Cracker Night was weeks in the planning. Several bonfires were prepared around town, for it was also the chance for everyone to get rid of all that year's rubbish in one fell swoop. Our bonfire was for everyone in Main Street south of the Casuarina cross-street. Doug, Barry, Raymond, myself and some of the other boys dragged old palings, broken pieces of furniture, old tyres and any fallen branches we could find or that neighbours gave us, to a large clearing about fifteen yards in diameter. The men had made it a few weeks before in the long grass in the paddock behind Mr Symonds place. Mr Wood, Mr Symonds and other parents helped us build the bonfire on the weekends. Mr Green even gave us some old fruit crates.
Old mattresses, the furniture and tyres were stacked into a big pile. These were then surrounded with the palings to form an overall conical shape. Branches, twigs, old newspapers, smaller bushes and garden clippings and anything else that would burn, were stuffed in and around the base. Miss Bridget gave us some old sheets and a mop, which we made into a ghost to sit on the top. Nan donated an old hat to put on top of its head.
The momentous night finally came. The sun was just about gone from the cloudless sky and there was a coolness moving in from the west. It was due to start half an hour after sundown. Dad was late home again. It was becoming a weekly occurrence. We'd had our tea and bath and were lying on the verandah, watching for him to drive up the road. The build up for the night's events had made us all excited and jittery with anticipation.
Eventually we saw his car with its parking lights on, coming from the southern instead of his surgery at the town end of Main Street. As he drove into the driveway and parked under the house, we rushed the car.
"Well boys, this is a warm reception I must say."
He got out of the car with only his medical bag. Our hearts sank. In an instant we did our own check of both the front and back seats before running after him as he entered the house.
"What's up with you two tonight? You seem all worked up over something."
"We've had our bath and tea, and done all our chores –" Doug began.
"And our room's tidy," I added.
"Well that's very commendable of you both." He washed his hands in the kitchen sink as Nan got his plate of smoked cod from the oven.
"Have you forgotten what day it is?" Doug asked.
"No, we always have fish on a Friday."
"Stop teasin' 'em," Nan urged, adding, "They've been good all week." Dad smiled.
"Oh, Cracker Night. Here. You missed the boot." He tossed the car keys to us.
I caught them and ran through the hall, out the door and down the front steps. Doug followed so close behind, I could feel his breath on my neck. We grabbed two large paper bags from the boot and ran inside to the lounge room. We each scattered our bag's contents on the floor, running our fingers over the crackers as eagerly as a pirate drooling over stolen treasure.
There were sparklers, tom thumbs, sky rockets, Catherine wheels, flower pots, roman candles, volcanoes and various other coloured crackers. As we counted the exact contents, I could overhear Dad and Nan's raised voices from the kitchen.
"What am I suppose to do, just leave them?" he argued.
"Son, I'm not sayin' what you're doin' isn't the right thing, it's just that people –"
"I don't care what people say or think! I'm a doctor first. Hey fellas, you got everything you wanted?" We rushed in and hugged him around the neck. "Once I finish tea and changed my clothes, we'll go over. Done all your homework?"
"Yes!" we cried. We watched every mouthful he took. He seemed to be eating even slower than ever.
"Just this once, why couldn't he wolf his food down," Doug whispered.
"Here you two, stop breathin' down yer father's neck. You'll give him indigestion. Help me pack the sliced damper for the soup."
One of the great things about Cracker Night, Nan reflected, was that, "It brought everyone together", on both sides of the street 'cept Miss Kitty of course. Through the afternoon people had set up trestle tables and chairs. And even though it was Friday, we would be allowed to eat meat – only because it was such a special night. Nan had made a big pot of pea and ham soup to reheat on a separate little fire Dad had made, away from the main bonfire. She made the same every year Dad said since he was a boy.
"No pea and ham soup ever tasted as good as Nan's pea and ham soup with damper on Cracker Night," he declared.
