Freedom Ride (6 page)

I just about dropped the wheelbarrow handles. “Out of the reserves and missions?”

“None of those in London. Don’t get me wrong – a lot of argy-bargy and name-calling still goes on, but nothing like around here.”

Dad’s face when he spoke about blacks going to my school flashed through my mind. “Dad said Aborigines are enrolled at Walgaree High next year.”

Barry’s face lit up. “Yeah?” No snorts of disgust or grunts. “That’s a good start.”

“Do you really think …?” I searched for the right words. “Will it work? Blacks and whites together?”

Barry dumped more cut branches onto the bonfire stack. “Can’t see why not, and I reckon it’s past time we tried. All this ‘you’re not allowed here’ and ‘you can’t do that there’ because of skin colour, and not just in Walgaree, all over the country. It’s a bloody disgrace.”

Rubbish cleaned up and tools packed away, Barry stretched and took a packet of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “Let’s call it a day.”

Panic rushed from my gut to my scalp and toes. “It’s only 2.30. Did I say the wrong thing about–”

“Relax, man. It’s Christmas Eve, and I think we deserve the afternoon off.”

My breath out was loud.

We reached the office and Barry motioned for me to follow him inside. He opened a drawer behind the counter and took out a buff-coloured envelope.

I’d seen enough of Dad’s discarded on the kitchen bench to know this was my first pay envelope.

“Only a couple of days’ pay, but figured you’d like the coin before Christmas.” He reached across the bench and handed me the envelope. “Thanks, Robbie. You’re a fast learner. You could just about run this place already.”

My face and throat felt hot. “It’s not like work … thanks. For the opportunity.”

Mrs Gregory peeked through the door connecting the house to the office. “Thought I heard voices.”

“Giving Robbie the rest of the afternoon off.”

“So you can go fishing?”

Barry pulled a pretend hurt face. “Never.”

Mrs Gregory laughed. “I can see straight through you, Barry Arthur Gregory.” She came around the counter and hugged me. At first I stood stiff and straight, but after a second I relaxed and soaked up the warmth. “Thank you for your help, Robbie. You’ve made a big difference in such a short time.” She stepped back, hands still on my shoulders. “Have a merry Christmas.”

I sped out the caravan park gates into the bright afternoon sunlight, physically tired, but light and free. Maybe that was why I took the short cut through the Botanic Gardens instead of riding around them to Main Street as Nan insisted. According to her, the gardens were not a place for hooligans to charge about on their bikes.

I weaved through the entrance and made for the gates opposite. Ahead, a huddle of young people sprawled on the rails of the band rotunda. Voices and laughter carried on the air. I recognised Wright’s cackle.

I’d rather spend time with Nan than talk to that mental giant. As I slowed to turn around, he yelled.

“Oi, Bower.” Wright leaned on the rotunda railing. His mates, Rhook and Edwards, stood either side of him like bookends. Keith sat on the top step, smoking. Since when did Keith smoke?

Instead of taking off, as far away from Wright as I could manage, I steered in their direction.

Wright dragged on the cigarette he held between his index finger and thumb. His jaw jutted out as he exhaled. “Doing jobs for your nan?”

“Nup.” I kept my voice light. “I have a holiday job.”

Wright sniggered. “Mowing for fossils isn’t a job.”

Keith grinned, and flicked cigarette ash on the grass.

“Barry Gregory’s not a fossil.”

Wright snorted. “Dad reckons he’s weird.”

My shoulders tightened. “Is that right?”

“Probably a homo.” He leaned towards me. “Are you a poofter too, Bower?”

Keith spluttered mid-drag. Rhook’s laugh was like a shattering window.

I wanted to punch their smug faces. “Barry’s girlfriend comes back from England soon. Anyway, homos don’t go to Rolling Stones concerts in London.” Like I’d know.

Keith’s face brightened. “He saw the Rolling Stones? For real?”

“Couple of times.”

Wright’s left hand, which had been hanging loose over the rail, closed into a fist.

“Billy gone home?” I asked.

“About an hour ago.” Keith tossed his cigarette butt at a row of shrubs.

“So, what are you lot up to?” I asked.

“Planning a little fun.” The menace in Wright’s voice made my skin tight.

“Swim?” I asked.

Rhook snorted. “Nah, going to the Station.”

Like most people in Walgaree, I’d never been to the Station. I gripped my handlebars tight. “Walgaree Station, the Station? The Aborigine mission?”

