Ch 17 Wally and Corrigin

Wally and Corrigin

My closest mate at Marist Brothers was Graham Walden. Everyone called him ‘Wally’. And Wally always called me ‘Duck’. Wally and Duck. We were closer than brothers. We shared intimate secrets, aspirations, and thoughts. 

Wally’s family lived in Corrigin, a small wheat and sheep town in the wheat belt about four hour’s drive east of Perth. Wally and his pretty, younger sister Rhonda boarded with their Grandmother and Aunty Nance at No 28 Pangbourne St in Wembley, about half a mile away. If there was mischief to be had, Wally and I were usually front row contenders.

Wally and Rhonda would travel back to Corrigin about once a month to see their Mum and Dad, Joan and George. Two or three times a year Wally invited me to spend a weekend in Corrigin. The Friday night drives from Wembley to Corrigin were the most hair-raising, adrenalin-pumping experiences of my motoring life.

Wally’s father George was Corrigin’s local Holden dealer and also raced speed cars. He raced TQ’s at Claremont Speedway and had hotted up his FC Holden to the nth degree. The six-cylinder engine had been re-bored and rebuilt with oversized pots and triple carburettors. I had never heard an engine with so many horses under the bonnet. The high-pitched revving of the engine, the front spotlights searching the night for roos and George angling for the best line on each white-posted bend was a million times scarier than the octopus at the Royal Show. 

It seemed to me that we flirted with death on each tyre-squealing corner as the car powered from side-to-side and engine revs changed up from high revs to a gut-wrenching power-whinny.

The bonuses were that George compressed a four-hour journey into two and a half hours and Rhonda’s arms and legs pressed into mine as we rounded the sharpest bends. On the downside, I was taking enormous risks as I was almost certainly in a state of mortal sin. But so was Wally. Surely, God wouldn’t take us both at once. But I did reflect on things and secretly wished I had gone to confession!

Corrigin life was different to Perth life. Wally associated with some nefarious country lads who were into all sorts of mischief and mayhem. My initiation into Corrigin country life was everything and more for a Boys Own Annual. It was so far removed from my urban Catholic upbringing; it was simply another world; and far, far away from the clutches of my Mum and Dad and the Church. 

Dudley Bradshaw was a power broker, butcher, and local ringleader.  He was the mid-west mafia chief-in-waiting. Dudley led a gang of youths who intimidated and terrorised assorted locals, in particular the deli cum milk bar owner, Nikos. Nikos was Greek or middle eastern or something. He was simply a New Australian. We’d swagger into Nick’s deli trailing behind Duds, order milkshakes, drink them and leave without paying, laughing down the street.

Sometimes we’d add sugar to the salt or vica-versa. We smoked cigarettes, drank beer and had secret bush barbecues with the fillet steak we had ‘borrowed’ from Dudley’s father’s butcher shop. Deep inside me I knew it was wrong, but everyone did it. I went with the flow.

The Corrigin lads introduced me to a country girl named Shirley.  Dudley and Wally told me ‘Shirl’ was a bit of a goer. That was of little reassurance. First I didn’t know what a ‘goer’ was.  More importantly I had absolutely no idea where the ‘go’ button was located.

Shirley was petite with an olive complexion and straight dark hair. She was one of those salt-of-the-earth, relaxed, everyday country girls. What you saw was what you got. She had large brown eyes and a warm, welcoming smile. Shirley was the seventh of eight children. Catholic or non-Catholic I liked her.

Shirley and I hung out together when the Corrigin lads had their sheilas on their arms. As a bonus I discovered that Shirley knew how to kiss. I suspected it wasn’t her first time. She was spontaneous and genuine in her affection. After several visits to Corrigin I received a letter with a photo from Shirley in her school uniform and white blouse. She had a beaming smile. ‘To Dale, love Shirley’ was written on the back.

But Shirley was not a Catholic. I had just kissed my first non-Catholic girl.

