‘How was she, Bill?’
‘Quite good, really. Old Molly’s made of pretty stern stuff. Seems all the time I was waiting to see her they were busy pressuring her to sign a statement admitting everything. But she said she wouldn’t say anything until she had taken legal advice. They just laughed at her and said no one in Redfern ever had a solicitor.
‘What happens now?’
‘I told Molly to plead not guilty at the arraignment. Father O’Brien and I are going round the neighborhood today to try and raise some bail money. We ….’
Suddenly the baby started to cry.
‘You best be going, Bill,’ Iris said. ‘This young man knows it’s feeding time.’
*
The day after Boxing Day, the usual crowd of post-holiday petty felons paraded before the magistrate at Darlinghurst. There were the drunks, a couple of Kings Cross prostitutes, and two persons charged with assault—one a bar-room brawler and the other, Molly Gallimore.
Molly’s case was heard last. When her name was called, a police constable led her into the court from an anteroom. By now the courtroom was almost empty. Only Bill and Father O’Brien remained on the public benches. Their presence brought a nervous smile to Molly’s face as she shuffled into the dock.
A policeman read the charge. The magistrate repeated it to Molly and then asked her how she wished to plead. Molly pleaded not guilty and the magistrate set down a trial date for February. At that point Father O’Brien asked to address the court and requested that Molly be allowed to return to Redfern in his charge until the trial.
The magistrate had no objections but the police prosecutor reminded him of the seriousness of the charge and demanded that Molly be held in custody, or at least if bail were granted, it should be set at a substantial figure. The magistrate set bail at ten pounds, just five shillings less than the amount Bill and Father O’Brien had collected from the neighbors in Redfern.
By midday Molly was at home in her cottage.
Molly took over caring for Emma just as soon as she came home. But Iris and Joan still dropped in regularly to see if they could help in any way. And everyone was delighted when Emma announced that she had decided to name her son Christopher, because he was born on Christmas Day.
Emma got to know Iris and Joan well. Iris was a widow and Joan was single. Iris said they managed to keep up the rent on their cottage by sewing clothes part-time in a small sweatshop in nearby Botany Road. Joan, being single, couldn’t get the dole but Iris got eight shillings a week, and together with the small amount they earned in the sweatshop they managed to keep their heads above water. Iris said she hated to think what would happen if she ever got dobbed in for not declaring what she made at the sweatshop.
After a few days, Emma was up and about. A steady stream of callers, mostly people Emma had never met, brought baby clothes, rattles, and all types of odds and ends for Christopher. Everything was second-hand, and many of the clothes were very old, but Emma was overwhelmed by the generosity of people who had so little to give, yet found such joy in giving.
Bill called by whenever he could. Although he was always busy at the mission, or helping the local anti-eviction committee, or the Unemployed Workers Union, or some other battlers’ cause, he still found the time to drop by and say hello. He seemed to delight in seeing Christopher, and Emma found herself looking forward more and more to his visits.
One afternoon, Bill dropped by to tell Molly that Father O’Brien was trying, through the clergy, to find a solicitor in one of the neighboring dioceses willing to donate his services and defend her at her trial. Molly was delighted at the news. Just as Bill was leaving, there was a knock at the cottage door.
When Molly opened the door a man in a business suit stood outside. Without a word he barged straight past Molly into the cottage. Bill blocked the man’s progress at the kitchen door. Emma held Christopher tightly in her arms.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Bill demanded.
‘I’ll tell you who the hell I am,’ the man replied angrily. ‘I’m the rental agent in charge of this property. And the police have just brought it to my attention that Mrs Gallimore is going to jail shortly. I’m here to check on the condition of this house and to tell her to have it vacated by midday tomorrow.’ The real estate agent smirked. ‘Or do you think I should tell my client that we use criminals as caretakers of properties in our charge.’
Tears welled in Molly’s eyes.
