Once upon a time, many years ago in 1947, a nine year old boy was taken away from his mummy and after that wrenched from his sister with whom he had spent all of his life. Well, that boy was Balga and on an awful day in late April, he entered the city of Perth a large town with tall buildings he had never seen before. It was a place, a maze in which he might become lost and isolated just by entering it. On that long ago Thursday afternoon he left the train at the busy station to cling tightly to his mother and sister until the constable ordered them to follow him. He led them to the Police Headquarters which was close by. There other blue uniformed men consulting papers. They continued clinging together then Balga was wrenched away. His mother and sister were left behind as he was carried to a police car.
Balga was dumb and numb. A feeling of dread held him paralysed. For some reason he thought of the great snake that lived in the Avon River. It glared at him. He thought of the Black Boy trees and one was toppled over. He felt like crying; he felt like wailing, he felt like running to his mother or sister. But he was alone and huddled there all alone.
The policeman, the driver wasn’t all that unkind. He was simply doing his job. He drove swiftly through the city streets. It didn’t take long. He began driving across a long bridge which he said aloud to himself or to the boy was “the causeway”. Beyond the “causeway” the road passed into more familiar country, the almost empty bush. Only a few houses and this cheered Balga up just a little. The driver called this “Victoria Park”. The car drove along and reached a stretch of road edged by the gloomiest trees Balga had ever seen. These were rows of pine trees planted so closely together that he knew the word for it: forest — and who knew what evil witches or ogres or jinak dwelt within. He knew the tale of Hansel and Gretel which usually made him hungry. Now it brought the tears streaming from his eyes. He yearned for the familiar scattered growths of his eucalyptus trees and the tall protective Balga warriors, the grass trees from which he had been named.
No longer numb he felt his heart sink down into his one and only pair of boots which he once had worn with pride. He touched them to feel something familiar. He moved closer to the old cardboard suitcase tied with string into which Mum had packed or rather flung his few belongings: three shirts, two pairs of short pants and his library of six books. His favourite one was A Boy’s Own Adventure Book. It came into his mind that he was on or beginning his own adventure and he felt terrible. He was so alone. He sobbed.
The pine tree rows suddenly became confined behind a low brick wall that seemed to go on for miles. Balga had been in the car for so long that he even began to enjoy the ride buoyed up with the hope that it was taking him back to his home in Shiloh. He felt that he was having one of those dreams in which he had been abandoned and would soon come awake to find his sister snuggled beside him. The vehicle slowed as the low brick wall curved into an imposing entrance. The car turned and wheeled up a long and well maintained driveway towards an imposing double-storied sandstone building. It pulled up in front of it.
‘Your home for the next eight or so years,’ the policeman driver said cheerily, ‘Clontarf Boys’ Town and don’t worry,’ he added, as he noticed Balga’s tear drenched cheeks, ‘it’s not all that bad. You get used to it. We don’t get that many calls to round up runaways, so it must be okay.’
Balga stared out at the terrifyingly strange. Automatically his head began to sink down below the level of the car’s window. He tried to hide there. The door suddenly opened to further strangeness. A big white man clad in a long black dress with his pants’ bottoms showing beneath appeared there. Balga shut his eyes in terror. It was no use. He felt a giant hand fasten on his head. He was lifted out even though he desperately clung to his suit case. He had been captured by an ogre. He shrunk to the ground beside the black clad monster. This lifted him to his feet as the car, his only hope began moving. Balga tried to run after it. He yelped like a mongrel puppy dog as that heavy hand with its great fingers settled again on his head.
The giant rumbled: ‘Well, well, welcome to St. Joseph’s,’ and then with Balga’s suitcase in one hand and the top of his head in the other, the boy was half carried through double doors into the building.
