by Sue Lawson
“Barry Gregory’s not a fossil.”
Wright snorted. “Dad reckons he’s weird.”
My shoulders tightened. “Is that right?”
“Probably a homo.” He leaned towards me. “Are you a poofter too, Bower?”
Keith spluttered mid-drag. Rhook’s laugh was like a shattering window.
I wanted to punch their smug faces. “Barry’s girlfriend comes back from England soon. Anyway, homos don’t go to Rolling Stones concerts in London.” Like I’d know.
Keith’s face brightened. “He saw the Rolling Stones? For real?”
“Couple of times.”
Wright’s left hand, which had been hanging loose over the rail, closed into a fist.
“Billy gone home?” I asked.
“About an hour ago.” Keith tossed his cigarette butt at a row of shrubs.
“So, what are you lot up to?” I asked.
“Planning a little fun.” The menace in Wright’s voice made my skin tight.
“Swim?” I asked.
Rhook snorted. “Nah, going to the Station.”
Like most people in Walgaree, I’d never been to the Station. I gripped my handlebars tight. “Walgaree Station, the Station? The Aborigine mission?”
Edwards sniggered. “There’s an echo in here.”
“Yeah, Bower, the Station. Those boongs can’t turn up at Memorial Park and get away with it.”
“You can’t … I mean …” I stammered.
Wright jolted upright. “What. Did. You. Say?” He strode down the steps, chest puffed out.
My courage rushed from me. “You can’t go there. I mean, everyone knows they’re dirty and diseased. You’ll get sick. You should stay away.”
Wright’s chest deflated. “Desperate times require desperate actions, my friend.”
A prickly sensation, a mixture of anger and fear, flooded me. “What are you going to do?”
Wright shrugged. “Haven’t decided yet. Are you in?”
I stared at the weathered edge of the step. “Actually, I have to get home.”
Before any of them could speak, I wheeled my bike back to the path.
Keith’s voice drifted after me. “His nan’s an old bag. He’d come if he could.”
My hands clenched the handlebars and I rode to Main Street.
CHAPTER 14
Dad pulled into the first gap in the endless line of cars angle-parked along the street in front of the church. Dad, Nan and I went to midnight Mass every Christmas Eve, no matter what.
From the back seat, I watched men wearing hats, women in gloves and pressed and polished children trot towards the looming church. Dad opened the car door. The faint sound of Christmas carols played on an organ drifted on the breeze.
Without speaking, I followed Nan, who wore gloves, hat and a coat despite the warm night, and Dad, who held his hat in front of him. Golden light spilled from the church’s open door and flickered behind stained-glass windows.
Nan sailed down the aisle to her usual seat, second from the front. I sat between her and Dad. On my knees and with my head bowed, I glanced about as best I could without moving. People with starched collars, sharp trouser creases and stiff skirts that rustled with the slightest movement kneeled or sat in the pews.
Keith and his family were across the aisle to my right; ahead of them were Ian Wright, his parents and his equally dense-looking younger brothers.
I jumped when the organist, Mrs Dixon, hit and held a chord which seemed to shake the church’s stone walls. Everyone stood and sang “O Come, All Ye Faithful”.
Through the service, I stood, kneeled and spoke in the right places. I knew I should have been praying, but I was so tired after work, I was flat out staying awake.
Relief flooded me when Father Malachy stepped forwards for the recessional hymn, “Silent Night”. Not long now until I could sink into bed and close my eyes. Then my shoulders sagged. Even midnight Mass wouldn’t stop Nan from doing her usual after-church thing. Once the last hymn was over, she’d gather her bag and sail down the aisle, out the door to the rosebush in the corner of the churchyard where she gathered with Bat Face Fielding and her other friends. Even though they’d spent an hour praying and promising to act like Jesus, the moment they were outside, not even off church grounds, they burst into a gossip session.
True to form, tonight she made a beeline for Bat Face and the rosebush.
I spied Keith and Wright by the church’s stone fence. “I’m going to the car, Dad.”
He nodded. “Ahh, there’s Bull.” He raised his hand and waved, then strutted to where Mr Jackson stood with his wife.
