by Sue Lawson
“Did you work hard?” asked Nan.
“Yes, Nan.”
“And cheerfully?”
“Yes, Nan.”
“And you refused payment.”
I dropped my fork onto the mound of mashed potatoes.
Dad stopped sawing the meat.
“Well? Did you?”
“As it turns out, she offered me pickles. I didn’t take them.”
Nan gave a smug nod. “As you shouldn’t have. Thelma’s pickles are sour.”
“Hold on, Mum,” said Dad. “You told the boy it was a job.”
If I’d been holding my fork, I’d have dropped it again.
“And a job means being paid,” he continued, tapping his knife on the edge of the plate for emphasis. “And I know for a fact Mrs Fielding can well afford to pay.”
“Close your mouth, Robert,” snapped Nan. “Frank, Thelma Fielding is my friend. How can I take money from her?”
“It’s not you she’s paying.”
“And it’s not you who had to face spiders as big as this plate,” I muttered.
Nan gasped.
Dad shot me a warning look.
I picked up my fork and drew the tines through the potato while Dad and Nan discussed the morals or otherwise of paying me.
“Robert! Stop playing with your food!”
I jumped when Nan yelled.
She picked up her plate and stomped to the sink. “I have a headache. Robert, clean up the kitchen. And I won’t be paying.” She thundered down the hall, slamming her bedroom door behind her.
“Hope that branch falls,” said Dad.
I bit the inside of my lip to stop myself from laughing. Once the feeling had gone, I cleared my throat. “Dad.” I drew out the word. “You know Barry Gregory, the guy from the caravan park?”
“Arthur Gregory’s son. Good sort, Arthur. Fought in Tobruk.” Because, to Dad, whether or not you had fought during the war was a measure of character.
“Well, he asked if I could help him at the caravan park.”
Dad’s eyes narrowed.
“He’s paying me. Money,” I lied. I hadn’t asked and Barry hadn’t mentioned money.
Dad pushed his plate away from him and reached for the cigarette packet on the kitchen bench.
“If I work hard, it may turn into a regular job – you know, a holiday job.”
Dad held a lit match to the end of his cigarette and sucked in. The tip flared red. He blew smoke across the table. “A job like that will teach you a thing or two.”
I stood and reached for his plate, my belly light with relief. A holiday job, even if it turned out to be only one day a week, was way better than being stuck in this house with Nan for six weeks. I didn’t care if Barry paid or not.
CHAPTER 7
“Where are you going?” snapped Nan.
I swear she’d been lurking in the laundry, waiting to jump out at me. “I have a job.”
“What job?” She folded her arms.
“Barry Gregory asked me to mow for him.”
“Is that what he was talking to you about at Thel’s?”
I swear nothing happened in Walgaree – no, make that the district – without Nan knowing. “Yes.”
“I’m not sure that’s a suitable place for you to work.” She pressed her lips together. “Why wasn’t I consulted?”
I tried to make my eyes wide and innocent. “Dad and I talked about it last night. When you had a headache. He thought working at the park would be good for me.”
She shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “Well then, don’t be late.” She shooed me out the back door.
Barry Gregory was bent over a mower outside what I guessed was the office when I arrived at the Walgaree Caravan Park. He looked up as my tyres crunched on the gravel driveway.
“You’re early.” He wiped the back of his hand against his cheek, leaving a greasy smudge.
I glanced at my watch. Eight forty. “Sorry, Mr Gregory, I–”
He cut me off with a deep laugh. “Call me Barry. And being early is a good thing.” He strolled towards me, hand outstretched. “Welcome to our place, Robbie.”
I remembered the time Nan had made Dad teach me how to shake hands, like a man. Firm grip. No wet-fish grip. Look into their eyes. According to Nan and Dad, a handshake reflected your character.
My palm was sweaty, but I didn’t want to wipe it on my shorts. With a grimace I shook his hand with my sweaty one. His grip was firm, but not too firm, and his hand warm.
“Pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise.” Barry’s eyes twinkled. “You can leave your bike down the side.” He nodded at a path beside the office. The office was the house’s verandah, just closed in. Like the rest of the house, the weatherboards were painted white and the windows were large. From where I stood, I could see a huge book open on the counter beside a black telephone and pencils.
I wheeled my bike after Barry.
“Have you met Mum?”
“I don’t think so. I used to see your dad around school. He had the cleanest tools.” The moment I said it, I cringed. Nan had told me a thousand and one times not to talk about the deceased, as she called them. Face burning, I spun to face Barry. “I’m sorry.”
He dismissed my panic with a smile. “He took care of everything like that. I’m not as fastidious, I’m afraid. Mum would like to hear what you said.”
“What?” I sprayed the word as though it was too hot to keep in my mouth.
“She’d like to hear that you noticed how he took care of his things. Come and have a cuppa, then I’ll show you around.”
I rested my bike against the fence and followed him into a secluded backyard filled with fruit trees, vegetables, lush lawn and roses in bloom. At the back of the yard, obscured by a creeper of some kind, was a sleep-out. A fence, taller than me, hemmed the whole garden.
“This is Mum’s piece of paradise. Spends every spare moment out here.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said, and meant it.
Barry slipped off his work boots at the back door. So did I. The house smelled of vanilla and pine. The kitchen walls were painted lemon and the cupboards cream, and the daffodil-patterned curtains were open. A crystal vase with yellow roses sat in the middle of the table. Between the kitchen and what I guessed was the lounge room, a Christmas tree reached to the ceiling. A string of Christmas cards hung above the windows and a nativity scene was spread across a sideboard. Other Christmas decorations were scattered around the room.
“Have a seat,” said Barry, taking the kettle from the stovetop and filling it. “I’m making tea, Mum,” he called over his shoulder.
The room somehow became lighter when Mrs Gregory entered. She pushed a stray grey hair into her loose bun and smiled. I thought of apple cake and fluffy towels.
“Tea, Mum?” Barry’s voice broke the trance I’d fallen into.
“Love one, thank you.” Though she was small, her voice was strong and clear. “You must be Frank Bower’s boy,” she said, turning to me. Barry introduced us.
“Hello, Mrs Gregory.” I didn’t know whether to shake her hand or hug her. Instead I bobbed my head.
“Sit down, Robbie.” She gestured at the table and walked to where Barry stood by the sink. “You too, you big oaf. I’ll make the tea.”
“Didn’t think you’d ever offer.”
On his way to the table, Barry picked up a tin from the bench and opened it. “Anzac biscuit?” he asked, offering me the tin. “Wrong time of year for them I know, but I love them.”
“And so his mother makes sure he doesn’t run out,” said Mrs Gregory, with a grin. “Would you get a plate, please, Barry? Robbie will think we’re uncivilised.”
“He’ll be right, won’t you, Robbie?” He shook the open tin towards me.
I looked from Barry and back to his mother. They were so comfortable with each other, acting as though they were friends. After a moment I took an Anzac. “Thanks.”
Barry took t
wo and closed the lid, placing the tin beside him on the tablecloth. “Anyway, Robbie, you didn’t tell me, does your grandmother let you eat her mulberries?”
“Barry! Leave the boy alone,” said Mrs Gregory. “How is Dawn, Robbie?”
“She’s …” What could I say? Grumpy? A gossip? “She’s … you know.”
Barry laughed.
His mother raised her eyebrows and turned back to the kettle, which hissed steam. “She did a wonderful job with Arthur’s afternoon tea.”
“Robbie was telling me he noticed Dad at school, Mum.”
“His tools were the cleanest I’ve ever seen,” I blurted, unsure of what else to say.
“He loved working at the school.” Mrs Gregory stood, teaspoon of tea leaves poised over the pot. She looked out to her garden. “Poor Artie.” With a sigh, she tipped the tea into the pot.
I stared at the biscuit still in my hand. “I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I didn’t … I shouldn’t …”
She faced me. “Oh, Robbie, whatever are you sorry for?”
“I shouldn’t have spoken about him.”
“I’m glad you did.” She dropped the spoon into the tea canister. “Sugar in your tea?”