The agent looked at Bill and Emma and the baby things around cottage. ‘Just how many squatters have you got in here, Mrs Gallimore? You know its against all the rules.’ He turned to leave. ‘All right, as I said, tomorrow at midday, everyone out, or I’ll have the police drag you out.’
Bill hurried to the front door and blocked the agent’s way again. He grabbed him by the lapels and said: ‘There are laws to protect people from bastards like you. You know damn well, first you’ve got to give a tenant two weeks notice to quit and then you’ve got to get an order from the court to evict them.’
The agent sneered. ‘So we’ve got a bush lawyer here, have we? Well, let me tell you something, mate. This woman isn’t a tenant. We’ve never charged her a penny in rent and we have no written agreement with her Out of the goodness of our hearts we told her she could stay here until we told her differently. Well, now I know she’s a criminal, I’m telling her differently. And as of this moment, she’s nothing but a bloody squatter.’
Bill knew the agent was right. He loosened his grip on the man’s jacket and moved out of his way.
‘I wish to rent this property.’
It was Emma who spoke.
The agent turned around with a smile on his face.
‘It’s eighteen shillings a week, and two weeks in advance.’
‘All right. Draw up the paper.’
The agent’s smile grew into a grin. You’ve got the two weeks deposit have you?’
‘Yes.’
The agent looked surprised ‘And a job?’
‘No, I don’t have a job.’
‘Sorry, the owners won’t rent to anybody who’s unemployed. They never keep up the rent.’
‘Then I’ll give you three months in advance.’
The grin faded from the agent’s face. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Of course I am. Just give me an hour to go to the bank for the money, then come back here with the papers.’
The agent looked undecided for a moment, but unwilling to risk losing a rare rental commission in Redfern, he took a pencil and paper from his pocket. ‘If you’ll just give me your full name, for the agreement that is.’
‘Emma McKenna.’
‘Thank you, Emma. I’ll be back in an hour.’ The agent touched the brim of his hat with his fingers and hurried away.
‘Oh, Mr…?’ Emma called out after him.
The agent turned around. ‘Was there something else, Emma?’
‘Yes,’ Emma snapped. ‘In future, it’s Miss McKenna to you.’
Bill closed the door behind the agent. He and Molly turned to Emma in amazement.
‘Something happened the other day,’ Emma said. ‘You might say I came into a windfall. I promised myself it would never be used for anything but Christopher’s welfare. But this community only survives at all because of people helping each other, and I want to do my part. And now Christopher and I have to start a new life somewhere, I want us to be amongst friends. I can’t think of any better place for us than here in Redfern.’
*
For Bruce, Christmas Day at Hope Farm was the unhappiest time of his life. There was no trace of the joy and happiness he had always felt at Yallambee during the festive season. The only respite from everyday life at Hope Farm was that all farm work and classroom sessions were temporarily replaced with prayer meetings and services in the chapel.
There had been a slight variation of the usual food on Christmas Day, which included turkey and plum pudding. But the highlight for Bruce and Jack had been the arrival of the tin of
sweets and biscuits from Armidale. Strickland told Bruce that Brother Lucas normally withheld any treats sent to Hope Farm, or at least made sure they were divided equally among boys of his choosing. But Brother Lucas gave the whole tin to Jack and told him to do whatever he wanted to with its contents.
Bruce knew well why Brother Lucas relaxed his own rules for Jack, but he preferred not to think about it. He had tried to talk to Jack several times after Strickland had told him what was going on. But Jack had become so distraught each time, that Bruce hadn’t broached the subject since, hoping as Strickland had said, that sooner or later, Brother Lucas would leave Jack alone in favor of someone else.
As time passed, Bruce noticed Jack become more and more withdrawn. He knew his brother had come to accept his lot and conformed to the passive, obedient and disciplined life the Brothers demanded of everyone. Bruce saw also that Jack had come to hate himself, brooding constantly in a guilt-ridden isolated world of his own, a world he was too ashamed of to even share with his own brother.
