The Easy Day Was Yesterday (15 page)

I remember one year when we were lucky enough to go to a school camp — run by the local church group so I think it was free. The camp started at around 9.00 am, but Mum started work at 7.00 am, so we had to wait in her car in the car park at her work. I wouldn’t consider doing that now with my kids, but in those days it was okay and we just sat there waiting for Mum to come out on her morning tea break. It was worth the two-hour wait; we had a great time at that camp. An Aboriginal guy showed us how to make a fishing spear and then he showed us how to spear fish. This guy was an expert and there was no way we could match him, but we had a great time trying and I really admired this guy’s ability to make a spear out of almost nothing and then fend for himself in the bush.

Mum had a boyfriend who was also in the army. Jack was his name. Jack was okay and Mum seemed happy with him. They used to go to functions at the Sergeants’ Mess and Mum would get dressed up in a beautiful, red, full-length dress and have a great night. One night we were asleep when they got back from a night out. Steven and I slept in bunks in one room and were woken by Mum screaming from her room to be left alone. Steven came down to my bunk on the bottom and we talked about what we should do. I was really scared because Jack was yelling at Mum to be let into the room. We heard a loud crash and we both jumped as Jack rammed the bedroom door with his shoulder, smashing the lock in the process. Jack must have fallen and Mum ran to the bathroom crying and screaming. We could tell she was scared and I became terrified as well. Only a few months before this, Mum had told us about her mother and how she was burnt alive by a boyfriend who was drunk and angry with her. I think Mum was also worried that Jack would do something similar to her by the way she was screaming and pleading to be left alone. Steven was very brave and, despite my pleas, he went to the bathroom to confront Jack. I think the act of being confronted by a 10-year-old boy who wanted to defend his mother brought Jack to his senses and that was the end of the fight. But the relationship survived a while longer — at least until the next time Jack got drunk and decided to use Mum as his punching bag again. That was the end of it for her. I always wondered why she didn’t dump the shithead the first time it happened, but I think she just didn’t want to be alone.

Steven and I launched ourselves into rugby league at West Arana Hills Football Club and, while we were only mediocre players, we made some good friends. We hung out with these guys nearly every day and, as Steven was only 18 months older than I was, we generally had the same friends who all lived within a kilometre of one another. Shane and Graham Brown lived a few streets away and we’d known them since we were five or six years old. Allan and Brett Ford lived a similar distance but in another direction. Shane, Graham, Brett and I played in the same football team and Steven and Allan played a grade higher. Mum became friends with the parents of our friends. Football was good, and every weekend we were both off playing somewhere different. Of course Mum couldn’t go with both of us, so she picked one and the other had to get a lift with Shane and Graham’s parents or Allan and Brett’s parents.

I liked football, but was generally an on-the-field spectator until part way through the game when I’d be discovered doing bugger all by the coach. He would alert me to his discovery by screaming that I needed to pull my finger out and do something. The first time I heard this I thought I must have been discovered picking my nose or something similar, but I couldn’t remember putting my finger anywhere that it wasn’t supposed to be in public. I’d then get angry at the coach for disrupting my viewing of the match and take my anger out on the opposition. So I suppose he had the desired effect.

But I remember attending most games on my own and I missed the encouragement and support the other players got from their parents. Mum couldn’t help it of course; she had Steven to consider and Trevor who was only young. When I was 11, my team went through the year undefeated and won the grand final. I knew the game was important and really tried hard and was eventually awarded the trophy for the best forward on the field. When the whistle blew at the end of the game, I remember being absolutely exhausted, with nothing left in the tank, but I was really happy. We’d just won the grand final; I had a grin so big. All the parents ran onto the field and straight past me to their children and hugged them tight and smothered them with kisses. I looked for someone to hug me, but Mum had to be with Steven that day. So I just walked off and got my football bag sorted out. After the celebrations off the field, we all went to someone’s house for more celebrating and I got a lift with the coach, Greg.

Even though Pop had died and Mum and Dad were divorced, we continued to spend weekends with Nana on the Sunshine Coast. Apparently when Pop died, they didn’t have a great deal of money and Nana had to leave the apartment at Mooloolaba as it was only rented. So Nana was living in a rented house at Maroochydore. We’d drive up the coast on a Friday night and meet Nana at the Mooloolaba Bowls Club where she, her friends and Mum would sit through the endless chicken raffles and drink plenty of beer. Every hour or so Mum would buy us a coke, but we generally spent most of our time outside running around with the other kids. Late in the evening we’d all head back to Nana’s house and go to bed without any dinner — I think they just forgot. Mum knew this would happen so she always bought us a packet of chips before we left the club.

