CHAPTER 31

Tocumwal Playground

Returning to West Brunswick from Cressy was a relief from loneliness. It was beaut having my mate Laurie back to play with and we resumed our adventures that revolved around my billycart. However, I had barely been assigned my new school desk when Dad was posted to Tocumwal as the new commanding officer.

Now this was something. ‘Toc’, as it was called, was an adventure playground with row after row of B-24 Liberator bombers, fighter and trainer planes and Jeeps. Our new home was the former 200-bed base hospital across the road from a huge cinema where my dad occasionally projected films. There were less than 20 air force men when we arrived, all preparing to be discharged.

Dad had a flash khaki staff car with numbers down either side of the bonnet. It was a big American Dodge De Soto with automatic gears and had the words ‘Fluid Drive’ written on the rear bumper bar. Mum was in seventh heaven; she would have the driver park it in the shade outside the Tocumwal Hotel across the road from the general store where she ran an account as the CO’s wife. She considered this her reward for her wartime suffering.

Mrs Geddes always looked so smart dressed to the nines in a new sun frock and gloves, comfortably seated on the shady hotel verandah with a frosty glass of ale. After an hour or so, her lady-like demeanour would slip somewhat and she would be observed as not being so hoity-toity after all. The locals decided she was a bit of a wag and a good scout who certainly enjoyed a drink, which was a polite way of saying she was a ‘pisspot’.

At Tocumwal I met the nuns. I was sent to school at the convent when there was a perfectly good state school just down the road. Dad was back under the influence of his mother, who had wanted to know why I was not being brought up a Catholic. This was talk between the grown-ups which I only pieced together later. I didn’t even know I was a Catholic and was totally awed by the nuns in their big long dresses they called habits, their veiled heads, white starched bibs and rosary beads. I learned to bless myself and stand for the Angelus when the bell tolled at noon. I learned prayers called Our Father and Hail Mary. After a long war hearing about Heil Hitler, now it was Hail Mary. Were they related, I wondered? Dad had stopped attending mass during the war and I’d never been inside a church.

There were Aboriginal kids at the convent and our scary nun, Sister Agnes, sat them together in the front row, and because I was a little kid, I sat immediately behind them. There was a big picture of Jesus over the blackboard. In the middle of his chest, you could see his heart and it was on fire. I don’t know why, but he had a beard. Everything was a bit strange.

It was nesting season and I used to ride my bike the couple of miles from home to the convent keeping a sharp lookout for magpies. The first time I was swooped I was frightened out of my wits. One minute I’m just a little kid struggling along riding an adult’s bike 2 miles to school when there’s a terrible swishing of wings around my head and I’m pecked on the back of my neck. I fell off the bike which I still had to ride with my leg under the bar. The maggie attacked me again and I was terrified. It wouldn’t go away. Finally, I took my leather school bag off my shoulders and swung it at the fearsome bird until it left me alone with a bleeding knee and scraped elbow.

Bike riders also had to avoid little prickles called bindi-eyes because they could easily puncture a bicycle tyre, which meant I would have to walk. Then I would get into trouble for being late from the nuns at one end and my mother at the other.

At school when the lunch bell rang, the lucky kids with lunch money would make a mad dash for Kelly’s bakery to buy pies. We’d leap on our bikes and race for the bakery. I was quick and would arrive at the shop well placed. However, once inside, my lack of height, weight and experience usually meant I would be one of the last served.

Imagine my surprise one Friday when I arrived at the bakery first. ‘Two meat pies with sauce please,’ and then back to the convent hardly believing my luck. I was about to tuck into pie number one when a classmate saw me and immediately started chanting, ‘Peter’s got a pie, Peter’s got a pie.’ Soon a dozen others joined in with the pie chant. The crowd swelled to 20, maybe 40. The entire convent zeroed in until a nun arrived and flapped them all away. She took me to the house where the nuns lived and left me in the foyer after telling me that we didn’t eat meat on Friday – it was against the rules for Catholics. This was news to me, but I must obey. The nun had the pies. I sat there miserably with the life-sized statue of a lady in robes holding a burning heart; it was a spooky place and I just wanted to be back in the playground with or without pies. Eventually, the nun returned with two dry cheese sandwiches and a glass of warm milk just like my mother served – awful. ‘The pies are in the ice chest,’ she said. ‘You can collect them after school.’

After the final bell, I got my pies back. They were cold and I put them in my school bag and rode away. As soon as I was out of sight of the convent, I stopped and gobbled them up. They would have been better hot, but they were still good. When I told Mum we shouldn’t eat meat on Fridays, she laughed her head off. ‘That’s stupid Catholic rubbish,’ she said. ‘Just a rule the Pope made up so Catholic fishermen could sell their fish.’

‘What’s the Pope?’ I wanted to know. Mum said he was a ‘bloody Italian who thought he could tell all the Catholics what to do’. There wasn’t much my mum didn’t know.

