by Sue Lawson
“No, it doesn’t hurt. Thanks for asking.” I pushed past her and stormed down the hall.
In the bathroom, I checked my reflection. Dried blood caked my eyebrow. I rummaged through the bathroom cupboard for a bottle of Dettol and roll of cotton wool. I wiped away the blood and dirt. It was more a scratch than a gash. No tough-guy scars for me. I thought about dabbing on Mercurochrome, but red stuff all over my face would only make things worse.
Face clean but pride rattled, I picked up Biggles Takes Charge and flopped on my bed. I’d read about two chapters when Dad, home from golf, knocked on the door then opened it. The smell of cigarettes and stale beer wafted into my room. “What did you do?”
I placed the book on my chest. “Let go of the rope swing too early.”
“Bellywhacker?”
I nodded.
“Your eye?” His voice softened.
“Hit a branch or something under the water.”
The rough edge returned to his voice. “Your grandmother thought you’d been fighting. I told her you were too soft for that.” He shook his head. “Bring the washing in for your grandmother.”
“Yes, Dad.”
He stalked from the room.
“Thanks for the concern,” I said to the closed door. “Fathead.”
That same prayer I said every night floated through my brain. “Please God, don’t let me be anything like him. Ever.”
Dinner was leftover turkey with mashed potatoes, peas and carrots. Cold or reheated, turkey beat shoe-leather chops, easy.
“Those bloody blacks caused trouble again today,” announced Dad. His spoon scraped the bottom of his dessert plate. “Graeme Axford said one of them beat up Wimpy Wright’s kid.”
Beat up Wright? I stared at the melting ice-cream in my bowl.
“Nothing but trouble, the lot of them.” Nan snatched the bowls from in front of Dad and me. “Isn’t that boy a friend of yours?”
“Keith?” I said.
“The Wright boy,” said Nan.
“He’s not my friend.”
Nan pulled a face that made me think of the wizened apple I’d once found at the bottom of my schoolbag.
Dad reached for the ashtray on the kitchen bench. “The way I heard it, the Abo jumped the poor Wright lad.”
“He jumped Ian?” I squeaked.
Dad shot me a look that said “keep up”. “That’s right. The bloody black jumped Wimpy’s son.” Dad sucked as he held the match to the end of his cigarette. “Poor boy didn’t see it coming.”
I gasped. “That wasn’t what–”
Nan drowned me out. “What haven’t you told me? If you’ve been fighting like a common hooligan, I’ll …”
“I wasn’t, Nan. I swear. I mucked up my jump from the rope swing, that’s all. I’m just clumsy.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “but were you there when this trouble happened?”
What was the point in telling them the truth? Town gossip was as real as the Bible to Dad and Nan. They never believed me.
When Daniel Stevens fell off his bike and broke his arm, I was there, even helped him home. That night, Nan told Dad and me that black kids pushed Daniel from his bike. Didn’t matter what I said, as far as Nan was concerned that was the truth, even though Gwen Andrews had told her the story. The same Gwen Andrews whose family sent her on “holiday” for two months every year. Everybody in Walgaree knew they sent her to the nuthouse.
And then there was the time Mrs Widdicombe smacked a black woman around the head with her handbag, just because the black woman didn’t step off the footpath to let Mrs Widdicombe pass. Dad and Nan insisted the woman had spat at Mrs Widdicombe.
Not even close. I’d been waiting for Nan outside the bakery and saw the whole thing. The only spit came from Mrs Widdicombe’s mouth as she screamed and yelled.
Telling them that Micky Menzies hadn’t beaten up Ian Wright was a waste of oxygen.
“I was too busy trying not to drown to notice.”
“Always so caught up in yourself. Just like–”
“That’s enough,” snapped Dad, cutting her off.
Her mouth tightened. “The dishes aren’t going to do themselves, Robert.”
I plodded to the sink.
CHAPTER 20
Nan stepped out of the laundry and studied my face. “If I was Barry Gregory, I’d make you stay home until that healed.”