I’d just stepped outside the church grounds and was calculating what would be quicker – waiting in the car for Nan and Dad, or walking home – when Keith slammed into my shoulder.
“Bower!” He danced in front of me. “Merry Christmas.”
“Thanks. You too.” Even in the low light from the church, Keith’s huge grin was easy to see.
“Did you end up going to the Station?”
“Sure did. Broke three windows at the school. That sent ‘em a message, eh?”
“You’re joking, right?”
Keith shook his head. “Nah, three windows. Oh, and the light over the office door. Ripped out a few trees too. Mangy-looking things, just like the Abos.” He glanced over his shoulder and stepped closer to me. “But you can’t tell anyone, Bower. Someone called the cops and we had to take off. Only just made it to the scrub near the river before Dad and Morph arrived. Dad thinks black kids did it. If he finds out it was me … You can’t tell anyone, Bower. Swear it.”
“I swear.”
Wright appeared beside us. “Bower.” He said it like he was listing things around him. Tree. Footpath. Parked car. Bower.
“You working Boxing Day?” Even though he smiled, it sounded like an accusation.
“Nope, I have Christmas and Boxing Day off.”
“We’re going to the river Boxing Day morning. You should come. That’s if your nan will let you.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Hurry up, Ian,” growled a gruff voice from the road.
“Coming,” answered Wright. The bluster returned to his voice when he looked back to Keith and me. “River, Saturday, about eleven.”
He raced across the nature strip, grey in the gloom, to where his father waited by a dark car.
“I better get going, too,” said Keith. “Dad’s on duty.”
Walgaree was small enough for anyone who needed the local cop on Christmas Eve to know they’d find him at church.
“See you then.”
“Boxing Day,” said Keith, over his shoulder.
CHAPTER 15
The Christmas tree drooped in the corner, as though the smell of Nan’s roast turkey, pork and pudding hanging in the warm air had sapped the last of its will to live. Beneath it, wrapped in choirboy paper, were presents that had been there since the start of December.
Dad sat in his armchair, reading The Bulletin. An article about students or blacks, judging by the head-shaking and snorting.
Nan wiped the kitchen table so hard it shook.
I dried the last of the dishes, which I’d also washed.
“When you’re finished we’ll open presents,” said Nan.
If she hoped that would speed me up, she was wrong. Past Christmases told me my gifts would be underwear. Maybe, if I was lucky, there’d be new swimmers this year. My old ones had been bright red, but were now pink. Even though I’d dropped a thousand and one hints, I knew none of the parcels would contain the transistor radio I’d seen at Dobson’s.
Keith, Billy, not even fathead Wright, would ever be given socks and undies. They’d receive a record player, or LPs or a transistor radio, or maybe a new bike.
And Keith and Billy still received gifts from Father Christmas. I hadn’t since my eighth birthday when Nan told me the truth about Santa. Happy birthday, Robbie.
So, the way I saw it, there was no rush
to dry the dishes.
Soggy tea towel dumped in the laundry sink, I trudged to the lounge room.
Bluey flapped to the top of the Christmas tree and perched beside the angel. The bird received the same gift every Christmas – freedom to fly around the house.
Guess whose Christmas gift was to clean up the splats of budgie poo? I swear that bird stored a week’s worth of shit for Christmas Day.
Dad shaped the ash on the end of his cigarette into a point. “How about you give out the gifts this year, Robbie?”
Nan had strict rules about Christmas. Dad distributed gifts, one at a time. The next wasn’t to be handed out until the first had been unwrapped and a fuss made about Nan’s generosity. “Frank, that’s your job.”
Dad dismissed her with a wave of his cigarette. “Your grandmother first, Robbie.”
As soon as Nan had thanked Dad for the gingham apron, she said, “Your father.”
And so it went until I unwrapped the last of the gifts. “Sports socks. Great, Dad. Just what I needed.” I added them to the pile of singlets, underpants, dress socks, school shorts and beige swimmers with a brown belt.
“What are those?” asked Nan, nodding at the brown paper packages still under the tree.
Bluey chirped.
