Season of Hate

  Season of Hate

  First published in Australia in 2015 by Short Stop Press

  An imprint of A&A Book Publishing Pty Ltd.

  This EPUB edition:

  ISBN 9780994329417

  Copyright © Michael Costello 2015

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  This book is copyright. Apart from any use permitted under the Copyright Act 1968 and subsequent amendments, no part may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means or process whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publishers.

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  For Johnny, Harry, Kitty and Biddy

  Chapter One

  1985.

  As I wandered through the house with Dad's shoebox of memories, those lifelong questions buried in the subconscious, resurfaced.

  'Who am I? What is my purpose for being?'

  For me everything had changed and yet looking around, very little had. I'd revisited my little sunbaked town many times since leaving twenty years ago in 1965 for university. My last stay was with my wife and kids for Dad's funeral. This time I was reluctant to come back, for my wife and I were here by ourselves to settle Dad's affairs and put 'Kilkenny' up for sale. In every room and in the branches of the giant jacaranda were snapshots of my childhood that I wanted to remain forever. Here every languid summer blended into another, filled with games and boyhood fantasies.

  Those first two formative years here and meeting Johnny helped shape Doug and my lives. His friendship toward us and his treatment at the hands of others changed the very way we viewed the world. There was also that one night in particular that jolted us out of our small-town lethargy like an electric cattle prod. That night where one wanton act placed the town's very livelihood in jeopardy. The night that ended in tragedy. But I am ahead of myself.

  Doug and I were eight when we left Sydney permanently with Dad in 1955. We went to live at Kilkenny with Nan after Poppie died of a massive heart attack. He was only sixty-three. Doug and I were twins. And when I say twins, everyone thinks identical, 'cept we weren't. We were fraternal twins and didn't look anything alike, 'cept only in the shape of our faces. He was black Irish with an olive complexion and dark brown eyes like Dad, while I'm pale, freckly and blue-eyed. My hair was curly light brown and Doug's was dark almost black and dead straight. He was also two inches taller and athletic.

  Born an hour after him with iron deficiency anaemia, I was always referred to as being 'a bit on the weedy side' by the women of the Country Women's Association at Nan's afternoon tea fundraisers.

  Invariably my health would somehow come up in conversation with her baking rival at the CWA, Gwen Grady. Gwen had won third place years ago at the Sydney Royal Easter Show for her fruit cake; and never let anyone forget it. She'd usually pin me to the wall under the pressure of her considerable bosom and proceed with the full examination of pulling down my lower eyelids, scrutinising the amount of blood flow in the area, and then telling me in her whiney voice to poke out my tongue, before continuing with the same line of questioning of my Nan as always.

  "You're feedin' him enough red meat Maureen?"

  "Yes Gwen."

  "And the fish emulsion? He's very pasty."

  "Yes Gwen."

  "He's not caught a wog?"

  "No Gwen," Nan would reply, with a roll of her eyes at me and the other ladies of the CWA, behind Mrs Grady's back.

  "Mmm. Well I s'pose there's bound to be a runt, when you give birth to a litter. Hopefully he'll get a bit of colour once he's filled out."

  The unspoken inference being, that no matter how well you cook Maureen, you've got the sickly grandkid while mine are as fit as mallee bulls. You could see Nan struggle to keep her congenial demeanour in front of all her CWA sisters. What she really wanted to do to 'old horse face', as most called her behind her back, was to give her a serve.

  It was usually at this point I'd disappear into the bedroom to read, or take a couple of scones and join my brother in the giant jacaranda tree out front. Here we'd dream away another frying-hot summer's day under its frilly canopy. We'd lie there looking out over the town and the creek and the distant wheat fields that stretched beyond the horizon.

  Since I can remember, Doug and I had spent all of our Christmas school holidays at Poppie and Nan's house. Dad would drop us off along with our 'not to be opened until Christmas' presents. He'd come back to pick us up, but in between go off on a short holiday by himself to recharge. As twin boys, I suspect we were a handful for a single father.