For that, Bruce hated Brother Lucas with all his heart, and his hatred only strengthened his resolve to find a way for himself and Jack to run away and leave Hope Farm far behind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The arrival of a brand new year and the security of tenure provided by Emma’s changed circumstances brought an atmosphere of hope and happiness to Molly’s cottage. Emma felt well after the birth of the baby and she was anxious to get on with her life. The joy Christopher brought her only added to her sense of well-being.
Molly’s happiness at having Emma and Christopher with her was only dampened by the uncertainty of her forthcoming trial. But a constant stream of visitors coming to the cottage left her little time to dwell on it. The new year even brought Bill a new sense of hope, with the swearing in of Prime Minister Joseph Lyons’ new government in Canberra in early January.
Father O’Brien found a solicitor who agreed to defend Molly. Dan Rankin, an earnest and compassionate young man, came to the cottage frequently. He spent hours talking to Molly, trying to formulate a defense to an almost indefensible situation, and he spoke at length to Bill who was to be a witness at the trial. Emma became friendly with Iris and Joan. They all spent long hours at Molly’s kitchen table drinking tea and answering Emma’s endless questions about the operation of the sweatshop where they worked.
Emma wanted to know everything that went on. She asked about the types of garments they made, how long it took to make them and the quantities produced. She wanted to know who the sweatshop’s customers were, and the prices paid for goods supplied. When the seamstresses asked Emma why she wanted so much information, Emma just smiled and said she would let them know soon enough.
*
On the day of Molly’s trial the courtroom was packed.
The public benches were almost entirely filled with unemployed battlers from Redfern who had been in the Domain on the day of the riot. They talked noisily amongst themselves as they waited for the trial to begin. The few remaining seats were taken up by newspaper reporters and senior police officers, all anxious to see justice done.
Emma had left the baby in Iris’s care. She sat with Father O’Brien in the courtroom, directly behind a long table where Molly and Dan Rankin were seated, beside the police prosecutor and his assistant. Outside the courtroom Bill paced up and down, waiting to be called as a witness. From time to time, Molly turned her head to Emma and tried to smile. Emma thought she suddenly seemed very old and vulnerable.
‘All rise.’
The court bailiff’s command heralded the entry of a grey-haired, black-robed magistrate into the courtroom and the hubbub on the public benches ended immediately. When the magistrate was seated, the charge was read out and the magistrate asked how Molly wished to plead. Her solicitor entered a plea of not guilty and the prosecutor called his first witness.
This was the mounted policeman who Molly had attacked in the Domain. He walked stiffly to the witness stand, took the oath and stated his name and occupation. The prosecutor asked him to tell the court in his own words exactly what had happened on the day in question.
The policeman gave a lengthy account of the riot with particular emphasis on his need to subdue the driver of the truck, as well as the severe facial wounds he suffered from the placard pole attack and the beating at the hands of over a dozen rioters. He also identified Molly as being the woman who struck him with the pole.
‘Now, in your opinion, Constable,’ the prosecutor asked when the policeman had finished, ‘was there any police provocation for the defendant’s vicious attack upon you?’
‘Absolutely none...'
There was a loud murmur of dissent from the battlers on the public benches. The magistrate cast a reprimanding eye around the courtroom. ‘If there are more outbursts,’ he said solemnly, ‘I shall instruct the bailiff to clear the courtroom.’
The prosecutor asked his question again.
‘There was absolutely no provocation at all,’ the policeman replied. ‘As God is my witness.’
There was a much more subdued groan from the public benches. The magistrate waved an admonishing finger but said nothing. Father O’Brien looked at Emma in dismay. Extreme provocation was the only real defense Molly had.
‘Thank you, Constable. I have no more questions.’
Dan Rankin rose to his feet. ‘Constable, will you tell the court exactly what you were doing at the time Mrs Gallimore was alleged to have to have attacked you with a placard pole?’
