Season of Hate Page 19

  After creeping up the jacaranda and back into bed, Doug whispered to me in the darkness.

  "I reckon she shot him after a row," Doug pronounced.

  "Or after he'd hit her maybe. That's how poor Steve got all his cuts and bruises, I reckon." But I wasn't fully convinced he had hit her, not after the incident with the Big Red. "I'm goin' to sleep." But I couldn't, at least not straight away. The enormity of the evening's events weighed heavily on me. There was the fire, my heart-stopping encounter with the Big Red, Steve's tragic death and the terrible burns sustained by Johnny, ending in the violent death of Mr Wood and Dad's heart-wrenching reaction to it. They were still all swimming around in my brain. Hours passed as I tossed and turned on restless sheets.

  Breakfast was late but over by the time Dad came home. Standing in the kitchen doorway he looked like he'd never slept. His hands were cleansed of any blood but there were traces on his clothes. Nan turned from the sink. She pulled her chenille dressing gown closed over her nightie as she sat down in a chair across from Dad.

  "Gwen phoned shortly after that shot. Is what she said true?" Nan asked. He hesitated, as if unsure whether our young ears should hear what he was about to say. He cleared his throat.

  "Bob Wood shot himself." Doug and I were speechless.

  "Dear God," Nan wailed, crossing herself. Doug and I copied her actions, not knowing what else to do. Dad motioned us over to him before giving both of us a long rib-crushing squeeze and a kiss each on the top of our heads.

  "What about Pam? She must be devastated," Nan worried.

  "The Walshes have taken her in. She's heavily sedated. I'm going to bed. Let Susan know will you. I'll drop by the surgery 'round lunchtime after I call in on Pam."

  Once he'd left for bed, Nan pulled us aside.

  "If yer father knew what you were up to last night, oh yes, I know you weren't in ya beds. You wouldn't be able to sit down for days," she whispered.

  We were busting to tell our story at school, but kept quiet. We'd all made our pact. Mrs Grady had relayed the shooting around to all her team of gossips by now so the whole town knew already, anyhow. Nan was right as well. If Dad ever found out where we were, he might actually give us the belting he threatened from time to time. If not, there would be one helluva lecture and loss of pocket money – maybe for good we reasoned. Miss Kitty told me later while I practised the piano, that sometime early that morning, the Sergeant relieved Dad at the Wood house. He was joined by Mr Edwards from the funeral parlour, Father Prittenden and later on, some out of town official carrying a briefcase.

  Nothing was the same after that. Our world had changed. We'd never witnessed death before. For weeks after I'd wake in a jolting cold sweat, the sound of a shotgun going off in my head. The nightmares were so vivid and in colour. I could see in my mind's eye the blood and tissue splattered interior of that lounge room and the growing pool of blood seeping out from under his head onto the rug. The most disturbing aspect of the dream was that the body I saw wasn't that of Bob Wood – it was Doug's. I felt I couldn't mention it to anyone, for telling might make it come true. I waited and in time the nightmares went away.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Kerosene was the accelerant. A can was found in the burnt out remains of the Hudson house. Dad told us matches were found in Steve's pocket. All three houses were destroyed. Everything was either melted and twisted or reduced to black and grey powder. All bar the three metal milk pails converted to letterboxes that stood like scarecrows in ashen fields. In the ensuing months, top priority was given to the restoration of the bridge before anything else.

  The temporary accommodation provided for Miro and his family wasn't used. While everyone tried to get some sort of sleep that night the owners of the tent told us that Miro, Pindari and Binda had left. The sound of Wood's shotgun going off they said had convinced them they were not going to stay around. Thanking them for their generosity, Miro told them he was leaving because he feared that if there was a next time, one or more of his family might be killed.

  We found out later that they eventually got some work and accommodation at several nearby farms with living quarters for workers. The two elder sons already had jobs there. They were split up, but not too far from each other and Johnny could still visit Binda when he returned.

