The Winning Side Page 17

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘I don’t know what to do, Charlie’, Dick said quietly. ‘I wish you’d been here.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have made no difference’, Lennie said. ‘The place is fucked. Sorry, May.’

  ‘It’s not!’ Dick said fiercely. I remembered his threat, and this looked like the provocation that would spark it off. I put my hand on his shoulder and pulled him a litle away from his wife and Lennie.

  ‘You can’t inform on your own, Dick. If you do the place’ll be finished for sure. No one’ll touch it except the gooms. You don’t want that.’

  He shook my hand down. ‘I don’t know. What else can I do?’

  ‘Wait and see.’

  ‘You gutless wonder! These kids are fanatics!’

  ‘Yeah, well, they mightn’t have anything to be fanatical about soon.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘If Labour wins the election, the whole shooting match’s over.’

  ‘No way’, he said, but I could see he was thinking about it.

  ‘Talk to a few people, Dick. And don’t do anything stupid. Are the department blokes coming before the march?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Try and get the kids out of the way. Sweet talk them and get the money through. You’re a past master at that. Worry about the rest later.’

  ‘You’re a cunning bastard, Charlie. I heard you never got knocked out in the ring. That right?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me. I’ll think it over.’

  The youngsters had got on to American anti-war songs. O’Connor was singing and playing and teaching them the words. As I left I took a good look at the buildings; the back sections had been wood and iron lean-to’s which had been left to rot. We’d cleared them away. From being shabby, decaying wrecks the houses had now begun to look solid and purposeful. The bricks were old, but seasoned and sound.

  I brought Kelly up to date on the problem, and slept on it. The papers were full of the election campaign; with the government on the retreat and the ALP looking better every day. There were also long reports on the Vietnam war, and on plans for an all-capitals street march. I sat at my typewriter and tried to clear my head to write about a racehorse, but I couldn’t. I kept thinking back to my days in the tents and the stadiums, to Hassen and Kemp, Blue Parker and Speedy Kinnane. I got out the files on Richards and Elley Bennett and Dave Sands. In their bulky suits, heavy shoes and short haircuts they looked extra-terrestrial. The newspaper photography had a flat, square-on style that made everyone and everything look plain and uncomplicated. Reading idly, I saw that Dick Stuart had boxed an exhibition with Richards and had, in the writer’s opinion, clearly beaten him. Dick had always claimed he could beat Dave Sands in the gym and there were people who backed him up. I put the files away and wrote the column about Dick—about how he’d come down to Sydney from the bush in a church football team and flattened everyone in sight; how he’d won the state amateur title and turned pro and looked set for the top when the war came. Dick served in the Pacific, he was unscathed and much-decorated, but he lost his religion during the war and was aimless after it.

  He was still a good fighter; he beat Richards in the exhibition by moving him around the way he didn’t want to go so Ron couldn’t get set for his counter-punching. Of course, Richards was over the hill then, but Sands wasn’t. Dick used to step inside Dave’s swings and thump him on the whiskers. He was a light-heavy by then and never got a big fight with Dave, although heavier men did.

  When he finished fighting, Dick went bush—the usual thing, timber cutting, road building. He drifted back to the city for the sake of his kids’ schooling and he’d found politics and the Aboriginal cause. A new religion. It was a good, lively piece, and I knew it’d please Dick. I went to the pub and borrowed the picture of Dick in his boxing gear and I hunted out another picture from a story on Bunya Street that showed Dick shovelling sand. I put the copy in and felt pleased with myself.

  And that’s all I did: I was so involved with Kelly and Peter that my communal feelings were diminished. I paid my mortgage, read my books and drank my wine. The present was more or less comfortable, and when I thought analytically and questioningly it was usually about the past. So I was alarmed when Kelly told me that she was going on the Vietnam march.

  ‘You’ll have to look after Peter’, she said. ‘You can watch it on telly. Hold him up near the screen and see if he recognises me.’

