Freedom Ride (7 page)

Dad placed the photo frame on his lap.

Nan’s hands gripped the talc so hard I expected a puff of white to burst into the air.

“Thank you, Robert,” said Dad, after what felt like hours but could only have been seconds. “Make sure you save your next pay packet.”

My stomach sank. He hated my gift.

The flatness in his voice, or maybe Nan’s continued silence, filled me with courage. “Dad, about Mum. She must have had family – parents, maybe brothers and sisters. Why don’t we ever hear–”

Dad’s face crumbled with sorrow.

Nan leaped to her feet. “Robert, take your gifts to your room,” she barked. As she lurched forwards to hurry me, Bluey screeched and flapped in alarm. His wings fluttered against the china figurine. It wobbled as though caught in a real windstorm. Bluey flew to the curtain rail, twittering and squawking. The wobbling figurine toppled to the floor.

Nan cried out. She dropped to her knees and cradled the figurine, now in three pieces.

She turned, her face ugly and twisted with anger. “Get out of my sight.”

I bolted from the room, leaving my gifts behind.

I’d been sitting on the shed floor for only a few moments and sweat already soaked my shirt. I wrestled with two options. Go inside and apologise? Or wait here until things settled down?

What did I have to be sorry for? It wasn’t me who broke the stupid figurine, or let that ridiculous bird out of its cage.

Apologising was not happening!

But sitting it out could take days. Another five minutes in here and I’d be cooked.

The jars of screws, nails and coiled bits of wire lined up on the wooden shelf opposite came into sharp focus. Between the nails and screws lay two packages I’d placed there yesterday.

I hauled myself up, took the packages from the shelf, and burst out of the shed into the searing sunshine.

By the time I reached the caravan park, my courage had faded.

What was I thinking?

If Nan was right and dropping in unannounced wasn’t the done thing, how much worse would it be on Christmas Day? It was a dumb idea, and yet, I kept riding.

At the office, I stepped off my bike and checked the parcels under my arm.

“Robbie! Merry Christmas!” Barry stood in the office doorway, the red paper crown on his head as lopsided as his grin. “I’m after scissors. Can’t break the ribbon on Aunty Kathleen’s gift. You know what it’s like.”

Actually, I didn’t know what it was like. We never had ribbon on gifts.

The packages under my arm jabbed into my ribs. “I was out for a ride and …” I shrugged. “Here I am.”

“Well, come in!”

“I can’t. I …”

“‘Course you can. Have a Christmas beer with us. As your boss, I insist.” He beckoned, not just with his hand, but his whole arm.

“I can’t stay long.”

“Come on.” He stepped aside. I walked through the office to a door that opened onto the sitting room. Beyond that I could see the kitchen and dining room.

“Are you sure this is all right?”

“Mum will be delighted.” Barry glanced at the parcels under my arm but didn’t mention them.

The moment I entered the house, smells of pine tree and roast meat and the sound of Christmas carols from the record player wrapped around me, as comforting as a hug.

The bright kitchen was a shambles. A baking dish and dirty plates filled the sink. A plum pudding carcass, two bowls, exploded crackers and crumpled linen napkins were scattered across the table.

Yesterday there had been Christmas gifts under the tree – now there was only one, wrapped in Santa and reindeer paper and tied with green ribbon. Used, folded wrapping was stacked beside the tree.

Mrs Gregory sat in her usual seat, a blue paper crown on her head and a plastic holly brooch on her shirt. “Robbie! Merry Christmas.” In a flash she’d wrapped me in a hug. She stepped back. “Like my jewels?” she pointed to the crown and holly. “You need a crown, too.”

She took a cracker from the table and held it towards me. “Make a wish.”

I set the parcels on the table and tugged the end of the cracker. Mrs Gregory unfurled a green crown. She handed me a scrap of paper and a plastic ring from inside the cardboard tube. “Share your joke,” she said.

I read the joke to myself first before reading it aloud. “What do you get if you cross Santa with a duck?”

Barry groaned. “A Christmas quacker.”

