CHAPTER 13
Speech Night, and The Spirit Of The Muse
You will all be aware,” said Father O’Long at school assembly one Monday morning, “that we are now half-way through the third term. With the end of our school year drawing nigh I would expect you boys to start giving some thoughts to the matter of speech night and your presentations.”
The Gower Abbey College speech night was – despite our location and size – a rather grand affair. And it wasn’t just for people with children at the school. Everyone in the valley looked forward to the occasion. This was their opportunity to get together and meet any newcomers, to talk about stock prices and crop prices and to catch up with all the local gossip around the valley.
We boys were always “encouraged” to exhibit a class project and display elements of our schoolwork. As well we had to perform one major item, a stage production of some sort, usually something selected from the Classics by Father O. and Brother S. We were free to choose and present a play of our own, too, an event which often proved the highlight of the evening. (For us, anyhow.)
I say “free” here, but it wasn’t as if we could pull a rabbit out of a hat on the night. Any item we nominated had to receive Father O’Long’s prior approval.
Most of our suggestions were rejected as being scatter-brained or impractical. Some – such as the one we’d proposed the previous year – were overly ambitious.
“Look boys,” Father had said, “The Phantom And The Pirates Of The Ookamooka would certainly be innovative and exciting. But don’t you think the part … you know, where The Phantom burns the pirate ship to the waterline, then he and Captain Scabbard finish up fighting to the death in the treacherous waters of the Wabanga River and get swept over the Umpopo Falls into the midst of some man-eating crocodiles… Well, don’t you think staging all that might just be a little bit daunting? …given the size of our stage and the resources available to us?”
(Father O’Long was well-versed in the affairs of The Phantom, having amassed over the years an enviable collection of Phantom comics. This was more to do with his tendency to seize any he found rather than their actually being forbidden. As a result we always made sure a couple were left lying about the dormitory – so that any spot-checks were worth his while.
Sometimes he would lend selected pupils copies from his collection, or allow a few of us to read them in the presbytery. At other times he might enquire as to a particular issue or suggest a trade, but this was mostly a one way affair. Rarely did he accept a trading proposition suggested by one of us.)
“No Father sure Father we could do it yeah Father we could wrestle around on the stage and roll over the edge Father and...”
“Well, maybe so. But why not try to find something a little less challenging perhaps. Now then, boys; please pay attention. Brother SanSistez and I are particularly keen for this year’s presentation to be an excerpt from Julius Caesar… (aw no Father gee Father aw gee) ...which you have all been studying. I myself would suggest Caesar’s assassination, and the events leading up to that moment.
“Come on lads; show some enthusiasm. There’s plenty of scope for drama and excitement you know, what with all the stabbing. Make it gory. Get some blood. Go to the kitchen and ask for some tomato sauce. Put it in balloons or something. With a bit of your well-known enterprise I’m sure you could make it quite realistic.”
Eventually a compromise was reached. We agreed to do the murder of Julius Caesar, but the scene on the steps of the Senate would be changed to that of a barbecue on the steps of the Senate. We also guaranteed to do everything leading up to the stabbing in a serious and scholarly fashion.
The climactic scene, however, we were allowed present as we saw fit (provided we followed the text, Caesar met his demise and cap-guns or other anachronisms not be employed).
And it was wonderful. At the appointed time, J. Caesar was stabbed brutally and viciously to death, the senators using the cold pre-cooked sausages secreted about themselves in readiness for the slaughter. Beneath the upper parts of Caesar’s robe front and back were a couple of litres of tomato sauce and mustard pickles, all in balloons and grease-proofed-paper bags.
Caesar looked somewhat deformed as a result of this, but it gave an amazing blood-and-guts effect during the climax when the containers all burst on cue.
“Aaargh, you mongrel, Brutus!!!” big Julie yelled as he fell beneath the murderous assault. (We thought this suited the moment rather more than the immortal but comparatively pallid words provided by The Bard.) And all the while under the guise of depraved butchery we splashed the “blood” around behind a wall of the Honourable Senators’ legs.
