Ron had stood next to his father all day. Bernie hadn’t talked to him. He rarely did. Except to say, Get out of me bloody road, runt. Bernie hadn’t played in the Grand Final because his wonky knee from the war had given him trouble. He could barely stand. But he’d held his beer bottle so tight Ron had thought he was going to smash it to pieces. When the punch-up started, he wondered if his father would jump the fence. But Bernie had just yelled at the umpy to open his fucking eyes.
After his mates had finished getting their belting, Bernie had limped into the rooms and savaged them.
‘Where’s your fucken pride in the jumper?’
The Demons had to go one better this year. They had to win the flag. Regardless of The Butcher. Laharum hadn’t won a premiership for twenty-two years and Derrinallum couldn’t keep having it their own way. That’s what the coach, the players, the runners, the boot-studders, and even the juniors said. Ron didn’t play in the juniors, he was too little, but he hung around the club all pre-season. The Demons were serious. No sky-larking, lots of sprints, no ball work at training until a month before the first game. Kids weren’t even allowed in the rooms when the senior team was in there. It was a new rule to show how fair dinkum they were, Ron’s brothers said. And Bernie’s knee was finally right to go. He was set to play in the first round, the Grand Final replay against Derrinallum.
And so was The Butcher.
‘Couldn’t give two hoots about him,’ Bernie said when Lynne asked him if The Butcher was as tough as everyone said. It was the night before the game. Mutton dinner in kero light.
‘Only asking,’ Lynne said, clearing the plates and popping them in the dish bucket.
‘And I’m only tellin’.’
It was a Demons home game on a blue, autumn day with streaks of cloud on the horizon. But it was chilly, even at midday. It would be freezing by the final siren, Ron thought. His mum sat first, then everyone joined her on the tartan blanket in front of the Buick. It was the Stevensons’ spot: outer wing with the thickest pine trees protecting them from the wind. The Ther-mos sat with them and next to it a basket full of food: curried egg sandwiches, jelly slice, pickles, cream buns and dry biscuits. They watched the reserves play and Stan and Ken knocked off most of the egg sandwiches. They had their blue and red Laharum jumpers on and it made Ron jealous. His mum hadn’t finished knitting his. And she hadn’t brought it with her today to work on. His sister Sheree was in her sailor dress, whinging and banging her fists on her knees. Lynne filled the girl’s face with cream bun as the Demons ran out. The Stevensons jumped from their blanket as one and roared. Car horns tooted and Bernie ran the edge of the Demon pack. He bent down and pretended to pick up a ball, first one side then the other. The team got warmed up with a few sprints then had a kick together near the goals at the south end.
Derrinallum didn’t come out for another five minutes. But the jeering started up as soon as the first blue and white jumper charged from the clubrooms. And it didn’t let up until the Kangaroos had gathered in the middle of the ground.
It wasn’t hard to spot The Butcher. There were nineteen blokes in blue and white striped jumpers and then there was a tree trunk with arms. The Butcher was six foot or more and the only player on the field with tattoos. Ron could see the dark blue smudges on his skin. Probably skulls with snakes weaving through the eyeholes, he thought. When the Kangaroos took off again, The Butcher didn’t run so much as shunt along the clubroom flank. His legs were browner than the rest of his mates’ and they pistoned up and down.
Ron got a closer look at The Butcher’s head. His face was narrow, like a hawk’s. And he had a boofy hairdo like Frankie Laine. The Butcher looked like he could rock and roll in more ways than one.
The teams headed to their positions. Lynne sucked in a sharp breath because Bernie was off to centre-half-forward, as expected, but The Butcher was rumbling to centre-half-back.
‘Bloody hell,’ Stan groaned. ‘He’s gunna play on Dad’.
‘Language,’ Lynne hushed.
Bernie offered his hand for The Butcher to shake and the big man took it. Then he stepped sideways and cannoned his beefy shoulder into Bernie so hard that it rocked Ron’s father on his heels. Before he could right himself, The Butcher did it again and Bernie was on the ground rubbing his shoulder. Players ringed them and a scuffle started. Nothing serious, just push and shove. The umpy trotted from the centre to sort it out. Bernie got up. He ignored the scrap going on around him and the umpire’s shaking finger. He pulled his leg in a thigh stretch. The umpire finished his warnings and headed back to the football he’d left in the centre circle. The Butcher let loose an elbow into Bernie’s ribs that doubled him over.