  Work started on the clean up, but almost in silence for the whole town was in mourning. Covered by insurance, the Richardsons and the Palmers began to rebuild almost immediately. Various local tradesmen suspended their other work to get it done so that they could all move back in as soon as possible. A new fibro house built by the Aboriginal Welfare Board on the old Hudson property was let out to a new group of black tenants.

  The double funeral took some time to be held due to a Coronial Inquiry, but on the day it was scheduled, most of the town shut up shop. Mrs Wood, dressed from head to toe in black, was helped down the steps of the Walshe house by her brother and the funeral parlour director Mr Edwards into the front seat of his only hearse. Steve's coffin was in the back of the vehicle while his father's had to be put onto the back of a ute. Both were covered with large floral wreaths.

  Unlike Poppie's, this funeral we were allowed to attend. School was cancelled and all pupils were there in full uniform as a mark of respect. To avoid any problems Pindari, Miro and other Aborigines who assisted at the fire and who wanted to pay their respects, stood outside the Sacred Heart Church. The eulogy was read by Mrs Wood's brother. Mrs Wood was understandably upset throughout the service. At the graveside she stiffened as Mr Wood's coffin was lowered first. When Steve's was lowered she lost all control.

  "My baby … my baby!" she screamed as she scratched up to the mound of dug out soil surrounding the grave, trying to get to Steve's coffin. She had to be restrained before collapsing to the ground weeping. Father Prittenden held her tightly as family members came and led her away.

  Doug and I had never witnessed a coffin being lowered into the ground and shovel loads of dirt thrown over it. At this stage I began to feel my legs start to shake from all the emotion of the day, just as Dad steered us away. Looking over at Nan crying, I realised how upsetting it must have been for her to bury Poppie.

  The wake is usually held at the family's house, but there was no way Mrs Wood would enter her own yard, let alone her house. Instead Miss Kitty and Miss Bridget put it on in their backyard. They'd stayed away from the funeral, being busy getting everything ready with the help of Nan and the ladies of the CWA. Even Gwen Grady assisted. She remained unusually in the background, taking and accepting directions from Miss Kitty without a challenge. We'd ferried over extra chairs for the women and older people, as did Mr Symonds. A tarpaulin was tied from the back of the house to some trees to protect all the food and drink from the elements and birds. A crowd of seventy odd was there to farewell two of their own. Doug and I were instructed by Nan to wait on those seated.

  As the afternoon progressed, Mrs Wood regained some of her composure, though tears were never far away and at one stage she had to be helped to a seat by her brother's wife. She never re-entered her home, choosing to join her brother and other relatives living in Bathurst. Family packed up her belongings. Rugs and other furnishings soiled from the suicide were burnt. Steve's guinea pig was given to Mrs Wood's neighbour Gwen Grady, for her grandkids. The house was then cleaned from top to bottom and repainted before new tenants moved in.

  Dad and Mr and Mrs Symonds kept us up to date with Johnny's progress. In time, we were able to visit him in the hospital, taking comics and lollies we'd purchased from our pocket money. Eventually allowed to come home, he would still have to go back to the hospital many times for skin grafts. This time, after the fire and funerals, there was reason for the town to celebrate. Our hero was coming home, and it was unanimous amongst the community that he deserved full recognition for his efforts.

  Bunting was looped along the awnings of the shops down Main Street and a banner reading 'Welcome Home Johnny' stretched across the intersection of M
ain and Railway. As part of the school choir I joined them on stage for the preliminaries. Under the guidance of Sister Mary Placid and her baton, we sang Gounod's Ave Maria, followed by Greensleeves and A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square as people began to line the street waving homemade flags.

  Our recital over, Mr Carroll played a scratchy recording of John Philip Sousa's Stars and Stripes Forever over a makeshift sound system. We kids knew the tune by the substituted lyrics 'Be Kind to Your Web-Footed Friends', and sang it over and over again, under our breath.

  Johnny had no idea of the reception that was to greet him as they drove down Main Street. The crowd cheered as he past, then joined in behind the car before it came to a halt at Railway and Main where a small stage with seating was erected just in front of the railway tracks.

