Bang, Lizzie hammered.
Not that the cops would even get to the front door, for the front fence and gate and the little front yard were criss-crossed back and forth with roll upon roll of barbed wire, going up about six foot high.
‘Even better, see? than we done it at Gallipoli,’ reckoned Mr Dacey, who’d come to lend his Redfern experience to the Newtown pickets.
‘It bloody better be!’ Pa reckoned.
‘Whadda you mean! We done it great at Gallipoli.’ Mr Dacey was a fervent old digger, for all he was a Communist.
‘So great you lost!’
‘Maybe,’ Ex-Sergeant Dacey grunted. ‘But we won’t lose this one, see?’
‘That’s for certain-sure,’ Paddy Cruise agreed, though deep-down he had his worries. They could make the house a fortress, and he and the other twenty-odd blokes who’d decided to picket inside the house could barricade themselves in, could wait there for the cops…and the dear knows, the barricades were strong. Strong enough to sustain an attack by twenty cops, forty cops, coming in front and back. For there were towers of sandbags against the back door too, and against the kitchen window that looked into the breezeway, and against the kitchen side window…and all these doors and windows had been boarded up with stout palings, layer upon layer of palings first, before the sandbags were piled up and up. The only way in or out of the house now was via the diningroom window at the end of the side passage. They needed that free so the runner could come and go. Even that window, though, was three-quarters boarded and sandbagged – leaving just enough of a gap for Nobby’s skinny body – and they kept the gap sandbagged unless Nobby was actually coming through.
‘One-two-three-up!’ Another sandbag landed on top of the front-door pile.
‘They’ll never get in,’ said Mick Cruise.
‘That’s for certain-sure,’ agreed Paddy, as he agreed night and day. But though twenty cops couldn’t get in, and maybe forty of the beggars couldn’t get in, maybe sixty, maybe even eighty, Paddy had been in enough trouble in his life to know that if the cops were really determined they could just keep upping the numbers, and in the end no amount of sandbags could prevail. Paddy had been in the Easter Rising: had been barricaded in the post office in Dublin in 1916…where they’d been beaten.
Still, you had no choice but to make a stand. Out at Bankstown, at the edge of the suburbs, the UWM was barricading itself into another house. No one knew how that’d go either. This was all a new tactic. They were all in the dark. Still, you had to be in it to win it.
Bang, went Lizzie outside. She wished she was in it. It was barricades, like Russia and Kollontai.
‘Me darlin’s fierce with me,’ Paddy muttered to no one in particular. ‘The girl is ravin’ mad.’ To think he’d let her stay in here.
Paddy’s mind ran over the arsenal of weapons that the pickets had collected: over the piles of blue metal and broken bricks for throwing down from the balcony, for throwing out the half-boarded upstairs back windows if the cops came up the side passage; over the stockpile of sturdy saplings and axe-handles for defending themselves if the cops did somehow manage to shove back the sandbags and get in…
And it was only by pushing through the bags, Paddy reckoned, that the cops could get in. They couldn’t climb up the outside dunny and onto the scullery roof and into the upstairs that way, for Mr Dacey had covered the dunny and scullery walls with enough barbed wire even to stop the Turks.
...Maybe we can stop them…
...But if we can’t…
‘Me darlin’s mad.’
Even Nobby was only let in on sufferance. Only because he was skinny enough for the gap. So Paddy let him run messages, trot in with news and food, trot out to empty the piss-buckets, but at the first hint of trouble Nobby Weston was going to be out on his pink ear and the gap sandbagged up, Paddy was determined on that.
Bang bang three four
Mrs Scab come out your door…
Lizzie had the rhythm right now: hammering, it seemed, was like skipping. Once you got it nice and steady, the nails just slipped in straight and stayed there. Happy for a moment now despite pa, despite Nobby, Lizzie hammered in time with Maudie and Bridget and Kathleen and Fee out there in the street.
Bang ten
Start again
Lock her up in a dingo’s den.
There, Lizzie’s sign was up.
