by Sue Lawson
“I’ll phone you when I get back,” said Barry.
As I walked to where I’d dropped my bike in front of the office, I glanced around the park. When I’d left yesterday, there had only been one gap in the front rows of caravans. Today there were five more spaces.
CHAPTER 27
Saturday morning, Barry strolled out the office door. “Beautiful day for it, boys.”
Micky and I had arrived at the same time. I’d ridden my bike from town. Micky had walked from Walgaree Station, the opposite direction.
Barry had telephoned after he visited Micky and said he was okay, just sad and sorry. But Micky looked much worse than that to me.
The left side of his face was swollen, and the white of his left eye was shot with blood. His top lip was fat and looked cut. He pressed his arm against his right side as he walked.
A rush of hatred for Wright exploded from me as a scoff.
“You right there, Robbie?” asked Barry.
“Sorry, just thinking about someone.”
“Can I guess?”
I rolled my eyes in answer.
“Didn’t know we had departures today,” I said, looking around the park.
“Few unexpected ones, that’s all. Not unusual.” Barry clapped and rubbed his hands together. “Righto, fellas. Robbie, can you mow the vacant sites please? Micky, we’ll clean that pump.” He tossed me the key to the garden shed.
A Ford station wagon pulled off the road. Gravel crunched as it crept to a stop outside the office. The wagon’s doors opened. Sergeant Axford, wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt and trousers instead of uniform, stepped out of the driver’s side of the car. His passengers were Dad’s friends. Walgaree Mayor, Fred “Bull” Jackson, who owned Jackson’s Used Cars and Crash Repairs, and Des “Twiggy” Mathes, owner of the hardware store and a town councillor. I recognised the other man, Walgaree Station manager Bill Janeski, but hadn’t met him before.
“Micky, help Robbie with the mowing,” said Barry, watching the four men smooth their clothes. “Dump the cuttings on the garden today.”
When I didn’t move, Barry added, “It’s okay, Robbie, I can handle this.” He patted my shoulder and strolled to the office. “Hello, gentleman. Surely you haven’t all been kicked out of home and need accommodation.” Everything about Barry – his voice, his stance, even the tilt of his head – oozed confidence.
“We need to talk,” said Bull Jackson, hitching his pants even higher.
“Come on,” whispered Micky. He seemed to have shrunk into himself.
With a sigh, I followed him to the shed, unlocked the padlock and swung the door open. Mickey reached for the rake and laid it in the wheelbarrow. He sucked in air through his teeth.
“I can do that.”
He shot me a defiant look. “You gonna push the mower and the barrow, too, are you?”
I gripped the mower’s handles. “I meant I’d come back for it. You …” I took a breath to gather my courage. “You look pretty sore. I thought pushing the barrow would hurt. I didn’t mean you couldn’t do it.”
He glared, but as he took the wooden handles, he gasped. That’s when I saw his teeth. The last time I’d seen him, when we’d headed home, Micky had smiled and waved. I remembered thinking he had perfect teeth – square, white and strong.
But now a triangle of white was missing from a front tooth.
Shoulders heavy, I wheeled the mower out of the steamy shed into the sunshine. I glanced at the office. Barry held the door open. The four men walked inside. “What do you reckon that is about?” I asked.
“What do you reckon?” Micky glowered. “Me.”
The jagged sounds of the lawnmower made talking impossible, which suited me. While I mowed, Micky raked and emptied the barrow. I hadn’t ever seen him sweat so much, but despite the grimaces and grunts, he worked harder than ever.
After I’d finished mowing, I helped Micky spread the lawn clippings. I talked about the weather, Biggles and even that fish I’d caught. Micky stayed quiet. When I made a joke about how Nan would be a good spear thrower, Micky stared at me, lip curled.
It took me a moment to realise what I’d said. I’d stammered about mulberries, and Nan knocking out Barry’s tooth with a broom … but the damage was done. I gave up.
We’d finished the mowing and had tidied up, yet the Ford was still in front of the office.
“We’ll do the edges, I guess.”
Micky placed the rake across the wheelbarrow and pushed it to the shed. I followed with the lawnmower.
