In fact they are asserting that we Australians are about as near to paganism as one could get. Or at least, they would claim that we are certainly not a religious people.

As a sociologist myself, I flatly reject that assessment. In fact I aver the opposite. From my perspective and observation I state with some passion that Australian (men) at least, must be among the most religious!! I can’t count the number of times when I have been in an RSL club  at night when a most impressive religious ceremony is played out. The lights dim, there is a sepulchral announcement with an immediate response from the hundreds, if not thousands of patrons. The cacophony of poker machines is stilled, billiard cues are placed on the green velvet, cutlery clatters on the tables, glasses are lowered, chairs are pushed back, and all stand quite upright and pivot towards a flickering red light. A profound silence descends. The ode is delivered over the PA, with the response

WE SHALL REMEMBER THEM.

 Then follows the heart rending notes of the Last Post. Then more silence. Briefly.

I have always been most impressed, even moved by this liturgy. I’ve also been surprised and at times, a little amused. It’s all in memory and honour of our “glorious dead” who still lie buried in some foreign field. At the multicultural Auburn with the impressive Gallipoli mosque just the other side of the railway line and a very heavy Asian component in the area, it struck me one night that there were more former enemies caught up in this ritual that true blue Aussies.

Certainly, our folklore features the Anzac story with great prominence. And, it must be admitted that we are a little peculiar in this regard- since Gallipoli was a tragic failure and even fiasco in some respects. So we do celebrate a defeat rather than a great victory. But it was in the blood and hell and horror of that failure that a national spirit was forged. As kids we clambered over old cannon in the parks, we heard the story, we saw the diggers marching. And in every little country town there is some dusty and even grand memorial commemorating the sacrifice of the community and the heartache that lived on.

Strangely, it was not till 1999 that I attended my first Dawn Service in

Martin Place

in central Sydney. What an experience that was! In the pale light, under drizzling skies, 1000s huddled in archways of the old GPO and around the simple cenotaph.  It was difficult to follow the speeches but you could almost feel the spirits wafting through and around. Rarely, have I felt such a profound and sacred silence.

As a teacher I waxed passionate and even eloquent as my lessons recalled the bravery and the price paid in the “Great War” and in WW2. Gallipoli always demanded the limelight while the fact that the price on the Western Front was much heavier and a great horror over four years.

 And so it remained until recently. I recall being most impressed when Prime Minister Paul Keating ceremoniously opened the grave of the Unknown Soldier in the War Memorial in Canberra. The soldier’s remains were recently brought, not from Gallipoli, but from an unknown battlefield in Picardy, Villers-Bretonneux. Why?  After reading the story of the Australia action there, I readily understood the reason.

In the back of my mind I filed away a wish, a dream that one day I might visit this hallowed place.

It was some years later that I got a rare opportunity. I actually was resigned that, after the grand adventure of Second Novitiate in Switzerland, in the mid eighties, with extensive sightseeing on the way, followed by a year in New York, that my number would not come up again for an overseas trip. Marvellous to relate I was selected to follow an arduous course in Rome, all in French, to start in January 1993. The invitation insisted that I would need some time in Paris to “smarten up” the French! And so I got to spend best part of two months in that magical city. That was my chance to make a sortie to the Western Front.  But I’d forgotten the name of the village! And so I visited the Australia Embassy. I was halfway through my explanation when the French lady cut in and said “ that’s Villers-Bretonneux”. I made plans.

I made an early start, leaving from Gard du Nord in the near dark. By the time I reached Amiens, this cold winter’s day shone with a clear blue sky. I was not well organised and so overspent my time, specially in the soaring, light-filled Cathedral, a masterpiece of glorious Gothic. That’s where I saw my first mention of Australian troops under a small statue of Joan of Arc. It warmed me to see we were mentioned. Much time was wasted in finding a bus station. Sadly, I knew nothing of the very efficient railway service. But the bus ride was quite fascinating as we drove through wonderful farmland that had been the scene of such hell. I was keen to catch the first glimpse of the cemetery. As we approached VB I noted a rounded hill with many decorative trees. That had to be my Holy Grail.

It was near midday when I alighted. Thinking I might have a few hours for the visit, I asked the driver when the last bus of the afternoon would be returning to Amiens.