Up too was Mrs Weston, right up at the loungeroom velvet curtain, peering out through a chink into the street, pressing her forehead against the cold glass to ease it. The pounding sound went on for ever now, the rhythm of the children’s feet tapping on the pavement like a wicked metronome, the small feet of the little girls, the banging of the hammer, the big shoes of Elizabeth, who ran out now, clambering through barbed wire to join them, her too-big shoes pounding out her hatred now upon the pavement.
Over the rope
And under again...
The rhythm of the skipping made the pain in Mrs Weston’s head, but it eased the pain in Lizzie’s. She was just a body, keeping time, ticking off the seconds till the trouble came, jumping off the energy that stored up in her soul without release.
Jumping, she hated less, for she was hating more these days, hating Pa now for her exile, hating Nobby for his luck, hating Nobby too because she’d shared with him her secret. But hating most that thing in that house. That was the cause of the trouble with Pa, the trouble with Nobby.
Nobby turned into the far end of the street, running full pelt down. His mother watched him from the window, Lizzie watched him from the pavement: his face on fire, his eyes shining, the effort of the run making two bright spots on his pale cheeks. They both noticed how tall he’d become as he ran straight past the both of them without a glance, past and off up the dunny-can lane, round to the back to get into the house and men’s business.
17
A man sits with the despot. He’s a big man, tough, but he’s not tough tonight. He pulls at his collar, to make it looser; his shirt seems too tight under the arms. He’s scared and ashamed. He’s out of work, and trying to get work. He has no savings, and he can’t pay the rent. Once again he pleads with the despot.
‘I’ll pay it all, soon as I get work. If you can just bear with me a bit…’
The despot’s eyes don’t warm to him. She has thin lips, and a wide mouth that is set into a straight, unrelenting line.
He’s never begged in his life before.
‘It’s the kids,’ he says, ‘they’re my worry.’ He’d be all right himself, if she threw him out. He’d move, go interstate or somewhere, and look for work. But you can’t have kids without a roof over their heads.
There’s no discussion. She won’t budge.
18
Next door, Evie sings ‘Jump!’ on the trampoline in the backyard in the dark. She’s out there every spare minute she’s home these days.
One/two/three/Jump!/One/two/three/Jump!
‘As I skip and I jump!’
Ted and Mum and the kids are getting her down. Making lunch every day for that old bag is getting her down. Having to think about Roger at CYSS and wonder if ever he might like her, is getting her down. The sound of Noel and his music is getting her down. Not having a job and money is getting her down. Stopping herself from thinking about lots of weird things is getting her down. (The trampoline at least gets me up.)
The other day, Evie found long black hair in her hairbrush. Jodie and Maria go into her room and brush their nitty hair with her brush, but this was black hair, and their hair is blonde, that white-blonde colour with a trace of green from chlorine swimming pools. Mum’s the only person in the family with dark hair, but mum’s the last person to go into her room and use her hairbrush, and anyway, Mum’s hair is short.
Evie goes right up into the air and over in a somersault, then down, jump, jump. It eases Evie’s head, somehow, the rhythm of the jumping. She’s just a body keeping time.
Next door in her room in the dark the despot watches from her win
dow the girl who’s neatly jumping, beating out the time.
Evie sings:
Over the rope
And under again
She lives in that house
And she gives me a pain
I wish she’d go off
And fall under a train
As I skip and I jump…
BOOK TWO
Fusion
At Bankstown and at Newtown
We made the cops feel sore.
We fought well
And they got hell
As we met them at the door.
We met them at the door, boys,
We met them at the door.
At Bankstown and at Newtown
We made the cops feel sore.
ANON,
TRADITIONAL VERSE, 1930S
1
Noel woke from the gun dream, and it was morning. He’d had that dream since he was a kid, but it was getting more urgent. These days he often woke with the memory of the cold metal against his chest, but today he could still feel it sticking into his ribs.
Noel moved, and his mouth-organ clattered to the floor. He reached over for it and lay there playing Dylan for a while, then got up and was about to go in to morning despot-duty but changed his mind and ran a bath. If he was to have a bath and wash his hair, he had to do it before he saw the despot. Otherwise the despot would order him to wash his hair, and then of course he’d have to let it stay dirty.