“Oh, Barry, you spoiler.” Mrs Gregory pretended to be angry. “Now, Robbie, you’ll have pudding? It’s still warm. There’s custard. And ice-cream. Or cream if you prefer.”

She’d cut a slice, scooped ice-cream from the tub Barry brought to the table and poured custard before I could answer. She passed me the bowl.

“Watch out for the sixpences.” Barry nodded at the small pile in front of him.

Nan only put one sixpence in our pudding. The person who found it was said to have a lucky year. Dad always found it.

“Have you had a lovely day?” asked Mrs Gregory.

“Yes, thank you.” I didn’t look at her. “This is delicious.” Moist, rich and golden, unlike Nan’s crispy, bitter pudding.

I ate and plucked sixpences from my mouth. By the time I’d finished, I had five piled beside me.

“Lucky year ahead for you, mate,” said Barry.

I grinned.

“There’s plenty more, Robbie,” said Mrs Gregory. Did she mean pudding or luck?

“It was the best. Ever. But I couldn’t.”

Barry returned to the table with a glass and the last gift from under the tree. He refilled his mother’s drink and his own, then poured a third beer and passed it to me.

“Barry,” said Mrs Gregory, “I’m not sure Mrs Bower would approve.”

Barry shrugged. “It’s Christmas. And it’s just the one.”

Barry raised his glass to his mum then me. “Cheers.”

“To us,” said Mrs Gregory.

I echoed Barry and sipped. The froth was soft against my lip, the beer bitter and cold. It fizzled in my nose and bubbled down my throat. The smell reminded me of snorts and rants, silences and scoffs. I placed the glass on the table.

Mrs Gregory started when she spied the gift beside her. “Oh, Barry, thank you. I nearly forgot!” She passed it to me. “This is a little something from us, Robbie.”

My face felt warm.

She shook it, urging me to take it from her.

“Thank you.” The parcel felt like wrapped underpants. I placed it beside me and held out the packages I’d brought. “Sorry about the wrapping. Mrs Quinn was out of Christmas paper. I hope they’re okay. I can–”

“Mate, you shouldn’t have,” said Barry, stopping my blathering. “Open yours first.”

I untied the ribbon, peeled away the sticky tape and readied myself for more undies. But instead of white undies, I saw red and blue stripes. A T-shirt, exactly the same as the one I’d seen in Dobson’s window this week. My mouth opened and shut, but no sound came out.

“I hope it’s the right size,” said Mrs Gregory, leaning forwards.

My eyes prickled. “It’s …”

“Hey, it’s okay if you don’t like it,” said Barry.

I shook my head. “I love it.” My voice squeaked and cracked just like it did when I was twelve. “It’s too much.”

“Nonsense,” said Barry.

“And the colours,” said Mrs Gregory, “are they okay?”

I held the shirt in front of my chest. “Perfect, thank you.”

I placed it back on the paper and picked up the parcels I’d brought with me. “This is for you, Barry,” I said, passing the flat one across the table. I walked around the table and kissed Mrs Gregory on the cheek and handed her the other. “Merry Christmas.”

Her eyes glittered.

“How did you know I love them?” said Barry, holding up the Rolling Stones’ single I’d bought.

“You talked about seeing them in London, so I figured you’d like their new single. Do you have it?”

As Barry went to speak, Mrs Gregory gasped, hand over her mouth.

My heart plummeted. I’d mucked up. In a big way.

“Oh, Robbie,” she breathed. “This is perfect.”

My thudding heart slowed. “Really?”

She held up the lily-of-the-valley talc and soap.

Barry smiled, but his eyes looked sad. “It’s the perfect gift for Mum, Robbie. Dad used to buy it for her every year.”

Mrs Gregory nodded, her chin wobbling. “And I said to Barry this morning, I’d miss it this year, but …” She pushed back from the table. I braced for another one of her hugs, but no bracing could prepare me for the strength of this one.

After I left the caravan park, I rode around town, new T-shirt under my arm, keen to keep the bubble of warmth that had surrounded me at the Gregorys’ for as long as I could.

