I’d had enough of Dad’s beltings, and not just because of the welts on my backside and legs; it was the humiliation. I could stop him hitting Mum easy enough, but when he’d give me a belting, I’d just stand there like a stunned mullet, copping it.
I’m not putting up with it anymore, I decided. I’m too old for this – I’m starting high school next week.
The day after Sergeant Bailey’s visit and my latest belting, it was like nothing had happened: no threats, no belting, nothing. At supper, Dad looked almost happy.
‘Your mother and I have been saving some of our hard-earned money and putting it into an education fund for you boys. Joe, you’re the eldest, so you get first bite of the cherry. You’re going to St Bartholomew’s – to boarding school – congratulations, son!’
Dad shook my hand and then Mum hugged me. I didn’t know what to say, I couldn’t talk. I felt like the ground was cracking and I was falling into a deep crevice. I grabbed onto the table to steady myself and in a desperate attempt to avoid screaming, I shoved a whole piece of toast in my mouth.
Then, wham! Dad hit me across the head. ‘Spit it out!’ he shouted. I spat it right in his face. He grabbed me by the hair and pulled me to my feet.
‘Stop it!’ shouted Mum. This was my moment. The time had come. I lifted my right knee up, ramming it into his groin. He fell to his knees and rolled onto the floor, holding himself with both hands. I felt like kicking him again, but it just isn’t cricket to kick someone when they’re down, particularly your own father.
‘Un … ungrate … ungrateful … little … bastard!’
‘Apologise to your father.’
‘Why should I? He almost pulled my hair out. I’m sick of him and I’m sick of his beltings.’
‘He’s your father!’
‘You always stick up for him. Why do you do that? He hits you too.’
‘We’re wasting our money on that little bastard. He can go to the public school for all I care.’
‘Fine with me,’ I said.
‘St Bart’s will straighten him out, keep him out of trouble. He’ll meet a better class of friend,’ Mum said, adding insult to injury.
‘I’m not going, and I don’t need any other friends.’
‘You’ll do as your mother says. You’ll go, alright!’ It sounded more like a threat than an educational opportunity.
‘I hate you, I hate both of you!’ I ran upstairs to the bedroom that I shared with Kit, and locked the door. Throwing myself on the bed, I started punching my pillow and kept punching it until the feathers leaked out. I felt betrayed. I expected it from that bastard, but not from Mum. I kept asking myself: Why does she want me to go? Who’s going to break up their arguments when I’m not around? Billy’s getting too old; Kit’s too young, too much of a wimp like I used to be.
‘Joe, let me in!’ It was Kit knocking on the door. My mind was racing – some kind of desperate madness was overtaking me: I can run away to Uncle George’s farm, live in one of his sheds, look after the chooks. No-one would ever find me there.
‘Mum wants to talk to you,’ Kit called out. I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer – I cried into my pillow so no-one could hear me.
‘Joe?’ It was Mum. ‘Your father and I only want what’s best for you. We’ve worked hard so that you boys can have a better start in life than we did. Please give it a go. Will you do that for me?’
My response was short, sharp and wounded: ‘No!’
I got up from my bed and banged on the door. ‘Go away!’ I shouted. I needed time alone. My mind was still racing: Why should I go away to boarding school when there’s a perfectly good high school a few blocks away? This was my home, I was born here, and so were Noni and Kit. So was Matilda, but she died nearly three years ago.
It makes me sad every time I think of her. She was only two weeks old, and never made it home from hospital. She had Kit’s blue eyes, my ears and Noni’s long fingers and toes. I’ll never forget the funeral and the little white coffin in the horse-drawn carriage. It was covered with pink and white flowers. Everyone we knew was there. They formed a guard of honour from the park on the corner all the way to the church. We cried for days until Dad told us to shut up and get on with it – whatever that means. I’ve never seen Dad cry. Whenever anyone asks me how many brothers and sisters I have, I always say ‘two sisters and one brother’, because that’s the truth.
‘Joe, open the door – it’s late – I’ve got to go to bed,’ Kit said, banging on the door. There was no point delaying the inevitable, so I got up and unlocked the door then went back to bed. ‘I don’t want you to go away,’ he said.
I was still too angry and upset to speak. ‘Goodnight, Joe.’
I pretended to be asleep. I knew that it wasn’t Kit’s fault, but he wasn’t the one being sent away to boarding school – I was.