class of nine-year-old boys watched in stunned silence while Norman tearfully did as he was told. Then Brother presumably came to his senses and suddenly said, âAll right, that will do, go back to your place â¦â which Norman did, adjusting his clothes as he shuffled back to his desk, soon resuming his usual sunny smile and getting on with his day. I can still recall my own fascination at the scene, a vague feeling of guilt that I was enjoying something that was wrong, and my disappointment that Norman never actually did bare his backside for the beating. I now wonder whether this had been for me the first awakening of sexual arousal and even of an interest in mild S and M?
In Grade Five I was taught by a much younger Brother Matthew, whom I quickly grew to admire as an interesting teacher ⦠and a handsome young man. Brother Matthew placed great emphasis on reading, and while others in the class may have still been struggling to acquire the skill, I was already at the stage of reading easily and for enjoyment. Brother often read to us, as well as requiring individual pupils to read aloud to the class, and I can still remember his calm, deep voice and the delight of hearing its changing shades in his expressive storytelling. Brother Matthew introduced us to poetry, too, and again showed us how the sounds of the words and the rhythm of the lines could be as interesting as the meaning of the poem. He read Longfellowâs âHiawathaâ to us and we (or at least I and some of the class) delighted in learning off by heart great slabs of it and of other similarly musical poems, A. B. Pattersonâs âThe Man from Snowy Riverâ among them.
At home we children had already been introduced to the excitement of books, and parents and visitors were regularly beseeched to read bedtime stories to us in return for our going to bed early (around 7.30 p.m.) when we knew the adults were just starting to relax over a long, leisurely dinner or game of cards or round of drinks with friends. I remember C. J. Dennis being a very popular writer with my sister and me, and how we would badger someone like our Aunt Nell to âread it againâ when she had got to the end of the story/poem in the expectation/hope that we would have fallen asleep. Other bedtime favourites were Enid Blytonâs
The Green Goblin Book
, Phyllis Morrisâs
Willy and Nilly
and, strangely perhaps, Heinrich Hoffmanâs
Struwwelpeter
with the original illustrations. Hoffmanâs unforgettable cautionary tales would nowadays probably be considered too gruesome for young children (who would nonetheless be exposed to television clips and video games showing all manner of far more gruesome suffering, death and destruction, fact and fiction, around the world). But I think that in Grade Five, Brother Matthew consolidated my interest in words and reading, and showed me how reading was the key to learning, to enjoying living and even to being happy.
I was not at all happy, however, when my father decided that as from Grade Six, I should transfer to attend the nearest school run by the Irish Christian Brothers (who had taught him in Ballarat), namely, St Kevinâs College in Toorak. My younger brother had just completed Grade Two at Kilbreda, travelling down to Mentone with me on the bus. The new plan was that he would travel with me each day to school in Toorak, and as St Kevinâs did not offer Grade Three, he had to âjumpâ a year and start in Grade Four. We started off together in the 1945 school year, catching the train and then the bus from the station to the college, then located at the corner of Orrong Road and St Georgeâs Road. (In later years, these buildings were demolished and a new college was built on land near the playing fields in Moonga Road.)
Two years earlier had seen my sister change school, from Kilbreda Convent in Mentone to âMaryâs Mountâ in Ballarat, which she attended as a
In Grade Five I was taught by a much younger Brother Matthew, whom I quickly grew to admire as an interesting teacher ⦠and a handsome young man. Brother Matthew placed great emphasis on reading, and while others in the class may have still been struggling to acquire the skill, I was already at the stage of reading easily and for enjoyment. Brother often read to us, as well as requiring individual pupils to read aloud to the class, and I can still remember his calm, deep voice and the delight of hearing its changing shades in his expressive storytelling. Brother Matthew introduced us to poetry, too, and again showed us how the sounds of the words and the rhythm of the lines could be as interesting as the meaning of the poem. He read Longfellowâs âHiawathaâ to us and we (or at least I and some of the class) delighted in learning off by heart great slabs of it and of other similarly musical poems, A. B. Pattersonâs âThe Man from Snowy Riverâ among them.
At home we children had already been introduced to the excitement of books, and parents and visitors were regularly beseeched to read bedtime stories to us in return for our going to bed early (around 7.30 p.m.) when we knew the adults were just starting to relax over a long, leisurely dinner or game of cards or round of drinks with friends. I remember C. J. Dennis being a very popular writer with my sister and me, and how we would badger someone like our Aunt Nell to âread it againâ when she had got to the end of the story/poem in the expectation/hope that we would have fallen asleep. Other bedtime favourites were Enid Blytonâs
The Green Goblin Book
, Phyllis Morrisâs
Willy and Nilly
and, strangely perhaps, Heinrich Hoffmanâs
Struwwelpeter
with the original illustrations. Hoffmanâs unforgettable cautionary tales would nowadays probably be considered too gruesome for young children (who would nonetheless be exposed to television clips and video games showing all manner of far more gruesome suffering, death and destruction, fact and fiction, around the world). But I think that in Grade Five, Brother Matthew consolidated my interest in words and reading, and showed me how reading was the key to learning, to enjoying living and even to being happy.
I was not at all happy, however, when my father decided that as from Grade Six, I should transfer to attend the nearest school run by the Irish Christian Brothers (who had taught him in Ballarat), namely, St Kevinâs College in Toorak. My younger brother had just completed Grade Two at Kilbreda, travelling down to Mentone with me on the bus. The new plan was that he would travel with me each day to school in Toorak, and as St Kevinâs did not offer Grade Three, he had to âjumpâ a year and start in Grade Four. We started off together in the 1945 school year, catching the train and then the bus from the station to the college, then located at the corner of Orrong Road and St Georgeâs Road. (In later years, these buildings were demolished and a new college was built on land near the playing fields in Moonga Road.)
Two years earlier had seen my sister change school, from Kilbreda Convent in Mentone to âMaryâs Mountâ in Ballarat, which she attended as a
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