by Sue Lawson
I sank into the sofa, eager to know what was going on, but desperate to avoid their attention.
Dad leaned forwards, his eyes hard. “Bloody university students, that’s what!”
“What have they done now?” asked Nan.
Dad waved his hand to silence her.
On the screen, a man holding a microphone spoke about a bus trip through country New South Wales.
Didn’t seem like a big deal to me. Buses passed through Walgaree on the way to the opal fields all the time.
Nan burst into a chorus of tuts and “oh, my words”.
The reporter interviewed a Methodist Church minister, Ted Noffs, according to the name printed on the bottom of the screen. I caught a few of his words between Nan and Dad’s carry-on. “Aborigine”, “discrimination”, “Freedom Ride”, “peaceful protest”.
“Peaceful, my arse. Look at what happened in America – beatings, arrests – total waste of police resources. And it achieved bugger-all. Just encouraged blacks to make more trouble than ever.”
Dad’s tirade stopped when an Aboriginal man’s face filled the screen. The banner beneath him read, Charles Perkins, President, Student Action For Aborigines. The man’s jaw was strong and his gaze direct. He seemed to look through the camera to me. His voice was smooth. “We want to confront and highlight the problems and conditions faced by Aboriginal people. There’s too much discrimination and violence.”
“Jesus.” It was more a prayer than a curse. “Abo bastard! He and his commie student mates should stick to the city and leave us alone.”
I held my breath, ready for Nan to launch into him for his language.
“Never heard such tommyrot.” She thumped her fist against the armchair. “Once those students come across their first real Abo, they’ll change their tune, quick smart.”
A real Aborigine? Wasn’t Charles Perkins a real Aborigine?
Dad continued. “All very well for them in their city university. They have no idea.”
The cigarette in Dad’s hand had burned down to the butt. His face was a mass of red blotches. “Bloody students. Just as useless as the dirty boongs. And as stupid.”
I thought of Micky – there was nothing useless or dirty or stupid about him. He was funny and worked hard. He was smart too. Actually, he was just, well, normal. And that man on the television, Charles Perkins, spoke better than half of Walgaree.
“This will cause problems, mark my words.” Dad ground the cigarette butt into the ashtray. “At least the mongrels won’t be coming here.” He muttered as he stormed from the room.
Nan, face white, shook her head. “Freedom rides? Dear God! Whatever next?”
CHAPTER 34
Saturday was my last day at work before school resumed. I’d tried to talk Barry into letting me work on Sunday too, but he insisted I needed a day off. Mind whirling, I trimmed the grass at the base of power outlet poles.
From Monday there’d be no escaping Wright, Keith or Billy, unless I turned invisible. And there’d be no relief from Dad and Nan’s outrage about the student bus ride. The way I saw it, the likelihood of the students coming to Walgaree were about the same as the chance of Dad being home early on a Friday night. Worst of all, school meant no lunches and cups of tea with Barry and Mrs Gregory. Or Micky.
At first I thought the rumbling was the pressure of all those thoughts tumbling through my brain, but as it grew louder I realised the noise was a wheelbarrow on gravel. I figured Barry had arrived to check on my progress, but when I looked up it was Mrs Gregory pushing the barrow towards me. It wasn’t the huge ones we used around the park, but a smaller one with thinner handles. Packed inside the barrow were a large thermos, basket, rolled rug and what looked like the worm bucket.
“Down tools, Robbie. It’s time for eating and fishing.”
“But–”
She silenced me with a raised hand. “Picnic lunch and fishing this afternoon.”
A picnic? Picnics were something I’d only read about in books or seen on television. As far as Nan was concerned, meals were to be eaten at the table, in an orderly fashion.
“Really? A picnic?” I knew I sounded like an overexcited five year old, but I couldn’t help it.
Mrs Gregory placed her hand on the basket. “Mutton, tomato and pickle sandwiches, curried eggs, fruitcake and lamingtons. And to drink, lemon squash and tea.”
“What about rods and a net?”
“Barry and Micky have them. Leave that, clean up later.”
