by Sue Lawson
In a storm of swirling red, I tore Dad’s letter into tiny pieces. I pitched the secateurs against the wall and swiped the ball of string and can of oil from the workbench.
I turned back to the trunk and kicked it. Hard. The searing pain swallowed my rage. I slumped on the trunk and, hands covering my face, rocked back and forth.
The red mist cleared and my thoughts steadied. I reached for my mother’s card and read it over and over. It sounded – felt – so real.
I focused on that first sentence. “Here is a second Christmas gift from me this year.” A second gift.
Dad still had his first schoolbag packed away in his wardrobe. He wouldn’t throw away anything brand new. But where would he put it? His room? The garage? Or … He spent an awful lot of time out here.
I scanned the shed. There were boxes stacked under the bench, a pile of suitcases in the back corner on top of a tea chest and a cupboard where Dad kept the poisons. And there was the army trunk.
I started with the trunk, expecting it to be locked. It wasn’t. I flung it open and rummaged through the folded uniforms, the bundles of papers, letters tied with string and books, only stopping when my fingers scraped the bottom. I slammed it closed and dived like a hawk on the boxes under the bench. They were filled with rags – old pyjamas, towels and flannelette shirts. My eyes settled on the cupboard. Folded suits, photo albums and newspapers with headlines screaming success over “the Japs”. Underneath them in neat piles lay stacks of girly magazines – Pix and Man.
I dumped them on the floor and moved to the suitcases. Inside were picture books and school reports, all with yellowed pages, and all Dad’s. I emptied them onto the pile of girly magazines.
I slumped against the back wall.
Nothing.
Nothing that proved Mum was alive.
I went to move, but couldn’t. A nail from the tea chest had hooked my pyjama pants. I wrenched the material free. The sound of it ripping felt good.
I stared at the silver lining poking from between the sides of the chest and the cardboard that someone, probably Dad, had made into a lid.
With a grunt, I heaved the chest over. It fell on its side. The cardboard lid dislodged and stuff tumbled out. I stared, panting, at what had spilled onto the earthen floor.
Gifts.
Gifts wrapped in plain, Christmas and birthday paper, the sticky tape yellowing and curling.
And envelopes, most sealed, some with “Robert” on the front, others with “Robbie”.
A knitted teddy bear with a red bowtie and green overalls lay at my feet.
The red swirling mist wrapped around me again until I couldn’t breathe. I kicked and kicked the chest until my knee and toes screamed in pain. Exhausted, I tumbled to the floor. Head resting on the knitted teddy, I stared at the place where the shed wall met the floor.
When I woke, my body was cool, but the air thick. It took me a moment to realise I was curled on the shed floor. Outside, probably perched in that huge gum, a magpie warbled its morning song.
I stretched and sat up, holding the teddy to my chest. Scattered across the floor, under benches and against the lawnmower wheels, were books, suits, magazines and rags. And unopened gifts and envelopes. Pieces of Dad’s letter were scattered around them like confetti.
Sparks of pain exploded in my right foot when I stood. The toe was swollen and the toenail bloodied from last night’s rush of rage.
My fury had hardened into something more controlled, something that wrapped around me like a shell. Deep inside I burned, but my mind was clear and ordered.
The first thing I did was set the trunk upright, then I collected the cards and parcels and placed them in two rows.
With the magpie’s soaring voice for company, I tore open envelope after envelope. I read every Christmas, Easter and birthday card, trying to piece together a picture of my mother, and why Dad believed I was better off if I thought she was dead.
There were questions.
Did I prefer chocolate milk or plain?
Roast beef or lamb?
Cricket or tennis?
Had Dad taught me to swim?
What did I think of The Beatles?
Did I hate celery? She hated celery.
There was advice.
Don’t talk to your father in the evening until after he’s read the newspaper.
Don’t try to make jokes with your grandmother – she’s rather severe.
Never talk when the news is on the radio or the television.
Make sure you treat everyone you meet with respect.
Be kind.
And there were apologies.