We then produced more sausages from our costumes and sat around on the Senate steps as we ate them, delicately dunking them in the blood of the “corpus delecti” as we finished the scene. In the interests of economy we’d not rehearsed the actual slaying using sausages and sauce, however, so when the corpse started to giggle none of us could help ourselves. We just collapsed to the stage and rolled around in hysterical laughter. The audience seemed to think this was all part of our revised script and joined in wholeheartedly.
Brother SanSistez found the whole episode so moving he was reduced to tears. The poor fellow had to withdraw to his room, returning only after he’d regained some measure of composure. We boys had no idea he was a man of such deep emotion.
But all that was last year. This year it was going to be different. This year the triumph would be of our own making! And as far as we were concerned it didn’t really matter what official piece Father O and Brother S might let us freely choose to present. We blooded Shakespearean troupers already had plans of our own.
It all began during an alleged study period after dinner one evening. At the time we were supposed to be considering suggestions for the coming speech night programme, but instead the meeting had somehow deteriorated into a prolonged recitation of jokes and yarns. And, like many a meeting before it, this one too drifted inevitably into the affairs of a certain Bluey and Curley.
Bluey and Curley were two larrikin Aussie Diggers, the principal characters in a comic-strip created by Alex Gurney during the Second World War. It poked fun at such things as transport and supply problems, hidebound military officialdom, fighting conditions in the jungle and relations with allied personnel – as well as the principal characters’ varied activities on leave. In fact, anything of a military nature was seen as fair game for the irreverent scrutiny of the author and his two accomplices.
And great was the chronicle thereof, and verily the laughter around the room. But at some stage of the proceedings Rosie’s stock of jokes must have run out, because he suddenly tried to establish order by shouting above the noise of the competing raconteurs.
“Hey youse kids! Shut up for a minute! We’re supposed to be talking about our speech night presentations … remember?”
“Don’t worry, Rosie!” someone shouted from the back. “We are!”
A brief hush followed before the implications of this spontaneous comment came collectively home, then everyone except Rosie was suddenly shouting at once. “Hey great yeah great gees it’ll be triffic ay Rosie yeah Rosie we can do it sure we can ay Rosie ay!”
“Don’t be bloody stupid,” muttered Rosie into the abrupt silence which followed.
“Aw come on Rosie yeah Rosie sure Rosie we can do it ay course we can watcha reckon Rosie yeah Rosie watcha reckon.”
Rosie considered this for a moment, during which time we can only assume he was being set upon by all the combined forces available to the Spirit of the Muse. In some ways it was like watching an old-time slide show, the evidence of each thought slowly wafting across that transparent face as the different scenarios played out in his mind’s eye…
Peter DeRosario and the boys of
Gower Abbey College present:
“BLUEY and CURLEY”
A light comedy specially adapted
from the original comic strip by
&n
bsp; PETER DeROSARIO.
Produced and Directed by
PETER DeROSARIO.
The laughter, the applause. The congratulations.
Father O’Long’s manly pat on the shoulders. “You’re a credit to the school, Peter. We’re proud of you.”
The entrancing Maria Angelique gazing up with her lovely brown eyes during a quiet moment by the supper tables. “You were wonderful Peter. Why don’t we...”
“Hey Rosie! —You all right?”
“Ar, shut up! I was just thinkin’.”
“Well whatcha reckon. Can we?”
“I don’t bloody know! I mean…
“…Well, I dunno. I suppose we could.
“Look, why don’t you all write down your Bluey and Curley jokes and hand ‘em in to me. I’ll see if I can sort them into some sort of story or something.
“Gees, I dunno. Perhaps I should just get my bloody head examined instead. —Hey! And you’d better make it one joke per page, too, or it’ll be bloody impossible. And don’t forget to put your flamin’ names up the top!” (A wise request in the event.)
Over the next few weeks Rosie really put some effort into the task. What he had to do was convert a great sheaf of grubby scribblings – mostly written on pages torn from school exercise books – into something resembling a comedy dialogue. This required many consultations with the various contributors, their material ranging from the almost illegible to the nearly indecipherable. In the end, though – somehow – he managed to produce an amazingly good script.
