by Sue Lawson
“No way!” My face flushed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell.”
Mrs Gregory gave me one of her lopsided grins. “I’m not keen on being seen in the front seat with this hairy monster, either.” She reached up to ruffle Barry’s hair. “It does need a tidy-up, Barry.”
He rolled his eyes and walked around to the driver’s door. I held open the passenger door for his mum.
She patted my arm. “You are quite the charmer, young Robbie.”
I slid along the back seat, heart fluttering more than beating. It wasn’t the students that worried me, but the thought of seeing Dad.
The RSL was a squat, red-brick building in Main Street, a block back from the river. Opaque curtains covered the front windows and a ramp with a white rail led to the glass front door. In the centre of the door was a hand-printed sign: No Abos!!!
Outside, the Australian flag hung wilted and limp.
Any other day or night, the building appeared sleepy and bored. This evening, it looked anything but.
The students clustered around the flagpole, grim-faced and staring straight ahead. Each held a placard I’d seen them paint earlier.
END THE COLOUR BAR, NOW!
GOOD ENOUGH FOR KOKODA, GOOD ENOUGH FOR RSL
END SEGREGATION
SHAME WALGAREE SHAME
Behind them the curtains parted and faces peered into the street. Across the street, a small gathering of locals, including Mrs Dixon, watched from outside the stock agent’s.
Barry did a slow drive past before turning and reversing into a park near the newsagent.
“Perhaps we should watch from here,” said Mrs Gregory.
Two men, dressed in suits, climbed out of a car in front of the RSL. They placed hats on their heads and buttoned their jackets before standing opposite the students.
More men emerged from cars and gathered with the two in suits. The latest arrivals wore work trousers and shirts with sleeves rolled to the elbows, or pressed work pants and shirts. A few wore cricket whites. I recognised faces: Stretch Edwards, Wobbly, Joey McLean from the Central Hotel, stock agents Don Matthews and Chas Wilmont.
Word of the student protest was slithering through town.
The students, sweat stains under their arms, stood still in the harsh afternoon heat. The only thing between them and the glowering crowd were the cardboard placards. They held them in front of them like shields.
Both groups glared at each other. Neither moved.
Two police cars cruised up and down the street before parking across the road from the students. Keith’s dad, Morph and two constables stepped out of the cars and leaned on the bonnet.
A photographer weaved between cars and students and the growing crowd. I was pretty sure it was one of the blokes from the students’ bus.
Bull Jackson, Twiggy and Dad pulled up in a white sedan. All held lit cigarettes. Bull Jackson nodded and the car doors opened.
“Think I’ll go over,” said Barry.
“I’m coming.” My stomach heaved. I slid across the seat and followed Barry into the hot evening. We crossed the road and sat on the park bench at the end of the RSL building.
Dad and the men he stood with were too focused on the students to notice us.
Bull Jackson stepped forwards, stomach out. “I am Fred Jackson, mayor of Walgaree, vice-president of the Walgaree RSL.”
A few students smiled, others frowned.
He gestured to Twiggy, standing with his arms folded and left hip thrust out. “This is the president of our fine RSL, Des Mathes.”
Twiggy unfolded his arms and swaggered forwards. “Well now, boys and girls,” he said, as though talking to schoolchildren, “how about we all go inside and have a little chat? No need to stand out on the street in this heat, stirring up trouble.”
Charles lowered his “DISGRACE” placard and held out his hand to Twiggy. “Charles Perkins, pleased to meet you.”
Twiggy regarded his hand as if it was made of chicken poo.
Charles withdrew his hand. “Mr Mathes, we are SAFA, Student Action For Aborigines, and–”
“We know who you are,” snarled a voice in the crowd. “Commie troublemakers.”
“That’s right,” chorused Stretch Edwards. “Live here for a week and see how you feel then about the bloody boongs.”
Those gathered on the other side of the street inched closer. Mrs Dixon, Bat Face Fielding, her hair in rollers and covered with a pale blue scarf, and Keith’s mum and brother Sam were there. On the edge of the crowd stood Marian Cavendish with Sally Marshall.