A woman, scarf tied around her rollers and knotted under her chin, stood in front of her caravan, she clutched material to her chest. She watched Micky with crow eyes. When he neared, she shook the material, which turned out to be a tablecloth. Crumbs and who knows what else rained over him.
“Dirty, troublemaking Abo,” she snarled.
I wanted to tell her to shut up. That she was a rude pig. But I stood there, hands on the mower, silent.
Micky brushed down his T-shirt, face calm.
Gert’s gravel voice filled the air. “That’s enough.” She stood by the toilet block, hands on her hips. “Apologise this instant.”
For a second I thought she was talking to Micky and me, but with fists clenched, she stomped down the path towards the woman, who scrambled inside her van before Gert reached her.
Gert stopped beside Micky and me, her breath a series of huffs. “Don’t you settle for that rubbish, Micky.” She hurried away to her van.
CHAPTER 28
Nan was waiting for me at the back doorstep, arms folded. “What is this I hear about you working with an Abo?” She spat the word as though it was sour on her tongue.
“Hello, Nan.” I tried to step around her, but she blocked my way.
“Don’t ‘hello Nan’ me. Is it true?”
“Is what true?” asked Dad, strolling around the corner, suit jacket slung over his arm. I hadn’t heard his car pull into the drive.
“These shenanigans have gone far enough, Francis.” Nan’s face was flushed and sharp. “Today was his last day with that Barry Gregory.”
Dad closed his eyes and breathed out. “What have you done now?”
“Nothing!” I wrestled to control my bubbling anger.
“He is working with an Abo! And not just any Abo, but that Dwayne Menzies’s nephew.”
As she spoke Nan flung her hands around. The sagging skin beneath her arms wobbled. She pointed at me, Dad and in the direction of the Station and caravan park.
My mind drifted, unable to keep up with her rant or accusations. I patched together a smattering of words.
“Disgraceful, bohemian, drug-addled hippy.” Barry.
“Violent, depraved boong.” Dwayne.
“Filthy, diseased Abo.” Micky.
“Feeble-minded, innocent idiot.” Me.
“Pathetic, spineless, weak man.” Dad.
“Enough.” Dad’s voice was a force against my skin.
Nan reeled back, mouth agape.
“I will not listen to this a moment longer. The boy has a commitment to Barry Gregory, and he will fulfil it. As for the Abo, Bull visited Barry today and made the town’s feelings very clear.” Dad shoved Nan aside and stormed up the steps, slamming the wire and back doors behind him.
Nan wobbled and swayed. I reached out a hand to steady her, but she slapped it away.
She stalked inside, face as white as her smalls hanging limp on the clothes line.
I lay across the bed on my stomach, flicking through a Marvel comic Keith lent me ages ago. I stopped at the full-page advertisement for a portable transistor radio, like Keith’s.
The door creaked as it opened.
I rolled onto my back.
Dad stood in the doorway, cigarette in his left hand, glass of beer in the other. “Toast for dinner, okay?”
“Nan has a headache?”
“Yep.” He sipped his drink. “Listen, about that boong kid. Do you have to work with him?”
I swallowed.
“Because, if you had to work with an Abo, do the same jobs he does, well then I’d have to change my mind about you working there.”
I sat up and wriggled to the edge of the bed. “Dad, Barry tells me what he wants and I go and do that. Micky works with Barry.” I hoped Bull and Twiggy hadn’t seen Micky and me together today. I watched the cigarette smoke coil and flutter to the ceiling.
“I’ll talk to Barry to make sure.”
“It’s okay – honest, Dad. I’d tell you if there’s a problem.”
He sucked the cigarette. The tip glowed red. He exhaled with a sigh. “All right.” He stepped back from the doorway. White ash fluttered to the carpet as he shut the door.
CHAPTER 29
Instead of dragging, the school holidays passed quickly. Barry, Micky and I fell into an easy rhythm, often working separately and not seeing much of each other until lunch. When we were together, it was easy. The days were hot, dusty and sweaty, but every night when I sprawled across my bed, I felt good, satisfied. Something I hadn’t been in forever. Each time I walked out of Nan’s kitchen or was in the park office, I avoided looking at the calendars. I figured if I didn’t look, the days wouldn’t go so fast.