It was an excellent result, given the unrelated, fragmentary nature of the different sketches provided. But most importantly, it was very, very, funny. What left every one of us regarding Rosie in a new light was the way he’d transformed it all and given the old jokes a real freshness. As we passed the script around the dormitory page by page we couldn’t help ourselves. We just fell about the place shrieking with laughter.
But Rosie had not only created a script. He’d worked out all the problems associated with its presentation, too, such as the layout of the set, the scenery and props, etc.
In recognition of his efforts we decided by unanimous acclaim that Rosie had every right to name the play as he wished. And he, in return, was gracious enough to acknowledge the part we had played in its conception.
“BLUEY AND CURLEY”, the play was to be entitled. “A light comedy in one act, by Peter DeRosario and the Boys of Gower Abbey”.
Naturally, there were disappointed contributors...
(“Yes Duffy, I know. The sniper and the duck-hunting lure is an excellent joke, possibly one of the best. The trouble is it just doesn’t fit anywhere. But I don’t see what you’re complaining about. Two of your other jokes are included so you’re not doing too badly.”)
14. The Wet Choral Ensemble; and The Truly Accomplished Lair
In due course our night-of-nights arrived. By this time we boys were well primed and ready to take the world by storm – or that part encompassed by the boundaries of the Sherbert Valley, at least.
Our schoolwork displays were much the same as ever, except that this year we had the partially restored machine gun as our main project display. There it was in pride of place, set out in a completely disassembled state on a cloth-covered table. Small hand lettered cards indicated the identity of each component, while larger cards listed every scrap of information we’d been able to acquire concerning this “killing machine” – as Brother SanSistez would have it.
Right from the start he’d been at a loss to understand our fascination with the device. Instead he’d tried to swindle the Ingham Holden dealer out of a battered trade-in for us to “do up”, presumably in the hope of saving us from becoming mercenary killers – hiring ourselves out to Bolivian dictators and the like and murdering innocent women and children in their villages for cash.
What Brother S. was unaware of, though, was that Rocky’s sister Iris worked in the office there. She’d passed all this back to Rocky.
“The problem, Brother,” the dealer had said, “is that you’ve worked too long with that priest and lost your sense of economic reality. Even our oldest trade-in represents a considerable financial outlay to the business. To simply give one away would incur a substantial loss.”
“Why not consider the longer view,” Brother S. had replied. “In a few years these boys will be young working men, all of them with some disposable income and a hankering for a car. From a forward-looking economic point of view I’d have thought that any bias you could introduce into their future vehicle-purchasing habits would prove highly beneficial.”
Despite their being the best of friends the dealer had appeared resolute. “And where, might I ask, should one enter your so-called future-bias in the balance sheet?” he’d asked with a touch of sarcasm.
“Under ‘carried forward’,” Brother had replied, having no real knowledge of accounting principles.
Though seemingly unyielding, the dealer had waited until Christmas when Brother SanSistez was away to have the car delivered. On returning Brother rang to thank him, but the dealer made light of it. “Your boys may as well have it,” he’d said. That one’s so clapped-out we wouldn’t be able to sell the thing anyway.”
Apart from some light choral work and a bit of poetry there was nothing to compare with our play as a presentation of any substance. Due to some sort of mix-up we’d been studying Julius Caesar for a second year, so once again Father O’Long suggested it would be appropriate for us to perform an excerpt for speech night. Yet he must have been aware we were becoming somewhat jaded where Julius Caesar was concerned, because I have to say, his suasion really lacked the usual killer ingredient.
We, however, had foreseen Father’s request … and had made our cunning plans.
“Why certainly, Father,” we’d responded – all sweetness and light. “We’d be delighted to do something from Julius Caesar.” …telling him also that we were even prepared to let him and Brother SanSistez choose whichever part they pleased. “And interestingly, Father,” we’d added, “ – while we are on the subject of speech night – we’ve had this wonderful idea for a play!”
What we didn’t tell him, though, was that, whichever part of Julius Caesar they might choose, we intended to ham-up our roles by overacting them outrageously.