Bless me Father for I have sinned, it is four weeks since my last confession, I started

Yes, my son, and what are your sins, Father responded

I missed mass on Sunday, ate meat on Friday twice, told lies to my parents once and committed the sin of self-abuse four times. I rattled it off in a matter of fact way.

Why did you miss Sunday Mass, Father asked

I was in the country and was too far from church, I lied.

The reason I had missed mass was because I would have lost face in the eyes of my Protestant Corrigin mates

Have you anything else to confess, my son, came the reply.

Yes Father. I kissed a girl.

Oh well, that's not too serious unless it went further.

Pause

Ah, did it go any further? Father asked hopefully.

No Father

Pause

But, ah, she's not a Catholic, she's a Protestant

I heard Father Brosnan take a deep breath and shuffle his boots.

What are you saying? A Protestant girl? That's far more serious. You know you are on a slippery slope to sin, my son. Why in heavens did you kiss a Protestant girl?

I thought for a moment. I decided to tell the truth.

Because she kisses much better than Catholic girls.

There was a long pause and several snorts of indignation.

You kissed a Protestant? Father queried firmly

Yes, I replied

WHERE did you kiss her? he asked
At the back of the Town Hall I answered
No, No. Where on her body did you kiss this Protestant?
pause

I thought that was a ridiculous question. Where on earth would you kiss a girl but on her lips

On her lips, I said cautiously.

Silence reigned.

I was still pondering Father Brosnan’s ridiculous question. Where else could you kiss a girl, I thought.

Father Brosnan resumed his inquisition.

My son, you are on a dangerous path associating with Protestants. You never know where a kiss from a Protestant can lead.

Yes Father, I said

For your Penance say the Rosary …. Twice --- and make a donation to the Poor Box.

Yes father, I said contritely.

ps Next year I heard that Shirley had become pregnant. The Corrigin mafia were tight lipped about the identity of the father. I never saw Shirley again.

Beneath the Southern Cross

26. Beneath the Southern Cross

It was December 1961. Every year the West Australian and Daily News newspapers took on two new cadet photographers. I had been watching for the ads and when they never appeared I wrote to the newspaper and asked when they would advertise. They wrote back saying that due to a financial cutback they weren’t taking on any new staff. Suddenly my world looked empty and I needed an alternative.

I checked out all the advertisements and started applying for jobs. I applied to the WA Government Railways, Royal Globe Insurance, several banks, Southern Cross machinery and the Education Department.  I gained interviews for all these jobs and received offers from most. I was offered the position of a junior clerk at the Wyalkatchem Railway Station, a trainee bank officer with the Commonwealth Bank, another with Royal Globe Insurance. I was hesitating, unsure and procrastinating.

Then I attended the most bewildering interview of my life. It was for the position of trainee windmill salesman with Southern Cross Machinery. The factory and administration buildings were  non-descript, corrugated iron buildings alongside a railway line in Welshpool. Mr Savage was the manager; Savage by name and nature!  A tallish, mid-weight ‘suit’ in his forties he greeted me in a friendly professional manner. He told me that he had some ‘tests’ for me. That was a surprise – I expected an interview or chat. Mr Savage started by reading a list of about nine digits like 5, 7, 1, 0, 6, 1, 4, 8, 9.  He then smiled at me and asked me to repeat the numbers! I had a shot but missed by one or two.

That was just the warm-up. Then came the big one! With a glint in his eye, Mr Savage took a single sheet of quarto paper and folded it about six times until it was a small rectangle. I was confused. He then removed a pair of scissors from his top drawer and cut a series of dolls or paper pattern from the rectangle. I was more confused than ever. Mr Savage then handed me a second blank sheet of paper and a pencil. I could see he was enjoying this.

‘I want you to draw the pattern that will appear when I unwrap my sheet of paper’

(What? Holy hell!)

I had no idea at all what the resulting pattern would look like. But I had a go and drew a pattern on the paper.

Savage unwrapped his pattern and it bore no resemblance whatsoever to my drawing.