  Ours was like any other 1950's small to medium size town west of the Great Dividing Range, in New South Wales – just a flyspeck on the map. The Shire was primarily a wheat growing district but there were smaller tracts of land for cattle farming and a few sheep. The district was so dependent on its wheat crop, that its destruction by fire from a lightning strike or someone's careless actions was always a constant fear.

  Poppie and Nan had moved off their wheat farm at the start of the Great Depression to the town proper, after one too many unfulfilled promises of rain; and before mounting financial debt left them flat broke. They were the lucky ones. Seeing the hard times coming, Poppie also withdrew all their money from the bank before they closed their doors. He never returned it fully to them, maintaining a healthy mistrust. He wasn't on his own in that thinking.

  Kilkenny, was on Main Street, south of the Railway Street train intersection. It was one of the largest weatherboard houses in town and the only one with a jacaranda tree. As big as the house was, it was dwarfed by this thirty foot high tree. Its branches stretched around the side of the house, one close enough to Doug and my bedroom window that we often used it as our secret entrance and exit to our room. Nan was born in Grafton, and when they moved into the house Poppie had the tree transported especially from there as a reminder of her childhood town.

  The house itself was of the Queenslander style but rather than the usual three sided version, it had a verandah all the way around. It was mounted on sump oil painted tree stumps with metal capping on the top of each to stop the termites. The stumps were ten feet high, designed to save a house by letting flood waters pass underneath and to aid ventilation in the hotter months.

  We were susceptible to the westerly dust storms that blew in from the Centre and blanketed the town, getting into every crack and crevice. When the rare cool breeze hit late on a hot afternoon after a stretch of white bright days and suffocating nights, windows and doors would be flung open to let it race around and through the house to cool it down. Where our town was located, when it was cold it was freezing, and when it was hot, it was bloody hot. Rather than the house being updated over the years, Poppie and Nan maintained and restored its interior and exterior as a museum to the 1920's.

  North of the Main and Railway train intersection was the city business area. It was relatively small in comparison to the larger centres. Though during the post war economic boom of the 50's under the Menzies government, it grew large enough to contain at various times, a baker, a grocer, a small post office, two butcher shops, Green's Mixed Business, two milk bars, a stock and station agent, a barber shop and separate hairdressing salon. There was also a hardware store, tea rooms, both a Chinese and an Italian restaurant and eventually a chicken and hamburger takeaway, a chemist, a haberdasher, funeral parlour, police station, bank, a combined men's and womenswear shop, a district newspaper called The Echo, a plumber, a blacksmith, an electrician, Poppie's motor shop and even a boot maker. We had two hotels, the Railway and the r
ougher Exchange, diagonally opposite at the Main and Railway intersection. There was a Golden Fleece service station, fire station and the Sacred Heart Church and Primary School.

  We even had a School of Arts where dances and wedding receptions were held. Films, or 'pictures' as we called them then, were shown there every month or so – occasionally first releases. However public primary and high schools, hospitals, doctors, dentists, solicitors and any other shop or profession, were two and a half hours walking or three quarters of an hour of steady driving, away. There wasn't any school bus for the district until the early sixties. But what we didn't have, we never really missed. As Poppie might say, 'No use complainin', 'cause that's yer bleedin' lot.'

  Thirty miles south of the town was the old Aboriginal Reserve. It was termed an 'unmanaged' Reserve. Unmanaged Reserves differed from 'managed' Reserves in that managed Reserves or stations were usually staffed by a teacher-manager and education, rations, and housing were provided. The 'unmanaged' ones like ours, provided the very basic of rations but no proper housing or education and were under the control of the town police. In our case, that was Sergeant Farrar.

  Doug and I didn't attend Poppie's funeral for as Dad said, at eight years of age, we were too young. We stayed in Sydney with Mrs Crofter, our housekeeper. All we knew was what Dad had told us, holding back his own emotions as best he could.

  "Poppie has died and gone to Heaven, boys." Doug and I both looked up to the sky.

