by Tim Slee
‘Look!’ Jenny says. ‘Got about a hundred bucks I reckon. Hello, Aunty.’
‘Hello, luv,’ Aunty Ell says. ‘Good on you two. I was just telling your mum I’ve been on the phone to the Wathaurong mob to let them know you’re on your way. Asked them to do you a welcome to country when you get to Geelong, you just have to give them some notice. Set it up.’ She hands a piece of paper to Mum with a phone number on it.
‘We’ll call them,’ Mum says. ‘Thanks, Aunty, really.’
Aunty Ell smiles and pats Mum on the shoulder.
‘I made this for you,’ this voice behind me says and I turn around and there’s Aunty Ell’s son Darren. He’s a year ahead of us in school, but our dads played footy together. He’s holding out a white wooden cross the size of a tennis racquet. ‘I made it,’ he says, ‘For your dad.’
I take it from him. ‘Thanks,’ I say. I mean, what else? What am I supposed . . .?
‘Let’s go plant it,’ Jenny says, taking it off me. ‘By the road.’
‘Wait,’ I say, jumping up onto the milk cart and grabbing the schoolbag Mum made me bring. I grab a fat marker pen out of it and write #BURN in the middle.
‘Right,’ I say, jumping down. Me, Jenny and Darren run out to the main road and Geraldine from the Geelong Advertiser sees us and follows us out. We try to shove it into the ground but it won’t go because the dirt is hard and dry.
‘You should have made the end pointy,’ Jenny says.
‘Yeah,’ says Darren. ‘Give it.’
He takes the cross and scrapes it up and down on the road until the end of the long bit is sharp. ‘There.’
‘Use this,’ says Geraldine, handing me a rock. Darren holds the cross and I pound it in with the rock and she takes pictures.
When we’re done, Jenny looks at me. ‘We should say something.’
‘Like what?’
‘We could do a prayer?’ Darren says, shrugging.
‘Yeah.’
Then we all look at each other. ‘Do you know one?’ I ask the lady.
She smiles. ‘I’ll teach you the Hail Mary,’ she says. So we all kneel by the cross and do a Hail Mary.
Then there’s all sorts of movement and Mr Garrett yells at us to get up on the milk cart and Mum’s already up there. We wave bye to Darren. Cars are lining up at the exit to the showground like an honour guard. Out on the road a police car has its lights on and is blocking the exit. Karsi’s car is parked next to it.
‘Are they going to stop us?’ I ask Mum as we take off.
‘No, luv,’ she says. ‘They’re going to escort us to Warrnambool. They just want us out of Port Fairy.’
‘Are we going to get in trouble for that fire?’ Jenny asks.
‘Someone will,’ Mum says, sounding funny. ‘You can’t burn a bank without someone getting the blame. But we didn’t do it so we got nothing to worry about. OK?’
Jenny looks at her for a second too long, like she’s going to say something else, but then she changes her mind. ‘Hey,’ she says. ‘You want to play Yellow Spotto?’ So we climb into the back of the milk cart and sit there watching cars overtake us and waiting for the yellow ones. Sometimes people make rude signs at us or shout something dumb, but mostly they just wave.
On the way out of Port Fairy Mum takes a call from the Geelong Advertiser lady, Geraldine, asking how to spell our names and can she hop up on the milk cart for a bit more and talk.
Mr Garrett doesn’t like her, that’s obvious. She’s standing on the side of the road up ahead of us where her car dropped her off and he doesn’t even slow down for her so she has to jog to catch us as we go by. She’s a bit chubby and her boobs jiggle as she grabs Coach Don’s hand and he pulls her up. Once she’s in, Coach Don jumps out and walks back to one of the cars behind to get a lift, and the reporter gets up next to Mum. She smells a bit hot but has nice perfume and brown curly hair and a big smile. She says thanks for talking to her again, and me and Jenny sit up close in the milk cart so we can hear.
‘You said yesterday you want to make a point about your husband’s death. If it isn’t too painful, can you tell me exactly how he died?’ Geraldine asks. ‘I read the Portland paper account but it just said it was an accident.’
‘If he’s dead,’ Jenny whispers and I hit her.
‘Shut up.’
Mum looks thoughtful. ‘The police and the doctor say he had a heart attack,’ she says. ‘All the excitement. He had a dodgy heart.’
