Peter’s Wars

Mum takes me into the city to buy my new school uniform. She’s in good spirits because Grandma has given us the money and Mum loves shopping. I’ve never had a uniform before. State schools don’t have them, neither do some convents, but all private schools do. Mum is most pleased that the salesgirls in Myer department store are properly deferential to the mothers of private school kids. They know the tuition fees are more than they earn a year and they must not offend such important customers.

Mum knows how to keep salesgirls in their place too. She doesn’t mention she was once a lowly junior at Myer herself. She looks wealthy in her tailored grey flannel suit with the marquisette broach on her lapel, but what really sets the outfit off is the very chic mustard felt hat. Very continental. It does not have a brim and is the new Paris-inspired style that Mum saw in the latest Vogue magazine.

I’d walked Melbourne with her to buy this hat. So many shops. So many hats. Mum had a 10-pound note that Dad had given her. Earlier he had given her a black eye. It was not really that black, hardly bruised, in fact, but I later overhead Mum boast to a friend how she had played her assault to the hilt and Dad had given her the tenner just to shut her up. Buying a hat with Mum was tedious for a 10-year-old. Not only did the hat have to be the latest fashion, it had to be a good match for her tan handbag and high heels, which in turn matched her tan gloves. All the leather had to look as though it had come from the same cow, or was it a calf?

Dad now has a job in the William Street head office of the Commonwealth Oil Refineries (COR). He’s in the personnel department and Mum tells people he’s the personnel officer. His weekly take-home pay is almost exactly the 10 quid the hat cost. However, he knew he could rely on Grandma to give him a top-up, particularly now Peter attended a Catholic school.

It hadn’t occurred to Mum I could become a status object. But in my new grey suit topped with the hat that read Xavier College and the Latin motto, Sursum Corda (Lift up your hearts), she saw me in a new light. In Vogue magazine, the fashionable were portrayed with poodles and Afghans. My mum now had a college boy with Xavier’s black and red colours branded on his long socks, necktie, sweater, hat and jacket pocket. She loved being seen with me in my uniform and often made me wear it if I went out with her on weekends, which I hated. She might have told her friends I looked adorable, but if she did, she made certain I didn’t overhear.

Mum’s natural frugality when buying me clothes was evident in getting my shirts and undies. She only bought two sets of each. The plan was I’d wear one set for two days and the other for three. Mum made the decision when to change them, although an eating accident usually did it.

My first day at Xavier College was just as miserable as the previous first days at other schools. My history already included Brunswick, Cressy, Brunswick, Tocumwal, Manly, and back to Brunswick. Do you remember your first day at a new school when you were the oddity, the new kid to be teased and baited and maybe befriended? It is the day when a parent goes with you and hundreds of kids stare. Except on this occasion, Mum made it clear she would not accompany me. ‘I’m not going anywhere near the bloody Catholics.’ So, I travel across the city alone to learn how to be a proper Catholic.

It’s half past seven when I leave home on my first day carrying my new leather Gladstone bag. I feel conspicuous in my new uniform that brands me a Catholic. I’m leaving over an hour earlier than I used to for my 10-minute walk to the state school. Mum has warned me not to lose the expensive book of travel concession tickets I have for the 30-minute tram ride into the city where I’ll change to the Kew bus for another half-hour ride to Studley Park.

I travel on and on through working-class Melbourne. A few other kids get on and off, but no-one wearing my uniform. Then we cross a bridge over the Yarra and start climbing a big hill. It’s another world. It’s beautiful, with acres and acres of rolling green grass, splendid groves of trees and a river meandering through it. Is this heaven? Is this where the Catholics live? I see a sign saying Studley Park, and I know my stop is next. This is it. I grab my bag ready to get off.

Across the road from my bus stop, there are dozens of boys wearing uniforms like mine who’ve just come from the other direction, and they are laughing and jostling as they disappear into a small gate in the wall. I’m the only person on my side of the road. I know I’m going to have to pluck up courage and join them.

I’m not only arriving mid-term, I’m at a private school wearing a uniform for the first time that says I’m a Catholic and I’m 10 years old and I must learn this new religion. I remember other first days when I didn’t know anything, not even where the toilets were, and every time I made a mistake everyone laughed. They would appoint a kid to look after me but he didn’t want the job and pushed me around when the teacher was not looking. Today is even worse, travelling an hour across the city; and worse still, it is a Catholic school and the teachers are all black-robed Jesuit priests.