  Seated on the stage were the mayor of the Shire in all his mayoral paraphernalia, his wife, Father Prittenden and Dad. The mayor was a little put out by the fact that the town was adamant that Dad and not he would be the MC for the day. All the mayor had to do was sit there and say nothing.

  Choir duties completed, Doug and I were allowed to sit cross-legged to the side of the stage at Dad's feet. There were spare seats for Johnny and the Symonds. Miss Kitty in sunglasses, a new blue dress with a matching broad-brimmed hat and proudly wearing no concealing makeup, sat with other older people in the small number of seats provided in front of the stage. Barry, Shen, Snotty, Raymond, with his glasses glinting like two small torches in the sunlight, and a few of our other school mates stood at the side, their elbows resting on the stage itself.

  Johnny was overwhelmed by it all as he got out of the car. Encouraged by Mr Symonds, he mounted the steps. Those seated rose to their feet. Once on the stage we could all see that his arm under his short sleeved shirt was wrapped in a bandage supported by a sling around his neck. 'Cept for that, he looked just like our old Johnny.

  The crowd broke out with a round of applause. Without the aid of any notes, Dad stepped forward to the lectern microphone to say a few words. After welcoming everyone, he began.

  "Let me introduce you to a young man – Johnny August. Most would know him by sight, around town or doing chores in someone's yard, or as 'Johnno', Eric Horan's hardworking apprentice. Regrettably, there are some others present who have called him other names, turned their backs or deliberately ignored him. All I see is a fine young man who deserves our respect and gratitude.

  "On that terrible night some months back, we all banded together as a community to fight the fire. This lad did likewise, but went further by risking his own life to save someone else's. It takes extraordinary courage to do what Johnny did. I wonder who among us would have done the same under the circumstances. Sadly the young boy, Steve Wood, died and we all know the tragic event that unfolded later that night." He paused, looking around the crowd.

  "It would be a fitting beginning and by way of honouring and thanking young Johnny, that we as a community take a deep look inside ourselves and the way we treat each other. The colour of your skin does not reveal the goodness that lies innately within us all. Whether we choose to exercise that goodness, is up to each and every one of us."

  I, like most of the people hung on Dad's every word. Looking out at the people as he spoke, I could see the various expressions that travelled over the faces. Most people were moved by his speech – some thoughtful, a few downcast eyes of shame and guilt, but mainly looks of love and compassion for Johnny. His words even had a sobering effect on one or two of Bob Wood's old drinking mates, standing on the sidelines in a group.

  "Mr Mayor, Lady Mayoress, Father Prittenden, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, would you please put your hands together for Johnny."

  "Bravo, bravo," Miss Kitty called out as she jumped to her feet and led the applause. The rest of the crowd quickly followed suit, clapping and cheering, as much for Dad's rousing speech as for Johnny. I never felt as proud of Dad as on that day. The crowd hushed as he raised his hand to continue.

  "This is Johnny's day. And to mark it, Kells' Butchery and Green's Mixed Business have got together and put on a sausage barbecue, which as I speak is just about ready to start. There are drinks as well. All monies raised will go towards Johnny's ongoing medical bills. But before we do that, how about three cheers for our hero, Johnny August." After some urging by Mr Symonds, Johnny got to his feet.

  With that, Dad led us into the 'hip hip hoorays'. Johnny stood there a little shy at first, looking at the ground, then raised his head proudly as the cheers were followed by even more applause. At the end of it, he smiled broadly at the crowd, waving in response to their show of affection toward him. Moving around the stage he shook all our hands. Mrs Symonds got a kiss on the cheek as well. When he got to Dad the handshake grew into a hug that even caught Dad a little off guard. As Johnny was leaving the stage Mrs Wood made her way through the crowd and headed straight towards him. Nobody knew she was coming. Still dressed in black, she'd made the trip from Bathurst especially for the day. She took Johnny's good left hand in both of hers.

  "I wanted to thank you personally for what you did. You are truly a very, very remarkable young man. Thank you." She kissed his cheek. From her handbag she produced a small rectangular red velvet box and handed it to him, before disappearing back into the crowd that soon engulfed Johnny. She didn't join the rest of the festivities, leaving town with her brother as discreetly as she'd arrived.