 “One o’clock”!!  he replied.

 Surprised but unfazed I realised I would have to trust the Good Lord to provide and my own wits, and “superb” mastery of French to organise other options to get back to Paris that night.

And so I approached the sacred place in a sense of awe and reverence. I had resolved to spend several hours in “encounter” and then worry about getting back to Amiens. Also, I had been entrusted with a sacred duty by Br. John Luttrell of our community at Auburn. He wanted a photo, evidence of his uncle who had fought and died there. Surely it would be on the wall, wings that spread from the dominating tower at the highest point of the rise. There, thousands of names were inscribed.

As a pilgrim I walked in deep reflection up and down those rows of silent stone memorials. In a sense I said “g’day” to each of those diggers, mostly young and with an enormous lust for life but shattered and shot and now part of that gentle countryside. I made some discoveries:

• They weren’t all Aussies. Quite a mix of British, Canadian and a few Kiwis.
• So many stones had no names. “to an Unknown Soldier” was the inscription. In fact I learnt that more than 20% were never recovered , their remains scattered and buried under mud.
• While most had crosses that promised resurrection, there were also Stars of David..

I found it profoundly moving. All in all, some 50,000 Australians are buried on this Western Front. So much silent weeping in the south.

It was sunny and blue but cold and the hunger pangs were gnawing. Parking myself on a bench protected from a keen little breeze I unwrapped some healthy sandwiches and opened a small bottle of red. As I munched and took in the whole scene again, I let the sombre mood prevail.

It was time to record the event with my camera. I moved around to catch every angle and highlight some graves, like where a Murphy boy was buried. I climbed the tower which has commanding views over the surrounding and lush countryside. On this clear, blue day I was able to take the clearest of shots.

But I had a mission to carry out but there was a problem. Where would I find Cpl Luttrell. It was then I noticed there were a few gardeners trimming and clipping around the perimeter. I approached a likely helper and in flawless French I made my request, adding a few embellishments to get his full attention. I was less impressed by his first response as he was not fooled by that accent.

“You’re from Australia aren’t you?” That started a more relaxed conversation in English, as he was a Scot who had fallen in love with some fetching French girl, settled down and worked for the Commonwealth Graves Commission. Something moved me to reveal that I was a Marist Brother. Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather!

“Well, isn’t that a coincidence? I went to the Marist College in Dumfries”

So, there was no trouble in entering the little blockhouse where some of his mates were enjoying a smoko and yes, there in the book was the information I needed. About Cpl Luttrell and where he is buried. Well, he wasn’t buried, he was one of the “lost” ones, whose bodies were never recovered. But I did find his name on the great wall that reached out to embrace the rows of graves. I took shots that would bring John’s uncle back to Oz in some way.

By this stage, near sunset, I realised   I would have to make plans of some sort to get back to Amiens. It was a fifteen minute walk to the “bourg” of some 5,000 folk. I could see the church spire and was quite prepared to approach the “cure”, tell him a sob story of this beleaguered, abandoned missionary and so implore his help.

But then Mary, our Good Mother, intervened in a most marvellous way. It was near four and the sun was nearing the horizon when a car pulled up and a couple came walking up between the graves and then climbed the tower. It had to be my lucky day. “They must be Aussies” I thought. ”Who else would come this late in the day to visit.” I parked myself near the entrance to the tower. And listened carefully, expecting to be lifted to hear that unmistakable Aussi accent But I was taken aback to hear French. Nothing abashed I greeted them and asked if they wouldn’t mind taking a few photos with me pointing out the Luttrell name on the wall.

“Pourriez vous me prendre un photo?”

We were still chatting in French some hours later, as they drove me back to Amiens. But that was after a most remarkable chapter for this wandering Australian. I was practically embraced by the Fournier couple, who lived “la bas” in Villers Bretonneux!!! They just had to turn on the five star treatment for me. Even after near 70 years after The Australians had defended, lost and then won back their town from the Germans, there was this enormous affection and bond with Australia. So, they gave me a tour: the school and museum, built by Australians There were  streets : Rue de Melbourne, and others slightly transferred!! I found out the town was twinned with Robinvale in Victoria. ( Never heard of it!) As well, they introduced me to the Mayor, who proudly showed me the town hall panelled with Australian timber. There, proudly struck on high was the call: N’OUBBLIEZ JAMAIS LES AUSTRALIENS. Never forget the Australians. It was probably the time I felt proudest to be Australian!