She’d tried.
All she’d ever wanted was to be a mother, the perfect mother.
She wanted and loved me and didn’t understand why she’d been so sad.
That no matter what she did, she couldn’t snap out of it.
That she was sorry she wasn’t stronger, tougher, better.
Sorry she hadn’t stopped Dad from taking me.
Sorry that she hadn’t fought harder when they put her away.
And every single card was signed, All my love, always and ever, Mum.
I stacked the cards beside me and unwrapped each gift. Metal cars, a wooden box filled with a rainbow of pencils, a soft-sided suitcase, a toy fox and books – Now We Are Six, Petunia, Tom’s Midnight Garden, Island of the Blue Dolphins and For Your Eyes Only. Last of all I opened the gift I’d collected from the post office. Had that only been yesterday?
It was a transistor radio. The very one I’d hinted and hinted about to Dad.
I tried to order the gifts along the workbench. The line spanned thirteen years. Thirteen years of not knowing. Thirteen years believing she was dead.
Towards the end were a short-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Real jeans. I peeled off my pyjamas and changed into them. The shirt was a good fit. The jeans were a little big, but they’d do.
Everything else I packed into the case, with the cards and knitted teddy on the top. I marched out of the shed, suitcase in my hand.
CHAPTER 46
Nan stood at the stove, apron over her housecoat, stirring a saucepan of scrambled eggs. Dad’s favourite breakfast.
Dad sat at the end of the table, pouring tea. The ABC news blared through the kitchen. The newsreader talked about the Freedom Ride, the students and how the bus was run off the road as it left Walgett.
I walked to the kitchen table. Nan didn’t look up from the stove. Dad stared at the cup in front of him, hand on the teapot. I guessed he was transfixed by the news.
I slammed the case onto the table. The cup and saucer rattled. Tea sloshed over the edges of Dad’s cup.
“Robert, what on earth–” snapped Nan.
Dad silenced her with a raised hand but kept his eyes locked on mine.
“You had no right.” It came out as a low growl.
Dad frowned. “What are you talking about?”
I unclasped the case and flung back the lid. I held up the teddy and the stack of cards. “These.”
Nan gasped. “I told you to burn them, Frank. I said he’d–”
“Shut. Up,” I snapped, without taking my eyes from Dad. “Why?”
Dad moved his teacup and pushed the knife and fork further apart. “It’s complicated, Robbie.”
“No, it’s not. It’s simple. She is alive.” I yelled the word. “That’s about as simple as it gets. Lying to me, making me believe she was dead, keeping all of these from me, that’s complicated. That’s sick and twisted.”
“Now, you look here.” Nan bustled over. “Your mother is a–”
“Don’t you say anything about her,” I bellowed in her face.
Nan reeled back, eyes wide. “Frank, are you going to let him speak like this?”
Elbows on the table, Dad covered his face with his hands.
“Frank?” she barked.
When Dad didn’t speak, Nan turned back to me. Her eyes glittered. “You were neglected.
The house was filthy. She cried all the time. She would have hurt you if I hadn’t stepped in. She never loved you.”
“You?” I looked from her smug face to Dad. “It was her idea, wasn’t it?”
Dad’s shoulders shook. When he lowered his hands, his face was blotchy. Tears and snot shone on his skin.
“Dad?”
His face crumpled. “It’s true, Robbie. Shirley cried, all the time. It was driving me mad. Mum thought it would be better for you–”
“What did you think?”
Dad shrugged. “I was tired of the drama, Robbie, the tears, the mess. I had my reputation at the bank to think of.”
A bitter taste filled my mouth. “As usual, you did what she said. You’re as weak as piss–”
Nan slapped my face. She tried to do it a second time but I was faster. I gripped her wrist and squeezed. She cried out in pain.
“Don’t you touch me,” I hissed in her face. “I hate what you did to me, to Mum, to Dad. Mostly, I hate you.”
Dad scrambled to his feet, the chair legs scraping on the vinyl. Bluey screeched and flapped against the wire cage.