  Johnny was carefully hoisted on shoulders and carried aloft to the school playground where Mr Kells and Mr Green in butcher's aprons, had the metal barbecue plates loaded with sizzling sausages and onions. The CWA had various sauces and lots of buttered slices of bread on trestle tables. Another table had cups of cordial and wedges of frosted chocolate and walnut slab cake that Mrs Symonds donated.

  Nan made both the peppermint and strawberry versions of coconut ice and along with Miss Bridget, Mrs Symonds and two other ladies looked after the food and drink. Gwen Grady, with her third place ribbon from the Sydney Royal Easter Show pinned prominently to her chest, supplied fruit cake 'from my award winning recipe' and helped out the others serving. It seemed her community spirit and her having witnessed first hand at the fire Johnny's true character, won out over her prejudices. She wholeheartedly embraced the event. Sister Mary Placid and Father Prittenden collected the money.

  People not only bought the sausage sandwiches, but usually refused change. Some even gave extra as a donation. But the good thing about it was, the other Aborigines in the area, who had customarily stood at the back of the crowd during the ceremony, were ushered forward by Sergeant Farrar through the people and fed first and for free. Among them were Binda, Pindari, Ganan and Miro. They unobtrusively made their way to the front and stood at Johnny's side. They would later insist on contributing one pound collectively as their donation. Binda looked coyly at Johnny, her missing him there for all to see. Johnny touched the small of her back briefly. Dad allowed us two sausage sandwiches each and Nan made sure we stuck to it. Placing the first sausage of what would be three sausage sandwiches that afternoon on Johnny's bread, Mr Green commented to Mr Kells as Johnny left.

  "I'm the first to admit I made a mistake with that one. He's one of the gooduns."

  Johnny spent the whole afternoon proudly wearing the contents of the velvet box – a solid gold Certina wristwatch bearing the inscription: 'Always in my thoughts – Lillian Wood'. Binda never left his side.

  Money raised, including donations from town businesses was put into a special account at the bank. It met most of the costs of Johnny's multiple skin grafts and other medical bills. Dad would quietly top up the account when it was exhausted.

  It took many months before our community could put Steve and his dad's death behind us and get on with everyday life. To some, Johnny's presence would always be a constant reminder of that night's tragic events. Sadly, the goodwill shown toward the rest of the town's Aboriginal population at the barbecue was brief.

  They were banished to the edge
s of town, with restrictions on their movements. Most shopkeepers still only admitted them if they could produce money before entering.

  It didn't take long for the conscience of Mr Green and a few other shopkeepers to revert to their old ways of treating them either, still only serving them at the doors to their shops.

  Doug and I were there one day standing beside Johnny and a few other Aborigines outside Mr Green's. They waited patiently to be attended to – not in turn mind, but only after every white customer was served, whether they were there first or not. Johnny, though still welcomed to enter his store whenever he wanted, chose to stand and wait with his black brothers and sisters. It took over an hour and a half.

  The last white customer left Mr Green's store a good fifteen minutes before he made any effort to serve the patient group outside. He checked they had money first, because unlike others of the community, he refused Aborigines credit. Johnny let everyone else go before him. Mr Green only showed any trace of embarrassment when it was Johnny's turn. A number of white households in the town had already joined the Walshes, Nan and the Symonds in boycotting Mr Green's store, but he remained steadfast in his beliefs.

  More importantly, the badgering and violence toward the Aborigines and even the piercing almost nightly gunshots ended after Mr Wood's death. This season, this season of hate, had passed. Others would follow, bringing their own issues and violence. For as Pindari foreshadowed at the Hudson fire, not all the blacks were prepared to put up with the treatment they were receiving at the hands of some white aggressors. Some fought back, with varying success and the ensuing consequences.

  Of great concern to our household was Dad. I can only ascertain that whatever atrocities he had witnessed or perhaps was even forced to perform to survive in World War II, must have resurfaced even stronger with his attending to Bob Wood's suicide.