Freedom Ride

by Sue Lawson

“This here is paint. White. The paint’s white, I mean. It’s for the rocks and fences and stuff.”

  Micky, who had his back to me, didn’t speak.

  “And they’re the tools. You know, hammers and stuff.”

  He turned and I caught a glimpse of laughter sparkling in his eyes.

  “Buckets, mops and scrubbing brushes.” I stumbled as I stepped across the room.

  “Good trip?”

  “What?” I spun to look at him.

  He nodded at my feet. “Good trip?”

  I did this strange, tight laugh. “Good one.”

  “What happened to your eye?” he asked.

  Pretty straight-up question from someone I’d just met. I straightened the rolls of toilet paper on the bottom shelf. “Messed a somersault. Did a bellywhacker and hit something under water.”

  “Was that you at the river? On Saturday?”

  “Yes, it was me.” He knew I’d been with Wright.

  “You let go way too early.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “You’ve gotta work up more speed, and when you’ve swung as high as the rope will take you–” He clapped and waved his arms in a wide circle. “Let go! You’ll be out in the middle of the river. Safest there.” The excitement faded from his face. “Those other blokes, they your friends?”

  “Wright’s not my friend,” I blurted. “Keith is, was–” I looked at my feet. “Keith used to be my friend.” I ushered Micky outside and closed the door behind us. “I’ll show you the shower blocks.”

  “Goodo. We blacks have never seen those before.”

  I felt my eyes pop.

  Micky gave a snort. “Just so you know, I had nothing to do with the windows at the high school.”

  “Neither did I! At the Station, I mean.” Heat spread from the base of my throat to my scalp. “I heard about it, but …” My brain screamed, Stop talking. Now! “Anyway, the toilets.” I led the way, shoulders slumped. Micky would not only think I was Wright’s friend, but that I was a total idiot.

  Barry found us at the irrigation pump near the river. “That man couldn’t reverse if his life depended on it. How’s the tour, Micky?”

  “Good. I know all about mops and toilets.”

  Barry returned his smile. “He’s conscientious, our Robbie. Great worker.”

  No one had said I was great at anything. Ever. A flush of pride burned in my chest.

  “Well, let’s make a start. Robbie, can you mow out the front? We’ll begin with the laundry.”

  Part of me felt proud Barry had sent me off on my own, but something nipped at my guts. Micky was working with Barry.

  CHAPTER 23

  Barry and Micky stepped out of the laundry as I raked the grass clippings. There were splashes of water and soap suds on Barry’s button-up shirt.

  “All done?” I asked.

  “Finished. We’ll freshen those up after lunch.” He pointed to the painted boulders, more grey than white, marking the roads around the park. “Maybe do those fences too.” He nodded at the lengths of chain hanging between posts. “If we have time.”

  “We should,” I said, trying to sound like I knew what I was talking about. I’d never scrubbed or painted before working for Barry.

  “Well, I’m starving. Let’s have lunch,” said Barry, rubbing his hands together. “Pretty sure Mum has cooked a roast.”

  Did Barry mean Micky and me? And did he mean we’d be eating inside? Together?

  The only Aborigines I’d heard about who went inside a white person’s home worked for them, doing cleaning and washing. And I was just about certain they didn’t eat with their bosses. Maybe Barry meant we’d eat at the garden setting out the back, even though it was hot enough to cook the roast on the concrete.

  Barry walked to the back door.

  “Could you run me an errand after lunch, Robbie?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  “We need a couple of things at the hardware store. You know the drill. Put it on the account. I’ll give you a list.”

  Barry opened the flywire door. Micky stood on the path.

  “Coming, Micky?” asked Barry.

  He folded his arms. “I’m not allowed inside the–”

  Barry swatted the air. “Don’t be silly. Come on.”

  It took a moment for Micky to move. When he did, his steps were slow and deliberate.

  Inside, Mrs Gregory greeted me with a hug, and reached out with both hands to Micky, who stood frozen in the kitchen doorway. She clasped Micky’s hand and pulled him into the room. “So lovely to meet you, Micky. Goodness, you do look like your uncle Dwayne.”