The giant turned right with the sniveling child who knew he really at the top of the bean stalk and in the giant’s lair. A large and long room better furnished than any he had ever glanced into before and as clean, as his mum would have said, as a new pin without sin. Everything shone gleaming with polish and Balga couldn’t help gasping as his eyes widened at an entire wall lined with books. He couldn’t believe that so many books could exist in the one place. His eyes clung to them; but then the hand turned his head to line up his eyes at a big armchair in which sat a really old monster. His long white face was a mass of wrinkles radiating from a pair of faded blue eyes and a caved in mouth. His hands of the same dead white colour poked forth from the sleeves of the black gown that completely covered his skeletal body. Some sort of round hat sat on top of his skull. Balga quaked before the apparition as the giant holding him up said: ‘Brother Crowley, the Principal and Superior of your new home.’
‘Please see that he’s settled in, Brother O’Doherty,’ the old ogre whispered. The trap of his mouth emitted a sigh as his faded blue eyes stared at Balga. Bony white fingers tapped on the arm of the chair. The air quivered. ‘What’s your name, boy?’ His voice sounded like the rustling of leaves or of the bark hanging from a gum tree rasping against the trunk as a breeze stirred it.
Balga was too frightened to reply. He was lost in the deep dark forest with nary a gum tree in sight and that giant still held his head in one huge hand that now tightened.
‘Answer Brother Crowley,’ rumbled the voice above him.
The only reply Balga could manage was a gulp in his sobbing.
‘No matter he’ll settle him in,’ the apparition sighed as he settled back into his chair with a rattle of bones.
Brother O’Doherty marched him away and out of another door into a space with strange low green trees growing about it. His hand fell from the boy’s head. He spoke down at Balga telling him that he must reply when spoken to and each and every brother, as the adults in black skirts were called, must be replied to with a, “sir”. With this, to give an example he called over a “sir” who he addressed as Brother Connelly. Balga shot up a glance at him. His tear filled eyes took in a watery vision of a man with short brown hair and steel framed spectacles that glinted some dangerous sign at him. ‘Settle this skinny chap in, brother,’ O’Doherty ordered Connolly and stamped off.
‘Come on Skinny,’ the brother said stressing “skinny” so that as a name it would stick with Balga for the next eight or so years he would spend in that place, ‘pick up your suitcase and follow me. Say “yes sir”. What cat got your tongue,’ and he gave the sniveling boy a tap with the stiff strap he carried in one hand. It wasn’t a hard blow still it made Balga huddle further into his self.
This didn’t suit the adult, he wanted his “sir,” and gave Balga hard whacks on his behind as he intoned. ‘You say “Yes sir. Thank you, sir” now say it.’
Balga managed a stuttering, ‘Y-y-yess, s-s-sir?’ He was frightened out of his wits and knew he had reason to be.
‘Ah, a little strapping loosens the stiffest of tongues. Fine, fine now let’s store away that suitcase. You won’t need anything from it. You will receive everything from us, thanks to the goodness of Our Mother, The Apostolic and Holy Roman Catholic Church. Yes, you belong to us now!’
A whack elicited a sodden ‘yes sir’.
Brother Connolly hitched up his gown and hurried away. Balga ran after him dragging his suitcase. He went at a diagonal across a large square of concrete. ‘The quadrangle,’ the black clad adult flung over his shoulder as he reached the end of the wing of the main building. He strode right to go to the second door along another building. The brother unlocked the door with a jangle of keys and flung open the door. Balga reached him and they went into a store room stacked with other cases. The man took the case and flung it onto a pile. It instantly blended in and Balga lost sight of his possession.
The brother gestured him outside, locked the door and took him to the first door which was unlocked. A large room filled with four rows of wooden lockers taller than he was. He stood there sniveling as Connolly said, ‘Now your locker and your number; but first I suppose you should have a shower and get into some decent clothes. You look pretty shabby and grimy to me. What do you say?’
‘Y-y-yess, s-s-sir,’ Balga pushed out through his snivels.
The adult rushed the boy in the opposite direction, across the quadrangle and past the right wing of the main building to another building which housed the laundry and clothes room. An ordinary bloke there, a big boy passed over to him a towel, woolen shorts, a shirt, a pullover and lastly a pair of sandals which were only to be worn on Sundays or special days. ‘Winter wear,’ he smiled at him. ‘Now give me those things you have on. They’ll make good polishing rags, I suppose.’
Balga had to strip down right there and then and then and there lost his pride and joy, his boots. As he took them off, his sniveling turned into sobs. They were his last possessions to go. He never saw them again.
