Freedom Ride (10 page)

I gripped the handlebars tight. “Just work.”

Keith nodded. “I’m stuck in Walgaree for most of the holidays, too. Mum says we’ll visit her parents in Newcastle. Don’t know when.”

We reached the end of the street before I broke the silence. “So, have you been doing much while I’ve been at work?”

“Went to the pool this morning,” said Billy.

“Marian Cavendish was there,” added Keith.

I kept my eyes fixed on the road.

“Hey, come with us to the pool tomorrow,” said Billy. “We’re meeting Wrighty, Rhookie and Eddie.”

So it was nicknames now. “Can’t. Work. What about Sunday?”

Keith scrunched up his face. “Nah, it’s all planned for tomorrow.”

“Right,” I said, my voice flat. The nicknames, the doing things with those goons just wasn’t right. “So, tell me, Keith, since when do we hang out with Wright and his mates?” The venom in my voice surprised me.

Keith skidded to a halt. Billy and I stopped too.

“Why do you hate Wright so much?” asked Keith.

“He’s not so bad when you get to know him,” said Billy, looking from me to Keith. “Just has a weird sense of humour, is all.”

My legs felt too long and my arms all wrong. I shifted positions on the bike seat. “Bet that’s what Hitler’s friends said about him, too,” I muttered.

Anger flared across Keith’s face. “The problem isn’t Wrighty. It’s you, Bower. You’re not from a normal family, so you don’t know how normal people act.” He shook his head and turned to an open-mouthed Billy. Keith wrenched his handlebars to the left and pedalled away.

Billy cleared his throat. “Robbie, Keith was out of line about your family.” He wiped his chin. “But he does have a point. Wright’s not so bad. Anyway, I’d rather he was my friend than not.” He looked ahead to where Keith waited for him at the end of the street. With a shrug Billy rode after him.

My heart thudded against my ribs, not because of what Keith had said, or how angry he was, but because I was too pathetic, too weak, to tell Keith that Wright was just a thug and a bully and that I’d rather be alone than hang out with him. Plus I hated myself because I couldn’t tell Keith off for blabbing about Marian. I just sat there, a sweaty, gelatinous lump – a beached jellyfish.

Useless.

Spineless.

The day before New Year’s Eve, I turned the bike into the caravan park driveway, half an hour early as usual.

“Good morning!” chirped Barry, from in front of the office.

I froze, mouth open.

With Barry stood a boy. And not just any boy, but the Aborigine who’d made Wright look like an idiot at the river. The boy’s steady gaze seemed to slice through my skin and straight to my heart.

“Robbie, this is Micky,” said Barry.

“Hello.” My voice sounded like a robot from a TV show.

“Hello,” said Micky, nodding.

“I’ve asked Mickey to help us out three days a week. Take some pressure off us.”

For a split second disappointment swamped me, then I realised Barry hadn’t said take the pressure off “me”, but “us”, as though he and I were a team. I stood a little taller.

“Not that you aren’t doing a great job, Robbie. I just underestimated how much work there’d be.”

“It’ll be good to have the help.” I’d never spoken to an Aborigine before. Was that an okay thing to say?

Again, Micky nodded.

A Ford wagon covered in dust and squished bugs, towing a caravan, eased to a stop outside the office.

“Four-berth?” It was like I had to prove something.

“Spot on, Robbie. Listen, while I book them in and help them set up, you show Micky the ropes.” Barry handed me keys. “Start with the storeroom.”

“No worries,” I said, using one of Barry’s favourite expressions.

Barry strolled to where the driver stretched beside his car.

I glanced at Micky. Would he hate me because I’d been with Wright? Maybe he hadn’t seen me. “The storage shed is this way.”

While I explained the layout of the shed, Micky inspected the shelves.

“This here is paint. White. The paint’s white, I mean. It’s for the rocks and fences and stuff.”

Micky, who had his back to me, didn’t speak.

