Freedom Ride (22 page)

“Robert, what on earth–” snapped Nan.

Dad silenced her with a raised hand but kept his eyes locked on mine.

“You had no right.” It came out as a low growl.

Dad frowned. “What are you talking about?”

I unclasped the case and flung back the lid. I held up the teddy and the stack of cards. “These.”

Nan gasped. “I told you to burn them, Frank. I said he’d–”

“Shut. Up,” I snapped, without taking my eyes from Dad. “Why?”

Dad moved his teacup and pushed the knife and fork further apart. “It’s complicated, Robbie.”

“No, it’s not. It’s simple. She is
alive
.” I yelled the word. “That’s about as simple as it gets. Lying to me, making me believe she was dead, keeping all of these from me, that’s complicated. That’s sick and twisted.”

“Now, you look here.” Nan bustled over. “Your mother is a–”

“Don’t you say anything about her,” I bellowed in her face.

Nan reeled back, eyes wide. “Frank, are you going to let him speak like this?”

Elbows on the table, Dad covered his face with his hands.

“Frank?” she barked.

When Dad didn’t speak, Nan turned back to me. Her eyes glittered. “You were neglected. The house was filthy. She cried all the time. She would have hurt you if I hadn’t stepped in. She never loved you.”

“You?” I looked from her smug face to Dad. “It was her idea, wasn’t it?”

Dad’s shoulders shook. When he lowered his hands, his face was blotchy. Tears and snot shone on his skin.

“Dad?”

His face crumpled. “It’s true, Robbie. Shirley cried, all the time. It was driving me mad. Mum thought it would be better for you–”

“What did you think?”

Dad shrugged. “I was tired of the drama, Robbie, the tears, the mess. I had my reputation at the bank to think of.”

A bitter taste filled my mouth. “As usual, you did what
she
said. You’re as weak as piss–”

Nan slapped my face. She tried to do it a second time but I was faster. I gripped her wrist and squeezed. She cried out in pain.

“Don’t you touch me,” I hissed in her face. “I hate what you did to me, to Mum, to Dad. Mostly, I hate you.”

Dad scrambled to his feet, the chair legs scraping on the vinyl. Bluey screeched and flapped against the wire cage.

As Dad grabbed me, I dropped Nan’s wrist. She clutched it to her chest. I shrugged off Dad’s hand and studied the pair of them. They stood side by side, pale skin, deep lines carved around their mouths, dark, mean, eyes.

Dad flinched when I reached for the case.

“I’m done.” I stomped to Bluey’s cage, picked it up and marched through the house, cage in one hand, case in the other.

Bluey flapped and fluttered, twittered and screeched.

“What are you doing?” screamed Nan.

On the back doorstep, I opened the cage.

Bluey landed on his perch and studied the open door, head tilted to the side.

Nan thundered onto the porch. Bluey launched himself at the open cage door and flew to the gum tree.

“Be free, you poor bastard,” I said, throwing the cage aside.

Before Nan reached the back door, I’d sprinted to the garage and had sped out the drive on my bike.

I had no idea where I was going. I just knew I couldn’t stay there a moment longer. With the case tucked under my arm, I rode, the early morning breeze ruffling my hair. I stayed away from Main Street and the river in case Dad decided to follow me.

Part of me wanted him to, the rest of me, well, it didn’t care if I never saw him again. I was leaning into the wind, sweat trickling down my back, when a car approached from the opposite direction. It slowed beside me, window down.

I stopped level with the driver’s door.

“You’re up and about early,” said Barry, elbow out the open window. His eye had finally opened, but the skin around it was still mottled. “My excuse is we needed milk. What’s yours?”

“I … um …” I became aware of the low angle of the sun, its crisp light, the lengthy shadows. “What time is it?”

“Just after seven.” Barry frowned. “Are you all right, Robbie?”

My chin quivered. Not trusting myself to speak, I shrugged.

He shifted the car into gear. “Meet you back at my place.”

I shook my head.

“No arguments.”

Barry was out of his car waiting for me by the office path, holding a basket of milk bottles. He took my bike’s handlebars and steered it to the backyard. I followed, my legs moving, but my mind empty.

He reached for my case. I held it a moment before letting him take its weight.

“Come inside.” His voice was gentle.

Mrs Gregory beamed when I entered their kitchen. “Robbie, you’re early for a Saturday …” Her smile faded. “Robbie?”

My shoulders drooped. “She’s alive. My mum’s alive.”

Mrs Gregory folded me into her arms.

I sobbed.

Barry pushed the tea he’d just poured towards me.

“Thanks.” It came out as a cross between a hiccup and a sob. Mrs Gregory sat beside me, one arm wrapped around my shoulders. We’d stayed in the kitchen doorway, me crying, Mrs Gregory rubbing my back, for what felt like forever. When my sobs slowed to tears, she led me to a seat at the table. Barry had brought me hankies then refilled the kettle.

Now that I’d kind of pulled myself together, I saw a teapot, strawberry jam and a rack filled with buttered toast on the table.

I blew my nose and reached with a shaky hand for the cup of tea.