‘Right, but he set fire to your house,’ Geraldine says.
‘Yeah.’
‘Because . . .’
Mum shrugs. ‘Bank was going to take the farm. We were six months behind on the loan and had run out of options. Already sold all the stock, wasn’t a going concern any more. There was just debt left.’
‘But a farm is more than a house. Why burn down the house?’
Mum laughs, but not a happy laugh. ‘He called a lawyer, asked him was there any law about burning your own house down? The lawyer said no, no law he knew of, if it was done according to local bylaws, and not on a fire ban day. So Tom filed with the council to demolish the house and started telling people around that he was going to burn it. They didn’t believe him.’
‘But he did it,’ Geraldine says.
‘That he did. Fool.’
‘You didn’t approve?’
‘Burning the house, I didn’t care. We’d lost it all anyway. You have to understand we’ve been trying to keep our heads above water for years . . . Tom said it. “I’ve run out of shits to give, Dawn,” he said, “Let’s get out of here.”’
‘Some people are saying you burned your house down for the insurance,’ Geraldine says.
Mum laughs, ‘Some people don’t know much. House insurance was one of the first bills we had to stop paying. Besides, you think an insurance company would pay out on a house fire when Tom was walking around for weeks telling everyone in Yardley he was going to burn it down?’
‘So what was the point?’ the reporter is frowning. ‘Spite?’
‘No. A punctuation mark,’ Mum says. ‘End of one life, start of a new one. Just walking off, that would be admitting defeat. But burning the house down, that showed it was a deliberate choice. Our choice. He was a poet, my Tom. From fire, new life . . . like with gum trees.’ She shrugs. ‘That’s how he sold it to me anyway.’
‘And this funeral procession . . .’ Geraldine says. ‘That’s because?’
Mum shrugs again. ‘His people are from Carlton. He always said if he went first, I should bury him there.’
‘No, I mean, why like . . . with the horse?’ She looks behind her, over the top of us, at the coffin.
‘We’re sending a message,’ Mr Garrett says, butting in. He sounds angry, waves his hands to indicate a couple of cars overtaking us. ‘Let these people know their cheap milk has a price. It’s costing people their properties, their livelihoods, even their lives. Like Tom, right, Dawn?’
Mum’s voice isn’t angry. She sighs, ‘Yes. Like Tom.’
‘And the banks,’ Geraldine says quietly, like she’s sneaking up on it and knows it. ‘Is that part of the protest, people burning the banks?’
‘That’s got nothing to do with us!’ Mr Garrett says. ‘Are the police saying it is?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘They just said they’re “pursuing inquiries”. But it’s the second bank arson in three days . . .’
‘They can pursue inquiries all the way to Melbourne, no one of us is burning banks,’ Mr Garrett says.
‘That speech last night by the Yardley football coach.’
‘Don.’
‘Yeah, Don. He was quoting one of Lawson’s rebel poems. Is that how people feel? Is this some sort of popular uprising? A country rebellion? First the banks, and then . . .’
‘It’s not just country folks,’ Mr Garrett says. ‘People are fed up everywhere. There’s riots in Melbourne, soccer fans going each other, cars being torched, people putting needles in strawberries. Strawberr
ies! The government blames everyone but themselves, but people are just sick of being screwed. By the banks, by the churches, by big business, by politicians who forgot their job is to bloody run the country, not just win the next election. Look around you, this country is dying!’ he says, sweeping his arm out to take in the dead brown paddocks around us. ‘We’re the ones who can see it. We’re the ones who are feeling it, but they’ll be feeling it in the cities soon enough. When they’re paying more for water than they pay for electricity, when prices go through the roof because their milk comes from New Zealand and their bread is made from dough shipped from China made from wheat grown in bloody Siberia. I bet you then you’ll see a rebellion, and not just a country one.’
‘It’s not rebellion we’re about,’ Mum says, putting a hand on Mr Garrett’s arm. ‘It’s not city versus country versus banks or politicians. It’s a funeral procession. We just want to get my husband to Carlton, get him buried and along the way let people know what’s happening out here,’ Mum says. ‘That’s all.’
‘Oh really, that’s all?’ Jenny whispers.
‘What do you mean?’ I whisper back.