Nana met a new fellow — Arthur. Nana and Arthur were married and Nana moved into his house a bit further up the road. Arthur seemed really old to us, but he had a great shed in his backyard with a wood-turning lathe. He made nice wooden bowls and anything else he could turn out on that lathe. Arthur smoked a pipe and once said to me that he was on a five-year plan to quit smoking because he’d gone from cigarettes to cigars and was now on pipes. Nana introduced Mum to a new fellow as well — a guy called Lex.

Mum liked Lex and we started spending every weekend up the coast, but we stayed in a caravan park so Lex and Mum could spend time together. We all liked Lex, he was a good guy and made Mum happy. Lex’s mum owned a sugar cane farm and that was where she lived. We sometimes visited the farm and Steven and I had a great time. Lex had an old mini-bike with a lawnmower engine and Steven, Trevor and I would ride this thing non-stop all day long. We started to feel like the kids who had money.

In about year 6 at school there was a beautiful girl in another year 6 class called Susan. Well, I thought she was fantastic and she became my girlfriend. Each lunchtime I’d forgo my lunch (I thought it was un-cool to eat a sandwich in front of a girl anyway) and Susan and I would meet behind the log and kiss for 45 minutes. Steven had a girlfriend in year 7 and another friend, Wayne, had Susan’s sister as a girlfriend and they joined us for a group kissing session at the log. This continued each lunchtime for about a week until one day, as we all made our way across the oval towards our classrooms, a teacher stopped us all and told us to go and see the Headmaster. Visiting the Headmaster was nothing new to me as I’d paid him a few visits before. Mr Barton was a straightforward sort of person. You only really got in trouble if you did something wrong. I thought he was okay even though he’d given me the cane a few times in the past. So on this day, as the six of us stood in front of him in his office, he accused us three boys of kissing the girls behind the log. Well, with complete indignation we all declared we were doing no such thing — we were simply telling stories and talking. I added (and in the process totally blew our cover story) that we were also telling jokes. My brother Steven and Wayne both gave me death stares as Mr Barton said, ‘Well, please tell me one of your jokes.’ I couldn’t for the life of me recall even the lamest joke, so I just looked at Mr Barton with an ‘all right you got me’ look on my face. Meanwhile, Steven and Wayne retained pleading expressions that begged for my plan to go beyond that one death sentence statement. I avoided their pleading looks because I had nothing and had walked all of us into an ambush.

Mr Barton then explained in his very proper voice that we were to be punished with three canes each, but (and this was a bloody big but) as he couldn’t cane the girls, then we boys would receive their canings. Apparently, if we wanted to act like men, then we’d take responsibility for our actions and those of our girls. As an 11-year-old, I wanted to yell, ‘ARE YOU SHITTING ME?’ Susan seemed pretty happy with the outcome and the three girls were told to return to class and never allow us boys to do this to them again. Now, by my calculation, I was about to get whacked across the hand with the cane six times — three times on each hand. I was no stranger to the cane. Mr Barton was quite an expert in its use, but his predecessor, Mr Topping — now he knew how to swing the cane. Mr Topping almost had his cane screaming a vicious tune of terror as it flew towards my hand. Mr Topping also had a voice — man could that guy yell — and when he let fly at some student a few hundred metres away, we all froze in panic hoping we weren’t next. Mr Barton had a number of canes which he kept in a basket in the corner of his office. He selected three canes and, like a baseball player selecting a bat, he had a couple of practice swings with each, finally settling on a long, thin cane that swooshed as it flew through the air.

I went first and held out my right hand. Mr Barton lined up his trajectory and, without warning, let fly. The cane swooshed loudly through the air and cracked as it connected with my palm, where my fingers joined my hand. The normal reaction is to pull your hand away, but then there’s a danger of the cane connecting with the fingertips and this pain has been described as beyond belief. There was also the threat of getting an extra cane if you moved. I chose not to inspect my hand as, from previous experience, I knew it would bruise immediately. I left my hand where it was and Mr Barton went on to give me two more on that hand. Without a word, I rolled up my beaten palm as best I could and presented my left hand. In quick succession, Mr Barton completed my sentence: six of the best. That was enough for me. The sting in both my hands was enough to drag out some tears. I watched Steven and Wayne receive their floggings and was glad I had gone first. Like me, they were now also in tears. Mr Barton was never one to drag things out after he’d dished out his punishment and, after delivering 18 canes, he probably needed a rest, so we were told to return to our classrooms.

