Freedom Ride

by Sue Lawson

  He leaned close. “You will finish before the bell.” His breath smelled like death. “Is that clear?”

  I forced myself not to flinch. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” He tapped the ruler against his palm as he stalked back to the front of the room.

  Ian Wright sniggered. “Piss yourself, Bower?”

  I ignored him and copied an equation from the blackboard.

  After a lifetime of sweat and boredom, the bell announced the end of the day. Even the bell struggled in the heat, droning more than ringing.

  Mr Simmons rushed to be the first out of the room. Wooden desktops slammed like falling dominoes. I hung back, watching everyone race out as though a bomb was about to explode.

  Outside, I shielded my eyes from the sun’s searing rays and sucked in a breath of air. Sure, it was hot, but it was better than that fetid air in the classroom. I shouldered my bag and trudged to the bike shed.

  Keith backed his bike out of a stand.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “How’ve you been?” he asked, as though everything was like it used to be.

  “Good. You?”

  “Not bad. We’re …” He stopped for a moment as though weighing up what he said next. “… going to the pool. Come with us.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Keith’s face clouded over. “Suit yourself.”

  “Look out, idiots.” Wright’s voice echoed against the tin shelter. He rode back from the school gate, down the middle of the path. A group of younger students wobbled into the dust and grass to avoid him. He skidded to a halt behind Keith. “What’s keeping you, Axe?” He looked me up and down. “Oh, right.”

  “Hello, Ian,” I said, my voice even.

  His hunched shoulders and grip on the handlebars oozed menace. “Pity they banned your friends, eh, Bower?”

  “What are you talking about, Wright?”

  “Yer nigger mates. Turns out they aren’t coming to our school, after all.” Wright snorted. “Too stupid.”

  I raised my chin. “Nah, that can’t be it, Wright. They let you come here.” I wrenched my bike onto the path and rode away.

  CHAPTER 36

  I woke with a start, ripped from the silky black of sleep. I lay still, listening hard.

  The creak of the tin roof.

  The rustle of leaves in the wind.

  The screech and scrape of the shrub branch against my window.

  All familiar sounds.

  As my eyes became used to the dark, the grey and black shapes turned into familiar objects. The lamp on the bedside table looming over me, the turned wood bed post.

  A light outside my closed door glowed golden and warm.

  What time was it? The cream strips on the clock hands and dots on the numbers were supposed to glow in the dark. Supposed to. I sat up to turn on my lamp. A door slammed. Or was it something banging into a wall?

  I turned on my lamp with a soft click. Colour filled my room. One twenty-five.

  Nan had gone to bed early, exhausted she said, but infuriated was more like it. There’d been more about the Freedom Ride on the radio news. She’d clutched the edge of the sink, lips puckered, listening while the smooth voice explained the bus would leave later next week. She slapped the radio off, slammed pots, banged pans and thudded the oven door closed. Once the casserole was in the oven, she declared she had a headache and huffed to her room.

  As it was Friday night, Dad was at the RSL, so he missed the performance.

  I served myself dinner – stone and mud casserole, by the taste – watched television for a while, then went to bed.

  Now, at 1.26 in the morning, I was awake.

  I peeled back the sheet and crept to the door. Ear pressed against the cool surface, I listened. A rumbling sound rolled down the hall. Voices? Too late for the television or radio.

  I placed my hand on the doorknob and twisted. My eardrums felt ready to burst. As the door swept across the carpet, the rumbling cleared to voices.

  Though I couldn’t hear the words, I recognised Nan’s no-nonsense tone. The other voice – low, jerky, crying – was harder to pick.

  I inched forwards, careful to avoid the creaky parts of the hallway, and stopped at the kitchen door.

  The rumble became words.

  “Calm down, Frank,” snapped Nan over the moans and muffled sobs. “No one is going to jail.”

  “But the car …” It took me a moment to recognise the voice as Dad’s.

  “Stop it.”

  I jumped at the harshness in her voice.

  “Pull yourself together.” I heard her brisk footsteps and prepared to flee, but they changed direction to the front entrance. I heard the whirr of the phone dialling then Nan spoke. “Fred, it’s Dawn.” Her voice dropped to a mumble.