‘Ronald,’ his mum said, ‘you and Sheree head to The Valley to play.’
The Valley was behind the line of cars their Buick was in. It was a dip sheltered by a row of low-hanging pine tree branches where kids played once they got sick of the footy. But Ron wasn’t going down there today, not on your life.
‘I’m watching the footy!’
‘You’ll do what I say.’
‘No!’
There were about ten things he shouldn’t say to his mum, but ‘no’ was top of the list. She picked Ron up by his armpit, Sheree too, and dragged them both to The Valley. She put both her hands on Ron’s shoulders and burrowed a stare into him.
‘If you so much as poke your head up near the car before I say you can, you’ll be on barn duty for a week.’
A few weeks ago he’d done barn duty two days in a row. The worst job, of many, was cleaning the slime out of the horses’ stable. His mum trooped up the rise and disappeared. And the siren sounded to start the game that Ron couldn’t see.
Shit.
A huge roar went up then some faint booing that got louder. Then some shouting. Horns started tooting like it was New Year’s Eve. It sounded as if everyone in the crowd was ready to fight someone. Ron crouched and hung onto Sheree. She’d started crying and wet her pants. He looked at the puddle in the dirt and didn’t know what to do.
Lynne came back to The Valley for them at quarter-time and ushered them to the blanket. The scoreboard on the other side of the ground showed the Demons up by sixteen points. But the silence on the Stevensons’ blanket made Ron feel like they were down thirty. His mum took off her shoes. She scratched so hard at her toes it was as if she were trying to get them off her feet. When the Demons dashed to a forty-seven-point lead late in the second quarter, Stan and Ken barely raised a cheer. They looked edgy. Ron had seen those looks before. Whenever their father was on the warpath at home and looking for the belt.
Bernie had a new opponent. A motley looking bloke with skinny white arms.
‘Where’s The Butcher?’ Ron asked and his mum put her finger to her lips. Stan shook his head and looked along the wing at the rows of blankets with Derrinallum supporters sitting on them.
‘Keep it down will ya?’ he whispered.
Bernie took a speccie just before three-quarter time. He was on top of two Derry backmen and still heading skyward when the ball landed on his chest. The Demon crowd in front of the beer stand let rip. Ted ‘Lion’ Ryan snapped goals from each forward pocket in the last quarter. His second gave the Demons a sixty-three-point lead. The Dees were in front by more than the margin by which Derry had won last year’s Grand Final. But instead of roaring, Stan and Ken headed for The Valley.
‘Why aren’t you watching the footy?’ Ron asked as he followed them. Stan made for the pines, but Ken turned around.
‘Don’t want to.’
‘Why not?’
He shook his head like it was the stupidest question he’d ever heard.
The final siren blasted, the Laharum crowd roared, and car horns tooted their songs of revenge into the cold air. The Demons slapped each other’s shoulders and Derry trudged off the ground, some refusing to shake hands with their opponents. Once the ground was clear, every kid in the district ran on and kicked footies. Ron played with Stan and Ken and
their mates. He picked up the ball, tried to kick it, but it spun pathetically from the end of his shoe. A boy with a crew cut and a long-sleeved Demons’ jumper watched him with hands on hips. And cacked himself.
‘Shut up, Randall,’ Stan said.
‘Sheila’s kick,’ Trevor Randall taunted.
Oh no, Ron thought, that’s it. Stan’s gunna have him.
Trevor was ox strong but sheep stupid. A smartarse, everyone knew it. And when it came to his family copping a ribbing, Stan never took a backward step.
Usually.
‘Just watch your trap, Randall,’ Stan said. And he walked towards the boundary line and the blanket. Ron stood amazed until big Syd Henty, still in his footy gear, yelled from the clubroom doorway.
‘Hey Stan, lads, your old man wants to see you blokes.’
Syd had a beer bottle in his hand. Behind him, men walked around the clubrooms. Some were bare-chested in shorts and socks, others still wore their jumpers above white jockstraps.