On the way back we examined the damage to our hands and tried to reassure one another that it didn’t look as if we’d been crying, as we certainly weren’t keen to return to class looking like wimps. After school, the girls found us and were really nice about the whole thing. I became the chivalrous one yet again and declared, ‘It was nothing.’

I would have liked to have had my dad around in those early days, but really I didn’t know what I was missing. Sometimes a kid just needs to know his dad is there for him, I suppose. We just didn’t have that sense. But we did have a great mum who more than filled that gap.

The cage was a lonely place, but it had become my sanctuary. I sat up against the side wall so the visitors to the zoo would have trouble seeing me. I wished I had a book to read just to kill some time. The boredom was torturous. I wondered how prisoners who didn’t have a prison job survived years and years in this place. This prison had nothing to do with rehabilitation. It was a place to lock people up and that’s it, nothing more. I was surprised more people didn’t go insane.

Then a crazy man came into my cell. He had a crazed look in his eyes, like a drug addict. He walked straight past Ugly and even my glaring at Ugly to get this guy out failed and I realised Ugly was afraid of Crazy. Another prisoner followed Crazy into my cage. I stood up so I could better defend myself when the action started. Crazy started trying to talk to me in Hindi and continuously spat when he spoke. His offsider played interpreter, but he couldn’t speak a great deal of English either. Crazy then showed me a cell phone and asked if I wanted to use it. ‘No problem,’ he said. Crazy had disgusting, infected, self-inflicted wounds on his left forearm. He’d used a cigarette to burn his initials into his arm; each letter was about 10 centimetres high and three millimetres deep. I began to realise that Crazy was a stand-over guy and was trying to offer his protection services to me, but to do that effectively he had to move into my cell. He said he would ensure no-one came into my cell and caused me harm. As he said this, the old man walked in. Crazy turned and threw a pile of abuse at the old man who quickly turned and retreated. I called the old man back and then told Crazy that I didn’t understand what he was saying. He tried to explain himself and again I said I didn’t understand. Eventually he got the idea and left. As he walked out, Ugly reappeared from nowhere. ‘Thanks for nothing, you ugly prick,’ I said to Ugly, who smiled as if I had just told him I thought he reminded me of Brad Pitt.

About an hour after Ujwal left, I was again summoned to the office. The Nepali police SP was waiting for me. He again reassured me that all would be okay. He also brought me a small pillow for which I was very grateful. I asked him if he was able to influence the Indian SP to write his report quickly so I could leave this terrible place. He said he was trying to do just that and that the SP owed him some favours. I thanked him for his efforts, realising that he didn’t have to do what he was doing and had done.

I went back to the cage and noticed fresh flies and ants had moved in and a crowd of admirers was waiting at the front. Excellent, just what I needed. The other issue of real concern was that I needed to go to the toilet for ‘number twos’. I’d been dreading this and knew it was going to be a drama. There was no hanging on any longer and I had to make a move, so I grabbed my small red bucket and made my way to what I thought were loosely referred to as toilets. I waited in line out the front of the five shitters that reminded me of very old style outhouses. A prisoner walked out of one and another prisoner waved me to the now empty outhouse. As I passed the prisoner he called me back and handed me a filthy bucket full of water. So now I had my little red bucket and another larger bucket of water. I entered the outhouse and nearly threw up. Oh fuck, this can’t be happening to me. The toilet pan was level with the floor — a squatter. It had a very small drain hole and two foot pads on either side. I’d used a squatter before and was not generally bothered by them. I’d even used a few long-drops in my time, but I’d never used something as disgusting and repulsive as this. The walls were covered in shit stains and there appeared to be about three years of skid marks in the bowl. It was absolutely horrendous. I lifted my sarong and lowered my jocks making sure neither touched the floor. Then I placed my feet on the footpads and slowly lowered myself making sure I didn’t lose my balance or touch anything. I tried to line myself up with the previous years of leftovers while trying not to look down. When I was done I had to work out how to use the red bucket water as toilet paper. Let me say, the result was a bloody disaster and I ended up with more on me than in the bowl, and had to use half the water from the filthy bucket to finish the job. Why me? When I thought I was done I slowly rose and lifted my jocks to a very wet bum then used the rest of the filthy bucket water to flush. I had no choice but to touch the spit-covered door to get out, but was grateful another prisoner pumped water for me to thoroughly wash my hands and arms. There must have been an easier way to do this, but I certainly wasn’t asking for tips — I’d work it out myself. I made doubly sure I separated the red bucket from my blue washing bucket.