Season of Hate (14 page)

The incident with Mr Elliott and the mulberries and the egging of the Symonds house was not to be the last time some people expressed their dislike at having Johnny living in town. He still got hateful looks and called names from some passers-by. Others turned their backs on him in the street or spat in the dirt as he passed. Looking back, their behaviour was based not only on misconceptions and ignorance, just as Dad had said, but also fear. Fear perhaps that their jobs might be taken over by someone more willing to put in a harder day's work than themselves.

Sergeant Farrar was also right. Forgetting they were just people, like all of us, some folks just really didn't like Aborigines, for whatever reason. But as Dad told us many times, "You can't tell people how to live their lives. You can only live yours and hopefully set a good example." I wondered at the time how these same people would feel if they were Johnny – no mother or father or immediate relatives you know of. You're all alone in the world. And on top of that, the frustration over the fact you can't speak to express how you feel.

Thankfully there were others in the community who became more embracing and tolerant over time. As word spread that he was gainfully employed and had the support of a lot of us, his presence in town if not altogether accepted, became less of a threat.

On Dad's advice Johnny always made sure he saw the owner of the house or property each day before he started his work and not just to wander in and get started. That way, no one could ever accuse him of being where he shouldn't. He also tried to stay in sight at all times, so that there couldn't be a repeat of the beating. If he felt someone was fixing to harm him, at the first sign of any trouble, he was to run as fast as he could home, or to our place, or the police station. I figured Johnny had the best punch out of the three of us now anyway, and it'd be a pretty silly bloke who picked on him.

Dad helped Johnny with the preparation of the Walshe place for painting but let him apply the primer and two coats of paint by himself on the outside as well as all the interior work. The Walshe sisters both praised his efforts saying it was the best their house had looked for a long while. Everyday during his time there, Miss Kitty made him lunch and they ate together in the kitchen. She'd play the piano for him as well. When I asked him about what he thought of her skin and the red mark on her face, he gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders.

"Yeah, so what," I agreed.

With his weekends free, I took it upon myself to give Johnny an education. I thought that if he couldn't say what he wanted, he would at least be able to write it down in a note. Unlike Honey, I knew he wouldn't sleep through class and would be eager to learn. On the shed wall I began writing out the alphabet in capitals in chalk, then under each letter, the same in lower case. I got to 'C' before Johnny stood and held his hand out. I was a little perplexed but handed over the chalk. Not only did he complete the whole alphabet, but his letters were more perfectly formed. He smiled as he handed back the chalk.

"You've been to school." He shook his head then opened his hands up like the pages of a book then using his index finger, tapped on one of his opened hands.

"You learnt from books?" He nodded in agreement. "From who?" He drew both his hands down the side of his head to his shoulders, indicating a veil before clasping them in prayer in front of his chest. "Nuns. A nun." He smiled. "So
you
wrote that note. I just assumed … Well, don't I feel foolish. You can write better than me. How's yer arithmetic then?" I challenged in an effort to regain some face. He wrinkled up his nose. I started writing up some basic sums on the wall. He was so quick, picking up another piece of chalk he completed all the calculations I threw at him. In retrospect, how patronising of me, the whole exercise – presuming he was uneducated just from my perception of what his background might have been and the fact he couldn't talk. At an appropriate lull in our work I asked him,

"Johnny, I know you have an idea who beat you, don't you?" Write a name. I know you know." The colour drained from his face as I offered him the chalk. He wouldn't take it. "It was Bob Wood, wasn't it?" He didn't move. A moment passed then he took the chalk from my hands.
Telling won't change what happened
, he wrote. After letting me read it he immediately rubbed it from the wall. "Can I tell Dad?" He shook his head. I honoured his wishes and let it pass.

One of the first things we did together was to work out a new note of introduction in Johnny's handwriting for any potential clients.

"I think we should start with your name again and your address." He began writing his note up on the wall. "Then what jobs you can do, next. What do you think?" He gave a gentle wobble of his head in agreement. We discussed its contents then he'd write down what he thought was best. We'd work out between us the spelling of any difficult words. Most people knew who he was by sight and that he couldn't talk, so we left that bit out from his original note he'd presented to Dad .

"Then there's payment. Mmm. That depends on the job really, doesn't it? We could say you could work out a price, I guess." It took a couple of attempts to get it just right, but the final note looked really good. What we f:

My name is Johnny August. I live at 55 Main Street. Do you need any mowing, gardening, wood chopping, painting, fencing or any other odd jobs done? If so, we can work out a price and time. Thank you.

When we showed Johnny's completed handwritten note to Dad, he thought it was a terrific idea and that his printing was excellent. Johnny's pride registered in his expressive eyes and the broadest of grins.

To begin with, Mr Symonds lined up his jobs and worked out costs and payment details so that he didn't have to worry about money and banking. In time he showed Johnny how to do his own accounts and look after his banking himself. With the Symonds providing free board, Johnny was steadily growing his savings, keeping out only a little for weekly incidentals.

Later, he produced another handwritten note and gave it to Dad. He read it to himself. He paused before he spoke.

"Thank you, Johnny. That's lovely."

"What's it say?" Doug and I pestered.

"Do you mind?" Dad asked of Johnny. He gave a small shake of his head. Doug and I read it out aloud together.

"Dear Sir I am very grateful for you and Mr and Mrs Symonds. I have a new mother and two new fathers now. I am very happy. Johnny."

"It's a very touching note. I shall treasure it always." With that Dad folded it up and put it in his top pocket, later to be placed in his Sunday Bible. He finished by putting an arm around Johnny's shoulder and giving him a good squeeze.

Johnny was finding heaps of work and was able to get about without any hassles. The only incident that did occur was almost comical in its unfolding. It was a late Friday afternoon and Johnny was walking beside me up our street after finishing work for the day. A ute came down the road from town, did a U-turn then pulled up outside Mr Wood's place. Bob Wood stumbled out of the passenger's seat just as we were passing on the other side of the road. Once the car took off we could see that he was blind drunk. He was carrying a meat tray he'd won in the pub raffle and was weaving towards his front gate when he saw us.

"Don't ya get the message, ya black bastard? We don't want ya here. So bloody piss off!"

He was swaying from side to side like a flagpole in a strong wind. The next thing we saw was him wobbling about before falling over his closed front gate. Chops and sausages became airborne. We couldn't help but crack up. Johnny's hoarse, more rasping of air than a laugh, made me laugh even more, so much so I thought I'd wet myself.

Mr Wood struggled to get to his feet. He fell over twice before crawling around on all fours gathering the meat and replacing it on the tray. He managed to stagger to the base of his front steps and called out to his wife before collapsing unconscious backwards to the ground. Mrs Wood and Steve both came outside. She pulled the remains of his pay packet from his top pocket while Steve picked up the meat tray. They headed back inside, leaving him where he fell to sleep it off.