I’d assumed that when Barry said we’d have a cuppa, what he meant was that he’d drink tea and I’d have cordial, or milk, or water. I’d never tasted tea before. I thought about all the cups I’d poured Nan – the bitter but fragrant smell – and took a guess. “Two please.”
“So, tell us the Robbie Bower story,” said Barry, standing to help his mother carry the teapot and cups to the table.
“Not much to tell. Dad works at the bank, and you know Nan. And her mulberries.”
“That’s not you though, Robbie,” said Mrs Gregory, settled at the end of the table. “You must have so many things you like to do. When Barry was your age all he wanted to do was ride his bike and fish at the river.”
“I’ve never been fishing.”
“Never?” said Barry, his eyes wide.
I hung my head. “I ride my bike. And read.”
“Do you like Biggles? Barry has the whole collection somewhere.” She poured tea. “Where did we put them?”
“Sleep-out, I think.”
“You must take Robbie out there so he can borrow any he hasn’t read.”
“Probably other books out there you’d like too.” Barry started on his third Anzac.
“None of that Ox, or Ozzie magazine, or whatever it is. Dawn would skin him alive.”
“Nah, she’d kill you and Barry, but not me. I’m too valuable. Who else would feed the chooks and mow the lawn?” Had I really said that? I lurched for the milk jug and, with a shaking hand, poured. Liquid splashed over the rim of the cup.
That’s when the noise engulfed me. Laughter. Rich and deep.
I looked up from the mess. Barry laughed. Laughter twinkled in Mrs Gregory’s eyes.
“I’m sorry. About the milk. And I’m sorry for what I said about Nan. That was rude.”
Mrs Gregory leaned forwards and placed her hand on mine. Her hand was warm and soft. “Robbie, there’s nothing to be sorry for.”
Barry’s rolling laughter slowed. “I’m going to enjoy working with you, Robbie.”
Warmth flooded me.
“Is there anything you don’t eat, Robbie?”
When she saw my puzzled face, Mrs Gregory added, “For lunch.”
I squirmed in my seat. “I couldn’t. That would be too much, and anyway, Nan will be expecting me.”
Mrs Gregory waved her hand. “I’ll look after that.”
“But …”
“I insist.”
“Go with it, Robbie, it’s easier,” said Barry, grinning over his teacup.
CHAPTER 8
“How was the mower?” Barry walked towards me, his shirt and shorts covered in splodges of green paint. “Easier to push than Thelma Fielding’s?”
“Better than Nan’s, too. Hers has a motor, but it doesn’t glide like this one. It coughs and spits.”
“Probably needs new spark plugs,” he said.
After we’d finished our cup of tea, Barry had given me a tour of the shower and laundry blocks, the toolshed and incinerator. He showed me the permanent residents’ caravans. The first, a silver van with closed windows and blinds pulled down, was way in the back corner of the park. Fishing rods with no line rested beside the door. According to Barry, the van’s owner, Hitch Bradford, only came out at night.
The other permanent van was closer to the river and was circled by terracotta pots of pink and white geraniums. A bike with a wire basket was propped against the tow bar. As Barry and I neared, a stocky woman burst through the plastic fly guard strips, which hung over the annexe door. She wore black crimplene pants, a floral shirt, men’s lace-up boots and a terry-towelling hat. She held a plate.
“Is this your new worker?” Her voice made me think of gravel hitting the underside of a car.
“Sure is, Gert. Robbie, this is Gertie. She’s been here longer than Mum and Dad.”
“Hello, Miss … Mrs–”
She cut me off with a flap of her hand. “Gertie or Gert, love. Welcome.” She held the plate out to Barry. “Be a love and take that back to Vi, please. Tell her the shepherd’s pie was delicious.”
Barry had barely taken the plate before Gert darted back inside.
On the way to the on-site caravans he leased to travellers, Barry told me Gert left the park once a week to ride into town.
“She comes back with small brown paper bags in the bike basket. Not enough to feed a sparrow for the week. She never has visitors or mail.” Barry nodded at the plate. “Mum brings her food. Has for as long as I can remember.”