Edwards sniggered. “There’s an echo in here.”

“Yeah, Bower, the Station. Those boongs can’t turn up at Memorial Park and get away with it.”

“You can’t … I mean …” I stammered.

Wright jolted upright. “What. Did. You. Say?” He strode down the steps, chest puffed out.

My courage rushed from me. “You can’t go there. I mean, everyone knows they’re dirty and diseased. You’ll get sick. You should stay away.”

Wright’s chest deflated. “Desperate times require desperate actions, my friend.”

A prickly sensation, a mixture of anger and fear, flooded me. “What are you going to do?”

Wright shrugged. “Haven’t decided yet. Are you in?”

I stared at the weathered edge of the step. “Actually, I have to get home.”

Before any of them could speak, I wheeled my bike back to the path.

Keith’s voice drifted after me. “His nan’s an old bag. He’d come if he could.”

My hands clenched the handlebars and I rode to Main Street.

Dad pulled into the first gap in the endless line of cars angle-parked along the street in front of the church. Dad, Nan and I went to midnight Mass every Christmas Eve, no matter what.

From the back seat, I watched men wearing hats, women in gloves and pressed and polished children trot towards the looming church. Dad opened the car door. The faint sound of Christmas carols played on an organ drifted on the breeze.

Without speaking, I followed Nan, who wore gloves, hat and a coat despite the warm night, and Dad, who held his hat in front of him. Golden light spilled from the church’s open door and flickered behind stained-glass windows.

Nan sailed down the aisle to her usual seat, second from the front. I sat between her and Dad. On my knees and with my head bowed, I glanced about as best I could without moving. People with starched collars, sharp trouser creases and stiff skirts that rustled with the slightest movement kneeled or sat in the pews.

Keith and his family were across the aisle to my right; ahead of them were Ian Wright, his parents and his equally dense-looking younger brothers.

I jumped when the organist, Mrs Dixon, hit and held a chord which seemed to shake the church’s stone walls. Everyone stood and sang “O Come, All Ye Faithful”.

Through the service, I stood, kneeled and spoke in the right places. I knew I should have been praying, but I was so tired after work, I was flat out staying awake.

Relief flooded me when Father Malachy stepped forwards for the recessional hymn, “Silent Night”. Not long now until I could sink into bed and close my eyes. Then my shoulders sagged. Even midnight Mass wouldn’t stop Nan from doing her usual after-church thing. Once the last hymn was over, she’d gather her bag and sail down the aisle, out the door to the rosebush in the corner of the churchyard where she gathered with Bat Face Fielding and her other friends. Even though they’d spent an hour praying and promising to act like Jesus, the moment they were outside, not even off church grounds, they burst into a gossip session.

True to form, tonight she made a beeline for Bat Face and the rosebush.

I spied Keith and Wright by the church’s stone fence. “I’m going to the car, Dad.”

He nodded. “Ahh, there’s Bull.” He raised his hand and waved, then strutted to where Mr Jackson stood with his wife.

I’d just stepped outside the church grounds and was calculating what would be quicker – waiting in the car for Nan and Dad, or walking home – when Keith slammed into my shoulder.

“Bower!” He danced in front of me. “Merry Christmas.”

“Thanks. You too.” Even in the low light from the church, Keith’s huge grin was easy to see.

“Did you end up going to the Station?”

“Sure did. Broke three windows at the school. That sent ‘em a message, eh?”

“You’re joking, right?”

Keith shook his head. “Nah, three windows. Oh, and the light over the office door. Ripped out a few trees too. Mangy-looking things, just like the Abos.” He glanced over his shoulder and stepped closer to me. “But you can’t tell anyone, Bower. Someone called the cops and we had to take off. Only just made it to the scrub near the river before Dad and Morph arrived. Dad thinks black kids did it. If he finds out it was me … You can’t tell anyone, Bower. Swear it.”

“I swear.”

Wright appeared beside us. “Bower.” He said it like he was listing things around him. Tree. Footpath. Parked car. Bower.

“You working Boxing Day?” Even though he smiled, it sounded like an accusation.

“Nope, I have Christmas and Boxing Day off.”

“We’re going to the river Boxing Day morning. You should come. That’s if your nan will let you.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Hurry up, Ian,” growled a gruff voice from the road.

“Coming,” answered Wright. The bluster returned to his voice when he looked back to Keith and me. “River, Saturday, about eleven.”

