Eventually Paddy and Dom replaced Ger and Mick as altar boys. Paddy, still clumsy, once set his tunic alight with dripping wax from the candle he was carrying. He quickly patted it out, but he wore that singed tunic for the rest of his time at the altar. Another day, Paddy and Dom looked down and were surprised to see our black dog, Nellie, on the altar with them, just as she’d wandered into our home years earlier. Paddy, not knowing what to do, had to move quickly to get her out after she snapped at a devout old woman who always sat in the same spot at the front of the church.
As Mum was the saintly one, she insisted we were confirmed as well as baptised. I was confirmed when I was eight, and chose St Bernadette of Lourdes as my patron saint: I was fascinated that she had a spring whose water could cure diseases. Every large Irish Catholic family in the 1950s was encouraged to produce a nun and a priest. I tried to be saintly like Mum to please the nuns at school and walked a few miles to church each morning, there and back, before my confirmation, but it didn’t last. However, Mum must have thought I was angelic for that period. Once we were confirmed, we went to weekly confession. I was given the same prayers for penance again and again and my brothers and sisters and I realised, when we compared notes, that all of us were given the same thing. Two Our Fathers and three Hail Marys was the standard.
We sang at most parish funerals and cried at every one, which is how I learned to be dramatic. The church taught me theatre: Sundays with the bishop in his ceremonial robes, the kissing of the ring, the arches of waving palms on Palm Sunday, watching and listening to people walking down the aisles to view a coffin – it was all in front of you. You have to go to drama class these days, but back then the church was real theatre.
St Joseph’s Wandal primary school was a small school with one grade in each year level, all made up of local children. Most of us came from Mrs Flemming’s kindergarten or St Vincent’s Church. Basically, the Agnews and McKendrys and two other large Catholic families, the Murphys and the Pearsons, made up a big proportion of the school. The only negative for our family was that sometimes my brothers and their friends got into trouble and were called up at morning assembly. One day Ger and Mick were both named and we had to watch them each put out a hand to be smacked with a metre-long piece of cane. I felt so sorry for them. It was hard to hold back the tears.
I loved school and enjoyed my lessons, but there was always drama at home. When I started school in 1964 there were already six of us children, and the biggest accomplishment was finding – among the laundry – underpants that would stay up so I could at least walk to and from school and play during lunchbreak. I was lucky if I could find a pair big enough to cover my bum, or where the elastic wasn’t completely worn out. Otherwise, I would have to sit down at the edge of the playground, decline playing with other kids, and wait until it was time to return to class. Then after school, I had to walk home discreetly trying to hold up my knickers. It was another victory if I found matching socks. It was no wonder that I couldn’t be bothered with my hair, which always resembled a bird’s nest – there were more important things to do to survive around the home.
When I was in Grade 4, a new nun called Sister Zita came to the school and put on a musical. She gave me the main part and I danced a little on stage in the school hall. After the success of this performance, Sister Zita encouraged my mother to let me stop learning the piano and concentrate on dancing instead. She said to Mum once, ‘Mary sounds like an elephant on the piano, but dances like a fairy.’ I was elated when I was allowed to give up the piano.
Our little school punched above its weight in sport: St Joseph’s Wandal seemed to win almost every sport carnival. With all the boys in the Pearson and McKendry families, no one else had much chance. We McKendrys were very involved and competitive. Ger and Mick excelled in rugby league. During our lunch hour we organised rounders. Anyone could play, and we were sorry when the bell rang and the game was over. We were good swimmers, too, because Rocky’s public pool was just down the road from our house and we were taught to swim at an early age. For us, the top gang, Mum or Dad always came to our games and recitals. The younger ones missed out a bit, as there were just too many of us by then.
Transport was always a challenge for our family. We soon grew out of the Hillman. Once we’d got to seven children with another baby on the way, Dad had invented a people mover by upgrading to an old dry-cleaning van. Now he and Mum could take the whole family in one vehicle. It was perfect, especially after Dad had it customised with rows of seats and plenty of standing room at the back. You could even fit an entire football team in there if you wanted to. Often we would have the Agnews or Pearsons as well, and we would just climb onto the lap of another child if necessary. No instruction was needed: we understood what you had to do with the younger brothers and sisters. When one of the little ones did something stupid, they were all in trouble and we would sing in unison, ‘Embarrasser! Embarrasser!’ Then we would weep with laughter.
After my brothers finished primary school, sadly, they went to boarding school in Yeppoon, 15 miles east of Rocky. Ger went first, then Mick a year later and Matt a couple of years after that. I missed them. We would often drive to visit them on weekends. In summer the sand on the beach in Yeppoon was too hot to walk on, so we had to be up very early if we wanted a swim. Mum and Ger each carried two babies, one on each hip, while Mick and I followed with the towels and bags. On the way back, we had to run as the sand burnt our feet. Ger said later, ‘Mum, please don’t have any more babies. I can’t cope.’
Most of our school holidays were spent on the beach at the Gold Coast. It was our favourite spot. Blue skies, white sand, fantastic surf breaks, milkshakes, fish and chips, long carefree days – unforgettable. To this day, as a family we come together at the beach each year.
By the time I was fifteen, in the early 1970s, many things were changing. Dad repurposed the dorms so I could have some privacy in my own room. I cared what I looked like and started skiving off church. Other things were becoming more important: television, movies, boys, clothes – especially the hotpants and purple velvet flared trousers that Mum bought for me in Sydney. I loved them, and kept looking at myself wearing them in the mirror.
Occasionally, Mum would let me go to the movies on Friday nights. Annoyingly, before the movies even finished, she would send the four little ones – Brig, Joe, Paddy and Dom – in their pyjamas to find me and ask, ‘What time does the movie finish?’
Really? I knew perfectly well that Mum had sent them to check if I was meeting boys. Of course I was. Flushed with embarrassment, I would try to discreetly get rid of my siblings. Mum would pick me up in our second car, a Valiant, wearing her nightie, which was just mortifying. Occasionally I would skip the movie completely to meet boys at the pub instead.
I could feel myself growing up and my ties to the family were loosening. My siblings didn’t need me like they used to. Paddy would soon be joining the older boys at boarding school. Brig and Jo were still inseparable, doing ballet and just about everything else together. Dom – dear Dom – was still the baby of the family. Mum was able to spend more time with him than she’d ever been able to give the rest of us. Dad’s buildings were also garnering him plaudits and earning him his place in the history of Rockhampton.