Noel lay in the bath a long time, playing the mouth-organ. If he stopped, he could hear the despot mumbling in the next room. She was well away today, the old Mumble-whine-rhubarb-rhubarb. Noel listened for a second.
‘Mumble-whine-rhubarb-rhubarb,’ the despot’s voice said.
‘And mumble-wine to you too,’ Noel said. ‘Sounds like you’ve had a drop too much of the old mumble-wine, if you ask me.’
He played a tune to drown her out. Made lots of mistakes. Very tricky it is, to play a mouth-organ while washing your hair. Especially when you have to duck under for the rinsing.
‘Still, as the man says, Life’s meant to be impossible.’ Noel read lots of newspapers. Not just the normal daily ones, but also the left-wing weeklies that people sold outside Coles Newtown on Saturday mornings. Noel sometimes played his mouth-organ up there, busking, and people gave him free copies. Noel liked reading them but they didn’t seem enough. There was sometimes a wildness in him that wanted action, any action, but he wanted quick, complete action like those kids in If; not marches and meetings like those weekly papers advertised.
‘No more tears, dooble-ey-doo…
Noel lathered up his hair a second time. Mum still bought baby shampoo, she hadn’t realized yet that he was fifteen.
‘No more tears, dooble-ey-doo, no more tears, baby shampoo…’ Noel tried to play the shampoo ad underwater.
He heard tap sounds next door. Then Evie’s voice and Sammy crying.
‘No more tears, dooble-ey-doo, no more tears Baby Blue,’ Noel sang as he surfaced. He thought he might go in after despot-duty and have a yarn to Evie. He hadn’t done more than say hello to her in passing since the night up on the stage. It was funny, that: the way you could feel really close to someone, and then just because you’d felt so close, you felt sort of embarrassed the next time you saw them. Noel sometimes even found himself feeling hatred for Evie, because she knew about his secret landscape.
‘Mumble-mumble-rhubarb-Noh!’ The despot’s voice loudly croaked out the sound she made for Noel’s name and Noel jumped out of the water, hurled on his duffle-coat and raced in still wet. She might have fallen out of bed.
False alarm. She was lying there like Lady Muck, like usual.
‘You okay?’
The despot just looked, then sighed. Wrote.
‘I DIDN’T KNOW IF YOU WERE THERE.’
‘Of course I am, Nanna. Or I was. I’m not there now, I’m here. Do you want something?’
The despot shook her head. A ‘No’ shake.
So Noel just got the breakfast stuff out of the food-warmer and packed up the tray. Once again, she hadn’t eaten. She hardly ever ate in the mornings any more.
‘Would you like me to leave it? You might feel like a pick a little later.’ It was steamed kipper and grilled tomato, the despot’s favourite.
The despot shook her head. Another ‘No’ shake.
Despite himself, Noel felt uncomfortable. This had been going on a bit long, even for a performance by the despot. He felt bad about the cold porridge the first time.
‘How about the blind? Is that how you want it?’ It was halfway up, as it always was in the mornings now.
The despot shook her head: No. But yanked it down herself. Noel could hear the voices of Evie and Sammy as they trampolined.
Up in the air
And down again
She lives in that house
And she gives me a pain…
Noel laughed. The despot reached for her powder compact and puffed more white powder over her face.
‘TELL YOUR MOTHER I HAD ANOTHER BAD NIGHT.’
‘Sure, Nanna.’
But Noel wouldn’t. She’d been complaining of that a bit too, the last fortnight or so; but then she’d used that trick in the past to get her own way.
The bad nights she’d had when Noel was six, and wanted a birthday party. She’d had them again when Noel was eight, and wanted a bike. They were the same nights she’d had when Noel was ten, and wanted to play football. And of course there was the whole string of them that had come to stop Mum going to dressmaking classes, and to Saturday-morning flower arranging, and even to church.
Noel didn’t believe any more in the despot’s bad nights: ‘She’s a can’t-help-herself-liar.’
Though, looking at her today, maybe she did look a bit strained beneath the powder. Serves you right if it’s true and I don’t believe you, Noel thought. The despot had brought him up on the tale of the little boy who cried ‘Wolf!’
