Mum talked all the way to the tram stop but when we finally got on the tram she went quiet. I looked out the window as we rattled along Glebe Point Road past the post office, Donato’s fish shop, the general store, Uncle Les and Aunt Lil’s greengrocers, Mr Thompson’s paper shop and four pubs, stopping every couple of blocks to drop off and pick up passengers. We turned left onto Parramatta Road where the abbey used to be before it was moved stone by stone to Bridge Road a few years ago. The tram picked up speed as it headed downhill onto Broadway, stopping at Grace Bros and then Railway Square, where a lot of people were queued outside one of the buildings.
‘They’re all out of work,’ said Mum, ‘waiting to collect their susso – you know, relief money and food, just like we had to for a little while. Remember when I picked up those vouchers from the booths at Circular Quay and then walked all the way down here? Nearly two miles – makes no sense. You can’t afford tram fares when you’re on susso. Most of those poor sods would’ve had to walk from home in the first place.’
It felt strange sitting on a tram in my private school uniform watching poor, unemployed people queuing to pick up food and money to stay alive.
The tram took off again down George Street, past more shops (some of them boarded up), a theatre, pubs on nearly every corner, Anthony Hordern’s department store, up to Woolworths, the Town Hall, the Queen Victoria Building and more boarded-up buildings and closed banks, and then past the GPO and Martin Place until we arrived at the Circular Quay ferry terminal.
We caught a ferry that went under the Harbour Bridge. They started building the bridge when I was eight years old. It still wasn’t finished, just the big arch. There’s going to be a roadway, railway tracks and footpaths all hanging from the arch. It’ll be one of the wonders of the world.
The ferry chugged past a long row of wharves and ships being loaded and unloaded. Mum pulled a booklet out of her bag and started reading it. I looked over her shoulder – ‘Prospectus’ – whatever that means. It was all about St Bart’s: ‘Catholic boys only will be accepted. Preference will be given to boys with academic and/or athletic ability. Donations gratefully accepted.’ There’s no way that Mum and Dad would’ve made a donation to the school. That left two out of four. St Bart’s must be desperate, I thought.
When we arrived, I felt like I was walking the plank off the ferry, about to jump into deep water and left to drown. There was no-one waiting to get on, and Mum and I were the only ones to get off. Water splashed up through the holes in the rotting timber wharf as the ferry took off again. We followed a stone wall all the way up a steep hill. The sun was getting higher and hotter. ‘I’ve got blisters, I hate these shoes!’ I said, kicking the stone wall.
‘Stop that! Look what you’ve done to your new shoes,’ Mum whispered, looking embarrassed. I’d scuffed the leather on the toes and my blisters were hurting even more. She looked really hot and bothered but kept walking. The stone wall seemed to be going on forever until I saw two enormous sandstone pillars at the front gates. As I stopped to read the sign, Mum grabbed my arm and pulled me inside. We were late.
We joined a crowd of people waiting on a large circle of lawn. I suddenly felt like a small fish in a big pond. The loud hum of voices went quiet as soon as a tall man wearing a long black robe and a ridiculous hat tapped on a microphone, making it screech. That’s him – that’s the man from my dream! I said to myself. He stood proudly behind a lectern that was set up on the verandah between sandstone columns.
‘Good morning parents, teachers and students. Welcome to St Bartholomew’s College. I am Monsignor Reynolds, the head of this esteemed college for Catholic boys. We are embarking on a journey together in which we will instil strong Catholic beliefs and principles by which all men can live, whatever their chosen path in life. This morning’s proceedings will commence with Mass in the school chapel followed by morning tea on the lawn around our magnificent rose garden. All boys are expected to help in serving tea to their parents and other special guests. At twelve o’clock, students will bid their farewells then assemble outside the Great Hall. Brother Felix will now lead us to Mass.’
We all squeezed inside a chapel about half the size of St James’s at Glebe. I watched with a critical eye as four senior boys assisted on the altar. They were not as good as I’d expected: a little stiff and a bit too solemn. Amateurs. Boring! I looked around the chapel – no donation boxes that I could see.
After I helped serve morning tea in the rose garden, it was time for Mum and the other parents to leave. ‘Goodbye, Joe. I’ll miss you,’ she said, her lip trembling.
‘I’ll miss you too.’
‘Before you know it, you’ll be back home for the holidays,’ she said, sniffing and wiping away the tears rolling down her cheeks with the hanky she’d been clutching. ‘Do you have your rosary beads?’
‘They’re right here,’ I said, putting my hand over my heart and blazer pocket. Then I gave Mum a big hug, but forgot about my broken arm. I almost knocked her over with my plaster cast. My eyes started to water and my throat felt dry.
‘That sun is really bright,’ I said, rubbing my eyes. Mum smiled at my pathetic excuse and squeezed my hand. I tried hard to be strong. My tears were trapped inside for a more private time.