  Micky smiled, eyes still lowered.

  “Now, you three, go and wash up. Lunch is ready.”

  Barry led the way to the bathroom, telling us how his mother’s roast potatoes were the best in the world.

  I followed Micky, whose head swivelled as he looked around. He studied and copied every movement Barry made, even smoothing the towel he dried his hands on.

  Back in the kitchen, Barry showed Micky to a seat at the table. I watched for a moment, anxious about where he would sit. When Barry directed him to the seat beside where I sat, I let out the breath I’d been holding.

  “Can I help, Mrs Gregory?” I asked.

  “Thank you. Be a love and carry these plates to the table, Robbie. They are yours and Micky’s.”

  Micky whispered a thank you when I put a plate of roast pork, peas, baked potatoes, pumpkin and carrots in front of him.

  “Be good if you’re available Mondays, Thursdays and Fridays, Micky,” said Barry. “They’re our busiest days, aren’t they, Mum?”

  Mrs Gregory, who joined us at the table, added, “The lead-up to and after the weekend are always frantic in summer.”

  “Some Saturdays too,” added Barry.

  “That’d be fine,” said Micky. The spark and confidence I’d noticed at the river and earlier in the day had disappeared. He glanced at Mrs Gregory before picking up his knife and fork. After a moment he turned his fork over and ploughed it through the peas. I held my breath. The only time I’d eaten my peas like that, Nan had exploded with rage. Mrs Gregory and Barry paid no attention.

  I cut a slice of pork, wondering if Micky felt out of place, strange, sitting at a table in a white person’s house. Because it sure felt strange to be sitting beside an Aborigine.

  I’d never spoken to a black before today and now here I was eating with one. I wondered what Nan would make of it. Not that I was going to tell her.

  “You’re quiet today, Robbie,” said Mrs Gregory, handing me the salt and pepper.

  “Just eating, Mrs Gregory. Lunch is delicious, thank you. You were right, Barry; these are the best baked potatoes ever.”

  “Get away with you. You’re a smooth-talker, Robbie.” Mrs Gregory smiled. She asked Barry questions about the family at site 24, whose child had to be taken to hospital with earache last night, and the older couple at site 12, who had forgotten the lead that linked the caravan to the power socket.

  I ate, listening to them chat, and glancing at Micky beside me. He reminded me of a rabbit on the side of the road, constantly on the watch.

  After lunch, Barry gave me the list for the hardware shop. “Ask Alf to put it on the account.”

  “Sure.” I folded the note into a small square.

  “Righto, Micky, you and I are going to whitewash those boulders.”

  I watched their relaxed, easy strides, before grabbing my bike and pedalling towards town.

  By the time I reached Main Street, my skin was shiny with sweat. As I parked my bike in the rack a hand clamped my shoulder.

  “How’s your face?” asked Keith.

  “Looks better,” said Billy, beside him.

  “It’s fine.” My shoulder burned where Keith had squeezed it. “How long you in town for, Billy?”

  “‘Til the second. We’re going to the pool on New Year’s Day. You coming?”

  I frowned. “Not sure. Might be
working.”

  “You working now?” asked Billy.

  “Buying stuff we need.” I took the list from my pocket as explanation.

  Keith stepped closer. He spoke in a low voice. “Wright’s going to sort out that Abo, Micky Menzies.”

  “Why?”

  “Payback,” said Keith.

  “For what? Micky didn’t touch Wright.” The words came out in a screech Bat Face Fielding would be proud of.

  “He turned up at a white swimming area and made a fool of Wrighty. That’s enough. And what about the damage to our school? I’d say he’s begging for a beating.”

  Micky’s face during lunch flashed through my mind.

  “But there’s no colour bar on the river. And the school, well, that wasn’t him.”

  “How would you know?” Keith rolled his eyes.

  That familiar flush crept up my throat.

  “Look, Robbie, boongs are no-good no-hopers. Ask Dad, he’ll tell you. Wrighty is just making sure that Abo Menzies knows his place.”

  I raised the folded list again. “I better …”

  “Yeah,” said Keith. “See you at the pool.”

