by Peter Corris
Lennie left, and we went upstairs and looked in on Peter, who was fast asleep. He was part-African slave, part-Aboriginal tribesman, part-Scots shepherd and part-Welsh miner. He was ten months old, and just starting to walk. His brown hand on the pillow was curled up into a fist. Kelly and I made love while the crowd roared for the last race.
I was writing a sporting column for the News, light stuff, no strain. I went out to Randwick to talk to some gentlemen of the turf and the copy wasn’t due in for a couple of days; so after the interviews I collected Kelly and Peter and we went off to Bunya Street. We took some fast food and soft drink; no grog was allowed.
It was after seven when we got there, still light, but with a coolness in the wind that was being offset by a couple of decent-sized fires in the large space which had been formed by knocking out the dividing fences between the houses at the back. They were big houses, three-storey jobs, worth a hell of a lot of money. Our plan was to use two for the goommees, a couple for womens’ refuges and the rest for temporary accommodation and meetings. The work was about halfway through; there was a lot of plumbing and glazing and carpentry to do and pay for. Some of the workers camped in the houses, which the neighbours didn’t like.
There was always plenty of rubbish timber to burn, and there were guitars and singers and good nights. The women sat with the men, something both sides had had to work hard at at first. It made some of the older people uneasy, but it was working. Once they got their confidence the women contributed strongly to the decision-making meetings, thrashing out every point. It meant some long meetings sometimes.
There was no avoiding it; I went straight up to Dick Stuart, who was squatting by a fire getting a light for his smoke.
‘G’day, Dick. How’s it going?’
‘Charlie. All right, or was till now.’
Dick was in his late-fifties, a few years up on me. He was grey and burly, with a heavy, impressive head. That head had taken a lot of punches in the ring, more than mine. He’d held a state title, which was more than I’d done, but we’d got to where we were in 1972 by much the same route. We didn’t always agree, and a month before we’d quarrelled over the way to spend some money and had landed one punch each. We’d both been shocked, and stepped back immediately. I hadn’t been to Bunya Street since.
‘What d’you reckon about this, Charlie?’
‘Have to hear the arguments first.’
He spat into the fire. ‘You sound like the bloody women. You’re a returned man aren’t you?’
‘You know I am. This is different.’
‘So you’re for these bloody shirkers?’
‘I didn’t say that, Dick.’
He used his fire-stick to carve a big X in the dusty ground. ‘This is what matters, this place.’
It was going to be heavy work if Dick had made his mind up already, and I wondered why he’d called me in. I asked him and he stared into the fire.
‘Bloody big argument coming up; thought you might back me. But the kid’s a relation of mine. Bloody difficult.’
It would be. If Dick was caught between his dream for Bunya Street and kinship responsibilities, he was in deep trouble. Also, Dick could be pig-stubborn at times.
‘Well, we’ll see’, I said. ‘Looks like the work’s going all right.’
‘Bloody quarrelling about that, too. I want to move through doing the same thing six times, some of them want to do one place completely at a time.’
‘You’re right there.’
‘Too right I am.’ He seemed to be happy to get that measure of agreement. ‘Better get this meeting going. Hello, Kelly; how’s the nipper?’
‘Good, Dick.’ Kelly was wary of Dick as he was of her. He was a Bandjalang from the north-east, where the people have kept a fair bit of the old ways as well as taking on board a lot of ratbag Christianity. He found Kelly’s Gourniditjmara—American negro mix a bit hard to take, along with her education. Old yeller-feller Gandju Charlie, graduate of Sharkey’s tent, he reckoned he could handle.
Dick drew the thirty people standing and sitting around the fires into a group—he had that ability. I held Peter while Kelly got some food for us. It felt good, standing there with my son in my arms.
‘We’ve got a few things to talk about’, Dick rasped. ‘And if you’re agreeable I’ll start off.’ There were nods all round, which was how Dick liked it. He wasn’t a compelling orator though, and my mind drifted away from his spiel about the right way to do the re-building.
