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.