Freedom Ride (15 page)

I pointed a shaking hand at the hole. “Bloody huge,” I blurted. The pulse in my ears faded and I could hear the sounds around me now – the breeze through the gum trees, a toilet flush from the men’s block.

Barry entered the cubicle and squatted to inspect the hole. “Looks like we’d better patch this straightaway. Can’t have guests having heart attacks in the showers.” He straightened up. “Or my staff.”

I realised I was still sprawled across the wooden table. I slipped off the table and put my shoe back on.

“Evil-looking buggers.” Barry grinned. “Give you a fright?”

“Should we … I mean … wouldn’t it be best if we killed it?” I asked, my voice steadier than I expected.

Barry shook his head. “He won’t hurt anyone. And they keep the mice down.” He picked up the rake from where it lay abandoned. “Good job, Robbie.”

Was he being sarcastic? I mean, I hadn’t done anything except frighten the hell out of myself and the snake.

“Seriously. You handled it well.”

“Just about fouled myself,” I said.

Barry laughed. “But you managed to keep the guests safe and move the snake on. Impressive effort.” He guided me to the door.

Micky was waiting in the sunshine. “Good going, Robbie,” he said, looking at his feet.

“Thanks for keeping the girls out of the way,” I said. “And for getting the rake.”

“Great work, team,” said Barry.

I slammed on the brakes. My bike skidded to a stop, spraying gravel onto the grass. A police car was parked outside the caravan park office. As I stepped off my bike and wheeled it down the park entrance, Barry and Keith’s dad walked out the office door.

“Hi Barry, Sergeant. How’s Keith?” I asked.

Keith’s dad rolled his eyes. “Buggerising around. Wish he was more like you, Robbie.” He strode to the driver’s door. “Sorry I can’t be more helpful, Barry, but we did warn you.” He tapped the car roof and climbed inside. We watched him do a three-point turn and steer onto the road to town.

“What was that about?” I asked.

Barry jerked his head at the men’s shower and toilet block.

“Oh hell.” Even from the office, the huge black letters sprawled across the back wall, which faced the road, were easy to read.

“Boong Lover.”

“Piss off Abo.”

“I’ll wash it off before Micky arrives,” I said, laying my bike on the grass.

“Micky won’t be in today.” Barry’s voice was flat.

“Did you … you didn’t …”

“It’s his day off.” He sighed. “Let’s get that rubbish off the wall.”

Barry and I attacked the wall with scrubbing brushes and soapy water. Up close I could see the brush marks in the black paint and the drips running down to the grass.

I placed a third bucket of steaming soapy water between us. The graffiti now read “over” and “Piss”.

“We’ll paint the wall once it’s clean,” said Barry. “Maybe a dark grey rather than white.”

“Good idea,” I said, wincing as I dipped my brush into the scolding water. That was when I noticed the white thing against the wall. At first I thought it was a scrap of paper, but when I picked it up with my finger and thumb to throw it in the bin, I discovered it was a handkerchief. It was smattered with smudges of black paint, as though its owner had used it to wipe his hands clean. Embroidered in blue on the corner was the letter K. The summer sun seemed to beat harder on my skin.

“You okay, Robbie?” asked Barry, his scrubbing brush resting on the wobbly letter P.

I closed my fist around the hankie. “Just going to chuck this rubbish in the bin,” I said, walking to the silver bin outside the shower block.

My ears rang and my mind whirled. Why?

“Sure you’re okay?” Barry watched me with narrowed eyes.

“Fine. Just hot. Mad about this.”

He plunged the scrubbing brush back into the bucket. “I know.”

I stuffed the hanky into my pocket.

Instead of going straight home after work that night, I rode to Deakin Street. I leaned my bike against the fence and headed for the back door.

“Bower.” Past the clothes line, Keith tossed a cricket ball from one hand to the other. “How’s work?”

“Busy. Lots of people staying.”

“Not what I heard. I heard people were leaving because of that boong.”

My skin prickled. “Don’t know about that.” But I did; so far seventeen campers had left and four more had cancelled return bookings for next year. I nodded at his hand. “What’s with the cricket ball?”

“Signed up to play with Walgaree Central.”

“Wright’s team.” My voice was dead.

“Yeah. Is that a problem?”

“No problem at all.” I slipped my hand into my pocket and pulled out the handkerchief I’d found earlier. I held it out to him. “You left this at the caravan park last night.”

His eyes widened. He lurched for the hanky. I snatched it away.

“Why, Keith?”

“You can’t prove it’s mine.”

I showed him the embroidered letter. “You bellyached last Christmas about the handkerchiefs your grandmother gave you, and how she’d stitched the letter K on them. I’ve seen you use them enough to recognise them.”

His fingers tightened around the cricket ball. Fear swam in his eyes. “Jeez, Robbie, who have you told?”

“Why’d you do it, Keith?”

“Because it’s not right, that’s why,” he snarled like the guard dog at Bull Jackson’s yard. “Abos have no place in town and they have no place taking a white person’s job. And the sooner Barry Gregory works that out, the better. Bloody boong lover.” His nose and lip curled as he spat the word. “Maybe his mum liked a bit of Abo.”

I grabbed him by his T-shirt and pushed him towards the garden shed. “Take that back.”

“Make me.” His breath was hot and sour in my face.

I tightened my grip and shook him. “Don’t speak about Mrs Gregory. Ever.” I caught a glimpse of my face, twisted with rage, reflected in the shed window. I thought of Wright and released my grip. “And stay away from the caravan park.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll show this hanky to your dad.” I prodded Keith in the chest with my index finger. “He’s the cop investigating the graffiti.”

