Freedom Ride (11 page)

That afternoon I tried to find the courage to warn Micky that Wright was going to beat him up. But the words were as slippery as oil, and like the paintbrush I dropped in the gravel over and over, I couldn’t get a grip on them.

At the gully trap, while we were cleaning the brushes, I worked out exactly what I needed to say, but when I opened my mouth, the words evaporated. At the end of the day, Micky turned left and I turned right, and the words were never said.

I didn’t see Micky until lunchtime on New Year’s Eve, and by then I’d convinced myself that Keith was all talk.

When Barry announced it was time for lunch, I thought it was way too hot to eat, yet the moment I started on the cold roast pork with pickles and fresh tomatoes, my appetite returned.

“Leave those beside the sink, boys,” said Mrs Gregory.

“It’s okay,” I said. “We’ll do them. A New Year’s treat.”

“Well, that would be lovely.” She looked pale and somehow older than she had yesterday.

“Thanks, Robbie,” whispered Barry.

I washed, Micky dried and Barry put away. “So, boys, we did much more this morning than I’d hoped. How about this afternoon, instead of working, we go fishing?”

“But …”

Barry raised his hand. “It’s New Year’s Eve, Robbie. I reckon we can take a break. See if we can catch a cod or maybe a yellowbelly for dinner.”

“Worms or yabbies?” asked Micky.

“Worms for starters. We’ll dig them up from under the bonfire pile. We can catch yabbies later if the fish aren’t taking worms. What do you think, Robbie?”

I stared at the murky dishwater. A few remaining suds clung to the edges of the sink. “I haven’t …” I cleared my throat. “I’ve never been fishing.”

“Really?” I could feel Micky’s gaze on my bare arms.

“Dad hates it.”

“Then Micky and I will have to teach you.” Barry called across the bench to his mum, “Coming with us?”

She shook her head. “Not today, love, but thanks.”

“Next time, Mum.” Barry patted the benchtop. “Let’s go, boys.”

Bucket filled with dirt and squirming pink worms in one hand and one of the fishing rods Barry had collected from the sleep-out in the other, I walked with Barry and Micky to the river.

“Make sure you let the line sink,” said Barry.

“And don’t wind it in too fast,” added Micky. “Let the rod do the work.”

Instructions swirled around my head like bush flies.

Rod tip up.

Watch for snags.

Steady pressure.

I thought fishing was supposed to be relaxing.

“Where are you lot off to?” called Gert, head poking through the annexe fly strips. She reminded me of a possum peeking from a tree hollow.

“Fishing, Gert,” said Barry.

“Want one?” asked Micky.

“Now, that would be imposing.” She backed inside. No sooner had the strips closed, than her head popped out again. “Thank you for fixing the light, love.”

“Pleasure, Miss Gert,” said Micky.

She smiled before the fly strips slapped closed again.

“What was that about?” asked Barry.

“I was emptying the bins. She needed a bulb changed. I didn’t think you’d mind,” said Micky.

“Not at all. That’s the most I’ve heard her say to anyone other than me or Mum.”

“She’s pretty shy,” said Micky. “And that van is the neatest place I’ve ever seen. Even neater than our place, and that’s saying something. Mum is a real stickler for everything being tidy.”

We neared an old couple sitting on fold-up chairs outside their caravan annexe. The old man’s arms were pale and fleshy. His wife’s too-tight nylon dress stuck to her many curves.

The man hissed through slipping false teeth. “Thought they fished with spears, not rods.”

I glanced at Micky. He kept walking, rod over his shoulder, expression relaxed. He had to have heard them.

“Great spot in the sun, Mr Baker, Mrs Baker,” said Barry.

The old man’s eyes narrowed.

“Too hot,” snapped the woman, as though Barry could do something about it. Two vans further on, three kids sat in the sedan. Their parents bustled around the caravan.

“I didn’t think we had any departures until next week,” I said to Barry.

“Neither did I.” He passed me his fishing rod and net and placed the tackle basket on the ground. “Wait here, boys. Helen, Geoffrey. Everything all right?”

The woman’s lips puckered. She looked over Barry’s shoulder to Micky and me. “Actually, Barry, everything is not all right. Far from it, in fact.”

Barry bent to look at the kids sweating in the back seat. The kids stared past him to Micky and me.

“Are the children unwell?” asked Barry. “A caravan’s a tough place to have sick littlies.”

“They are in perfect health, thank you, and we intend to keep them that way,” she barked.

“Leave it, love,” said her husband, coiling the power cord. “We’ve decided to head home early.”

“Why?” asked Barry.

My stomach squirmed as though I’d swallowed the bucketful of worms. I had a horrible feeling I knew exactly why they were leaving.

The woman, Helen, folded her arms. “We’re going, Mr Gregory, because of your choice of employee.”

“Robbie?” Barry squawked.

My face flushed. Yesterday I’d helped the youngest girl after she’d fallen and skinned both her knees.

“It’s fine, really, Barry,” said the husband. “It’s just time we–”

“The coon!” spat the woman, pointing at Micky. “How could you have that dirty boong working here?” She advanced on Barry, face red and finger pointed. “There are women and children in this park. How could you place them in such danger?”

Barry stood his ground. “Mrs MacIntosh, if that is how you feel, I would prefer you did leave my caravan park.”

She reeled back as though Barry had shoved her. “You can’t kick us out.”

“I’m not kicking you out; I’m saying if that’s how you feel, it would be better for you to leave. Both my employees, Robbie and Micky, are honest and reliable. And, I might add, disease free. You, on the other hand, are ignorant and ill informed.”

