Dad and I boarded the South Coast train at Central Station, stopping all stations to Bomaderry. The furthest I’d ever been on a train was out to Uncle George’s chook farm in Rooty Hill to pick up eggs. I’d never left Sydney, never been away anywhere on a holiday. Mac has been to Amsterdam, the capital of Holland. He sailed with his family on a ship to Batavia in the Dutch East Indies and then by aeroplane to Amsterdam – it’s the longest air route in the world.
The train rattled its way through the city, hissing steam and blowing clouds of smoke that wafted through the window and stung my throat. Looking out the window at all the houses, factories and shops crowded together, I thought they seemed out of place, as if they belonged somewhere else, like in England, which I’d read about in Great Expectations. On the outskirts of the city, I saw shacks and humpies where poor people lived on the sand dunes of Botany Bay, not far from where Captain Cook had landed in 1770.
Things were going from bad to worse, not the way I’d planned at all. I’d always felt like a winner, and not just on the athletics track or cricket pitch, or when I’d won the Glebe Billycart Derby. I found opportunities to make money, to make something of my life. I’d felt that the world really was my oyster. Now I felt like all I had left were the stinking empty oyster shells. Looking on the bright side, there was only one way left for me to go, and that was up.
Dad fell asleep with his head resting on the back of the train seat. He started snoring but with the noise the train made, I don’t think anyone else noticed. Sticking my hand out the window, I touched the leaves of a gum tree that brushed past, and then bumped my head on the glass trying to spot koalas up in the trees that were growing all along the track. Smoke and cinders from the engine blew in my face, stinging my eyes. I kept blinking to try and stop the burning feeling.
When we entered a long dark tunnel, I closed my eyes and imagined that I was flying in a plane to Amsterdam with Mac and Teddy. There was no-one in the cockpit so we sat down and took over the controls, flying the plane like we’d done it a hundred times before. Suddenly the cockpit started to fill with smoke and a bright light was shining in my eyes, almost blinding me. When I opened my eyes, I was relieved to see that I was on the train, but disappointed to be sitting next to Dad, who was still snoring.
As we came out of the tunnel into daylight again, the train swept around a big bend, and then everything went blue. The train was crossing a high bridge over a creek, and the blue was the Pacific Ocean that seemed to go on forever. When I squinted, I could just make out a ship on the horizon. It looked so small it must’ve been miles away. I wanted to be on that ship, sailing to Batavia, just like Mac had done.
I used to go fishing in Botany Bay with Dad and his mate, Stan. We’d go out in Stan’s dinghy, and the fish would almost jump into the boat. We never came back empty-handed. There was always plenty of bream, flathead and trevally to take home to cook for dinner and sell to the neighbours.
The train rattled on past steep cliffs on one side and beaches, fishing boats and a lighthouse on the other. I dozed off with the rocking of the train and dreamt that the reformatory was on a headland with its own lighthouse, and I was lost at sea in a small boat. I could see the light from the lighthouse, but no matter how hard I paddled, I couldn’t get any closer to it. Then a loud whistle woke me up, and I saw a sign flash past again and again: ‘Wollongong’.
We followed the coastline south, past the smoking chimney stacks and new steelworks at Port Kembla, and then headed inland through farmlands, away from a big lake and towards the mountains. As the train pulled into Dapto Station, I woke Dad up.
‘Is this our stop?’ I asked.
‘No, next one.’ Those were the first words he’d spoken to me the whole way from Central Station. ‘Why did you do it, Joe?’ he asked, clenching his fist. ‘Why did you punch that Brother in the face?’
‘I don’t know, I just did.’ How could I tell my father that another man, an ordained Brother, had touched me where he shouldn’t? Maybe I’d overreacted, maybe it was an accident, but every instinct in my body told me no, that wasn’t it at all. I don’t regret what I did. That bastard got what he deserved.
Dad and I were the only people to get off the train at Yallah. It was Sunday morning so I figured everyone must be at Church. A man in overalls was waiting outside the station, standing alongside two horses and a cart, and smoking a pipe.
‘Are ya the Rileys?’ he asked.
‘I’m Arthur Riley and this is my son, Joe.’
‘I’m Henry Lucas – caretaker, driver, butcher, farmer an’ jack-o’-all-trades at St Mary’s. I’ll look after ya son from ’ere. School’s ’bout ten miles up the road. The next train back to Sydney should be ’ere soon.’
Dad shook my hand. ‘Don’t go getting up to any mischief.’
‘I won’t.’ I didn’t say goodbye because I was still angry with him for sending me away. I climbed up onto the seat next to Henry.
‘G’day, Joe,’ he said. Henry had one of those friendly sounding voices. As soon as we turned around on the gravel roadway, the horses started trotting and Dad was nowhere in sight.
‘They know their own way home,’ Henry said. ‘I’m just ’ere to hold the reins. They hafta get a bit o’ speed so we can make it up that hill. Don’t worry, they know when to slow down.’
We rode over one hill, then another and another. I couldn’t see for the dust, which started working its way into my eyes, nose and mouth, even my ears. Bloody hell! I thought.
‘Are we nearly there?’ I asked. Henry didn’t seem to hear me over the noise of the hooves crashing on the dirt roadway, so I shouted, ‘Are we nearly there?’
‘Ya don’t hafta shout, I heard ya the first time! Ya city boys hafta learn to be patient, give people time to answer.’ I could barely see Henry through all the dust that was flying up. ‘Couple more miles,’ he shouted.
Eventually, we turned left through some gates onto a narrow dirt track, and then a sign flashed past.
‘Is this it?’ I asked.
‘Yep, St Mary’s Farm School alright. We call it the Farm.’
The horses picked up speed and started to canter, brushing past overhanging bush on both sides of the track, yellow wattle spraying all over us like confetti. We pulled up outside a large timber house with a verandah that looked like it went all the way around. I had grit in my eyes and a mouthful of dirt that I spat out as soon as I jumped down from the cart. There was a small kangaroo grazing a few yards away. I’d never seen a live kangaroo before, just dead ones alongside the train tracks near Uncle George’s chook farm. Looking up, I saw the sun shining above a tree-covered mountain that was so big it cast a shadow over the house. It was dark and mysterious, almost god-like, looming over everything. When I looked around to find the kangaroo, it was gone.