This incident actually happened, but I've altered the names of some of those involved.
There were three of us at the bus-stop, waiting to catch the bus home from school. Donna Brandhurst and Josephine Wilkinson, both of whom were in my class, were standing next to the bus-stop sign, talking to one another, while I was sitting on the pavement with my back to a telegraph pole.
A trio of boys in the uniform of nearby Elizabeth North Primary crossed the road just in front of us and started to head our way. As they approached, one of them gave a sudden snort of laughter, and said, “Hey fellas, what do you call three Catholics standing at a bus-stop?”
“Dunno, Stevo’, what do you call three Catholics standing at a bus-stop?”
“Unlucky!”
Seconds later, having been wrenched unceremoniously to my feet, I found myself doubled over as one of the boys pinned my arms painfully behind my back, while another had me in a headlock. The third boy, the one who answered to Stevo’, then delivered a ferocious punch to my solar plexus.
Donna and Josephine looked over at us with scant interest.
Turning toward them, Stevo’ said, “Is it true that all Catholic girls wear black knickers?” They studiously ignored him. “Give us a look then,” wheedled Stevo’, “’cos if you don’t” – he sidled back in my direction – “I’ll thump him again.”
Moments later, having predictably still received no response from the girls, he did so, with added venom, and I felt as if I was going to throw up. After this had happened two or three more times, the boy who was pinning my arms behind me helpfully suggested, “Give him a blood nose, Stevo’.”
Stevo' looked only too ready to oblige, but I was saved by the arrival of our bus. “Let him go, fellas.” I was promptly released, although one of my captors kneed me fiercely in the back as he did so. “Same time tomorrow, kid?” ventured Stevo’, flicking my ear, as the three of them sauntered off.
Josephine and Donna, who throughout the encounter had not muttered a single word, went straight to the back of the bus after paying, while I sat near the front, clutching my stomach in pain, and forcing myself not to cry. The next afternoon I walked home from school, as I would continue to do until I moved to St Marys in Elizabeth Park three years later. I also conceived the unspoken resolution that the next time there was bullying to be done, it would not be me on the receiving end.