Looking around I thought that we in no way resembled those old-time photographs of the blacks on the mission. How they got that popped look into their eyes I’ll never know. There was none of your decent broadcloth here—most of the men and some of the women wore jeans and shirts and there was none of that bolt upright, stuffed-chook look the mission blacks always seemed to have. There were sitters and kneelers, standers and crawlers and grizzlers. There were smokers and coffee drinkers but, by order, no drinkers or spitters.
I spotted the gubbah with two other kids, one of whom I didn’t know. He was tall and thin, with shoulder-length hair. In tight jeans and high-heeled boots he looked more Queensland than New South Wales, but I guessed he was Dick’s kinsman. The three of them were in the shadows, talking quietly while Dick took a straw vote on the building procedure. As I raised my hand to vote for Dick’s assembly-line method I saw something that jolted me like a stiff, straight left: the gub passed his cigarette to the tall kid, who took a drag, and passed it on.
Christ, I thought, Dick’ll murder them.
‘I won’t make the boys do a song and dance’, Dick said. ‘Most of you know ’em by now—Willie Richards who’s my sister’s grandson and his mate, Kevin O’Connor. You’re from down Griffith way, Kevin, that right?’
The voice came from the shadows, educated and confident, ‘That’s right, Mr Stuart.’
‘Dick’ll do’, he growled. ‘I understand both of you blokes registered for the draft. Why’d you do that if you were so against it?’
I could see Dick’s tactics, to show that the boys were weak reeds, not worth risking the future of the houses over. ‘Why’d you sign up if you never meant to fight?’ Dick snarled.
‘Too bloody silly to do anything else’, the tall boy said. He ended on a high, nervous note, almost a giggle, and I wondered how much grass he’d smoked.
‘More to it than that, Dick’, O’Connor said. ‘I don’t want to make a speech …’
Like hell you don’t.
‘… but we got politicised after we’d registered. And now we’re carrying on the process. We’re looking for support from organisations like yours—from the feminists, the gay rights people.’
Dick almost exploded, he drew smoke in the wrong way and coughed helplessly for what seemed like five minutes.
‘There’s no bloody organisation here’, he croaked. ‘We’re doin’ a job, that’s all.’
There was a bit of muttering around the fires, and I felt Kelly stirring beside me. O’Connor had the politician’s instinct for saying the right thing at the right time.
‘With respect, Dick, I wouldn’t say that. Bunya Street and you are identified, for one thing. The project’s had a lot of media coverage.’
‘And you want to trade on it’, Stuart blazed at him. ‘You want to fuckin’ ride your hobby-horse …’
‘Easy, Dick.’ May Stuart had her hand on his arm and Dick subsided, but he’d drawn the lines and he glared around the gathering for support. One of the young women stood up and said that Aborigines had to fight for justice right across the board. She was for helping draft dodgers any way she could. Dick signalled to me to speak; his eyes were begging and angry at the same time.
‘There’s two issues’, I said. ‘The one of sheltering Kevin and Willie and, another one of where people stand on the draft and the war. Take them separately, and there’s room for some differences.’
O’Connor shot me a look that was hard to interpret—respect or dislike?
‘You old conciliator you’, Kelly murmured.
‘Dick’ll have a coronary if we don’t watch it’, I said.
We took the second issue first and argued it back and forth, with the usual speakers having their say. There was no conclusion, some people hadn’t even thought about it and wanted some time. We agreed to have another meeting on it. After all the ideology and analysis, it was pretty straightforward to get agreement for the boys to stay at Bunya Street for a while. They agreed to work and stick to the rules.
‘How hot are youse?’ Lennie asked.
‘Pretty hot’, O’Connor said. I’ve written a lot of stuff. They’d be glad to get me.’
Willie was scuffing his boots in the dirt, and May Stuart snapped a question at him.
‘We pinched a car to get here’, he muttered. They’ll be after us for that, too.’
The boys’ stay was to be indefinite, like the date of the meeting to discuss the war. That’s the way it was—when it felt right it got done. Dick Stuart and May left immediately, and Kelly and I hung around chatting, drinking coffee and showing off Peter. I was tired after the day’s work and the tension of the meeting and I was a bit short with O’Connor when I got him aside.