“We aren’t here to create trouble,” continued Trev. “We just want to highlight the problems. Talk about changing conditions for Aborigines.”
People in the crowd began yelling. The words and voices merged into one long string of insults.
“It’s not our problem.”
“They aren’t like us.”
“Can’t handle liquor, not like us.”
“Make the dirty buggers have a wash; that’d be a start.”
“Never done an honest day’s work in their lives.”
“No idea how to behave like civilised people.”
“That’s because they aren’t.”
“Only good one is a dead one.”
“Jesus,” muttered Barry. “Makes you proud, eh?”
I had no words. I stared at these people I’d known most of my life, their aggressive stances, pointed fingers, curled lips. Their words lobbed like grenades.
“Have you ever tried to talk to them? Visited their homes?” yelled a flush-faced girl from behind a “SHAME WALGAREE SHAME” placard.
“Have a look at them, the brains of Australia, God help us,” sneered Stretch Edwards, pointing to the students.
“Which ones are boys and which are girls?” asked Twiggy, his back to the students.
Laughter spurted like gunfire at the young men and women.
“Piss off back to where you came from.”
My shoulders tensed. I recognised that voice. Ian Wright. He, Keith, Edwards and Rhook sat on their bikes between two parked cars.
“String ‘em up,” added Rhook.
Marian and Sally crossed the road to stand with them. Marian looked at the students as though they were murderers. She shook her head and said to Wright, “What would they know about boongs?”
Something in my chest shrank.
“Far out,” mumbled Barry. He stared, face grave, up the street.
When I saw what he was looking at, my stomach flipped. I stood too.
A group of Aborigine women, men, teenagers and children walked up the footpath from the river. At the head of the group strode Reggie Jenkins in his army uniform. The right arm of his shirt was folded and pinned to his shoulder. Right behind him was Micky. His mouth a thin line.
“Oh hell,” said Barry, “this is not good, not good at all.” He moved to stand nearer the students.
I stayed where I was, street bench pressed against the back of my knees, eyes darting from Micky to Marian.
“Instead of yelling insults, why don’t you listen?” asked a student.
“To you lot? Not likely!”
The crowd surged forwards, anger rolling off them in waves. The line of young faces and placards shuffled closer together but didn’t move back.
Reggie Jenkins’s group reached the edge of the RSL.
Still pressed against the bench, I looked to the police. The four of them lounged against the car bonnet as though they were watching a game of cricket. I wanted to run over there and shake them, scream at them to do something. But I just stood there, knees like biscuit dough, gut swirling like a twig caught in the river current.
Barry slipped into the disappearing gap between the locals and students. Back to the RSL and the students, he raised his arms. “Come on, Wobbly. Fred. Des.” He sounded as though he was trying to soothe a simple misunderstanding.
The angry voices faded.
“Walgaree residents are fair, sensible people. Let’
s keep calm.”
“Abo lover.” Someone hawked and a glob of phlegm landed at Barry’s feet.
“Piss off, Gregory.” Wright’s father strutted forwards, all chest and sneer. “You’ve always been a pansy.”
Reggie’s group bunched between the students and locals. Micky had pushed his way to the front. No one, not Dad or Keith or Wright, had noticed me, except Micky. His level gaze pierced my heart. I looked away and chewed my fingernail.
“Look,” said Jim, “all we’re trying to do is find out why Aborigines like Reggie here were good enough to fight for our country, but aren’t good enough to walk through this door.” He pointed at the RSL door, where those who’d been watching from behind the curtains had filed onto the ramp.
An Aborigine woman in a faded cotton dress pushed past Reggie and Micky to face the angry locals. A few other women weaved through the crowd to stand with her.
“I’ll tell you why.” The woman jabbed the skin of her forearm with her finger. “This. It’s skin. Just bloody skin. Under this, I have bones, blood, lungs. A heart. Same as you lot.”
The locals jeered and sneered.