He raced across the nature strip, grey in the gloom, to where his father waited by a dark car.

“I better get going, too,” said Keith. “Dad’s on duty.”

Walgaree was small enough for anyone who needed the local cop on Christmas Eve to know they’d find him at church.

“See you then.”

“Boxing Day,” said Keith, over his shoulder.

The Christmas tree drooped in the corner, as though the smell of Nan’s roast turkey, pork and pudding hanging in the warm air had sapped the last of its will to live. Beneath it, wrapped in choirboy paper, were presents that had been there since the start of December.

Dad sat in his armchair, reading
The Bulletin
. An article about students or blacks, judging by the head-shaking and snorting.

Nan wiped the kitchen table so hard it shook.

I dried the last of the dishes, which I’d also washed.

“When you’re finished we’ll open presents,” said Nan.

If she hoped that would speed me up, she was wrong. Past Christmases told me my gifts would be underwear. Maybe, if I was lucky, there’d be new swimmers this year. My old ones had been bright red, but were now pink. Even though I’d dropped a thousand and one hints, I knew none of the parcels would contain the transistor radio I’d seen at Dobson’s.

Keith, Billy, not even fathead Wright, would ever be given socks and undies. They’d receive a record player, or LPs or a transistor radio, or maybe a new bike.

And Keith and Billy still received gifts from Father Christmas. I hadn’t since my eighth birthday when Nan told me the truth about Santa. Happy birthday, Robbie.

So, the way I saw it, there was no rush to dry the dishes.

Soggy tea towel dumped in the laundry sink, I trudged to the lounge room.

Bluey flapped to the top of the Christmas tree and perched beside the angel. The bird received the same gift every Christmas – freedom to fly around the house.

Guess whose Christmas gift was to clean up the splats of budgie poo? I swear that bird stored a week’s worth of shit for Christmas Day.

Dad shaped the ash on the end of his cigarette into a point. “How about you give out the gifts this year, Robbie?”

Nan had strict rules about Christmas. Dad distributed gifts, one at a time. The next wasn’t to be handed out until the first had been unwrapped and a fuss made about Nan’s generosity. “Frank, that’s your job.”

Dad dismissed her with a wave of his cigarette. “Your grandmother first, Robbie.”

As soon as Nan had thanked Dad for the gingham apron, she said, “Your father.”

And so it went until I unwrapped the last of the gifts. “Sports socks. Great, Dad. Just what I needed.” I added them to the pile of singlets, underpants, dress socks, school shorts and beige swimmers with a brown belt.

“What are those?” asked Nan, nodding at the brown paper packages still under the tree.

Bluey chirped.

I cleared my throat. “Gifts. From me. Mrs Quinn at Dobson’s Department Store wrapped them for me. She was out of Christmas paper.”

She looked from me to Dad, unable to hide her surprise. “Did you organise this?”

“It was
my
idea,” I said, before Dad could speak. “Barry paid me yesterday and …” I reached for the first package. “Well, anyway, Merry Christmas, Nan.”

She slipped her finger between the paper and tape. “Oh, lavender talc.” She looked up, her eyes shining. “Lavender is my favourite. Thank you.”

My face flushed.

She reached out her hand. I weaved aside to avoid a hug, but kissed her on the cheek. I now recognised her flowery scent as lavender.

“This one’s for you, Dad.” I handed him the last package, which felt heavier than it had on the way home yesterday.

“Thank you, Robert,” he said, voice thick.

I stepped back to the mantelpiece and watched. Mrs Quinn had suggested ties, handkerchiefs, even a leather folder for his cheque book, but the moment I saw the picture frame, I knew what I wanted.

“Show me, Frank,” said Nan.

Dad’s movements were slow as he lifted the silver-plated frame free of the paper.

“How lovely. That picture taken before New Guinea would fit perfectly. You look very handsome in that photo.”

I cleared my throat, which all of a sudden felt tight. “Actually, Dad, I was thinking …” I folded my arms. “A photo of you and Mum on your wedding day – or maybe of the three of us – would look good in it.”

Above me, Bluey shifted position, the sound of his flapping wings loud in the quiet. He chirruped and fluttered to the mantelpiece, perching between a vase Nan never used for flowers and the china figurine of a woman whose skirt swirled like she was caught in a gust of wind. If I had a penny for every time Nan told me the figurine had been a wedding present from Grandpa, and “an expensive one, at that”, I’d have been able to fill the house with the ugly things.