Then, back to their very impressive residence for a celebration of cake and wine. It was all very stimulating. I even became a little brazen. I had noted a large aged gap in Monsieur and Madame. It must have been when Jacques has disappeared for a while that I got the story. His first wife had died and the children moved on, when he became sick and hospitalised. It was then that love blossomed anew with this attractive nurse, Collette. And

“Voila, c’est comment nous nous sommes maries”. Wonderful.

Around seven o’clock they provided a taxi service for me. What a miracle!

And so I reached Amiens to take the night train back to Paris. What a day!

But the story is not finished. I kept up a correspondence over the years, with Xmas cards and Anzac Days featuring. Then, some five years later, Collette writes to say she is touring Sydney with a group from VB and would like to link up again.  Fantastic! But the French was a little rusty and needed some brushing up. A few weeks of bashing the Berlitz cassettes again had me ready to meet Collette in Kings Cross. We found a comfortable bar and over a few drinks we shared the last few years. Later we joined the main party and enjoyed a very lively meal. I did note that Jacques was not present, but did not enquire. I was just so thankful that this added chapter had played out.

The story is still not finished. Over the years the correspondence dried up and Collette became a memory. But the flame flared in 2008. I was back in Paris on an assignment of gathering data for a movie re Marists Missionaries in Melanesia. Out of the blue came an inspiration: if you have a spare day, why not make another pilgrimage to VB? This time it was summer and it was so much easier using rail. In fact I will always be grateful to this obliging “station master” at Amiens who was just so pleasant and helpful when I ran into difficulties with a recalcitrant ticket machine. She practically put me on the train heading for VB. This time it was so much easier, except for the walking. My back was giving me trouble and so the 1 km walk to the town centre and the further 2 km to the cemetery was a challenge. It was only as I stopped to take a beer in a “pub” that I thought of the Fourniers. I approached a bunch of local men and asked if they knew of them. Frowns all around as they pondered. (Was it my antipodean French?) Then one asked ”Was he a farmer ?”

I was sure of that as he had retired back there in 92.

“Yes, I think he died some years back but his wife is still around?” my friend said.

I was delighted.

“Can you tell me where she lives?”

 No, he wasn’t sure. “Down that way” he said waving his hand vaguely.

“Many thanks mate”…I mean “Mille fois merci, mon ami!” I decided the project of meeting Collette was doomed as it was all so ad hoc.

I finished my beer and plodded the twenty minutes to the cemetery, struggling along on a grass fringe and being blasted by some heavy trucks. Again, I was awed by this sacred place as I wandered along the rows, greeting the “boys”. Again I took some photos and signed my name in the guest book with appropriate and profound comment.

Getting back to the train station was going to be painful; so I decided to be bold again. Thankfully, there was a mini bus, emblazed with BATTLEFIELD TOURS. I checked out the driver, a nice Englishman.

“Excuse me, but I’m having a bit of a problem walking back to the Station, any chance you’re going that way?”

“No problem mate, but you’ll have to ask those two ladies up there. They booked the tour.”

I can’t say how delighted I was to find they were from home, and had been WAAFs during WW2.

A little charm and blandishment did the trick. They dropped me off at the “pub” which meant only a short walk.

Now, it was on that walk that Collette slipped into my mind again. How sad would I be if I missed a heaven- sent opportunity to meet her again.

 Impossible.

But then fortune struck As I strolled back to the railway station, I saw my answer. There was a PHARMACIE  on a corner half way along to the station. Inspiration struck again.

“If anyone would know the family, especially if there was sickness, it would be the chemist” said I. Sure enough, after being referred to le patron by a pretty attendant, I struck gold. With some animation (because I was Australian) he took me outside and said

“It’s just down this street, at no 45 is where Madame Fournier lives”.

Almost breathless and a little apprehensive I walked down Rue Arsene-Obry. And there outside 45 so many memories came flooding back as I looked on this fine, stylish residence.