  The authorities’ mood was ugly, as if they knew they were on the way out. The demonstrations often turned violent, but I knew there was no dissuading Kelly.

  ‘Make sure he doesn’t see his Mum getting trampled by a horse. Are you marching with the feminists or the nurses?’

  ‘From Bunya Street’, she said.

  ‘God. Is that going ahead?’

  ‘You’re out of touch, Charlie love. We’re marching from Bunya Street up Broadway and right on through.’

  My first thought, after Kelly’s safety, was for Dick and his funding. I hadn’t checked whether it had come through. I rang him; he thanked me for the write-up and told me that the inspection had been made, and he was waiting on the decision. I didn’t have the courage to mention the march.

  On the day, Kelly dressed in jeans and sneakers and a T-shirt that said ‘Give peace’ on the front and ‘A chance’ on the back. Having Peter hadn’t damaged her figure one bit; she was still as slim and straight as the first time I’d seen her in Mrs Fenton’s dreadful parlour and the cosy, comfortable side of me hated to see her step out on to the street. I was sure that some pervy camera man would fill the screen with her for the folks at home.

  The marches and moratoriums were news. The radio and TV moguls could sense the change in the air too, and they weren’t going to be out of step.

  I picked Peter up from his play school and took him home on foot and by bus. He was walking now, and resisting the pusher mightily. I fed him and liberated him from his clothes, he liked to play naked and I liked to see him that way; he was a smooth, light brown all over with a golden down on his limbs. He looked dashing and beautiful. I told him his mother was going to be on TV, but when she wasn’t on screen there and then he looked sceptical, and wandered off to play with the cat.

  At first, the march was peaceful. There were flare-ups and skirmishes on the edges but that was all. It reminded me of fighting in Greece. The police were there in force, horses and all, but they were playing it very cool which comforted me. I went out to make tea and check on Peter and when I got back the scene had changed. The police had prevented the marchers from following their intended George Street route and had diverted them north. It was ugly; a swirl of bodies and raids by the uniformed men picking off individual demonstrators. The marchers kept order in their ranks despite the police action and settled down into a skittish progress. The camera moved in on the Bunya Street mob who marched under a sign which read ‘Australia for the Aborigines—Vietnam for the Vietnamese—Out Yanks’. Willie Richards and Kevin O’Connor were out in front wearing white headbands as they raised their fists and shouted. I could almost hear the spooks’ cameras clicking. Kelly was in the middle of the group, tall and striding along. Sure enough, a camera zoomed in on her breasts and shoulders and face. Peter strolled in carrying the cat and I pointed.

  ‘Kelly’, I said. ‘Mummy.’

  He looked at the screen with screwed-up, sun-dazed eyes. ‘No’, he said and attempted to drop-kick the cat.

  ‘Peter denies you were there’, I told Kelly when she got back. ‘Sorry, no medal.’

  She grinned and took off her sneakers; big white blisters stood out on her dark skin. ‘Christ, it’s a long way that. I’ve got sore feet from walking and a sore throat from shouting.’

  ‘How did it feel?’ I was immensely relieved to see her, but careful.

  ‘Pretty good. They’re good kids, most of them.’

  ‘Not all?’

  She looked up and the young, keen glow had gone
from her face. ‘A couple of them’re talking about guns at Bunya Street. I think they’ve got them already.’

  ‘Guns! Why?’

  ‘They’ve got a whole mob of draft resisters there now. They’ve just about taken it over. I didn’t see the guns, but I saw other things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Food—tins, big jerry cans of water. Petrol and bottles.’

  ‘Dick and Lennie?’

  ‘Not there, given up. May’s still there, trying to talk sense.’

  ‘Somebody should be putting water in the petrol.’

  ‘I’ll tell May. Let’s have something to eat. I’m starved.’

  I worried about it in the week leading up to the election. I walked past the Bunya Street houses, and noted all the white head-bands and battle dress outfits. There was still some work going on, some new scaffolding but the place had a strategic air. A good third of the people around looked about as Aboriginal as Billy McMahon.