  "Can he see us?" asked Doug.

  "I'm sure he can," Dad faltered then continued, "but now we must think of Nan and pray for her to get over losing Poppie, as she's very upset."

  "We can still visit her for the Christmas holidays, can't we?" Doug pleaded.

  "Sure, mate."

  "If we were with her now, I'd give her a hug and make her a cup of tea with four sugars, just as she likes," I offered. Dad smiled and ruffled my curls with his hands before pulling us to him in a tight embrace. He instructed us to be on our best behaviour for Mrs Crofter while he was away helping Nan tidy up Poppie's affairs. This included putting his motor shop up for sale.

  Poppie left us with heaps of memories and invaluable advice only he could come up with, like how to catch a pigeon. All you had to do was put salt on its tail to stop it flying away. Doug and I once spent a whole afternoon crouching in the bushes, both armed with a bag of salt, waiting for an unsuspecting pigeon to stand still long enough so that we could tip the salt on its tail. Only when we caught Poppie laughing himself silly on the verandah, did we realise it was impossible.

  Doug and I talked about our loss as we put on our pyjamas.

  "I'll miss Poppie taking us fishing," Doug sighed.

  "You think he really can see us?"

  "Sure, that's what they say. All the dead people are up there behind the clouds, seeing everything we do and guiding us to do the right thing."

  "Poppie, I miss you," I blubbered.

  "You're such a girl."

  "Am not! You take that back or … or –" I threatened hollowly. He placed a gentle arm around my shoulders and I stopped crying. Leading me to the side of my bed, we both knelt and said our prayers.

  "And please look after Poppie. Amen," I added. We jumped into bed and Dad's hand came around the door to turn out the light, as if he had been in the hallway all the time. He cleared his throat.

  "Goodnight, boys."

  "Goodnight, Dad." We spoke as one, as we often did when our thoughts and tongues aligned.

  After some time, I thought I could hear the muffled sound of Doug crying. I got out of bed with my pillow and pushed my way under his covers. There was no objection as he moved over to let me in. Nothing was said as I put my arm around him and we both fell asleep.

  The two weeks until Dad's return went quickly. One morning as Mrs Crofter got our breakfast, Dad made an announcement.

  "Boys, how would you like to go to Nan's?"

  "It's not Christmas," Doug pointed out, for Easter had just passed.

  "Not just for holidays, I mean for always." I looked over to Mrs Crofter who nodded in agreement. Doug and I looked at each other.

  "Yes please!" we sang out together, excited at the prospect of the carefree existence at Kilkenny. The later sad realisation that we would have to leave our friends behind soon sunk in, but couldn't dampen the prospect of embarking on this new adventure.

  "Who knows Dr McNally, you might even meet a nice new mother for the boys," Mrs Crofter offered to an unresponsive Dad.

  With teary waves through the back window of Dad's Holden at Mrs Crofter, we said goodbye to our old home at 222 William Street, Kingsgrove in Sydney, for good. After many hours driving we would soon be in the welcoming arms of Nan at Kilkenny. Mrs Crofter would stay on to oversee the removalists and forward our belongings. Before we left, she had packed us sandwiches, marble cake and a thermos of soup for our trip. She also gave us a present each of books with lots of colourful pictures to read on the journey. Doug's was about pirates and treasure and mine was about the adventures of a young English boy, who grows up and joins the army to fight against the bloodthirsty Zulus in Africa.

  We read them one at a time. Both of us lingered over and discussed each picture, taking in all the detail, and saying the words together. When we came across a difficult word, we spelt it out. Dad taught us how to say it properly and what it meant. I could see he wasn't too impressed with Archie from my book, as he fired his rifle, 'the bullet smashing the jaw of the six foot savage' or 'stuck his bayonet into the evil chief's chest', but he did explain 'bayonet' to us and let us continue. I guess from his point of view, it stopped us from getting bored or feeling sad about leaving Sydney as we drove by town after town.