‘Better get rid of the pot’, I said.
‘I didn’t hear it mentioned in the rules.’ He was a nuggety, black-haired type with a broad, pugnacious face. He looked tough as well as smart.
‘This is a building site’, I said. ‘Drugs are dangerous—things fall and get thrown around here, bricks, timber. Get rid of it.’
On the way home Kelly asked me what I’d said to O’Connor and I told her.
‘Not like you to threaten anyone, love.’
‘I’m worried.’
‘I thought you said there was room for differences of opinion?’
‘If I know our Kev, he’ll be out lining up the votes tomorrow.’
I kept in touch with developments at Bunya Street but not too closely. Dick Stuart was jealous of his authority, and on most things his judgement was sound. I heard that O’Connor and Richards caused trouble from the start. They had a big influence on the younger people and Lennie was critical.
‘That gubbah goes about as if he’s pissed half the time’, he said. ‘Grinning all over his fucking face.’
‘What does Dick say?’ We were in a pub on Broadway, Lennie was drinking a shandy. The walls were ringed around with pictures of fighters from Larry Foley to Paul Ferreri; Dick Stuart was up there along with all the others—Jerome, Richards, Hassen, Sands, Rose.
‘He’s gettin’ everyone’s back up—slave-drivin’ on the job. There’s a rumour that some of the suppliers have been kick-in’ back to him.’
‘Come on, Lennie. No way!’
‘I don’t say it meself, but it’s bein’ said.’
When I got home, Dick was sitting uneasily in the kitchen with Kelly. They were eking out a pot of tea. It looked as if there’d been some long silences. Kelly’s face loosened with relief when I came in. I kissed her properly, not caring a damn about Dick Stuart or anyone else. She pushed me away, a bit embarrassed.
‘Dick’s here on business, I gather’, she said. ‘Peter’s next door, I’ll get him. Will you stay to eat, Dick?’
‘No, Kelly, thanks. I’ll have my say and get on.’
I made more tea and sat down, while Dick rolled a careful smoke.
‘I hear the plumbing’s finished’, I said.
‘And the money’s run out.’
‘Shit. That last lot didn’t go far.’
This was a bit close to the bone of our last dispute and Dick glanced across at me angrily but he let it ride.
‘There’s more coming if we pass the next vetting.’
‘When’s that?’
‘Next week. Two of the department blokes coming out to look over the site, see the books and that.’
I poured the tea. ‘How’re the books?’
In the red, of course. You can’t just stop. I’ve punted on the money coming through.’
‘Be right, won’t it?’
He dug into the side pocket of his jacket and pulled out a crumpled envelope. I expected difficult business correspondence, but he held the paper in his fist like something dirty. ‘It would be right’, he said. ‘Except for this. Know what this is?’ He spilled the stuff out on to the table—it looked like chaff mixed with dried lawn clippings. I rubbed some between my thumb and fingers and sniffed.
‘Yeah. I know what it is.’
‘It’s pot!’ He thumped his fist on the table; cups, teapot and marijuana jumped. ‘That little white prick’s been smoking reefers at Bunya Street; handing it round, too.’
‘That’s how they do it’, I murmured.
‘What?’
‘They share it. No one smokes it on his own.’
‘I don’t give a fuck! You must’ve seen it in the war? Those niggers all out of their bloody minds, dancing…’
‘I think it was different stuff, then. I understand this just makes them sleepy and happy. It’s better than booze, Dick.’
‘It’s against the law, and it’s against our rules.’
I looked at him and didn’t say anything. Veins were bulging in his forehead and his shoulders were twitching.
‘I’ve got a mind to turn them in.’
‘You can’t do that, Dick. Not to Willie. And it’d involve Bunya Street.’
‘I could knock that bastard out and dump him in Dubbo’, he said grimly. ‘One phone call’d fix him.’
‘No, Dick, it’s not the way.’
