“But we didn’t do that! We weren’t even … !”
“I’m sorry, boys,” he cut us off, and for the first time he looked half-sympathetic. “It’s out of my hands now. Rockhampton CIB is going to come and interview you.” Then from his bag he produced something I instantly recognised, a fingerprint pad; refusing wasn’t an option. When he’d finished, carefully rolling each of our fingers over the ink pad and pressing them onto the special piece of paper to record the imprint, he looked at us as if he was making up his mind about something.
“Look, boys,” he sighed. “I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but a couple of words of advice. From now on be very careful what you say. If you’re not eighteen, don’t say you are; under eighteen you’re still legally minors and have certain rights. Secondly, I’d try and get my story straight if I were you. Mrs Hayes didn’t advertise her job anywhere in Townsville.”
As he bolted the door behind him, Glen and I could only stare at each other, the anxiety in his face no doubt mirrored in mine.
“Why did you say we came from bloody Townsville!”
“Well, you told him we lived in Melbourne!”
“You agreed!”
“No, I didn’t!”
“You bloody did!”
Shit!
Several times that day and night Mrs Waring kept popping back to see how we were, bringing with her little tit-bits of food and drink, but she never had any news and we just had to sit there, biting our nails and blaming each other for our predicament. On the second morning she arrived at the cell empty-handed and stood in the doorway for a moment, looking gently at us. “Now I want you to promise me, boys, if I let you out over to the house for breakfast you won’t run away.” Constable Waring had gone to Rockhampton to fetch the detective, she informed us, and would be back later that afternoon. We sat in her small kitchen-come-dining room after breakfast, playing Monopoly while Mrs Waring did her washing and other housework. Mid-morning she came into the kitchen and made us doorstopper peanut butter sandwiches washed down with her wonderful ginger beer, and again we tried to find out what was going on but she was adamant she couldn’t talk about it. “It’s police business,” she said. “I’m not supposed to get involved. In fact I shouldn’t really have let you out. You’ll just have to wait until the detective comes. I’m sure if you explain properly what you were doing in Townsville it will be alright.”
“But we weren’t ever in Townsville! We made that up because we stole some food! We got a lift with a taxi driver in Gympie, and he rang up Mrs Hayes when we got to Rockhampton!”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, boys!” she sighed, wiping her hands on her apron and sitting down. “You’d better tell me the truth.”
At twelve-thirty we went back to the cells and Mrs Waring locked the door. “Just tell the detective what you told me, and everything will be alright,” she assured us. But it was a nervous wait, and an hour later we heard the constable and Mrs Waring having a furtive but heated debate outside their back door. We glued our ears to the fly screen.
“For Pete’s sake, Marge,” we could just hear him hiss. “You can’t go round letting prisoners out like that. They could be dangerous!”
“Oh, don’t be so silly, Arthur,” she said dismissively. “Of course they’re not!” A further explosion of exasperation from the constable was cut short when a large man in a suit came out of the door and joined them. Then, with Mrs Waring behind them waving encouragingly at us, the two men came along the path together and we quickly moved away from the window.
Constable Waring’s stern countenance was positively uncle-like compared to this new man’s scowl as he came into the cell, standing menacingly in the middle of it.
“This is Detective Sergeant somebody or other,” Constable Waring told us. “For your own sakes, I’d tell him the truth,” and rather ominously he left the cell and shut the door. For an hour the detective grilled us at length, barking out sharp questions and making us go over our story again and again, occasionally interrupting us with shouts of “Bullshit!” or “What time was that?” We went from being frightened and speechless to angry and insolent and back to frightened again, the detective’s disposition growing ever more hostile as we stuck to our story; which was fairly easy to do as now it was the truth, not that he ever looked like believing us. Again I was vaguely aware that we had rights and that he probably shouldn’t be doing this to us, but when I mentioned it he got so angry I shut up. At one stage he put us in separate cells, going back and forth, trying to convince each of us that the other had admitted being in Townsville. Then he put us back in the one cell and went away for two hours or so, when he returned it was obvious he’d been drinking.
If we’d been frightened before, now we became scared stiff as he removed a foot-long truncheon from inside his jacket and tapped it in his hand; later we discovered it was a section of a bicycle tyre tube, filled up with sand and the ends sealed.
“I want some answers from you bastards, and this time I want the truth, understand!” and stepping forward a pace, he jabbed the end of the truncheon up under my rib cage. The pain was excruciating and sucked the breath out of me for a moment.
“Right! Let’s start again. What time did you leave Townsville?”
“But we didn’t come from Townsville! We came from Gympie, the orange squash we took is still in the kit bag if you don’t believe us! Do you think we’d tell you we took it if we hadn’t?”
“Where’s the radio?” he demanded suddenly, and for a moment we were both speechless, although I noticed Glen had been getting increasingly agitated and annoyed and suddenly he shouted out, “What fucking radio! We weren’t even there, you stupid prick!”
In one movement the detective crossed the cell and hit Glen a thumping blow in the ribs with the truncheon, much harder than he’d hit me, the force of it doubling him up.