  “See how I go.” I stepped through the hardware shop’s open door.

  That afternoon I tried to find the courage to warn Micky that Wright was going to beat him up. But the words were as slippery as oil, and like the paintbrush I dropped in the gravel over and over, I couldn’t get a grip on them.

  At the gully trap, while we were cleaning the brushes, I worked out exactly what I needed to say, but when I opened my mouth, the words evaporated. At the end of the day, Micky turned left and I turned right, and the words were never said.

  CHAPTER 24

  I didn’t see Micky until lunchtime on New Year’s Eve, and by then I’d convinced myself that Keith was all talk.

  When Barry announced it was time for lunch, I thought it was way too hot to eat, yet the moment I started on the cold roast pork with pickles and fresh tomatoes, my appetite returned.

  “Leave those beside the sink, boys,” said Mrs Gregory.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “We’ll do them. A New Year’s treat.”

  “Well, that would be lovely.” She looked pale and somehow older than she had yesterday.

  “Thanks, Robbie,” whispered Barry.

  I washed, Micky dried and Barry put away. “So, boys, we did much more this morning than I’d hoped. How about this afternoon, instead of working, we go fishing?”

  “But …”

  Barry raised his hand. “It’s New Year’s Eve, Robbie. I reckon we can take a break. See if we can catch a cod or maybe a yellowbelly for dinner.”

  “Worms or yabbies?” asked Micky.

  “Worms for starters. We’ll dig them up from under the bonfire pile. We can catch yabbies later if the fish aren’t taking worms. What do you think, Robbie?”

  I stared at the murky dishwater. A few remaining suds clung to the edges of the sink. “I haven’t …” I cleared my throat. “I’ve never been fishing.”

  “Really?” I could feel Micky’s gaze on my bare arms.

  “Dad hates it.”

  “Then Micky and I will have to teach you.” Barry called across the bench to his mum, “Coming with us?”

  She shook her head. “Not today, love, but thanks.”

  “Next time, Mum.” Barry patted the benchtop. “Let’s go, boys.”

  Bucket filled with dirt and squirming pink worms in one hand and one of the fishing rods Barry had collected from the sleep-out in the other, I walked with Barry and Micky to the river.

  “Make sure you let the line sink,” said Barry.

  “And don’t wind it in too fast,” added Micky. “Let the rod do the work.”

  Instructions swirled around my head like bush flies.

  Rod tip up.

  Watch for snags.

  Steady pressure.

  I thought fishing was supposed to be relaxing.

  “Where are you lot off to?” called Gert, head poking through the annexe fly strips. She reminded me of a possum peeking from a tree hollow.

  “Fishing, Gert,” said Barry.

  “Want one?” asked Micky.

  “Now, that would be imposing.” She backed inside. No sooner had the strips closed, than her head popped out again. “Thank you for fixing the light, love.”

  “Pleasure, Miss Gert,” said Micky.

  She smiled before the fly strips slapped closed again.

  “What was that about?” asked Barry.

  “I was emptying the bins. She needed a bulb changed. I didn’t think you’d mind,” said Micky.

  “Not at all. That’s the most I’ve heard her say to anyone other than me or Mum.”

  “She’s pretty shy,” said Micky. “And that van is the neatest place I’ve ever seen. Even neater than our place, and that’s saying something. Mum is a real stickler for everything being tidy.”

  We neared an old couple sitting on fold-up chairs outside their caravan annexe. The old man’s arms were pale and fleshy. His wife’s too-tight nylon dress stuck to her many curves.

  The man hissed through slipping false teeth. “Thought they fished with spears, not rods.”

  I glanced at Micky. He kept walking, rod over his shoulder, expression relaxed. He had to have heard them.

  “Great spot in the sun, Mr Baker, Mrs Baker,” said Barry.

  The old man’s eyes narrowed.

  “Too hot,” snapped the woman, as though Barry could do something about it. Two vans further on, three kids sat in the sedan. Their parents bustled around the caravan.

  “I didn’t think we had any departures until next week,” I said to Barry.

  “Neither did I.” He passed me his fishing rod and net and placed the tackle basket on the ground. “Wait here, boys. Helen, Geoffrey. Everything all right?”

