Boys were segregated
from girls
in the State School
classrooms
of the thiries.
From my desk
I could see the face
and braided hair
of a pretty girl
I would never meet.
Because she seemed
quarantined
romance for me
has lived alone
since then.
The secret intimacies
of girls
contrasted with
the rough comradeship
between boys.
Sometimes
we’d approach
the Catholic school nearby
before panicking
and scampering away.
In the forties
at about age fifteen
the sexes
began hesitantly
to mingle and socialise.
Dances were popular
on Saturday nights
with live bands
playing modern waltzes
and slow foxtrots.
The girls wearing gowns
sat together
the boys in suits
loitered and hovered
watching coverly.
Sex was expressed
on toilet walls
with lewd invitations
and crude
obscene sketches.
Dirty jokes
were intimately told
salaciously
to titters
and appreciative guffaws.
Masturbation
or ‘pulling yourself’
was supposed
to cause an elongated penis
and a lingering death.
Miss Inglefinger
exhorted us to love God
have faith
pray to Jesus
or we’d go to hell.
I stole
my first cigarette
from my mother’s
wartime ration
and smoked it up a tree.
In the mornings
I’d shine my shoes
put on a suit
cap, school tie
and carry a Gladstone bag.
Trains then
had guard’s vans
1st & 2nd class
compartments for smokers
and non-smokers.
At Scotch
I’d share a smoke
with Barry and Garry
behind a shed
beside the riverbank.
Cigarettes
were the currency
of courtesy
like shaking hands
or discussing the weather.
One lunchtime
I saw the dead, pale face
and body of a woman
floating in the river
near the boat-ramp.
I had seen
the emptiness of death
and the antithesis
of my secure
inviolate life.
World War 2
was as real to me
as books of adventure
and the games
we played.
On Friday nights
I’d meet
Barry Margetts
and walk
to the Regent Theatre.
We’d arrive early
to see the serial
the cartoons
and Movietone News
before the B feature.
At interval
we’d smoke a cigarette
in the foyer
before returning
to our seats in the lounge.
Enraptured
we’d share chocolates
while watching
the main feature
in black and white.
Among the best
were The Maltese Falcon
with Bogart
Double Indemnity
and The Wages of Fear.
Sundays
were days of rest
ennui and nothingness
with roasts for lunch
and lawns to mow.
Everything closed
when hymns of praise
topped the hit parade
and Sunday sermons
died on Monday.
Sometimes
we’d drive to Mornington
visit grandpa and
grandma
and stay for tea.
In summer we’d walk
down Barkly Street
to Fisherman’s Beach
for a swim
then lie in the sun.
I can smell the salt
and feel the sand
between my toes
and the surging cold
diving under.