I cleared my throat. “Gifts. From me. Mrs Quinn at Dobson’s Department Store wrapped them for me. She was out of Christmas paper.”
She looked from me to Dad, unable to hide her surprise. “Did you organise this?”
“It was my idea,” I said, before Dad could speak. “Barry paid me yesterday and …” I reached for the first package. “Well, anyway, Merry Christmas, Nan.”
She slipped her finger between the paper and tape. “Oh, lavender talc.” She looked up, her eyes shining. “Lavender is my favourite. Thank you.”
My face flushed.
She reached out her hand. I weaved aside to avoid a hug, but kissed her on the cheek. I now recognised her flowery scent as lavender.
“This one’s for you, Dad.” I handed him the last package, which felt heavier than it had on the way home yesterday.
“Thank you, Robert,” he said, voice thick.
I stepped back to the mantelpiece and watched. Mrs Quinn had suggested ties, handkerchiefs, even a leather folder for his cheque book, but the moment I saw the picture frame, I knew what I wanted.
“Show me, Frank,” said Nan.
Dad’s movements were slow as he lifted the silver-plated frame free of the paper.
“How lovely. That picture taken before New Guinea would fit perfectly. You look very handsome in that photo.”
I cleared my throat, which all of a sudden felt tight. “Actually, Dad, I was thinking …” I folded my arms. “A photo of you and Mum on your wedding day – or maybe of the three of us – would look good in it.”
Above me, Bluey shifted position, the sound of his flapping wings loud in the quiet. He chirruped and fluttered to the mantelpiece, perching between a vase Nan never used for flowers and the china figurine of a woman whose skirt swirled like she was caught in a gust of wind. If I had a penny for every time Nan told me the figurine had been a wedding present from Grandpa, and “an expensive one, at that”, I’d have been able to fill the house with the ugly things.
Dad placed the photo frame on his lap.
Nan’s hands gripped the talc so hard I expected a puff of white to burst into the air.
“Thank you, Robert,” said Dad, after what felt like hours but could only have been seconds. “Make sure you save your next pay packet.”
My stomach sank. He hated my gift.
The flatness in his voice, or maybe Nan’s continued silence, filled me with courage. “Dad, about Mum. She must have had family – parents, maybe brothers and sisters. Why don’t we ever hear–”
Dad’s face crumbled with sorrow.
Nan leaped to her feet. “Robert, take your gifts to your room,” she barked. As she lurched forwards to hurry me, Bluey screeched and flapped in alarm. His wings fluttered against the china figurine. It wobbled as though caught in a real windstorm. Bluey flew to the curtain rail, twittering and squawking. The wobbling figurine toppled to the floor.
Nan cried out. She dropped to her knees and cradled the figurine, now in three pieces.
She turned, her face ugly and twisted with anger. “Get out of my sight.”
I bolted from the room, leaving my gifts behind.
CHAPTER 16
I’d been sitting on the shed floor for only a few moments and sweat already soaked my shirt. I wrestled with two options. Go inside and apologise? Or wait here until things settled down?
What did I have to be sorry for? It wasn’t me who broke the stupid figurine, or let that ridiculous bird out of its cage.
Apologising was not happening!
But sitting it out could take days. Another five minutes in here and I’d be cooked.
The jars of screws, nails and coiled bits of wire lined up on the wooden shelf opposite came into sharp focus. Between the nails and screws lay two packages I’d placed there yesterday.
I hauled myself up, took the packages from the shelf, and burst out of the shed into the searing sunshine.
By the time I reached the caravan park, my courage had faded.
What was I thinking?
If Nan was right and dropping in unannounced wasn’t the done thing, how much worse would it be on Christmas Day? It was a dumb idea, and yet, I kept riding.
At the office, I stepped off my bike and checked the parcels under my arm.
“Robbie! Merry Christmas!” Barry stood in the office doorway, the red paper crown on his head as lopsided as his grin. “I’m after scissors. Can’t break the ribbon on Aunty Kathleen’s gift. You know what it’s like.”
Actually, I didn’t know what it was like. We never had ribbon on gifts.
The packages under my arm jabbed into my ribs. “I was out for a ride and …” I shrugged. “Here I am.”