Our defence would be to argue that we were probing the limits of Shakespeare’s script in an interesting experimental manner. We realised of course that this was pretty shaky, but being after the event meant it was all the situation required.
Gower Abbey College speech nights were held in a structure called the Church Hall – though, as mentioned earlier, it was not exactly what the fine sounding name might imply. In fact our “church hall” was little more than an iron roof over a large green-painted cement floor, with its only wall being that across the end behind the stage.
Originally it had been a Sydney Williams hut, a type of prefabricated all-purpose shed. These were a roomy steel-post and “A”-frame structure clad with corrugated iron, made in large numbers for the military during World War Two. After the war they were sold off at disposal sales.
Ours had come with Gower’s farm. It stood in an open area adjacent to what later became the sports ground, its roof and floor being extended width-wise to increase its useable area. An elevated stage was added at the walled end and the wall itself extended left and right to the wider corners, plus five metres along each side. Doors in the new corners allowed access to stage-left and -right via stairs.
Mostly it was used in connection with sporting functions or as an open-air classroom when the weather became oppressive, though it filled its speech night purpose to perfection.
Father O’Long’s opening address set things under way exactly on time (as ever). Our priest was something of an orator, too, and his strong resonant voice could slice through the most persistent residual hubbub. And while his speeches were always great, this year’s welcome was just sensational.
; Earlier in the afternoon I’d noticed a number of storms building over the valley. One now towered above us, black and ready to break. As Father began speaking it erupted dramatically, its ear-busting thunderclaps punctuating his sentences precisely on cue.
We boys were not the least bit surprised. I mean this was Father O’Long speaking. What else would one expect? Following this his final words were applauded by an instantaneous downpour, its pounding on the iron roof simply deafening.
Rocky leant close to my ear. “We’ll have to be good to top this!” he shouted.
The tumult ceased just as abruptly moments later, leaving our little troupe slightly the damper – something possibly to do with the fact that we’d all stepped out into the torrent for a few seconds.
Next came the usual main-event preliminaries, the “main-event” for us boys being the speech night supper – an affair more in keeping with a Royal Christmas Feast than any rural school end-of-year celebration. As I mentioned earlier though, this year everything was different; this year the main event would be our play.
First up came the Massed Boys Wet Choral Ensemble singing Nymphs and Shepherds Come Away, Come Awaaayeeeee – under Miss Merribelle Celeste’s baton and watchful eye. (The left eye actually; she had a sleepy right eyelid.)
Next came some poetry readings, followed by Brother SanSistez’ speech and the dreaded Julius Caesar – the less of which said the better. (Father O’Long will See - You - Boys in the morning.)
This was followed by a school-band recital, a number of other items alongside which we were going to look very good and the usual prize-giving to the usual recipients.
A short interval was then taken while the stage was remade into something allegedly tropical, mid way through which all the lights failed. Fault found and fuses replaced the stage work was completed, following which “Clumsy” Walker announced the coming fiasco and demonstrated how he acquired his nickname by tripping over the microphone cable whilst carrying it off stage.
He got a good laugh and took several bows – to the many jeers of his schoolmates.
And then it was our turn. We were On! TAA DAAAA!!! …and the frayed, oft-mended assemblage of canvas and old sheets etc comprising the curtain was hauled aside … revealing, in all its glory, our wartime jungle setting.
Against the backdrop centre stage was “Headquarters”, a rickety structure supporting several sheets of rusty corrugated iron and a working door bearing the letters “HQ”. The vacant stage area in front of it was our assembly ground.
Centre of stage-right was a two-man “tent”, really just some canvas tacked to a light wooden frame with an overlapping flap for its entrance.
At the front of stage left we’d built a foxhole of logs and hessian, above which, hidden from sight, was a garden hose, its end bearing a strategically placed shower-rose borrowed from the ablutions block. The hose was connected to an outside tap, with a second control valve located by the stage manager’s table. This arrangement provided the “incessant tropical downpours” the miserable Diggers below had to suffer whenever the script required.
