Music lessons at the Convent.

Long time ago I learnt to play the guitar, nothing really astounding in that fact. Many people did and possibly like me they saw themselves in a famous band living the life. For me as a memory its more about who taught me and where the lessons took place. Bizarrely, what makes these memories more vivid is the bathroom in my office, strange I know but bear with me.

We have been in our freshly renovated office for a couple of years now, however the bathroom still smells like paint and grout. It is also by far the coldest space in the office.

 All this transports me back to 1973/4. Across the road from my high school was and still is a catholic primary school, church and convent. The convent is where the nuns live, all lessons were held in the music room of said convent. The convent was a new building and not exactly warm and welcoming, in fact, it was very cold and austere. The only adornments were plastic crucifixes and matching plastic flowers. In contrast the nuns were warm, friendly and very kind women, well most of the time.

The music teacher, Sister Anita had a lovely smile, which faded very quickly if you had not done any practice since your last lesson.

I was the first lesson of the afternoon, once I had finished, I was shuffled off to the kitchen, the room was cold with gray floor tiles and white tiles around the oven and stove. The smell of grout and paint was very distinct. All the years I had access to this room it always smelled the same, much like the office bathroom. Once in the kitchen I would find a note and a couple of string bags on the bench. I then walked down to Taylors Foodland to undertake the convent shopping. On completion I would trudge back with my load, once back in the kitchen I would find a little plate with two plain biscuits and a glass of green cordial. During this whole process I saw no one, only the note, biscuits and drink on the bench.

Once I had consumed the snack, I was required to sit on the verandah to wait for the others and whichever parent was picking us up.

One of the teaching nuns was a very short and what seemed like a very old woman, unlike the others she loved to chat. She would often join me on the verandah for a chat, like many nuns of the day she has a thick Irish accent. After many conversations I discovered that this nun, Sister Florentine had taught at the mission school/St Josephs in Manjimup. I asked my father who had attended the school if he remembered Sister Florentine.  He did, of course, though he thought she would have been long gone as she seemed very old when he was nine. But we figured everyone looks ancient to a nine-year old. All this from a grout and paint smelling bathroom, something will always take you back.