The first class of the day was Catechism. I had never been to one before, never even heard the word. I found out it was a little book full of questions and fortunately, the answers were there too. This was a big help since the questions were tricky like:

Q: Who made the world?

A: God made the world.

Q: Why did God make the world?

A: To show his great love for us.

Q: How should we repay God’s great love?

A: By observing the sacraments.

What’s sacraments? I don’t ask the question out loud. There are nearly 40 boys in this class and I don’t know any of them. I’d heard of God, everyone knew about him, but I never pondered who had made the world or why they’d bothered.

English came after Catechism, and here I had an unexpected break. They were studying the same poem we had studied at my state school the week before. It was about an old bloke out in the bush and the teacher asked the question, ‘What does the line, “The snow was on his hair” mean?’

I knew the answer. But should I take a chance and put up my hand? ‘Me, sir,’ I said in what I hoped was the approved tone of voice. ‘The snow is on his hair because when it is very cold up in the mountains it sometimes snows.’ Imagine my disappointment when I was told that was wrong. The right answer was he was an old man and his hair was turning white. Although that was exactly the same answer the state school teacher had given us, I had been convinced he was wrong.

Fortunately, it was recess. The boys were friendly enough and thought it rather quaint to have a new boy, as they had all attended the school from grade one and always lived in the same comfy homes in the same leafy suburbs. This became apparent when school finished for the day. Most of the dayboys crossed the road to catch buses to the eastern suburbs, while a few of us went west to the city and headed off in different directions.

Many of the pupils at my new school were boarders, either from the country or city kids who boarded for their parents’ convenience. Dad said that if it weren’t for all the Catholic schools, the government would go broke trying to educate Australia’s kids. Yes, my dad had become a Catholic again.

My return bus trip took me back to my working-class origins. First into Collingwood and Fitzroy, then past D24, the Victoria State Police headquarters, and the State Theatre where Grandma had taken me and my cousins to see Jack and the Beanstalk. That place was magic with stars on the roof, statues everywhere and a big organ that was being played when it came up through the stage floor. Mum said the State was sinking into the ground because Melbourne was built on mud and we’d never have skyscrapers like America.

Commuting through inner city Melbourne was an eye opener for a suburban kid. I’d ride the bus down Flinders Street, then catch the Coburg tram up William Street. I was always impressed and a little envious of the daring newspaper boys who swung on and off the moving trams selling their Heralds. It looked fun. My trip took about an hour and a half if I counted waiting for the bus and walking home from the tram. Three hours a day travelling by myself.

After sports day footy, I would travel through the city around 6 p.m. when the pubs were closing. I’d watch the brawling and vomiting figures in the dark streets and smell their beery breath if they joined my tram. Occasionally, I would be wedged against a smoker, which I found nauseating despite my familiarity with cigarettes and beer at home. I vowed that when I grew up, I would never smoke or drink. Never.

My new-found religion really threatened me. Catechism was just the beginning. At noon we had the Angelus, which involved standing and responding to a bell that tolled in the chapel tower. Initially, I mumbled along with the other boys, but I was caught out when they started preparing the class for Confirmation. ‘Hands up if there is anyone who has not been confirmed,’ asked the priest.

Not having heard the word ‘Confirmation’ before, I looked around the class for guidance. A couple of hands shot up. Was it safe for me to join such a small minority? What was Confirmation anyhow?

‘No, sir,’ I decided under pressure and was relieved when my name was added to the list without further comment.

That night I asked Dad what Confirmation was. Instead of explaining, he went into his supercilious mode.

‘I do, but the other boys have been Catholics forever. I’m just learning. I’m scared to ask the teacher because everyone will laugh.’

That was a mistake. I’d never be stupid enough to reveal my fears or ask Dad for help again. What was worse? Being ridiculed at home or in front of a class of boys?

Somehow, my teachers discovered I had not made my First Confession or First Communion. In a school of 500 boys, I was the only one who had not confessed my sins – a prerequisite for Communion. I was given a few private lessons by the headmaster and from that stern old man, I learned the incredible story of hellfire. Eternal hellfire. Round-the-clock-24-hours-a-day hellfire. Unbearable, excruciating, red-hot hellfire. By the eve of my First Confession, I was terrified and quaking in my boots. The next day I was going into the chapel alone and everyone in the school knew I was going to tell the priest my sins.

