by Loretta Re
Dad chats a bit more with Joe. They don’t talk about the race, like other grown-ups do. They talk about whether the cod are biting. And wonder when the new Hume Weir to dam the river will be completed. And if it will stop the cod from biting. Then Dad shakes Joe’s grotty hand again.
Chapter
FIFTEEN
Dad wipes his hands on his handkerchief and then puts the rabbits in the boot. He shuts the door with a crunch. ‘Don’t think Mum would like the car to smell of dead animals,’ he says, patting the outside of the boot. But I can tell he wouldn’t either. He loves the car too much.
‘How come you know Brendan’s dad?’ I ask in the car.
‘We lived in the same street a long time ago,’ Dad says with his eyes on the road. ‘But we lost touch. I heard his wife ran off when he lost his job. But I didn’t know how tough things had become for him.’
This is a new thought and I turn it over in my mind. No wonder they both seem so sad. I didn’t know mums could run off.
‘Why did you buy the rabbits? Mum doesn’t like rabbit.’
‘Because men have their pride,’ Dad says, ‘and sometimes the best way to help somebody is to get him to help you. Help you at what he knows about, what he’s best at.’
Then we drive on in silence. Heading back to Mum and Arnie and the set of encyclopedias.
***
Dad pulls over and parks close to the kerb outside the post office.
‘I have to slip into the studio for a minute,’ he tells me. ‘Stay here, we don’t want to run into Mr O’Reilly.’
Slow, heavy minutes go by. Nothing to do but wait in the car. I start to draw stick figures on the window as it mists up. Passers-by flit in and out of the clear little spots and lines I’ve made. When the window is covered with pictures, I wind it down to smear them off. Then through the open window I see Mr O’Reilly on the footpath.
He heads over and takes a hard look at the car.
‘So the Voice of the ABC drives to work now, does he?’ He bends over to the window with a smirk on his face. ‘Pretty fancy car for these parts.’
He gives the front tyre a little kick with his boot. ‘Needs more pressure, I reckon.’
And before I can decide if I must speak when I’m spoken to, he stomps off towards the studio.
***
We arrive home just as Mum comes in with a bag of groceries. She clinks more brown coins into her jar over the fireplace. It’s almost full.
Dad holds up the rabbit carcasses. ‘Bought these from Joe Gallagher,’ he says.
Mum pulls a face. ‘Two rabbits!’ she exclaims. ‘What will I do with two bunnies?’
Dad gives a little shrug. He turns on the tap in the kitchen, and washes his hands a long time.
Mum sighs. ‘Oh, I know you just want to help Joe. But couldn’t you have bought some vegies from him instead?’
Dad says nothing. He lathers his hands with the soap. I look up at him and he returns my glance out of the side of his eyes. He’s speaking without words. And I know what he’s saying.
Even Mum doesn’t know there are no gardens in Happy Valley.
When I’m dropping off to sleep later on, for once I don’t plan how to get more Cherry Ripe wrappers. And I don’t see pictures in my mind of my favourite aeroplanes, pictures of a Comet or a Fairey Fox against a blue sky. Without meaning to, I see the brown dust bowl of Happy Valley rise up in front of me. And a picture of Mr O’Reilly. He hovers above me, ready to put the boot in.
It’s only then I understand about the car. Why Dad parked where he did behind the bushes. Dad didn’t think it was right to show off the Minerva to the folk in Happy Valley.
To drive there and then drive away again while they all stay, living every day among the dust and the ashes and the wire.
Chapter
SIXTEEN
Sunday’s a gentle, gloomy day like all Sundays. The church bells are pealing as I trudge into Sunday school with Ricky. Usually, I think it’s a waste of good playtime. Some weeks Mrs Carter even turns it into a colouring-in session with pictures of angels.
But today there’s a surprise. Mrs Carter has a cold and there’s a standin.
‘Mr Latimer!’
I beam with delight. Mr Latimer’s my favourite history teacher. He turns every story into an adventure. One you’re taking part in. I nearly died of thirst when we learned about Burke and Wills in the scorching desert.
‘Tell us about the horrible plagues of Egypt,’ I beg him.
