Wild Cat Falling (7 page)

Blues file in, greens, yellows and reds in a single line along the wall. Each boy grabs a plate off the pile in the servery and holds it up for the soup, goes to his place and stands for Grace.

“Bless us O Lord and these thy gifts. . . .”

“Sit!”

What was it we used to sing?

Mummy, daddy, take me away

From this awful place one day.

No more eating stew like glue,

No more eating bread like lead.

Tea over, washing up is a team job too, then study time. The boys sit under the bright lights, heads bent over their books. A black-robed brother prowls up and down the rows of desks, strap at the ready for the shirker and the cheat.

Eight o'clock, over to the chapel for prayers. Bed time. Long rows of beds in team dormitories.

At last all is quiet except for the breathing of the sleeping boys. I slide out of bed and pull on my clothes, tiptoe on bare feet to a balcony that leads to the dark stairway going down to the washroom door. Pressed against the wall, I sidle to the bottom of the stairs. No sound. I make my way round the dark wing to the moonlit quadrangle. Must take a chance now and hope to reach the locker room building on the other side without being seen.

I scuttle across the quadrangle into the shadow of a pillar on the far side and pause for breath. So far so good. If I get caught it'll be six of the best on the behind for sure. Christ, I just remembered. Sometimes they lock the locker room door. Gee, hope I can get in.

A hasty fumbling and the door swings open. Inside all is shadowy, but there are tall windows and a sharp pattern of moonlight splashes on to the floor. Anything could be hiding in the pitch black around the lockers. It is a hot night but my teeth begin to chatter and my legs go shaky and shivery.

Perhaps I should go back. Nobody will have missed me yet. No. Got to get out of this place. Got to get out of it. I'm in for the strap tomorrow anyway when Dickie sees my sums. Got to nick off now. Out of this “yes, sir” “no, sir” dump with its team games and sickening vegetables and stew and bullying brothers.

The old boss is the worst of the lot. His strap doesn't hurt as much as Dickie's, but he's a stupid old goat. The kids reckon a mouse once ran up his trouser

leg and fell down dead. Always yacking about how he's doing the best for us and how ungrateful we are and noticing if you don't go to Communion and then questioning us about our sins. Can't take it any more.

I get my jumper and sandals from my locker, put on the jumper, hold the sandals, find my way to another locker and pull out an ex-army water bottle. I'm set. Something cracks behind me. Terrified, I crouch and then squeeze into a locker, pulling the door shut. No one. A board contracting, I suppose. Out!

The paddock is moonlit and as bare as the quadrangle, but I am lucky so far. No one watches me — except the imagined one. I scamper from shadow to shadow, worm under the gate, leap up and race along the road.

I reach the shelter of some pine-trees, sit down, put on my sandals, then up and on again. I climb the low stone wall that marks the boundary of the school land and plod along the exposed road with only my shadow for company. I am too tired to run. The night breeze blows softly through the pines and I am filled with a dreamtime loneliness, but I am excited too. Once I get to the main road I will know my way home like a cat.

A car hums in the distance, its headlights two round, swelling moons. I get off the road and crouch against the thick scrub. The hum becomes a roar, and the headlights blaze, tearing away the roadside shadows. With a shrill of brakes the car skids to a stop, doors fly open, and two black-robed figures leap out and grab.

“What's the meaning of this? Where do you think you're going? You cut that out now and get into the car.”

I am pushed into the back seat and we zoom off . . . back to the beginning.

I don't care. Don't care. Don't care. They can do what they like with me now. At least I showed them, didn't I?

I am marched into the principal's office.

“So you were trying to abscond, my boy. A nice way of thanking us for all our trouble and care. The best is not good enough for you it seems. Do you mean to tell me you don't like it here?”

“I don't know, sir.”

“If you were feeling unhappy why didn't you come to me and we could have had a little chat? You realize you have caused us a great deal of worry tonight.”

“I don't care.”

“So that's your attitude.”

A hand jerks out and slaps my face.

“Why did you run away?”

No answer.

“You had the forethought to take your jumper, I see.”