For the annual Catholic ball, our mums were asked to bring a plate. My mum hard-boiled a dozen eggs and I helped her peel them; she cut them in half and placed them on a white dinner plate yellow side up. At the ball Mum’s eggs were ignored. They really stood out among the plates of sponges and lamingtons and cupcakes. Mum complained the ball was dry, which meant there was no booze. We left early with her convinced that Catholics were boring and me wishing she would make cakes like other mothers.

I was living in two worlds: there were the days as a confused pseudo-Catholic school boy who didn’t have a clue about church, catechism, confession, communion or confirmation; then after school on the air force base, I was a deadly machine gunner playing havoc with the dirty Japs. It was my delight to cycle across the airfield to where the planes were stored – hundreds of them had been flown to the field direct from the front line after the war and were now parked in precise lines.

The planes used to heat up like locked cars in the sun and playing in them was sweaty business – the tail gun turret was the coolest spot, where I’d settle into the gunner’s seat. The huge batteries still held charge and allowed me to sweep my twin guns across the sky and fight off the Jap Zero fighters. I longed to press the red buttons which would actually fire real bullets, but I knew they’d make a racket, then someone would come and I’d be in trouble. Oh, I ached just to fire one short burst. But I contented myself that I was headed for Japan and I’d show those dirty Japs a thing or two when I dropped my bombs.

Suddenly I see him. ‘Zero to port, Captain. He’s closing fast.’ I’m flung back in my seat as our plane goes into an evasive corkscrew manoeuvre. The four big Pratt and Whitney engines are screaming as we go into a dive at full throttle. We’re doing 300 miles per hour and we’ve shaken the Zero off our tail. But as we pull out of the dive, we’re vulnerable, and sure enough…

‘Zero to starboard, Cap. I can get a bead on him if you hold steady. There, take that you dirty Jap.’ The bullets pour into the approaching Zero. I make noises just like Laurie and I used to do. Gosh, I wish he was here, he’d love playing in these big planes. I shoot down five more dirty Japs and decide to return to base and not stretch my luck.

I keep a wary lookout for poisonous redback spiders as I make my way to the front of the plane across the narrow bridge through the bomb bays, past the radio operator and navigator positions, and into the pilot’s seat, where I sit looking at all the instruments – so many clock faces, switches and buttons. It is hot and smells of oil and rubber, and all I can see from the windows is sky. But there’s a sign that says, ‘Activate life raft’. I pull the ring and with a loud bang, a great slab of the bomber’s wing falls away and a large rubber boat inflates. Bigger and bigger it grows as I scramble back through the plane to join it. I don’t need the life raft, but it contains unimaginable treasure for a small boy: fishing equipment made of nylon and plastic, products we’ve never heard of, and a surgically sharp stainless-steel knife that floats. Better still, an emergency ration pack with its tins of concentrated orange juice and wonderful blocks of chocolate plus the inevitable stick chewing gum. What a feast.

There were plenty more planes. Hundreds of them. And so many Jeeps that a little boy could either wage clandestine manoeuvres against the dirty Japs or teach himself to drive.

Loneliness was my enemy – the life of a flyer was a solitary one. Mum was lonely too. The hospital where we lived had a huge Red Cross painted on its roof and was isolated from the rest of the base. It was hoped the dirty Japs would at least have had the decency not to bomb a hospital. Mum wanted to be closer to the action – the social centre of the base – the officers’ mess. We moved into a two-bedroom fibro bungalow built for officers, which was red hot during the day and freezing at night. We spent less and less time at home and more at the mess, where I resumed my billiards career. I could now do four rebounds comfortably.

Mum was back in her element. She became social organiser, and the remaining dozen blokes were invited to use the officers’ mess. We all went rabbiting together, then Mum would bake the bunnies saying they tasted just like chicken; easy to say since we had never eaten chicken. However, after eating a lot of wild rabbits, I imagined chicken must be tough and gamey with the occasional shotgun pellet to chip a tooth on. We also went duck shooting and sometimes would go to the dam to catch buckets of little crayfish we called yabbies. Mum converted this bounty into suppers that were much appreciated after many beers. She was praised. She was lauded. She was queen again, but she was still lonely.

She couldn’t go into town more than two or three times a week without inviting gossip and despite her best organising efforts, there was a lot of time on her hands. So, she invited Pearl and Roma to visit. Pearl was doing a hairdresser’s course and couldn’t get away, but Roma said she would come in a flash – anything to get away from her father. The men on the base looked forward to Roma’s arrival; the women in town were all accounted for. A couple of the blokes had got lucky, but the rest were hanging out for anything in a skirt.

Roma met Dusty at Tocumwal, and three months later they were engaged to be married. Dusty was a catch. The name said it all. He was tall and lean with a reputation as a good pilot and had a suave aviator’s moustache; he looked like Clark Gable, and every bit a match for the flirtatious Roma. Dusty left the air force, bought a new MG sports car with his deferred pay and married Roma. ‘Damn it all,’ Mum said. ‘I was the matchmaker.’