“The radio you stole from the caravan park! We’ll find it eventually. Your fingerprints will be all over it! Now I’ll ask you again. Where’s the fucking radio?” By now I was too terrified to say anything, and Glen couldn’t as he was on his knees gasping for breath. I decided that at the next opportunity I would yell as loud as I could to alert Mrs Waring, at the same time kicking the detective in the shins and hope Glen joined in, which I was sure he would, despite his condition.
Mercifully at that moment there was a tap on the door, and quickly putting his truncheon away beneath his coat, the detective snapped, “What is it?”
“Mrs Waring’s just been on the phone to Townsville,” said Constable Waring, opening the door and surveying the scene with a frown, Glen still on his knees. “She spoke to a taxi driver there who says he picked the boys up in Gympie and dropped them here three days ago. Mrs Hayes has confirmed she spoke to him.”
Now why hadn’t we thought of that! Good old Auntie Marge.
The detective left the cell immediately, barging passed Constable Waring and instructing him to charge us, not just with the theft in Gympie but for giving false evidence and wasting police time. “These little pricks have just fed us a pack of lies!” and he stormed up the path, Constable Waring hurrying after him. They disappeared into the house locked in heated, arm-waving debate. Meanwhile Glen sat on the cot, clearly distressed and holding his ribs. When the constable came back twenty minutes later he was still sitting there.
“Jesus!” he cursed, more or less to himself when Glen lifted his shirt to show him the bruise.
“The bastard had a little truncheon thing! He hit me, too!”
“Is he allowed to do that?” Glen demanded, voice trembling with emotion. “Isn’t there something we can do?” And then something seemed to snap in him and he cried out, “I’m sick of bullies! Fucking sick of them!” and burst into tears.
It was an outcry of such intense, naked anguish that for a moment the constable was at a complete loss as to know how to respond, as was I. Although I remember thinking, young and naive as I was, that this was some sort of seminal moment i
n Glen’s life, that it was truly important for him to say those words out loud and with such anger and bitterness. Constable Waring obviously had similar thoughts, and he looked at Glen with great sympathy, sitting on the cot wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt, trembling slightly and visibly straining to control his emotions. “You have every right to be angry, son, and I apologise for it happening in my cell.” His own anger was plain to see, but then his face softened slightly. “For the moment, though, I’m going to get the doctor to come and have a look at you both. You can come over to the house while we wait for him.”
I was alright, just a bit of redness, but Glen was in a much worse state. Although no ribs were broken, his lower chest was badly bruised and the doctor strapped him up as a precaution, then he spoke to the constable and Marge, who’d been clucking over us since she heard what had happened. “I think he’s suffering a bit from shock, he should take it easy for a bit. I’ll come back in a few days and see how he is.”
As it turned out, by hitting us the detective had done us a favour. We would probably have remained locked up for a few more days anyway, while the police sorted out what was going to happen to us. The Townsville charges may have been dropped, but we were still technically under arrest for the Gympie thefts, giving false evidence and wasting police time; so having to spend a few more nights in the cell was no great hardship, and as the doctor had ordered Glen should take it easy, the next few days were more relaxed than they might have been. We weren’t locked in at night, and during the day we were allowed out for walks. On the third morning Glen was feeling better, so we went for a swim in the sea. Mrs Waring plied us with great meals and lots of ginger beer, and made sure Glen took his Bex powder every four hours as instructed. On the second night Glen asked if he could ring his mother and I was able to talk to my sister, although we didn’t tell them everything, just that we’d been arrested for something we didn’t do and that otherwise we were alright. Mrs Waring spoke to Glen’s mum briefly to confirm this. By the time the doctor came back and took the strapping off Glen was more or less back to his old self, and although the bruise was a nasty yellow colour, it didn’t hurt so much.
It was gone five o’clock on Friday evening by the time the doctor left and it looked like we might have to spend a few more days in the cell, as everything came to a standstill over the weekend. Then Constable Waring called us into his office, his face set as firm as ever we’d seen it.
“Wrong as it was, and unhappy as I am about what happened in the cells,” he began, “I have to say boys that any trouble you’ve found yourselves in is entirely of your own making. Giving false evidence and lying to the police are serious offences, and if stupidity was a crime you’d be sent to gaol for the rest of your bloody lives!” He glared at us. “You’re not in Sydney now, you know! How many other pairs of young Pommie teenagers carrying kit bags have you seen wandering about? My colleague in Gympie knew it was you the moment the shopkeeper reported the goods stolen! It was only a matter of time before we picked you up. Out here you two stick out like dogs’ balls!”
“But we were hungry …”
“I don’t give a stuff if you were starving to death — which you weren’t, because the constable in Gympie gave you five bob, more than enough to get you to Rockhampton! You didn’t need to steal anything, much less get yourselves into serious trouble by lying and wasting police time!”
By now we, or perhaps I should say I, was at last beginning to grasp the notion that keeping my mouth shut more often than open was a good idea, so the room was silent for a moment as the constable shuffled his papers about, collecting his thoughts.
“I have spoken to my colleague in Gympie, who says the shopkeeper will not press charges against you so long as you pay for the goods stolen …”
“But we haven’t got any …” I began, instantly breaking my latest resolution.
