Who knocks on your front door at six o’clock on a Saturday morning? Too early for Dad’s punters, I thought. I stuck my head out the bedroom window but couldn’t hear anything. Kit was lying across from me in his bed, sound asleep.
‘Mum, Dad, there’s a priest here to see you!’ There was no mistaking Noni’s voice – even the neighbours can hear her when she shouts up the stairs.
Please God, let it be Father Dennis at the front door, I prayed. I’m all for praying – I need all the help I can get.
I saw Mum run past my bedroom door in her dressing gown. I followed her halfway down the stairs, stopping when I heard a familiar voice:
‘Good morning, Mrs Riley. Sorry to bother you at this hour of the morning. Joseph went missing from St Bartholomew’s late yesterday. I believe he may have come home.’
The game’s up.
‘What’s going on?’ Dad called out from the top of the stairs. I wanted to run, but couldn’t decide which direction was best. With Dad behind me and the Monsignor blocking my way to the front door, running away wasn’t an option. A voice inside me said: Be a man – stand your ground and fight – no plaster cast to hold you back anymore. But who was I kidding? I didn’t stand a chance. I decided to hide in my bedroom until I could think things through. I turned around and ran upstairs as fast as I could.
‘Where are you going?’ Dad asked as I ran past him and into my bedroom, locking the door. I thought about jumping out the window but the twenty-foot drop onto the garden path wasn’t a good idea. I’d get more than a broken arm for my trouble and I wasn’t about to get any more plaster on my body if I could help it.
‘What are you doing?’ Kit asked sleepily, rubbing his eyes.
‘I’ve got to go back to St Bart’s.’
‘That’s not fair!’ Kit cried out, pulling the covers up over his head.
I threw my school clothes onto the floor, kicking them around the room, planning my attack. ‘Rumble time!’ I shouted, jumping on Kit’s bed and tickling him. When he tried to push me off, I grabbed onto him then we fell on the floor, wrestling and laughing. I soon got the upper hand, but when I looked in his eyes, I didn’t feel like a winner. I got dressed slowly into my school uniform.
As soon as I walked into the lounge room, Dad slapped me across the face. ‘You’ve put the Monsignor to a lot of trouble, and you’ve lied to us again. What have you got to say for yourself ?’
The Monsignor stepped in between Dad and me. ‘This is a school matter, Mr Riley, and I will deal with Joseph personally back at St Bartholomew’s. Sorry to trouble you. We must get back in time for Mass.’
Mum was crying. ‘Is anything the matter, Joe? Is there something you’re not telling us?’
‘He hasn’t told the truth – that’s what he hasn’t told us!’ Dad was so angry, he was shaking.
Maybe going back to St Bart’s is the best option after all, I thought.
Monsignor Reynolds cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Riley, trying to make excuses for Joseph’s selfish actions will only prolong the problem. He needs discipline – the kind of discipline that we know best how to provide at St Bartholomew’s.’
Dad was nodding but didn’t look like he was agreeing with what the Monsignor was saying.
‘What discipline? He must’ve just walked out the school gate! With the school fees I’m paying, I expect you to look after my son properly and not let him roam the streets of Sydney at all hours of the day and night. Anything could’ve happened to him.’ Dad always likes to have the last word.
After we said our goodbyes, I followed the Monsignor into the front seat of his car, a 1928 Ford Model A Rumble Seat Roadster. It goes up to sixty-five miles an hour, twenty more than the Model T, and purrs like a kitten. We could’ve just as easily caught the tram and ferry like Mum and I did, but I was glad we didn’t. It was magic sitting in the front seat, looking out the window and watching shops being opened, windows cleaned and footpaths hosed down, ready for the day’s business. The trams were almost empty – the city was still coming to life. Ours was the only car going west across the Iron Cove Bridge. There was more action in the water, with ferries and fishing boats coming and going in all directions. I wound down the window for a better look. The smoky breeze filled my lungs as we sped up Victoria Road towards St Bart’s. Monsignor Reynolds concentrated on driving and didn’t speak to me the whole way there.
After all that talk about discipline, I got off lightly: six cuts of the cane on each hand, then off to confession to repent my sins. My penance – two lousy rosaries. Twenty Our Fathers and a hundred Hail Marys later, I was a new man. Not bad for a night back home with the family and a ride in one of the best cars you can buy. Well worth the trouble, whichever way I looked at it.