Her mouth made a perfect circle. “Well, I never … Geoffrey!”

The man dropped the coiled power cord inside the open caravan door. “I’m sorry it’s come to this, Barry. We’ll be back when the Abo has gone.”

“Then I’m sorry you won’t be staying with us again.” Barry strode back to us. He picked up the tackle basket and net and took his rod from me. “Let’s go, boys,” he said, voice heavy.

I perched on a fallen red gum and stared at the river. Rings circled my fishing line. Barry sat at the other end of the log, smoking and watching the river. Micky had settled cross-legged on the sand between us.

We’d walked the rest of the way to what Barry called “the fishing spot” in simmering silence. Barry’s jaw was set. Micky stared straight ahead, his face blank, but eyes fierce.

Did I ignore what those people had said or mention it?

And how did I feel about it? It wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard a trillion times a day: blacks are dirty, diseased and unintelligent, a scourge on society – nothing like whites. And that was just what I heard at home. I’d never thought much about it, but now I didn’t know what to think.

Micky gave a yelp and leaped to his feet. He raised his fishing rod and reeled. The tip of the rod bowed.

“Reckon you better grab that net,” said Micky, eyes on the water.

My heart beat a little faster as I eyed the net, leaning against the tree trunk. What was I supposed to do with it?

Barry laughed. “Don’t get too cocky, Micky. Mightn’t have him properly hooked.”

“I have him, I know it – shit!”

The line went slack; so too did Micky’s face. He continued reeling in the line until a bare hook burst from the water.

He muttered and strode across the river sand to the bait bucket. He squatted on his haunches and picked through clumps of dirt. He chose a thick, squirming worm.

“I’m sorry, Micky,” said Barry.

He sounded pretty serious about a lost fish.

Micky threaded the worm onto the hook. “Happens all the time.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t make it right.”

Micky stopped and looked up at Barry, his face grave. “You know, it’d probably be better for you if I didn’t work here.”

I realised they weren’t talking about the lost fish, but the Bakers and MacIntoshes at the caravan park.

“They won’t be the only ones,” continued Micky.

“Probably not.” Barry rubbed his nose. “But they can’t win, Micky.”

The fishing rod jerked in my hand. “What the hell?” The reel whirred as the line zipped through the water.

“Keep your rod up.” Micky grinned. “You’re on, Robbie. Reel it in. Slow and steady.”

He was standing beside me.

Barry ground his cigarette butt into the sand. He picked up the net and rushed to the edge of the water. “You’ve hooked him, man, good and proper. Keep going, Robbie.”

“Bloody thing hooked itself,” I said, adrenaline surging through me.

The water boiled around the taut line and a silver flash broke the surface.

“Yellowbelly!” said Barry. “Good size.”

“Don’t stop winding,” said Micky, so close I could feel his warmth. “That’s it, steady.”

The fish flipped and flopped in the shallows, gold and fat.

Barry readied the net. Micky fired off instructions.

“Got ‘im!” hooted Micky as Barry scooped the fish into the net. Micky slapped my shoulder and raced to where Barry lifted the fish by the line. Sunlight sparkled off the fish’s scales.

“Your first fish, Robbie,” said Barry.

“He’s a beaut,” said Micky. “Good eating.”

I watched Micky remove the hook from the fish’s mouth. I’d never been this close to a fish before. Its belly was creamy yellow but its dorsal fin and tail were dark, almost black. Its gills flapped, exposing red flesh. Its mouth opened and closed.

“I’ll dispatch it with the priest. Help Robbie bait his hook, Micky,” said Barry.

“Dispatch it with a priest?” I turned in time to see Barry hit the fish on the head with a small club. “Right,” I said, looking away.

After Micky had helped me thread a worm onto the hook, he gave me a few tips on casting. Lines all set, we returned to our fishing spots.

“You fish much?” I asked, not directing the question to either of them.

“Only way we survive,” said Micky, face serious. “Catch fish, chuck a boomerang at a kangaroo, spear a possum.”

My mouth gaped. Micky burst out laughing. “Joking, Robbie, joking.”

“You’re a bugger, just like your uncle,” said Barry.

“Which one?”

“Dwayne.”

Micky looked pleased. “He’s okay, Uncle Dwayne.” He turned to me. “Lots of white people think we only eat kangaroos and that. Probably have to if it wasn’t for the Station store. Most of the shops in town won’t serve us.”

“But I thought it was okay if …?” My voice was small.

“What, if there are no white people in the store? Some of them, like Wobbly at the milk bar, will serve us eventually, but most won’t let us inside.” Micky stared at the river. “Wilkinson’s chemist lets us buy stuff if we go around to the back door.”

“How is your grandmother?” asked Barry.

Micky shrugged. “She’s back to bossing everyone around. Sits in that chair like a queen. She’s driving Mum nuts. Uncle Dwayne keeps her sweet.”

“Can I borrow him?” I asked. “My nan is a …” I searched for the right words. “… gossipy old dragon.”

“Who has a mean aim with a broom,” added Barry, who went on to tell Micky about his encounter with her and our mulberry tree.

Time passed so fast the shadows seemed to race each other down the sand and across the river. Disappointment dragged on me when Barry announced it was time we gave it away. I wanted to stay right there with the two of them, talking and laughing and just being together, wrapped up in the warm and easy afternoon. The silences between us weren’t sharp and pointed and the laughter was real. I felt included.

We packed up and walked back to the caravan park with two yellowbellies in the bait bucket. One was mine, the other Micky caught not long after.

On the way back, we stopped at Gert’s caravan. Micky knocked, but when she didn’t answer, he left his fish on the chair outside her annexe.