  The woman’s lips puckered. She looked over Barry’s shoulder to Micky and me. “Actually, Barry, everything is not all right. Far from it, in fact.”

  Barry bent to look at the kids sweating in the back seat. The kids stared past him to Micky and me.

  “Are the children unwell?” asked Barry. “A caravan’s a tough place to have sick littlies.”

  “They are in perfect health, thank you, and we intend to keep them that way,” she barked.

  “Leave it, love,” said her husband, coiling the power cord. “We’ve decided to head home early.”

  “Why?” asked Barry.

  My stomach squirmed as though I’d swallowed the bucketful of worms. I had a horrible feeling I knew exactly why they were leaving.

  The woman, Helen, folded her arms. “We’re going, Mr Gregory, because of your choice of employee.”

  “Robbie?” Barry squawked.

  My face flushed. Yesterday I’d helped the youngest girl after she’d fallen and skinned both her knees.

  “It’s fine, really, Barry,” said the husband. “It’s just time we–”

  “The coon!” spat the woman, pointing at Micky. “How could you have that dirty boong working here?” She advanced on Barry, face red and finger pointed. “There are women and children in this park. How could you place them in such danger?”

  Barry stood his ground. “Mrs MacIntosh, if that is how you feel, I would prefer you did leave my caravan park.”

  She reeled back as though Barry had shoved her. “You can’t kick us out.”

  “I’m not kicking you out; I’m saying if that’s how you feel, it would be better for you to leave. Both my employees, Robbie and Micky, are honest and reliable. And, I might add, disease free. You, on the other hand, are ignorant and ill informed.”

  Her mouth made a perfect circle. “Well, I never … Geoffrey!”

  The man dropped the coiled power cord inside the open caravan door. “I’m sorry it’s come to this, Barry. We’ll be back when the Abo has gone.”

  “Then I’m sorry you won’t be staying with us again.” Barry strode back to us. He picked up the tackle basket and net and to
ok his rod from me. “Let’s go, boys,” he said, voice heavy.

  I perched on a fallen red gum and stared at the river. Rings circled my fishing line. Barry sat at the other end of the log, smoking and watching the river. Micky had settled cross-legged on the sand between us.

  We’d walked the rest of the way to what Barry called “the fishing spot” in simmering silence. Barry’s jaw was set. Micky stared straight ahead, his face blank, but eyes fierce.

  Did I ignore what those people had said or mention it?

  And how did I feel about it? It wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard a trillion times a day: blacks are dirty, diseased and unintelligent, a scourge on society – nothing like whites. And that was just what I heard at home. I’d never thought much about it, but now I didn’t know what to think.

  Micky gave a yelp and leaped to his feet. He raised his fishing rod and reeled. The tip of the rod bowed.

  “Reckon you better grab that net,” said Micky, eyes on the water.

  My heart beat a little faster as I eyed the net, leaning against the tree trunk. What was I supposed to do with it?

  Barry laughed. “Don’t get too cocky, Micky. Mightn’t have him properly hooked.”

  “I have him, I know it – shit!”

  The line went slack; so too did Micky’s face. He continued reeling in the line until a bare hook burst from the water.

  He muttered and strode across the river sand to the bait bucket. He squatted on his haunches and picked through clumps of dirt. He chose a thick, squirming worm.

  “I’m sorry, Micky,” said Barry.

  He sounded pretty serious about a lost fish.

  Micky threaded the worm onto the hook. “Happens all the time.”

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t make it right.”

  Micky stopped and looked up at Barry, his face grave. “You know, it’d probably be better for you if I didn’t work here.”

  I realised they weren’t talking about the lost fish, but the Bakers and MacIntoshes at the caravan park.

  “They won’t be the only ones,” continued Micky.

  “Probably not.” Barry rubbed his nose. “But they can’t win, Micky.”

  The fishing rod jerked in my hand. “What the hell?” The reel whirred as the line zipped through the water.

  “Keep your rod up.” Micky grinned. “You’re on, Robbie. Reel it in. Slow and steady.”