As she bent to lift the barrow, I sprang forwards. “I’ll push that.”
“Thank you, Robbie.” She fell in step beside me. “School on Monday, then?”
“Yes.” The word was long and flat.
“You sound thrilled.”
“I’d rather be here.”
“And we’d love you to stay, Robbie, but education is important.”
“I know.”
“You are staying on though, aren’t you? Barry wants you to come back on weekends.”
Warmth flooded my chest. “He mentioned it when I started, but we haven’t talked about it since.”
“Oh dear.” Mrs Gregory pressed her fingertips to her mouth. “Me and my big mouth.”
“So, I can keep coming?”
“Only if you’d like to. We love having you here.”
“Don’t say that. I might move in,” I joked.
“There’s always a bed here for you.”
There was so much I wanted to say, but I couldn’t push the words through my knotted throat.
“What’s the hold-up?” called Barry. He and Micky waited at the path to the river. They held two rods each. Barry had the tackle basket and Micky the net.
“I’m afraid I’ve just stolen your thunder, Barry, and asked Robbie about staying on,” said Mrs Gregory.
“Would you like to come back weekends, Robbie?”
“You bet.”
“Great.” Barry nodded at Micky. “And Mum, Micky’s working Saturdays too.”
Mrs Gregory clasped her hands in front of her chest. “Wonderful. Now, let’s see who is the best fisherman. Or woman.”
Micky’s eyes sparkled. “Pretty sure I know who that will be.”
Barry chuckled. “So do I, Micky, and it probably won’t be you. Mum always out-fished Dad.”
“We’ll see,” said Micky, leading the way down the path.
Mrs Gregory grinned. She, Micky and Barry teased each other as we walked to the river.
I pushed the barrow beside them, soaking up the warm feeling spreading through my veins and storing it away.
Barry and Micky laid out the picnic rug and food while Mrs Gregory gave me more casting lessons. She was patient and enthusiastic, even when my casts didn’t go much further than the end of the rod. By the time Barry called us over for lunch, I’d about nailed it.
“Who taught you to fish, Mrs Gregory?” I asked, settled on the picnic rug.
“My father. He fished whenever Mother would let him. Which was quite often. He tended to make a mess when he was home.”
“My dad’s like that,” said Micky. “You can tell where he’s been. Leaves a trail of crumbs, empty mugs and plates.”
“Nan would kill him.” I reached for a mutton and pickle sandwich.
“How come you don’t live with your mum?” asked Micky.
I crossed my legs. The rustle of the gum leaves and the screech of the corellas all seemed louder. I picked at the crust. “Mum was from Inverell. Dad took a job there, met Mum, they had me …” I raised my eyes to Micky. “And she died, so Dad moved back here to live with Nan.”
Mrs Gregory handed me a tin mug filled with sweet, milky tea.
“Have you asked them about her?” said Barry.
“You’ve met Nan.” I rolled my eyes. “I tried at Christmas. I bought Dad this photo frame and said he should put a picture of he and Mum in it. Nan threw a wobbly.”
Barry sipped his tea. “Have you thought about trying to contact her family?”
I stared into my mug and took a deep breath, savouring the fragrant steam.
After a moment, Barry added in a gentle voice, “You’re old enough to make your own decisions, Robbie.”
I nodded, watching a small branch with leaves float down the river.
“Have another sandwich, Robbie.” Mrs Gregory held the tin container towards me.
As I reached for a tomato and mutton one, I cleared my throat. “Can I ask you about something I saw on the news?”
“Certainly,” said Mrs Gregory.
“We mightn’t have the answers,” added Barry.
But I knew they’d have more than Nan and Dad, and were easier to talk to.
“The other night, I saw this thing about Sydney University students.”
“Pam’s brother, Trevor, studies Law at Sydney Uni,” said Barry.
“No one I know will ever go there,” said Micky.
“Well, that’s the thing,” I said. “There was this Abor … bloke, like you, and he’s studying there.”
Micky sat straighter. “Bullshit.”