‘They’re fucking everything, Charlie.’ Kelly came in with Peter, and Dick swept up the marijuana stalks and strands quickly as if they were dirty pictures.
‘Have you fronted them?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, did no good. Some of the young ones are with them. Anyway, there’s a meeting tomorrow, and I wanted to ask you to come and support me.’
I could see what an effort it took him to ask, especially in front of Kelly. He looked unwell and desperate; it was his determination which had got the house project off the ground, and he still had the capacity to wreck it completely. I wondered if he made any distinction between his own future and that of Bunya Street—I doubted it.
‘I’ll be there, Dick’, I said.
After he left, Kelly and I had one of our rare disagreements. She told me I couldn’t sit on the fence any longer.
‘It’s cold’, she said. ‘Bloodless. What do you feel about the Vietnam war and the draft? You’re against it in a theoretical sort of way, but where do you stand? What do you believe? What will you do?’
Peter was waving a half-chewed rusk in the air and I grinned at him. If he threw it on the floor and the cat licked it and we put it in the garbage it wouldn’t matter. Back on the river bank to waste food meant a clip on the ear.
‘Where do you stand?’ I said.
‘Against, totally. I’m angry. If there’s another march, I’ll march. If there’s a riot, I’ll riot.’
I got the flagon out and poured wine for us both while I tried to think what to say. She was right, I didn’t feel much about the war. It was like a long-running film to me, a horror film, but not quite real. I thought perhaps I’d seen all the death and pain I could cope with up close, but it’d have sounded pompous to say so. I kissed her and she didn’t react.
‘I’m am optimist’, I said. ‘I put some hope in Whitlam.’
‘Whitlam!’
‘I know. I know. Politicians. But I think he’ll pull us right out. End of problem as far as we’re concerned. Practical, see?’
‘He couldn’t do it overnight.’
‘I think he could. I’ve talked to some of the party blokes. They say he’d sit down the day after the election with a list and fix up things, there and then. They say the draft is top of the list.’
‘Bullshit.’
I shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, love, but I don’t think it is. I saw Whitlam once, met him. Arrogant bastard, but he made the others lo
ok like shifty kids. I think he’s game. I think he’ll stop the draft, and do a lot for land rights.’
‘Vote ALP!’
‘That’s right. I tell you what though, I do feel something about the houses. I don’t want it all screwed-up by some hot-headed kids. Greenwood and Fraser and the others ’ll go down fighting. I know Dick’s a pain in some ways, but I’m more for him than against him.’
‘Well, your hero’s on telly tonight—policy speech.’
Kelly went out and registered to vote the next day—it was that impressive. ‘My government will end conscription and all proceedings against those who have resisted the conscription tyranny.’ Sydney was the place to be that night—it felt like the centre of the world.
The euphoria lasted until I got to the meeting at the houses the next night. It was a mild night and there were no fires, just a couple of hurricane lamps burning. Under one of the lamps a big group was sitting with Kelvin O’Connor at its centre. He was playing the guitar, playing it well, and singing in a sweet, tuneful voice:
Shoot me like an Irish soldier
The others joined in the chorus, swaying their heads.
Dick and the older hands were muttering in a clutch over near the back of the end house. They looked to be on the defensive. He had a lovely voice, O’Connor, and I listened for a minute until I realised I was standing exactly mid-way between the two groups. I hurried over to Dick’s lot. May Stuart’s face was streaked where tears had run through the dust; she was younger than Dick and always did a full day’s work on the site.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘They stacked the meeting’, Dick said. ‘It’s all over. You’re late, Charlie.’
‘What d’you mean, late? There was no fixed time. I thought we’d just get down to it when we were ready, like always.’
‘So did I’, Dick said. ‘Shows what a mug I was. Willie and O’Conner have organised. Got the meeting started on a show of hands.’
‘What happened?’
‘I started to talk about the drugs. Suppose I was a bit long-winded …’
‘The young ones shouted him down’, May said bitterly. ‘And you know what? They’ve voted to march in a group from here on the Vietnam rally next week.’
