by Loretta Re
The boss man turns to look at us. He has sharp blue eyes and a ruffle of silver hair.
He nods, his ripple of silver hair rises in the gentle breeze. He fishes coins out of his back pocket. ‘Aren’t you one of Arnold Newton’s boys?’ he asks. ‘You’re starting to look just like him. Fallen on hard times, has he?’ He has a quiet chuckle.
‘No sir,’ I explain, flushing at the idea he thinks my dad is out of work. ‘We’re buying up Cherry Ripes. For the wrappers. So we can win seats at Flemington for the end of the air race. I’m desperate to see the Great Centenary Air Race.’
‘It will be marvellous,’ the old man agrees with a rush of enthusiasm. ‘My word, we’d all love to see it, not just you young ones. I remember once when Kingsford Smith was flying …’ He leans on his golf club, ready for a long yarn.
I hang on to the golf balls. Hope they won’t spill from my hands. But then a man cries ‘fore’ a little way off and the old man stirs himself from his memories.
‘You’re working very hard,’ he says. He gives a nod of approval, as he sorts his coins. ‘Here’s an extra ha’penny for your labours. Tell you what, come to my place next Saturday and I’ll give you both some odd jobs. Mr Ward’s my name. In Kiewa Street. Your dad knows me.’ He gives a little chuckle. ‘He’s always telling me that the town needs an aerodrome.’ He hands me the coins with a shake of his head. ‘As if a town this size needs an aerodrome!’
We pass over our find and he slips the golf balls into his check buggy.
‘Nine pence, ha’penny,’ I mutter to Ricky as we head off, the coins jingling in my pockets. ‘That’s three more Cherry Ripes.’
We race down the steep hill in Kiewa Street brushing against the bristly hedges. Turn into Crisp Street near the high school and tear along the street. We go past the vacant lots. Past a red brick house where head-high blue flowers guard the fence.
Gasping for breath, we burst through the tinkling welcome of the David Street store, and the door swings shut behind us. The little shop’s one of my favourite places. Big sacks of biscuits jostle side by side, and bottles of lolly water cram the ice chest.
‘You boys back again?’ the lady behind the counter asks with a smile. ‘Another Cherry Ripe, I’ll wager.’
She’s already reaching for it across the wooden bench. Past the gumballs and the tray of Freddo Frogs. ‘Here you are.’
‘Three thanks, Auntie Muriel.’ She’s not my aunt, but all the kids call her that.
‘Heavens! Have you robbed the bank?’ Her smile fades and she has a more serious look. ‘Do your mums know you’re eating so many chockies?’
Auntie Muriel only works here every second day. So she only knows the half of it!
‘Mine knows I’m dying to meet the aviators,’ I tell her. I catch Ricky’s eye.
I haven’t lied. And we manage to escape before there are too many more questions.
Chapter
TWELVE
Like Dad says, sometimes you do things for one reason. And they lead on to something completely new. That’s exactly what happens when we meet Mr Ward.
Before we know it, another Saturday’s here and I’m with Ricky at Mr Ward’s place, cleaning out his back shed. The two of us sweat and grunt as we heave rotten old rugs that smell mouldy and a broken dining-room chair Mr Ward never got around to fixing. There’s a rusty hammer too and a cupboard without a door that we turf onto the nature strip.
At the back of the shed we can see a mound that’s covered by an old blue blanket. We lift the cloth in a flurry of dust specks that make Ricky cough.
And underneath is a big black box with huge dials. I recognise what it is straightaway.
‘A radio!’ I cry.
‘My old ham radio,’ says Mr Ward, who’s come out to see how we’re going. He runs his finger along a dusty rim. ‘I’d forgotten all about it. Not much use to me now,’ he says. ‘No spare time since I’ve been mayor. I’m too busy running Albury.’
So the mayor is the man who runs the town. I’ve never thought before that someone needs to run a town. I’ve always thought Albury ran itself, like the post office clock that towers over Dean Street. It just ticks over, day and night.
‘Your own radio!’ I say to him, excited about the find. Surely he’s not going to toss it out? ‘I’ll look after it for you, Mr Ward. I’ll take it home till you need it again.’
Mr Ward laughs. His quick blue eyes have little smile lines around them.