I caught the quick grin that flashed across Mrs Gregory’s face.
“No, really. Charles something and he’s president of this student group.”
“Ah, the Freedom Ride. I read about Perkins and the ride in yesterday’s paper,” said Barry, reaching for his second curried egg. “Charles Perkins. Clever man, good athlete too, according to the article. Played soccer in England.”
“Fair dinkum?” said Micky.
“Absolutely. What about him, Robbie?”
I’d avoided looking at Micky but now faced him. “That man, Charles, he said the trip was to highlight how bad it is for Aborigines in places like Walgaree. But …” I chewed on my bottom lip. “I mean, if it was that bad, I’d know, right? The town wouldn’t let awful stuff happen. Remember when the Cahills’ place burned down? There were collections and cake stalls and a huge clean-up. Everyone helped out. If things were as bad as Charles said, the town, people, would do something about it, wouldn’t they?”
In the space of a heartbeat, hundreds of expressions raced across Micky’s face. He glanced at the river and back to me.
“You ever been to the Crossing? Or the Tip?” His voice was low.
“Not really. Dad takes the other road when we dump rubbish.”
Micky snorted and shook his head. “And the Station?”
I shrugged. “Dad said white people weren’t allowed there. We’ve driven past.”
Anger flared in his eyes. “You have no idea.”
“Micky,” said Barry, his voice gentle. “It’s not Robbie’s fault.”
“But how can he not know?”
Barry scratched his chin. “Lots of people don’t know.”
“Don’t care,” growled Micky.
“Don’t know what? Tell me, please. I want to know.”
Micky glared at me. “At the Station, we have no say in anything. The managers, the Janeskis, tell us where we can go, how to clean and even who we can marry.” His eyes were filled with anger. “The Janeskis inspect every house every week. If there’s dust or the beds aren’t made, there’s trouble. They even check us kids out.” He picked up gumnuts and tossed them at a twisted tree trunk. “Did you know we don’t have running water in the house? Our water comes from a tap outside. And there’s no inside toilets? We use stinking drop dunnies.”
“But that’s awful.”
Micky shook his head. “Yeah. It is. When Uncle Dwayne and Dad tried to hook up water to the house, old man Janeski went off his nut. Gotta be approved by the Aborigines Welfare Board.”
A thousand questions pressed against the roof of my mouth, but Micky wasn’t done.
“The Crossing’s worse. Most houses don’t have windows or doors. There’s no running water inside there, either. Or electricity.” He crossed and uncrossed his legs. “And then there’s the Tip. It’s rotten. Man, it pongs, really stinks, of rotting, dead things. The houses there are shacks, just tin and timber leaning against each other.” He shuddered. “And you know what is the worst thing? This.” He nodded to the river and looked past it to the paddocks and gum trees. “This is our land. Our place. It’s …” His voice trailed away, as though he couldn’t see the point in saying more.
Corellas screeched and a crow cawed above us.
My mouth was dry and my mind buzzing. I felt like I’d been buffeted by a gale-force wind. “Micky, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.”
“Really. I didn’t know …”
“Maybe this bus trip will show people the truth,” said Barry.
Micky lifted his head. “Dad and Mr Harrington, he’s an elder, well they reckon all it will do is stir up trouble.”
“What does Dwayne think?” asked Mrs Gregory.
Micky shrugged. “He thinks it’s a start.”
“And that has to be good, right?” My voice sounded far away in my head.
“I suppose.”
Barry stood and brushed down his backside. “Shall we fish?”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” said Mrs Gregory. “We clean up here first.”
We fished into the late afternoon. Mrs Gregory and Micky caught three yellowbellies each. Barry and I caught a cod between us.
While we baited and cast, reeled and re-baited, Barry told stories about his travels, Mrs Gregory talked about the changes in the river since she was a girl, and Micky chatted about his family, especially his uncle and little sister, Annie. I listened and chuckled, happy to be part of it.
