Freedom Ride (13 page)

My breath out was ragged. I hadn’t warned Micky, but I could tell Barry what they’d said. I swallowed. “There’s something else. Wright said you were going to get what you had coming.” I looked up. “I think they’re going to hurt you, too.”

“Hell, Robbie, it’ll take more than that idiot Wright or his father to scare me. Just you look after yourself. It will all die down, soon enough.”

Only it didn’t sound like he meant it.

He slapped his knees. “Well, I want to check on Micky.”

“Can I come?” I asked, not sure I wanted to.

Barry rubbed his chin. “Probably best you don’t. Not today. Another time.”

I nodded. “Can I call you later? Find out how he is?”

“I’ll phone you when I get back,” said Barry.

As I walked to where I’d dropped my bike in front of the office, I glanced around the park. When I’d left yesterday, there had only been one gap in the front rows of caravans. Today there were five more spaces.

Saturday morning, Barry strolled out the office door. “Beautiful day for it, boys.”

Micky and I had arrived at the same time. I’d ridden my bike from town. Micky had walked from Walgaree Station, the opposite direction.

Barry had telephoned after he visited Micky and said he was okay, just sad and sorry. But Micky looked much worse than that to me.

The left side of his face was swollen, and the white of his left eye was shot with blood. His top lip was fat and looked cut. He pressed his arm against his right side as he walked.

A rush of hatred for Wright exploded from me as a scoff.

“You right there, Robbie?” asked Barry.

“Sorry, just thinking about someone.”

“Can I guess?”

I rolled my eyes in answer.

“Didn’t know we had departures today,” I said, looking around the park.

“Few unexpected ones, that’s all. Not unusual.” Barry clapped and rubbed his hands together. “Righto, fellas. Robbie, can you mow the vacant sites please? Micky, we’ll clean that pump.” He tossed me the key to the garden shed.

A Ford station wagon pulled off the road. Gravel crunched as it crept to a stop outside the office. The wagon’s doors opened. Sergeant Axford, wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt and trousers instead of uniform, stepped out of the driver’s side of the car. His passengers were Dad’s friends. Walgaree Mayor, Fred “Bull” Jackson, who owned Jackson’s Used Cars and Crash Repairs, and Des “Twiggy” Mathes, owner of the hardware store and a town councillor. I recognised the other man, Walgaree Station manager Bill Janeski, but hadn’t met him before.

“Micky, help Robbie with the mowing,” said Barry, watching the four men smooth their clothes. “Dump the cuttings on the garden today.”

When I didn’t move, Barry added, “It’s okay, Robbie, I can handle this.” He patted my shoulder and strolled to the office. “Hello, gentleman. Surely you haven’t all been kicked out of home and need accommodation.” Everything about Barry – his voice, his stance, even the tilt of his head – oozed confidence.

“We need to talk,” said Bull Jackson, hitching his pants even higher.

“Come on,” whispered Micky. He seemed to have shrunk into himself.

With a sigh, I followed him to the shed, unlocked the padlock and swung the door open. Mickey reached for the rake and laid it in the wheelbarrow. He sucked in air through his teeth.

“I can do that.”

He shot me a defiant look. “You gonna push the mower and the barrow, too, are you?”

I gripped the mower’s handles. “I meant I’d come back for it. You …” I took a breath to gather my courage. “You look pretty sore. I thought pushing the barrow would hurt. I didn’t mean you couldn’t do it.”

He glared, but as he took the wooden handles, he gasped. That’s when I saw his teeth. The last time I’d seen him, when we’d headed home, Micky had smiled and waved. I remembered thinking he had perfect teeth – square, white and strong.

But now a triangle of white was missing from a front tooth.

Shoulders heavy, I wheeled the mower out of the steamy shed into the sunshine. I glanced at the office. Barry held the door open. The four men walked inside. “What do you reckon that is about?” I asked.

“What do you reckon?” Micky glowered. “Me.”

The jagged sounds of the lawnmower made talking impossible, which suited me. While I mowed, Micky raked and emptied the barrow. I hadn’t ever seen him sweat so much, but despite the grimaces and grunts, he worked harder than ever.

After I’d finished mowing, I helped Micky spread the lawn clippings. I talked about the weather, Biggles and even that fish I’d caught. Micky stayed quiet. When I made a joke about how Nan would be a good spear thrower, Micky stared at me, lip curled.

It took me a moment to realise what I’d said. I’d stammered about mulberries, and Nan knocking out Barry’s tooth with a broom … but the damage was done. I gave up.

We’d finished the mowing and had tidied up, yet the Ford was still in front of the office.

“We’ll do the edges, I guess.”

Micky placed the rake across the wheelbarrow and pushed it to the shed. I followed with the lawnmower.

A woman, scarf tied around her rollers and knotted under her chin, stood in front of her caravan, she clutched material to her chest. She watched Micky with crow eyes. When he neared, she shook the material, which turned out to be a tablecloth. Crumbs and who knows what else rained over him.

“Dirty, troublemaking Abo,” she snarled.

I wanted to tell her to shut up. That she was a rude pig. But I stood there, hands on the mower, silent.

Micky brushed down his T-shirt, face calm.

Gert’s gravel voice filled the air. “That’s enough.” She stood by the toilet block, hands on her hips. “Apologise this instant.”

For a second I thought she was talking to Micky and me, but with fists clenched, she stomped down the path towards the woman, who scrambled inside her van before Gert reached her.

Gert stopped beside Micky and me, her breath a series of huffs. “Don’t you settle for that rubbish, Micky.” She hurried away to her van.