As Dad grabbed me, I dropped Nan’s wrist. She clutched it to her chest. I shrugged off Dad’s hand and studied the pair of them. They stood side by side, pale skin, deep lines carved around their mouths, dark, mean, eyes.
Dad flinched when I reached for the case.
“I’m done.” I stomped to Bluey’s cage, picked it up and marched through the house, cage in one hand, case in the other.
Bluey flapped and fluttered, twittered and screeched.
“What are you doing?” screamed Nan.
On the back doorstep, I opened the cage.
Bluey landed on his perch and studied the open door, head tilted to the side.
Nan thundered onto the porch. Bluey launched himself at the open cage door and flew to the gum tree.
“Be free, you poor bastard,” I said, throwing the cage aside.
Before Nan reached the back door, I’d sprinted to the garage and had sped out the drive on my bike.
CHAPTER 47
I had no idea where I was going. I just knew I couldn’t stay there a moment longer. With the case tucked under my arm, I rode, the early morning breeze ruffling my hair. I stayed away from Main Street and the river in case Dad decided to follow me.
Part of me wanted him to, the rest of me, well, it didn’t care if I never saw him again. I was leaning into the wind, sweat trickling down my back, when a car approached from the opposite direction. It slowed beside me, window down.
I stopped level with the driver’s door.
“You’re up and about early,” said Barry, elbow out the open window. His eye had finally opened, but the skin around it was still mottled. “My excuse is we needed milk. What’s yours?”
“I … um …” I became aware of the low angle of the sun, its crisp light, the lengthy shadows. “What time is it?”
“Just after seven.” Barry frowned. “Are you all right, Robbie?”
My chin quivered. Not trusting myself to speak, I shrugged.
He shifted the car into gear. “Meet you back at my place.”
I shook my head.
“No arguments.”
Barry was out of his car waiting for me by the office path, holding a basket of milk bottles. He took my bike’s handlebars and steered it to the backyard. I followed, my legs moving, but my mind empty.
He reached for my case. I held it a moment before letting him take its weight.
“Come inside.” His voice was gentle.
Mrs Gregory beamed when I entered their kitchen. “Robbie, you’re early for a Saturday …” Her smile faded. “Robbie?”
My shoulders drooped. “She’s alive. My mum’s alive.”
Mrs Gregory folded me into her arms.
I sobbed.
Barry pushed the tea he’d just poured towards me.
“Thanks.” It came out as a cross between a hiccup and a sob. Mrs Gregory sat beside me, one arm wrapped around my shoulders. We’d stayed in the kitchen doorway, me crying, Mrs Gregory rubbing my back, for what felt like forever. When my sobs slowed to tears, she led me to a seat at the table. Barry had brought me hankies then refilled the kettle.
Now that I’d kind of pulled myself together, I saw a teapot, strawberry jam and a rack filled with buttered toast on the table.
I blew my nose and reached with a shaky hand for the cup of tea.
“I’m sorry.” I hiccupped and gulped. “I shouldn’t have come.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Robbie. I’ve told you, you are always welcome here,” said Mrs Gregory. “Isn’t that right, Barry?”
“Especially now,” he growled. “How did you find out?”
“That package, yesterday?” I pleated the overhang of the tablecloth. “I opened it. Last night, in the shed.” I glanced at the suitcase that Barry had placed by the wall. “It was a gift for me. From Mum. And I found more, lots more. Cards and gifts.” I dragged my teeth over my lower lip, hoping to fight off the fresh tears ready to flow. “She’s been writing to me for–” A hiccupy sob swallowed the word I tried to say: years.
“Shit.”
I jerked to look at Mrs Gregory, not sure I’d heard her properly.
She shook her head. “Just … shit … how could they? No matter the circumstances.”
“I shouldn’t have opened the parcel.”
She brushed the hair back from my eyes. “You look exhausted. Did you sleep last night?”
“A bit. On the shed floor.”
She glanced at Barry, who stood and picked up my case. “Come on. I’ll take you to the spare room.”