Would she really be there? How would she react to this surprise-shock visit? What will happen?

I walked to the door and knocked. I knocked again. Nothing.  I then noted the next door neighbours were placing a baby in the back seat casket. Obviously, they were going out. I approached them and they told me the disappointing news that Collette had gone a visiting as she always does this time each week.

  What a blow! The best I could do was to scribble a note and slip under the door, hoping she might make contact. It must have been at least a month later, when I was doing the Third Age course with some twenty very mature Brothers in Manziana outside Rome that I received a Christmas card from her. She explained about the passing of Jacques and wished me well. Reading  between  the lines I felt this was farewell and there would be no more contact. I was so thankful.

But it wasn’t quite the end of the affair. ANZAC Day 2009 there was a sudden flaring of friendship yet again.I had just arrived home at Daceyville after a strenuous walk from La Perouse to Henry’s Head.  It was quite a hot day and arriving home in a sweat I grabbed a cold beer and plonked myself in front of the TV. I was hoping to catch the last tattered ranks bringing up the rear in the annual march through Sydney. But that had finished, but I stumbled on something so much better. I was suddenly in some spectral land. It took me some time but I recognised that tower and wings. It was the dawn service coming directly from Villers-Bretonneux! I watched in utter fascination. It was only the second or third time that VB had grabbed some of the limelight. The earlier viewing of the Gallipoli service, attended by thousands, specially younger folk had claimed centre stage on the TV. Now we’d moved to France. Eerily the French and Australia flags were writhing slowly in a slight breeze. The eastern sky was tinged with red. It was not easy to gauge the crowd, huddling there in thick winter clothing. Then it became clearer that there were thousands. Little did I know that two of my friends were there, Janice and Jane. The ritual was impressive and I was impressed by the Australian MC’s  French! It came the time to lay wreaths. A long file snaked forward. As each Unit or Company was mentioned a representative moved forward to place a wreath. Again, unbeknown to me, the very first wreath laid, after the high ranking officials, was Jane’s whose uncle or grand uncle fought and died there.

I sat silent after it finished and thought “I must send a card to Collette”. With such motivation I bought an appropriate card and sent my message. But there was a hitch. I had lost the address. Rummaging around in my jumbled mind I recalled the number in the street, 45. But what was the name of the street?? I had almost given up when that good angel struck again. GOOGLE EARTH.

In a few minutes I’m on the internet and I Googled Villers Bretonneux, France. In a second there I am in a balloon over the town. Yes, there’s the cemetery and tower. I backtrack back to the Railway station. But what street is it. Suddenly, I recall the Pharmacie on the corner. I zeroed in. Yes, there it is. And following along and putting down the little yellow man I can survey the houses. Voila! I can almost knock on the door. And is that Collette watering the flowers??? The street is ARSENE OBRY!

I wonder what she thought when that card with kangaroo fluttered down from the skies.

There was no reply even after months. But that’s OK. I’m grateful for that wonderful encounter back in 1992 and the subsequent story that is all so precious.

PARADISE TO PURGATORY

25. FROM PARADISE TO PURGATORY IN PNG (1969)

I’ve never quite experienced such frustration which racked me for over two weeks in Port Moresby in August  1969. To make matters worse, it came as a shattering anti climax to a wondrous time in the paradise of the south Pacific, the magical island of Kairiru.

I recall landing in Port Moresby and feeling, for the first time in my life, an alien! The flight from Brisbane on an Electra turbo- jet was an unexpectedly dreadful. In all my flying since there has been nothing remotely like it. Extremely rough, bumpy with sudden drops and jolts and wobbles it reduced me to heaving with sickness and wishing I’d not left home. Eventually, we thumped down on the airstrip and skidded into this dry, barren- hilled, landscape. It was such a shock. Where was the jungle?

 As we clambered down the steps and walked across the tarmac the moist heat hit with a force that had me gasping. Then I noted these very dark brown attendants driving little tractors, pulling hoses and checking. I realised suddenly this was not my place and felt oddly discomforted in being a stranger.

