Liberty

by McWatters, Nikki;

  I turned and began to run, hoping they would follow, giving George time to grab Will and escape. I was blind with fury and fear and my hair was in my mouth and I was coughing it out and my boots were snagging against small rocks. I fell and hit my shoulder hard, wincing in pain, but struggled up again, hearing shouts and grunts in my ears. Then a heavy arm wrapped around my waist and pulled hard and I was off my feet and running in the air.

  ‘’ello lovely,’ a voice oozed into my ear and I knew it straight up. Tommy Little. ‘And from the glint of golden hair I’m thinking I’ve just caught me a Betsy Gray.’

  Struggling like a mackerel on a hook, I kicked and lashed out, trying to find the fellow’s face that I might gouge at his eyeballs, but he held firm and bounded back toward the road with me like a sack under his arms, my boots dragging in the grass. I dug down, trying to plant my feet into the earth and slow his progress but he was strong and angry, which is not a good combination in an English soldier. On Ballycreen Road he threw me to the gravel and I banged my face hard, knocking me reeling for a few moments as my head steadied.

  I looked across to see that Will was on the ground nearby, his eyes catching hold of mine. ‘Will,’ I called but my voice had no sound.

  ‘Betsy Gray, Betsy Gray,’ a man said as he stood in front of me. I could only see his black boots and could smell them, a blend of dung and coal. ‘See lads, we always knew she was one of ’em, eh? A rebel colleen.’

  ‘Eh, Jack, we was almost right here where we first met the pretty lass. Remember? At the Old Inn.’

  ‘Ahh, you’re right, Tommy Little, right indeed you are.’ He laughed cruelly. ‘You wanna dance with us now, Betsy Gray?’

  ‘Over my dead body,’ George growled like a beast and shook off the man holding him down and took a full-bodied run at the two men standing over me, growling and ready to take them down.

  ‘As you wish,’ one man said as I rolled up onto my side and staggered to my feet.

  ‘Stop,’ I shrieked again as I saw the man with the moustache pull a sword on George and lunge so that it was aimed right at my brother’s belly. I fell forward, my right arm outstretched, to either push George out of the way or force the sword out of range but the man slashed backwards at me and I looked in shock and stunned amazement as it cut straight through my one gloved hand.

  It took a moment to register that the man had taken my hand clean off my arm and there was a moment, suspended like a candle flame, upright and unmoving, and then the blood came in hot spurts and I gasped.

  ‘Lordy lord, I’ve taken off her little hand,’ a voice said, and the English brute dropped the sword.

  I heard George groan again and, grasping at my wrist, holding it tight, I spun to see them take him down and begin laying into him as if he were a sack of flour they wanted to bust.

  ‘Betsy.’ I heard Will croak out my name and I crawled to him. I could feel the blood soaking into my skirts as it ran down about my ankles. I was light-headed and not sure what was happening, thinking perhaps I had fallen into some terrible nightmare.

  ‘I love you, Betsy,’ Will whispered. ‘Fight them. Don’t let them toy with you. Fight with your last breath. Éireann go Brách.’ He shuddered as the light left his eyes.

  I groaned and let out a wail of pain. I stood, angry, raging and I summoned up the spirit of my womenfolk who came before me. I let them fill my heart and my belly. I watched the life-force float away from my beloved brother and I picked up the sword on the road that had taken my lover and my hand from me and I shouted, my voice sailing out into the darkness like that of Ireland herself.

  ‘Éireann go Brách. You will not mess with me. I am Ireland!’ I staggered toward them with the sword wavering. My eyes were half-blind, my breath was a sirocco, my feet failed me. I heard them laugh like crows as I saw one, Tommy Little, raise his musket and press it against my eye.

  ‘See that, Betsy Gray?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, spitting on the dirt as I stood up straight and let my one eye meet his. ‘And it looks like freedom.’

  My mother always said that if you wished upon a star, the first one – the evening star – on the night of a full moon, then that wish would come true. That was obviously a lot of nonsense but I did it in Bandaroo Flats one dusky evening as a kid. I wished that one day I would make a difference in this world in memory of my mum. And as I stood on the stage and accepted the First Year Academic Prize, I saw my father sitting proudly in the front row with Murray and a very pregnant Laura beside him, and I knew I was on my way to making that wish come true.

