Freedom Ride

by Sue Lawson

  “Yes, this is she. How may I help you?”

  I slumped to the stool. My heart thudded in my throat. “I, um … I’m calling …” I wished I’d thought this through, planned what to say. “This is … Mum? Mum, it’s Robbie.”

  She gasped. “My Robbie?”

  “Yes. Robbie Bower. Frank’s …” I couldn’t force the word “son” from my mouth.

  “Robbie,” she repeated, stretching the word out. And in it I heard everything I’d longed for.

  “Mum, can I come see you?”

  “Yes!” The word pierced my ear. “Yes, yes, oh Robbie, yes, please.”

  Mrs Gregory walked into the office. She frowned for a moment, then her lifted her eyebrows. “Your mum?” she mouthed, pointing at the phone.

  I nodded.

  She smiled and backed out of the room.

  When I made it back to the kitchen, eyes red from crying but heart soaring for the first time in forever, Barry and Mrs Gregory were by the stove.

  “How did you go?” asked Barry.

  It felt like my grin would split my face. “Good.” I took a breath to steady the rush of emotion threatening to spill from me. “I told her about Dad, and Nan, and how they told me she was dead. And how I’d been here with you since … She wants me to come live with her.”

  Mrs Gregory beamed. “Oh, Robbie, that is wonderful. How do you feel?”

  I stared at the streaks of colour on the linoleum floor. “Good, great I guess, but …”

  “But?” asked Barry.

  “It’s so far away. And there’s you two. I don’t want to leave. You’re …” None of the words that flashed through my mind fitted. Then, like the spinning wheel at the Walgaree Show, my mind slowed and stopped on the right ones. “You’re my family.”

  Mrs Gregory’s body softened and her face crumpled. Barry bit his bottom lip.

  “I can’t ever repay you. Not for just letting me stay, but for everything. You’ve …”

  How did I put it into words? They’d changed my life.

  “Oh, Robbie.”

  I braced for one of Mrs Gregory’s hugs. And it was a ripper.

  “Robbie, no matter where you are, or where we are, we will stay in touch, visit. I promise. Because you’re right; we’re family.”

  Barry stepped forwards and hugged me too. I’d never been hugged by a man.

  It was as though by hugging them, I could tell them every feeling I didn’t have the words to express.

  “We’ll miss you, Robbie,” said Barry, breaking the hug first.

  “I’m not gone yet. Mum says her car is pretty unreliable. She doesn’t think it will make it all the way here. If I can get to Moree, she’ll meet me there. I was thinking I could hitch with one of the transport trucks.”

  Barry’s mouth twisted. “Leave it with me.” He glanced at his watch. “I better move it. The bus leaves for the pool in five minutes.”

  “Can I come?” I blurted.

  He and his mum exchanged a look.

  “I need to. For Micky.”

  “‘Course you can,” said Barry.

  I’d just returned to the kitchen, dressed in my pink-but-used-to-be-red swimmers, sandals and a T-shirt, when I heard the bus horn.

  “Towels,” said Mrs Gregory, coming from the linen cupboard. “Not that Barry will swim, but you never know.” She didn’t let go of them straightaway. “Robbie, this might get ugly.”

  “I know.”

  “What your father did …”

  I hung my head, but not because Barry had told her about Dad. That wasn’t a surprise. I couldn’t look at her because I didn’t know how to make it right.

  “You aren’t him. You are so much better than him.”

  “Thanks, Mrs Gregory.” I squeezed her hand resting on the top of the towels and kissed her cheek. The bus horn sounded again. “Better go.”

  CHAPTER 57

  I crashed into the empty front seat and sat with my back to the window so I could look around the bus. Placards were lined up along the long back seat. Barry sat with Trev halfway down the bus, deep in conversation.

  The rest of the students were scattered among the other seats. Opposite me, Micky sat on his own, behind Charles. I slid across the seat, intending to sit with Micky, but he gave me such a filthy look, I slunk back against the window.

  The bus hissed and creaked to a stop outside the Walgaree Pool. Jewels of light danced across the water. Families stretched on rugs under trees and umbrellas, and little kids splashed, squealing with delight. Older children bobbed in the big pool.