“But the students are coming today.”
“I’ll be right for a couple of hours. The place is just about ready, thanks to your help.”
“I didn’t bring–” I ran my hands over my shirt and stared at my bare feet, “–clothes, or shoes. I just took off.”
Barry hoisted the bag. “So, what’s in this?”
“All the cards and gifts from Mum. I couldn’t leave them there. They were for me. Mine.”
“We’ll manage something,” said Barry. “Won’t we, Mum?”
She grinned. “What he’s saying, Robbie, is that I have just about every item of Barry’s clothing from when he was a baby ‘til he left for England.”
“And I’ll find a T-shirt you can sleep in,” said Barry, placing his hand on my shoulder. “Come on.”
I fought the urge to cry, again, not hollow, broken tears, but ones of gratitude.
CHAPTER 48
When I woke I laid still, listening. Nan’s house was always quiet, dark and heavy. Instead, I could hear plates and baking trays clinking and banging, and the hum of a lawnmower in the distance. The air smelled of sugar and soap. How long had I slept?
It had been one of those inky, deep sleeps, the ones where you wake feeling like you could take on the world. At least that’s how I felt for a few seconds before I remembered the shed, the gifts, the cards, Dad and Mum.
I threw back the blankets and stretched. Time to help Barry.
I found towels, shorts, a T-shirt and underwear folded outside the bedroom door. I slipped across the hall to shower.
When I emerged, clean and dressed in Barry’s old clothes, the smell of baking hung heavy in the air. In the kitchen the kettle steamed on the hob, the lid jumped and jiggled. I moved the kettle from the stove and looked around the empty room.
The rumble of voices rolled from the front of the house. I walked through the lounge. Mrs Gregory stood, arms folded, scowling, beside the office door. When she saw me she raised her pointed finger to her mouth.
I nodded and tiptoed forwards.
“I’ll ask you again, and I want a straight answer, Gregory. Is my son here?”
I felt my eyes widen. Dad. I glanced at Mrs Gregory.
She placed her hand on my forearm. The expression on her face told me all I need to know. I was safe.
“Like I said
, Frank, what’s going on?”
“Robbie is confused. He’s got the tail end of a story.”
A bitter taste filled my mouth.
Barry spoke. “Well, he’s a sensible, level-headed boy.”
“He was before he started work with you. Are you’re sure he’s not here?”
“Search the place.”
My muscles tightened, ready to flee.
“That won’t be necessary,” said Dad. “Do you know where else he might go?”
“You’re asking me? You’re his father.”
The silence rang in my ears.
Barry sighed. “The river? Keith’s?”
I heard movement and guessed Barry and Dad were going to the door. The footsteps stopped. “By the way, Gregory,” said Dad, his tone darker, “hope that rumour about those commie students staying here is just that – a rumour.”
“Frank, I run a business. Everyone is welcome to stay here as long as they stick by my rules.”
“They said on the radio news this morning those students stirred up trouble down the road. Big trouble. Protests, arguments. They picketed the cinema, saying that blacks should be allowed to enter through the front door and sit anywhere, just like one of us.” Air hissed between Dad’s teeth. “Mark my words, this will not end well. Send them on to Moree.”
“As with all your advice, Frank, I’ll take it on board,” said Barry. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it seems I’m two men down and I have plenty to do. I’ll see you out.”
When I heard the office door close, I let out a long breath and slumped against the wall.
“Seemed more worried about the students than his own son.” Mrs Gregory stopped. “Robbie, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s fine,” I said, straightening up. “It’s true.”
“Come on, this situation requires hot tea and scones. They should be ready by now.”
I made tea while Mrs Gregory slid the pillowy scones from the tray to the cooling rack.
“How did you sleep?” she asked, easing the lifter under a second tray of scones.
“Really well, thank you.”
Barry strolled into the room. “I’m guessing you stood by the door and heard every word, Mum.”
Mrs Gregory shrugged. “I had to, in case you needed my support.”