Old Dickie has shown up now.

“We'll soon warm you up, my boy, ha, ha. And what's this you've got here? A water bottle, eh? I suppose you brought a picnic lunch as well?”

“No, sir.”

“What did you think you were going to eat?”

“I suppose some fruit from people's orchards, sir.” “Not only planning to run away, but planning to steal as well! Do you realize, my boy, that many a sorry life of crime has begun in this way?”

Old Dickie is getting carried away but the boss nods and glances at the door.

“Thank you, brother.”

Dickie hitches up his habit and goes out. The boss opens a drawer and pulls out a strap.

“I hate to do this, my boy, but it is my duty to teach you right from wrong. I would be failing badly if I did not punish you for your behaviour tonight. Remember though that it will hurt me more than it will hurt you. Now bend over that chair.”

I bite my lips to hold back the tears as six blows land on my undefended rump.

“You may go now. And remember to say your prayers.”

In bed at last I bury my head in my pillow to stifle my sobs. A light is clicked on and I feel a brother standing over me. I lie rigid, pretending sleep, and the light clicks off.

Bastards! I'll never say another prayer as long as I live. I don't care. Don't care. . . .

Depressed by these memories I wander back to find the Espresso bar where I am supposed to meet the girl. Students pass to and fro, some alone and earnest with books under their arms, others in groups or pairs, laughing, discussing, chattering. I try to hear what they say:

“But surely Kafka was the greater misanthrope?” Greater than who? And what is a misanthrope? I read a book by this writer in jail. It was queer but I could dig it in a way. I follow the group to the coffee shop and one of them holds open the door expecting me to come in. I shake my head and stand outside, the hair bristling on my body like a scared alley cat in a strange joint. I'll be out of my element in there. Way, way out of my depth. Better beat it before the girl turns up and it's too late to save my face.

I wonder why I have come. Curiosity perhaps, but then I am past being curious, because that is surely to hope that something might be different and I am past hope. Because I think they might be interesting? But then do I want or expect to be interested in anything? Perhaps to prove to the girl and to myself that I have guts, that I am really not afraid of anything. I have no hope and no ambition but I have trained myself to be self-sufficient, self-controlled, and I am in this way superior to the world of struggling, deluded fools of which all these people are a part.

“Come on, man,” I urge myself. “Straighten up and walk in like a regular customer. Play it cool, not inferior to anyone.”

I push open the swing door.

Inside I stand acting the big shot phoney and take a long look around. Groups of people, mostly students I guess, sit at small tables. Some look the ordinary nondescript city types, but most of them are what I suppose they call bohemians, the girls in casual slacks and jumpers, some of the men with beards and dark- rimmed spectacles, almost all in corduroys and open shirts. Chinese looking lanterns drop from the ceiling like big white moons. Through the far door is a courtyard where there are more tables under bright beach umbrellas, but the shop itself is not very big or specially grand.

One wall is papered with yellowed pages of old text books, the others hung with paintings like nothing I've ever seen or felt, although a notice says it is an exhibition of recent Australian works. But then I suppose I'm not what they call Australian. I'm just an odd species of native fauna cross-bred with the migrant flotsam of a goldfield.

There is no juke-box here, only some sneaky classic- type music trickling from an unseen source. Foreign territory for me, though no one seems to notice it but myself. This is funny because most places I go, outside the gang hangouts, I usually create some sort of hostile or suspicious interest that inflates my ego. Maybe the girl only picked this place on purpose to belittle me somehow. Well, I can't let her get away with that. Who does she think she is? I'll find a table and sit like I'm used to it, drinking coffee and smoking until she comes. Or maybe best wait outside for a bit. The second time in is never so bad . . . like jail. Exit the big shot.

Still an hour to wait. I feel I need something to add to myself. I pluck up courage and ask a timid looking chap how far it is to the nearest pub. He tells me about ten minutes walk and points the way, so with a purpose in mind I stride it out.