She shakes her head. ‘Do you ever listen to anything or do you just run around looking dumb and kicking at rocks?’
‘Are you writing a story for the Advertiser?’ Mr Garrett asks Geraldine.
‘I already filed the first one, yesterday, before the Port Fairy bank arson. Filed the second one this morning about the Lawson speech and the bank. I told my editor I think this story has legs,’ she says. ‘I’m going to stay with you all the way to Melbourne.’
‘Are you now?’ Mr Garrett says, frowning, like it’s up to him to decide.
‘My dad was a dairy farmer,’ Geraldine tells him.
‘Yeah? Where at?’
‘Riverland. My brother is still there.’
‘Not hardly objective then, are you?’ Mr Garrett asks, raising one furry eyebrow.
‘Not hardly,’ she agrees, grinning.
‘Good to have you aboard.’
‘Yellow spotto!’ I yell and punch Jenny as a bright yellow station wagon overtakes us, dog in the back barking at us mentally as it screams past.
Warrnambool
We go through Dennington on the way into Warrnambool and there’s a few people parked at the side of the road to watch us drive through. I mean, it isn’t exactly Justin Bieber The Crowd, but I guess about ten cars and maybe fifty people. Most of them look like farmers but there’s a couple of people in shirts and skirts and trousers like office workers from Warrnambool who’ve come out. Two of them look like what Dad used to call greenies, a guy and a girl with long matted hair, both of them, and baggy clothes. The girl is holding a sign that says Multinationals Killing Dairy Farmers!
‘Ferals,’ Coach Don says, shaking his head as they wave at us going past. The girl has a pretty, round, smiley face and I wave back.
The police car up front leads us off the highway down a side road to a showground again. There’s already another police car there and two police standing by the showground entrance as we pull in. One of them has a camera and is taking pictures of numberplates. He snaps one of Pop’s car and Pop gives him a peace sign out his window.
‘Can they do that?’ Coach Don asks.
‘They’re doing it,’ Mr Garrett says. As we pass them, he points at Danny Boy’s bum. ‘Get a picture of that!’ he yells. The policeman smiles back but it isn’t a real one.
It’s a bit more organised this time. Someone from the local council has come down and unlocked the toilets and change rooms. There’s electric barbecues and a few people start setting up for dinner. A guy with a mobile coffee van comes in and starts selling coffee to people and Mr Alberti goes over and tells him to nick off, this isn’t a bloody festival, but Mr Garrett smooths it out and says if the guy donates a hundred bucks to the funeral fund, he can stay. Jenny is going around telling everyone she’s setting up a GoFundMe page and giving them the address.
The two ferals we saw in Dennington have put up a tent on the edge out on their own and nobody is talking to them. The girl sees I’m looking at them and gives me a little wave and I wave back. No one is watching, so I walk over.
‘Hey, buddy,’ she says.
‘Hey,’ I say. She sounds American.
Her friend is cooking something in a billy and it smells good. He looks up. ‘You want some?’ He’s Australian.
I look around, but Mum is talking to the police and Jenny is off selling her web page. ‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘Rice, canned corn, vege stock cube, nothing flash,’ he says. ‘Fill you up though. Hungry?’
‘Yeah.’
He pulls a little stool out the back of their car. ‘Here you go then. Be about ten minutes.’ Holds out his hand. ‘Ben.’
‘Hi.’
‘I’m Deb,’ the girl says.
‘You’re American.’
‘Canadian,’ she smiles. ‘Everyone makes that mistake. Love the look with the gloves and boots by the way. You rock it.’
‘Why are you here?’ I ask them.
Deb smiles. I love her smile. She’s probably the prettiest girl I ever saw anywhere, even on the internet. Even though she smells a bit woody.
‘Wow, get right down to it, don’t you?’ she says. ‘I’m sorry about your dad by the way.’
‘Mum says he was a bloody fool.’
‘Or a bloody hero,’ Ben says, stirring the rice. ‘Depending how you look at it.’
‘Yeah. Why are you though?’
‘We were camped down at Cape Otway,’ Deb says. ‘Went into town to check email, read about your dad, this . . .’ She waves her hand.
‘Rolling wake,’ I tell her.
‘I like that,’ she says, ruffling my hair. ‘Rolling wake. It made me cry, what happened to you and your family. Ben said why don’t we go and join in. Give our support.’
