ORPHANAGE DAYS. 

(Furphy Short Story Winner)

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Why is there a tag tied to Mummy’s toe?

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“Say goodbye to your Mum” said Dad, as he lifted me up to see her for the last time. 

 

I do not why our father has left us here.  My brothers, Harold aged four, Joe only eighteen months and myself, Betty just turned six, deserted with no explanation.  Enrico has now quickly driven away.  Leaving us in the care of Catholic Nuns.  

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Dad had become very disillusioned.  After immigrating from his home country of Italy to Australia, his young wife became ill with Tuberculosis.  She struggled with this disease for nearly two years before passing away.  Enrico is left as the sole carer for his children. 

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His livelihood, the orchard, relies heavily on him being available for work during the seasons.  Three children are impossible for him to cope with.  Francesca, his wife’s youngest sister, who had arrived from Italy to look after his progeny when she was just turning fourteen, quickly packed her belongings.  Her parents have dictated she return home due to her young age, despite her much older brother-in-law’s proposal of marriage.  

 

This is a huge, scary building, high ceilings and bare floorboards. The room we are waiting in looks like a lion’s den.  My brothers and I are still grieving for Mamma, even after her years in hospital. 

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We have not been told why we are at this Orphanage, nor that we will be staying for many years. Together geographically, but with girls separated from boys.  

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It is lonely after such a close family life at the orchard.

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A day after our arrival, I am escorted by the Nun’s to the boys’ bathroom.  Tiny Joe, my sweet, shy little baby brother, is standing forlornly hiding in the corner and the Nuns cannot entice him out.  When I say his name, Joe mutely turns around; arms raised, and toddles sadly to me for what is to be a brief cuddle and comfort.  He is then pulled from my embrace and taken, sobbing, to the boys’ building. 

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I overhear the Nuns commenting in disgust; “He is younger than his father said; he cannot be over two years old” 

Harold is luckily, a more resilient and self possessed child, and refuses to outwardly show any emotions.  I also attempt to hide my true feelings. What use will it be to cry openly, it will not change anything, and the Nuns dislike shows of emotion.  

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Our custodians are aware of Mums’ cause of death.  My siblings and I, promptly put out on open air verandas to sleep.  This is presumably to prevent the contagious disease, TB, from spreading.  

A few of weeks after arriving, I feel very unwell, but do not mention this.  One Nun notices and asks how I am; “I’m OK” I reply, not caring that I am sick. “I think you are very ill” was the Nuns’ retort. The Doctor is called, and, after he has examined me, I am admitted to hospital with Pneumonia. Sadly, with the Hospital situated inside the orphanage, there is no real change of scenery.   

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Dad visits us for the first time some months later (without warning as is to be his way). I ask him when we would be returning home, he replies; 

“When I find you new Mummy.”  After this, first thing, at every visit I ask; “Have you found us a new Mummy yet?” the answer is always “No…”  Poor Dad, he must dread the inevitable question, to which the reply never alters. 

 

During our time at the orphanage, whilst I previously used to assist in caring for my little brothers, I attempt to continue.  At meal times, I feel the need to secrete, from my own plate, some mashed potato or bread.  Hidden in my hand, I time my exit to ensure that I have to walk alongside my brothers on the way out of the dinner hall.  It is important that I not get caught passing this contribution to one or both of my siblings.  It is, to me, worth the risk.  I don’t want them to go hungry.

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Meal times are strictly silent.  Occasional exceptions to this rule commence with the words, “God be blessed” a signal that quiet chatter is allowed. This treat is usually for one of the Saints Days, Easter and also Christmas.

 

All the children are expected to sleep with the lights on.  We are told to pull the blankets over our heads so the light will not prevent us from falling asleep.  Being claustrophobic, I am compelled to hold the blankets up with my hand, away from my face; terrified that I will not be able to breathe. These heavy, scratchy, grey woollen blankets smothering me.  A frightening situation.  The use of lit dormitories, I believe, is to make it easier for the Nun’s to keep an eye on their charges.

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Christmas at the Orphanage is exciting but also harsh.  Well-meaning Church ladies arrive bearing gifts. We are all given a gender and age appropriate toy.  I clearly remember one such memorable day.  A kindly lady handed me a beautiful, brown haired doll with sky blue eyes; reflecting my own colouring.  I adored this pretty creature.  But by now an experienced orphan, I knew the fate of this gift. With dread, I attempted to hide this already much treasured doll that evening. The only place I had available was under my pillow. I vowed to stay awake all night.  Of course, an impossible task. Being a child, I could not stay alert for the whole evening.  In the morning, my wonderful doll had disappeared.  I am eternally saddened by this cruel disappointment.  