Stan didn’t move. None of the boys did. They knew the rules.
‘It’s all right fellas. You can come in. Come and see the legend.’
The brothers crept up the wide concrete steps and the laughter from the rooms got louder. Ron saw hairs on players’ legs. Tommy ‘Gun’ Korth had a white bandage round his knee with a dark patch in the middle. Ron’s stomach was light and he wanted to shit. But Syd slapped him on the back and ushered him in.
A cloud of blue smoke drifted above the men’s heads. Their voices rose and fell like a car engine getting revved. Players sat on the white bench that ran around the walls. They smoked and tied big ice blocks covered in tea towels to their legs. Men were everywhere, smelling of beer and sweat and liniment, but Ron couldn’t spot his father. And he’d lost sight of Syd. A hand fell on his shoulder and he cowered. But it was only Syd again, saying something he couldn’t hear because just then the room roared and one voice chirped high above the rest.
‘Rat ta tat, ta tatta ta tat...’
It was the Club President, Dicko Thomas, in his suit and standing on a chair. The room joined him and sang the Demons’ theme song. Tommy Korth sat with his football boots in his hands, banging the stops to the beat. His redheaded son, Andy, had snuck into the rooms and Andy put his arm around his dad. He was Ron’s mate from school. Ron waved at him and he waved back. He didn’t have the chance to tell Ron the story then, the one his family wouldn’t tell him. He had to wait until playtime on Monday.
‘Nah? You’re joking?’ Andy said, wiping milk from his lips. ‘Your mum sent you to The Valley? And you missed it all?’
Yeah, Ron had missed it. Missed his father decide that if he was going to get through the first game of ‘51 unscathed he’d better be smart. Ron hadn’t seen the umpy bounce the ball to start the match. He’d missed the umpy keep his head down long enough for Bernie to splatter The Butcher sideways with a right cross. He hadn’t seen, either, Andy run to the fence to see The Butcher carried off on a stretcher with his jaw at right angles.
Through the changeroom’s forest of legs and arms, Ron finally caught sight of his father. He was sitting on the floor against a wall. His socks were down and a beer bottle rested between his legs. He waved Ron over and the boy scuttled to him. Dicky Thomas leant down and slapped Bernie on the shoulder.
‘Bloody ripper, Bernie Boy!’
‘You know little Ronnie, my son?’ Bernie asked.
‘How are ya mate?’ the President said but Ron didn’t notice.
Little Ronnie, my son. He belonged to his father today.
3. Peter and Ron Stevenson
Corumbul in Gippsland had a view of the hills and they were always green. The Stevensons’ white weatherboard was on the corner of Blake Court and Simmons Street. A low white brick fence surrounded its front yard where Peter was playing with his football on a warm March afternoon. A car crawled past, and a few streets away swans were honking on the ornamental lake. Peter heard the rise and fall of barracking high school kids in the nearby basketball stadium, the patter of water from a sprinkler against the side fence. Peter’s elderly neighbours politely discussed which flowerbeds needed a soaking. Somewhere, way off, a golf club whacked a ball, whooshed, and then faded. His aunty, Sheree, he thought, couldn’t hear any of these sounds. Because she was in a hospital bed in Tonvale now, had been there a few weeks.
‘Sheree’s not the full two bob, never has been,’ he’d heard his dad tell someone on the phone. ‘But she’s getting looked after now. Apparently the voices are dying down.’
But Peter’s were starting up.
He didn’t know if they were in his head or his dreams, or coming out of his mouth. But he woke every night and his dressing gown hanging from his bedroom door billowed as if it were just about to yell at him. Like his father did, more and more. So Peter would turn on his bedside lamp, hoping he wouldn’t wake his sleeping brothers, and the dressing gown would retreat.
Peter was skinny. Tall for his age. He could almost hold his football in one hand. He kicked goals between the small front yard trees carefully; too big a kick and he’d have to chase the ball down the street. He played football daily now because his mum had told the primary school he wouldn’t be coming again until next year. Peter had been crying one day at school and the Principal had found him behind an elm tree. ‘It’s his aunty going into hospital,’ Julie had told the Principal on the phone while Peter played patience in the lounge. ‘He’s taken it hard, for some reason. And the new town. He’s having trouble getting used to it.’
