Freedom Ride (8 page)

I dumped the last of the lawn clippings into the trailer beside Nan’s veggie patch and brushed down my pants.

Lawns mowed. Clippings raked and dumped. Paths swept.

Straw changed in the chook pen.

Cobwebs and dirt brushed from the house, even the eaves.

Leaves and other debris dropped by the evil gum tree cleaned up.

Beds stripped and sheets in the laundry.

Free.

In my room, I changed into a T-shirt and my old swimming shorts. They were faded and too tight, but what choice did I have? I tossed a towel over my shoulders and hurried to the back door.

Nan stood in the kitchen doorway, scarf over her rollered hair. “Where are you going?”

“To the river with Keith.”

“Have you finished all your jobs?”

“I think so, Nan.”

“To my satisfaction?”

“Yes, Nan.”

She pressed her lips together. I held my breath, for real, ready for a string of new chores.

“Well, off you go then.” She shooed me with her hand as though I was one of the chooks.

I bolted outside, only just catching the screen door before it slammed.

As I rounded the bend in the road, the squeals and splashes from the river grew louder.

Beneath the sprawling gums, bikes lay scattered as though tossed aside by a giant. Keith’s blue bike was at the edge of the pile. I dumped mine and stood surveying the riverbank.

Four kids from the senior school lay on towels, talking and laughing. A group of young boys in the shallows watched a kid grasp the rope swing. He launched himself off the fallen red gum everyone used as a platform.

The boys hooted. My guts tightened. Give me a diving board at the pool over that swing any day. The swing hung from a dead tree’s thick branch. Dad, Bull Jackson and Twiggy Mathes used to swing from it when they were young; at least that’s what Dad had told me. Hard to imagine him swinging and laughing.

The sound of Wright’s hyena laugh made me shudder. Just beyond the swing, he and his mates stood over Marian Cavendish, Sally Marshall and Angela Brown, who sat on striped towels. My heart stuttered at the sight of Marian’s long hair resting against the back strap of her green bikini.

When she turned to shoo a fly from her shoulder, I raised my hand to shield my eyes, pretending I was scanning the river, rather than checking her out. Heat spread from my scalp to my throat.

“Bower.” Keith stepped forwards. I hadn’t seen him past Wright.

I waved and trotted over to them.

Wright looked me up and down. “Nice pink swimmers.”

Stupid Nan. Stupid Bluey. Stupid ugly statue.

“Red, actually.”

“Like your face.” Wright roared at his own joke.

I walked around Wright to drop my towel beside Keith’s. “Coming in?” Keith’s hair was tousled and river reeds stuck to the back of his swimmers.

“Let’s go on the rope swing.” His lips curled into a grin. He knew better than anyone how much I hated that thing.

By the time I’d kicked off my Volleys and peeled off my T-shirt, Keith was at the swing. He rested his foot on the fallen tree and watched a girl drop like a stone to the river.

He wiped his hands on his bathers. “Double somersault, Bower? Me first, then you.” His voice was loud across the water.

My stomach did a triple flip. Dropping from the rope was one thing, but a somersault, a double somersault, in front of Marian Cavendish?

I twitched more than shrugged. Keith leaped onto the fallen tree, grasped the rope, then sprinted forwards, bellowing, “Geronimo!”

Wright pushed my shoulder. “We’re after you, Bower. If you’re jumping.”

A splash sounded across the water. Cheers and hoots filled the air.

Hair slicked to his forehead, Keith surfaced. He raised a triumphant fist and yelled, “Your turn, Robbie.”

I couldn’t move.

“You going?” asked Wright, elbowing this time.

“‘Course.”

“Marian’s watching.” Wright and his dumb friends sniggered.

I glared at Keith. He had definitely told Wright about Marian.

I shot Wright what I hoped was a defiant look, but felt more like a wince, and stepped onto the fallen tree trunk. I took a slow breath, allowing the scent of eucalyptus to fill me. Teeth gritted, I grasped the rope, stepped back, then ran. The moment my feet left the tree, I fought the urge to drop like I usually did. As the rope swung back, I launched. Instead of curling into a somersault, I flailed in the air, arms and legs splayed like a sugar glider.

My stomach hit the water first. The slap jarred my body and knocked the breath from me. Hot pain spread from my belly. Something sharp scratched my face. Embarrassment coiled like a python around my chest and squeezed.

I hung suspended in the water, wondering if I should just stay down there. My lungs had other ideas. When I broke the surface, I was ready for Wright’s insults. But the only sounds were the river and a cockatoo screeching overhead.

I swam against the current to the bank.

In the shallows I stood and wiped the water that was streaming down my face. The back of my hand came away bloody. Great. A bellywhacker and a bloody face.

And still not even a snigger from Wright. Had I gone deaf?

I looked to where I’d last seen him. He still stood on the fallen tree, but instead of facing the river, he stared at the stand of eucalypts on the bend. Keith, towel to his chest, watched the trees. The girls faced the same direction. Marian looked surprised, or scared, maybe both. Nancy and Angela’s faces were twisted as though they’d smelled something rotten.

Six Aborigine boys in shorts and T-shirts swaggered out from under the shade of the trees into the sunlight. Their laughter and chatter faded when they saw Wright.

Wright’s voice boomed. “What the hell are they doing here?”

The boys stopped, but the tallest kept walking, his steps slow and deliberate.

Wright leaped from the tree trunk and strode forwards, Rhook and Edwards behind him. Keith dumped his towel and ran to them.

The other Aborigines followed their friend. The air between the two groups crackled.