That day, it was earlier than usual when Evie went in to do the despot. That day was a Wednesday, the middle day in the third week of Evie’s despot-duty. If she got it over and done with early, she could go to CYSS on the way to pick up Sammy. She’d been dropping in there a bit lately, and Roger was teaching her to use the video camera.
Evie let herself in the back, turned the gas on under the braised steak, frowned at the ticking clock that always made her feel hemmed in, put the kettle on, and found the teapot missing. Noel must’ve left it up there.
She walked up the stairs, silent in her sandshoes.
‘Noel. Don’t go, Noel. Noel. Don’t leave me.’
The voice coming from the despot’s room was quite distinct. It must be Noel’s mother. But Noel’s mother’s voice was apologetic and thin, and this…was a bit thin, but hardly the whisper-sorry tone of Mrs Cavendish.
‘She speaks too, sometimes.That’s a secret.’
Noel had said that the first night. That was the only time he’d ever talked about the despot to Evie.
Noel must be in there now, and the despot talking to him.
Evie made her feet make a noise as she took the last few steps: knocked, and walked into the despot’s room. Noel wasn’t there. Just the despot, on the bed, her mouth clamped shut, her eyes bright and watery, fixed hard on Evie. Evie felt frightened in her stomach, though why she should feel afraid, she didn’t know. Evie said nothing.
‘Hussy!’ The despot communicated with her voice.
COMMUNISTS FIGHT POLICE
Riot at Bankstown
INSPECTOR SERIOUSLY INJURED
Barricades and Barbed Wire Entanglements
One of the most serious disturbances ever dealt with by the police in New South Wales occurred at Bankstown this morning, when 40 policemen, in carrying out an eviction order, fought a pitched battle with 16 men defending a barricaded house.
Nearly every combatant was injured, some seriously. The most serious injury was that received by Inspector White, of Regent-street, whose skull was
fractured by a piece of blue metal flung from one of the windows of the house. One of the occupants, Richard Eatock, was shot in the thigh by a policeman.
The police had to force their way into the house – a weatherboard cottage in Brancourt-avenue – which was barricaded in an amazing fashion with sandbags and barbed wire entanglements.
HAND-TO-HAND BATTLE
When the police approached, and surrounded the house, the occupants, who were mostly Communists, showered them with big pieces of blue metal. To cut their way through the barbed wire entanglements, the police had to expose themselves to the full force of the shower of stones. Although many of them were hit, the police succeeded in cutting their way through. Rushing the front verandah, they drew their batons and fought hand-to-hand with the defenders, who used axe handles, garden forks, saplings, and iron piping.
The raid was the result of a disorderly campaign which has been conducted by anti-evictionists in the Bankstown districts for many weeks.
A volley of revolver shots was released by the police, nine bullet holes later being found in the woodwork of the cottage.
One of the defenders, Richard Eatock, fell back suffering from a bullet wound.
The police eventually entered the house from the side as well as from the front and back. The occupants put up a short but fierce resistance, but at last, realising that they were hopelessly beaten, they surrendered.
Some of the men were treated on the spot by the Canterbury-Bankstown District Ambulance, others were taken to hospital and treated, but only two were admitted to hospital. The 14 men not admitted to hospital were eventually taken to Bankstown police station.
Two more men were detained at the station, and later 16 men were charged.
Several waggons were despatched by the Canterbury-Bankstown Ambulance, and the following were treated for various injuries:–
Richard Eatock, of The Mall, Bankstown, bullet wound in the right thigh; Alex Makaroff, of Chiswick-street, Chullora, injuries to the hands and probably a fracture of the skull; Douglas Kendell, of East-street, Lidcombe, incised wound of the head; John Arthur Terry, of Nelson-avenue, Belmore, cuts on the head; John Boles, of Liverpool-road, Bankstown, lacerated jaw; George Hill, of Crown-street, Surry Hills, lacerated scalp; Harold Woolfe, of Boronia-road, Bankstown, lacerated scalp; Jack Hansen of Cornelia-street, Punchbowl, incised wounds on the head; and Daniel Sammon, of Clyde-street, Clyde, lacerated scalp.
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