by Tim Slee
‘Holy moly,’ Jenny says. ‘Where’s Mum?’
But Mum sees us first and she comes piling down on us like she’s a hammer and we’re nails.
‘What are you two doing here?’ she asks.
‘Mr Garrett gave us a lift,’ I tell her. Hoping that will explain it.
‘You should be home watching telly, not cadging a lift with Mr Garrett, you stickybeaks,’ she says, and Jenny is kind of hiding behind me a bit, but then she comes out because she can hear in Mum’s voice we aren’t going to cop it.
‘Is the bank man here?’ I ask her.
She looks at me suspiciously. ‘What is it with you and the bank man?’
‘Is he here?’ I ask again, trying to look around.
‘Not yet,’ she says. ‘Maybe not at all.’
‘He killed Dad to get the farm,’ Jenny says and I give her a death look. She just can’t shut up, that girl, but now she’s said it and it’s out there. I look at Mum, to see does she know it too, like we do?
Mum grabs me by the shoulders and leans in so I can smell sweet tea on her breath. ‘You will not say that out loud to anyone, you hear me?’
I nod.
‘You won’t even say it in your own head,’ she says. ‘Because it’s nonsense. Your dad died in an accident and was no one to blame but himself. I know you don’t want to hear that, Jack, but it’s true. All right?’
‘All right,’ I say, but I’m not actually agreeing. In my head, I say, No he didn’t. It wasn’t no accident.
‘All right, miss?’ Mum says, looking around me to Jenny hiding behind me again now she sees Mum is annoyed.
‘Yeah, Mum,’ she says. But I bet she doesn’t mean it either.
Mum stands and looks around, and the Garretts have finally come in after stopping to talk to everyone in town on their way through the door, and Mum points, ‘Now you go and sit over there by the wall and not a peep out of you.’
‘Can we get a cup of tea and a biscuit?’ Jenny asks, looking around and seeing everyone else has one.
‘All right, be quick,’ Mum says.
The biscuits are gingernuts, but not even the real ones.
We shouldn’t have come because the meeting is really boring and the bank man isn’t even there. Karsi is here like he said, with a policewoman, standing up the back drinking tea and eating gingernuts. There are lots of people talking about the banks, but no one from the banks is answering. I thought maybe Mum would say something about Dad, about what happened and how it was a shame and all the bank’s fault, but she doesn’t. It’s kind of weird how a couple of days ago it was always him and her, everywhere we went. Now it’s just her. Just us three. They take a vote on something and she puts her hand up with all the others is all.
It looks like it’s all over, then something happens, I don’t know what, and suddenly people go from very loud to very quiet.
‘Who’s that standing up?’ Jenny asks. ‘He looks angry.’
I look where she’s looking and I see it’s Don Aloisi, the coach of the Lions. Mum won’t let us play AFL yet so I don’t know him that well, but he’s been around our place a few times and whenever he has, he’s banged his head on something, like the doorway, or a hanging light, or a tree branch.
Everyone else seems to know what he’s going to say except me and Jenny and they kind of hunch their shoulders a bit, like it’s about to rain.
‘You think, you really think the Parliament is going to care that a hundred people in Yardley have voted on a motion and signed a stupid petition?’ Don asks.
‘It’s not a hundred people,’ this man from Farmers First says from the front of the room. ‘It’s thousands, all over the State. In meetings like this.’
‘We held a rally in Federation Square, mate. Two thousand of us. That achieved nothing or we wouldn’t be here, would we?’
The man from Farmers First goes to say something else, but Coach Don holds up his hand. ‘Save it, mate,’ he says. ‘Save your breath.’ He looks around the room and he says, ‘You are all kidding yourselves if you think anything except direct action is going to get anyone’s attention.’
And then he says it.
‘A man died here the other day,’ he says, and I figure he must be talking about Dad because who else? ‘A man died,’ he says again, ‘because he chose to burn his own house down rather than let the bank have it. The bloody supermarkets and the co-op and the banks are literally killing us and you all sit here voting to sign an online petition, you can’t think of anything better to do. Well, I can.’
‘Here now,’ says someone next to Mum, putting a hand on her shoulder. It’s a teacher from school. ‘You’re out of line, Don.’
