My first and last days at Whitefriars were beset with gloom. In January 1978, Terry Dunn’s father, Leo, picked me up from McGowans Road on a lousy day, weather-wise, and deposited us in the top car park. On November 25, 1983 – an equally dim day - I walked up the hill for the last time as a pupil with Adrian Hill, having just sat the Eighteenth Century History exam, whereas Adrian had undergone the torments of Applied Maths (this subject is also offered in Hell). We parted at the front gate, and I walked down Park Road and cut across the old apple orchard where Conos Court and its McMansions are now located. I jumped over the creek like it was the River Jordan - did the Promised Land lie beyond? Once home, I watched Australia v Pakistan from the Gabba and somewhat guiltily at that – why was I not studying? The compulsion soon passed, to be replaced by other forms of madness.
In the years that followed, a diaspora occurred. Contact was lost. Life cascaded on. New friends came and went. Over time, the Big V jumpers were discarded blissfully. Freedom was exchanged for commitment. Despots came into our lives who demanded nappies, food and fun. At the end of 2003, a reunion was held at Whitefriars. While it was sparsely attended – does the Forgotten Year do anything well? – many of my buddies trooped in and we had a ball of a time. Come midnight, we undertook a stalk around the College (and on this occasion at least, Peter Nanscawen refrained from ringing the school bell). It was deathly quiet as if the Bush was holding its breath - and no show-tunes, however ghostly, came from the Music Room. Lightposts guided our steps. Much had changed physically – not least ourselves. Even so, we magically reverted to the old dynamic as we strolled around like Year 7s (indeed, if the ghost of Chunkles had appeared, we would've done up our top buttons and ties). Entranced in darkness, we beheld ‘mere glimmerings and the essence of things'. There was no physical trace of our six year stay - nary a footprint or thumbprint was to be seen - but somehow the College recognised us as kin, responded in kind and we felt at home.
Fulminate as we might, most of us are halfway to Boot Hill. Some of our classmates are already in residence, roofed by daises. Somewhere or other I've stored my uniform and with the exception of the tie, worn throughout the six years, it's moth-ridden. Elsewhere, report cards studded with As, Bs, Cs and a C Minus from Brother Anthony have crumbled into dust - great expectations indeed. Yes, as Batty says in Blade Runner: "I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time... like tears in rain."
We all know the next line.
If Time be a more fluid construct than what we know, if the word Eternity has any meaning, then somehow or other the proclamation 'we are here', etched by the golden youth of the Class of 1983, is forever engraven at Whitefriars and everlastingly so. She was not the best mother in the world - none of us would assert that - but Almae in Fides Parentis is a fitting-enough note on which to bring this Secret History to an end.
'OE' - with a little help from my friends and dear ones at that.