Peter bounced his football, up and down, and it made soft thwacks on the couch grass. Later that day, he walked with his father and brothers through a paddock over five miles from town. There was no wind to shake up the long yellow grass. So Ron did it, pushing aside the raspy stalks then marching on.
‘Watch for snakes, lad.’
Peter looked out for a black wobble and listened for a hiss. But there was only his father’s steady breathing and the push and charge of his pale and hairy calves. Despite the heat and what they had to carry, Peter and his brothers had been told they could only rest when they made it to the dam. It was in the middle of a paddock and the size of a small lake. A farmer had told Ron he could fish there anytime. The farmer knew
Ron was the new truck company manager, but what favour he could possibly want out of him, Ron didn’t know. He’d been in town six months, and everyone was still sounding him out. And he hadn’t fished for ages. He didn’t know where the decent spots were around Corumbul, and he hadn’t had a minute to ask anyone. No time to scratch himself or even figure out if he was itchy.
‘There’s redfin in there, Ron,’ the farmer had told him. ‘Got big, they have.’
Peter walked and swung the empty plastic bucket his father had asked him to carry. He wouldn’t get to watch Disneyland on TV tonight but his father was taking him fishing. His father never took him anywhere. He was always too busy. Peter didn’t care about Disneyland now. What was it, anyway? A few singing mice?
His brothers carried their father’s nylon fishing bag. Simon and Terry were trudging through the grass, but they wore huge grins. This adventure was so big the three boys thought they might never go home again. This might be their lives now and it would be okay.
‘Watch yourselves getting under that fence. There’s barbed wire.’
Peter copped a nick on the arm but didn’t cry out. He didn’t even check to see if there was blood. He picked up his bucket and followed his father, who’d turned into a massive insect. The folding chairs he carried were wings and the rods he held were large feelers. They shook and pointed.
‘This way boys.’
It was silent at the dam. Not even a cicada. Then a cow groaned, way off. Peter’s brothers were quiet. That was odd. They normally fought with each other, or tried to fight him. But they were motionless in their Stubbie shorts and singlets, waiting for their father to say something. To do something.
The dam was how wide? Peter couldn’t
kick a football across it. Maybe he could whack a tennis ball over it if he really got onto one. He stared into the distance. Glassy blue water. A gentle hill on the other side of the dam that hid more paddocks and maybe a farmhouse where the farmer was probably eating a dinner of sausages and salad. Wishing, no doubt, he was fishing at the dam.
Their father had brought cheese and gherkin sandwiches. Peter wanted one but he knew he had to wait. And some cordial. That’d be good. He swallowed the spit in his mouth instead.
The edge of the dam was hard brown dirt. Cracks in it. Big ants crawled in and out of them. Terry bent to investigate.
‘Ant, Dad? Jar, jar?’
Terry wanted to take a sample of an overgrown crawly. Ron glared at him from under his toweling hat then pulled it further down on his forehead.
‘No, Terry. And you lot are going to do exactly what I say or you won’t be coming fishing again. No matter what your mum says.’
Ron took the fishing bag from Simon and put it on the ground. The boys fell to their haunches and watched him unzip it. From its guts he pulled a can of insect repellant, two red and white plastic floaters, and a clear plastic box full of sinkers and hooks.
‘Will I have a rod of my own, Dad?’
‘Shut up Peter. Just wait.’
Ron marched to a gum tree and its exposed roots. He found two large sticks and cracked sections from them so that both had a V at their ends. He tossed them next to his bag. Terry farted and Peter knew not to laugh. But Simon couldn’t help himself.
‘Remember what I said boys. No buggerising around.’
Ron took the bucket from Peter. He hadn’t realised he was still holding it. His father crouched at the edge of the dam and scooped at the murky water with the bucket. He turned and tipped the water onto the dry earth, grabbed one of the sticks and pushed it into the now muddy ground. He picked up his rod and rested it in the V.
‘Okay you lot. Let’s go.’
There was another gum tree to their right. Ron led the boys towards it through knee-high grass.
We. Are. Family. Page 2