  I knew when the bus door opened the tinny speaker voice, splashing, squealing and laughter would swirl around us as one continuous sound.

  Charlie stood in the aisle. “We’ll set up the picket out the front, same as last night. This is about a visual presence. We want the rest of Australia, the entire world, to know what goes on here, and the best thing you can do is stand strong and stay calm. No matter what happens. We’ll be back with the kids soon.”

  “Okay if I come with you?” asked Micky. “Make sure my friends come.”

  “Sure,” said Charlie, “that’d be great.”

  Barry and I watched from the park bench as the students arranged themselves into a line along the pool fence and outside the red brick building. They raised their placards.

  END COLOUR BAR

  WHY WHITE ONLY?

  COLOUR IS NOT CONTAGIOUS

  Mrs Sneddon, in her terry-towelling dress, peered out the office window. She scowled and held the phone receiver to her ear.

  I elbowed Barry. “Look out.”

  “Calling in the cavalry.” He shifted position. “Bloody hot out here.”

  “I know. Stinking. A swim would be good right now.”

  Barry leaned forwards, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. “By the way, you leave for Moree tomorrow morning.”

  “What?”

  Barry nodded at Trevor, holding an “Equality Now” placard. “Trev has it all arranged. The bus leaves about nine.”

  The sun seemed hotter and the seat more uncomfortable. I stared at the bleached grass beneath my feet. “Tomorrow.”

  “Are you happy to travel with the students, Robbie? Trev will look out for you.”

  “It’s not that, it’s just … Wow.” I scratched my head. “It’s all happening so fast.”

  “I can come with you, if that would help.”

  I looked at his earnest face. “Barry, you’ve done so much already.” I swallowed. “Thank you, but I’ll be fine.”

  “I know, and …” He scratched his arm. “If, for any reason, it doesn’t work out, Robbie, we’re here. I mean it.”

  I didn’t have the words, so I just play-punched his leg. “You’ll be glad to see the back of me.”

  He smiled. “Here we go,” he said, the smile sliding from his face.

  A white sedan crawled past the pool. Bull, Twiggy, Stretch and Dad.

  My breath rushed from me when they turned the corner.

  “Reconnaissance,” said Barry. “They’ll be back.” He pushed off the seat and strolled to Trev and Jim.

  The grumble of the bus neared. I wiped my sweaty palms on the towels beside me, and stood.

  The bus rolled to a noisy stop in front of the pool. The sound of singing filled the air.

  The dozen or so Aborigine children in the bus sang that Little Patti song, “Stompin’ at Maroubra”. Their voices sailed out the open bus windows, light and carefree, oblivious to what lay ahead.

  Younger kids stood, laughing, while Micky and a few of his friends I remembered from the river sat stony-faced at the back of the bus.

  The door wheezed open and the singing faded. Outside the bus, Charlie gathered the kids to him, like a hen with chicks. He led the way to the entrance turnstile. The black kids skipped like lambs. The students called hello. The kids grinned and waved back.

  A man with a camera and two others with notepads appeared. Journalists, from the city by the look of their
tight trousers and thin ties. Jim, who’d been filming the locals gathering on the footpath opposite, turned his camera to the Aborigine kids.

  From where I stood, I could see Mrs Sneddon, arms folded under her massive bosom, mouth like scrunched-up paper.

  Jim, the photographer and the reporters scurried to the entrance.

  “Hello,” said Charlie, his voice strong. “I’d like one adult token, and fourteen for the children, please.”

  Mrs Sneddon leaned to look past Charles. “No darkies.”

  Charles pushed coins and notes towards her. “Would you please serve us?”

  “Save your breath. No Aborigines, no part-Aborigines, no any Aborigines allowed in this establishment.” Mrs Sneddon stabbed the cement bench with her forefinger each time she said no. When she was done, she leaned to her left and, with her lips against the microphone, said, “Henry! Office. Now.”

  “Come on, our money is as good as anyone else’s. These children are hot. Let them swim.”

  “I said no darkies.”

  “Under whose authority?” pressed Charlie.

  “The mayor’s, that’s whose. It’s council law.” She sat back, arms folded again.

