I sleep in a dorm – that’s boarding school talk for dormitory – with nineteen other boys. It’s like a hospital but without the doctors and nurses. I have a single bed, two drawers and a coat hanger. The blankets look like they were left over from the Great War but my bedspread looks new. There’s a bathroom at one end of the dorm with concrete walls and floor, which I’m told, makes it easy to hose down. The communal shower has no taps, five shower heads and cold water only. There was no mention of that in the Prospectus. I can’t complain as that’s pretty much the situation at home where we have to boil the kettle every time we want hot water. Showers are in one-minute shifts with two bars of soap between five boys.
Brother Sebastian watches us from a dry distance, controlling the tap, barking orders and giving helpful advice like: ‘Under the shower – don’t be shy – don’t waste water – it’s only cold if you think it’s cold – ten seconds to go.’
At my first shower, I tried thinking hot but the water stayed cold. I hate to think what it’s going to be like here in winter. With any luck, I’ll be home by then, I thought, shivering under the cold water.
Every morning to wake us up, Brother Sebastian walks through the junior dorms ringing a loud bell and turning on the lights. The keen ones jump out of bed and are kneeling down and praying by the time he gets back.
‘Out of bed the rest of you! Get cracking!’
When he calls out the morning drill, it’s a race against time: pray, make bed, go to the dunny, get dressed, polish shoes, pack satchel, run to Mass, eat breakfast (a large bowl of cold, lumpy porridge), clear tables, wash or wipe up (see kitchen roster), assemble in the Great Hall, go to class.
Orientation on the first two days was hard work, but nothing compared to my initiation. While two senior prefects held me upside down over a dunny, another prefect with a bad breath problem yelled in my ear: ‘What are the three Rs?’ When I didn’t answer, Bad Breath yelled at me again.
I knew it was a trick question but I had to say something. ‘Reading, Riting—’ But before I could say ’Rithmetic, one of them pulled the chain and the water from the cistern flushed all around my head. I tried to scream, but swallowed water instead. I was thrashing about and kept hitting my head on the porcelain.
When the water cleared, I coughed and spluttered to the sound of: ‘Rowing, Rugby, Running!’ The problem was, I couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying until after the third flush. I can vouch for the fact that being held upside down does nothing to help your brain work any faster. I took Brother Sebastian’s advice and tried to imagine that the water was warm. That didn’t work either. When I finally managed to say, ‘Rowing, Rugby, Running,’ my torturers cheered, helping me to my feet. I was officially a St Bart’s boy.
The prefects do a lot more than initiations. They run rackets – they’re standover men who expect and take bribes. Cash, cigarettes and food are all legal tender if you want to avoid detention or six cuts of the cane for dirty shoes, crooked ties, hair parted on the wrong side, hair not parted, hat worn at the wrong angle and the list goes on. Thank God for the cakes Mum sends me in a food parcel every week because my hard-earned money would’ve been fast disappearing.
The night after my initiation, I dreamt that I was trapped underwater in a deep, dark well. I could see the wall of the well but couldn’t touch it. I kicked hard, trying to swim to the surface, but it was too far. I couldn’t reach it. I was drowning – it was terrifying. I screamed, waking up Brother Sebastian and the other boys in my dormitory, earning myself a Saturday detention.