‘I was restraining a particularly dangerous demonstrator.’
‘You mean the driver of the truck?
‘Yes.’
‘With baton blows to his head?’
‘ I had no choice.’
‘A little heavy-handed wouldn’t you say, Constable? A troop of mounted policemen against a single unarmed man.’
‘I had to subdue him alone. As I stated earlier, the rest of my troop were defending themselves against hundreds of rioters all over the Domain.’
‘And you say it was while you were restraining this man that you were attacked by the defendant?’
‘Yes. Mrs Gallimore took advantage of the fact that I was already busy trying to defend myself. Her attack came right out of the blue and totally without warning.’
A look of confusion spread over Rankin’s face. ‘You say it happened while you were busy subduing a particularly dangerous demonstrator. And yet, during this struggle, and the simultaneous attack by over a dozen assailants in which you were dragged from your horse and suffered serious facial wounds, you were still able to clearly see who was at the end of a very long placard pole?’
The mounted policeman didn’t answer immediately, knowing he had been drawn into an elaborate web he himself had fabricated. After a moment he said: ‘I wasn’t the only one to identify her.’
‘But you said the rest of your troop was scattered all over the Domain.’
‘Several civilians identified her. Also there was a police sergeant on foot who was standing very close to Mrs Gallimore.’
’Oh, and who were these civilians? Were they unemployed marchers?’ The solicitor turned and faced the public benches. ‘Or perhaps, they are among those attending these proceedings here today.’
Immediately there were angry denials from the Redfern battlers on the benches. Once again they were silenced by the magistrate’s admonishing finger Then the finger was wagged at the solicitor. ‘You will direct your questions only to the witness, Mr Rankin.’
‘Then who were these civilians, Constable?’ the solicitor persisted. ‘Were they members of the New Guard?’
The constable stared down at his feet. When he looked up he said quietly, ‘Yes, I believe they were New Guardsmen.’
‘And are they to be called as witnesses here today?’ Before the policeman could answer Rankin said: ‘I think not, Constable. I think not. Everyone knows the New Guard is an illegal organization and many of its members are presently under investigation by the po
lice for various illegal acts, such as theft of government property, breech of national security and even murder. I’m sure the prosecution wouldn’t subpoena such men and expect their testimony to be given any credence.’ The solicitor turned toward the magistrate and bowed his head slightly. ‘I have no more questions for this witness, Your Worship.’
‘Call Sergeant Frederick Lockwood.’
The court bailiff opened the courtroom door again and Sergeant Lockwood took the stand. When questioned by the prosecutor he told the court he had been on duty the day of the riot in the Domain and that he had seen the mounted policeman attacked by a woman carrying a placard and by several marchers.
‘And is the defendant the same woman you saw attack the mounted policeman, Sergeant?’ the prosecutor asked.
Sergeant Lockwood looked at Molly long and hard.
‘Well, Sergeant,’ the prosecutor said impatiently. ‘Is this the woman?’
The sergeant didn’t answer. He looked troubled, as if reluctant to do what he must do. Emma wondered if he were torn between doing his duty or yielding to the demands of his conscience. There wasn’t a sound in the packed courtroom. Everyone was waiting for the sergeant to speak.
The magistrate intervened. ‘Sergeant Lockwood. ‘Please, answer the question.’
‘I can’t be sure if this is the same woman, Your Worship.’ The sergeant said at last. ‘I just can’t be sure.’
Molly’s solicitor saw his chance and seized it.
‘Your Worship, if Sergeant Lockwood, who was standing very close to my client and under no threat at all from the marchers, cannot identify Mrs Gallimore, how can the constable who, by his own admission, was busy subduing the truck driver and simultaneously being set upon by a dozen or more rioters? Your Worship, I ask that this case be dismissed.’
The magistrate turned to the prosecutor. ‘These civilian witnesses that you mentioned earlier. Are there any of them present today?’
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