‘I’m out of line?’ Don says, and I think maybe he’s going to blow, but instead he slowly picks up his things. ‘Well then, I’d better be going,’ he says. ‘I’ll be over at the pub if there’s anyone else in this room who thinks a petition is a bit bloody weak.’ And then he walks out.
Everyone is quiet and I see Karsi is kind of hopping from one foot to the other like he doesn’t know should he go and speak with Don or should he stay here and see what happens. Then he says to the policewoman, ‘You stay here.’ And he goes outside after Don.
The Farmers First man says, ‘Righto, back to business. This is about more than a petition, so the next item on the agenda . . .’
Mum stands up. She’s a big woman . . . well, like wide, not tall. So people either side of her have to lean away when she does and it’s like a rock in a pond, everyone in that row each leaning a bit away but still trying to see her, what she’s going to say. But she doesn’t say anything. She just picks up her coat and her handbag and shuffles down the row of chairs to the end, and then she looks at me and Jenny like, right, you two, we’re going and we both hop up and follow her out the door onto the street.
I’m thinking, oh boy, Coach Don is going to cop it now. Talking about Dad like that in front of Mum. But Don is already copping it. Ha. I just made a joke. Because he’s getting an earful from Sergeant Karsi right in the middle of the street on the median strip between Elders and the Yardley Hotel.
‘No, I’m asking you, and it’s an official bloody question, what you meant by Direct Action,’ Karsi is saying, and he’s using capital letters like that. Direct Action.
Don is looking over Karsi’s shoulder, down at us. ‘Tom Murray wasn’t the only one who realised actions speak louder than words,’ Don says.
‘Tom Murray is dead, Don,’ Karsi says, right as Mum steps up behind him.
‘Yes he is, Sergeant,’ Mum says quietly, standing alongside Coach Don. ‘Stupid bloody man.’
I think she’s going to cry but then I realise she sounds more angry than sad. Angry at Dad? That just doesn’t make sense.
Karsi looks like he’s been caught drinking milk straight out of the carton. ‘Sorry Mrs M,’ he says. ‘I didn’t realise you were –’
‘Shall we have that drink, Don?’ Mum asks Coach Don. ‘Over at the hotel, you said?’
Don nods at her and takes a step to turn around. Mum puts a hand on Karsi’s arm. ‘Three’s a crowd, Sergeant, I hope you don’t mind,’ she says. By which I take it he isn’t invited over to the pub with us. Even though we are more than three, we’re already four.
‘No,’ the sergeant says. ‘You go ahead, I guess.’ And he stands there looking a bit lost as we cross the road into the hotel and I’m looking back at him and he waits a minute and then when no one else comes out of the meeting, he decides he looks a bit stupid standing on the median strip and walks back into Elders.
Pubs have this kind of bad delicious smell. The smell of the beer is sour and bad, but the smell of the schnitzels and chips is awesome. Except we already ate at the Turnbolts’ so I know there is no hope of Mum buying us something now. She’s fishing in her purse though and pulls out a few fifty-cent pieces and drops them into my hand. ‘You two go and play some pinball or something,’ she says.
‘Pinball?’ I ask. ‘Where’s
that?’
She looks around. ‘Didn’t there used to be pinball machines and Space Invaders here somewhere?’
Don smiles. ‘While since you’ve been in the pub, Dawn?’
‘I don’t hold with drinkers,’ she says. ‘So a good while, yeah.’
He fishes in his pocket for a few gold coins, because like, Mum gave us nothing. ‘Here,’ he says. ‘There’s an air hockey table in the lounge bar.’ He gives us a ten as well. ‘Get yourselves a fizzy drink,’ he says. ‘Through there,’ he points out the back.
After an hour of sitting listening to grown-ups hold speeches, and tea without enough sugar and gingernuts that weren’t even real and Jenny looking all mopey, I’m going crazy for anything to do, so air hockey sounds great. ‘Race you!’ I yell at Jenny and I’m off.
Apart from the air hockey, it’s a nothing night. Mum finishes talking to Coach Don and the Turnbolts are waiting outside Elders for her and the Garretts have to drive us home because Mum won’t let us all in the Turnbolts’ car, there aren’t seat belts enough, she says.