  Mr Sneddon, wearing short shorts and a too-small T-shirt, strutted towards the turnstile, his belly leading the way. A whistle, which hung around his neck, bounced against his gut. “What’s all this, then?” he asked. His piggy eyes looked from Charlie to the reporters.

  Mrs Sneddon leaned forwards, her bosom resting on the counter. “These darkies want to swim. Here.”

  “No way on God’s green earth is that going to happen.” He waved his hand as though shooing flies. “Clear off, the lot of you. And take that bunch of layabouts with you.” He gestured at the students in the sun. “Go on, piss off back to where you came from.”

  “We’re allowed to come here with the school,” said Micky, chest out. “What’s the difference, now?”

  “You’re supervised, and washed. Look at youse now. Bare feet, filthy hair. We don’t want your black germs in our pool.”

  Charles planted his feet shoulder-width apart. “We’re not leaving until you let the children swim.”

  Mr Sneddon snarled. “Mavis, call the police.”

  Before she could move, a deep voice boomed behind me, making me jump. “Don’t bother, we’re already here.”

  I flicked a look over my shoulder. My legs buckled. Morph, Sergeant Axford and other policemen I’d never see before stood on the path. Beyond them, on the nature strip, Wobbly, Mrs Axford, Irma Quinn from the general store, Murray Welsh from the servo, Twiggy, Dad and so many more gathered in a tight knot around Bull Jackson. Some people held brown paper bags, others their children’s hands.

  Bull was decked out in his official mayoral robe. Sun glinted off the heavy chain. The frilly collar cut into his neck. I couldn’t hear his words, but he flung his arms around and stamped his feet like an overwrought rugby coach.

  The students, red-faced and sweating, held their placards steady. Right in the middle of them stood Gert in her lace-up boots, chequered dress and towelling hat. She held her own sign – “Fair Go For All” printed on what looked like flattened brown paper bags taped together.

  The same Aborigines who had turned up at the RSL protest last night joined the end of the student line. Barry was between the students and the blacks.

  “Get home, Robbie Bower,” growled Sergeant Axford, standing over me.

  I staggered backwards, then stopped and folded my arms. “I’m staying, Sergeant.”

  He shook his head. “That bloody Gregory has corrupted you.”

  Even though my heart stuttered and sweat dripped down my spine, I looked into his face. “I make my own decisions.”

  He sniffed, hitched his belt and sauntered to Charles and the children. Morph and the other policemen followed.

  “Righto, you’ve made your point. Clear off.”

  The kids cowered. Charlie moved his hand and they hurried to where the students stood. Except Micky. He stayed beside Charlie.

  Morph had both hands on his belt. “Come on, be a good little boong and go home.”

  A bushfire flared in Micky’s eyes. I swallowed. The students surged forwards. So did the locals.

  Charles opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Morph had grabbed Micky by the shirt and shoulder and heaved him aside. Micky flew through the air and crumpled in the grass. I raced over and dropped to my knees.

  His mouth opened and shut, his eyes wide. I thought of the flopping fish on the riverbank.

  “You okay?”

  “Winded,” he gasped.

  At the pool entrance, two policemen grasped Charlie by the arms and dragged him into the sunshine.

  “Don’t touch the dirty black,” screamed a voice from the footpath.

  I froze.

  Nan, her voice shrill and bitter.

  I reached out and pulled Micky to his feet, letting him lean on me while he caught his breath.

  That was when all hell broke loose.

  Bruised and rotten apples, tomatoes and stone fruit sailed through the air, splattering the students, the placards and the Aborigines. Gravel and eggs followed. The foul smell of sulphur filled the air. Rotten eggs.

  At the edge of the crowd stood Marian Cavendish and Sally Marshall. Marian, her usually smooth face twisted with hate, threw an egg at one of the kids scrambling for the bus. She giggled, not her normal sweet giggle, but a Wright kind of laugh, and took a tomato from Sally. Marian heaved it at a little girl, hitting her on the back of the head. Her eyes were hard and narrowed and her strawberry lips were a thin texta slash.

  My breath caught in my throat. I waited for the bubbles of excitement to fizz in my stomach like always happened when I saw her. Instead, all I felt was squirming anger. It was like I was seeing her for the first time.