‘Stop that nonsense,’ the monster Connolly ordered him, giving the boy a hard whack on his bare behind that started him yowling. ‘Wrap that towel about you, pick up your clothing and come after me, you skinny black thing!’
Balga was rushed away from the laundry and into the right wing of the main building. He gaped at further strangeness. He had never seen a bathroom. Now he was confronted by lines of showers and wash basins. ‘Get in that one,’ the brother ordered making his point with his strap. Balga did so and stood there not knowing what to expect. Connolly reached in and turned on a tap. Cold water gushed down and he yelped; the brother turned another knob and hot water flooded down. He yelped again. The man turned off the water. ‘Pick up that soap, that thing there stupid and give yourself a good rubdown. Sweet Jesus where have you been all your life. In the bush? The boys they send us these days. You’re dark too. They should’ve sent you to New Norcia, that’s for coloureds. Now wash off some of that blackness.’ The man turned on the water. ‘Now dry yourself, that’s what the towel is for.’
And so Balga was introduced to showering. Everything was new and terrifying. He stood there naked and shivering, but not from the cold. The brother told him to dress and to stop his sniveling.
‘Now to the locker room Skinny,’ the adult ordered.
Back across the quadrangle to the end of the other wing and the building there and into the room with the four rows of numbered lockers, they went. The brother strode down a row, expecting the child to follow.
‘Reds, Blues, Yellows and Greens. You’ll be Green 22 and don’t forget your number or your locker either. Come here you. Quickly! Stop that sniveling, Green 22. Put your towel in your locker and tomorrow we’ll get you a full set of clothing. Go on do it!’
Balga managed to do so under the brother’s glare. He had to close his locker and then they were on the move again. A siren rang. It was time for tea. The boy was taken to what the brother called the refectory. ‘After this we’ll finish off with you,’ the man all but snarled.
Balga could well believe it. “Tuck it; tuck it,’ he thought while saying, Yes, sir; thank you, sir’
And so the black boy, Balga, found himself in a place he had never known could exist. He hated it and didn’t settle down. He sobbed for the first week then as his tears dried up, he decided he wanted to go home. Everyone, the other kids and even the brothers addressed him as ‘Skinny’. He used to say that his name was Balga, but then the brothers said that it was no Christian name. He retorted that nor was Skinny and received a blow from one of the straps that all the adults carried hung over the tops of their sashes or pushed through it. Do or say one wrong thing and out it came and down it came. They put Balga to work washing the dishes after the meals. He dropped a plate and out came the strap. He had to wash dishes in scalding water. He sought to make it bearable by adding cold water and out came the strap. ‘Tuck it’ tuck it,’ he thought. He had stopped crying as his anger grew. He wanted out.
Once the nine year old boy had made up his mind on escape, his festering anger set him to carry it out. The very night of the very day of his decision, he lay in his dormitory bed waiting for the silence of deep sleep to descend on the kids. Eventually from the snores and occasional cries as well as restless twistings, he decided that the time was ripe. There were toilets at the end of the dormitory. He got up and went there as if for a piss. Except for the lighted toilet the whole of Boys’ Town was dark; but there was a full moon which would light his way. Balga went back to bed, pulled on his clothes and headed for the stairs. Down he snuck.
Outside not a soul in sight, not a light glowing and keeping to the shadows he made his way around to the locker room building. The door was unlocked. The moonlight was streaming through the large windows. He could see to go to his locker for his sandals. What else to take for the journey? From another locker he took an ex-army water bottle. He needed a blanket; but he wasn’t brave enough to return to the dorm for one. He decided that his towel would do.
He left the locker room turning away from the quadrangle and past the door of the room where they had put his case. He tried the door, but it was locked. He sat on the steps and put on his sandals even though the soles of his feet were tough; but he had to cross a paddock and there might be prickles there or even snakes. Balga ran through the field and into the scary rows of pines filled with darkness. With his heart in his mouth he raced through and jumped the low wall to crouch at the roadside. It took him a minute to get his breath and bearings. On his way to Perth the train had come through hills and so he turned in the direction of the Darling Escarpment. As he trotted towards it, a mark on it turned into a giant black face that watched him keenly. It wasn’t scary. He hoped it was guiding him home.