There was a line, thicker than a bad cat scratch, at the end of my brow. My eye was a bit puffy and I had a pale bruise on my temple. I hardly looked like Sonny Liston after Muhammad Ali had finished with him.
“They won’t mind,” I said. “See you after work, Nan.”
Thick silence followed me to the back door. There was a flurry of feathers and squawking as I passed Bluey’s cage on the porch.
“Shut up, idiot,” I snapped.
When I’d left on Christmas Eve the caravan park had been empty. Today, caravans and cars were dotted across the green spaces, children climbed on the playground and a white van trundled along the gravel park roads. Jason Redford from school hung out the open back, ringing a bell and calling, “Milko.”
As I reached the Gregorys’ back step, Barry pushed the flywire door open.
“You’re early.”
“Figured there’d be a lot to do.”
His gaze rested on my face. “What happened?”
I shrugged. “The river.”
“Come in.”
Mrs Gregory’s eyes widened when I entered the kitchen. While she made tea and placed shortbreads and Christmas cake on a plate, Barry told me the plan for the day.
“We’ll clean the shower and laundry blocks first.”
Mrs Gregory sat and turned the teapot in circles. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, Robbie, but what happened to your face?” She didn’t look up from the pot.
What could I say that didn’t make me sound like an idiot? “I tried a double somersault from the rope swing.”
She gasped. “Oh dear.”
“The rope swing near the bend?” said Barry. His usual open face was hard to read.
“Yeah, I was with my friends …” My gut clenched. Wright would never be my friend, and Keith … was he still my friend?
“Girls there?”
I nodded.
“Strategic move. Girls love to fuss over an injury.” He sipped his tea. “Were you there when the Wright boy was beaten up?”
I coughed and gulped my tea, then croaked, “I was there when this black kid dodged Wright’s punches and made him look like an idiot.”
Barry made a growling noise in his throat. “So the Aborigine boys didn’t corner Wright and beat him up for no reason?”
“That boy didn’t touch Wright.”
Barry ran his hand through his hair. “That’s what I figured.”
“What on earth are you two talking about?” asked Mrs Gregory.
“That new milko, Brian, said a group of Aboriginal boys beat up Denis Wright’s son yesterday.” Barry rubbed his chin. “Do you remember Dwayne Menzies, Mum? He used to help Dad out around here before he started work as a shearer.”
“He built the vegetable plots with Arthur.”
“That’s right. Well, Brian said it was Dwayne’s nephew, Micky, who did most of the beating.”
I stared at the tablecloth, remembering Micky Menzies’s lightning movements. “The black, Micky, and Wright argued about who could swim at the river. Wright went to punch him. The black ducked out of the way. He didn’t touch Wright, just made him look fat and slow.”
“Why would they say Micky did all the punching?” asked Mrs Gregory.
“Who knows, Mum,” said Barry. “Word is it was payback for what happened at the Station school.”
“What happened?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.
“Someone smashed windows and pulled out the saplings the kids planted. Made a hell of a mess. The police think it was black kids. Dwayne’s sister-in-law said she saw three or four white kids chuckin
g rocks at the school. She called the police, but when they arrived, the boys took off as though there was a nest of bull ants in their trousers.”
“The little rotters!” said Mrs Gregory. “When will it ever end?”
“Buggered if I know, Mum.” Barry sighed. “I thought things might have improved while I was away.”
“It will take longer than two years, Barry.” Mrs Gregory stood and gathered her teacup. “Well, I have work to do.”
As she walked past Barry she bent to kiss the top of his head.
A sharp pang of longing stabbed my chest.
Nan opened the oven to check the roast. “Call your father to carve, please, Robbie,” she said over the sizzling sounds.
Dad was out in the shed, doing who knew what. I pushed the curtains aside and flung open the window. “Dad, Nan needs you to carve.”
I closed the window and straightened the drapes.
“I could have done that myself.” She banged the roasting dish on the bench.
Bluey squawked and flapped.