‘Another radio man, I see. You can have it, lad, with my blessing. Expect it still works. I’m sure you’ll soon figure it out.’
Ricky and I carry the radio away between us, staggering a bit under its weight. Not far from the Dean Street corner we stop for a rest.
We can hear rough voices and laughter. The taunts come from over near the post office, close to the giant picture of Dad, the Voice of the ABC.
A little knot of kids is standing there. It’s a gang of bullyboys from St Benedict’s school.
As we start to move again we get a glimpse of a skinny kid in the middle of the group. It’s the one who plays a gum leaf. He’s shivering, although it isn’t very cold.
Pat O’Reilly is the leader of the gang. And he’s as awful as his dad, Mr O’Reilly, Dad’s boss. Pat’s a tough kid, built like a mallee bull.
I look at Ricky. We know what’s going on. They’re giving the scabby kid a hard time.
We can hear their voices as they rise and fall in the clear spring air. They’re chanting a rhyme I haven’t heard before
You’re on the susso now.
Ya can’t afford a cow.
Ya live in a tent.
Ya pay no rent.
You’re on the susso now.
Pat O’Reilly’s not the sort of kid you want to run into. And you don’t want him to notice you. When he’s bullying a kid, you thank your lucky stars it’s not you he’s picking on.
Ricky gives me a glance above the radio, a worried look on his freckly face. No need to speak. We don’t need Pat O’Reilly to see us with our radio. It won’t be ours for long if he does.
We cross the road before we need to, starting to pant under the weight of the load. We give the gang a wide berth as we stagger along, trying to keep in step with each other.
And as we head for home their chant drums in my mind:
You’re on the susso now.
Ya can’t afford a cow.
Chapter
THIRTEEN
‘It’s no use, we can’t hear anything,’ Ricky says. ‘This radio doesn’t work.’
I’ve slipped my last ha’penny into Mum’s coin jar and now we’ve set up Mr Ward’s wonderful black box in the sleep-out. The corner of the room looks a lot like Dad’s studio. There’s even a microphone. I’m twiddling with the big dial to try for a radio signal.
Sss, it hisses. Sksksk – ssskkk. There’s only the sound of static. Kkkk.
‘I reckon it’s a dud,’ Ricky says. ‘Mr Ward said he hadn’t used it in yonks.’
‘But we’re getting some sounds,’ I say. ‘Maybe we just haven’t made contact yet.’
‘Maybe he thought we only wanted to pretend,’ Ricky says.
Wheee wheee whee, it whistles. I move to another frequency and it sounds like a wave of bombers.
‘Ah phooey,’ Ricky snorts in disgust.
But I like the weird sounds, even the blur of noisy nothing. It’s white noise. Dad’s told me about it at the radio station.
‘I’m not giving up on it,’ I tell Ricky.
I try to send a signal. I’ve been reading up on morse in the encyclopedia.
‘This is A,’ I tell Ricky. I give a short pip sound. Then a long one.
• –
‘Every letter in the alphabet can be made with sound signals. Dits and dahs.’ Just like Dad said.
‘And this is B.’
– • • •
‘Listen to Mr Clever,’ says a mocking voice at the door. It’s Arnie. He’s been tinkering with the Minerva in h
is overalls. He comes in looking like a grease monkey. ‘You’ll be talking in morse code next. Dit Dit D-a-a-a-h D-a-a-a-h.’
‘You don’t talk in morse code, Smarty. You signal and only people who know morse code can answer. So I won’t signal you. I’ll signal on the radio.’
‘Wouldn’t want to hear from you, anyway,’ he says. He pokes out his tongue and then throws a greasy rag at me, which stings my jaw. I feel the blood pump in my ears. In a rush, I jump up and launch myself at him and we fall together against the thin sleep-out wall. Thwack! A little crack appears.
Mum hears the thud and comes run ning. Pokes her head in. She looks white-faced and harried. ‘Stop it, you boys, you never give me a moment’s peace. Get up, both of you.’
We scramble to our feet. I straighten my shirt. There’s now a greasy stain on the wall, around the crack.
‘Ah, I try to keep the house nice,’ Mum sighs. She slumps her shoulders.