  She had to be talking to Dad’s friend Fred Jackson, the mayor and owner of Jackson’s Car Sales and Crash Repairs.

  What had Dad meant about the car?

  Heart thundering against my ribs, I slipped past Bluey’s covered cage to the back door. It opened without a sound. The flywire was tougher. I held my breath as the spring stretched and pinged. Once the gap was wide enough I slipped outside and eased the door shut. A hot wind shook the trees. Leaves, twigs and bark dropped from the gum over the fence and swirled against my legs. Ahead of me, parked not beside the house or in the garage but on the lawn with the bonnet pointed at the back porch, was Dad’s car. I could smell steam and heat from the radiator and hear the ticking of the engine cooling.

  Even in the dim light from the house, the car looked wrong. The bonnet was twisted and buckled. The windscreen was a mass of crazed lines with an open circle above the steering wheel, about where Dad’s head would have been. I touched the mangled bonnet, feeling a wet sleekness beneath my fingertips. Headlights lit up the side of the house. I raced to the back door, careful to close both silently, and tiptoed past Bluey to my room.

  I hadn’t been under the sheet long when the door creaked open. I kept my breathing slow and steady while whoever it was stood in the open doorway, I supposed checking to see if I was asleep. After the door closed I rolled onto my back.

  What. Was. Going. On?

  CHAPTER 37

  After the person who’d opened my door was gone, I lay as still as I could, listening to the rumble of conversation. There were footsteps and cars coming and going. I must have drifted off to sleep, because the next thing I knew the magpies were warbling and shards of sunlight were spilling across my bed.

  I rubbed sleep from my eyes and stumbled to the kitchen. Nan stood at the sink, shelling peas into a metal bowl.

  “Morning, Nan.” I took the Weet-Bix from the pantry.

  She looked up from the peas. “How did you sleep, Robbie?”

  “Good. Like a baby. Only not really like a baby. Babies wake up a lot, don’t they? I just slept and slept.” She frowned. Why couldn’t I just have said good?

  “Where’s Dad?” I asked, looking at the empty seat at the end of the table. Saturday mornings Dad would be seated at the end of the table, eating toast.

  Today the seat was empty, the ashtray clean and the glass of orange juice untouched.

  Something, fear maybe, flickered across Nan’s face. “He’s … he went to see Fred. Sort something out. Business.” She busied herself rearranging the pea pods scattered across the newspaper. “What are you doing today?”

  “Work, after I finish my jobs.” I took my bowl of cereal to the table, ready for another attack on Barry or at least a dig about Micky.

  “There are clean shorts in the laundry.”

  I froze, spoon halfway to my mouth. “Thanks.” I stared at the soggy Weet-Bix floating in the sea of milk.

  What was that about?

  “I’m all done, Nan,” I called from the back porch.

  “Mind you work hard for the Gregorys today.”

  “Yes, Nan.” No questions about jobs being done properly, or extra chores. Mind you, I wasn’t complaining. I trotted to coll
ect my bike from the garage. Not for the first time this morning, I scanned the empty space where Dad’s car had been last night. Before I had mowed, I studied the grass for anything – oil drops or pieces of broken windscreen. But all I found was flattened lawn where the car had been parked.

  Totally confused and wondering if I’d dreamed the whole thing, I rode to work.

  When I arrived at the caravan park, Barry was in the office, face grim, with the telephone pressed to his ear. He smiled a greeting and beckoned for me to come inside.

  “How many?” he asked, scribbling notes in the open ledger.

  He listened and nodded. I busied myself tidying the shelves stocked with emergency supplies for campers. Not that there were many campers left. Aside from the two on-site vans and permanent residents Gert and Hitch, there were only four vans in the park.

  “We’ll fit eleven girls in the on-site vans.”

  More silence and nodding, before Barry straightened up. “You will not sleep in the bus. No, I mean it. It’s no problem. The girls in the vans, and you bring tents for the men. Great. Thirty-three people, arriving Saturday, February 13 for two nights. No, no, I insist. No payment. Thanks, Trevor. I’m looking forward to seeing you too.” He hung up, leaving his hand on the receiver for a moment.