“I’ll just wash my hands,” I said.
When I returned from the bathroom, I stopped at the kitchen door. Nan’s voice slid beneath the sound of the wooden spoon stirring the gravy. “It’s not good for him. He’s become quite … lippy.”
I froze, waiting for Dad’s response.
“He’s doing better with his chores around here,” said Dad. “A bit of lip is easy to handle.”
I strolled into the kitchen. “Want me to serve the beans, Nan?”
Dad shot Nan a “see what I mean” look.
“Thank you, Robert.” She stirred the gravy so hard, her bum wobbled.
I reached past her for the saucepan on the stovetop.
“Frank, did you hear there’s been trouble at the high school?” said Nan, as though I wasn’t there. “A group of abos broke all the windows, pulled goalposts out of the ground and set fire to the library.”
I nearly dropped the beans in the sink.
“Have you been talking to Thelma or Mrs Dixon?” Dad didn’t miss a beat in his carving rhythm.
“Someone has to tell me what is going on in this town – you certainly don’t.”
Dad raised his eyebrows. “They broke windows and wrecked the garden. Didn’t go near the library.” He picked at the lamb bone and popped a morsel of meat into his mouth. “Totally unprovoked.”
“Maybe it wasn’t unprovoked,” I said, gaze fixed on the plates.
“What do you mean?” asked Dad.
I shrugged. “Maybe something made them do it. Someone might have attacked something of theirs.”
Nan snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous, Robert. Dirty, uncivilised troublemakers, the lot of them. And this, my boy, is an adult conversation.”
I dropped the serving spoon. It clattered onto the bench.
I was not now, nor would I ever be, her boy.
If only I had the guts to say that.
CHAPTER 21
Rumours floated around town, as threatening as rain clouds.
Aborigines caught shoplifting.
Drunk blacks abusing white women outside Hyland’s butcher shop.
Women throwing stones at cars that drove past the Tip, the shantytown near the dump.
Teenagers lighting bonfires that spread onto farmland.
A carload of Aborigine men doing laps of Main Street, terrorising innocent white women.
But I didn’t see any of it. Not when I rode to work and not when Barry sent me into town to buy toothpaste and bars of soap for the small shop in the caravan park office.
And it wasn’t just Nan full of it. I heard the rumours everywhere, even in the caravan park toilet block.
Sure, I saw a few Aborigines around town. A woman and two children walking hand in hand down Main Street to the grocery store, and when I left work yesterday two old men in a car, but that was all.
Maybe I was too busy to notice.
Since Christmas the work at the caravan park had doubled. Bins to be emptied, lawns to be mowed, gravel to be swept off paths and weeds to be pulled. Not that I was complaining. It was a thousand times better than being home with Nan.
And no matter how busy we were, Barry was always the same – relaxed and easy to be with.
While we’d been scrubbing and carting, I kept thinking about Keith. During the ride home from the river that day, it had felt like there was something filling the space between us that neither of us knew how to talk about.
One night after work I rode home the long way, past Deakin Street.
As I rounded the corner, I saw Keith, Billy and Keith’s brothers, Sam and Joe, playing cricket on the street. Sam and Joe yelled something about cheaters and stormed inside. Keith and Billy leaned against the front fence cackling like Nan’s hens.
“What’s happening?” I asked, slowing the bike to a stop.
“Just beating those two at cricket. Again.” Keith grinned. “Taking the long way home?”
“Had to do a job for Barry on the way,” I lied.
“Keith and I were about to go for another ride. Come with us,” said Billy.
“Can’t.”
“Straight home?” asked Keith, his face hard to read.
“As usual.”
“We’ll ride with you,” said Billy, trotting to the pile of bikes on the police house lawn. “We could do a lap around the gardens on the way.”
“On the road, so your Nan won’t get mad,” said Keith, an edge to his words.
We rode three abreast, me dropping behind when cars approached. The silence between us was like one of Nan’s knitted jumpers on my bare skin.
“Are you two going away for the holidays?” I asked.