The airport was very basic and, to me, a bit of a shambles, with so many local “meris” sitting around and tending to playing kids and wailing babies. It was such a new experience that I was momentarily stunned. Taking it all in was proving a challenge. But shortly enough I had organised an ongoing flight, on a smaller aircraft to Lae. There, my friends, the Bigham-Rolls from my Dundas days were such good hosts. Independence was still some years off and so and the local crime waves of the “rascols” had not gathered pace as yet.

The flight to Madang and onto Wewak was a treat. I reckon the best aircraft ever invented for tourists was the Fokker 28. With overhead wings, large windows, and flying at a stately 250 mph at 5,000 ft you had time to enjoy the superb views of this rich and varied country with mountains reaching 14,000 ft and a magnificent coast line. Sipping on a cold beer and looking across to Manam Island, an active volcano with a pretty plume curling lazily into the blue was a slice of heaven.

Wewak was frontier territory really. And also a fortress of the amazing missionary SVD congregation. Along the airstrip there parked a flight of Dornier aircraft, belonging to Divine Word Airways and gifts of the West German government.  Bishop Arkwright was a legend. As a self-taught pilot he could land anything, anywhere at anytime and had a stock of hair- raising stories of survival.

What thrill to be greeted by an old classmate, Br.Terry Kane!  He flashed the greatest grins alive, and was obviously revelling in this mission work and with the best tan I had seen for some time. In fact, there was a disquieting feeling that he might be “going native”!!

When cheery Tommy Kane had come sauntering into the Mittagong scene, back in 1946 we struck up an instant friendship and could claim an impressive list of escapades in some pretty care-free years. A boy from Gippsland, he was handy with tools, could handle horses well and was a tonic for a city kid like me. I recall we had been appointed to care for sports equipment and the sporting fields. On one occasion, we had to set up a fence to stop balls from rolling into the damn. At the same time we discovered a rabbit burrow which we had cleared out and adopted a few little bunnies.

We professed our vows in 1951 with a long separation after that. He went south to Melbourne and I was a Sydney man. In fact, in the intervening near twenty years we had met only twice. The second time was quite memorable. When we heard he was flying to the missions in mid 60s a bunch of his classmates went out to Mascot to meet him and give him our support. It was decades before the big terminals. In those days you could stand on the top balcony and scan the passengers as they came streaming across the tarmac to the terminal. Where was he? We expected to see a black “frocked” gent with roman collar, so easy to spot in a crowd. He must have missed the flight.

“There he is” pointed Bernie. What a delightful “shock”. Wearing a stylish panama hat, a light green shirt, cream slacks and tropic shoes he looked to be the cutting edge of mission haute couture. We were so  impressed as we scrambled around this apparition of the future.

And so we gave him our blessing (!) with a drink and best wishes, confident that he would love the adventure, not expecting he’d spend practically the rest of his working life there.

At that stage of my visit, he was teaching agriculture and involved in “farm management” and initiating a host of projects on the island of Kairiru, which was some thirty minutes passage  across the strait from the mainland in a aluminium dinghy. But first, on my arrival, he had to give me a tour of the town and the mission. A lunch at the mission HQ was an eye opener for me as I met missionaries from so many countries, lay missionaries as well and an impressive array of so much equipment.

He had good Aussi friends among the Brisbane Mercy Sisters who were running a boarding girls’ high school. Sr. Brian Coughlan was vivacious and obviously enjoying the challenge with a lively bunch of sisters. The town itself was frontier style, with Chinese stores as well as the big guns, Burns Philp with their own cargo line. And there was a  frontier style cinema.

A few days later I got my first taste of “anti white” sentiment. Or maybe it was just anti the “haves”. As we emerged after the movie Terry checked the back tyres.

“What’s the problem?” I asked.

“A favourite trick is to ram stubbies against the back wheels. They will shred your typres as you back out”.

 Lovely.

Eventually we drove out to Wom where the boat was pulled up on the beach and there is some delightful cargo to transport.  Four or five fetching lay missionaries were going over to Kairiru for holidays. I recall Austrian and an Australian. Terry would surely give them a good time. It was an exhilarating trip as the sun was setting. I was in for some great surprises. I recall that night when we attended a concert at the little minor seminary I met an ex student from Marist Parramatta, Michael Cassidy, doing his bit as a lay missionary.

