I couldn’t get to sleep – my mind was racing and my head was spinning. My business empire was being destroyed and I couldn’t do anything about it.
Joe and Harry’s Extra Large Farm Fresh Eggs – twenty shillings a week. Harry said: ‘No problem, easy enough to get rid o’ “Joe” from the business name – a slap o’ paint should do the trick. I’ll just hafta catch the train out to Rooty Hill by meself to pick up the eggs.’ He’s big enough and ugly enough to do that, I thought. ‘A piece o’ cake!’ he said. ‘And I get to keep all the profit.’ Good ol’ best friend, Harry.
My paper run – three shillings a week. Kit wants to take it over but he’s only ten years old. Harry’s too busy with the egg business and helping his dad with odd jobs. Not that bloody new kid from Cowra! Over my dead body!
Altar duty – two shillings a week. Not technically a business but it keeps me in cigarettes. Father Dennis said I’ll be a hard act to follow. That was the best he could come up with after three years of dedicated service?
I hadn’t even left and I was already the spare leg, the old billycart, the has-been. All that work down the drain.
That night I dreamt about a tall man in a black hooded robe and shiny black shoes who was chasing me between rows of desks and then down a long, white, deserted corridor into a classroom that only had one door, no windows, no way out. I was trapped. He got closer and closer until he was towering over me. As he raised his arm, light reflected off the long metal object he was holding. His hood fell back – he had no face! I screamed and woke myself up.
I looked across at Kit’s bed, but Kit wasn’t there. I sat up in bed in front of the open window. The leaves on the old oak tree were rustling in the cool breeze, but I was sweating. The sun was rising and burning off each cloud, one by one. It was going to be another scorcher.
I took off my pyjamas and threw them into the open suitcase on the floor. It was really happening – I was leaving home, leaving everything I’d loved and worked for. I was going away to St Bart’s – St Bartholomew’s College for Boys. My prized possessions were in that case: a cricket ball (courtesy of Don Bradman’s bat at the Sydney Cricket Ground), rosary beads (a present from Mum for my Holy Communion), three blue ribbons for athletics (first over fifty yards, three years in a row), a family photograph (I cut Dad out; he wasn’t smiling anyway) and five pounds, ten shillings and sixpence.
There was a pile of things on the end of my bed still to pack: spare shirt and socks, sandshoes, satchel, underwear, new comb and toothbrush. I threw them into the case, closed the lid and did up the metal clips. I looked at the school uniform hanging on the wardrobe door and snarled: a woollen blazer with a stupid school crest on the pocket, a blue shirt, and a red, blue and gold striped tie with another stupid crest. Laid out on the chair were grey woollen shorts and socks with more stupid red, blue and gold stripes. Polished black school shoes were under the chair, while a hat (with stupid red, blue and gold striped ribbon) was hanging on the back.
‘I can’t do this!’ I said, looking at myself in the mirror. I’d become a spectator in my own life. I was shivering. I couldn’t stand there naked all morning, someone might see me. After kicking my case around the room, I got dressed into my uniform, except for the stupid blazer and tie.
‘Breakfast is ready!’ called Mum.
Suddenly Kit ran in, spear-tackling me. ‘Rumble time!’ he shouted.
I fell, broken-arm-first onto the floor. ‘Idiot!’
‘Come on, one more wrestle before you go!’
Grabbing onto each other, we rolled from side to side on the floor, both trying to get the upper hand. The little monkey was getting stronger. Finally, he forced his way on top of me, almost in control, when I took a deep breath and, with every ounce of strength I had, pushed him off, pinning him down. I wasn’t about to lose a wrestle with my little brother.
Looking him in the eyes, I thought: God, I’m going to miss you! I let him go and called it a tie then ran downstairs with Kit right on my tail.
Mum was in a flap. She wasn’t making much sense. ‘How will they know you like your bacon soft or your sausages crisp or your eggs well done? Maybe there are no eggs? It’s the Depression, after all …’ Mum rambled on and on, and at the same time managed to pack a string bag with enough biscuits, cakes and fruit to feed the whole family for a week. Food was the least of my worries but I knew I’d never win that argument.
Dad shook hands with me at the front door. ‘Goodbye son. Do us proud.’ That was it from Dad. Kit and I had a secret handshake that ended with a big bear hug and growl. Noni kissed me on the cheek and messed up my hair. I was going to miss them all, maybe even Dad eventually.