Freedom Ride (24 page)

“How do you reckon they went?” I asked.

“Let’s find out,” said Barry.

The air crackled with tension when we neared. Students were busy laying large pieces of cardboard on the grass and opening paint. A handful of students sprawled on the grass chatting and others settled in the shade of the bus to write. I wondered if they were writing letters to parents. Their mothers.

“How’d you go?” asked Barry, walking towards Charlie and Jim.

Charlie leaned forwards. “Like you said. Once the managers knew we didn’t have permits, they wouldn’t let us enter. Called us troublemakers.”

“The Janeskis can do that?” I asked.

“Sure can,” said Charles.

“Remember, Robbie, Walgaree Station is a government mission,” added Barry, “different from the Crossing and the Tip.”

“Everything has to be done by the book and kept shipshape,” said Charlie. “The manager’s wife does weekly inspections to make sure everything is clean. She even checks the little ones’ teeth. And the place is fenced off. No one enters or leaves without permission.”

I gnawed my thumbnail, my mind spinning. I’d thought, hoped, Micky had been exaggerating about the Station. Now I knew he’d only told me part of the story.

Charles moved a camp stool beside him. “Join us.”

“What about the Crossing?” asked Barry, sitting. I lowered myself to the grass, hand pressed against my pocket.

Jim whistled. “Man, people are angry. The conditions are shocking. Even worse than we expected. Houses are just shacks – no windows or doors. And there’s no running water.”

“Is the Station like that?” I asked, thinking of Micky.

“Better there, but still a disgrace compared to how you live.” Charles reached into the esky beside him and pulled out a bottle of Coke. He flicked off the cap with a bottle opener and passed the drink to Jim.

Jim took the bottle and spoke. “Seeing the conditions for ourselves is … confronting.”

Charlie held another bottle towards Barry, who declined. I followed Barry’s lead. Charles drank and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Most of the issues we talked about were things you’d already told us. The place is in mourning for the fella who died. Shocking business.”

I poked at the grass with the toe of my shoe.

“What’s the plan for this evening?” asked Barry.

Jim and Charles exchanged a long look before Charles answered. “The RSL.” My breath hissed out between my teeth. If the students were going to the RSL, they’d be confronting Bull Jackson and Twiggy Mathes. And that meant Dad, too.

“Reggie Jenkins isn’t the only Aboriginal Digger being refused membership.” Charles stared at the Coke bottle in his hand. “Good enough to fight, to die, but not good enough to join the RSL.” He looked up. “So, our first stop is the RSL – symbol of all that this country is supposed to represent.”

“When?” asked Barry.

“While it’s still light. When the placards are done.” Jim swatted a fly buzzing around his face. “We’ll cook a barbecue when we return. If that’s all right.”

Barry pointed across the park. “Barbecues are over there. Just make sure you use the rubbish bins and clean the cooking plate.”

“No problem,” said Charles.

“Well, we’ll leave you to get organised.”

The moment we were out of earshot, Barry nudged me. “Your dad’s a member of the RSL, isn’t he?”

“There every Friday, and some Saturdays.” At least he was before last week. “Are you going with them?”

“Thought I’d head down. Not in the bus though. Do you want to come?”

For one, two, three steps I turned his question over and over. “If that’s okay.”

“Absolutely.”

We’d reached the path that led down the side of the house. “Robbie, how did your phone call go?”

I patted my pocket. “I have the number.”

“At least that explains all the pocket patting and poking,” said Barry.

“You sit in the front seat, Robbie,” said Mrs Gregory, as we walked towards the garage.

“No way!” My face flushed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell.”

Mrs Gregory gave me one of her lopsided grins. “I’m not keen on being seen in the front seat with this hairy monster, either.” She reached up to ruffle Barry’s hair. “It does need a tidy-up, Barry.”

He rolled his eyes and walked around to the driver’s door. I held open the passenger door for his mum.

She patted my arm. “You are quite the charmer, young Robbie.”

I slid along the back seat, heart fluttering more than beating. It wasn’t the students that worried me, but the thought of seeing Dad.

The RSL was a squat, red-brick building in Main Street, a block back from the river. Opaque curtains covered the front windows and a ramp with a white rail led to the glass front door. In the centre of the door was a hand-printed sign:
No Abos!!!

