Goodbye Lullaby. Jan Murray
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military jacket and red bandana who was sucking a beer and insisting on staring them out––but they’d cruised past again a couple of times and now it seemed they were hanging around.
Like the clap. And about as welcome, he thought as he up-ended the last drop of warm beer and tossed the empty under the foundations of the old wooden building. He heard the clash of glass and knew his latest contribution had found a friend under there among the redbacks, the cockroaches and whatever else. Moratorium banners and junked flyers, mainly.
‘Good boy,’ he yelled out to the Jack Russell, watching it trot back across the road to him, its bladder now empty. The terrier had just paid homage to the Holden, cocking its hind leg and spraying a gallon of hot piss on the near front tire. 'Good boy.'
Back at the curb the mutt turned and barked at the vehicle, the bark culminating in a menacing growl.
‘Don’t overdo it, chum. They’ll shoot you.’
He whistled the dog. It gave one last insult to the Holden and continued trotting towards him.
The aggressive little canine negotiated the steps before settling back in Rex's lap, still giving out its low belligerent growls, finally ending its protest by treating the Holden to a mean set of teeth and pink gums. ‘I’m with you all the way, killer. Assholes, the lot of ‘em.’
The phone box. He was staring at the thing, willing her to radio in and let him know how it had gone up there. It was a thing of wondrous beauty, their phone box, he figured. Some genius had plastered Peace signs all over its faded red exterior and inside they’d gone to work with their paint brushes. Psychedelic flowers, moons, stars, pentacles; all kinds of weird and wonderful hippy symbols.
It meant shit-all, but anything was an improvement on their government regulation green mottled crap. The street kept a jam jar of fresh flowers on the ledge inside where the phone book should have been but wasn’t. He never copped to who put those floral offerings to the Gods of Peace there, or saw anyone watering them, but whenever he used the phone, there they were; fresh flowers. Mainly frangipani and hibiscus, some honeysuckle vine because frangipani and hibiscus and honeysuckle were everywhere along the terrace.
‘Expecting a call?’ said the girl. He had forgotten she'd been sitting beside him all this time.
'Yep.'
‘Thought so.’
He dug that about the terrace, too. These guys were cool. She’d know he had a perfectly good working phone inside the Resistance but it was fine with her that he was sitting out here in the dying afternoon sun waiting for a call on the public one a stool holding open the door.
He saw her shoot a glance across to the black Holden and he knew she knew the score, the deception course he’d set up. Public-to-public, assuming the enemy’s disposition to tap their wires. When a barefoot young couple, sporting ropey dread-locks and sloppy sandals passed them on the step and went up into the shop, the girl whose name he couldn’t remember, stood up and followed them in.
‘Stay where you are, Rex. I’ll give a yell if it’s something I can’t handle,’ she said, looking across at the Holden and chucking a moonie to its occupants before disappearing inside.
If the cops thought they intimidated his clientele by setting themselves up here, they were wrong. His comrades weren’t idiots. Anyone who figured they might be under surveillance, and that was half the fucking country, came in through the Papadakos loft. Good old Con and Maria Papadakos and their fish shop. Best fries in the Southern Hemisphere, thought Rex.
–4–
Bowen, North Queensland, 1971
Hitting the outskirts of town, she slowed the Jeep and cruised down the wide open main street, so typical of Queensland country towns.
In her weariness, she thought about the hot bath waiting for her at the end of the road. She needed quiet time, a reprieve not simply from the journey, but from everything, all of it. Relaxation and forgetfulness. Whether or not she deserved it, that was all she wanted for the moment. Maybe she did deserve some reward, she reasoned. Mission accomplished.
The Commercial, she knew from her previous stays in Bowen had clean and commodious bathtubs. As old-fashioned and comfortable as the hotel itself, once the lively hub of the renowned cattle and mining town. They learned in History that Bowen was one of the places where the Kanakers were brought as slaves to cut cane. Sister Michael had impressed on them that the South Sea island men were brutally whipped to keep them hunched over, roasting under a scorching tropical sun as they sliced and hauled the cane and were bitten by deadly snakes, all so that girls like them could sweeten their tea. She had taken her tea sans sugar ever since.
The Bowen she cruised into on this lazy afternoon was a different place, a place of rural gentility, a sleepy part of the Whitsundays blessed with long stretches of white coral sands and aqua blue waters, and behind the coastal beauty, vast stretches of outback country.
The proprietor of the Commercial and the staff knew her and were friendly without being obtrusive. The pub might have fallen on hard times but it still had its white timbers and its wrap-around verandas overlooking the harbour to give it its tropical colonial appeal. Inside, its cozy fireplaces and quaint chintzy rooms were a relic of a lost age, like so much of regional Queensland.
She was fond of her State. Saddened that governance of it had fallen into the wrong hands, however. She and her friends had found themselves in some wild dust-ups with Bjelkie-Petersen’s cops. She still bore the scars from the Springboks tour in July. Not physical like Rex, but emotional. It had been horrendous, being dragged along the ground by her hair. Twice the number of police as protesters. Dozens had been hospitalized. She came off lightly, she figured.
She thought about the people in Canberra who would be preparing for tonight’s draw. The big barrel on its stand. The numbered plastic marbles. One worthy citizen––no doubt some conservative old tosser––who would stand alongside the government official and sink his arm into the barrel. The government official who would call out the numbers as they were drawn from the barrel and handed to him by the worthy gentleman. She could see it all so clearly.
Fate. A heartless device. One man, his arthritic fingers lingering over the marbles until, serendipitously, he settled on one and retrieved it, thus accommodating the state's purpose; to fill its quota of young men it would send to war. One man's actions determining so many futures. And she would never know if one of those numbered marbles corresponded to the birth date of her somewhere child.
Tonight would happen. Tomorrow, another day. Bernie saying that even if, against the odds, his number came out it wouldn’t be her fault? That was just blowing hot air and Bernie knew it. Bernie’s child had been taken from her. She had given hers away. Big difference.
She pulled into the curb a hundred yards down the road from the hotel and killed the engine, grateful the phone booth across the road was empty. She was about to get out of the Jeep when she saw a police car turn into the street.
They onto her!
No. It was madness to be this paranoid but she took the precaution of easing the vehicle around the corner and parking it in the lane.
As she waited for what might or might not be a dangerous moment to pass, she wished she smoked. This was a have-a-fag moment. She checked the side mirror and saw the police car cruise past the lane. Her hands sweated. Had they spotted a stranger's jeep loitering in the alley? Would they double back to check it out?
She wondered how she would handle it if they did.
As well as the Commonwealth Police, the Queensland Special Branch wanted her. Her kind got up the noses of Bjelkie’s boys, baton-wielding Neanderthals. Were these local cops aware of the warrant? If so, they would certainly arrest her.
She had clashed with the police in the streets of Brisbane more than once. "Six or more––against the law" was their protest chant. Anymore than six citizens walking down the street together and thanks to Premier Bjelke-Petersen's