Read Online Season of Hate by Michael Costello - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Costello
Tags: australia
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what the stories might be and letting out a Tarzan call every now and then until Dad called out.
"If you two don't keep that noise down in there, there'll be no pictures." We continued in excited whispers, beating our chests and doing silent Tarzan calls, lion roars and mimicking the bow-legged walk of Cheeta, Tarzan's chimpanzee, while they talked on at the table – just loud enough to be overheard.
"You should be takin' someone ta the pictures. You should."
"Mum please. I've told you, I'm not interested in dating."
"It's a small town, love. Everyone knows yer circumstances. You'd stand a better chance with that ring off ya finger."
"I've no intention of taking it off."
"Then you're a fool."
"That it? I'll join the boys inside."
Saturday morning couldn't have come fast enough. Dad had told us to rug up as it was going to be cold. We realised we must be going to visit one of Dad's sick patients, because he was loading a heavy metal pot full of casserole and two dampers I saw Nan make the day before, onto the back floor of the car. We were almost ready to leave, when Mrs Symonds hoyed us from across the road, before running over and handing Dad a box with some old blankets, a tin of powdered milk, bars of soap, as well as two loaves worth of sandwiches.
"I think we're going on some sort of picnic," I whispered to Doug. But what was Poppie's old water drum that he used to fill stock troughs with, doing in the boot, we wondered.
"Here Harry, take these."
"That's very kind of you, Esme. I'm sure they'll be much appreciated – especially the blankets." She gave a small smile.
"Hello boys. He's a good man, your dad. Well you are. Let me know if there's anything else I can do, Harry," then she darted back to her house.
It wasn't long before we were at our destination. Dad got out with his medical bag and we followed over the brown sandy loam.
Before us was this big fenced in area and in the distance several large gum trees and just a few others scattered around. We entered the enclosure. Some of the fencing looked like it had been deliberately pulled down.
"This is the old Aboriginal Reserve or Reservation, boys." Doug and I both dropped open our mouths at the same time, with anticipation. We were a bit apprehensive, but felt safe with Dad.
My fear and excitement soon dissolved into disappointment. Where were all the tepees and horses like the American Indians on Reservations we saw at the pictures? Where were all the bare chested men with feathered headdresses and women with papooses on their backs? We made our way further onto the Reserve. Sheets of corrugated iron were lying on their sides on an angle, sticking into the air. They were propped up by tree branches, and other twigs and smaller branches formed sides to them. What passed as a dwelling looked like it could so easily be blown away. They were empty, but each had a small fire near it that hadn't been used for some time.
"What are they?" I asked.
"They're called humpies. That's what some Aborigines sleep in."
"Where are the tepees and horses?" Doug asked, echoing my very thoughts. Dad stopped and came down onto his haunches to our level.
"Fellas, you're thinking of American Indians. These are Aborigines. Just like those near the creek on Cracker Night. The tribe in this area are mostly the Wiradjuri people. Here
thousands of years ago. Old as cavemen." We couldn't hide our disappointment, and though still curious to explore, kept very close to Dad as we moved on.
"Don't the Abos get cold?" I asked. Dad jerked my arm roughly.
"Don't ever let me hear you use that word."
"That's what Mr Wood calls them," I reasoned meekly.
"Bob Wood is living proof you don't have to have a long neck to be a goose. He calls them that as a put down. How'd you like it if someone kept calling you, 'whitey' or 'shortie'? You wouldn't like it would you?" I could feel by my bottom lip starting to quiver that tears were close.
"It's okay, I'm not having a go at
"If you two don't keep that noise down in there, there'll be no pictures." We continued in excited whispers, beating our chests and doing silent Tarzan calls, lion roars and mimicking the bow-legged walk of Cheeta, Tarzan's chimpanzee, while they talked on at the table – just loud enough to be overheard.
"You should be takin' someone ta the pictures. You should."
"Mum please. I've told you, I'm not interested in dating."
"It's a small town, love. Everyone knows yer circumstances. You'd stand a better chance with that ring off ya finger."
"I've no intention of taking it off."
"Then you're a fool."
"That it? I'll join the boys inside."
Saturday morning couldn't have come fast enough. Dad had told us to rug up as it was going to be cold. We realised we must be going to visit one of Dad's sick patients, because he was loading a heavy metal pot full of casserole and two dampers I saw Nan make the day before, onto the back floor of the car. We were almost ready to leave, when Mrs Symonds hoyed us from across the road, before running over and handing Dad a box with some old blankets, a tin of powdered milk, bars of soap, as well as two loaves worth of sandwiches.
"I think we're going on some sort of picnic," I whispered to Doug. But what was Poppie's old water drum that he used to fill stock troughs with, doing in the boot, we wondered.
"Here Harry, take these."
"That's very kind of you, Esme. I'm sure they'll be much appreciated – especially the blankets." She gave a small smile.
"Hello boys. He's a good man, your dad. Well you are. Let me know if there's anything else I can do, Harry," then she darted back to her house.
It wasn't long before we were at our destination. Dad got out with his medical bag and we followed over the brown sandy loam.
Before us was this big fenced in area and in the distance several large gum trees and just a few others scattered around. We entered the enclosure. Some of the fencing looked like it had been deliberately pulled down.
"This is the old Aboriginal Reserve or Reservation, boys." Doug and I both dropped open our mouths at the same time, with anticipation. We were a bit apprehensive, but felt safe with Dad.
My fear and excitement soon dissolved into disappointment. Where were all the tepees and horses like the American Indians on Reservations we saw at the pictures? Where were all the bare chested men with feathered headdresses and women with papooses on their backs? We made our way further onto the Reserve. Sheets of corrugated iron were lying on their sides on an angle, sticking into the air. They were propped up by tree branches, and other twigs and smaller branches formed sides to them. What passed as a dwelling looked like it could so easily be blown away. They were empty, but each had a small fire near it that hadn't been used for some time.
"What are they?" I asked.
"They're called humpies. That's what some Aborigines sleep in."
"Where are the tepees and horses?" Doug asked, echoing my very thoughts. Dad stopped and came down onto his haunches to our level.
"Fellas, you're thinking of American Indians. These are Aborigines. Just like those near the creek on Cracker Night. The tribe in this area are mostly the Wiradjuri people. Here
thousands of years ago. Old as cavemen." We couldn't hide our disappointment, and though still curious to explore, kept very close to Dad as we moved on.
"Don't the Abos get cold?" I asked. Dad jerked my arm roughly.
"Don't ever let me hear you use that word."
"That's what Mr Wood calls them," I reasoned meekly.
"Bob Wood is living proof you don't have to have a long neck to be a goose. He calls them that as a put down. How'd you like it if someone kept calling you, 'whitey' or 'shortie'? You wouldn't like it would you?" I could feel by my bottom lip starting to quiver that tears were close.
"It's okay, I'm not having a go at
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