For the first half hour of our protest, we were basically invisible. But then things changed.
First of all, the butcher came out. Someone must have told him we were chained up and protesting against his shop, because he was suddenly in our faces and not happy.
‘What the blankety hell do you kids think you’re doing?’ he yelled.
‘Don’t you blankety swear at these blankety children,’ yelled Grandad. ‘They are doing what is only fair and reasonable – protesting about how you get your meat from an abattoir that treats animals cruelly. How the steaks and sausages you sell were once living creatures whose throats were cut, without anaesthetic, without even being stunned properly. YOU ARE MAKING A LIVING OUT OF SUFFERING.’
The butcher glanced around. Most passers-by had stopped to listen. It obviously occurred to him that this was not the best publicity for his shop, because he lowered his voice and took a step towards Grandad.
‘Look, mate,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t have any choice where I get my meat from. There’s only one abattoir around here and …’
‘No excuses,’ said Pop. He raised his voice even more. ‘Go back to your shop and keep your inhumane trade going. There’s blood on your hands, mate. There’s BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS!’
The butcher glanced down.
‘Of course there is,’ he said. ‘I’m a butcher.’
‘HE ADMITS IT,’ yelled Grandad.
‘I’m calling the police,’ said the butcher. He started backing away towards his shop.
‘HE’S CALLING THE POLICE ON THESE CHILDREN WHO ARE ONLY TRYING TO PROTECT INNOCENT ANIMALS!’
A few members of the crowd snarled at the guy as he scuttled out of sight. I almost felt sorry for him.
‘I need a wee, Andrew,’ I said. I reckoned I could get home and back in no more than fifteen minutes. ‘Give Grandad the keys to the padlocks.’
‘What keys?’ said Andrew.
‘Tell me you brought keys as well as padlocks.’
‘No. Chains and padlocks. That’s all we discussed.’
‘Oh, great,’ I said. I tried to clench my legs together but, what with the chains, it was difficult.
*
Grandad ambled off around two o’clock to get himself a vegetable pie. I was really thirsty but my bladder didn’t need anything else. I was hungry as well, but I didn’t want to tempt fate, so I turned down his offer to get me something to eat or drink
‘Wanna fight?’ came a familiar voice. ‘C’mon, Fitzgerald. Man up. Or has the cat got yer tongue?’
It was possible Daniel Smith had been watching for the last hour, waiting for his chance, because Grandad had been gone no longer than two minutes.
‘How can I fight you, Daniel?’ I said. ‘I’m chained to a railing.’
‘Always an excuse not to man up,’ said Daniel. ‘I should kick your head in right now.’
‘Do that,’ said Andrew, ‘and you’ll regret it the rest of your life. All ten minutes of it.’
‘Hello, Daniel Smith,’ said Miss Pritchett.
‘Oh God,’ said Daniel.
‘Miss?’ I said. ‘Is there any truth in the rumour you’re a superhero with powers beyond the dreams of mortals?’
Miss Pritchett read the placards.
‘I should, to be fair,’ she said, ‘tell you the principal is having a cup of tea and an iced bun in a cafe just down the road. I suspect she’ll stumble across you in less than half an hour, and you know what she thinks about bringing our school into disrepute.’
‘We can’t go yet, Miss,’ I said. ‘The reporter hasn’t turned up.’
‘And we’re protesting about animal cruelty,’ Andrew added. ‘How is that bringing the school into disrepute?’
‘Ah,’ said Miss Pritchett. ‘You might think that’s a good and noble thing to do. I might think it’s a good and noble thing to do. But that’s not to say everyone will see it that way …’
Good and noble …
‘It was August 1966,’ said Grandad. ‘I was stationed at Nui Dat, like I told you.’
He picked up a pawn, thought better of it and replaced it on the board.
‘I was twenty-seven,’ he said. ‘An old man compared to some of the kids who were there. I’d volunteered, but others had been conscripted. Their birthdays came up in the lottery.’ He looked at me, saw confusion in my eyes. ‘The government ran a kind of lottery. Three hundred and sixty-five days went into a barrel. If your birthday was pulled out …’ He shrugged. ‘Happy blankety birthday.’
