Freedom Ride (26 page)

I filled the kettle and stood watching the drops of water sizzle and jump as the hob heated.

“Are you hungry?” asked Barry, placing the books on the table.

The ache in my stomach had nothing to do with hunger. “Not really.”

“Sit down. I’ll make this.”

I stared at the table. The drawers sliding open, cupboards closing and crockery clanking was soothing.

Barry set a steaming mug of tea in front of me and sat. “Your dad was pretty angry tonight.”

“Furious.” I rubbed my thumb against the mug handle.

“How’s your face?”

“Fine.”

“Must have hurt. Left a perfect red hand mark.”

“It’s not sore.” And it wasn’t, not compared to the pain inside me.

“Robbie, do you want to talk about what Nancy said?”

I felt a flush of heat at the base of my throat. “There’s not much to say. Dad goes – went – to the Crossing.”

Barry clasped his hands on the table. “Robbie, sometimes–”

“It’s true what she said, isn’t it?” I already knew the answer; I’d seen it written across Dad’s face as clearly as if the woman had written the words in ink.

But part of me clung to some stupid grain of hope that he hadn’t been there. That he hadn’t killed Dwayne. “Men like Bull Jackson, Twiggy Mathes, Dad, they go to the Crossing for … that.”

Barry brushed invisible crumbs from the tablecloth. “Yeah, they do. But Robbie, don’t judge the women. They do it for their families.”

A wave of emotion swamped me. I bit the inside of my lip, trying to force away the tears. “So, you get beaten up, have your business vandalised, just for having an Aborigine working here, but it’s okay for them to sneak off and use the Aboriginal women for sex.” I scoffed. “The same Aborigines who aren’t allowed to buy things from the shops, or enter the pub or RSL? It’s wrong, just so …” I stared at the milky tea, searching for the right word to describe the men’s behaviour.

“Hypocritical,” said Barry.

I looked up at him. “Everyone knows about it, don’t they?”

“Yes, Robbie.”

“And Nan would know what goes on.”

“She’d know.”

I leaned back in my chair, my ears ringing. A cloud of her lectures, words and attacks merged and swirled around me, tighter and tighter, until I was wrapped in a murky fog that seeped through my skin to my bones, hardening my heart.

I wasn’t aware my fingers were drumming the table until Barry reached out and rested his hand on my arm. “Robbie, these things are complicated.”

“They’re not. No disrespect, but they’re not. It’s just wrong. All of it. And worse …” I shifted in my seat. My legs felt wrong, like they were someone else’s. Something wrapped around my throat and squeezed.

“What, Robbie?” Barry’s voice was gentle.

I shook my head. “I can’t … You’ll hate me.”

“I doubt it.”

“No, no, you will.” The words were right there, resting at the back of my tongue, ready to come out. Wanting to come out. But I couldn’t. The thought of the disgust on Barry’s face when he found out made my stomach lurch.

Once he knew, I’d be out.

Alone.

With no one and nowhere.

“Here’s the thing, Robbie, whatever your father has done is his doing, not yours. You’re a good person. Unless you were driving …”

My mouth fell open. “You know?”

“That your father ran over Dwayne?” Barry leaned back in his chair. “I suspected.”

“How? Why?”

“Pieced bits together. Micky’s dad said your father was one of the last to leave the Crossing that night, that he was pretty drunk. Then, after we left the RSL you were so pale and shaken. Mum and I talked, and we put it together.”

I buried my face in my hands. “Oh hell.”

“Did you know before tonight?”

“No, no! I saw Dad’s car that night. It was mangled. And I heard Bull and Twiggy turn up, but I just …” What had I thought? It seemed so obvious now. I raised my eyes to look into Barry’s face. “Dad always told me the Crossing was dangerous. To be avoided. When I heard Dwayne had died there, well, I figured Dad must have hit something else … a kangaroo maybe.” My breath in hitched in my throat. “But, Barry, I think I knew; I just didn’t want it to be true.”

“It’s pretty confronting.”