Nan was waiting for me at the back doorstep, arms folded. “What is this I hear about you working with an Abo?” She spat the word as though it was sour on her tongue.

“Hello, Nan.” I tried to step around her, but she blocked my way.

“Don’t ‘hello Nan’ me. Is it true?”

“Is what true?” asked Dad, strolling around the corner, suit jacket slung over his arm. I hadn’t heard his car pull into the drive.

“These shenanigans have gone far enough, Francis.” Nan’s face was flushed and sharp. “Today was his last day with that Barry Gregory.”

Dad closed his eyes and breathed out. “What have you done now?”

“Nothing!” I wrestled to control my bubbling anger.

“He is working with an Abo! And not just any Abo, but that Dwayne Menzies’s nephew.”

As she spoke Nan flung her hands around. The sagging skin beneath her arms wobbled. She pointed at me, Dad and in the direction of the Station and caravan park.

My mind drifted, unable to keep up with her rant or accusations. I patched together a smattering of words.

“Disgraceful, bohemian, drug-addled hippy.” Barry.

“Violent, depraved boong.” Dwayne.

“Filthy, diseased Abo.” Micky.

“Feeble-minded, innocent idiot.” Me.

“Pathetic, spineless, weak man.” Dad.

“Enough.” Dad’s voice was a force against my skin.

Nan reeled back, mouth agape.

“I will not listen to this a moment longer. The boy has a commitment to Barry Gregory, and he will fulfil it. As for the Abo, Bull visited Barry today and made the town’s feelings very clear.” Dad shoved Nan aside and stormed up the steps, slamming the wire and back doors behind him.

Nan wobbled and swayed. I reached out a hand to steady her, but she slapped it away.

She stalked inside, face as white as her smalls hanging limp on the clothes line.

I lay across the bed on my stomach, flicking through a Marvel comic Keith lent me ages ago. I stopped at the full-page advertisement for a portable transistor radio, like Keith’s.

The door creaked as it opened.

I rolled onto my back.

Dad stood in the doorway, cigarette in his left hand, glass of beer in the other. “Toast for dinner, okay?”

“Nan has a headache?”

“Yep.” He sipped his drink. “Listen, about that boong kid. Do you have to work with him?”

I swallowed.

“Because, if you had to work with an Abo, do the same jobs he does, well then I’d have to change my mind about you working there.”

I sat up and wriggled to the edge of the bed. “Dad, Barry tells me what he wants and I go and do that. Micky works with Barry.” I hoped Bull and Twiggy hadn’t seen Micky and me together today. I watched the cigarette smoke coil and flutter to the ceiling.

“I’ll talk to Barry to make sure.”

“It’s okay – honest, Dad. I’d tell you if there’s a problem.”

He sucked the cigarette. The tip glowed red. He exhaled with a sigh. “All right.” He stepped back from the doorway. White ash fluttered to the carpet as he shut the door.

Instead of dragging, the school holidays passed quickly. Barry, Micky and I fell into an easy rhythm, often working separately and not seeing much of each other until lunch. When we were together, it was easy. The days were hot, dusty and sweaty, but every night when I sprawled across my bed, I felt good, satisfied. Something I hadn’t been in forever. Each time I walked out of Nan’s kitchen or was in the park office, I avoided looking at the calendars. I figured if I didn’t look, the days wouldn’t go so fast.

“Hey, Robbie.”

I glanced up from the gully trap outside the laundry block to see Barry strolling towards me.

I’d been cleaning river sand and fish scales and guts from where they’d blocked the drain. My money was on the man with no T-shirt and a blindingly white belly. This morning I’d seen him saunter off to the river, fishing rod in hand. He was back now, perched on the bonnet of his car, smoking.

“Reckon you can do a job up the street for me?”

“Sure.” I placed the grille back over the drain and turned on the tap. Water flowed, gurgled and, with a burp, disappeared. I twisted the tap off. “Drain’s clear, so all finished here.”

“I’m out of envelopes and I need a new receipt book.” Barry frowned, the furrows in his forehead deep.

“Barry, is everything all right?”

He sighed. “All good, Robbie. I’ve just been reminded why I left this bloody town.”

“I’m glad you came back.”

Barry’s smile didn’t chase the shadows from his eyes. “Thanks, mate.”

“People are giving you a tough time about Micky, aren’t they?”

“Even Dwayne. He just phoned and said it would be better for everyone if I sacked Micky. Said he thought it would ease the tension.” He kicked at couch grass creeping onto the path. “Bugger the town. And bugger Dwayne. Robbie, are you getting a hard time?”

“No.” The strength in my voice shocked me.

Barry smiled. “Pull the other one.”

I shrugged. “I’m not, honest. Nan had something to say about it, but Dad said I had a commitment to you and that shut her up.”

“I understand if you want to finish up–”

“Just envelopes and an invoice book, then?” I asked, brushing dirt from my clothes.

“You’re a cracker, Robbie Bower.”

Edwards’s Newsagency was smack in the middle of Main Street, a low-slung brick building that clung determinedly to the earth. The windows were filled with advertising posters for
New Idea
and
Woman’s Weekly
. One showed a wholesome, shapely woman in a floral dress and apron, holding a saucepan. The other pictured a blonde with red lips in a tailored dress and matching hat. Both had calm, smooth expressions that I’d never seen on any woman’s face around here. Along the footpath, resting against the shopfront and locked up behind wire cages as though they posed a threat to passers-by, were newspaper banners for
The Sydney Morning Herald
, the
Daily Telegraph
,
The Walgaree Herald
– all screaming the day’s headlines. Vietnam, civil rights and student riots.