‘Why did you volunteer, Grandad?’ I asked.
‘The Old Lie,’ he replied. ‘Have you done Wilfred Owen in school yet?’ I shook my head. ‘Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori. Latin for “It’s good and noble to die for your country”. That’s the Old Lie. And that’s what Owen turned into the most beautiful anti-war poetry.’
‘But why is it a lie? Isn’t it a good thing to fight for your country, for freedom …?’
Pop held up a hand.
‘I’m not going to argue with you on this, Rob,’ he said. ‘That’s a question you have to work out for yourself. I’m just telling you my experience. I saw many deaths.’ For a moment his eyes changed, as if focusing on a point in his past. ‘Many, many deaths. None of them were good. None of them were noble.’
His voice trailed off. I waited but the silence stretched.
‘You were stationed at Nui Dat,’ I prompted.
Grandad gave a small shudder and then he was back in the room with me. He smiled and moved his king’s knight. That looked like a mistake to me, but then he’d made moves before that seemed like mistakes and turned out to be no such thing. I tried to focus on the positions on the board.
‘We came under fire from the Viet Cong. You know who the Viet Cong were?’ Again, I shook my head. ‘They were communist soldiers who fought alongside the North Vietnamese army. Australian troops, along with soldiers from America and some allied nations like New Zealand, fought for South Vietnam against the north and the Viet Cong.’
‘Why?’
‘For the same reason all wars are fought. An idea,’ said Grandad. ‘In this case, the idea that communism was a bad, bad thing, that it was spreading across the world and would destroy the western world’s way of life. Basically, it was America’s war, but we got dragged in.’
‘Was that idea an old lie?’
Grandad shook his head. ‘Read about it, young Rob. I told you, you have to make up your own mind about things like communism versus capitalism. I thought I was telling you a story. Do you want to hear it or not? Because, trust me, I’m happy not to revisit this part of my life.’
I moved my bishop.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Go on.’
‘We were ordered to track down the Viet Cong who’d fired on us. You have to understand this war was very different to other wars. For one thing, much of it was jungle warfare. The Viet Cong knew the jungle. It was their home. For us, it was alien and confusing. So we heard the shots, but we didn’t know where the enemy had gone. We left our compound, one hundred and eight of us, and went searching for them. We ended up in a place called Long Tan.’
He stopped again, reached for his queen’s rook. I saw his hands were shaking and I regretted putting pressure on him to talk. But I was too late. I think I knew that. For good or bad, this story was going to come out anyway.
‘The thing is,’ said Grandad. ‘We thought we were tracking the Viet Cong, but in reality, they’d been tracking us. One hundred and eight soldiers, young men not much older than you, Rob, not really … surrounded by an army that didn’t take prisoners. Trapped in a space no bigger than two football pitches. Surrounded.’
‘How many enemy soldiers were there, Grandad?’
‘Oh,’ he said. He moved his rook halfway down the board. ‘No one’s sure. But probably two and a half thousand. Two and a half thousand against one hundred and eight. What do you think about those odds?’
I couldn’t say anything.
‘We
knew we were going to die,’ said Grandad. I’d never heard his voice so soft. ‘It was the strangest feeling.’
Grandad, Daniel Smith, Destry Camberwick, Miss Pritchett and the local butcher (soon to be followed by the principal). My social life had never been so busy. I should chain myself to railings more often.
And the guest appearances kept on coming.
‘Hello, Mum. Hello, Dad,’ I said. I didn’t really have a choice. They stood in front of me, hands on hips, glaring down with looks that might well kill, given enough time. At that moment they just made me feel queasy. ‘Fancy seeing you here! Doing a spot of shopping? Best to avoid the butcher and the supermarket, in my humble opinion …’ I tried a winning smile.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ said Mum. Every word was a dagger. Between the words and the looks, I was dead meat – which was ironic, under the circumstances.
‘Well, I’m chained to a railing, protesting animal cruelty,’ I said. ‘I thought that might have been obvious from the chains and the signs.’