  I started to walk towards her, to stop her from throwing anything else, but the students, Aborigines and locals heaved and merged.

  People shoved and pushed and scuffled.

  Twiggy’s wife lurched from the crowd, straight for one of the Aborigines. Mrs Mathes grabbed the woman by the hair. They screamed and slapped and scratched each other.

  Wobbly Cavendish punched one of the students – Jim, judging by the beard – in the guts once, twice. Jim crumbled to his knees.

  Wright’s father dragged Trev free from the melee and tried to punch him. Trev was faster. He blocked and weaved away from him.

  Morph knocked John to the ground.

  A pair of wire-rimmed glasses clattered along the concrete, the glass shattered.

  Children cried, adults screamed abuse.

  “String up the interfering bastards.”

  “Stirrers.”

  “We don’t need your type here.”

  “Mongrels.”

  “Give them a hiding.”

  Men’s and women’s voices. Voices I knew well.

  Micky, recovered, rushed to where a woman screamed at his mother.

  Anger clawed at my gut and tightened my throat. “Stop it,” I yelled. “Stop it.”

  But it kept going.

  Barry was on the grass. Boots kicked and fists pummelled.

  I ran to where he lay.

  “Piss off,” I screamed. “Get off him.” I grabbed a belt and pulled the man off.

  Micky was beside me, pulling at the back of another man who punched Barry.

  “Leave my boy alone.” Nan’s shrill voice pierced the cries and yells.

  I surged forwards to help Micky.

  The man fell on his back with an oof. He glowered up at me, face red, spittle on his chin.

  Dad.

  Police whistles blew. The storm of noise engulfing us subsided.

  Nan appeared and shoved me in the chest. My head jerked back with the force of her push.

  “Leave my Frank alone,” she screeched, hair escaping from her bun. “You’ve caused more than enough heartache.” She turned to Micky, who kneeled beside Barry. “And you.”
She snarled, lip curled and teeth bared, like one of the dogs that guarded Bull Jackson’s car yard at night. “Stinking heathen. You have no right to be here.” She turned to me. “I will deal with you at home, my boy.”

  “I am not your boy,” I spat.

  She raised her finger and waggled it in my face. “Mind how you speak to your elders and betters.”

  I slapped her hand away and scoffed. “Betters? You?” The rage I’d bottled up for so long simmered from my gut to my mouth. “You disgust me.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Hey, Bower,” whispered Micky. “Everyone’s watching.”

  But his words didn’t register; they were drowned out by the red thudding through me.

  “See,” said Nan, looking around her. “See what a disgrace he’s become.”

  “Me? I’m the disgrace? What does that make you and Dad?”

  She pulled her head back.

  Dad staggered to his feet. “Shut up, Robbie.”

  “You.” I raised my finger and pointed it at his heart. “You used to go to the Crossing every Friday. I know what you went there for, and I know why you didn’t go back this week. I know what you did.”

  “Come on now, young Robbie, you’re far too excited.” Bull Jackson inched towards me, his hand out.

  “I’m not excited. I’m angry, bloody angry.” I snapped my head back to Dad. “How could you? How could you run over him and just leave him there? And then act like nothing happened?”

  A gasp rippled through the crowd.

  “You killed a man, Dad. You killed Micky’s uncle and left him on the side of the road, like he was a bloody kangaroo.”

  Dad’s face paled.

  “And you.” I glared at Nan. “You’re even worse. You covered it up. Called Bull and Twiggy. I heard you. ‘Just a boong.’ But he was a man, a human. He deserved better.”

  Nan clutched her heart.

  Dad crumpled to the grass, face in his hands. His shoulders heaved.

  I looked around me. Faces – Bull, Twiggy, Wright, Keith, Bat Face Fielding, Mrs Dixon and Marian – stared at me, open-mouthed. People I’d known most of my life. And yet, it was like looking at strangers.

  “Righto, young fella, let us handle this from here.” A policeman I didn’t know stood beside me.

  “You won’t handle it, you’ll ignore it too, just like they have.” I scowled at Sergeant Axford and Morph who stood at the edge of the crowd. Morph’s fingers fiddled with his belt buckle.