  We pulled into several petrol stations on the way and stopped many times on the side of the road to prevent the car from overheating or to stretch our legs. Also I suspect, to give Dad a break from our repeated singing of Ten Green Bottles and games of 'I Spy'. His only full relief from us came when Doug and I dozed off to the rhythm of the wheels spinning over the endless stretches of hot bitumen, through the middle of the day, or fell asleep in the backseat at night.

  By the time we reached Nan's place on the second day, close to bedtime, Dad was exhausted. He'd driven day and night. Nan hugged us so tightly on arrival, I thought my bones would break. Later, under our barrage of pestering, "Oh please, please, please …", that every child knows will get positive results if it's whiney and prolonged enough, Dad finally relented and let us stay up another two hours. He took one of the spare rooms and Doug and I remained in our normal holiday bedroom. While he unloaded the other suitcases and boxes from the boot, Doug and I lugged our smaller suitcases crammed with the most vital of our toys that we couldn't be parted from, up the front steps. We arranged them on the two bookcases Poppie had made for us. They were wide enough to fit our larger planes and cars and toy soldiers as well as my growing library of books.

  After a cat's wash and a glass of warm milk, Doug and I gave up all resistance to going to bed. Dad hung up our clothes as we changed into our pyjamas. Tonight we were allowed to say our prayers in bed. Dad gave us both a goodnight kiss before leaving the door slightly ajar.

  "Goodnight boys. Sleep tight. And don't let the bed bugs bite."

  Lying in bed, I felt warm and secure to be with Dad and Nan, even if Poppie wasn't there. 'Cept he was. He just wasn't there to be seen. Unable to settle, I got up and went to the window. I brushed aside the lace curtains before pushing open the window and climbing out to sit on the thick jacaranda branch, as Doug and I would do during our holidays. Tucking my knees up tightly under my chin I breathed deeply, savouring the fresh country air. My eyes wandered up and down the moonlit street of what was to become our town, our home. A strange round of sounds louder than a bunger, more like gunshots came from far away in the distance from the direction of the Reserve, but too far away to be of concern. Shortly after, an old truck with three men in the cabin passed our place coming from the direction of the Re
serve. They let Mr Wood off at his place. I took several more deep breaths as I looked up at the stars, twinkling between the leaves of the jacaranda's canopy.

  "I wonder what the school is like. Do you think it'll be as good as Our Lady of Lourdes? Doug? Doug?" I too was asleep within minutes of my head hitting the pillow.

  Chapter Two

  "Doug. Doug wake up! Look!"

  "What?"

  I pointed towards the window at the sun disappearing from the front of the house.

  "We've slept in!"

  On holidays we were always up at dawn, helping Poppie collect the eggs for breakfast. Jumping out of bed, we headed barefoot to the kitchen.

  "Sit up, almost ready." Nan's plump sausage fingers gripped a wooden spoon as she stirred away over a saucepan. "Yer dad's gone into town to wait delivery of his old furniture for the surgery. You two villains are to stay in the yard 'til he gets back." We both let out a disappointed,

  "Oh, Nan."

  I watched as her generous backside, like an over-stuffed armchair, moved around the stove. The skin of her underarms wobbled as she reached up for plates.

  "But we want to go and play with Raymond and Barry," Doug tried to argue.

  "Not today. He wants ya here where he can find ya. He's taking ya to the Sacred Heart to get enrolled. That's where all yer friends are anyway. It's not school holid'ys 'round here now." The penny dropped. "Yer scrambled eggs are ready." She served up before sitting down between us with a cup of tea.

  "Boys, now that Poppie … Now that Poppie is, well …" We both reached out and squeezed her hands. She leaned over and in turn, kissed us both on the head.

  "You miss him Nan?" I asked.

  "Every day, darlin'. Every blessed day. He's in God's hands now. Prob'ly makin' Our Lord a nice set of shelves as we speak." Nan blew her nose. I pinched myself hard on the leg under the table, for asking such a hurtful question. I just wanted to know whether she missed Poppie as much as we did.