  I voted at the Public School and chatted with the Labor card handers-out, who were very chipper. Peter was asleep and Kelly and I were in front of the TV watching the first election returns when there was a heavy knock at the front door. I answered it and a big, sweating uniformed copper filled the doorway.

  ‘Mr Thomas? I’d like you to come with us, sir; there’s trouble down at Bunya Street. We have Mr Stuart in the car.’

  ‘What sort of trouble?’

  ‘Violence.’

  ‘Anyone hurt?’

  ‘Not bad, not yet. Hurry, please.’

  I told Kelly what was up and went out to the car. Dick was huddled up in the back; he looked smaller, diminished, and his greeting was a tiny nod.

  ‘What’s going on Dick?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  The siren came on and we screamed through the streets. When we turned into Bunya Street it was like landing on a foreign planet; the houses had their lights on and the blue police lights were flashing eerily. A police car was slewed around in the middle of the road, with its windscreen milky and starred. I pointed to it.

  ‘Anyone hurt there?’

  ‘Flesh wound’, the cop growled.

  We were surrounded by police all talking at once. After a while a plainclothesman got them quietened down and put us in the picture.

  ‘An attempt was made to arrest some draft resisters’, he said. ‘Kevin O’Connor and William Richards, Brian Mayhew and a couple of others. Bottles and other missiles were thrown at the police and a shot was fired. Maybe several shots. You’ve seen the car.’

  ‘Has there been any talking?’ I asked.

  ‘Kevin O’Connor says he is willing to die in the fight against imperialism. William Richards says he’s an Aborigine, and not subject to the racist laws of white Australia.’

  ‘What d’you want us to do?’

  ‘We’ve got a loud hailer here, Mr Thomas; hasn’t done us any good, but we’d like you and Mr Stuart to talk to them. Try and get them to see reason.’

  ‘I’ll talk to them’, Dick said.

  ‘Go easy, Mr Stuart; they’re in a nasty mood.’

  ‘Whose idea was it to make arrests tonight?’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Good night for it.’

  He ignored me and spoke to Dick. ‘We’d like to get an idea of who’s in there. If there’s any women and kids.’

  ‘You’ll go in hard if not, will you?’

  He flushed. ‘This is a serious matter, Mr Thomas. We thought you might be able to help.’

  ‘I don’t see any wounded’, I said. ‘Your blokes write off a car or two every day. Why don’t you just go home. Watch the election.’

  He didn’t answer and handed the bull-roarer to Dick.

  ‘Got a warrant to go in there?’ I said.

  ‘Do what you can, Mr Stuart.’

  ‘Willie’, Dick bellowed. ‘Come out of there and don’t be a bloody fool.’

  ‘That’s subtle.’

  The cop’s patience snapped. ‘Just shut up you …’

  ‘Black what?’

  Dick did some more shouting but there was no response from the house. I pulled the lid off a dustbin and scooted past the broken gate. The cop yelled but I ignored him and walked up to the front of the house on the end of the row. Something came flying down from the balcony and I warded it off with the lid; then I was under cover. The door was old and rotted around the edge. I kicked it down and went into the house.

  One of the white headband, battle-dress brigade came down the stairs with a .22 in his hand. I slammed the tin lid down and he jumped a foot.

  ‘They make a bigger noise than that, sonny’, I said. ‘Tell Kevin and Willie I want to see them. Quick!’

  They gathered on the stairs, a mob of eight or nine with two or three rifles. In the gloom two of them looked like women. I went into the front room and they trooped down the stairs and followed me in.

  ‘What are you playing at here?’ I barked.

  ‘We’re not playing’, O’Connor said. ‘This is resistance.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘White Australia and Capitalism.’

  ‘What about this place? You’re going to wreck it.’

  ‘It’s a bandaid’, he muttered. ‘It’s tokenism.’