“And they’re the tools. You know, hammers and stuff.”

He turned and I caught a glimpse of laughter sparkling in his eyes.

“Buckets, mops and scrubbing brushes.” I stumbled as I stepped across the room.

“Good trip?”

“What?” I spun to look at him.

He nodded at my feet. “Good trip?”

I did this strange, tight laugh. “Good one.”

“What happened to your eye?” he asked.

Pretty straight-up question from someone I’d just met. I straightened the rolls of toilet paper on the bottom shelf. “Messed a somersault. Did a bellywhacker and hit something under water.”

“Was that you at the river? On Saturday?”

“Yes, it was me.” He knew I’d been with Wright.

“You let go way too early.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You’ve gotta work up more speed, and when you’ve swung as high as the rope will take you–” He clapped and waved his arms in a wide circle. “Let go! You’ll be out in the middle of the river. Safest there.” The excitement faded from his face. “Those other blokes, they your friends?”

“Wright’s not my friend,” I blurted. “Keith is, was–” I looked at my feet. “Keith used to be my friend.” I ushered Micky outside and closed the door behind us. “I’ll show you the shower blocks.”

“Goodo. We blacks have never seen those before.”

I felt my eyes pop.

Micky gave a snort. “Just so you know, I had nothing to do with the windows at the high school.”

“Neither did I! At the Station, I mean.” Heat spread from the base of my throat to my scalp. “I heard about it, but …” My brain screamed,
Stop talking. Now!
“Anyway, the toilets.” I led the way, shoulders slumped. Micky would not only think I was Wright’s friend, but that I was a total idiot.

Barry found us at the irrigation pump near the river. “That man couldn’t reverse if his life depended on it. How’s the tour, Micky?”

“Good. I know all about mops and toilets.”

Barry returned his smile. “He’s conscientious, our Robbie. Great worker.”

No one had said I was great at anything. Ever. A flush of pride burned in my chest.

“Well, let’s make a start. Robbie, can you mow out the front? We’ll begin with the laundry.”

Part of me felt proud Barry had sent me off on my own, but something nipped at my guts. Micky was working with Barry.

Barry and Micky stepped out of the laundry as I raked the grass clippings. There were splashes of water and soap suds on Barry’s button-up shirt.

“All done?” I asked.

“Finished. We’ll freshen those up after lunch.” He pointed to the painted boulders, more grey than white, marking the roads around the park. “Maybe do those fences too.” He nodded at the lengths of chain hanging between posts. “If we have time.”

“We should,” I said, trying to sound like I knew what I was talking about. I’d never scrubbed or painted before working for Barry.

“Well, I’m starving. Let’s have lunch,” said Barry, rubbing his hands together. “Pretty sure Mum has cooked a roast.”

Did Barry mean Micky
and
me? And did he mean we’d be eating inside? Together?

The only Aborigines I’d heard about who went inside a white person’s home worked for them, doing cleaning and washing. And I was just about certain they didn’t eat with their bosses. Maybe Barry meant we’d eat at the garden setting out the back, even though it was hot enough to cook the roast on the concrete.

Barry walked to the back door.

“Could you run me an errand after lunch, Robbie?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“We need a couple of things at the hardware store. You know the drill. Put it on the account. I’ll give you a list.”

Barry opened the flywire door. Micky stood on the path.

“Coming, Micky?” asked Barry.

He folded his arms. “I’m not allowed inside the–”

Barry swatted the air. “Don’t be silly. Come on.”

It took a moment for Micky to move. When he did, his steps were slow and deliberate.

Inside, Mrs Gregory greeted me with a hug, and reached out with both hands to Micky, who stood frozen in the kitchen doorway. She clasped Micky’s hand and pulled him into the room. “So lovely to meet you, Micky. Goodness, you do look like your uncle Dwayne.”

Micky smiled, eyes still lowered.

“Now, you three, go and wash up. Lunch is ready.”