Outside, the Australian flag hung wilted and limp.

Any other day or night, the building appeared sleepy and bored. This evening, it looked anything but.

The students clustered around the flagpole, grim-faced and staring straight ahead. Each held a placard I’d seen them paint earlier.

END THE COLOUR BAR, NOW!

GOOD ENOUGH FOR KOKODA, GOOD ENOUGH FOR RSL

END SEGREGATION

SHAME WALGAREE SHAME

Behind them the curtains parted and faces peered into the street. Across the street, a small gathering of locals, including Mrs Dixon, watched from outside the stock agent’s.

Barry did a slow drive past before turning and reversing into a park near the newsagent.

“Perhaps we should watch from here,” said Mrs Gregory.

Two men, dressed in suits, climbed out of a car in front of the RSL. They placed hats on their heads and buttoned their jackets before standing opposite the students.

More men emerged from cars and gathered with the two in suits. The latest arrivals wore work trousers and shirts with sleeves rolled to the elbows, or pressed work pants and shirts. A few wore cricket whites. I recognised faces: Stretch Edwards, Wobbly, Joey McLean from the Central Hotel, stock agents Don Matthews and Chas Wilmont.

Word of the student protest was slithering through town.

The students, sweat stains under their arms, stood still in the harsh afternoon heat. The only thing between them and the glowering crowd were the cardboard placards. They held them in front of them like shields.

Both groups glared at each other. Neither moved.

Two police cars cruised up and down the street before parking across the road from the students. Keith’s dad, Morph and two constables stepped out of the cars and leaned on the bonnet.

A photographer weaved between cars and students and the growing crowd. I was pretty sure it was one of the blokes from the students’ bus.

Bull Jackson, Twiggy and Dad pulled up in a white sedan. All held lit cigarettes. Bull Jackson nodded and the car doors opened.

“Think I’ll go over,” said Barry.

“I’m coming.” My stomach heaved. I slid across the seat and followed Barry into the hot evening. We crossed the road and sat on the park bench at the end of the RSL building.

Dad and the men he stood with were too focused on the students to notice us.

Bull Jackson stepped forwards, stomach out. “I am Fred Jackson, mayor of Walgaree, vice-president of the Walgaree RSL.”

A few students smiled, others frowned.

He gestured to Twiggy, standing with his arms folded and left hip thrust out. “This is the president of our fine RSL, Des Mathes.”

Twiggy unfolded his arms and swaggered forwards. “Well now, boys and girls,” he said, as though talking to schoolchildren, “how about we all go inside and have a little chat? No need to stand out on the street in this heat, stirring up trouble.”

Charles lowered his “DISGRACE” placard and held out his hand to Twiggy. “Charles Perkins, pleased to meet you.”

Twiggy regarded his hand as if it was made of chicken poo.

Charles withdrew his hand. “Mr Mathes, we are SAFA, Student Action For Aborigines, and–”

“We know who you are,” snarled a voice in the crowd. “Commie troublemakers.”

“That’s right,” chorused Stretch Edwards. “Live here for a week and see how you feel then about the bloody boongs.”

Those gathered on the other side of the street inched closer. Mrs Dixon, Bat Face Fielding, her hair in rollers and covered with a pale blue scarf, and Keith’s mum and brother Sam were there. On the edge of the crowd stood Marian Cavendish with Sally Marshall.

“We aren’t here to create trouble,” continued Trev. “We just want to highlight the problems. Talk about changing conditions for Aborigines.”

People in the crowd began yelling. The words and voices merged into one long string of insults.

“It’s not our problem.”

“They aren’t like us.”

“Can’t handle liquor, not like us.”

“Make the dirty buggers have a wash; that’d be a start.”

“Never done an honest day’s work in their lives.”

“No idea how to behave like civilised people.”

“That’s because they aren’t.”

“Only good one is a dead one.”

“Jesus,” muttered Barry. “Makes you proud, eh?”

I had no words. I stared at these people I’d known most of my life, their aggressive stances, pointed fingers, curled lips. Their words lobbed like grenades.

“Have you ever tried to talk to them? Visited their homes?” yelled a flush-faced girl from behind a “SHAME WALGAREE SHAME” placard.