  ‘You bastard! This is the first place those gooms have had to sleep in where they didn’t get rained on in ten years. Did you know that? The pregnant women, ever think of them? They don’t have to hawk their forks at the Cross for food. Say bandaid again, you little shit, and I’ll break your jaw!’ I realised that I was doing what Dick had done and I struggled for control. O’Connor had a big, angry red pimple on his face, and it infuriated me. I thought of Dick with his old, seamed, experienced dial, and May with the wisdom in her eyes.

  ‘Let’s calm it down’, I said. ‘You won’t get anywhere like this. They’ll sling you in gaol and forget about you.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’ Richards said.

  That was the hard part. I went across to the window and peered out and the answer was right there on four wheels.

  ‘Do you want to get tear-gassed and carried out of here like garbage?’

  One of the women spoke up quickly. ‘No, we don’t want that.’

  ‘Okay, let’s make a demonstration. There’s a TV crew out there, I just saw the truck. You can all stand on the balcony. You can make a bloody speech if you want to, Willie. It’s a great story, they’ll snap it up. They’ll cut it in with the election which everyone’s watching. Audience of millions. What d’you say?’

  They started to talk excitedly, with O’Connor arguing against it, and most of the others strongly for. There were six blacks and three whites and the blacks carried the day.

  ‘We’ll do it’, the woman who’d spoken before said.

  ‘Good. Where’s the phone?’

  I got patched through to the police and made the arrangements.

  ‘The house is surrounded’, the police spokesman said.

  ‘Good. A few sharp shooters around?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Don’t get in the way of the TV blokes, will you?’

  They didn’t like it, but they had no choice. I told them that there were women in the house and children, which was a lie. I told the kids that they had about a quarter of an hour to decide what they wanted to do and that they’d get about the same time in the spotlight if they were lucky. O’Connor sulked for a bit, but then the politician in him took over and he joined in while they tossed ideas around. I felt the need of a drink rather severely and asked them about their provisions but there was no alcohol. One of the women offered me marijuana in a friendly fashion.

  Eventually they decided to line up on the balcony while Willie Richards delivered a short speech about the Vietnam war, the draft and Aboriginal land rights. Then they’d give a black power salute and march outside.

  I waited in the front room behind them while they did it. Richards had a good, clear voice, and he used it to say that oppresse
d people everywhere were fighting the same fight against the same enemy. He kept it pretty simple, and then they sang a land rights song and gave the salute. I sat on an old chair in the bare room while this was going on, and hoped that the next part would go smoothly. They came through from the balcony and Richards said, ‘What happens next?’

  ‘Gaol’, O’Connor said. One of the women started to cry and I fidgeted and felt guilty. Then I noticed the old TV set in the corner of the room.

  ‘Does that work?’ I said.

  ‘One channel’, one of them said.

  I turned it on and a snow-filled, staticky, blurred image of Gough Whitlam filled the screen. He was standing outside the tally room where the mob of journalists and TV people and hangers-on and citizens had stopped him. Smiling faces, jumping bodies and an excited roar when Whitlam held up his hands for quiet. Someone held up a huge ‘It’s Time’ placard. Whitlam gave a big V for victory sign, and everyone cheered.

  ‘See that’, I said. ‘See that! You’ll be out of gaol tomorrow.’

  OBITUARY

  Sydney Herald 29 September 1973

  The death occurred today of Aboriginal activist Mr Charles (Charlie) Thomas, 53, of Glebe. Mr Thomas died of head injuries he received while attempting to stop a brawl outside a hotel in Glebe on Saturday night.

  Charlie Thomas had been a tent and stadium boxer, journalist, author and spokesman for Aboriginal causes. He served with distinction in World War II in the Middle East and New Guinea, and attained the rank of sergeant.

  Born in Queensland, Charlie Thomas spent his early years on an Aboriginal mission, but in his autobiographical novel published earlier this year, The Winning Side, he describes his flight from the mission, attempts to pass as white, and his self-education.

  Tributes were paid to him today by former boxers, journalists and members of the Aboriginal community. He is survived by his wife, Kelly, and son, Peter, aged two.