I passed dads pushing kids on new bikes and little girls skipping and squealing around a sprinkler in their front yard. A group of boys hit a tennis ball with shiny new racquets.

As I rode past Deakin Street, I glanced down the road. Keith ran alongside his little sister on a trike. The red, blue and white streamers on the handlebars fluttered.

I pressed my elbow against my T-shirt and headed for home.

When I walked through the back door, the house was still and silent. Faint smells of Ajax and burnt gravy hung in the heavy air.

I glanced down the hallway. Nan’s door was shut.

I continued past Bluey, now locked in his cage, to the lounge room. Dad sat in his chair. He had a book open on his lap and stared at the blank television screen.

The figurine debris had been swept up. The wrapping paper and the gifts were gone. I cleared my throat.

“Where have you been?” asked Dad, his eyes slow to focus.

“I took gifts to Barry and Mrs Gregory.”

Dad nodded.

“Where’s–” I swallowed. “Nan?”

Dad sighed. “Headache.”

“Right.” She wouldn’t appear again until tomorrow morning. I raked my teeth across my bottom lip. “Dad. The frame. I didn’t …”

The truth was I had no idea why I’d said he should put a photo of Mum in it. Up until I started working for Barry, I’d not thought about the fact there were no photos of Mum around here. But something inside had cracked and feelings and questions I couldn’t put words to were seeping out.

Dad shook a cigarette from the pack. He didn’t speak until he’d lit it and breathed deeply. “It’s a beaut gift, Robbie. Thank you.”

“I shouldn’t have asked about Mum.”

Dad breathed out smoke in a steady stream. “It’s complicated, Robbie.”

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. “Dad, I’d like to …”

He turned to look at me, his green eyes piercing. “Leave it, Robbie. One day, when you’re old enough to understand, we’ll talk, but until then, you won’t mention her or her family again, especially in front of your grandmother. Understand?”

Thoughts tumbled and swirled like autumn leaves in an eddy of wind.

What did my mum have to do with Nan?

“Your gifts are in your room,” continued Dad. “Except for your swimmers. Your grandmother took those back. Punishment for the statue.”

“But bloody Bluey broke it.” I folded my arms.

“I know.” Dad picked up the book, cigarette smouldering between the fingers of his left hand.

Dismissed.

Again.

“Good morning, Nan,” I said, rubbing my eyes.

“Good afternoon.” Nan stood at the kitchen bench, measuring flour into a sifter.

I glanced at the clock above the kitchen door. Five past eight.

Teeth gritted, I took the carton of cornflakes from the cupboard and the milk bottle from the fridge. Before I’d fallen asleep, I’d decided my only hope of being allowed to meet Keith at the river was to take the blame and beg forgiveness for breaking that horrible figurine.

“Nan, about yesterday. I’m sorry about your statue.”

Nan banged the side of the tin sifter and continued turning the handle, this time with more vigour.

“I’ll pay to have it fixed. Or buy you a new one.”

“A new one won’t hold the same memories, will it?” Each word was sharp and hard. “You ruined Christmas, Robert.”

Another major sin she could add to the list I swear she kept by her bed. “Nan, I feel terrible, really.”

“What do you feel terrible about, Robbie?” asked Dad, shuffling into the kitchen, face thick with sleep.

“Yesterday.” I poured milk over the cereal in my bowl.

He took the kettle and filled it. “Mum, you’ve taken back his Christmas gift, isn’t that enough?”

Nan glared.

Dad slammed the kettle on the stove. “Right. Robbie, what are your plans for today?”

“My jobs.” A worm of panic squirmed in my gut. Was he going to stop me going to the river? It already felt like Keith was drifting away from me. If I didn’t turn up, well … I had to. “After that, Keith and I are meeting at the river.”

“Well, you had better do your jobs properly,” said Dad.

Nan opened her mouth to speak, but Dad spoke over her. “And strip all three beds.”

“Yes, Dad.”

“There you are, Mum. Punished.” He shot me a look over his shoulder. “Hurry with your breakfast, Robbie, or you won’t make the river before dark.”

I shovelled cornflakes into my mouth.

Nan slammed the rolling pin into the sink.