‘You know those already,’ he says with a grin. ‘The hideous plague of green ugly frogs and the dreadful outbreak of itchy, itchy lice. And the boils that covered everyone’s skin.’
‘Ugh. Ugh,’ the class all shudders.
‘No, today I’ll tell you about how there came to be Protestants in the first place.’
He swings himself up onto the desk and starts as if he’s telling us a story.
‘Long ago in Europe the only Christians were the Roman Catholics,’ he tells us. ‘Everyone had to obey the Pope, their leader.’
‘Surely not the King?’ I ask.
‘I was just coming to that,’ he says, with an approving nod. ‘Even Kings and Emperors had to kneel before the Pope.’ Mr Latimer hops off the desk, sinks to his knees and trembles with fear.
‘Some people grumbled about how powerful the Pope was, but they were too scared of him to take action.
‘Martin Luther was different. He started out as a Catholic priest and monk, but he thought for himself. He believed people could read the Bible themselves, without priests to tell them about it. And he didn’t want the Pope to tell him how to run his life.
‘The Pope was furious,’ Mr Latimer goes on. He puffs himself up like an angry, lordly pope. ‘“I’ll force you to take back these wicked ideas,”’ he said.
‘The Pope called Luther to a special meeting. You’ll all like the name of it!’
Mr Latimer pauses, and looks around the room. ‘The Diet of Worms!’ he whispers. He pops his eyes wide with horror.
‘Uggh,’ groans the class. One kid makes sick noises down the back. It’s Jimmy Carter, Mrs Carter’s grandson. He’s enjoying himself hugely without his granny taking the class.
‘Martin Luther wouldn’t back down,’ Mr Latimer assures us. ‘Legend has it he looked his opponents right in the eye. “Here I stand,” he told the Pope’s men. “I can do no other.”
‘“You must obey me,” the Pope said. He had Luther declared an outlaw. Anyone who gave him food or shelter could go to prison and be left to rot in chains. And anyone could kill him and not suffer punishment.
‘On his way home from the Diet of Worms, Martin Luther was bailed up by men on horseback wearing masks and brandishing swords.’
‘Bushrangers!’ I guess.
‘No, they were the Prince’s men in disguise, dressed to look like highway men. That’s what they called bushrangers in those days.
‘They kidnapped Martin Luther and thundered away. They wanted to protect him. So nobody could get to him and kill him.
‘You’ll all like this bit too. Luther was locked up in a place called Wartburg Castle.’
The class all shudders and groans again. And in my mind I see a gloomy castle that’s all warty like the skin of a toad.
‘But Martin Luther wouldn’t back down. Not even when he was locked up in Wartburg Castle. He still wrote down his ideas.
‘Later, after he was released, Luther and his own followers signed a letter of protest. So that’s how they came to be known as Protestants. And that’s Martin Luther’s great gift to Christians. The idea that men can read the Bible for themselves. And then find the truth for themselves. They don’t always have to follow orders.
‘And his words are famous. “Here I stand. I can do no other.”’
Chapter
SEVENTEEN
Coming out of Sunday school, I see all the grown-ups in a huddle after church. Their grey-clad backs steeple above me as they chat together.
&
nbsp; Mum notices me hanging around the edge of their circle. She flashes me a quick smile.
‘You run along with Ricky,’ she suggests. ‘We’ll catch up with you in a while.’
Close to home we see Brendan and his dad leave the Catholic Church early, starting on the long trek back to Happy Valley.
Soon they’re followed out of the church by a group of kids who see Ricky and me coming. They’re heading towards us and there’s still no sign of any grown-ups. They start to chant:
Catholics, Catholics, ring the bell, see the Proddies go to hell.
‘We can’t let them get away with that!’ Ricky says.
Catholic dogs jump like frogs, can’t eat meat on Fridays,
We yell back.
But when they draw closer I start to feel clammy and wish we’d shut up. Because one of them strides right over to us. He stands above me and sticks out his chest. It’s that thug – Pat O’Reilly!
‘Well, if it isn’t little Jack Newton,’ he says, and his smile is a long way from friendly. ‘No bigger than a pepper pot.’
