by Sue Lawson
“At least I won’t have to give you a blow-by-blow description.” Barry rubbed the back of his neck. “Robbie, your father is starting to sound more like bloody Bull Jackson every day.”
“Bull Jackson’s pretty bossy,” I said, placing the tea-cosy over the pot.
“Never been any different, even as a small boy. I remember him strutting around the town as though he owned the place,” said Mrs Gregory. “Come on, you two, let’s try these.”
She piled scones onto a plate, then spooned jam and whipped cream into bowls.
Barry collected the teacups and saucers and I carried the teapot to the table.
“Barry, you said you were two men down.”
Barry shot a look at his mother. “You weren’t the only one listening, were you?”
“Sorry.” I lowered my gaze.
“Micky isn’t coming in today.”
“Is he okay?”
Barry puffed out air. “His father’s worried about the students and what will happen. He thinks it’s best if Micky stays away.”
“But the students are here for the Aborigines. To make things better,” I said.
“I know, but Micky’s dad, Dinnie Harrington and a few others are worried the students will just make it worse.”
“What do you think?” I asked.
Barry pulled his chair under him. “It’s too complex to solve in one visit, but it’s a start.”
“Barry?” I held the back of the chair, tightly. “Thanks, for lying.”
“You can stay here as long as you need, Robbie,” said Mrs Gregory. “But you do need to tell your father where you are.”
I swallowed, wondering if a phone call would be enough. “Yeah, I know.” I sat beside Mrs Gregory. “I’ll talk to him, but not just yet.”
Barry spooned jam onto the scone he’d pulled apart. “And your mum, Robbie? What are your plans there?”
My heart sped up. I chewed the skin at the edge of my thumbnail. “Ring her, I guess. See if …” I lowered my hand to the table. “See if she really does want to see me.”
CHAPTER 49
Barry usually left me to do most jobs on my own. Not today. We worked together, Barry chatting about all kinds of things: Pam, the London Underground, double-decker buses. I know he was staying with me to make sure I was okay. Truth was, I didn’t know how I felt. Numb, mainly.
Barry and I were on our way back from the incinerator when the smell of oil and the crunch and groan of an engine swallowed the sound of the river and the chatter of the parrots.
A white bus slowed and turned into the driveway. Gravel sprayed from under the wheels onto the lawn. I’d have to be careful next time I mowed, or those stones would flick up and hit me in the face.
The bus stopped at the office.
A huge banner hung under the passenger windows between the front and back wheels. It was secured to the bus with what looked like string. “Student Action For Aborigines” was printed across it. The first letter of each word was written in red, the rest, in black.
Inside the bus, faces pressed against the glass. Not fire-breathing, evil faces, like Nan and Dad would have had me believe, but normal faces.
“Our guests are early,” said Barry. He wiped his hands on his trousers and strode towards the bus.
With a groan, the bus door folded open. A man with bristly red hair and a thick beard skipped onto the gravel road. “Barry!”
He and Barry shook hands then hugged.
“Good to see you, Trevor,” said Barry. “Meet my number-one worker, Robbie Bower. Robbie, this is Trev. He is my girlfriend Pam’s brother.”
Trevor turned his blinding smile to me and took my hand in both of his. “Great to meet you, Robbie.”
Behind him the students stepped off the bus, stretching and yawning. In the sunshine they looked different from the people I was used to seeing around Walgaree. The men wore tight jeans and their hair wasn’t slicked into place.
Women’s skirts around this town covered thighs and knees. I couldn’t help staring at these girls’ bare legs.
The man I’d seen talking on television jumped from the bottom step. He stretched his hands above his head and looked around. He was tall and fit. His eyes sparkled and his curly hair shone. He nodded and smiled at me. I raised a hand and waved. I tried to remember his name. Charlie? Charles.
“… bastards in a ute ran us off the road into a ditch. Suitcases and food all over the place. We were lucky no one was badly hurt. Not that the police cared.” Trev shook his head. “Bloody frightening, I’ll tell you.”