Not that it matters because we would have missed it anyway when the bank burned down because that happened sometime around three in the morning according to the news on the radio.
‘No way,’ says Jenny at breakfast. ‘You reckon it was Coach Don? You reckon that was what he meant when he said Direct Action?’
‘Could of been,’ I agree.
The radio said the bank in Yardley had its window smashed in with rocks and then petrol bombs thrown in through the window by someone in a ute with its numberplates taken off. Someone in a mask. Police have pictures of the ute taken by a shop camera and are looking for a silver or blue Hilux 2010 or 2012 and good luck with that, that’s about every second car around here.
‘You don’t reckon it was Mum?’ Jenny says later, whispering. We’re out in the paddock behind the Turnbolts’ vats, whanging a cricket ball off the steel, listening to the different noises it makes depending on where it hits. Trick is to try to whang it so the other person can catch it. I suck at that part, Jenny is much better, but my noises are better than hers.
‘Who?’
‘At the bank. Radio said they were wearing a mask,’ Jenny says. ‘It could have been Don, or maybe even Mum, right? One smashes the windows, the other throws the petrol bombs. The two of them in the pub talking?’
I look at her like her head fell off. ‘You reckon Mum has been riding around in Coach Don’s ute throwing petrol bombs at banks?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You’re mental.’
‘Let’s go in then, maybe we’ll hear something.’
‘Detective Jenny Murray.’
‘I’m going, you can stay out here,’ she says.
It’s a boring game with only one person so I have to stop and go in. The reason she wants to hang around the kitchen is that the adults are all in there. Half sitting, half standing because there aren’t enough chairs, so it’s lucky Pop comes with his own chair built in. They started arriving in the middle of the morning and by lunchtime our driveway was full. Most had cakes or biscuits with them.
‘Mum, can we have a cup of tea?’ Jenny asks.
Mum is listening to Mr Maynard talk so she turns to Jenny, ‘Sure, pet. Make a new pot, would you, this pot is empty.’
‘And a biscuit?’ Jenny points at the yo-yos on the table. ‘Can we have a biscuit too?’
‘No, those are for –’
‘Go on, Dawn,’ Pop says. ‘Give the kids a yo-yo.’ He pushes the plate over to her.
Jenny is a genius sometimes because of course the teapot is empty, they’ve been at it for an hour already. And making a new pot means we can both hang around in the kitchen like we’re making tea instead of there to eavesdrop.
‘Good on ’em,’ says Mr Maynard. ‘Banks are putting us out of business, now someone’s put them out of business. Take months to clean up that bank after a fire like that. Weeks anyway.’
‘Achieves nothing,’ says Mr Garrett. ‘Banks aren’t the problem, it’s the bloody supermarkets. What they pay for milk, you know that. Co-op’s going broke. Blaming the bank is like blaming the real estate agents selling everyone’s properties.’
‘Then we got to take it to the supermarkets,’ Mr Maynard says. ‘Like someone took it to the bank. Direct action.’ He’s got a body like a beer barrel on a tripod and it jiggles when he’s excited, like now.
Jenny elbows me in the ribs, nodding at Mr Maynard like, do you reckon it was him? But Mr Maynard is about seventy. I can’t see him chucking petrol bombs any more than I can see Mum doing it.
‘There’s direct action that doesn’t involve burning anything down,’ Mum says, kind of quiet.
‘They’d notice if that big Woolies in Portland suddenly had to shut down, wouldn’t they?’ says Mr Maynard.
‘What did you say, Dawn?’ Mr Alberti asks.
‘I was talking to Don, last night,’ Mum says. ‘He gave me an idea. Asked me where I’m going to bury Tom. I told him I don’t know, we never talked about it. But I called his sister last night and Tom’s people are buried in Carlton.’
‘What’s that got to do with –’ Mr Maynard asks.
‘I’m thinking,’ Mum says, ‘I’ll take him there to be buried.’
‘Ah, right,’ says Mr Alberti with a smile. He’s the only one in the world I know with a gold tooth and you can’t hardly see it because it’s on the top up the back but if the light is right, like now, it shines when he smiles. I heard Mrs Alberti tell Mum once it’s lucky he’s got a good smile because he’s short, wrinkly and the only hair on his head is in his ears.