My skin feels all prickly. He’s big, all right. Big beefy face, big teeth and big swagger.
I move to step around him, trying not to hear my heart beating like a kettledrum.
‘I hear you’ve got quite a collection of Cherry Ripe wrappers,’ he says. He gives me a lazy smile.
‘Might have,’ I say. I’m not too sure where this chat might lead. ‘How do you know?’
‘Word gets around.’
‘Do you want to swap one?’ I ask. ‘I’ve got spare Ts and I need a Y.’
He puts his head on one side and looks at me with his bully eyes. ‘Swap? Now why would I want to do that?’
He moves towards me and I take a small step back.
‘See,’ he says, ‘I reckon I’d rather have your collection as well as mine. Not instead of. No reason why I should give up any of mine. Do you see what I mean?’
I do see what he means and I don’t like it. He’s built like a brick house.
‘Whassa matter, Pep? You not game to face me?’
He glances at Ricky. ‘What about you?’ he asks with a sneer.
Ricky goes pale beneath his freckles.
‘Let us pass,’ I say, but there’s a little wobble in my voice. Without thinking I put my hand near my pocket to check that my wrappers are safe. Then I wish I hadn’t. He’ll know where they are.
‘Let us pass,’ he squeals in imitation. ‘What a sook! You think you’re so smart, don’cha? Just because your dad’s the chief announcer. Well, you’re not smart and he’s not even a reporter. My dad says he only got his job because he’s a Pommy who speaks with a plum in his mouth.’
‘He didn’t!’ And the force of my voice surprises even me. ‘He’s an ace announcer.’
‘Yeah, you think you’re so great because he’ll be calling the air race. Well, Pep, my dad’s the boss of him, he could call plenty of races if he wanted to.’
‘My dad will get to go all over the place. To Darwin and Charleville in Queensland,’ I boast.
‘He won’t! If anyone gets to go there it will be my dad. He’s a real reporter. He’s worked on newspapers.’
‘Well, my dad’s a pilot. He knows everything about planes. He’ll see all the race.’
‘That’s what you think.’ He looks at me with scorn. ‘You don’t know anything. He won’t get to see the race!’
‘You take that back!’
And with that I hurl myself at him. But it’s hopeless. I’m no match for him and with one swipe he has me sprawling, keeled over in the dust. A dull ache in my tailbone. He slips a brawny hand into my pocket. I can feel his hand wriggle like a goanna. Then he takes out my sweet wrappers.
‘They’re mine now,’ he says.
And with that one flash of silver paper, I lose my Cherry Ripe wrappers.
And lose all hope of getting to Flemington and meeting the aviators.
Chapter
EIGHTEEN
‘We’ll have the race here,’ Mum says. She looks up from her knitting. Puts one finger on the pattern so she remembers where she is. ‘Have it in our own parlour.’
She’s trying to cheer me up because she knows I’ve lost my wrappers. Lost all hope of getting to Melbourne for the race. I didn’t tell her it was Pat O’Reilly who swiped my letters. What’s the point? Mr O’Reilly’s his dad. She can’t do anything to help. Even Dad is powerless to get back my wrappers.
‘A race here,’ nods Dad, then adds, ‘Don’t forget it will all be broadcast on the radio.’
The radio is like another member of the family. Like a brother who squeezes in between Arnie and me. I can remember a time before radio, before the world crept into our parlour. It arrived with dreamy songs like Lazy River, the tune that makes me think of the Murray when there’s a heatwave, and the hot dry summers, when it slows to an easy gentle flow.
We listen to our radio every night while mum darns our socks or knits a scarf ready for the winter frosts. We gather around it in the evenings to listen to the cricket. Mum always says the radio is the centre of our world. But when she says it, she doesn’t just mean because of the sport or the songs. It’s a lot more for our family. It’s extra special because of Dad.
We hear Dad most days when we tune in. So even when he’s not at home, Dad still fills the house and seems to be here.
‘I’ll be calling the race, too,’ Dad adds. He takes a slow puff on his pipe.