Unseen access to our Headquarters structure was via a third stage-access door in the middle of the back wall, now hidden by the HQ prop, while both the tent and foxhole could be reached unobserved from the wings.
Rounding out the whole setting was an impressive jungle backdrop made from hessian, cardboard and papier-mâché – all suitably and artistically painted – along with some tree branches, a good deal of cane grass and three juvenile banana palms in pots.
A number of the sketches Rosie had incorporated into the script involved various American Forces personnel (an officer, a soldier, a sergeant, a messenger, etc), but to simplify matters he’d simply condensed them all into one: a Yankee serviceman with detachable stripes, medals, stars, gold braid etc, for whatever rank the sketch called for.
In Gurney’s original cartoon-strip the Americans generally conversed from the front seat of their jeep, which for Rosie posed something of a problem. This was resolved with a touch of genius, however, over a free weekend at home. The following Monday, on returning to school, he was carrying an old jeep-type pedalling-car.
The car was from his early childhood and had been resurrected from the family’s shed – there almost lost to human knowledge. Following its discovery Rosie had straightened it out, replaced the wheels and welded and strengthened it wherever necessary. He’d then painted it khaki straight over the rust and emblazoned each side with a white five-pointed star.
“Think carefully before y’se make any smart-arse comments,” he told the group of smirking Juniors who’d witnessed his arrival, “and ask yourselves, ‘Do I want to find out why he’s brought this thing back to Gower Abbey, or do I want to die?’”
It was Li’l Titch who scored the role of the US Army, because he at least fitted into the pedalling-car. He’d wait for his scenes with a launch assistant, out of sight in the space behind the “tent”, and on cue would be rocketed onto the set. There he would execute, in the fashion of a truly accomplished lair, a sliding, turning, braking manoeuvre which would terminate at the precise position the dialogue was to commence. He could only achieve this reliably, however, after insisting that a couple of square metres of hardwood stage in front of HQ be marked out and reserved for his entrances … whereupon he covered it with about half a tin of floor wax.
“...See if that don’t fix it.” he muttered as he disappeared behind the tent. Moments later he hurtled back, executing a perfect four-wheel broggy as he slid to a halt in front of HQ.
“Gaar-damm it, Aussie,” he drawled in his best Yankee accent. “How in hell d’you make that gaar-damm caarfee so gaar-damm oawfull?
“—Ah need t’ know see, on account o’ Mah bein’ on kitchen dee-tail whaal Gen’l Rahzenshahn is heah.” At the same time he was chewing a wad of gum about the size of a golf ball – something he’d actually gained permission to acquire in connection with his role, though it had taken some fast talking on his part.
My mates did well in the casting. Rocky landed the role of Bluey and with his slower, considered form of wit was perfect for the part. Sometimes during rehearsals he’d reduce us to helpless laughter with his droll ad-libbed comments. Often they were funnier than his lines in the script.
Rosie had no problem with this, despite his touchy pride. He was quick to add Rocky’s variations into the dialogue, too, when it suited him – it being Rosie’s script, after all. And such refinements could only reflect favourably on the person of Peter DeRosario.
Doogle would have been a natural for the fast-talking quick-witted Curley, but Sash had the more important qualification: curly hair. Instead he was among the other soldiery, along with Donger and some other boys. All of them were involved in the rapidly-moving dialogue.
Rosie would have loved the part of either Bluey or Curley but simply didn’t fit either character. He was perfect, though, as Major Brassbottom – Hidebound Military Officialdom personified in his father’s oversized khaki shorts and shirt – his “officer’s tropical rig”.
“Other ranks” wore slouch hats or painted papier-mâché helmets, rumpled khaki shorts – a similar shirt being optional – and borrowed adult-sized work boots. Several fairly realistic-looking wooden rifles completed the picture.
Besides being in a couple of scenes as an extra, I was the stage manager. Among other things this meant operating the tap which controlled the “incessant tropical rain”, while at the same time trying to keep things moving in a coordinated and sequential manner generally.
My station was a rickety card-table and chair near the foot of the steps leading up to stage right. From there I could see all the action, hidden from the audience by the screen alongside the front of the stage and our two-dimensional tent prop