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
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
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