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All the toys that were distributed to the hundreds of orphans, were, after the first day, I saw, placed in a locked front room.  It is believed that the nuns take them and distribute the gifts to their siblings and family, or perhaps other needy children in the Catholic community. 

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Christmas and other visiting times, our father would always bring some ‘hand-me-down’ clothes for us to wear. These possessions will also be taken from us during the night, after Dad has left to return home.  His visits last for up to three days each time. Including Easter and when possible, (during quiet work times at the orchard) on our birthdays. He stays in Bendigo, at a friend’s home. It is suspected that another reason for Enrico’s Easter visits are the big Festivals held in Bendigo, with street parades and celebrations.  He is, it seems, a bit of a womaniser. 

 

Prior to living in Australia, Enrico had suddenly departed from his home village in Italy, accompanied by his new wife, Maria.  Rumours followed of his three fiancées; engaged to him simultaneously. Understandably, the slighted girls’ families were vowing vengeance and retribution. It was safer for the philandering man to leave the country.  Amazingly, his new wife was not one of his original conquests. 

 

This new land was looked forward to with the promise of a better, and surely a safer life. He departed in 1929 on the ship SS Orontes, with his young bride, to share his new life in Australia. It was difficult to adjust to this upheaval, with new language, customs, land and climate.  Isolation from family and friends, another challenge. 

 

The duration of Dad’s orphanage visits are timed to allow for rest and visiting time. After this, the long journey home. It will not be possible for him to return to Orrvale, our home region, on the same day, as it is at least a three hour motor vehicle journey.  

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Elsa and Dante, our beloved older cousins sometimes make the long, arduous journey with our father. We happily spend their visiting time playing and chatting. Harold & Joe also join in.  A fondly anticipated and enjoyed interaction for us.  Sometimes some of Enrico’s friends accompany him, Mrs Brown is remembered, and a man that I only remember as Barocc.  It is understood that Mrs Brown & Barocc were close friends.  This lady has a young son, perhaps around seven years old; there are some photos of these visitors amongst my fathers’ photo albums.

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Dad enjoys photography, with a Brownie Box camera. He uses the bathroom at Orrvale as a dark room to develop his negatives and prints. This also makes his hobby more affordable.  There are black & white images of several orphanage visits. With visitors and inmates, images 

preserved for the future.  All of these photos show us, his children, dressed in our cousin’s out-grown clothes, and in most cases, looking unemotionally at the camera.  There is one particularly moving image.

 Myself aged around eight, with a birthday cake on my knee. Harold sitting patiently on my left side.  A very tiny, four year old Joe, on my other side; rubbing his eyes and crying.  Joe, wanting to eat the cake, not just sit next to it waiting for Dad to take the photo. Impatient for the sweet luxury, which is a rare pleasure.  Interestingly, Joe, as an adult, always had a bought fruit cake in his cupboard. When visitors came, he would slice off a large chunk and proudly share it, accompanied by a cup of coffee.

A happier photo is of Dante, our older cousin, holding my hands & swinging me around, feet lifting off the ground. A game of fun and warmth in my mundane life. 

 

All of the orphans wore a uniform of sorts, drab but ‘serviceable’ brown.  Baggy dresses for the girls. The same colour trousers and shirts for the boys.  These uniforms were handmade. We also wore a hat, with a medium brim, during the summer months. Unusual for that time; an attempt at sun-safe play for the children.

 

When I am able, I closely watch the Nuns whilst they knit.  Inspired, I search the orphanage grounds, when we were let out to play, and select two small, even-sized twigs.  Then, sometimes I am lucky.  A long piece of string, seized with delight.  With these rudimentary items I teach myself to knit a rough, tiny blanket. Miniature sized, to fit a gum nut.  Sometimes I make a small rag doll, fashioned from abandoned material scraps; my improvised baby.  Once, I am excited to find a matchbox and this is used as the baby’s bed.  Sadly, the Nuns find these prized items and remove them, despite my attempts at concealment. It can only be assumed that the Nuns believe any article a child has would cause fights and trouble, therefore to be avoided at all costs.  This confiscation of my treasured knitting does not dull my desire to create, and I spend many hours of my later married life, knitting.  Although this is fuelled by necessity, it is also still an enjoyable, productive pastime. I become an accomplished knitter, despite being mostly self taught. 

 

One day, amazingly, I manage to catch up with Harold and Joe beside the high wire separating fence.  Lovingly I enquire as to how they are and if they are being treated kindly.  The Nuns have spies everywhere and I am hauled in to answer to Mother Superior.  I am in trouble.  