But the next day was the absolute highlight. Terry had planned it all so well. It was an excursion around the island which would take most of the day. That’s when I became convinced that Kairiru had no peer in the Pacific. Not even Bali Hai from the world-beating musical, SOUTH PACIFIC could match it.

(It was some years later that I visited the island in Solomons, which was the origin of that name. It was Balalae and still sported the remains of the Japanese runway, with some aircraft still rusting away in the bush.)

My trusty camera was on hand that memorable day and I took a series of shots that still give me much pleasure as I replay the events. Key among there were

• Swimming in some pools, the water so sparkling and limpid with  filtered sunlight.
• Anchoring off the cliffs  and swimming into the dark mouth of a cave/tunnel that shafted back deeply where you could sit on a ledge and enjoy the thrill of the swell surging up and along into the near darkness.
• Victoria Bay with hot springs bubbling out of the surf.
• “Showering” under this mist- hanging waterfall spraying out of the moss rocks.
• Visiting some villages where the mums were happy to pass their piccaninny over to Br. Teri who was obviously their friend.
• More seriously, there was a Japanese eight inch naval gun emplaced at the tip of the island, guarding the entrance to the harbour. Dark stories lurked in those years before Australian troops finally rooted out a very determined enemy.

If this was mission life I was inclined to follow this “new Call” at a later date.

We arrived home in the late afternoon, surfeited with delights!! And sporting a pinker shade of skin than before. But nothing really serious, thank God. That day was certainly memorable and unrepeatable, still lingering in the memory as a jaunt into paradise.

A few days later Terry is zipping me over calm seas into Wewak town to catch the flight to Port Moresby, where I will link up with the Qantas flight to Manila for the six months course at East Asian Pastoral Institute. It was wonderful to see Terry, in his element, so alive and dynamic in his role on Kairiru. In fact, he had enculturated himself to an extraordinary degree. At one stage, with hand on the rudder and scanning the sea ahead, he saw me brush a fly away from a fresh scratch on my leg. Sharply he said

“Don’t let that red bum fly onto that scratch!”.

“Why not?” I asked somewhat surprised.

“You’ll get a tropical ulcer.”

How prophetic it proved. That little scratch was to give me grief for the frustrating weeks ahead.

It was a sad farewell at the airport. Getting a seat on the Air New Guinea Fokker was not easy. In fact it turned out to be a Mexican standoff before I made it. Despite having confirmed the flight, I was told I would have to go on the waiting list. Then it hit me. The Brothers had warned and even wagered that this would certainly happen. They knew the “funny buggers” game that could unroll as “wantoks” and friends were slipped onto the flight while others were left behind. I must admit that my aggressive side flared: I would not wilt in face of artful and devious moves. I simply would not leave the head of the queue even though I was told I must join the waiting list. The courteous attendant tried his best to dislodge me, having to make several phone calls…or was he just play acting. All the time I could feel the temperature rising behind. I also had the decency to feel a little uncomfortable acting in this high-handed colonial manner!! But how could I miss the connecting flight from Port Moresby? No way! I stood like a rock. Eventually, the official re-emerged to tell me the good news- there had been a cancellation and I would fly. Alleluia!

As a matter of fact, I could have stayed another week!

And it was many years later that our Br. Pat Howley was given similar treatment when he arrived with twenty students from Passam National High school. He had booked and confirmed months before and after given the fend off, he decided to take drastic action. He marched out onto the tarmac with his students and impounded the aircraft! Pat won.

We landed in Moresby around 1 pm to await Qantas 707 at 3.00pm It would be such a smooth manoeuvre: the Captain would bring the Philippine visa that I had not been able to collect in Sydney.

“No worry” promised the Consul. “We’ll send it up with the flight”.

It was a delightful sight to see that big bird hit and skid and trundle into the ramshackle terminal.  In an hour or two I would be winging north- west. I saw the captain emerge and chat with a few before I made my move. As it turned out, we had something in common: we both played golf at Oatlands in Dundas. But that was the only sweet part of our conversation. He had a letter from my friend, Br Ronald Perry, with explanation, but no visa.