At last he was free. Not a single vehicle came along the road. The big face smiled at him. He skipped through a silver world vacant of the hateful white men in their black robes and their heavy straps. But, no, yes in the distance coming towards him were the twin headlamps of car. He jumped to one side of the road to hide. Shadows fled away from him as he crouched beside the low stone wall. He shut his eyes. The vehicle came to a halt. He heard doors being flung open. He heard feet coming towards him. A large hand came down on his head. He jerked like a rabbit well and truly caught.
‘Well, well, what do we have here, the skinny sniveler, eh,’ Brother O’Doherty, the white monster exclaimed sarcastically.
The adult lifted the boy up by his head. Dangling from his hand Balga was carried to the car. His eyes sprang open. It was the green Ford Zephyr of Boys’ Town. Two brothers sat in the front seat and another was in the back. He was flung into the back against him. Brother O’Doherty heaved himself in after the boy. Balga squeezed into a shivering, quivering ball of despair. His attempt had failed.
‘So where was our little wanderer off to, eh,’ O’Doherty asked as the car jerked as the gears were changed roughly.
How could Balga answer him? He had lost his voice and was senseless with dread. What would they do with him? He wanted to sob, but couldn’t. Unable to escape physically, he was building a wall around his heart. He felt nothing as the car turned through the gateway and wheeled towards his prison. What was to be was to be and he gave up the struggle and much of the right to think and feel as a free human being.
The vehicle lifted as Brother O’Doherty got his bulk out. Balga crept after him and followed into the big room with the ancient monster still sitting in the chair exactly as it had been a week ago. The faded blue eyes in that wrinkled white face radiated nothing. It muttered something, stopped, cleared its throat and murmured in a soft voice: ‘My boy, we are not here for our benefit, but for yours. God put us on this earth to ease the lot of such as you. I have helped many and I am sure that after tonight we shall have none of this seeking to evade our ministrations…’ Balga didn’t understand a word; but no answer was expected, not even a “Yes sir”.
The old man now spoke to O’Doherty in a voice as normal as the rasping of dry leaves: “I take it he was running away and not just out on a midnight stroll?’
‘He was. No need to ask him. His guilt is there in his very posture. You were running away from us, weren’t you, Skinny,’ he growled asking the boy and thus contradicting his words.
Skinny said: ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Oh, it’s “Yes sir” just like that, is it now?’
‘Brazen, already,’ Brother Crowley, the old man murmured. ‘He must be shown the error of his ways. He must be made a good boy!’
Balga watched as the old monster elevated itself from its chair and then bent to feel for something along one side of the chair. It found what it was looking for pulling forth a leather strap as ancient and as withered as its hand.
The old man winced as he tapped it on his left palm. ‘Ah, yes these things must be done,’ he said to himself and then to the boy; ‘Bend over. Hold onto the arm of the chair. Ah, that’s good. I must do this you know.’
Six blows fell weakly onto Balga’s rump. The old man did not have the force to hurt him physically only spiritually. He bent there and let what happened happen. And then it was over.
‘There, that hurts me more than it hurts you,’ the old man said breathing heavily. ‘Now what might you say to the kind brothers that are looking after you?’
Balga knew what they wanted and spoke it. ’Yes, sir, thank you, sir. I am sorry, sir, I won’t, won’t –’
‘Won’t what?’ O’Doherty snapped.
‘Won’t do it again, sir! Be a good little boy,’ Balga said attempting a sob, but managed only a gulp.
‘The correct and proper attitude,’ Brother Crowley whispered. ‘Now off with you to bed. It’s too late for little sleepy heads to be up. A good long sleep makes for good boys.’
Balga thoroughly tamed went alone back to his bed, put on his pajamas and lay there with wide open eyes staring into the darkness. The events of the last week were too much for one skinny brown lad to endure; but he had done so and, well, what happened would happen whether he willed it or not, then it wasn’t happening to a kid called Balga but to one called Skinny. A tough kid that could handle anything and any place, and he went to sleep.