Finally Mr Savage looked at me thoughtfully.

‘What’s your appetite like?’

‘Good, really good’ thinking I was to be offered coffee and cake

‘For work’, he continued

‘You can start on Monday.’

I was shocked. I thought ‘What did the other applicant’s drawings look like!’

So I had a job. I was to be trained as a windmill salesman but I started as an assistant in administration – mainly opening the mail and sorting some simple accounts. Each day I caught buses and trains from Wembley to Welshpool in stifling heat wearing a shirt and tie.  

It was stinking hot in mid-summer and I had to wear a shirt and tie. They didn’t tell me that a trainee windmill salesman started off by opening mail, filing invoices and making the morning tea! Making the morning tea was the worst. The office staff were mainly young women in their twenties. Each morning I had to buy milk and cakes from a delicatessen on the other side of the railway line about half a mile away. So while the office girls sat around and gossiped I trekked daily to the deli and back. Then I made tea and coffee for the office staff. I soon tired of this job and decided on a plan. Next day I dropped a bottle of milk on the railway line and they went short. The office girls weren’t impressed. Two days later I squashed all the cakes. The day after that I was relieved of morning tea duties.

Southern Cross Machinery sold black polypropylene pipe for water pipes on farms. One morning I opened a letter from a farmer complaining that termites had eaten the pipe. Mr Savage wrote to the farmer telling him he was wrong; it was impossible that termites could eat poly pipe. A week later I opened a package from the same farmer. Inside was a three-inch section of black poly pipe aerated with holes and complete with half a dozen live and running termites. The note inside said ‘Just to prove a point’.

For six weeks I continued opening the mail, filing the invoices and putting up with the female jibes. I felt I was harnessed to a desk job and I wanted to be outside and not wearing a shirt and tie. One Thursday I arrived home hot and tired and Mum handed me an official looking envelope. The letter was an acceptance from the Education Department to train as a teacher. I was so relieved and happy. I thought anything would be better than Southern Cross. My mind was made up in an instant. I would give my notice to the ‘Savage One’ the following day.

Just after lunch on the Friday I gingerly approached Mr Savage’s office and knocked. He looked up momentarily from his paperwork.

‘Yes, what is it?’

I was very nervous. My voice faltered.

‘I just wanted to tell you that I am leaving and giving a week’s notice’

He was silent for a second or two. I could hear my heart beating.  His jaw dropped. Oh, shit, I thought. Maybe my heart wouldn’t be beating much longer. He looked as though someone had just run over his dog or his mother-in-law had come to stay.

Then he stood up. His face looked as though it was going to ignite.

‘That’s a fine bloody thing to do to me.’ His voice rising.

‘And just what are you planning to do?’

‘I’m going to go to Teachers College; I’m going to be a teacher’

Then he went crazy.

‘We selected you from all the applicants! We trained you! We’ve given you a good job. You’re just bloody ungrateful. Good riddance to bad rubbish.’

He slammed his fist down several times on his desk.

‘GET OUT OF MY OFFICE! GET OUT!’

I backed out of the office not daring to turn my back on the raging bull. As I did so I caught the eyes of some of the office girls. They had heard the commotion but didn’t understand what it was about. And I didn’t tell them. But for the remainder of the afternoon they were whispering and sniggering to each other and giving me suspicious looks.

My last week at Southern Cross moved like treacle in winter. I counted the days, the hours and the minutes. I did my work and spoke only if spoken to. Gradually, the office girls found out I was leaving. They said little or nothing to me. On my last day I braced myself for any last minute altercations. Mid afternoon one of the senior girls came to me.

‘Mr Savage wants to see you in his office.’

Dam. I hadn’t seen Savage all week and was hoping to depart without any further ill will. But I had to front up to him.

I went to his office and knocked. Mr Savage invited me in and asked me to sit down. We looked at each other. I had prepared myself for a final tirade. But it didn’t arrive.

His voice was measured. He was restrained and composed, but not happy.