Arnie gets up and grabs his mucky rag. ‘Sorry, Mum,’ he grunts. ‘I’ll patch it up later,’ and then he heads back outside to the car.
‘Yes, me too.’ I don’t have time to worry about the wall now. So I turn back to the radio and quickly work through the letters of the alphabet with Ricky.
• – • •
‘That’s L,’ I tell him, after a while.
Now we’re up to M. Exactly halfway through the alphabet.
***
‘What’s the susso?’ I ask at the tea table.
‘It’s not something you need to worry about,’ Mum says firmly. I hate it when they tell me that. Or deliberately talk over my head so I won’t understand. At least they don’t spell out words anymore. They know I’ll understand them.
‘Not something you need to know about, Shorty,’ Arnie mocks. He gives me a dig in the ribs.
‘Oh, shut up,’ I tell him.
‘No, you shut up.’
‘Boys, stop it,’ says Dad with a frown. ‘This fighting has to stop. Mum told me you’ve cracked the wall in the sleep-out with your horseplay. You’re to fix it so it looks like new.’
‘They can do it at the weekend. Can’t we talk about something nice at the dinner table?’ Mum asks.
I take a bite of mashed potato. ‘Like the air race,’ I say. ‘Please, Dad, can we go?’ It must be the hundredth time I’ve asked.
‘No, it’s too far and too expensive. Do you know how much petrol costs?’ Mum asks. She sounds a bit crabby. She’s still cross about the cracked wall.
‘But the air race,’ I say. ‘It only comes along once in a century. I’ll be a hundred and ten for the next one. I’ll have a beard down to the floor.’
‘By a hundred and ten you’ll have other things on your mind,’ Mum says, and her voice has changed. Her lips are twitching. I can see she’s trying not to laugh.
‘That’s why I have to see this one. If I get enough Cherry Ripe wrappers, if I can spell out Centenary Air Race, can we go then?’
Dad looks a little weary. He rubs one hand over his eyes. ‘How is the great letter hunt?’ he asks.
‘I’ve got fourteen letters,’ I answer.
‘So you’re nearly there,’ Arnie says.
‘Only I’ve got four Ts and I just need one. And all the other kids have Ts too, so we can’t swap. And not one of us has a Y yet.’
‘Hmmm, now I wonder why that would be,’ Dad says with one eyebrow raised.
‘I don’t know, but I only need sixteen letters altogether. So when I have all the letters can we go, Dad? Please?’
Dad drops his knife and fork with a clatter.
‘Enough,’ he says. He turns to Mum. ‘These kids are getting spoiled.’
‘What did I do?’ asks Arnie with a hurt look in his eyes. ‘It’s Shorty who bangs on about the air race.’ He raises his voice to mimic me. ‘“Can we go to the race? Please can we go to the race?’’’
‘You don’t know how good you’ve got it,’ Dad says. ‘Look at Mac Robertson. When he was nine he was working in a hot, noisy factory. Full-time. Boiling sugar to make sweets. And look where he is today. The Chocolate King. Would you be able to work all day?’
I look down at my shepherd’s pie. Even the gravy seems to freeze on the plate.
But Dad doesn’t wait for me to say anything.
‘People are out of work everywhere. Lining up, looking for handouts. Their kids would be grateful for a boiled lolly. But not Jack! He wants chocolates and a dress circle seat at the air race.’
Now he turns to Mum, and I feel bad I’ve made Dad so cross.
‘We’ve mollycoddled him. It’s time he sees how the other half lives. Time to see the other side of Albury. Next Saturday, I’ll take him out to Happy Valley.’
Happy Valley sounds a good place. Like a circus where you see clowns. But I can tell by the look on Mum’s face that it’s not a nice place at all.
‘I’ve never been to Happy Valley,’ Mum says to me. ‘People say it’s more like a vale of tears. You’ll be able to tell me all about it when you come home.’
Chapter
FOURTEEN
Dad drives the car smoothly along a road I’ve never been on. He’s heading a little way out of town with me, away from the Albury I know. Away from the red brick houses with deep, lacy verandahs and trimmed lawns. And far from the neat white cottages with the chortle of chickens out the back.
He’s not saying anything and the quiet is like an empty space between us. I wonder what I should talk about. Not the air race, or wanting to go to the finish at Flemington. He doesn’t want me to go on about that.