Mr Maynard looks confused. ‘I don’t get it,’ he says.
‘Like, take him there?’ Mr Garrett asks. ‘How?’
‘Back of a flatbed, I’m thinking,’ Mum says. ‘Maybe put some signs on the doors. My husband died so you can drink cheap milk, kind of thing.’
‘No, he died and you keep drinking cheap milk is better,’ Mr Alberti says.
Mr Maynard goes a bit red. ‘Someone going to tell me what the hell you’re all talking about?’ I’m glad he’s asking because I have no blinking idea.
‘I’m talking,’ Mum says, ‘about putting Tom’s coffin on the back of a truck and driving it to Carlton at about twenty kilometres an hour, as a protest. As a way to keep the protest going, without burning anything down.’ She looks fierce, like she wants someone to tell her it’s a dumb idea. Like she’s daring them to.
Mr Garrett takes the bait. ‘You don’t want a truck, that won’t work.’
‘And why not?’ Mum asks, ready for him. Knowing Mum, she’s got her three good reasons all lined up. Sure enough. ‘Give me three good reasons,’ she says.
‘Give you one,’ Pop says. ‘Karsi will arrest you, driving so slow. He’ll give you some made-up traffic fine for driving too slow.’
‘Arrest a widow?’ Mr Maynard says. ‘He’d never.’
‘You saw him,’ Mr Garrett says to Mr Turnbolt. ‘Last night he would have had Dawn in the back of his car and locked up in Portland if we wasn’t there. Am I wrong?’
‘Yeah, he was already riled up about the house,’ Mr Turnbolt says. ‘Imagine how he’ll be after the bank too.’
‘You want my draught horse,’ Mr Garrett says. Mr Garrett has a few horses, but I know the one he’s talking about. It’s got legs as thick as fence posts and I can walk clear under it without hardly ducking.
‘That old nag?’ Mr Maynard laughs, spraying biscuit crumbs out of his mouth.
‘That old nag won the RASV Best Harness Clydesdale Alan Evans Memorial Pull,’ Mr Garrett says, getting shirty.
‘What, ten years ago?’ Mr Maynard says
‘Five,’ Mr Garrett corrects him, sharp.
‘Wouldn’t make it to Melbourne even if you put that Red Bull gear in his drinking water,’ Mr Maynard says.
‘He’d make it to Melbourne and back again!’ Mr Garrett says and he turns to Mum. ‘It’s a good idea, Dawn, but if you’re in
a truck, the cops can pull all sorts of stunts to get you off the road. I’ll lend you my milk cart, the one with the road tyres I just got certified for renting to tourists.’
‘And who’ll drive it?’ Mum says. ‘You?’ She’s pulling on her earlobe. She does that when me or Jenny ask can we stay over with someone or can we go into Portland on our own.
‘Yeah, course,’ Mr Garrett says.
‘Helen?’ Mum asks Mrs Garrett.
‘If John says he will, he will,’ Mrs Garrett says. ‘I’ll cope.’
Mum stops fiddling with her ear, drains her tea to the bottom of the cup and drops it back on the table. ‘All right then. By horse.’
‘I know the rules of the road for horses better than Karsi does, I bet.’ Mr Garrett is really warming up now. ‘There’s hardly nothing for them to get you on, the cops. Not like a truck where they can defect everything from brakes to your exhaust. Mostly it’s just do you have a brake, lights front and back and like I said, I just got it certified. It’s roadworthy, there’s nothing to defect. Can hardly fine you for driving too slow behind a horse!’
‘You can’t take the freeway,’ Mr Alberti says.
‘No.’
‘Then it’s four hundred ks to Melbourne by the Great Ocean Road. You’d take days, maybe a week.’
‘That’s the point, Carlo.’
‘Oh, right.’
Pop rolls himself to the back door to have a smoke while the others keep talking and I help him bump down the back steps to the dead grass and he shows me how to put on the brake. He rolls his own cigarettes and I sit on a step watching.
‘You want one?’ he asks after he licks the paper and seals it.
‘I tried once,’ I tell him, which is a lie. ‘It made me chuck. Besides, Mum would smell it on me.’
‘She would, she would,’ he smiles. Then he lights his smoke and watches the match burn for a second before he blows it out.