Barry led the way to the bathroom, telling us how his mother’s roast potatoes were the best in the world.

I followed Micky, whose head swivelled as he looked around. He studied and copied every movement Barry made, even smoothing the towel he dried his hands on.

Back in the kitchen, Barry showed Micky to a seat at the table. I watched for a moment, anxious about where he would sit. When Barry directed him to the seat beside where I sat, I let out the breath I’d been holding.

“Can I help, Mrs Gregory?” I asked.

“Thank you. Be a love and carry these plates to the table, Robbie. They are yours and Micky’s.”

Micky whispered a thank you when I put a plate of roast pork, peas, baked potatoes, pumpkin and carrots in front of him.

“Be good if you’re available Mondays, Thursdays and Fridays, Micky,” said Barry. “They’re our busiest days, aren’t they, Mum?”

Mrs Gregory, who joined us at the table, added, “The lead-up to and after the weekend are always frantic in summer.”

“Some Saturdays too,” added Barry.

“That’d be fine,” said Micky. The spark and confidence I’d noticed at the river and earlier in the day had disappeared. He glanced at Mrs Gregory before picking up his knife and fork. After a moment he turned his fork over and ploughed it through the peas. I held my breath. The only time I’d eaten my peas like that, Nan had exploded with rage. Mrs Gregory and Barry paid no attention.

I cut a slice of pork, wondering if Micky felt out of place, strange, sitting at a table in a white person’s house. Because it sure felt strange to be sitting beside an Aborigine.

I’d never spoken to a black before today and now here I was eating with one. I wondered what Nan would make of it. Not that I was going to tell her.

“You’re quiet today, Robbie,” said Mrs Gregory, handing me the salt and pepper.

“Just eating, Mrs Gregory. Lunch is delicious, thank you. You were right, Barry; these are the best baked potatoes ever.”

“Get away with you. You’re a smooth-talker, Robbie.” Mrs Gregory smiled. She asked Barry questions about the family at site 24, whose child had to be taken to hospital with earache last night, and the older couple at site 12, who had forgotten the lead that linked the caravan to the power socket.

I ate, listening to them chat, and glancing at Micky beside me. He reminded me of a rabbit on the side of the road, constantly on the watch.

After lunch, Barry gave me the list for the hardware shop. “Ask Alf to put it on the account.”

“Sure.” I folded the note into a small square.

“Righto, Micky, you and I are going to whitewash those boulders.”

I watched their relaxed, easy strides, before grabbing my bike and pedalling towards town.

By the time I reached Main Street, my skin was shiny with sweat. As I parked my bike in the rack a hand clamped my shoulder.

“How’s your face?” asked Keith.

“Looks better,” said Billy, beside him.

“It’s fine.” My shoulder burned where Keith had squeezed it. “How long you in town for, Billy?”

“‘Til the second. We’re going to the pool on New Year’s Day. You coming?”

I frowned. “Not sure. Might be working.”

“You working now?” asked Billy.

“Buying stuff we need.” I took the list from my pocket as explanation.

Keith stepped closer. He spoke in a low voice. “Wright’s going to sort out that Abo, Micky Menzies.”

“Why?”

“Payback,” said Keith.

“For what? Micky didn’t touch Wright.” The words came out in a screech Bat Face Fielding would be proud of.

“He turned up at a white swimming area and made a fool of Wrighty. That’s enough. And what about the damage to our school? I’d say he’s begging for a beating.”

Micky’s face during lunch flashed through my mind.

“But there’s no colour bar on the river. And the school, well, that wasn’t him.”

“How would you know?” Keith rolled his eyes.

That familiar flush crept up my throat.

“Look, Robbie, boongs are no-good no-hopers. Ask Dad, he’ll tell you. Wrighty is just making sure that Abo Menzies knows his place.”

I raised the folded list again. “I better …”

“Yeah,” said Keith. “See you at the pool.”

“See how I go.” I stepped through the hardware shop’s open door.