  I’d taken part in three marches by this stage and had joined the university magazine team as a reporter. Every time I had a political or legal article published, I snipped it out and put it in a scrapbook and marvelled that people, strangers, were reading my thoughts on the page. I did have something to say and was really pleased that people wanted to listen.

  After the morning tea to celebrate my prize, my family headed back to the hills and I kissed Laura and wished her well.

  ‘Next time I see you, you will be a mother.’ I smiled.

  ‘Yep.’ She grinned. ‘When will you be home? Because I am going to need all the help I can get from Aunty Fiona.’

  ‘In a few weeks,’ I told her. ‘Before Christmas. But I’ve still got some things to do here. We are taking a petition to Parliament House and I’ve got the final magazine to edit.’

  ‘You did good, Fi.’ Dad nodded gruffly. ‘You’re a good kid. Get home soon, hey? The bottom field needs some attention and I miss your cottage pie. You might be a budding lawyer during the school year but on the holidays you’re my chief cook and bottle-washer.’ That was Dad’s way of saying he was well-pleased with me.

  The rec area was chockers with kids and the vibe was pretty upbeat. Although the state election had come and gone and most of us were too young to vote, we were still putting pressure on the legislators to dump the policy of National Service on a federal level and had rallied our hopes behind Gough Whitlam.

  Barton had graduated with honours and I wondered what options he was considering. I watched him handing out placards and was certain he’d miss uni life. Out in the real world he’d just be another graduate, but while he was at university, he was something of a messiah.

  ‘Hey, Fi,’ Agnes called, waving frantically as she pressed through the crowd.

  She had just performed in a lunchtime pantomime as part of the end-of-year festivities and was dressed in period costume. She was also carrying my guitar case.

  ‘You look like you just stepped out of Wuthering Heights or something.’

  ‘I’m Nora from A Doll’s House,’ she replied.

  ‘Ibsen.’

  ‘Correct. Thanks for lending me the guitar. I don’t think I was very good though.’

  ‘I did not realise Nora played guitar.’

  ‘We did a weird blend of modern and traditional. It was kind of a mess really. A Doll’s House did not translate well into a musical. Let’s just leave it at that.’

  She passed me the guitar and we went to our favourite spot beneath the fig and sat down on the grass.

  ‘Only three more years till you get to wear a silly white wig and black cape like a crow,’ she said, arranging the folds of her long dress. ‘By then I’ll be taking Hollywood by storm.’

  ‘That wouldn’t surprise me, Ag.’ I laughed. ‘But I’m not sure your lover-boy Jeff will let you fly too far away. What’s he doing next year?’

  ‘He’s asked me to drop out and follow him to Sydney. He’s been offered a job at a law firm down there.’

  ‘You wouldn’t!’ I gasped.

  ‘It’s tempting,’ she mused. ‘Sydney. He’ll be making good money. There’s a great theatre scene down there. Television studios. He’s dropping hints about engagement rings.’

  ‘You dare!’ I glared at her. ‘I can’t let you leave. Y
ou are my honorary sister!’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘Ag, you aren’t even old enough to vote. I hardly think you are mature enough to make a life decision like that.’

  ‘We could live in sin.’ Agnes wiggled her eyebrows.

  ‘Your mother would disown you!’

  ‘True.’ She nodded.

  I stopped and cocked my head. I recognised the voice blaring out over the Forum. Barton was at it again.

  ‘Listen to him.’ I smiled. ‘Does he ever let up? For a minute? He’s graduated now. You’d think he’d retire the bloody megaphone.’

  ‘Someone told me he’s coming back next year to do some post-graduate degree in politics.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, kind of impressed, and surprised to note that I was also feeling pleased to hear that he would still be around because, to be honest, I knew I would miss Barton. Campus wouldn’t be the same without him.

  ‘I reckon it’s a strategy to avoid being conscripted.’ She smiled. ‘As long as he keeps studying he can keep the wolf from the door.’

  ‘No.’ I disagreed. ‘I reckon it’s because he really does plan on being prime minister one day and then God help the country! He’ll turn the tables upside down.’