I try not to act nervous as I wait at the bar. I guess my time in jail has matured me so that I might easily pass for twenty-one, but has it really toned down my skin colour as much as I think? If the barman takes me for a half-caste, he has a right to challenge me to produce my exemption ticket. As a quadroon I would be eligible for this, but in applying for it I would be found out for under-age drinking and they could put me in for that. Most native boys I know start their jail education by being put in on a drinking charge, but I bet half the Uni boys in here are under twenty-one. I don't see anyone challenging them, and if they did I can't see them being sent to jail. These two at the end of the bar have started up an argument about football scores and one of them seems properly hostile. He has a belligerent look in his popping blue eyes and his big punch-packing fists begin to clench. I thought it was only natives were supposed to get fighting drunk.

The barman comes my way at last and I order a beer. He serves me matter of fact. Good old prison — I've passed. I drink enough for courage and walk back. Still half an hour to go by the tower clock.

I notice there is a bookshop near the coffee place. A book would give me a front. Might even make me pass for a student. I go in and stand bewildered among the racks and tables piled with literature. What to choose? Nothing expensive. Maybe one of these highbrow looking paper-backs. I take one from the rack.
Crime and Punishment
. Funny, I read that in jail. Good yarn.
War and Peace. Anna Karenina
. Hell! Fancy finding them here too.

I pass on to a section marked Psychology and dig about like a dog unearthing juicy bones. My cup of tea, but too expensive. Time is moving on. Drama.
Waiting for Godot.
I open it at random.

“We wait. We are bored. No, don't protest, we are bored to death, there's no denying it. Good. A diversion comes along and what do we do? We let it go to waste. Come let's get to work! In an instant all will vanish and we'll be alone again, in the midst of nothingness.”

This looks all right.

I make my purchase and walk back to the coffee shop. With drink and book for armour I enter with more confidence, order a coffee at the counter and take it to a corner table. Easy, wasn't it? No one takes any notice of me at all. I sip with an eye on the door and minutes drip by. Sip, minute, sip. Pull out a cigarette. Puff, minute, puff. No girl yet, but don't panic. Go on playing it cool. Don't like this music much. These little bitty tunes make you phoney calm. Rock, straightforward blast and blare gets you raw and jagged. Like crazy, like life.

Myself mocks myself. Read your book, man. That's the way.

“Let's go.”

“We can't.”

“Why not?”

“We're waiting for Godot.”

The door swings and she is here at last — the girl from the lazy afternoon. She is wearing a pair of skin-tight black slacks that crease at the knees as she walks and the sloppy sweater reaching past her hips makes her seem fragile and small. I feel a sudden emptiness. The urge to see her has been satisfied and I want to go.

I sit blank-faced waiting for her to notice me. Out of an eye comer I see her turn a complete circle. She knows everyone it seems, and calls “Hullo” as she goes by. How different from me: I couldn't ever call out to anyone or move sort of easy like that.

The Hullo jive is finally over and she comes to my corner with four boy friends in tow. She's friendly casual like before.

“Hullo. I hoped you'd turn up.”

“I thought I might as well.”

She turns to the others. “This is the boy I told you about. The one I met on the beach.”

I take a deep drag on my cigarette. Nerves, but I eye them straight. Some of them look like queers, but I could be wrong. Maybe that's just the look they get round here. Anyway they are a new sort to me. I make a motion of accepting them, but I am on my guard. They sit at my table and I hear them call the girl June. They order coffee and she talks to me. Trying to make me feel at ease, I guess, but I am tongue-tied and miserable as hell. What did she tell them about me? That I am coloured and an ex-con? Does that make me interesting? A sort of curiosity?

“Frank and Bill are doing Social Anthropology,” June says, like reading my mind. “I thought you might be able to give them some fresh slants.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Oh, because you seem to have ideas and you're not afraid to express yourself.”

Frank is a thin, intense looking chap with a neat dark beard. Bill has a round smooth face with a stuck on smile. They look at me and I look back at them. “So what?” I say. “What do you want to know?”

“We wondered for instance, whether you might have any personal views on this Austral Grove experiment? I mean, do you consider it a good idea — a sort of stepping-stone from camp life into the general community?”