Tour over, Barry took the plate to the office. While he painted the doors in the women’s shower block, I mowed the nature strip, around the office and the playground. Even though it was late December, the lawns were lush, nothing like Bat Face Fielding’s patchy grass.
There was something soothing about the work, and for the first time in forever, I had room to think. Or not think.
Anytime the engine idled, the air was filled with cockatoo screeches and magpie songs. No nagging grandmothers or silent fathers.
I looked up as I finished the playground lawn to see Barry strolling towards me.
“How’s it going?”
“Done.” I grinned at the grass. “Easy to mow. It’s so green.”
“Dad refused to have people camp on stones or concrete, so he rigged up an irrigation system at the river to keep the place well watered.” Barry’s stomach rumbled like thunder. “I’ll show you after lunch.”
“Wash your hands, boys,” called Mrs Gregory when we walked through the back door. From the smell, I reckoned it was sausages sizzling and popping in the kitchen.
I followed Barry down the corridor. Nan’s lectures about being nosy echoed through my head but weren’t enough to stop me peeking in doorways.
All the windows and curtains were open, though it was warm even by Walgaree standards. The first room had two single beds, with matching embroidered quilts. It looked like no one had slept there for a while.
The next room had a double bed, its bedspread pulled smooth. A dressing table, covered with bottles, jars and a black-and-white wedding photo, stood between the wall and the window.
There was another open door beyond the bathroom, which I guessed was Barry’s room. I fought the urge to take another step so I could see if he had books piled on his bedside table, like me.
The bathroom was as light and open as the rest of the house. Instead of bleach, it smelled of flowers I couldn’t name. A handtowel hung from the rack beside the basin and soap sat in a floral dish. I sniffed the soap.
“Lily-of-the-valley,” said Barry, filling the sink and lathering his hands. “Mum’s favourite. Did I tell you about the milko and baker? They’ll drive through the park each morning over summer. Saves the campers having to go into town for the essentials. You’ll learn to pick the
difference between their bells soon enough.”
He spoke as though I’d still be working here to see all of that. Hope prickled against my skin.
“We have over fifty booked in this year.”
“Why do they come here?”
When he laughed, my face burned. “I mean to Walgaree, not the caravan park–”
He dried his hands. “To visit family mostly. Or to fish. Some use it as a base for the opal fields. Others just like the river. There’s one couple who have been camping here since before Dad bought the place.” He shook his head. “For the life of me, I don’t see the appeal, but there you are.”
When we returned to the kitchen, Mrs Gregory had placed our meals – sausages, beans, carrots and boiled potatoes – and two glasses of water on the table. I hung back until both she and Barry had claimed their seats before sitting. Mrs Gregory sat at the head of the table, with Barry on her left. I took the seat opposite him.
“What have you two been up to this morning?” she asked, passing me a plate of bread.
“Robbie mowed and I painted the women’s toilet and shower doors,” said Barry. He nodded at the jug on the table. “Make sure you try Dad’s tomato sauce, mate.”
“You’ll have to make it, now.” Mrs Gregory’s voice cracked.
The sounds of buttering bread and knives scraping crockery filled the silence.
Mrs Gregory’s voice bounced through the quiet. “What do the Bowers do for Christmas, Robbie?”
“Midnight Mass, Christmas Eve. Nan will cook turkey and pork on Christmas Day, and we’ll open gifts after lunch. Christmas night, Dad will probably have a drink with Mr Jackson and Mr Mathes.”
“Bull and Twiggy?” asked Barry.
I nodded and popped a piece of sausage in my mouth. A look passed between Barry and Mrs Gregory.
“Do you spend time with your mum’s family?” asked Mrs Gregory.
The sausage lodged in my throat. I coughed.
Mrs Gregory passed me my water. I sipped, and felt the fire in my throat ease.
“Sorry,” I gasped, tears in my eyes. “I must have breathed when I should have swallowed.” I took another sip, conscious of Barry and his mother watching me. “Christmas is …” My throat tickled, hinting at another bout of coughing. “I haven’t seen Mum’s family since we moved here.”