“I’m sorry.” I hiccupped and gulped. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Robbie. I’ve told you, you are always welcome here,” said Mrs Gregory. “Isn’t that right, Barry?”

“Especially now,” he growled. “How did you find out?”

“That package, yesterday?” I pleated the overhang of the tablecloth. “I opened it. Last night, in the shed.” I glanced at the suitcase that Barry had placed by the wall. “It was a gift for me. From Mum. And I found more, lots more. Cards and gifts.” I dragged my teeth over my lower lip, hoping to fight off the fresh tears ready to flow. “She’s been writing to me for–” A hiccupy sob swallowed the word I tried to say: years.

“Shit.”

I jerked to look at Mrs Gregory, not sure I’d heard her properly.

She shook her head. “Just … shit … how could they? No matter the circumstances.”

“I shouldn’t have opened the parcel.”

She brushed the hair back from my eyes. “You look exhausted. Did you sleep last night?”

“A bit. On the shed floor.”

She glanced at Barry, who stood and picked up my case. “Come on. I’ll take you to the spare room.”

“But the students are coming today.”

“I’ll be right for a couple of hours. The place is just about ready, thanks to your help.”

“I didn’t bring–” I ran my hands over my shirt and stared at my bare feet, “–clothes, or shoes. I just took off.”

Barry hoisted the bag. “So, what’s in this?”

“All the cards and gifts from Mum. I couldn’t leave them there. They were for me. Mine.”

“We’ll manage something,” said Barry. “Won’t we, Mum?”

She grinned. “What he’s saying, Robbie, is that I have just about every item of Barry’s clothing from when he was a baby ‘til he left for England.”

“And I’ll find a T-shirt you can sleep in,” said Barry, placing his hand on my shoulder. “Come on.”

I fought the urge to cry, again, not hollow, broken tears, but ones of gratitude.

When I woke I laid still, listening. Nan’s house was always quiet, dark and heavy. Instead, I could hear plates and baking trays clinking and banging, and the hum of a lawnmower in the distance. The air smelled of sugar and soap. How long had I slept?

It had been one of those inky, deep sleeps, the ones where you wake feeling like you could take on the world. At least that’s how I felt for a few seconds before I remembered the shed, the gifts, the cards, Dad and Mum.

I threw back the blankets and stretched. Time to help Barry.

I found towels, shorts, a T-shirt and underwear folded outside the bedroom door. I slipped across the hall to shower.

When I emerged, clean and dressed in Barry’s old clothes, the smell of baking hung heavy in the air. In the kitchen the kettle steamed on the hob, the lid jumped and jiggled. I moved the kettle from the stove and looked around the empty room.

The rumble of voices rolled from the front of the house. I walked through the lounge. Mrs Gregory stood, arms folded, scowling, beside the office door. When she saw me she raised her pointed finger to her mouth.

I nodded and tiptoed forwards.

“I’ll ask you again, and I want a straight answer, Gregory. Is my son here?”

I felt my eyes widen. Dad. I glanced at Mrs Gregory.

She placed her hand on my forearm. The expression on her face told me all I need to know. I was safe.

“Like I said, Frank, what’s going on?”

“Robbie is confused. He’s got the tail end of a story.”

A bitter taste filled my mouth.

Barry spoke. “Well, he’s a sensible, level-headed boy.”

“He was before he started work with you. Are you’re sure he’s not here?”

“Search the place.”

My muscles tightened, ready to flee.

“That won’t be necessary,” said Dad. “Do you know where else he might go?”

“You’re asking me? You’re his father.”

The silence rang in my ears.

Barry sighed. “The river? Keith’s?”

I heard movement and guessed Barry and Dad were going to the door. The footsteps stopped. “By the way, Gregory,” said Dad, his tone darker, “hope that rumour about those commie students staying here is just that – a rumour.”

“Frank, I run a business. Everyone is welcome to stay here as long as they stick by my rules.”

“They said on the radio news this morning those students stirred up trouble down the road. Big trouble. Protests, arguments. They picketed the cinema, saying that blacks should be allowed to enter through the front door and sit anywhere, just like one of us.” Air hissed between Dad’s teeth. “Mark my words, this will not end well. Send them on to Moree.”

“As with all your advice, Frank, I’ll take it on board,” said Barry. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it seems I’m two men down and I have plenty to do. I’ll see you out.”

When I heard the office door close, I let out a long breath and slumped against the wall.

“Seemed more worried about the students than his own son.” Mrs Gregory stopped. “Robbie, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s fine,” I said, straightening up. “It’s true.”

“Come on, this situation requires hot tea and scones. They should be ready by now.”

I made tea while Mrs Gregory slid the pillowy scones from the tray to the cooling rack.

“How did you sleep?” she asked, easing the lifter under a second tray of scones.

“Really well, thank you.”

Barry strolled into the room. “I’m guessing you stood by the door and heard every word, Mum.”

Mrs Gregory shrugged. “I had to, in case you needed my support.”

“At least I won’t have to give you a blow-by-blow description.” Barry rubbed the back of his neck. “Robbie, your father is starting to sound more like bloody Bull Jackson every day.”

“Bull Jackson’s pretty bossy,” I said, placing the tea-cosy over the pot.