I spun the mug in circle. “And Nan protects him. Lets him do it.” My mouth filled with bile. I closed my eyes and willed myself not to vomit. “He’s my father, Barry. I’m like him.”

“Bullshit.” Barry’s voice crashed around the room. “I’ve known both of them since I was a kid, and I can tell you, Robbie, you aren’t anything like him. God knows how, because you’ve lived with them all your life, but you are
nothing
–” he slammed the table with his fist when he said the word, “–like your father or grandmother. I’m tipping your mother is caring and thoughtful. Because that’s what you are.”

Tears rolled down my face and pooled at the base of my throat. “You think?”

“I know,” said Barry, his voice softer now. “But you need to find out for yourself.”

“Is it all right,” I swiped at the tears with the backs of my hands, “if I call her, tomorrow?”

“Absolutely.”

After breakfast, Barry and I headed to the office to clean up the broken window. Mum’s phone number felt like a hot coal in my shorts pocket.

The brick leaned against the base of the counter, surrounded by shards of glass that sparkled in the sunlight.

“For the love of God,” said Barry. He stood, hands on hips, scowling at the caravan park entrance.

“What’s–” I stopped. Out the front, the fence, made up of chains hanging between poles, had been torn out of the ground and dumped on the road. The
Welcome to Walgaree Caravan Park
sign swung loose from one of the two support poles. Painted across the sign in thick black strokes were words like “commie”, “traitor” and swear words I hadn’t heard even Ian Wright use.

In the middle of the gravel, this time in white paint, was “Piss off commie Abo lovers”. A mountain of what looked like rubbish was a full stop beside it.

“You clean up in here and I’ll make a start on that,” I said, tiptoeing through the maze of smashed glass.

“That’d be great, Robbie. Thanks.” Barry leaned against the window frame, head resting on his arm.

I stopped at the doorway. “This sucks, Barry.”

“Yep. Things can’t go on as they are. The town, the people, it all has to change.”

By the time Barry emerged from the office, sucking his finger, which I guessed he’d cut in the clean-up, I’d cleared the pile of rubbish and was raking the gravel to disperse the commie comment.

“Your finger okay?” I asked, leaning on the rake.

“Bit of glass. Nothing major.” Barry shook his hand. “I’ve covered the window with a sheet. That’ll have to do until I can get hold of the glazier. How about we clean up the …?”

I followed his gaze. Micky plodded down the middle of the road towards us, hands in his shorts pockets and head down.

Barry went to meet him. He placed his hand on Micky’s shoulder. They were too far away for me to hear what Barry was saying.

Micky stood, head still bowed.

My stomach churned.

How could I face him?

He had to know.

After a bit, they walked, side by side, to where I stood with the rake. “Hello, Micky.”

Micky nodded at the ground.

“We missed you.” As if he cared whether I missed him. And once he knew what Dad had done, he’d care even less.

“So,” said Barry, “there’s a hell of a mess around here. You ready to work?”

Micky nodded. This time he lifted his eyes, which widened when he saw the toppled sign and the mound of fence posts and chain.

“Let’s get stuck in, shall we?”

Barry and Micky returned with steaming buckets and scrubbing brushes, a ladder and the toolbox.

“How about Micky and I start …” I stopped talking and smiled.

“What?” asked Barry.

“Look.” I gestured for him to turn around.

Barry twisted to look where I pointed. Gert led Trev and the students towards us.

“Where should we start?” asked Gert.

“Gertie, thank you, but–” Barry’s voice shook.

She raised her hand. “I won’t have it.”

“We want to help,” said Trev.

“There’s no need. We have it covered.”

Trev glanced at the fence. “Probably, but we’d like to help. And with our help you’ll be able to join us at the pool. If you’d like.”

“So it’s the pool today?” I asked.

“Sure is,” said one of the girls. “Charlie and a few others have gone to the Crossing to see if any of the kids would like to come.”

“No way,” said Micky, his eyes wide. “We’re banned from the pool. Too black.”

The girl grinned. “So we hear, but hopefully that will change. So, where do we start?”