‘So here we are,’ Ben says. He looks over at the others, cars in a circle, all sitting with their backs to us. ‘Not that we’re all that welcome.’
‘Coach Don says you’re ferals,’ I tell him. ‘Ferals always protest against dairy farmers. They cut Mr Alberti’s fences and let his cows out onto the highway.’
He frowns. ‘Not all of us are vegan, or extremists.’
‘Dad used to call people like you greenies, what’s that even mean?’
He takes the rice off the burner and tips some water out and I think he’s not going to answer me. Deb looks at him, ‘Yeah, Ben, what’s that even mean?’ I can see now she has a little stud in her tongue, like a little blue ball.
He hands me and her a plate and spoons and sits down. ‘Well, it’s a word for people who care about the planet. An easy word for anyone who lives a bit alternative.’ He leans over to me, ‘Anyone who thinks the system is broke, you know what I mean? And tries to do something about it. Do you ever –’
‘Does that hurt?’ I ask Deb. ‘The tongue thing?’
She sticks it out at me. ‘Thith?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It stung a bit when they put it in,’ she says. ‘But not any more. You forget it’s there.’
‘So why have it?’ I ask her. ‘When your mouth is closed you can’t hardly see it.’
That gets me a smile. ‘You ask good questions,’ she says. ‘Anyone ever tell you that?’
‘Dad used to say I drove him bonkers.’
‘You keep asking,’ she says. ‘The world needs more people asking questions.’
‘What you eating?’ says this voice and I look around and it’s Darren eyeing off my bowl. He’s holding a footy. So I guess Aunty Ell is along for the ride too now.
‘You want to have a kick?’ I ask him.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘But maybe we could eat a bit first, eh?’
‘Sure, the more the merrier,’ Ben says. He leans over towards the food and he stumbles a bit and he knocks the pot with the boiling water and rice in it and it starts to fall. I grab it just in time and go to put it back o
n the burner.
‘Whoa!’ Ben yells. ‘Drop it!’ and he knocks it from my hands. Rice and hot water go everywhere and Deb and Darren jump back. I look at him like he’s crazy and then look down at my hand and see it’s all red and a bit black from the soot from the bottom of the pot. The skin on my palm is a bit crinkly.
‘Water! Cold water!’ Ben is yelling and he’s blowing on my hands. Deb runs over to their car and then comes back with a canteen and starts pouring water over my hand. As she pours, a couple of blisters start to come up.
‘Oh my God,’ Ben says, kneeling down and watching, then looking around. ‘I’m so sorry! Where’s your mother?’
‘I’ll go find her,’ Darren says. He puts a hand on Ben’s shoulder and rolls his eyes. ‘Don’t freak out, mate. This stuff happens to them all the time.’
Mum has this cream for burns. It’s a while since one of us had a burn though, so it’s out of date but people say it’s probably still OK and she puts it on my palm and fingers. Even though it doesn’t look so bad of a burn as I had last time, Pop tells Mum I should go to a clinic and get it looked at, but Mum decides we’ll just put a bandage around it and see how it is tomorrow. The skin is a bit tight, but I can still move my hand just fine. Jenny goes to push on one of the blisters to see if it will pop but Mum bats her hand away.
‘I’m really sorry,’ Ben is saying. ‘I knocked the pot and he just reached out and grabbed it and hot food went like . . .’
Mum is looking down, still rubbing cream into my palm. ‘Don’t fret. It’s not your fault, he just doesn’t think sometimes.’ Like I’m not even there.
‘Yes I do,’ I tell her.
‘He didn’t even yell out,’ he says, still looking like he’s worried he’ll get blamed.
‘Or cry,’ Deb says.
‘Duh, it’s called analgesia,’ I say, a little annoyed, trying to remind them I’m here. ‘We both have it,’ I tell Ben. ‘Don’t cry, don’t sweat, can’t feel pain.’
‘Not the way other people feel pain,’ Mum explains. ‘It’s genetic unfortunately, jumps a couple of generations. Dorotea’s analgesia. I didn’t realise, until after I had the twins.’
‘My god, I’ve heard of that,’ Deb says. ‘Little children don’t feel anything, they can bite their own tongues off . . .’