The air was clear and still as we waited for Dad and several of the other men to strike the matches at the base of the bonfire. First one of the dads poured some kerosene around the base then they struck matches and threw them at it. Whoosh! A feeling of something primal and dangerous began to grow inside me as I and all the kids stood around. Our eyes were the size of overcoat buttons as we watched the first flames grow then shoot up the height of the bonfire. We all cheered as they reached our ghostly figure, for only then could we start lighting the fireworks. All the crackers were pooled and placed in an old bathtub normally used to hold water for stock, who like pets, were moved far away from the night's activities. Honey was locked inside the Symonds' house.
Parents stayed with their children to supervise the selection of crackers. We were allowed to choose the coloured firework we wanted, but an adult had to put it in the mound of dirt specifically constructed for the night and light it. We were free to light our own sparklers though. What you usually did was get one ready to light off the one you were holding, before it went out; like the men that spilled out onto the street at the pub did with their cigarettes. We'd wave the sparkler about, making letters and numbers and words in the blackness.
Buckets of water were on the ready in case the fire got out of control and all shooting fireworks were pointed away from the creek and the wheat crop beyond. Bungers were to be saved for one last big noise. The older boys were allowed to join in with the men and light them, but they had to throw them well away from everyone. You had to be at least ten years old. They were also the only ones of the kids allowed to let off tom thumbs. That was how it was suppose to be, but they'd always pinch bungers early in the night and go off into the street and let them off. Steve let one off on purpose near the group and got yelled at, but no one took it too seriously.
In the distance, further into town, you could hear other groups of people celebrating around their bonfires. Wearing gloves, some men held the roman candles at arm's-length and had a contest to see whose one shot the coloured balls out the furtherest. Eric Horan the blacksmith, won. Dad was third.
At one point, looking away from our fire over to the creek, I could see through all the cracker smoke the hazy outline of a group. There were maybe eight or ten, men, women and children around a smaller camp fire, but without any crackers. They just stood and looked toward our bonfire.
Sky rockets whizzed high into the sky from the milk bottle launching pads, exploding into the darkness and filling the sky with more stars, while Catherine wheels placed on nails in fence posts spun out their bright colours. The flower pots and volcanoes were placed into the mound of earth then lit. It was so exciting watching from the safety of one of Nan's cuddles, Dad light the paper taper then stand aside as it slowly burnt away until a gush of sparks and colour spewed out the top. I loved Cracker Night. It was magic! It was just a truly magic, magic night I'll always remember. A night we never wanted to end.
And when there was nothing left in the bathtub, when the last bang, the last eruption of colour was over and the smell of smoke hung heavy in the damp air, we gathered with our mates around the tables to eat. Nan gave her permission for us to eat as much as we liked.
There were about fifty people I guess, all up. The women had pooled the food and gathered around the tables placing people's selections on plates for them. Nan ladled out the soup into mugs and placed them on the table next to the damper for people to help themselves. The men stood and ate with us before drifting off into little groups, drinking beer and talking. Mrs Symonds didn't disappoint either. All the kids waited to see wh
at would be revealed from under her tea towels this time. It was a large tray piled high with coconut macaroons, with a small dot of strawberry jam on top of each one.
"I don't care if I don't get to the front of the class and get picked to do Benediction. I'd even happily go to Hell a native heathen, as long as they had coconut macaroons there," I declared to Barry.
At one stage I copped a sneaky elbow to the ribs from Steve. It caused me to drop my plate, as he and two of his mates pushed in between Barry and me. They laughed their heads off. While I picked up my plate and unbeknown to Steve, Doug dropped a golly in his trifle to pay him back. Only Mrs Symonds saw Doug do it. She made no fuss, just gave him a little wink. We all held our composure until we were at a safe enough distance, then cacked ourselves laughing as we watched Steve eat it all up. He and his mates just looked at us like we were morons.
There was more than plenty of food for everyone. Dad stayed with Mr and Mrs Symonds and us at the tables, helping Nan butter the still warm damper slices. Later, I wandered over with my replenished plate to where a group of the women clustered together. They were whispering amongst themselves about Mrs Wood's no-show, even though Steve brought along a sliced jam roly-poly she'd made.
"Three guesses and they all relate to her husband," stated Mrs Horan with a knowing look to the other women.