When the sun was low in the western sky, the four of us headed back to the Gregorys’ home, seven fat fish lying in the wheelbarrow with the basket, thermos and blanket. Just like he had last time we went fishing, Micky left a yellowbelly on the chair outside Gert’s annexe. I swear, as he walked back to us, the caravan curtain flickered.
“Well, boys, guess I’ll see you next weekend,” said Barry, handing Micky three fish and our cod. “Hope being back at school isn’t too bad.”
“Okay if I come back and visit during the week?” I asked. “In case the lawns need a trim, or–”
“Robbie,” said Mrs Gregory, cutting me off. “You don’t need an excuse to visit. Come whenever you like, but not only to work. Just come and have a cuppa with me.”
“Thanks,” I said, my voice thick.
Micky and I walked out the gate together. I went to jump onto my bike but stopped. “It’s been good working with you, Micky.”
“Except for the day with the snake,” said Micky, shivering despite the heat.
“You know before, when I asked about that Freedom Ride thing, and where you live and stuff?”
Micky nodded.
“I didn’t mean to be rude or anything.”
“It’s okay.”
The way he said it made me feel it wasn’t, but that he didn’t want to talk about it any more.
“Okay, well, I better get home. Be seeing you around.”
“Maybe,” said Micky. He waved and walked towards the Station.
I waited a moment before riding home.
CHAPTER 35
The first week of school was stinking hot. Even worse than the usual Walgaree February heat. The asphalt in the playground softened and the grass withered faster than the new gardener could water it.
I kept an eye out for the Aborigine kids who were supposed to be coming to Walgaree High, just in case Micky was one of them. There were no Aborigines, but wisps of stories fluttered around the schoolyard like icy-pole wrappers. The long and the short of it was the Aborigines weren’t coming because of the “racial tension” around town. I didn’t know if I was relieved or sad.
On the upside, avoiding Wright wasn’t hard. Like the rest of our form, he and his goon mates, as well as Keith and Billy, spent lunchtime and recess flexing their new senior status on first formers in uniforms at least three sizes too big for them. I watched from the library window as they ordered the new kids to pick up rubbish, hand over cricket bats and surrender f
ood.
In class, it was a little trickier to avoid Wright and his idiot friends. I arrived early so I could sit up the front, and waited until everyone else had left before I did.
That strategy worked okay until Friday afternoon. The air in the classroom was thick and heavy, making each breath an effort, when Mr Simmons strutted into the room. For some reason, he decided we needed a seating plan, and set about rearranging where everyone sat. My spot? Up the back, sharing a double desk with Ian Wright.
Four and a half days of keeping out of his way, and now I had to sit next to the sweaty lump.
Simmons paced the platform, droning on and on about algebra, before setting us to work. I stared at the sums on the blackboard until the symbols and figures merged into a grey mass.
Sweat dripped down my spine, plastering me to the desk’s backrest. I longed to be back at Walgaree Caravan Park with Barry and Mrs Gregory. Painting, mowing, scrubbing, fishing, even cleaning the toilets would be better than basting in my own sweat next to Wright.
A crack echoed through the stuffy room, jolting me back to the classroom. Sniggers stuttered from the front row. I knew without looking that Simmons had hit the blackboard with his ruler.
“Finished your work, Bower?” Mr Simmons now slapped the wooden ruler against his palm.
“Not quite, sir.”
Head down, Ian Wright mimicked my words loud enough for only me and the girls in front to hear. “Not quite, siiiir.”
Marian and Nancy giggled.
I gritted my teeth.
“Bower, rather than daydreaming about girls who wouldn’t look at you twice, you’d be better served concentrating on your work.”
Ian Wright’s burst of laughter smashed against the blackboard and sprayed back at me.
I swiped sweat from my upper lip and stared at the peeling skin on the nape of Marian Cavendish’s neck.
Simmons wasn’t done. “Maybe I should have transferred you to the remedial group, Bower.”
Marian spun around to look at me, long plaits slapping her shoulders. I closed my fingers around the hem of my school shorts.
Mr Simmons stalked down the aisle, swinging the ruler like a baton and slamming it onto my desk.