  ‘Well, we’re sure due for a good shake up.’

  I was wearing a new orange crocheted blouse with an olive green skirt. My hair had grown out again and was sitting in two plaits on either side of my head. There was a welcome cool breeze whisking through the quadrant.

  ‘Do you like my new top?’ I asked, striking a pose.

  ‘I do.’ Agnes nodded thoughtfully. ‘It makes a real statement. I don’t know what that statement is but it says something. Maybe … I’m a life-raft.’

  I unzipped the guitar from its case, thinking I might have a little play on the strings. I was in an excellent mood and thought a bit of music might be appropriate, a bit festive, but I felt my toes shrivel up inside my new brogues as Jeff the jerk came across the grass toward us.

  ‘You ever hear anything from Luke?’ Agnes asked as Jeff dropped down beside her and kissed her ear.

  ‘Yeah.’ I confirmed. ‘We’re regular pen-pals. He’s doing seasonal work, moving about the place. I last got a postcard from Charleville. He’s loving the life. The coppers gave up looking for him eventually. Too much bother, too much paperwork and he’s as slippery as an eel. Barton has kept in touch with him as well.’

  ‘Steal that blouse off your dead granny?’ Jeff pointed at me.

  I got the impression quite often that Jeff felt the same way about me as I did about him. We just didn’t warm to one another at all. All the other kids were well-dressed for the graduation and academic ceremonies, but Jeff was in a tattered singlet with his signature peace symbol painted on his chest.

  ‘Fiona McKechnie!’

  I heard my name blasted all over the courtyard and looked around in a daze.

  ‘Barton’s calling you,’ Agnes said, pointing over to the walkway.

  I frowned, confused.

  ‘What? Why is he saying my name?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Agnes was wide-eyed, but for all her theatrical skills, I could tell when she was lying.

  ‘What are you guys up to?’

  ‘Nothing!’ she replied.

  ‘After lunch, Fiona is going to sing us a song,’ Barton called out.

  ‘I am?’ I muttered under my breath. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Looking forward to hearing from you later, Fiona.’

  I felt so angry. Barton McLeod had no right to do that and I was not going to play. I hated singing to an audience. I’d done it one time at the Foco Club after Agnes and Luke hassled me to do it. I’d sung Bob Dylan’s ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’. Barton had told me I was a better singer than Joan Baez but I think he’d been hitting the punch pretty hard that night.

  ‘You are in on this, aren’t you, Agnes?’ I growled suspiciously. ‘That’s why you asked for my guitar. You didn’t make A Doll’s House a musical at all, did you? Because that is kind of ridiculous. Am I right?’

  ‘Maaybee,’ she replied slowly.

  ‘You can’t get up there and sing a song about women’s lib stuff, though.’ Jeff laughed. ‘Not unless you burn your bra and stop shaving under your arms.’

  And that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I’d had it with Jeff the jerk. I really did not know what Agnes saw in him other than the obvious good looks.

  I stood up and glared down at him.

  ‘Jeff,’ I challenged him, hands on hips. ‘Stand up.’

  ‘Oh God, here we go.’ He staggered to his feet.

  ‘What, you gonna fight me?’ He began bouncing on his feet like a boxer, hands balled up into fists in front of his face.

  ‘Don’t tempt me, mate,’ I said seriously.

  ‘What?’ He sulked. ‘What, Fiona?’

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see Barton approaching us with his megaphone hanging by his side. I was surprised to see that he’d had a haircut and was wearing a clean, white button-up shirt. The transformation from upstart to prime minister had begun.

  ‘For your information, Janis Joplin is a goddess. And what’s wrong with a girl having armpit hair anyway?’ I challenged Jeff.

  ‘Are you serious? It’s gross.’ He laughed awkwardly. ‘It stinks and—’

  ‘It’s normal. Humans have armpit hair!’

  ‘Not girls,’ he grimaced. ‘That’s revolting.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it is. It just is.’

  I looked at him. His blond hair was glistening in the sun. His baby-blue eyes were looking bored with the whole thing and he was smirking at me. Agnes was squirming uncomfortably on the grass. Barton had arrived and was trying not to laugh. I was getting really worked up.

