There are so many rules to learn at St Bart’s: dorm rules, chapel rules, assembly rules, dining hall rules, uniform rules, classroom rules, house rules, library rules. On day three, I made it through most of the morning drill, but ‘most’ isn’t good enough. I got the cane for not folding my pyjamas and not making my bed to dorm standard, and then scored extra kitchen duty for being late to rostered wiping up.
Jumping on beds is forbidden (dorm rule 23), but great fun. At the end of the first week, I could run across the twenty beds in my dorm in under ten seconds, a new dorm record.
I’m not used to wearing a school uniform every day. At Glebe Public, no-one got the cane or detention for wearing the wrong colour shirt, shorts or socks. Ties were optional and blazers were unheard of. At St Bart’s, I even get the cane when my socks aren’t pulled up and folded over so their red, blue and gold stripes can be seen. There are also exceptions to some of the rules. Blazers must be worn at all times but taken off in class. We must take our hats off before entering the chapel, library, classrooms and dining hall, but keep them on in Assembly, except when saying prayers and singing hymns. And I keep forgetting to doff my hat when walking past prefects, teachers and anyone else worthy of a doff. It gets me an afternoon detention every time. At this rate, I’ll be spending more time in detention than in class.
Mealtimes aren’t much fun either. It’s not just the lousy food, but the strict rules on how to eat it. If I even think about using my fingers, the cane comes crashing down on them out of nowhere. We’re supposed to cut everything up into small pieces and chew each bit at least six times before swallowing, even mashed potato. I defy anyone to eat peas by pushing them on the back of their fork, like we’ve been told to do. Some of the meals are really bad, but the worst is boiled tripe in a yellow glue-like sauce with cabbage that’s boiled to within an inch of its life, boiled turnips or chokos (it’s impossible to tell which), and the compulsory runny mashed potato that’s slopped on the plate. I’d never appreciated the art of food presentation until I came to St Bart’s.
I stopped getting any sympathy for my broken arm after the first week, except from Brother Felix, my Arithmetic teacher. He was on my case from day one. ‘I can’t read your numbers. Is that a three or a five? Can’t you write properly? That’s wrong – that’s wrong – that’s wrong! Can’t you add up? Stop smudging ink everywhere! Your work is a disgrace!’
I tried telling him that I’m right-handed (and my right forearm is obviously broken) but he wouldn’t listen. When I tried writing with my left hand, it just wouldn’t work. It was hard writing with my right hand because the plaster is so heavy and kept getting in the way. I could’ve been plastered from head to toe and it wouldn’t have made a scrap of difference to Brother Felix. There are no excuses for any work that is less than perfect. Every Arithmetic lesson, that mongrel gives me a sixer. Like everyone else, I get to choose my preferred method of punishment: the cane or the leather strap that’s clipped to the rosary beads around his waist. I always pick the cane – no-one’s going to belt me with a leather strap ever again. If they even try, they’re going to get the same treatment I gave Dad.
The last time I got the cane from Brother Felix, I held out my left hand ready for it.
‘Bend over!’ he shouted. I bent over a bit but not far enough. He pushed my head lower, giving me a sixer on the backside. I wondered if he had second thoughts about using the cane on my hands because of my broken arm. He’s the only teacher who ever orders us to bend over to get the cane. He gets this weird look on his face, like he’s angry and enjoying it at the same time. A real sicko if you ask me. I’m not sure how much longer I can put up with being caned on the backside by a grown man, Brother or no Brother.