Billy, riding in the middle, shrugged. “Visiting Mum’s family in Sydney for a week or something. The rest of the time – shearing, harvesting.” He made the trip to Sydney sound even duller than farm life. “Do you visit your mum’s family, Bower?”
I gripped the handlebars tight. “Just work.”
Keith nodded. “I’m stuck in Walgaree for most of the holidays, too. Mum says we’ll visit her parents in Newcastle. Don’t know when.”
We reached the end of the street before I broke the silence. “So, have you been doing much while I’ve been at work?”
“Went to the pool this morning,” said Billy.
“Marian Cavendish was there,” added Keith.
I kept my eyes fixed on the road.
“Hey, come with us to the pool tomorrow,” said Billy. “We’re meeting Wrighty, Rhookie and Eddie.”
So it was nicknames now. “Can’t. Work. What about Sunday?”
Keith scrunched up his face. “Nah, it’s all planned for tomorrow.”
“Right,” I said, my voice flat. The nicknames, the doing things with those goons just wasn’t right. “So, tell me, Keith, since when do we hang out with Wright and his mates?” The venom in my voice surprised me.
Keith skidded to a halt. Billy and I stopped too.
“Why do you hate Wright so much?” asked Keith.
“He’s not so bad when you get to know him,” said Billy, looking from me to Keith. “Just has a weird sense of humour, is all.”
My legs felt too long and my arms all wrong. I shifted positions on the bike seat. “Bet that’s what Hitler’s friends said about him, too,” I muttered.
Anger flared across Keith’s face. “The problem isn’t Wrighty. It’s you, Bower. You’re not from a normal family, so you don’t know how normal people act.” He shook his head and turned to an open-mouthed Billy. Keith wrenched his handlebars to the left and pedalled away.
Billy cleared his throat. “Robbie, Keith was out of line about your family.” He wiped his chin. “But he does have a point. Wright’s not so bad. Anyway, I’d rather he was my friend than not.” He looked ahead to where Keith waited for him at the end of the street. With a shrug Billy rode after him.
My heart thudded against my ribs, not because of what Keith had said, or how angry he was, but be
cause I was too pathetic, too weak, to tell Keith that Wright was just a thug and a bully and that I’d rather be alone than hang out with him. Plus I hated myself because I couldn’t tell Keith off for blabbing about Marian. I just sat there, a sweaty, gelatinous lump – a beached jellyfish.
Useless.
Spineless.
CHAPTER 22
The day before New Year’s Eve, I turned the bike into the caravan park driveway, half an hour early as usual.
“Good morning!” chirped Barry, from in front of the office.
I froze, mouth open.
With Barry stood a boy. And not just any boy, but the Aborigine who’d made Wright look like an idiot at the river. The boy’s steady gaze seemed to slice through my skin and straight to my heart.
“Robbie, this is Micky,” said Barry.
“Hello.” My voice sounded like a robot from a TV show.
“Hello,” said Micky, nodding.
“I’ve asked Mickey to help us out three days a week. Take some pressure off us.”
For a split second disappointment swamped me, then I realised Barry hadn’t said take the pressure off “me”, but “us”, as though he and I were a team. I stood a little taller.
“Not that you aren’t doing a great job, Robbie. I just underestimated how much work there’d be.”
“It’ll be good to have the help.” I’d never spoken to an Aborigine before. Was that an okay thing to say?
Again, Micky nodded.
A Ford wagon covered in dust and squished bugs, towing a caravan, eased to a stop outside the office.
“Four-berth?” It was like I had to prove something.
“Spot on, Robbie. Listen, while I book them in and help them set up, you show Micky the ropes.” Barry handed me keys. “Start with the storeroom.”
“No worries,” I said, using one of Barry’s favourite expressions.
Barry strolled to where the driver stretched beside his car.
I glanced at Micky. Would he hate me because I’d been with Wright? Maybe he hadn’t seen me. “The storage shed is this way.”
While I explained the layout of the shed, Micky inspected the shelves.