‘I got a radio from Mr Ward,’ I tell him at last, ‘and I tried to send morse signals, but I couldn’t hear anything.’
‘Was there any sound at all?’ Dad asks.
‘Only static. Like this. Sss … kkkk.’
‘You won’t always make contact,’ Dad says. ‘Sounds as if it’s working though. You might have tried too early. Radio signals are stronger at night.’
He doesn’t say any more and we drive on in silence.
He parks the car behind a bush where it won’t be seen from the road. Maybe he’s worried about robbers but there’s nobody here and nothing to see except scrubby bush. No valley and no hills that lead to a valley.
‘Why have we stopped? There’s nothing here.’
‘We can walk the rest of the way,’ Dad says. ‘We don’t need the car where we’re going.’
So we walk together in silence, feet crunching on the gravel. We turn down a rutty little track. Maybe Dad didn’t want to jangle the new car over such bumpy ground.
After a while, we can hear voices ahead, beyond some gum trees. A man bellows as if he’s mad at somebody and I can hear a baby squalling.
‘We’re coming to the Albury common. Happy Valley, they call it. Men who don’t have a house can get a miner’s licence to dig here. Like in the old days. Then they’re allowed to build a hut for their family,’ Dad tells me. ‘Or pitch a tent. They get paid susso, because they’re out of work and not getting any wages.’
We walk through the last of the bush and come to a huge barren paddock with knotty barbed wire all around it.
And it’s like a little town of its own. But it’s nothing like Albury. And nobody is digging for gold, either.
Small huts with hessian bags over the windows are crammed side by side. And kids with runny noses chase each other in and out of them. There’s no grass to be seen and no trees. There doesn’t seem to be any happiness in Happy Valley. Just like there’s no valley. The name is the dead opposite of what it’s really like.
A smell of greasy fat wafts over to us. Then I see a lady cooking meat over a grate outside her tent. Lots of the shacks have ash piles outside. They must all cook like this.
Two little girls have drawn lines in the dust and are playing a game of hopscotch. One of them wears a flour sack. I’m trying not to stare, keep my eyes fixed on my dusty shoes, but it doesn’t work. She looks up indignantly and throws her taw in our direction.
/>
‘Go away,’ she calls. ‘Youse don’t live here.’
Grown-ups sit outside their huts, with their elbows on their knees. Watch us closely. I guess they don’t get too many visitors here.
A boy with scabby knees comes over to speak to us. It’s the kid who plays on a gum leaf in Dean Street. The one Pat O’Reilly was picking on.
‘I know you, mister,’ he says. ‘You give me a bob sometimes. I give it to me dad.’
He points to a man half-hidden by a scraggly beard. He’s on a wooden stool, skinning a small animal with a knife. As we get a bit closer, I can see it’s a rabbit. The man’s hands are bloody, and red stains seep onto his trousers.
‘Well, g’day, Joe,’ Dad says and I can tell he’s surprised. He does know the skinny kid’s father after all.
Dad puts out his hand. Joe looks a bit startled and swipes his hand along the side of his pants. Tries to rub off the blood. They shake hands and Dad doesn’t flinch. It’s as if he hasn’t even noticed the blood or the grime. But I know he has.
‘Haven’t seen you in a long while,’ Dad says. He talks in a matey way. Not in his radio voice. Not in his home voice, either. ‘This is my boy, Jack.’
Joe nods at me. ‘Seems you already know my Brendan,’ he says. ‘What brings you here?’
‘Mate, can you do some business with me?’ Dad asks. ‘I see you’re still a keen rabbiter.’
‘It’s all I got now,’ Joe says flatly. ‘No new buildings going up. No work for brickies’ labourers.’
‘We could do with a couple of rabbits. We all like a good rabbit stew.’
‘But, Dad,’ I begin. I know Mum doesn’t like rabbit. Doesn’t even like to cook bunnies, as she calls them.
Dad puts a warning hand on my shoulder. ‘And maybe we could place a regular order. A rabbit every week. Young Brendan could drop it in. Get to know Jack.’
What’s Dad thinking? I don’t need to know this scabby kid any better, but there’s nothing I can say.