‘Are you being a smart-alec again?’
‘Look …’ said Grandad. It wasn’t, as it turned out, a wise thing to say. I don’t know why. Look is not a very provocative word. Mum spun to face him.
‘I might have known you’d be involved,’ she spat. ‘Whenever Rob gets into strife, you’re around.’
Dad put his hand on Mum’s arm, but she shook it off.
‘You’re a bad influence,’ she continued, her eyes boring into Grandad’s.
‘Thanks,’ said Pop. ‘I appreciate the compliment. It’s good to know I can still be a bad influence.’
‘And as for you …’ Mum returned her attention to me. That was a pity. I was enjoying Grandad coming under fire for a while and giving me a well-earned break. ‘You are grounded.’
I was tempted to tell her this was indeed true because I couldn’t actually get off the ground but, wisely I feel, I kept my mouth shut.
‘You are grounded,’ she said, ‘for the rest of your life. Now, get up. You’re coming home.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Bit of a problem there, actually.’
Andrew explained about the oversight regarding keys to padlocks. Mum rolled her eyes.
‘You kids are idiots,’ she said.
‘I told them …’ said Grandad.
‘Shut up,’ said Mum. She pointed a finger at Andrew. He flinched. ‘Ring your father and get him to unlock you,’ she said. She turned the finger on me. I couldn’t help it; I flinched too. ‘I expect you home in no more than half an hour,’ she said. ‘Otherwise, your punishment will be extended.’
What? Grounded not just for life, but the afterlife as well? I didn’t say this. I was scared just thinking it.
Grandad, Daniel Smith, Destry Camberwick, Miss Pritchett, the local butcher, Mum, Dad and Miss Cunningham.
‘I want to see you in my office first thing on Monday morning,’ she roared. Or maybe it was a bellow.
‘Yes, Miss Cunningham,’ Andrew and I murmured.
Grandad opened his mouth to speak. The principal cringed and beat a hasty retreat.
Things were going brilliantly. All this trouble and the reporter hadn’t even turned up. It couldn’t get worse.
Then it got worse.
Grandad, Daniel Smith, Destry Camberwick, Miss Pritchett, Mum, Dad, the butcher, Miss Cunningham and the police.
Hurrah!
‘What’s going on here?’ There were two police officers. One was female and one wasn’t. Neither appeared particularly friendly. Then again, I couldn’t help but stare at their guns, which didn’t radiate goodwill and peace on earth.
‘Umm …’ I said, proving once again that under pressure I always find exactly the right words.
‘These kids are protesting against animal cruelty,’ said Grandad. ‘They’re drawing attention to the fact that local businesses are profiting from immoral practices.’
‘Is that right?’ said the male officer. He drew himself up straight and sort of thrust his chest towards Pop. ‘Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ said Grandad. ‘And yes to your second question as well.’
‘Are you trying to be smart? Are you? Are you trying to be smart?’
‘They’re not breaking any laws,’ said Grandad.
‘Oh, aren’t they? Aren’t they?’ said the officer. ‘I guess I should be the judge of that. I say I’m the one who should be judging.’
‘Why do you say everything twice?’ said Grandad. ‘Have you got a learning difficulty? I said, have you got a learning difficulty?’
I’m not sure what would have happened to us, if the police hadn’t suddenly become more interested in Grandad than Andrew and me. I can’t imagine they would have arrested us, but it was academic anyway, because when the male officer took a step forward, Grandad punched him in the face.
By an amazing stroke of luck, this happened to be when the reporter turned up. He got a great shot of us chained to the railings, the placards prominent. He also got a brilliant shot of Grandad punching a police officer in the face, and of Pop being bundled into the back of a police car. Suddenly, disaster was averted.
Except for Grandad, of course.
*
Grandad, Daniel Smith, Destry Camberwick, Miss Pritchett, Mum, Dad, the butcher, Miss Cunningham, the police, the reporter and Andrew’s dad.
He didn’t have the keys to the padlocks, so he had to go home for a power tool and cut us free.
He wasn’t happy, either. He’d have to join the end of a very long queue, but I didn’t tell him that.
