Freedom Ride (18 page)

“Right.” I studied Barry. For someone who wanted change and didn’t seem to care what the locals thought of him, he sure looked worried about the students coming to Walgaree. “Barry, are you feeling all right?”

He took a slow breath. “Fine.” He rubbed his forehead. “Robbie, there was an accident. Last night. A bad one.”

A shudder ran down my spine.

“Micky …”

I staggered back. “Is he okay?”

Barry shook his head, a look of pain across his face. “His uncle Dwayne was hit by a car. Left for dead on the side of the road like a bloody kangaroo.” He snorted. “Actually, not a kangaroo – people pull them off the asphalt.”

The sounds of cockatoos and parrots in the trees became louder.

“When did it happen?”

“Last night – late. From what Nancy told me, he was walking home after visiting friends.”

A sick feeling swirled in my stomach. I thought of Dad’s broken windscreen and crumpled bonnet. I forced the words, terrified of Barry’s answer. “Where? Where was he hit?”

“The edge of the Crossing. On Brindabella Road.”

The Crossing. Dad never went that side of town.

Dwayne’s death couldn’t have anything to do with him. I breathed out in a rush.

“You okay?” asked Barry.

“Fine. Just thinking about Micky.”

“He worships Dwayne.”

“More than his dad?”

Barry shook his head. “It’s different, Micky’s dad works at the Mission, where they live. Maintenance mainly, and shears when the shearing’s on. He’s a good bloke, but Dwayne, he held the community together. Worked to improve conditions. Stood up when things were wrong. A real top bloke.”

“Poor Micky,” I mumbled. And I meant it; I was sad for Micky and his family, but lurking beneath that, in the pit of my gut, was relief. When Barry explained what had happened to Dwayne, I was terrified Dad had something to do with it.

But Dwayne was killed near the Crossing.

Dad never went anywhere near the Crossing.

Dad’s car and Dwayne were just a coincidence.

“Well, come on.” Barry slapped the desk. “We better make a start.”

I followed Barry out the door.

I wheeled my bike to the garage but froze when I drew level with the backyard. Dad’s car was parked where it had been last night and he was hosing it down. I leaned my bike against the garage wall and walked to the car.

The bonnet was undamaged and the windscreen unbroken. Maybe I’d been mistaken last night. Maybe the tree limbs waving in the wind had distorted the shadows.

I massaged my forehead with my fingertips.

“Big day at work?” asked Dad.

“I guess.” I looked into his eyes. “Micky didn’t work today. His uncle died last night.”

Dad dropped his gaze to the bonnet. “Heard about it at golf. Terrible business. Did Barry say how it happened?”

“No. Just that he’d been hit near the Crossing.” I touched the car’s smooth hood.

“Hands off. I’ve just cleaned that,” said Dad. “Go and help your grandmother.”

As I turned to go, I stopped. Last time I’d been in the car with Dad, which had been Sunday on the way to church, I’d noticed a huge stone chip in the windscreen, just above the rear-view mirror. Long cracks had spread in all directions from the crazed centre of the chip.

It was gone.

I hadn’t imagined it. Dad’s car had been smashed up. But how could it be fixed already? Then it hit me – Bull Jackson would have fixed everything.

“Car looks slick, Dad,” I said.

He lifted his head. For a split second his face contorted. “You can clean the thing next week. I’m too busy for this.”

“Sure.” Thoughts raced through my mind, too slippery to hold on to.

Dad settled in front of the television, cigarettes, ashtray and second bottle of beer on the table beside his chair. When he’d said he was having another longneck, Nan had just shook her head. No staring at his potbelly and asking if he really needed more.

She’d been fussing over him as though it was his birthday. She’d made his favourite meal for dinner, silverside with mustard sauce and cabbage, followed by apple crumble with cream and ice-cream. Every time she passed him she patted his shoulder or picked a hair or piece of fluff from his shirt.

I tucked tonight’s behaviour, along with my discovery about the missing chip in the windscreen, into my top pocket.

Nan knitted in her usual chair, pattern spread on her knee. I read another book Barry had lent me,
My Brother Jack
.

The doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” said Nan, gathering the wool and needles.

Dad reached for the cigarette packet.

“Hello, Des, Fred. Frank is in the lounge room. I’ll just pop the kettle on.” I tried to remember a time when Nan had sounded so cheery when people dropped in without notice.

Fred Jackson and Des Mathes strolled into the room. Fred held his hat in front of his broad chest. Des smoothed what was left of his slicked hair.

Dad stumbled when he reached for the off button on the television. He shook both men’s hands. “Bull. Twiggy. Sit down.” Dad’s eyes darted from one man to the other.

Bull sat in Nan’s chair. Twiggy settled on the sofa beside me. He smelled of Old Spice and Brylcreem.

“Hello, young Robbie.”

I greeted them, not by the nicknames Dad used, but as Mr Jackson and Mr Mathes.

“I know Mum’s making tea, but how about a beer?” Dad lifted the bottle. “Robbie, two more glasses.”

Bull Jackson raised his large hand. “Thanks, Robbie, but Des and I are fine.”

Dad told me once that he, Bull and Twiggy had fought at Kokoda. Another friend of theirs left Walgaree with them but was killed on the track. Apart from telling me Bull had been a sergeant, Dad hadn’t told me anything else about New Guinea. The few times I saw him with Bull and Twiggy, it was clear Bull still gave the orders and Dad and Twiggy followed.

“You still working at Gregory’s caravan park?” asked Bull, hat perched on his knee.

“Yes, sir. Just weekends now school is back.”

“What’s that Barry like?”