Barry sighed. “Everyone, this is my other worker, Micky.”

Micky nodded at the students.

“Robbie, how about you and Micky clean up the sign and we’ll sort out the fence?” said Barry.

Gert walked up to Micky and gave him a quick hug. Without speaking, she followed the students to the road and began hauling the broken fence to the grass.

Micky and I scrubbed in silence, the grief rolling off him in endless waves. His shoulders were rounded and his eyes blank.

When the sign was clean, I cleared my throat.

“Micky.”

“What.”

Exactly. Why had I spoken?

I tossed the scrubbing brush onto the pile of rags in the barrow. “Micky, I just wanted to say …”

“What?” He glared.

The bubble of thoughts in my head popped and spewed from me. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry, really sorry. About what happened.” I remembered Barry’s warning and was careful not to say Dwayne’s name. “It was horrible. Awful. I can’t …” Why was I talking? I dug my nails into the fleshy part of my palm to stop myself. “I just … I wanted to tell you, that … That I care about what happened.”

Micky shook his head. “Yeah, you say you care now, but wait ‘til you’re with a group of whiteys and let’s see how much you care then.” He stomped to the barrow and shoved it forwards.

I kicked at the tangle of cracked bark and gumnuts in the gutter.

“Lunch is served in the garden,” called Mrs Gregory, after catching our attention with an ear-piercing whistle. While we’d scrubbed, dug, realigned and patched up the fence and sign, Mrs Gregory had made a mountain of sandwiches.

The students, including Charlie, Ann, Jim and John, who’d returned from the Crossing, lounged around on the back lawn and outdoor chairs. Mrs Gregory placed the trays of sandwiches on a table under the shade of the eaves. On a separate table she had set out tall jugs of iced water and lemon cordial.

“Want to give me a hand?” I asked Micky, who hung back, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

He shrugged.

I passed him a stack of plates and took a tray of sandwiches. Together we offered the food around.

When everyone was eating, Micky filled his plate and slunk to the backdoor. I stood by the table feeling awkward and alone. In a heartbeat, I loaded my plate and sat down on the grass beside him. Laughter and chatter hummed around us.

“The relish and cheese sandwich is good.”

Micky nodded.

I sighed. “So, anyway, what do you think about them,” I flicked my head at the students, “going to the pool this afternoon?”

The moment I said it I wanted to snatch the words out of the air and shovel them back into my mouth.

“If it makes people see how wrong things are, then it’s good.”

The sandwich I was holding fell to my plate. “That’s what I think. I mean, the bus ride is on the radio news, and I bet John, you know the journalist, is doing stuff for the radio too. Do you …?” I stopped. Micky had wandered back to the table and was choosing more sandwiches. He stood, eating, with his back to me.

My stomach plummeted.

He knew.

I slipped inside. From the kitchen window, I watched everyone talking and eating. They looked carefree, comfortable. I wondered if I’d ever feel like that.

A thought tugged at the back of my brain.

It was time.

I placed my hand into my pocket and squeezed the folded piece of paper that had been there since yesterday. Though it was only a scrap, it felt as heavy as a brick.

I marched to the office and picked up the phone. Heart racing so fast the beats merged into one thump, I unfolded the paper.

This was stupid. Who was I fooling? She had a life in Inverell. Why would she even want to hear from me?

Despite the doubts swooping like crows, I dialled.

It answered on the third ring.

“Shirley.” I cleared my throat. “Shirley Worthington?”

“Yes, this is she. How may I help you?”

I slumped to the stool. My heart thudded in my throat. “I, um … I’m calling …” I wished I’d thought this through, planned what to say. “This is … Mum? Mum, it’s Robbie.”

She gasped. “My Robbie?”

“Yes. Robbie Bower. Frank’s …” I couldn’t force the word “son” from my mouth.

“Robbie,” she repeated, stretching the word out. And in it I heard everything I’d longed for.

“Mum, can I come see you?”

“Yes!” The word pierced my ear. “Yes, yes, oh Robbie, yes, please.”