Consequences.
Aren’t there always consequences? Life would be much better if we could just get rid of them. Anyway, here are a few:
Grandad was released without charge. The police were very good about it, because although Grandad was older than God’s dog, he had assaulted an officer. He had broken the law. Maybe the police figured it wouldn’t be good for public relations to charge a really old guy with assault. Maybe they just decided to cut him some slack. Whatever the reason, he was home a few hours later.
(I knew what had really happened. Pop had bought me and Andrew some time. He’d hit the officer so they’d be more concerned with him and leave us alone. I asked Grandad about this and he snorted. ‘Don’t kid yourselves,’ he said. ‘And don’t make assumptions. My actions are my responsibility. Just as yours are yours. And never, never disrespect the police,’ he added. ‘They do a fantastic job under trying circumstances.’ I was going to point out that I do respect the police and that it was Grandad who’d punched one of them, but I let it go.)
I made the front page of the newspaper. They spelled my name wrong, but that didn’t matter. (How could they spell ‘Rob’ wrong?) They also had a photo of Grandad being taken away. Surprisingly, our protest re-awakened interest in conditions at the abattoir. A few people wrote to the paper and expressed support for a meat boycott. This, in turn, prompted the butcher and the supermarket to announce they’d no longer source meat from the abattoir until there was an ironclad assurance that humane practices were being used all the time.
Humane practices were established in the local abattoir. Closed-circuit television cameras were installed and every part of the operation was open to scrutiny.
I got a text message:
Congratulations, Rob. You met the challenge. Expect another one soon.
I replied, Thanks Grandad. Looking forward to it.
I got another message. Not your grandad.
I wasn’t, of course, buying that.
Miss Cunningham wanted to suspend us for at least three days, but she couldn’t. I think someone pointed out that after school hours we could pretty much do what we wanted. We weren’t wearing our school uniforms and therefore couldn’t be accused of bringing the institution into disrepute. She wasn’t happy and I knew our school lives had just been made much trickier. But we could go to school and I was glad.
Mum and Dad grounded me, as they promised, not just for life but all eternit
y. Well, okay, a week. It felt like eternity. The following Saturday I turned up at the Old Farts’ Palace, took Trixie for a walk in the park and visited Grandad for a game of chess.
‘We thought we were in hell,’ said Grandad. ‘Especially when the monsoon storm hit.’
‘A storm?’
‘Yeah. Stroke of luck, that, huh? One hundred and eight very scared soldiers, surrounded by thousands of enemies, and the skies opened. Lightning everywhere, huge claps of thunder and torrential rain that reduced visibility almost to zero.’ Grandad gave a small and rueful smile. ‘Absolutely the worst time to become effectively blind.’
‘What did you do?’
‘What do you think we did? None of us could see very well but we fired at them and they fired at us. Australians, a few Kiwis and thousands of Viet Cong all making the required moves in that stupid dance called war.’ Pop took my knight with his bishop. I’d expected that and took his bishop with my queen.
‘Check,’ I said.
Grandad rubbed at the stubble on his chin as he gazed at the board.
‘The battle lasted three and a half hours, though for us it seemed an eternity. Someone a long time afterwards reckoned about four hundred thousand rounds of ammunition were fired. Four hundred thousand! That’s almost beyond belief.’ Pop moved his king back a space. ‘Nearly two thousand shots a minute. Thirty a second. Some soldiers passed out because of cordite fumes from the guns. Imagine it. A ferocious tropical storm, blinding rain, thunder you couldn’t hear because of the deafening gunfire, brilliant flashes of lightning that sometimes showed you the enemy advancing. Always advancing. I’ve had plenty of nightmares in my time. None compared to that waking one.’
I knew my next move, but didn’t make it. Grandad was wandering through the jungle of his memory and I had to wait until he returned.
‘Here’s something strange,’ he said. ‘The enemy soldiers kept coming towards us. Always advancing. But they didn’t try to hide from our fire. They didn’t take shelter behind trees or bushes, though God knows there were plenty of them. No. Have you ever seen a zombie movie, Rob?’
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