“Hopefully the reception will be better here,” said a girl beside him.
Trev and Barry glanced at each other.
“Not if the locals have read today’s Sydney Morning Herald.” Trev flicked his thumb at the men in front of the bus. “John is a cadet reporter. He filed a report last night about the pushing and shoving outside the cinema. Made the front page.”
I swallowed, imagining Dad poring over the paper, tutting and grunting.
“We’re hoping for more media coverage while we’re here.”
“Well, let me show around, so you can do what you came to do,” said Barry. “Robbie, can you grab the keys for the caravans from the office, please?”
Barry helped the students settle into the park. I ran errands between the students’ camp and the office. Soap for a girl who left hers at the church hall where they’d stayed, an envelope for another, washing powder and a pencil for a girl with wavy hair. All that running from the office to the students left no room for thoughts about Mum, Dad or Nan.
Once the tents were up and the bus empty, Barry led the students to our fishing spot at the river for a swim. We sat on the bank, Barry and Trev smoking and chatting, while the others splashed and squealed like kids.
Barry’s laugh was louder and his brow smoother with these people. He belonged.
I wondered how they saw me. Did I fit, or was I just a country boy way out of his depth?
After two, Mrs Gregory came and asked everyone to join her in the backyard for drinks and snacks.
The outside table was covered with plates of scones, lamingtons, shortbread biscuits and slices of apple teacake. Two large teapots steamed beside jugs of lemon squash. Cups, mugs and glasses were stacked alongside.
I stood back, watching her pour tea or squash, and directing students to the food. A heavy weight pressed at the back of my skull.
Barry picked up a plate of teacake and passed it around. As he neared, I asked, “Barry, could I use the phone, please?”
“Go to the office; it’ll be quieter.” He lifted his chin. “Local call?”
I screwed up my nose. “Not yet. Thought I’d try to find a number.”
“Good luck.”
Trev and the man from television walked over. “Barry, this is Charlie Perkins.”
I excused myself and slipped inside. The black phone, its clear rotary dial and coiled cord, loomed large on the office bench. I pulled the stool close and sat. The handpiece was cold and heavy in my palm. I dialled, my heart racing and my legs jiggling.
“I know where you’re calling from, you know,” snapped the woman on my third attempt at speaking.
My mouth was dry. “I need a number. An Inverell number, please.”
“Name.”
“Worthington, SD of Riverside Drive. Number 73.”
“Hold, please.” She sounded bored.
My right hand drummed the counter.
What if it was a fake address?
What if she hadn’t meant all that stuff? And she didn’t really want to know me?
What if Mum really was dead and the whole thing was meant to mess with my head?
What if …?
I was about to hang up when the line crackled to life. “Yes, I have that number.”
I scrambled for a pencil and paper and wrote. I asked her to repeat it twice before I placed the handpiece back in the cradle.
With a shaking hand, I ripped the sheet fr
om the pad, folded it into a small square and tucked it in my pocket.
I stayed in the office, hand on the phone, staring at the desktop until the thudding in my chest had slowed.
CHAPTER 50
Outside, the garden hummed with life. Everything seemed brighter and louder. The scrap of paper with Mum’s number felt hot in my pocket.
The man from the TV, Charlie, and another with a bushranger beard, stood together by the table. The bearded guy clapped.
The noise slid away like a snail retreating into its shell.
“Okay, everyone, first of all, thanks very much to Barry, Mrs Gregory and Robbie, for making us so welcome.”
I stared at the grass beneath the shoes I wore, Barry’s old sneakers. The students clapped and smiled at us.
“First up, we’ll visit the settlements,” said Charlie, “and ask about living conditions and experiences in town. Same drill and groups as yesterday.”
Heads bobbed in agreement.
“Joe Collins will take Ann’s group to the Crossing. And Jim,” he indicated the man with the beard, “will take his group to the Tip. Those with me will try the Station, if the managers will let us enter.”