She dropped her arm and squared her shoulders.
“Big heroes, aren’t you?” She stepped forwards. “Hey, Joey McLean,” she pointed at his chest. “Does your missus know where you were last night? After the pub closed? What about you, Stretch Edwards? Eh?” She scanned the faces in the crowd. “Do your wives know what you do?”
With each word she fired, the group of men slunk back.
I frowned, confused. None of what she said was making any sense to me.
“Ha,” she sneered. “Not so bloody high and mighty now, are you?”
An Aboriginal woman in a sleeveless red dress marched forwards and stood face to face with Twiggy. He tried to step back, but was pinned in place by the crowd behind him.
“What about you, Twiggy? Does your wife know about your little secret? He turned ten last week. Your son is already a more decent person than you’ll ever be.”
I strained to look over the sea of heads to where Twiggy’s wife had stood near the newsagent. She was still there, spine as rigid as the verandah posts. Her face was pale and as lifeless as a doll’s. The way she bunched her skirt in her fists was the only sign she’d heard what the woman had said.
“And you, Frank Bower,” continued the Aboriginal woman, glaring at Dad.
The blood pounding in my chest turned icy.
“Where were you last night? We missed you at the Crossing.”
My knees buckled and my body buzzed. I fell back to the bench.
Dad.
The Crossing.
Dwayne.
I groaned.
Had Dad …?
I couldn’t bear to complete the thought. But I knew.
“And the rest of you needn’t look so bloody pious. They aren’t the only ones, are they?” She scanned the crowd with narrowed eyes. “No, that’s right. Not good enough to shop in your stores, drink in your pubs, sit in a decent seat in the cinema, but we’re good enough on a Friday night. Goddamn hypocrites, the lot of you.” The woman waved her hand at the men, now on the road between the parked cars, their snarl and bark gone.
Groups scuttled to cars. Mothers herded children up Main Street, pushing them ahead like dogs working sheep. Wright, lip curled, jerked his head. At his signal, he and the others rode towards the river. Marian and Sally followed, scowling at the students and Aborigines.
Twiggy went to his wife and took her elbow. He guided her along the street, towards their home.
Only a handful, including Bull Jackson, stood their ground. “Righto,” he said to the students. “You’ve made your point.” He glanced at Reggie. “Tell you what, Reggie, fill out a membership form, and Des and I will look it over. See if you’re a suitable member.”
“So you can decide if I’ve paid a big enough price?” Reggie scratched his right shoulder. The empty sleeve flapped.
“No, no,” blustered Bull. “All membership applications are … scrutinised.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Reggie. “The last time I applied you two ‘scrutinised’ my application to the bin.”
“Have you applied before?” asked Ann, one of the students.
“Twice.”
Bull Jackson folded his arms as if protecting himself from Reggie’s glare. His voice was so sweet my teeth ached. “Can’t have reached the executive. Resubmit it, Reggie. In fact, drop it into the yard first thing Monday.” Bull turned to the students. “Happy?”
Sergeant Axford pushed off the car bonnet and strolled across the road. “You’ve made your point. Pack up your little signs and leave.” Thumbs in his belt holders, he swayed from his heels to his toes.
“You guarantee you’ll accept Reggie?” Trev asked Bull.
Bull dropped his head to the side. “I’m a man of my word, sir.”
At this the students exchanged glances and lowered their placards.
“Come on.” Sergeant Axford sauntered towards the Aborigines, arms outstretched. “Time you were off the streets and tucked up all cosy in your beds.” For a moment they stood their ground. I held my breath.
When Morph swaggered over, hand resting on his police baton, the woman in the faded cotton dress nodded and the group turned and left. Except for Micky. Hands on his hips, he glowered at Morph.
“Why aren’t you trying to find out who killed my uncle?” He said it slowly.
The students, gathered on the footpath, seemed to buzz.
“Lucky for you I’m in a good mood this evening, Abo,” said Morph, taking the baton from its holder. “Move on before my mood changes.”