  “Thirty-three. That’s a big booking,” I said.

  Barry raked his teeth over his lower lip. “Robbie, that booking. Well, it might be easier for you if you don’t work here for a bit.”

  “Why?” I squeaked. “Have I done somethi–”

  “Hear me out.” He tapped the pencil against the ledger. “That booking was for the students on the Freedom Ride bus.”

  “So they are coming to Walgaree?”

  “First stop Wellington, then Walgett and us. They’re staying in church halls in most towns, but because St Joey’s hall is being restumped, Trevor has asked if they can stay here.”

  “Right.” I studied Barry. For someone who wanted change and didn’t seem to care what the locals thought of him, he sure looked worried about the students coming to Walgaree. “Barry, are you feeling all right?”

  He took a slow breath. “Fine.” He rubbed his forehead. “Robbie, there was an accident. Last night. A bad one.”

  A shudder ran down my spine.

  “Micky …”

  I staggered back. “Is he okay?”

  Barry shook his head, a look of pain across his face. “His uncle Dwayne was hit by a car. Left for dead on the side of the road like a bloody kangaroo.” He snorted. “Actually, not a kangaroo – people pull them off the asphalt.”

  The sounds of cockatoos and parrots in the trees became louder.

  “When did it happen?”

  “Last night – late. From what Nancy told me, he was walking home after visiting friends.”

  A sick feeling swirled in my stomach. I thought of Dad’s broken windscreen and crumpled bonnet. I forced the words, terrified of Barry’s answer. “Where? Where was he hit?”

  “The edge of the Crossing. On Brindabella Road.”

  The Crossing. Dad never went that side of town.

  Dwayne’s death couldn’t have anything to do with him. I breathed out in a rush.

  “You okay?” asked Barry.

  “Fine. Just thinking about Micky.”

  “He worships Dwayne.”

  “More than his dad?”

  Barry shook his head. “It’s different, Micky’s dad works at the Mission, where they live. Maintenance mainly, and shears when the shearing’s on. He’s a good bloke, but Dwayne, he held the community together. Worked to improve conditions. Stood up when things were wrong. A real top bloke.”

  “Poor Micky,” I mumbled. And I meant it; I was sad for Micky and his family, but lurking beneath that, in the pit of my gut, was relief. When Barry explained what had happened to Dwayne, I was terrified Dad had something to do with it.

  But Dwayne was killed near the Crossing.

  Dad never went anywhere near the Crossing.

  Dad’s car and Dwayne were just a coincidence.

  “Well, come on.” Barry slapped the desk. “We better make a start.”

  I followed Barry out the door.

  CHAPTER 38

  I wheeled my bike to the garage but froze when I drew level with the backyard. Dad’s car was parked where it had been last night and he was hosing it down. I leaned my bike against the garage wall and walked to the car.

  The bonnet was undamaged and the windscreen unbroken. Maybe I’d been mistaken last night. Maybe the tree limbs waving in the wind had distorted the shadows.

  I massaged my forehead with my fingertips.

  “Big day at work?” asked Dad.

  “I guess.” I looked into his eyes. “Micky didn’t work today. His uncle died last night.”

  Dad dropped his gaze to the bonnet. “Heard about it at golf. Terrible business. Did Barry say how it happened?”

  “No. Just that he’d been hit near the Crossing.” I touched the car’s smooth hood.

  “Hands off. I’ve just cleaned that,” said Dad. “Go and help your grandmother.”

  As I turned to go, I stopped. Last time I’d been in the car with Dad, which had been Sunday on the way to church, I’d noticed a huge stone chip in the windscreen, just above the rear-view mirror. Long cracks had spread in all directions from the crazed centre of the chip.

  It was gone.

  I hadn’t imagined it. Dad’s car had been smashed up. But how could it be fixed already? Then it hit me – Bull Jackson would have fixed everything.

  “Car looks slick, Dad,” I said.

  He lifted his head. For a split second his face contorted. “You can clean the thing next week. I’m too busy for this.”

  “Sure.” Thoughts raced through my mind, too slippery to hold on to.