I stayed in the ankle-deep water. Wright shot me a look that was impossible to read.

He flicked his pointed finger at the blacks. “Clear off, ya bunch of dirty boongs.”

“Own the river, do ya?” asked the lead boy.

“Got more right to be here than you,” snarled Wright.

The boy tilted his head. “Is that right?”

“Yeah, it is.” Wright planted his feet hip-distance apart. “This swing is for whites only.”

The Aborigine’s laugh was more of a snort. “Yeah? Tell me, you fat lump, who do you reckon tied the rope to that tree?”

Wright looked puzzled.

“Uncle Dwayne, that’s who. After the old one rotted off.” A wave of agreement rippled through his friends. The one doing all the talking walked forwards, stopping an arm’s length from Wright. “Betcha the first one was hung there by a blackfella, too.”

Wright sneered. “Bulldust.”

“Nah, it’s true. Proves this is our swimming hole.”

Wright poked the Aborigine in the chest. “Shove your proof up your bum hole.”

The Aborigine’s eyebrows knotted. He stepped closer to Wright. They were about nose to nose. I shuddered. I’d seen Wright chew up and spit out boys at school just because they walked too close to where he sat. Wright would splinter this matchstick boy.

“Back off, coon.”

The boy grinned, but didn’t move. “Gonna make me?”

Wright’s right leg jiggled. In a flash, he punched the boy in his stomach.

The Aborigine doubled over, but didn’t make a sound. When he lifted his head, he was grinning. “That the best you got, fat guts?”

The Aborigine blocked Wright’s next punch.

The blacks behind him hooted.

Red in the face and sweating, Wright lumbered forwards. The boy ducked and bobbed, avoiding every slap and punch Wright threw. With a growl, Wright launched like a charging bull.

The Aborigine grinned at his mates, sidestepped and stuck out his foot. Wright tripped and landed face first into the dirt.

“The name’s Micky. Micky Menzies, just so you can tell your mummy who beat you up,” said the black, standing over Wright. “Don’t feel like a swim any more.” With that he sauntered back to the trees. His friends followed, laughing. At the edge of the trees Micky turned back. “And stay away from the Station, fat guts.”

They slipped into the shade, their laughter echoing down the river.

Rhook reached out to pull Wright to his feet.

Wright slapped his hand away. “Black bastard.” He stumbled to his feet, face dusty, and stormed to his towel.

“Are you okay?” I asked, as he neared.

He slammed to a halt. “You’re weak as piss, Bower, you know that?”

Marian rushed past him. “Robbie, you’re bleeding.”

I raised my hand to my brow.

“Bloody poofter. It’s a scratch,” snarled Wright, who was now tugging his T-shirt over his head.

“Why do you have to be so mean, Ian?” snapped Marian.

Wright’s nose curled. He marched up the riverbank to the bikes. Rhook and Edwards hurried after him, like dogs desperate for a pat.

Marian raised her hand to my eyebrow.

The rest of the world blurred and Marian shone bright and golden in front of me.

I’d imagined a thousand ways I might feel her skin – our fingertips brushing as I passed her a milkshake, my calf pressed against hers at the pool, my thumb against her cheek when I wiped away a fallen eyelash – but not once did I imagine her touching my face after I’d made a complete idiot of myself.

“You made a mess of that jump.” She touched my hair.

My face burned. “I slipped …” I stepped back. Marian’s hand dropped. She held a river reed she must have pulled from my hair.

I wiped my face, the blood flow now a trickle. “Just clumsy.”

Keith came over and squinted at my brow. “Your grandmother will be mad.”

Great – uncoordinated, a blusher, a bleeder
and
scared of my grandmother. Marian would think I was the biggest idiot ever.

I shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

“We better get going,” said Keith, watching the stand of trees. But the Aborigines had long gone.

“Maybe you should go home too,” I said to Marian.

Marian nodded at the teenagers, older than us, on the river sand. “That’s Adam, my brother. We’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” Part of me wanted to stay with her, but I could feel Keith twitching beside me. “Well, bye, then.”

“Yeah, see you later,” said Marian.

I stumbled behind Keith and collected my stuff. Neither of us talked until we parted ways near my place.

“Be seeing you,” I said.

“Yeah,” said Keith, pedalling away.

Bluey chirped and fluttered against the cage as I stepped through the back door.

“I don’t know what you’ve done to that bird, but – what in the name of Glory happened?” asked Nan, frowning at my face.

I shrugged. “Bad jump from the rope swing.”

“I’ve told you a thousand times to stay off that thing. Your father broke his arm on it. You’re not as athletic as him. You’ll break your neck.”

“No, it doesn’t hurt. Thanks for asking.” I pushed past her and stormed down the hall.

In the bathroom, I checked my reflection. Dried blood caked my eyebrow. I rummaged through the bathroom cupboard for a bottle of Dettol and roll of cotton wool. I wiped away the blood and dirt. It was more a scratch than a gash. No tough-guy scars for me. I thought about dabbing on Mercurochrome, but red stuff all over my face would only make things worse.

Face clean but pride rattled, I picked up
Biggles Takes Charge
and flopped on my bed. I’d read about two chapters when Dad, home from golf, knocked on the door then opened it. The smell of cigarettes and stale beer wafted into my room. “What did you do?”

I placed the book on my chest. “Let go of the rope swing too early.”

“Bellywhacker?”

I nodded.

“Your eye?” His voice softened.

“Hit a branch or something under the water.”

The rough edge returned to his voice. “Your grandmother thought you’d been fighting. I told her you were too soft for that.” He shook his head. “Bring the washing in for your grandmother.”