"If I was Pam I'd leave him. It can't be pleasant livin' with him and his drinkin'. He's alright through the week mind, sober as a judge. But come knock-off Frid'y through Sund'y, he just writes himself off. You know I'm not one to gossip, however, bein' right next door, you can't help but hear the rows over his pay packet, after he's come home from the pub. Have a look at him over there tonight and you'll see what I mean," sniffed Mrs Grady.
"She'll cop a gob-full tonight then for sure," observed Mrs Horan.
"Oh my Lord. I have to close me window it gets so bad," added Mrs Grady. "And a man that hits a woman is a bloody mongrel in my book. Pardon my French. You know I asked her once about some bruises on her arm and she covered by saying, 'Oh I must've bumped into some furniture.' Furniture my foot. It was like a handprint. And she had a swollen bruised eye another time. But you can't interfere in people's domestics. Up to them to sort it out, isn't it? And young Steve looks like he's following in his father's footsteps," she predicted.
"You should hear the language he uses to his mother. Even in the street," confirmed another.
"Needs a good kick up the bloody bum, if you ask me. Pardon my French," responded Mrs Grady.
"I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree," added Nan through pursed lips. I wanted to find out more but Nan caught me eavesdropping and gave me one of her 'what are you doing here? This is none of your business' looks. I moved away.
At Nan's urging Dad decided to join the men. Doug stayed at the table but I tagged along. In one group Mr Horan was telling a joke.
"– So this woman gets on the tram with her baby and the conductor takes a squiz at the kid and says to the woman, 'That's the ugliest baby I've ever seen.' The flustered woman is lost for words and just moves to the back of the tram and says to the man she sits next to, 'That conductor just insulted me.' To which the man says, 'Why don't ya go back up there and give him a piece of yer mind? I'll mind yer monkey.'" The group all laughed themselves silly. We moved between them and another group where the men were all nodding and agreeing with Mr Green. Mr Symonds poured Dad a glass of his beer.
"Well I won't have 'em in my store. Black hands over everything. There's some things you just can't wash and resell. Not to mention pinching things, and that's what they'll do if we let them get any closer to town," Mr Green concluded. Then Mr Wood said his bit.
"They're not only doin' up the Hudson place, but the news is they're buildin' two fuckin' new fibro places for a mob from the Reserve as well! All bringin' 'em closer to our houses an' families. An' this lettin' 'em walk around town without being arrested will spell trouble. Mark my words. Look, there's a fuckin' mob of 'em over by the creek. Been watchin' us all fuckin' night. Won't be able to leave yer door open at night soon."
"I keep the door closed this time of year to keep the heat in, anyways," Mr Symonds stated matter-of-factly.
"You know what I fuckin' mean."
"I just don't see them as a problem Bob, is all," sighed Mr Symonds, adding, "I mean they've closed down the Reserve. Where are they s'posed to go? I mean, we're responsible, we white folk. We put them there in the first place."
"For their own good. Well now they can bloody well go back to the bush and live off the land. Won't fuckin' hurt 'em."
"Hey Bob, watch the language, there's kids –" interjected Mr Green. Mr Wood continued,
"They've been doin' it for centuries anyways. And leave us honest folk in peace," a heated Mr Wood ended, backed up by a loud "yeah", from his son Steve, who'd been sneaking sips of beer from one of his dad's bottles throughout the night.
"Exactly. They're filthy. I won't have 'em smelling up my store and driving customers away. I'm a Christian man and I know they're not all bad, but that's only a few. I'll serve 'em if they've got money – at the door," added Mr Green. Dad had been listening but looked like he'd heard enough and was about to leave, when Mr Green called out to him,
"Doctor, I mean Harry, you're an ed'jucated man, what do you think?"
"I agree." Mr Symonds looked at him in amazement. "They are filthy. And they smell. It's disgraceful."
"See, even the doctor agrees," assured Mr Green, jumping in.
"You'd smell too if you couldn't wash because your water had been turned off, because your toilet and shower had been boarded up, hoping you'd move on. Let alone having any soap – or food. Their conditions are a shame – on all of us," Dad argued.
"Sergeant Farrar had his orders," Bob Wood declared, taking a wide stance.