  ‘Put your arms up, Jeffrey!’ I demanded.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Put them up.’

  He did.

  ‘Look at that,’ I said, pointing and some of the kids around us looked over and started to laugh. ‘You look like you’ve got wombats under there. You stink, Jeffrey. I can smell you from here. That is gross. What are you, a gorilla?’

  ‘Cut it out,’ Jeff bristled, putting his arms down, looking uncomfortable.

  ‘Does Agnes have hairy armpits?’ I asked him.

  Agnes dropped back onto the grass rolling around with her hands over her face in embarrassment.

  ‘Stop it, Fiona!’ she moaned.

  ‘No,’ Jeff said, indignantly.

  ‘Would you go out with her if she had hairy armpits?’

  ‘Oh seriously, Fiona? Give it a rest, you annoying freak,’ Jeff snapped. ‘Barton, call off your red setter bitch, would you?’

  ‘Oi, mate! You are out of line!’ Barton stepped forward and frowned at his shorter friend. Agnes sat up, shielding her eyes from the sun, looking very upset.

  ‘I’m right but thanks, Barton,’ I said firmly, my eyes not leaving Jeff’s.

  ‘What if Agnes asked you to shave your armpits, Jeff? Because she finds the stench offensive? Would you do that for her?’

  Agnes stood up beside me, copying my Peter Pan hands on hips. ‘Yeah, would you, Jeff?’

  ‘Oh, gang up on me, why don’t you?’

  ‘I’m serious.’ Agnes glared at him. ‘I want you to shave your armpits for me. Will you?’

  ‘No!’ He made a nervous grimace. ‘Of course not. No way.’

  ‘Then you’re dumped.’ Agnes smiled.

  ‘Hahaha, Agnes,’ he said sarcastically, with a roll of his eyes. ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘I’m serious, Jeff,’ Agnes replied, raising her voice, talking him down. ‘Nobody calls my best friend a bitch. I’m a red-head, too, so you can get stuffed on that count as well.’

  ‘Your loss,’ Jeff shou
ted, picking up his books and pushing his way through the crowd.

  I looked at Agnes and let out a whistle. ‘Are you serious, sister? You just dumped Jeff because he wouldn’t shave his armpits for you?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ She shrugged. ‘He was starting to get on my nerves anyway.’

  We all laughed. Barton laughed the loudest. He suddenly wandered off, leaving Agnes and me alone.

  ‘Sorry about that with Jeff,’ I apologised.

  ‘It’s cool.’ She smiled. ‘I was never going to go to Sydney with him so it had to be done. And no one calls my sister a bitch. Nobody.’

  After lunch I did it. I got up on the raised bench on the walkway with my guitar and I sang ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’. I could see Agnes singing along. By the end, all the kids were singing and it kind of felt like an anthem for our generation. It was nerve-racking but I did it and as all the kids applauded, I felt really good. Strong. Proud.

  ‘You were awesome,’ Barton said, catching up to me. ‘If you ever get sick of law, you’ve got a career as a folk singer waiting for you. You’ve heard of the Singing Nun. So why not the Singing Lawyer?’

  ‘Thanks.’ I nodded. ‘I can’t believe you made me do that but … thanks. It was fun. The Singing Lawyer? Hmmm. It has a certain ring to it.’

  ‘I was wondering …’ he said, and I looked at Barton with concern because he had suddenly stopped talking and was looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself, ‘I was wondering if you wanted to come out for a bit of dinner and maybe to the pictures tonight.’

  I looked at him as I cocked an eyebrow. ‘You don’t mean like on a date, do you?’

  The poor guy looked a little deflated.

  ‘Oh, yes like a date?’ I said, guiltily. ‘Sorry. I mean … really? You and me?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said hopefully. ‘I’ve never dated a fresher but you’re officially a second year now.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ I said, buying some time while I thought about it. Barton McLeod. Cute. Tick. Ambitious. Tick. Politically literate. Tick.

  ‘And just in case you were undecided …’ He grinned and I stepped back, not sure where he was going with it as he started to unbutton his shirt, ‘I thought this might seal the deal.’