“Do what you like,” he said, but his arrogance had crumpled.

“Yeah, I will.” This time my nose curled. “Enjoy the cricket.”

I should have felt better, freer, after confronting Keith, but I just felt sad.

“Where have you been?” asked Dad, when I rode down our driveway. He stood on the house side of his car, wringing a rag over a bucket.

“Work.” What I’d really been doing since visiting Keith was just riding around thinking.

He leaned on the car. “How is work?”

“Good. Slowing down. You know, not long ‘til school goes back.”

“From what I hear, the caravan park’s quieter than usual.”

I shrugged. “We’re busy enough.”

Dad’s lips twisted. “How are you finding that Barry?”

“Why does everyone say ‘that Barry’ or ‘that Gregory boy’? He’s just Barry.”

“Sorry, Robbie.” Dad crossed his legs at the ankles. “I haven’t had much to do with him, that’s all. You like working with him?”

“Very much.”

“What’s the deal with the Abo kid?”

“Micky?”

“Does tha … Barry owe his family or just feel sorry for the boy?”

I took a breath before answering. “I don’t know.”

Dad folded his arms. “It’s wrong. Him giving an Abo a job when a white boy would do it better.”

“Maybe no other white boy wanted to spend his holidays working. Not everyone is as weird as me.” I pushed my bike to the garage.

Why couldn’t I just say that Micky was a hard worker, a good bloke? I kicked gravel at the garage wall and stomped to the back door.

I blundered into Keith and Wright at the newsagent the Thursday before school went back.

Since I’d confronted Keith about the hanky, I kept away from any place he or Wright might be. Once, when I was on the post office steps, I’d spied them outside the cinema. I darted inside before they saw me. I just about knocked Mrs Dixon over in my rush. I lingered at the bench where people filled in forms for what felt like hours. By the time I emerged they’d gone.

But Thursday in the newsagent, I was so engrossed in checking for that magazine Barry had been reading –
OZ
– I didn’t notice Keith and Wright until I heard their high-pitched sniggers. They stood at the men’s magazine rack and giggled over an open
Pix
or
Man
magazine. A blonde, bosomy woman with pouting lips reclined on the front cover. I crept towards the office supplies down the back of the store.

“That boong still working at the caravan park?” boomed Stretch from his lair behind the counter.

I cringed. Keith and Wright had to have heard him. “Bit cooler today, Mr Edwards, isn’t it?” I replied.

“You ignoring us?” The voice was gruff.

I turned, pulling a look of surprise. “Ian, Keith. Didn’t see you. Too focused on finding glue and rubber bands.”

“You didn’t answer Stretch,” said Wright, swaggering closer. “Is the boong still at the park?”

“Micky still works there.”

Wright sneered. “He’s a slow learner.”

My chest lurched. “Actually, he’s pretty smart.”

Keith’s eyes bulged. “You serious?”

I wasn’t going to look away first.

Wright stepped forwards. “You better watch yourself, Bower.” He jabbed his finger into the bony part of my chest. I tensed to stop myself from stumbling backwards.

“Everything all right, boys?” called Stretch from behind the counter.

“Absolutely, Mr Edwards,” I sang.

Keith flinched when I reached past him for the rubber bands and glue. “I have to go.”

It wasn’t until I was outside that my hands started shaking.

The flickering shadows and light from the television flashed across the pages of
The Catcher in the Rye
, the latest book Barry had loaned me.

Nan sat in her chair, sipping a cup of tea.

Dad smoked and watched the television news. His thumb drummed against the chair arm. Every now and again he grunted.

His twitching and grumbles, Nan’s slurps and the drone of the news made it tough to concentrate on Holden Caulfield’s problems.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” bellowed Dad.

The book tumbled from my lap.

Nan yelped. Her teacup chinked against the saucer as she set it down.

“What on earth is the problem, Francis?” Nan’s brow was more wrinkled than ever.

I sank into the sofa, eager to know what was going on, but desperate to avoid their attention.

Dad leaned forwards, his eyes hard. “Bloody university students, that’s what!”

“What have they done now?” asked Nan.

Dad waved his hand to silence her.

On the screen, a man holding a microphone spoke about a bus trip through country New South Wales.

Didn’t seem like a big deal to me. Buses passed through Walgaree on the way to the opal fields all the time.

Nan burst into a chorus of tuts and “oh, my words”.

The reporter interviewed a Methodist Church minister, Ted Noffs, according to the name printed on the bottom of the screen. I caught a few of his words between Nan and Dad’s carry-on. “Aborigine”, “discrimination”, “Freedom Ride”, “peaceful protest”.

“Peaceful, my arse. Look at what happened in America – beatings, arrests – total waste of police resources. And it achieved bugger-all. Just encouraged blacks to make more trouble than ever.”

Dad’s tirade stopped when an Aboriginal man’s face filled the screen. The banner beneath him read,
Charles Perkins, President, Student Action For Aborigines
. The man’s jaw was strong and his gaze direct. He seemed to look through the camera to me. His voice was smooth. “We want to confront and highlight the problems and conditions faced by Aboriginal people. There’s too much discrimination and violence.”

“Jesus.” It was more a prayer than a curse. “Abo bastard! He and his commie student mates should stick to the city and leave us alone.”

I held my breath, ready for Nan to launch into him for his language.

“Never heard such tommyrot.” She thumped her fist against the armchair. “Once those students come across their first real Abo, they’ll change their tune, quick smart.”