Barry scrunched up his face. “Bill and Maureen Janeski won’t let ‘visitors’ into the Station unless they have permits.”
Charles nodded. “Thought as much, but we’ll still try.”
“After that, we’ll meet back here and prepare for our first protest later this afternoon,” Jim continued. He scanned the faces before him. “Questions?”
A skinny boy in loose-fitting jeans spoke. “I’d like to ask Barry, Mrs Gregory and Robbie what they’ve seen around here.”
Arms folded, I looked to Barry, who sat with Trev on the bench.
“Like I’ve told Trev, the situation here is much the same as it is anywhere in country Australia.” Barry leaned forwards, elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging towards the grass. “Colour bar, discrimination, name-calling, beatings.” He stared at his hands. “There’s this one man, Reggie Jenkins. Lost most of his right arm at Kokoda, but because he’s black, he’s banned from being a member of the RSL.”
I folded my arms even tighter. Had Reggie Jenkins fought with Dad?
“And the council swimming pool,” continued Barry. “They let Aborigine school groups swim there, but outside school hours Aborigine children are banned. Madness. And you know one of the reasons, apart from everyone being scared they’ll catch diseases? Our mayor is convinced that the men are desperate to impregnate white women.”
Murmurs passed around the group.
Barry shook his head. “He said, publicly, that it would only take one ‘black buck’ to masturbate in the pool to make innocent young girls pregnant.”
“Jesus,” said someone to my right. “They aren’t just bigoted around here, they’re bloody stupid.”
“What can I say?” Barry shrugged. “Since we employed a lad from the Station, Mum has been shunned from the CWA …”
What else hadn’t they told me?
“All my accounts around town have been closed, people I’ve known for as long as I can remember cross the road to avoid me. That’s how it works around here. Do the wrong thing, by their standards, express the wrong views, and pressure is applied until you cave in and conform.” Barry ran his hand through his hair. “And the kid – Micky – is great, isn’t he, Robbie?”
My stomach swooped at the pain etched across his face. I concentrated on Barry so I couldn’t see the others watching me. “He is. Goes hard. Except when there’s a snake around. Man, he hates snakes.”
I should have stopped there, but I didn’t. “He’s a good fisherman too, and is really kind to Gertie. She lives here. Micky’s a good bloke, he …” I hung my head. “He got beaten up a while ago, partly because he works here. Barry has copped heaps for employing him, too. Awful words painted on the toilet blocks, visits from the police and mayor, that sort of thing. And see the bruise around his eye, well, last week he was bashed …” My words trailed away.
Mrs Gregory filled the gap. “Micky’s uncle was killed last Friday night, run over near the Crossing. Terrible, terrible business. And do you know, there’s been no outcry, no investigation? In fact, people are saying, openly,” she looked around before continuing, “he was just an Aborigine.”
A burble of horror echoed around the garden.
A girl in a floral blouse struggled for words, eyes wide. “But that’s … How can people let that happen? Why aren’t they angry?”
“Who, the Aborigines or the whites?” asked the skinny boy.
Her chin wobbled. “Both.”
“These stories are just the tip of the iceberg,” said Charles, his voice smooth. “That’s why it’s so important we’re here. We have to show the rest of Australia, the world, what is going on. But to do that, we must stay focused. Remember – we are here to gather information and highlight racism in a peaceful, non-violent way.”
The grumble of the bus engine filled the air. “Sounds like our transport awaits. Grab your surveys,” said Jim, clapping his hands.
CHAPTER 51
After the students headed off, Barry and I helped his mum clean up, then did a quick round of the park. Apart from the permanents, Gert and Hitch, there were just two campers left – an older couple set up close to the river and a man who fished every morning. So far Barry and I had only seen him come back with one yellowbelly. Even I knew that wasn’t a great return for daily fishing.