  Dad settled in front of the television, cigarettes, ashtray and second bottle of beer on the table beside his chair. When he’d said he was having another longneck, Nan had just shook her head. No staring at his potbelly and asking if he really needed more.

  She’d been fussing over him as though it was his birthday. She’d made his favourite meal for dinner, silverside with mustard sauce and cabbage, followed by apple crumble with cream and ice-cream. Every time she passed him she patted his shoulder or picked a hair or piece of fluff from his shirt.

  I tucked tonight’s behaviour, along with my discovery about the missing chip in the windscreen, into my top pocket.

  Nan knitted in her usual chair, pattern spread on her knee. I read another book Barry had lent me, My Brother Jack.

  The doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” said Nan, gathering the wool and needles.

  Dad reached for the cigarette packet.

  “Hello, Des, Fred. Frank is in the lounge room. I’ll just pop the kettle on.” I tried to remember a time when Nan had sounded so cheery when people dropped in without notice.

  Fred Jackson and Des Mathes strolled into the room. Fred held his hat in front of his broad chest. Des smoothed what was left of his slicked hair.

  Dad stumbled when he reached for the off button on the television. He shook both men’s hands. “Bull. Twiggy. Sit down.” Dad’s eyes darted from one man to the other.

  Bull sat in Nan’s chair. Twiggy settled on the sofa beside me. He smelled of Old Spice and Brylcreem.

  “Hello, young Robbie.”

  I greeted them, not by the nicknames Dad used, but as Mr Jackson and Mr Mathes.

  “I know Mum’s making tea, but how about a beer?” Dad lifted the bottle. “Robbie, two more glasses.”

  Bull Jackson raised his large hand. “Thanks, Robbie, but Des and I are fine.”

  Dad told me once that he, Bull and Twiggy had fought at Kokoda. Another friend of theirs left Walgaree with them but was killed on the track. Apart from telling me Bull had been a sergeant, Dad hadn’t told me anything else about New Guinea. The few times I saw him with Bull and Twiggy, it was clear Bull still gave the orders and Dad and Twiggy f
ollowed.

  “You still working at Gregory’s caravan park?” asked Bull, hat perched on his knee.

  “Yes, sir. Just weekends now school is back.”

  “What’s that Barry like?”

  I shifted on the sofa. The fabric rustled. “He’s a good man. Fair boss. Works hard.”

  Bull nodded. “Has he ever told you why he employed an Abo?”

  “He just said he needed another worker.”

  “Does he make you work with that Abo?” asked Twiggy, Adam’s apple bobbing.

  My mouth felt dry. “The only times that happened, I was in charge.” I couldn’t look at Dad. Even though I’d promised him I never worked with Micky, I knew Bull and Twiggy had seen me with Micky that time they visited Barry.

  Twiggy tugged at his chin. “That’s just not right,” he muttered.

  I wanted to scream that Micky was a good bloke, and that they should leave Micky and Barry alone.

  But I just bowed my head.

  Nan returned, carrying a tray with a teapot, cup and saucers, and a plate of raspberry drop biscuits. “Robbie, a table please.”

  I placed the largest of the nesting tables in the middle of the room. Nan put the tray down and began pouring tea.

  “Those bloody students are bringing their bus here,” said Bull Jackson. “Well, let me tell you, it won’t happen while I am mayor of this town.”

  “Robert,” said Nan, steam curling in front of her face. “This is an adult conversation.”

  “Right. Well, goodnight, Mr Jackson, Mr Mathes.” I shook the men by their hands, careful to look into their eyes as Nan and Dad reminded me constantly. “See you in the morning, Nan, Dad.”

  I walked to the kitchen, but instead of going to my room I hovered by the door, straining to hear what was being said. Bull Jackson’s deep rumble was the easiest to pick out.

  “He’s grown up, Bird,” he said, using Dad’s nickname.

  “Especially in the last month,” said Dad. “Work has been good for him.”

  Twiggy’s higher voice floated to the kitchen. “Can’t see how working with a coon is good for him. Reckon I could find him a job at the store.”

  “That would be marvellous,” chirped Nan. “I’ve told Frank until I was blue in the face, Des, working with that Barry Gregory and a coloured boy will poison the lad’s mind.”