My heart leaps. I knew he’d see the race. I knew Pat O’Reilly was talking rubbish. ‘Will you really get to see the air race, Dad?’
‘Don’t worry,’ he says. Wisps of smoke rise from his words. ‘When you hear me call the Great Centenary Air Race, you’ll feel you’re seeing it too.’
So Dad will know all about the great air race. Even if I can’t get to see it, he will. He’ll see the planes fly overhead and his hawk eyes will pick out their markings. And he’ll describe it all to his listeners, not just me and Arnie and Mum, but all the listeners in town and then they’ll know who’s in the race, how far the planes have flown, how fast they’re flying. All thanks to Dad.
‘Listen, this is what we’ll do,’ Mum starts to explain. ‘We’ll follow the greatest air race ever right across the world. We’ll learn everything there is to know about it.’
So Mum gets busy on her big project, smiling all the while. It’s like when she was a teacher. She used to sit at the kitchen table after school. She’d cut out pictures for the classroom, humming Among my souvenirs.
Over the next few days Mum gets us to help her set up the card table in the parlour. She sits there with scissors and paste, cutting out green felt in an oval shape. Once she puts a brown landing strip in the middle of it, it starts to look like an aerodrome. She snips stories from newspapers, stories from magazines. Lots of tales about the aviators. And one from the Women’s Weekly about people saving up to build an Australian plane.
And she pastes photos of the aviators at the edges. They stare out at us in their goggles and aviator uniforms, proud and brave. She stands with her head on one side, pleased with her work.
‘A picture is worth a thousand words,’ she tells us, smiling.
Chapter
NINETEEN
‘I reckon I know where them Cherry Ripe wrappers are. Maybe you can get ’em back.’ Brendan is here to drop off another rabbit.
Mum takes the carcass politely, but then she puts it on the sink, as if she’s immediately forgotten about it.
I follow him out the back door like a shot. Clatter down the back steps eager to find out what he knows.
‘Where did you see them?’ I hardly dare ask. Could I still have a chance to meet the aviators?
‘I never seen them,’ he explains, ‘but Pat O’Reilly and his mates, they all hang out at the racecourse. They got a tree house there, right at the edge. So they can watch the races if they want, without paying. They hide stuff there. Stuff they nick.’
‘No kidding?’ This is news t
o me but it makes sense. He’s probably got lots of bits and pieces. Stuff he’s pinched, or bullied out of kids. Why keep it at home where his mum might find it? Easier to find a safe hidey-hole, and stash it there.
‘So-oo,’ I hesitate, not wanting to let on what I’m thinking. ‘How high off the ground exactly is this tree house?’
‘Pretty high,’ he says, his face shining with excitement. ‘I’ll take you there, if you like. You can climb up and get them.’
He seems happier than I’ve ever seen him. Maybe he’s not used to anyone tak ing much notice of him. Except when he’s being bullied.
I don’t really want to be seen hanging around with Brendan. I don’t want to have to count him as a friend just because my dad knows his dad. But I desperately want my Cherry Ripe wrappers back. Reluctantly, I agree to go with him.
‘The caretakers don’t like kids hanging around the racecourse,’ I say. ‘We’ll go there tomorrow at dawn, before Mr and Mrs Drake are up and about.’
We’re not likely to get caught then. And nobody’s likely to see me with Brendan, either.
***
I stare up at the gnarled old gum tree. Light is filling the world again and the tree looks black and huge against the pale morning sun. I feel sick. The gum’s so tall, and I can only just glimpse the tree house a long, scary way up. From here the branches look as scrawny as twigs. I swallow hard. It’s impossible to say how I feel without sounding like a sook.
‘I dunno,’ I say to Brendan. ‘Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.’
He looks at me like I’m cracked in the head. And I can’t blame him. He’s had to trudge a mile further in the chilly morning air than I have.
‘Go on,’ he urges. ‘There’s nobody around.’
A shiver runs right down my back. I put one foot against the base of the tree. Try to get a toehold in the bark. My shoe scrapes away and I pretend to lose my balance and fall back over.
I hang my head in shame, and feel my face grow hot. There’s no way I’m game to climb that tree.
‘My go,’ he says eagerly.