I was shattered. What to do? Where to stay? How long would I need to wait? I had given myself a week’s grace so that I would have settled in and be ready to start to course on September 1^st.I sat down and thought of possible options. I knew the MSC missionaries were strong in Papua. They would surely be helpful. So, dragging my hefty suit case I got myself a lift into the city and knocked that the mission HQ. A very genial Fr. Adrian Meehan greeted me and welcomed me into their large house. Yes, we had a drink and discussed possibilities. In a few minutes he was calling the De La Salle Brothers at Bomana, as it would be preferable to stay there rather than this teeming centre. The Brothers were great. Yes, come on out. No problem.
“We’ll be in town tonight and so we can meet you at the cinema.”

Thus it was that I saw the BOSTON STRANGLER in good company and moved out to their top school some ten miles out of the city.

Those few days I thought I would have to wait, dragged out to two weeks when I finally decided to give  on legal channels and to push on as an illegal!

The boss, Br. Frederick was just so kind and helpful. I lived with this hard working bunch of Brothers, emerging from my room for meals and spending so much time reading books prescribed for the course. Several times, Ron called from Sydney with the same doleful news- no dice. Fred must have seen I was getting depressed as he told me I could take the car anytime to visit the city or sight see. And a few good things did happen.

First, I found the best nurse in PNG for tropical ulcers. Old Br. Lucius knew all about these damn sores. Twice a day he would tenderly treat this “volcanic” wound that had erupted. As well, he entertained me with stories, specially of his pet hobby, catching Taipan snakes, bagging up and sending south to Eric Worrel at his Reptile Park near Gosford where he milked them for anti-venin. Luce reckoned he “diddled” him. I could not believe that this Brother, armed only with a bag and a forked stick would entertain himself on Saturday afternoon, by prowling along the Lakatoi river bank, practically swarming with this deadly killer and  neatly pin them down by the head, pick them up by the tail and drop into the bag.

And then there was this extraordinary encounter with Tom Dowling after some 20 years silence.

In one of my forays to the post office- a real lifeline for a manic correspondent like myself- I was “blindsided” by a booming voice:

“Bloody hell, if it’s not Murphy!” I didn’t need to look around even. Bluff and hearty Tom had not changed, despite those 20 years and being married with two kids!!! A good six footer from North Queensland, with that friendly-pugnacious freckled face, curly brown hair and brawny hairy legs he cut quite a figure with his little boy and girl. We’d been mates at Mittagong, where he followed me in the class behind.

Then later, in my very first teaching appointment after training, I made that epic three day train journey to Innisfail. Just up the road from our residence were the Dowlings, great neighbours. Tom senior ran a classy menswear in town, lovely Mrs Dowling beamed goodwill and kindness, with a cake or two slipped over to the Brothers. The kids went to the local catholic schools with Johnny, a prize vaulting horse star, falling into my tender clutches for the fearsome public exam class, Scholarship. I will be everlastingly grateful to old Tom, as I managed to get my licence in his white Consul car.

That brief meeting resulted in a very pleasant spin-off. In my two week exile I was taken up to Sogeri, in the ranges where I enjoyed a family weekend with Tom and Celia. That helped assuage my frustration.

After a week with the Brothers I grabbed a chance to join another stranded prospect for EAPI.

Just 5-10 minutes away was the national Catholic seminary. Actually, it was a conglomeration of various training houses for Religious Orders. And so, in this boom time for local vocations there were SVDs,  MSCs, and other houses. I’d heard that another Australian was waiting the green light. It turned out to be Bill Ryan MSC and I knew him! Well, sort of. Some twenty years before, as a newly ordained priest he had spent a week or so at Mittagong where he had a lasting impact. Charismatic, he had moved us to join the Arch Confraternity of the Sacred Heart with its own special prayer book. I reckon I must have been faithful to that little red book for a decade and more. I recall telling Bill this in our first meeting and I could see he was chuffed.

And so I moved up the hill and into more salubrious conditions!!  Fr.Lahn was the rector and we quickly warmed to each other. A wise and unflurried German I enjoyed many a yarn. Little did I know then that I would spend a few days with him in Nauru on a stopover from Solomons to Philippines! There was a good library also and so I was gobbling up likely books, specially by the Catechetical star of the moment, a De La Salle professor from New York’s Manhatten college, Gabriel Moran. Still, the frustration continued and mounted as there seemed little movement in our applications. To miss the commencement of the course would be “catastrophic” for me.