Before that happened, there were swimming parties on the Victorian side of the river at a quiet sandy beach. There is a photo in my mother’s album that was taken on one of our picnics. I’m sitting on the bonnet of the big Dodge wearing my woollen bathing costume with the belt and silver buckle that covers my navel. My skinny, bare legs drape down the car’s radiator grill almost to the bumper bar ending in enormous feet – embarrassingly big feet that attract comment. Mum and Roma look dashing in knee-length frocks with padded shoulders. They both hold glasses of beer. There are picnic supplies in front of the car – sausages for the kids, chops and steaks and many bottles of beer for the grown-ups.

But the real focus of the photo is a man in uniform. His hand touches his military hat and he looks like Pal Joey. Yes, it could be Frank Sinatra. He has our entire attention; Mum is frankly appraising him and giving her can-I-sleep-with-this-man look. I wonder who took the photo. It wasn’t my father; he didn’t take photos and surely Mum wouldn’t be so blatantly on the prowl if he’d been watching. If he isn’t Sinatra, who is he? I’ve had so many uncles, please excuse me if I forget a few names. This is most likely the one who told me it was okay to pee while swimming in the river because it sinks to the bottom; advice I always appreciated.

Across the river on the town side, you could see the Aboriginal kids having the time of their lives playing in canoes made out of old sheets of galvanised roofing iron. Dear God, why can’t I have a canoe and someone to play with? I ask myself in my newly acquired devout manner. Even an Aborigine would be okay. They’re having lots of fun. What have my parents got against them? I’d never seen an Aborigine until we went to Toc. Mum said they were dying out. ‘It’s just as well,’ she said. ‘We haven’t got a White Australia policy for nothing.’

There were lots of Aboriginal kids at the convent, but they kept to themselves in the playground, where they’d sit together. It was like they weren’t really there until sports days. They were really good at cricket and footy, and would be first choice to represent the convent when we played the Protos at the state school. They were good tree climbers too – the big ones could get right to the top of the peppercorn tree in our playground.

One night Mum and Dad took me to a carnival in town where there were half a dozen Aboriginal fighters wearing dressing gowns and boxing gloves on a platform above the crowd. A white man was yelling, ‘Come on, you blokes, come and have a go. Show the girls how good you are. Don’t be scared, these blackfellas won’t hurt you.’ Some boofheads were urging each other on. An experienced observer like me could see they’d been boozing and several of them were itching to have a go. I wanted to go in the tent and watch, but Dad said it was rigged and a waste of money. We went to the pub instead.

***

Tocumwal wasn’t a very big town, but it did have a dentist visiting once a month. I’d had a toothache for ages but could hardly admit it without getting into trouble for not brushing my teeth properly. But my tooth hurt so much I finally confessed, and after school one evening Mum took me to his office. It was a bare room with dusty floor boards, cobwebs on the small window and one straight-backed office chair where I was to sit. The dentist had his equipment in a small leather bag which he sat on a spindly stool beside my chair.

After a quick inspection he said, ‘Yes, that’ll have to come out.’ I realised he wasn’t going to talk much, and he was going to pull my tooth out. I was terrified. I gagged and coughed on the needle as I struggled to survive. This was life and death stuff for me. I put up an almighty fight. Finally, I was wedged in a headlock under his left armpit while the shiny pliers in his right hand grabbed my tooth. He had Mum holding my legs. I was swooning, fainting, going down for the count. It took both of them, but eventually they won, and I was led bleeding and bruised back to the car. I was sobbing into my handkerchief which was rapidly turning red with my life blood. The dentist had won, but I was proud he’d needed Mum’s help. ‘Don’t catch a chill,’ he warned as we left. Was he laughing at me?

Mum was so shaken by the experience she let me rest in the Dodge while she went to recuperate at the pub. The hotel used to officially close at 6 o’clock, but Mum and Dad were special customers and made guests of the licensee. He’s interested in Mum and Dad because they might buy the hotel. Grandma has visited, and after a pleasant afternoon on the shady verandah, a lovely roast dinner in the formal dining room and a further evening of drinking, she is prepared to buy the pub. Dad’s keen. He loves hotels. He really enjoys pontificating at the bar, drinking and talking. Mum too. They’re very social and good at drinking.

However, this is an occasion when Mum shows uncommon good sense. She can see that while Dad is playing mine host, she’ll be responsible for everything else: providing breakfast, lunch and dinner in the hotel dining room with its polished silver and starched table cloths and serviettes; making sure all the guest rooms are cleaned, with fresh linen; and the whole building is vacuumed and swept from top to bottom. Then there’s the bookkeeping and reservations. And it goes on seven days a week, 365 days a year. ‘My mother grew up slaving in her parents’ Fernery Hotel in Geelong,’ she says to Grandma. ‘No hotel for me, thanks. Not on your bloody life.’

That decision will be revisited in frequent arguments for years to come.