Season of Hate Read Online Free PDF Page B

Doug and I looked around the rest of the store. I held up a big pair of men's 'Y' fronts, stuck my finger through the fly and wiggled it about like a penis. Doug smiled and we both giggled behind our hands. We overheard Mr Renshaw telling about someone getting married and someone having their fourth grandchild, someone leaving and a new publican at the Exchange and that the Aboriginal Reserve was closing down shortly, before we wandered back to Dad. I pulled on the leg of his pants, to get his attention.
    "Thanks for all the news, I best get these boys home. Seems they've got some homework they're busting to do." It was my turn to cross my eyes at Dad's comment – for Doug's eyes only.
    "See you Sid. Thanks for everything," Dad added as we each took our brown paper wrapped uniforms from the counter.
    "My pleasure, Harry. It's good to see you and the boys. Give my regards to Maureen."
    The trip back to pick up the car in the laneway behind the surgery was interrupted at intervals. People, who had known Dad over the years, were reintroducing themselves and passing on their best wishes for his new practice. Everyone knew everyone in town.
    Driving home we stopped at Green's Mixed Business on the corner of Casuarina and Main. Dad was welcomed into the store like he was royalty by an effusive Mr Green, greeting us with handshakes all around. He was bald on top and had little sunken piggy eyes peering out from under overgrown eyebrows, and when he spoke his lips barely parted. Dad purchased cheese, a loaf of bread and a jar of vegemite for our school sandwiches. Apart from the same sort of gossip as Mr Renshaw, he added as we walked out the door,
    "I s'pose you heard about the Reserve closing, Doctor?"
    "Harry's still my name."
    "Yes, well Doctor, um Mister, Master Harry, I mean Harry …" He drew a deep breath. "… we were happy for it to stay open, but Sergeant Farrar's been instructed to turn off the water and close it down. Says he's just following Gov'ment's orders. The Aboriginal Welfare Board's bought the old Hudson place, you know, on the far end of Railway Street near the bush and's doing it up for a mob of them. Not ones from the Reserve but from out west. Movin' 'em right into the middle of town, if you don't mind. There's a meeting at the School of Arts about how we're gonna cope. This Frid'y at eight." His last words he had to call out from his shop verandah as Dad had already got in the car without bothering to answer him.
    "You going?" Doug asked as we drove off.
    "No Dougal."
    Now it needs to be explained that when Dad called us by our full names, it was usually because he was mad at us and we were just about a second away from his threatened whack on the bum or a lecture, or else he had something on his mind. I elbowed Doug to keep him quiet, but nothing happened anyway. Dad remained deep in thought. And we left it at that. Occasionally he'd look past me in the middle of the front seat to Doug near the window, who was just staring at nothing in particular through the windscreen. It was a very quiet trip home.
    School continued fairly uneventfully. Except Doug and I no longer sat together. After a monthly test, you were moved up or down in seating order depending on your overall marks. The second class had three rows of seats and we had three for third class. I was at the front of the second row for third class, next to Penny, the pretty curly-headed girl I met at that first assembly.
    "My dad'th Thargeant Farrar," she lisped through two prominent buckteeth. She had a lovely smile.
    Doug was halfway down the last row. Third class boys who got to the top seats of the first row, as a reward, were allowed to assist Father Prittenden as altar boys at Friday Benediction. The school taught all the kids in the area from all denominations and to serve at Benediction was the biggest honour anyone in the third class could win. But only if you were baptised Catholic.
    Sometimes at home I did my best to help Doug with his