Micky glared at Morph, Bull Jackson, then me.
Glued to the seat, I watched him wander after his friends, head still high. The air around him seemed to spark and crackle.
The students moved towards Morph. Barry was quicker and blocked the way.
“Goodness, that was ugly.”
I started at the sound of Mrs Gregory’s voice. She stood beside the bench.
“How long have you been there?” I said.
She sat on the seat beside me. “I came over when Barry stepped into the fray.” She sighed. “I hope this doesn’t backfire on him.”
“What do you mean?”
She nodded at Bull and a few other men, including Dad, glowering at Barry.
“Oh.”
“Robbie, are you all right? After what Nancy said?” I knew she was talking about the stuff the Aborigine woman had said to Dad.
“That was Micky’s mum?”
Mrs Gregory nodded. “The one in the red dress.” She pushed to her feet. “Coming?”
“I’ll meet you at the car.” I studied my lengthy shadow on the footpath.
Twiggy had a part-Aboriginal son.
Dad visited the Crossing.
CHAPTER 53
As I plodded towards the road, a dark shape blocked my way.
“Robert.”
“Dad.”
“Where have you been?”
My hands curled into fists. “Nowhere. Riding my bike. Work.”
He stepped closer. The cigarette smoke and stale beer smell of his breath swirled around me. “How long have you been here?”
The street, the cars, even the heat of the evening faded away. There was just Dad and me.
I shifted my weight so I stood with both feet planted on the ground. “I heard what she said, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the dwindling crowd. “Stupid boong. No idea what she’s talking about.”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed. It was a mixture of a scoff and a snort, but still a laugh. “Yeah, made it all up. That’s why half the town cleared off before she named them too.”
He leaned closer and raised his pointed finger to my face. “Do not be a smart-arse.” His eyes, the tautness of his body, reminded me of the snake coiled on the shower arm.
“You were at the Crossing last Friday, wer
en’t you?”
The ruddy colour drained from Dad’s face. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
A clawing sensation gnawed at my stomach. “You ran over Dwayne Menzies on the way home.”
Emotions swirled across Dad’s face – anger, shock, fear. He lurched forwards and grabbed my arm. “Don’t talk shit. Does my car look damaged?” A fine spray of spittle dusted my face.
“I saw the bonnet and the windscreen, right before Bull and Twiggy arrived last Friday night.” I took a slow breath to steady myself. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know if I’d put the puzzle together correctly. “Bull fixed it at his workshop, didn’t he? Fixed it up overnight so no one would know. You’re the one, I know it. You killed Dwayne.”
The slap was hard and fast. I reeled backwards, hand to my stinging cheek.
He advanced, hand raised.
I pressed my fingers against my pocket, where the paper with Mum’s number still nestled. “You don’t get to hit me, and you don’t get to boss me around any more.” My voice shook and my hands ached from being clenched tight. “You lied. You told me she was dead. Nan said Mum’s family didn’t want to know me. She said you were the only ones who cared about me. And the whole time, Mum was trying to contact me. You took that from me. Took her from me. You had no right.”
“Shut up,” hissed Dad. His face and neck were red, and a vein bulged in his temple. “Shut your mouth.”
But I couldn’t. “And now you’re too weak to own up to killing a man. You let your mummy fix it all up for you.” I fought the urge to vomit. “All the lies, the pain. And for what, Dad?”
Dad glanced around him, a sparrow wary of a hawk. The expression on his face changed from angry to worried. “You’re right, Robbie. I stuffed up. But let’s go home and talk about it. Just us. Okay? No one ever needs to know.”
I closed my eyes to block out his blotchy, pleading face. “I’m not going back there. Ever.”
Dad grabbed me by the collar of Barry’s old T-shirt. “Listen, you little shit. You will come home right now or–”
“Or what? You going to run over me too?”
“Stop it, Bird, not here.” Bull Jackson grabbed Dad’s arm and held it until Dad released me. “We’ll talk to him at your place.”
“I said I. Am. Not. Going. Back. There.”