“Well, come in!”
“I can’t. I …”
“‘Course you can. Have a Christmas beer with us. As your boss, I insist.” He beckoned, not just with his hand, but his whole arm.
“I can’t stay long.”
“Come on.” He stepped aside. I walked through the office to a door that opened onto the sitting room. Beyond that I could see the kitchen and dining room.
“Are you sure this is all right?”
“Mum will be delighted.” Barry glanced at the parcels under my arm but didn’t mention them.
The moment I entered the house, smells of pine tree and roast meat and the sound of Christmas carols from the record player wrapped around me, as comforting as a hug.
The bright kitchen was a shambles. A baking dish and dirty plates filled the sink. A plum pudding carcass, two bowls, exploded crackers and crumpled linen napkins were scattered across the table.
Yesterday there had been Christmas gifts under the tree – now there was only one, wrapped in Santa and reindeer paper and tied with green ribbon. Used, folded wrapping was stacked beside the tree.
Mrs Gregory sat in her usual seat, a blue paper crown on her head and a plastic holly brooch on her shirt. “Robbie! Merry Christmas.” In a flash she’d wrapped me in a hug. She stepped back. “Like my jewels?” she pointed to the crown and holly. “You need a crown, too.”
She took a cracker from the table and held it towards me. “Make a wish.”
I set the parcels on the table and tugged the end of the cracker. Mrs Gregory unfurled a green crown. She handed me a scrap of paper and a plastic ring from inside the cardboard tube. “Share your joke,” she said.
I read the joke to myself first before reading it aloud. “What do you get if you cross Santa with a duck?”
Barry groaned. “A Christmas quacker.”
“Oh, Barry, you spoiler.” Mrs Gregory pretended to be angry. “Now, Robbie, you’ll have pudding? It’s still warm. There’s custard. And ice-cream. Or cream if you prefer.”
&nb
sp; She’d cut a slice, scooped ice-cream from the tub Barry brought to the table and poured custard before I could answer. She passed me the bowl.
“Watch out for the sixpences.” Barry nodded at the small pile in front of him.
Nan only put one sixpence in our pudding. The person who found it was said to have a lucky year. Dad always found it.
“Have you had a lovely day?” asked Mrs Gregory.
“Yes, thank you.” I didn’t look at her. “This is delicious.” Moist, rich and golden, unlike Nan’s crispy, bitter pudding.
I ate and plucked sixpences from my mouth. By the time I’d finished, I had five piled beside me.
“Lucky year ahead for you, mate,” said Barry.
I grinned.
“There’s plenty more, Robbie,” said Mrs Gregory. Did she mean pudding or luck?
“It was the best. Ever. But I couldn’t.”
Barry returned to the table with a glass and the last gift from under the tree. He refilled his mother’s drink and his own, then poured a third beer and passed it to me.
“Barry,” said Mrs Gregory, “I’m not sure Mrs Bower would approve.”
Barry shrugged. “It’s Christmas. And it’s just the one.”
Barry raised his glass to his mum then me. “Cheers.”
“To us,” said Mrs Gregory.
I echoed Barry and sipped. The froth was soft against my lip, the beer bitter and cold. It fizzled in my nose and bubbled down my throat. The smell reminded me of snorts and rants, silences and scoffs. I placed the glass on the table.
Mrs Gregory started when she spied the gift beside her. “Oh, Barry, thank you. I nearly forgot!” She passed it to me. “This is a little something from us, Robbie.”
My face felt warm.
She shook it, urging me to take it from her.
“Thank you.” The parcel felt like wrapped underpants. I placed it beside me and held out the packages I’d brought. “Sorry about the wrapping. Mrs Quinn was out of Christmas paper. I hope they’re okay. I can–”
“Mate, you shouldn’t have,” said Barry, stopping my blathering. “Open yours first.”
I untied the ribbon, peeled away the sticky tape and readied myself for more undies. But instead of white undies, I saw red and blue stripes. A T-shirt, exactly the same as the one I’d seen in Dobson’s window this week. My mouth opened and shut, but no sound came out.