“Hey, Robbie.”
I glanced up from the gully trap outside the laundry block to see Barry strolling towards me.
I’d been cleaning river sand and fish scales and guts from where they’d blocked the drain. My money was on the man with no T-shirt and a blindingly white belly. This morning I’d seen him saunter off to the river, fishing rod in hand. He was back now, perched on the bonnet of his car, smoking.
“Reckon you can do a job up the street for me?”
“Sure.” I placed the grille back over the drain and turned on the tap. Water flowed, gurgled and, with a burp, disappeared. I twisted the tap off. “Drain’s clear, so all finished here.”
“I’m out of envelopes and I need a new receipt book.” Barry frowned, the furrows in his forehead deep.
“Barry, is everything all right?”
He sighed. “All good, Robbie. I’ve just been reminded why I left this bloody town.”
“I’m glad you came back.”
Barry’s smile didn’t chase the shadows from his eyes. “Thanks, mate.”
“People are giving you a tough time about Micky, aren’t they?”
“Even Dwayne. He just phoned and said it would be better for everyone if I sacked Micky. Said he thought it would ease the tension.” He kicked at couch grass creeping onto the path. “Bugger the town. And bugger Dwayne. Robbie, are you getting a hard time?”
“No.” The strength in my voice shocked me.
Barry smiled. “Pull the other one.”
I shrugged. “I’m not, honest. Nan had something to say about it, but Dad said I had a commitment to you and that shut her up.”
“I understand if you want to finish up–”
“Just envelopes and an invoice book, then?” I asked, brushing dirt from my clothes.
“You’re a cracker, Robbie Bower.”
Edwards’s Newsagency was smack in the middle of Main Street, a low-slung brick building that clung determinedly to the earth. The windows were filled with advertising posters for New Idea and Woman’s Weekly. One showed a wholesome, shapely woman in a floral dress and apron, holding a saucepan. The other pictured a blonde with red lips in a tailored dress and matching hat. Both had calm, smooth expressions that I’d never seen on any woman’s face around here. Along the footpath, resting against the shopfront and locked up behind wire cages as though they posed a threat to passers-by, were newspaper banners for The Sydney Morning Herald, the Daily Telegraph, The Walgaree Herald – all screaming the day’s headlines. Vietnam, civil rights and student riots.
I parked my bike against the verandah post, smoothed my hair and strolled inside. Usually Edwards’s buzzed with people poring over magazines or talking by the fountain pen display case, but today the place was empty.
Stretch, the newsagent’s owner, was another of Dad’s army buddies and David Edwards’s father. He stood behind the counter writing in a ledger. The counter’s edge pressed into his gut. He looked over the rim of his glasses. “Hello, Robert. Here to pick up something for your nan?”
“Actually, I’m here to buy things for work.” I glanced around the wooden racks of magazines and newspapers. “Envelopes and a new receipt book.”
Stretch Edwards folded his arms over his chest and jerked his head at the back wall. “Down there.”
“Thanks.”
I chose a receipt book bound with blue cloth and puzzled over the different-sized envelopes before selecting the long thin ones.
By the time I returned to the counter, Rosie Kelly studied birthday cards. Don Matthews and Chas Wilmot, from the stock agent’s over the road, flicked through The Walgaree Herald, pointing to what I guessed was a photo spread. Mrs Saxby picked up the CWA newsletter from beside the newspapers. I nodded and smiled greetings to each of them and laid my purchases on the counter. “Barry asked if you could add these to the account please, Mr Edwards.”
“Don’t think so, Robert.” Stretch rocked back on his heels.
I was aware of the stillness around me. My forehead tightened into a frown. “But Barry has an account here.”
“Had an account here.” Stretch spoke as though he was making a grand announcement. “But that was before he hired a bloody boong.” He slapped his hands either side of the envelopes and receipt book on the counter. He reminded me of a mongrel dog guarding its bone. “Cash only from now on for Barry Bloody Gregory.”