I shifted on the sofa. The fabric rustled. “He’s a good man. Fair boss. Works hard.”

Bull nodded. “Has he ever told you why he employed an Abo?”

“He just said he needed another worker.”

“Does he make you work with that Abo?” asked Twiggy, Adam’s apple bobbing.

My mouth felt dry. “The only times that happened, I was in charge.” I couldn’t look at Dad. Even though I’d promised him I never worked with Micky, I knew Bull and Twiggy had seen me with Micky that time they visited Barry.

Twiggy tugged at his chin. “That’s just not right,” he muttered.

I wanted to scream that Micky was a good bloke, and that they should leave Micky and Barry alone.

But I just bowed my head.

Nan returned, carrying a tray with a teapot, cup and saucers, and a plate of raspberry drop biscuits. “Robbie, a table please.”

I placed the largest of the nesting tables in the middle of the room. Nan put the tray down and began pouring tea.

“Those bloody students are bringing their bus here,” said Bull Jackson. “Well, let me tell you, it won’t happen while I am mayor of this town.”

“Robert,” said Nan, steam curling in front of her face. “This is an adult conversation.”

“Right. Well, goodnight, Mr Jackson, Mr Mathes.” I shook the men by their hands, careful to look into their eyes as Nan and Dad reminded me constantly. “See you in the morning, Nan, Dad.”

I walked to the kitchen, but instead of going to my room I hovered by the door, straining to hear what was being said. Bull Jackson’s deep rumble was the easiest to pick out.

“He’s grown up, Bird,” he said, using Dad’s nickname.

“Especially in the last month,” said Dad. “Work has been good for him.”

Twiggy’s higher voice floated to the kitchen. “Can’t see how working with a coon is good for him. Reckon I could find him a job at the store.”

“That would be marvellous,” chirped Nan. “I’ve told Frank until I was blue in the face, Des, working with that Barry Gregory and a coloured boy will poison the lad’s mind.”

“Leave it, Mum.” It was a more a sigh than words from Dad. “After what’s happened …” His voice trailed off.

“Fair call, Bird. Let’s not make changes that attract attention. Everything as normal.” Metal chinked against china.

“How did the,” it sounded like Dad coughed or cleared his throat, “clean up go?”

“Sorted,” said Twiggy.

“Just as I said last night, Bird, we had all the parts. Twiggy here would make a good smash repair man,” added Bull.

“But people saw me.” I’d never heard Dad sound so unsure. “They–”

Bull Jackson cut him off. “Bird, it’s sorted.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen, the walls may have ears,” said Nan. “I’ll just check on Robbie.”

I rushed to the bathroom as fast as I could. With the door shut, I turned on the tap and squeezed toothpaste onto my toothbrush. Mind as thick as the foam in my mouth, I stared at the window over the basin.

Nan rapped on the door.

“Robert?”

I opened it, toothbrush wedged in my mouth.

She gave a satisfied nod. “Straight to bed when you’re done.” She regarded me with narrowed eyes before hurrying back to the sitting room.

Alone again, I finished my teeth and headed for my room. My movements were as slow as my thoughts.

Mangled bonnet, smashed windscreen.

Bull and Twiggy dropping in unannounced on a Saturday night.

Dad’s panicked voice.

Nan’s change in attitude.

It all added up to something too frightening, too sickening, to swallow.

Mrs Dixon hit the last notes of the final hymn and held them until the church walls seemed to thrum. I followed Dad’s lead, genuflected and shuffled down the aisle to the door. Outside the air was clearer but not cooler. Women in hats and gloves gathered in groups while their kids chased each other around the lone tree on the nature strip. Dad made his way to where Bull Jackson stood, chest out and hat on an angle, with Stretch Edwards and Twiggy Mathes.

Nan bustled off to join Bat Face who was twisting her foot to show Mrs Scott the back of her calf.

On the way to communion I’d seen Billy and Keith. I thought about going to find them, but didn’t. Keith would be full of every gory detail about Dwayne’s death.

Instead, I weaved through the huddles of gossipers to the back of the church where Dad had parked the car near the fishpond. Snippets of conversation hovered on the still summer air.

“… no great loss, just an Abo …”

“… drunk, I suppose. Anyway, how are you meant to see them in the dark?”

“… should give the driver a medal. One less to deal with …”

I perched on a large rock on the edge of the pond. Hunched into myself, I watched the fish, calm and peaceful. I glanced over my shoulder at the frenetic conversations down the side of the church and sighed.

After lunch of roast lamb, potatoes, carrots, peas, and tomato and onion pie, Nan retired to the lounge to knit, which meant doze, and Dad took off to the shed to do whatever it was he did in there.

For a while I read on my bed, but the bedspread felt too wrinkly, the book too heavy and my pillow too hard. I slipped outside to my bike.

At first I just rode around town. I tried not to think about anything in particular, but a never-ending slideshow of thoughts and memories rolled. Micky, Dwayne, mangled bonnets, disappearing windscreen chips, flabby men drinking beer outside caravans. After a while, I found myself outside the caravan park.

Mrs Gregory had said I could drop in any time.

Like the rest of Walgaree, the caravan park seemed to sag in the heat. I parked my bike, and knocked on the back door.

Mrs Gregory answered the door. “Robbie! Come in. Barry is …” She frowned as she searched for words. “Come and have a cup of tea.”

She held the screen door open to allow me to enter.

“How are you, Mrs Gregory?” I asked, taking in her pale face and the deeper lines around her eyes and forehead.

She placed a hand on my arm. “I’m fine, Robbie, thanks for asking.”

I followed her to the kitchen, which smelled of cinnamon and oranges and toast. I gasped.