‘Sorry about what I said last Friday. Its just that I was expecting you to stay’

‘That’s OK’ I tried a smile but my face was frozen.

‘Look’, he hesitated

‘You were doing quite well here and the girls in the office liked you’

I thought he was wrong on both counts but I wasn’t going to argue with him while I was on a winning streak.

‘Thank you Sir’

‘And one more thing’

Savage looked me in the eye.

 ‘If it doesn’t work out for you at teacher’s College, Southern Cross has a job waiting for you here anytime in the next six months.’

You could have knocked me over with a feather.

The guy with the paper dolls had a heart after all. A savage one. But a heart.

I shook his hand and bid him good day.

Treat me nice
Treat me good
Treat me like you really should
'Cause I'm not made of wood
And I don't have a wooden heart

I went back to my desk and packed my bag and said goodbye to the office girls. I walked in a dream cloud to the station. As the train pulled I bid farewell to windmills, office girls and the savage one. Forever.  I could feel a hidden rhythm stirring in my body. Sharp sunlight splintered on the faces of the passengers at 24 frames a second; snapshots of their faces; where was my camera?  There were so many miles to go before I die. Miles filled with choices. Miles with adventure. Miles with crossroads. I had just reached a crossroad and made a choice. My eyes closed and I drifted and sailed.

I saw her gentle, fine face.

She was part of me and I was part of her.

Wherever we may travel.

Whatever we may go through.

The Check-Up by Dale Neill

Dr Richardson stretched her tape around Toby O’Leary’s girth.

‘106 cms.’

She checked her notes from a month before. 

‘That’s 2 cms less. Well done.’

It had been a year of monthy visits to his new doctor. Suffering from middle-aged spread, elevated blood pressure and a frozen shoulder Toby had decided it was time to do something about it. In his youthful years Toby had cut quite a dashing figure, swimming every morning at the beach and playing pennant tennis during the season. He had risen to the lofty heights as Curator of Visual Communications at the WA Art Gallery. 

But at 51 years of age Toby was no longer a dashing figure. His marriage was predictable for two academics. The pressures of work, family and responsibilities had ground him down. He was over-anxious, drinking too much and had let his body go. Toby was a typical middle-aged mishap.

Dr Kate Richardson had been recommended by a friend as someone who was thorough, pro-active and took her time. She took her job seriously. She had started by ordering series of blood tests for Toby. High blood pressure and elevated cholesterol required Toby to take medication to treat the immediate issue. However, Dr Richardson recommended a change of diet, regular exercise and monthly visits to bring about a change in lifestyle.

At first Toby was more than a little nervous about visiting a female doctor. ‘What if she asked personal questions or wanted to do a digital examination’ he thought.  But gradually Toby started to relax during the monthly visits. He realized Dr Richardson was a professional and genuinely concerned in his long term welfare. Her soft gentle appearance belied her tough approach. Twice now she had delivered a ‘shape up or ship out’ mini lecture to Toby. ‘No more than one drink a day, that’s it’ she said, and ‘I’m measuring your tummy and blood pressure on every visit’. But she always said it with a smile.

Dr Richardson herself set a good example. She was slim, believed in natural methods and self healing. Despite being in an up market medical centre Dr Richardson looked more like a child care worker. She mostly wore modest t shirts and skirt or soft pants. She wore little or no make-up and was quite unremarkable except for her bee-stung lips. Her lawyer husband referred to them as ‘Mick Jagger’ lips. Dr Richardson and her husband were diametric opposites. Her husband Silas was the sharpest dressed lawyer from the right end of The Terrace.  Cardin suits, bow ties and dark cravats for after hours were all part of Silas' $5,000 a day image. He was a performer first and lawyer second. 

‘Sorry I’m running late’ Dr Richardson greeted Toby at the surgery door. ‘It’s been a busy morning’. She said the same thing every time. 