I dug my hands into my pockets – a bent nail, a folded hanky, a coin, probably a half-penny by the feel of it, and pocket grit and fluff. I sensed rather than saw more people enter the shop.
This was Walgaree, the town where a dogfight in Main Street was a social event. These new customers, just like the ones already here, would be transfixed by what was going on.
Maybe if I sold tickets to the “Humiliate Robbie Bower” show I’d raise enough to pay for the things on the counter.
“Mr Edwards …” I stood a little straighter, trying to use my height over the angry ant. “Seeing as Barry wasn’t aware of the change, perhaps you could make an …” What was the word? Assumption? Expedition? Example? I wished I’d paid more attention in English. “An exemptation.”
A smirk crawled across Stretch’s face. “As eloquent as your father on a Friday night. I think you mean exception.”
The back of my neck prickled. “Mr Edwards, how was Barry to know you’d changed the agreement if you haven’t told him? Surely you could add these things to the account. What harm would it do?”
Stretch glanced to my right. I knew by the sharp, tangy stink of sheep shit and lanolin that the stock agents stood there.
From the corner of my eye I caught movement – a shrug maybe – from one of them.
Stretch scooped up the receipt book and envelopes. “This is the last time, Robert. You make sure you tell Barry that.” He slipped the purchases into a brown paper bag, stamped with “Edwards’s Newsagency for Friendly Service” and slid it across the counter. He glared, hand still on the package. “And tell Barry I want the account settled by Friday.”
I snatched the bag out from under his hand and stalked out the door. I stopped in the doorway and turned back. “Thank you, Mr Edwards.”
Anger thudded against my skull. I tried to burn it up by pedalling hard back to the park. All that did was make me angry and sweaty.
When I burst into the caravan office, Barry stood behind the counter, pencil in his hand, examining the booking sheet. “Two more are leaving, Robbie.” He tapped the pad with the pencil. “We’re down to half the usual summer numbers.”
I handed him the package from the newsagent. “Barry, Stretch Edwards said you have to pay the account by Friday. And that he was cancelling the account.”
Barry looked up from the booking sheet. “Micky?”
&nbs
p; I nodded.
The office back door opened and Mrs Gregory slipped into the room. She looked frail and her eyes didn’t have their usual sparkle. “What about Micky?” she asked.
“Stretch Edwards has cancelled our account,” said Barry.
Barry’s mother leaned against the counter. “Oh dear. That’s Des Mathes, the butchers and now Edwards.”
“And Murray at the servo,” added Barry.
“Oh, gracious,” said Mrs Gregory. She reached out and placed her bony hand on Barry’s tanned one. “Maybe, Barry, it’s time we admitted defeat. Micky would understand …”
I watched a thousand different expressions flash across Barry’s face. “I can’t, Mum. It’s not right.”
Mrs Gregory sighed. “It’s only going to get worse, Barry.”
“I know.”
I wondered what they thought was going to get worse … the way people acted towards the Aborigines or the way the businesses treated Barry and his mum?
“I’ll get back to work,” I said, feeling out of place.
Barry looked up, as though he’d forgotten I was there. “Good, Robbie. Micky’s cleaning the laundry. Some fool dyed clothes in the trough. Blue dye everywhere. Be great if you check the barbecues.”
“I’ll help Micky first.” I hoped he’d understand what I didn’t have the words to say.
CHAPTER 30
Micky stood by the cement laundry troughs, bucket of murky blue water and rags splattered with blue dye at his feet. “Look clean?” he asked as I walked through the door.
I bent over the troughs. They were cleaner than I’d ever seen them – pale grey rather than dark and grungy. “Good job. Barry’ll be impressed.”
“Where is he?”
“In the office. Finishing up … bookwork.”
Micky nodded.
“Want to check the barbecues with me?”
Shrill screams ripped through the air. Micky and I sprinted into the sunshine. Two girls, maybe eight and ten years old, ran from the shower block. Their squeals ricocheted around the caravan park.
“What’s wrong?” I bellowed at their backs.