As we emptied bins and cleaned, I kept burying my hand in my pocket to touch the piece of paper with Mum’s phone number on it.
After a couple of hours, the students came back in dribs and drabs, gathering on the grass between the tents. Jim’s group, who’d been to the Tip on River Road, came up the gravel drive first. Charles’s and Ann’s groups returned in the bus. The students plodded down the bus steps, pale, sweaty and dishevelled.
“How do you reckon they went?” I asked.
“Let’s find out,” said Barry.
The air crackled with tension when we neared. Students were busy laying large pieces of cardboard on the grass and opening paint. A handful of students sprawled on the grass chatting and others settled in the shade of the bus to write. I wondered if they were writing letters to parents. Their mothers.
“How’d you go?” asked Barry, walking towards Charlie and Jim.
Charlie leaned forwards. “Like you said. Once the managers knew we didn’t have permits, they wouldn’t let us enter. Called us troublemakers.”
“The Janeskis can do that?” I asked.
“Sure can,” said Charles.
“Remember, Robbie, Walgaree Station is a government mission,” added Barry, “different from the Crossing and the Tip.”
“Everything has to be done by the book and kept shipshape,” said Charlie. “The manager’s wife does weekly inspections to make sure everything is clean. She even checks the little ones’ teeth. And the place is fenced off. No one enters or leaves without permission.”
I gnawed my thumbnail, my mind spinning. I’d thought, hoped, Micky had been exaggerating about the Station. Now I knew he’d only told me part of the story.
Charles moved a camp stool beside him. “Join us.”
“What about the Crossing?” asked Barry, sitting. I lowered myself to the grass, hand pressed against my pocket.
Jim whistled. “Man, people are angry. The conditions are shocking. Even worse than we expected. Houses are just shacks – no windows or doors. And there’s no running water.”
“Is the Station like that?” I asked, thinking of Micky.
“Better there, but still a disgrace compared to how you live.” Charles reached into the esky beside him and pulled out a bottle of Coke. He flicked off the cap with a bottle opener and passed the drink to Jim.
Jim took the bottle and spoke. “Seeing the conditions for ourselves is … confronting.”
Charlie held another bottle towards Barry, who declined. I followed Barry
’s lead. Charles drank and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Most of the issues we talked about were things you’d already told us. The place is in mourning for the fella who died. Shocking business.”
I poked at the grass with the toe of my shoe.
“What’s the plan for this evening?” asked Barry.
Jim and Charles exchanged a long look before Charles answered. “The RSL.” My breath hissed out between my teeth. If the students were going to the RSL, they’d be confronting Bull Jackson and Twiggy Mathes. And that meant Dad, too.
“Reggie Jenkins isn’t the only Aboriginal Digger being refused membership.” Charles stared at the Coke bottle in his hand. “Good enough to fight, to die, but not good enough to join the RSL.” He looked up. “So, our first stop is the RSL – symbol of all that this country is supposed to represent.”
“When?” asked Barry.
“While it’s still light. When the placards are done.” Jim swatted a fly buzzing around his face. “We’ll cook a barbecue when we return. If that’s all right.”
Barry pointed across the park. “Barbecues are over there. Just make sure you use the rubbish bins and clean the cooking plate.”
“No problem,” said Charles.
“Well, we’ll leave you to get organised.”
The moment we were out of earshot, Barry nudged me. “Your dad’s a member of the RSL, isn’t he?”
“There every Friday, and some Saturdays.” At least he was before last week. “Are you going with them?”
“Thought I’d head down. Not in the bus though. Do you want to come?”
For one, two, three steps I turned his question over and over. “If that’s okay.”
“Absolutely.”
We’d reached the path that led down the side of the house. “Robbie, how did your phone call go?”
I patted my pocket. “I have the number.”
“At least that explains all the pocket patting and poking,” said Barry.
CHAPTER 52
“You sit in the front seat, Robbie,” said Mrs Gregory, as we walked towards the garage.