“Have a look at them, the brains of Australia, God help us,” sneered Stretch Edwards, pointing to the students.

“Which ones are boys and which are girls?” asked Twiggy, his back to the students.

Laughter spurted like gunfire at the young men and women.

“Piss off back to where you came from.”

My shoulders tensed. I recognised that voice. Ian Wright. He, Keith, Edwards and Rhook sat on their bikes between two parked cars.

“String ‘em up,” added Rhook.

Marian and Sally crossed the road to stand with them. Marian looked at the students as though they were murderers. She shook her head and said to Wright, “What would they know about boongs?”

Something in my chest shrank.

“Far out,” mumbled Barry. He stared, face grave, up the street.

When I saw what he was looking at, my stomach flipped. I stood too.

A group of Aborigine women, men, teenagers and children walked up the footpath from the river. At the head of the group strode Reggie Jenkins in his army uniform. The right arm of his shirt was folded and pinned to his shoulder. Right behind him was Micky. His mouth a thin line.

“Oh hell,” said Barry, “this is not good, not good at all.” He moved to stand nearer the students.

I stayed where I was, street bench pressed against the back of my knees, eyes darting from Micky to Marian.

“Instead of yelling insults, why don’t you listen?” asked a student.

“To you lot? Not likely!”

The crowd surged forwards, anger rolling off them in waves. The line of young faces and placards shuffled closer together but didn’t move back.

Reggie Jenkins’s group reached the edge of the RSL.

Still pressed against the bench, I looked to the police. The four of them lounged against the car bonnet as though they were watching a game of cricket. I wanted to run over there and shake them, scream at them to do something. But I just stood there, knees like biscuit dough, gut swirling like a twig caught in the river current.

Barry slipped into the disappearing gap between the locals and students. Back to the RSL and the students, he raised his arms. “Come on, Wobbly. Fred. Des.” He sounded as though he was trying to soothe a simple misunderstanding.

The angry voices faded.

“Walgaree residents are fair, sensible people. Let’s keep calm.”

“Abo lover.” Someone hawked and a glob of phlegm landed at Barry’s feet.

“Piss off, Gregory.” Wright’s father strutted forwards, all chest and sneer. “You’ve always been a pansy.”

Reggie’s group bunched between the students and locals. Micky had pushed his way to the front. No one, not Dad or Keith or Wright, had noticed me, except Micky. His level gaze pierced my heart. I looked away and chewed my fingernail.

“Look,” said Jim, “all we’re trying to do is find out why Aborigines like Reggie here were good enough to fight for our country, but aren’t good enough to walk through this door.” He pointed at the RSL door, where those who’d been watching from behind the curtains had filed onto the ramp.

An Aborigine woman in a faded cotton dress pushed past Reggie and Micky to face the angry locals. A few other women weaved through the crowd to stand with her.

“I’ll tell you why.” The woman jabbed the skin of her forearm with her finger. “This. It’s skin. Just bloody skin. Under this, I have bones, blood, lungs. A heart. Same as you lot.”

The locals jeered and sneered.

She dropped her arm and squared her shoulders.

“Big heroes, aren’t you?” She stepped forwards. “Hey, Joey McLean,” she pointed at his chest. “Does your missus know where you were last night? After the pub closed? What about you, Stretch Edwards? Eh?” She scanned the faces in the crowd. “Do your wives know what you do?”

With each word she fired, the group of men slunk back.

I frowned, confused. None of what she said was making any sense to me.

“Ha,” she sneered. “Not so bloody high and mighty now, are you?”

An Aboriginal woman in a sleeveless red dress marched forwards and stood face to face with Twiggy. He tried to step back, but was pinned in place by the crowd behind him.

“What about you, Twiggy? Does your wife know about your little secret? He turned ten last week. Your son is already a more decent person than you’ll ever be.”

I strained to look over the sea of heads to where Twiggy’s wife had stood near the newsagent. She was still there, spine as rigid as the verandah posts. Her face was pale and as lifeless as a doll’s. The way she bunched her skirt in her fists was the only sign she’d heard what the woman had said.

“And you, Frank Bower,” continued the Aboriginal woman, glaring at Dad.

The blood pounding in my chest turned icy.