This was visit No 12; it had been a year since Toby started visiting Dr Richardson. He had lost 6 kg and his waist had trimmed by 5 cms. Dr Richardson was reasonably pleased. Toby was even more pleased. He had even bought new jeans for his slimmer waist.

Dr Richardson checked her computer screen for an update on his blood tests. All seemed good.

‘Relax, really relax while I take your blood pressure’. Toby did his best to relax. He was getting better at it but there was something about Dr Richardson that meant he could not quite relax. A certain unexplained tension.

‘’130 over 85, that’s looking better Toby’ she smiled.

‘Ok, shirt off and lay down on the bench’ she instructed.

She pored over Toby’s chest, stethoscope in her ears listening intently to his heartbeat. She placed the sensor on his upper right chest then his left. She noted quietly that every fourth heartbeat seemed 'flat'.

‘Take a deep breath’ she said ‘And again’.

They made fleeting eye contact.

Dr Richardson removed the stethoscope.

‘Its not working properly, someone else has used it I think.

‘Lay still and relax’ she said, and she placed her right ear on Toby’s chest and listened. She moved her face closer to his. Their eyes met again. Dr Richardson's face was close, warm and inviting. Toby arched his head up to kiss her lips. Her eyes closed and her lips parted slightly. As their lips met there was warm, blissful silence. The kiss was long and soft and sensuous. Toby had never tasted a mouth so soft and sensuous before. As their lips parted Dr Richardson moved her head back just a little and smiled

‘And about time too’ she whispered through a half-smile.

Dr Richardson was excited about showing Toby her minimalist design house, festooned with original art works. Her husband was neither surprised nor upset by her announcement that she was leaving him to be with Toby. But for Toby, his mind was racing. The colour and speed was whirling in his mind. That first kiss was so powerful, so sensuous. It had changed his life. A dream come true. Telling his wife had been difficult. She was possessive and vindictive and threw his belongings on the footpath in front of the art gallery where he worked. He had been humiliated but it was worth it.

The flurry of colour, exuberance and sensuality was overpowering. As the mist slowly cleared, Toby slowly focused on two nurses standing above him. ‘Welcome back Mr O’Leary, how are you feeling?

‘Uh, Ok’ he said.

Toby scanned his hospital room. He wasn't connected to any wires or tubes. There were no electronic monitors. Where was he? What had happened?

A second nurse smiled  

‘Dr Richardson will be here to see you soon. She’s just gone to get a replacement stethoscope. You’re just feeling the effects of the anaesthetic.’

Toby sipped his cup of tea and layed back mid way between a  state of euphoria and confusion. His head swam with memories or were they simply dreams.

Dr Richardson bounced into his room five minutes later. Every tome she walked it was with energy and bounce.  ‘How are we feeling now?’ she asked, smiling. 

‘I’m fine. I feel good'

What did you give me?’ Toby asked.

‘That’s the effects of the anaesthetic. You’ll be a little light headed for 24 hours. We gave you some midazolam. It’s a good anesthetic but you shouldn’t drive or make any major decisions for 24 hours. Midazolam has two side effects – a feeling of floating and euphoria and amnesia. You aren’t able to recall the procedure. Other than you’ll be fine and I’ll see you in a  month.’ She patted his shoulder, turned and left the room.

Toby’s wife drove him home. He was feeling melancholy - light headed and with warm feeling after his colonoscopy. He was confused. Thank God it was all just a dream. 

Toby went to the toilet and peed. He washed hands and glanced up into the mirror. He looked a little drawn but otherwise relaxed. Not bad for a 51 year old he thought. He put his hands up to his face, rubbed his eyes, then his mouth with his fingers. He looked down. It was then he noticed a smudge of lipstick on the inside of his index finger. His fourth heartbeat felt normal.

‘I was born when you kissed me

I died when you left me.

I lived for a few minutes while you loved me’

Get your feet wet with Dale Neill at the University of Western Australia Extension's Summer School of Photography.

Check out the link below for course details. Some of my workshops also include lunch at theUniversity Club.

Click HERE for details.