Not going to mass on a Sunday was a sin. A Mortal Sin. If one died in the state of Mortal Sin, one went to hell forever. I was 10 years old and had never been to mass until a few months ago when my father started taking me. In round figures, I had missed mass for nearly 10 years by 52 weeks a year – 520 mortal sins. Any one of them doomed me to eternal hellfire. Why wouldn’t I be scared?

In addition to missing mass, I had sinned by disobeying my parents and teachers, I had stolen things and said swear words. Also, I had done rude things with a girl, but how could I talk to a priest about trying to put my dickie bird in a girl’s pee hole? My instructor and I had never talked about the-dirty-things-with-a-girl sin. It was just too terrible to put into words, let alone confess.

Individually, the smaller sins were not serious enough to lead to eternal damnation. However, it was considered that 10 venal sins added up to one mortal sin, which meant that I had more arithmetic to do. How many lies does one naughty 10-year-old boy tell in a lifetime? How often had I sworn? Could I even begin to remember how many pieces of fruit I had stolen from our neighbours’ trees? What about the horrendous theft from Laurie’s father? I lay in my bed and cried and cried. I howled, I wailed, I sobbed. Truly, I beat my breast until my father came in.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked in his you-should-be-asleep manner. I wanted to tell him I was scared, but I knew that was not what he wanted to hear. ‘What’s wrong?’ he demanded.

‘Nothing,’ I replied stifling my sobs. My father wouldn’t understand. He had always been a Catholic. He had gone to mass every Sunday with his mother since he was born. He had gone to confession and communion at school with the local Christian Brothers. Then confirmation, and next thing he was an altar boy. It was the way Catholics did it and my father had no empathy at all for me moving into this strange new world.

Even the kids at school had a 10-year start on me – they were familiar with Latin responses, crucifixes, prayers, rosaries, sacraments, catechism, vestments, genuflecting, holy water, stations of the cross, benediction, incense, altar bells, rosary beads, choirs, novenas, saints, and scary statues of people with burning hearts, while I had only just learnt not to eat meat on Fridays.

I was appalled to learn that Protestants like my nana and Grandpa were going to hell. Even innocent babies born to Catholic parents went straight to hell if they died before they were baptised. Catholics were very exclusive; they were the only ones going to heaven.

I didn’t cry all night. It just felt like it. By dawn I had an understanding of how a condemned prisoner might feel. I had no-one to turn to. I was alone. My father had promised me new shoes for my Confession and was sorry he hadn’t had time to collect them. But he said, ‘I’ll polish your boots until they look like new.’ I was the only boy in school that wore boots, they were a hangover from my state school. Dad had already mended them once with a rubber sole he’d glued on. Annoyingly, it would come unstuck and make a flapping noise as I walked. Dad said it was because I didn’t pick up my feet properly, Mum said it was because I was always kicking things. They both agreed that they had more to do with their money than buy me new shoes, and more to do with their time than sticking new soles on my boots because I was an ungrateful wretch and didn’t know when I was well off.

I was sweating in the confessional. I was terrified. I was telling the priest I had lied 3798 times. I expected him to fall off his seat. I expected him to come round to my side of the grate and beat me up and I hadn’t even told him about the 520 missed masses. As I quoted my statistics, I lost my nerve and repudiated some of the figures. I only admitted to stealing a few hundred apples when the truth was, I had probably nicked thousands during my long career. I kept pulling back the figures. I felt that the priest was encouraging me to do so. No-one would want to believe what a vile, wicked boy I was.

The priest gave me a penance. It wasn’t much really, just a few Our Fathers, some Hail Marys and maybe a Glory Be or two. He didn’t even hit me. It was nothing like my mum would have handed out. I got off really lightly – instead of eternal damnation in hell I spent five minutes on my knees. I was saved. Being a Catholic had its good points.

But I did worry about my nana. If only Catholics would go to heaven, the Protestants would go to hell. I wasn’t too concerned about my mum finishing up in hell, and perhaps even Grandpa could cope with a bit of punishment. However, it hardly seemed fair that Nana should suffer the eternal damnation the priests revelled in telling us about. Maybe I could convert her.