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.

One 'Our Father' a small price to pay

My education was steeped in Catholicity. 

I started at Saint Brigids in West Perth, continued at the Brigidine Convent in Wembley under the nuns. In late primary I became a student of the Marist Brothers at Saint Joseph's College in Salvado rd, Subiaco.

oOo

A part of the ‘Marist’ or ‘Marian’ ethos was to care for and educate boys who were less well off. Private Catholic schools were less well off than other private schools and they charged lower fees. And Marist Brothers Subiaco was at the lower end of all the Catholic Schools. So the Brothers thought up novel ways to save money.

That's me with my best mate Peter in our Marist footy jumpers

At Assembly one morning in 1955 the Brothers announced a building project – to build a new brick shelter shed and incinerator. But with a  difference. The Brothers also announced that they would grant a half-day holiday as a prize for the class that donated the most bricks. Wow, a half day holiday! Our Year Six class was highly motivated and I was particularly determined that our class should win the prize.

Luckily, where I lived was near the Wembley/Floreat Park boundary and there were a lot of new houses being built. Therefore there was a plentiful supply of new building materials. 

The big challenge was to transport clay bricks one and a half miles along Cambridge Street and up the hill to Marist Brothers, Subiaco. We called our hill trolleys into service. 

Each weekend we visited new building sites, loaded our hill trolleys with new bricks and pushed them to St Joseph’s Marist Brothers in Salvado Road. The Year Six pile was starting to take shape. Each Saturday we made two trips and on Sunday after Mass we made another trip. The Year Six stack was in the lead. 

As the competition neared its final phase, we started to do after-school runs as well. The Year Six brick assembly was the biggest and best of all! Year Six won the half day holiday and the shelter shed and incinerator was constructed from a mixed bag of bricks with the help of volunteer dads.

Then it was time for confession in the Catholic tradition.

'Bless me Father for I have sinned. It is three weeks since my last confession.

'Yes, my son and what sins do you have to confess.

‘I’ve been stealing, father’

‘My son, you’ve heard of the seventh commandment “Thou shalt not steal’?

‘Yes Father’

‘And what did ye steal, my boy’

‘I stole bricks, father’

‘Bricks?’ enquired the priest

‘Yes father’

‘How many bricks?’

‘Two hundred and thirty-six, but I had help’ I replied

There was a lengthy pause and an audible intake of air from the other side of the purple curtain.

‘And what did ye do with the bricks my son?’ he asked cautiously

‘We took them to school to build a shelter shed’ I said.

Silence

‘Now my son, stealing is against God’s law ...................... lengthy pause .............. but this was more like a donation than stealing as such. Isn’t that right, me boy?’

‘Yes father’

‘For your penance say one Our Father’

‘Yes Father’

A small price to pay for a half day holiday and a new shelter shed.

Down Memory Lane - The Hill Trolleys

Out of the history book - one of the very first photos I ever took in my life circa 1953 (yse 60 years ago).
In our backyard at No 2 Marlow St Wembley our pride and joy our hill trolleys. My mate Peter and I built them and terrorised neighbours by ploughing through their garden beds and racing them down Reabold Hill against the traffic.

In the backyard is our cubby house built by my Pop (grandad). You can see the chookyard and lemon tree in the background. Over the back fence is the Brigidine Convent where I attended school for three years with the Brigidine nuns. I still remember getting bthe 'long cane' from head nun, Mother Joan for letting down the tyres on Terry and Brian Burke's tyres. Some might say I should have let down more than their tyres but I would never say that.

You may have noticed the photo is not all that sharp; the main reason for this was I was perched atop a six foot step ladder balanced on the thick couch lawn to get a better view. Things were shaky and I am not all that great with heights. About that shadow; all I can say is it wasn't there when I pressed the shutter on my Pop's Brownie 620.