One diversion was to stroll down to the Bomana Cemetery where 100s of our WW2. diggers were buried. In the cooling afternoon, I would sit under this shady Poinciana and read. Of course, I spent time strolling around and saying g’day to all those young warriors who never did go home. As a boy I followed those bitterly fought battles, along the Kokoda, at Buna, and Gona and later, Shaggy Ridge. I found the graves of  two legends, VC winners, Bruce Kingsford and John French. I even propped up my camera to take a shot of myself squatting beside the graves. One day a truly bizarre meeting between a veteran and myself left me really flummoxed. I had noticed a car pull up at the entrance and a middle-aged and very fit gent roam down among the graves.  I suspected he was a comrade.

I sidled over and introduced myself. Yes, he was a captain in the AIF and yes some of these here were his fallen mates. A strange and embarrassing conversation followed.

“By the way” said Des “I see that Bruce Kingsbury is buried over there”>

“Yes, I know. I saw him the other day.”

I was staggered and bewildered, having a vision of Captain strolling down Moresby and meeting his old mate!!!

“You mean to say, he’s still alive” I blurted.

He looked at me with some kind of pity.

“No, I visited the cemetery a few days ago”.

But really, his mates were all very alive for him.

Phone calls from Ron were dispiriting. It was into the first week of September and both Bill and I had missed the crucial start of a whole swathe of courses. Then, thank God, Ron urged me to enter the country as a tourist and from there, those wily Jesuits should be able to swing a visa. GO, GO, GO. I chatted it over with Bill Ryan, encouraging him to follow suite.

And so it was that I finally made it to this wondrous new Asian land. There was a final hiccup. As the 707 came roaring in, it apparently kicked up some stones that had to be fished out, so delaying our flight. A great stroke of luck or blessing, I found two American De La Salle Brothers who had been running courses, to great acclaim, in Sydney. And they were still hyped up after seeing HAIR in Sydney. We settled down to enjoy the trip with dinner coming up. Ah! What service! In those days, when air travel was expensive, there was a real menu and dinner was served on real crockery. And the red wines were commendable for these elite travellers.

But the fun wasn’t over. As we taxied to the Terminal in Manila, I was feeling buoyed knowing that Br.Alfred or Bernard Curtin would be there to greet me.  No Americans anywhere. Sadly, it was later that I found that cables could take a week to reach their mark in this  third world country. If PNG was a cultural shock this plunge into teeming Asia ratcheted up and up. An hour ride to Marikina Marist school would have been so pleasant. But there my chauffeurs didn’t materialise.. Again, I believe I was inspired in this predicament, having been specifically advised not to take a cab. I recalled that Australian Redemptorists ran a gigantic Novena day to Our Lady of Perpetual Succour each week. Surely, she would rescue this stranded pilgrim. The  airport staff were very helpful, finding the phone number at Baclaren and handing me a phone. I can’t recall being so relieved to hear that twangy Aussi accent.

“What will I do Fr. Roche?”

“Take a taxi, of course.”

“But I’ve been warned that they are a lot of cut throats and I could end up in some canal”.

“Rubbish. Tell them who you are and you’re our friend and all will be well.”

I was so thankful to doss down in that expansive and airy residence. Luckily, Fr. Boland had just finished the course himself and would be delighted to give a lift on the Sunday. I needed to give thanks and so walked over to this huge, huge church with its immense galleries. I was told they could cram several thousand each session, of the eight to ten session on the Wednesday. Wow! These Filipinos are a people of immense devotion! However, the gun-toting guard, sub machine guns at the ready, gave an insight into the rich-poor divide. As well, I was taken aback by the women who dragged themselves on their knees to communication. More surprises and shocks were to follow.

It was with immense relief that we drove through the extensive grounds and impressive university buildings of this Jesuit pearl of the Orient, Ateneo de Manila. I had hardly set my bags down in my room when there was a knock at the door and in breezed Paul Finnane, a Franciscan missionary from PNG who had schooled at Marist Brothers’ Darlinghurst. That was the start of wonderful friendship which has thrived over the last 40 years. God is so Good.