"You better leave, this could get heated," Dad suggested to me while Mr Wood staggered right up close to him and pointed his finger in his face.
"No, I'm stayin' with you," I insisted, to Dad's surprise. He paused, then continued,
"I'm fully aware of Sergeant Farrar's orders. We should, however, as human beings, ask ourselves how following orders takes precedence over the observance of moral decency. Giving them proper housing is the least we can do." Mr Wood looked confused at first over the words Dad used and then a bit self-conscious of his ignorance I guess, in front of the other men.
"We don't have to ask ourselves nothin'," Mr Wood began. "You haven't had to go through fuckin' half what we have with droughts and debts and… Only to have them fuckin' Abos come along and pinch yer remainin' stock. Let 'em eat bloody 'roo. I tell ya, they're fuckin' lazy and they won't work. My brother had a mob of 'em workin' for him once, and in the middle of harvest, in the middle of bloody harvest mind, they go on bloody walkabout! Cost me brother a fuckin' fortune. No one ever gave me a house for free, neither."
"The Hudson place has been derelict for years. And it's not free, they'll be paying rent," Dad assured the group. Mr Wood seemed to ignore that point and continued over Dad with his rant.
"And the women are only good for one thing." He turned to the rest of the men with a salacious leer. I could see Dad balling his fist at his side as he finished his middy of beer.
"But ya gotta be fuckin' pissed to put up with the smell," said Mr Wood, finishing with a laugh. I pulled hard on Dad's pants leg to get his attention as he handed his empty glass to Mr Symonds. He took a step toward a swaying Mr Wood.
"Your attitude disgusts me," Dad enunciated slowly and clearly.
"An' your kind McNally make my blood boil. Fuckin' bleedin' bloody hearts. An' yer helpin' 'em only encourages 'em ta stay. Oh yeah, we know what you've been up to." Dad brushed Mr Wood's prodding finger away.
"What, ya want a fight McNally? Sure, I'd be only too fuckin' happy ta knock ya down a few fuckin' pegs. Come on, I dare ya," taunted Mr Wood, the veins in his neck bulging. The others rushed to him and held him tightly to stop a fight. I pulled again on Dad
's trouser leg.
He bent down as I cupped my hand to my mouth and whispered,
"Walk away."
Dad looked at me and paused in thought, then smiled and ruffled my curls with his hand.
"Come on son, it's getting late. Goodnight, gentlemen," Dad stated as he took my hand and we headed back to Nan. Doug was sitting on a log, stuffing a miniature meat pie in his mouth as we approached.
I counted up with Doug. I had one mug of soup, three sausage rolls, some of absent Miss Kitty's trifle, a chocolate brownie and four coconut macaroons. I could have had five as there were heaps, but I could hear Nan's voice inside my head admonishing me with 'don't be a guts.' Doug had as much as me, but managed to fit in an extra sausage roll and another meat pie.
Toward the end of the night, I saw Mrs Symonds disappear into the darkness, heading toward the camp fire of the group by the creek, with a tray of leftovers. I shook Doug's arm and pointed. We followed after her, remaining at a short distance away. She went up to the group and offered the tray of food. We got closer and saw they were indeed a group of Aborigines as Mr Wood had stated earlier. I recall thinking at the time, with their faces lit from underneath by their fire, that they looked as savage as the ones holding spears in the drawings in our social studies book.
"They're just like the ones that killed the first white settlers. Let's get outta here," Doug whispered. Mrs Symonds didn't seem a bit worried, though. Later she slipped back to our group with the empty tray. I saw Mr Symonds and her exchanging a smile and a nod, and then noticed Steve whisper something to his dad and point out Mrs Symonds as she rejoined the women clearing up the food table.
Doug and I were getting sleepy. My eyes were stinging a bit from all the smoke and I was blowing steam from my mouth into to the cold air. I circled the tables one last time with Barry and Raymond. The glow of the dying bonfire was still reflected in Raymond's glasses. Some of the men made sure the fire would not flare up after we left by pouring the buckets of water over the embers, before kicking dirt over the lot. Still half a dozen macaroons left. I looked at them for a long while before I took one last one. Cracker Night – mmm, magic.
Season of Hate Page 4