“Why were you talking to those boys? Who were they? What did they say?” to which I replied, confused and defiant; “They are my brothers I just wanted to make sure they are OK.” A black mark against me,  just for caring.

 

All the females in the orphanage, without age discrimination, are put to work.  One chore is wiping dust from the deep, elaborate skirting boards.  These huge boards seemed so overwhelming to me, as a petite six year old, but there was no argument or escaping these tasks.  We also are expected to help in the laundry. I am used to hard work on the orchard at home, but at least we were surrounded by family there.  Here we are alone. 

On Saturdays, whilst the boys are not in their dormitory rooms, there is spring cleaning.  The orphanage girls are brought in, with the cleaners and maids, and we are instructed to strip the sheets off the beds, and then send them the laundry.  We also have turn over the heavy kapok mattresses.  The heavy legs of the cast iron beds are clumsily lifted up and put into a tin of a phenyl solution bath. This is to deter bed bugs and lice. 

 

It is now understood that part of St Aidans Orphanage was used to house girls of ‘loose morals’. Young ladies who, had (shamefully) become pregnant, without the protection of marriage.  These unfortunate girls are hidden away until their child is born and then the baby is taken from them.  The ‘fallen girls’ are also put to work in the laundry, as well as contributing to the general cleaning and sewing.  It is these young females who sew the orphans’ clothes.  

Weekly we are, whilst having our hair combed, checked for head lice.  All the orphanage children are given the basic needs of the young, but without emotional support or love.  

 

School classes are combined with the boys, the Nuns as teachers.       But always kept as far apart as necessary, for all the girl’s ‘safety’.  Reading, writing and arithmetic the mainstays of our education.

Of course, despite being in the same large room, no interaction is allowed between the girls and boys, so I am unable to converse with my brothers. 

 

Play time between midday and one o’clock, after lunch, is also segregated.  The ever present Nuns suspiciously supervising.  

 

Hand basins are provided for children to clean ourselves daily with a wet soapy flannel. We are expected to wash our face, armpits, neck, and ‘down there.’ 

A luxury is the weekly bath, but always with shared bathwater. 

 

A dentist has arrived to check our teeth.  He tells me that I have very good, beautifully even teeth and I am to look after them. The kindly dentist presented me with a shiny new toothbrush.  This I proudly stored at my hand basin, in a hole provided, but it does not last long. Being right near the door, it is soon stolen.  Although the other children have toothbrushes, they are mostly old and a new one is obviously too much of a temptation.  

 

Harold, who is taller than most of the boys his age, and quite muscular, has been given the job of walking to the impressive, large main double wrought iron gates of the orphanage to collect the mail. He does this, accompanied by my friend, Noelene, a much older girl.  It is a long walk, but considered a privilege.  An older girl reports to me that my oldest brother is a huge challenge for the Nuns to control.  This rebellious middle child has built a cubby in one of the trees at the back of the orphanage grounds. One Priest had been ordered to demolish it.  Harold realised what was about to happen, and kicked him fiercely in the shins.  He later relayed to me that the man was in tears after this assault.  I know that Harold’s cubby had remained in place until after we had left the orphanage. No-one was brave enough to once again attempt to demolish Harold’s pride and joy, and thus face the wrath of this aggressive boy.  A small triumph for this mostly deprived child.

 

Near the end of our stay, one particular Mother Superior enforced strict rules.  If a child did not eat any food dished out, it was put away and returned for consumption until it waseaten.  Even if it was eventually mouldy.  

After returning to Orrvale, whilst in a corner shop in Knight Street, near St Brendan’s Church Shepparton, I was discussing the uneaten food issue with another returned orphan.  Unbeknownst to the girl and I, an influential lady in the Catholic Church is within hearing. This lady passed the unpalatable truth on to the authorities and that particular Mother Superior was replaced.  From then on, we heard, the food improved for the orphans. 

 

Enrico took us back to the orphanage for a visit after our return home.  Presumably, there was another Festival in Bendigo, or he wanted to visit friends. I had learnt that you did not argue or question my father.   I was confronted by the Nuns. “Why didn’t you keep your mouth shut?” “You got us into trouble!” and “Are you pregnant?”  This last question was barely understood; I was aged around 12, confused, embarrassed and demeaned by this confrontation.  I couldn’t wait to leave. Not that  I had wanted to return anyway.

 

My brothers didn’t speak about their time at St Aidan’s Orphanage. 

They never talked about things they did not like. Although, I don’t think anyone asked, as was the way in those days.  

The subject was not discussed, and I certainly didn’t want to be reminded of that gloomy time in my life either. 

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MARGARET GUPPY