“I’ll come to that in a minute,” the constable cut me off. “She says the items you stole come to fourteen shillings and sixpence, and if she receives payment for them nothing more will be said. Now then,” and he paused once more, obviously choosing his words. “As to the other business, the detective says he will drop all the charges against you so long as you say nothing more about what went on in the cells. Now I know!” He held up his hand once more to stifle our objections. “The man was totally out of order and should at the very least be reported. But if you do, he will throw the book at you, about Gympie, lying, giving false evidence and wasting police time, and as you are plainly guilty of all of those charges the result will mean that although the detective may well be hauled over the coals and could even be demoted, you two will end up with criminal records, and that is not a good thing to have, believe me!”
It was all a bit much to take in, I suppose, and for a moment neither of us really had a clue what to say.
“I understand how you feel,” he looked at Glen sympathetically, “and if you really want to make a formal complaint against the detective I will help you and give evidence for you, as will the doctor. I just thought you should know the situation before you make that decision. By rights I should either be charging you now or letting you go, but as it’s Friday I’ll give you a couple of days to think about it. I just want your word that if I release you, you won’t piss off anywhere,” and he accepted our nodded agreement without further comment, although it was obvious by the look on his face that he hadn’t finished with us yet.
”Regardless of your decision, it is my duty to officially warn you about your behaviour in the future while you are in Queensland. This means that if you get into any more trouble with the police, and I mean anything at all!” and he stabbed his finger onto his blotter, “you will be in big trouble, and the punishments will be much harsher because of this warning. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Constable.”
“Okay. Now, as for paying back the Gympie debt, I suggest you go and see Mrs Waring in the kitchen. There’s someone there who wants to meet you.” And he waved us away.
We couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
NINE
Mrs Hayes
“Gidday, boys!” Mrs Hayes greeted us brightly, shaking our hands but not getting up from the kitchen table where she was sitting drinking tea with Marge. “Been havin’ some adventures, I hear!” and her craggy, parchment-like face split into an enormous grin. Even sitting down, it was possible to see how tall and thin she was and her handshake, although strong and firm, was very bony. She was wearing a pair of tough grey trousers, a man’s check shirt and work boots, and her white hair was tied up tightly in a bun. Tough and stern might have been words to describe her were it not for her grin; it lit up the room, not just her face.
“Still lookin’ for work?” and Glen and I looked at each other, a little subdued from our dressing down by Constable Waring.
“Well … yeah, we guess so.”
“Okey-dokey,” and she slammed down her empty cup and got up, plonking a battered, sweat-stained slouch hat onto her head. Two black and tan kelpie dogs that we hadn’t seen lying at her feet leapt up in excited unison. “Let’s get goin’ then! Thanks for the tea, Marge. See ya next week.”
Parked outside the police station was a very battered Second World War US Army Jeep with a faded white star on the bonnet. There were no doors , just a canvas roof and windscreen, and there was only one seat. Without prompting, the two dogs leaped into the back with practised ease. Marge came out with us to say goodbye, and kissed both Glen and I on the cheeks. “Look after yourselves, boys.” She smiled her motherly smile and spontaneously, if a little self-consciously, both Glen and I gave her a hug. ‘Auntie’ Marge stood waving at us until we were out of sight, Glen sitting on the floor next to Mrs Hayes, me in the back with the dogs and kit bags, the bolts and ridges of the metal floor digging into my backside, the dogs licking my face in sympathy as we bumped along.
It was dark by the time we got to her place, and although the house was silhouetted against the night
sky all we could really see from the headlights were the front steps leading up onto a veranda. But we didn’t stop, and drove on for another fifty yards or so, bumping across rugged ground until we came to a large, open-sided shed and Mrs Hayes positioned the jeep so the headlights shone inside. Parked in the middle was an old tractor, and at one end there was a small caged room. Leaving the engine running, she got out, opened the padlock on the mesh door and went inside.
As soon as her back was turned the dogs were off, barking excitedly and obviously chasing something they’d seen or smelt in the dark. Moments later there was a loud whirring noise and a diesel engine thundered into life. A dull light came on in the shed, and one above the steps on the veranda of the house. When Mrs Hayes came out and saw the dogs gone she swore softly, stuck her fingers in her mouth and gave a shrill whistle. “Jessie!” she yelled above the noise of the generator. “Get here!” Almost immediately both dogs returned, eyes and heads lowered, acknowledging their naughtiness. “Go sit!” she commanded, pointing back up towards the house, and they ran off as she got back into the jeep. By the time we got back to the house the dogs were sitting on their hessian bags at the top of the steps as if butter wouldn’t melt.
“Which one’s Jessie?”
“Both of ’em,” Mrs Hayes patted one of them on the head. “We’ve had two dogs called Jessie for over forty-five years, all related to the original.”
“Don’t they get confused?”
“Don’t seem to,” she shrugged. “They’ve usually been mother and daughter, like these two, so they do everything together anyway; it just makes life easier having one name. Besides, it always feels like the original Jess is still with us,” and the two Jessies looked up, panting adoringly at their mistress, knowing she was talking about them.
Once a Pommie Swagman Page 11