Читать книгу Fox - Bill Robertson - Страница 11

At thirteen, Fox stood five feet seven inches tall in a body as lean and hard as whipstick mallee. Daily shovelling shit in the vegetable gardens and stables, baling hay and grooming horses had toughened him. His reputation for gentleness with horses and ability to quieten even the most intractable steed extended well beyond the mission. And, when he could, he was in the mission pool swimming — lap after lap after lap. It was a peaceful and beautiful means of escape. Without any conscious effort and through his own intrinsic qualities, Colin Fox had changed incrementally to become an informal leader.

It had not been so when he arrived. The Brothers had been ruthless. On the first day his head was shaved and his few possessions burned. To all and sundry he was labelled a “white” killer and his little sister a slut. Henceforth, he was to be known only as Fox.

That same afternoon he encountered the viciousness of Brother John, a hulking man with thick black hair. His frequent slandering of Lucy prompted Fox to glare at him and mutter, ‘Ya wrong.’ Brother John had grabbed Fox by the shirtfront and dragged him to the meeting hall where, in no time flat, a “line” was assembled. Sixty boys formed two rows facing each other about a pace apart and, while Fox did not know what was coming, he experienced deep fear. The atmosphere was electric — suppressed excitement, resentment, apprehension and resignation. It swirled around him like a poisonous cloud. Suddenly, with a mighty shove, Brother John sent Fox sprawling into the maw of “the line.” A fury of ugliness erupted as the terrified boy picked himself up and struggled between the two rows of boys — punched, knuckled, slapped, kicked and jeered from both sides. Anyone failing to deliver this treatment was subjected to the same experience. Several times Fox fell, dazed by the blows. Tears flowed, pain mushroomed but not one sound escaped his lips. By the end of the line his nose was bloodied, his teeth chipped, chunks of skin were missing and one eye was rapidly swelling shut. His silence infuriated the Brothers. Afterwards, his dogged determination to seek no help won support from several of the older boys. It was Fox’s second act of defiance in one day.

Two months after arriving at Mount Barker he appeared before the Children’s Court in Perth for stealing the bike he used to reach Lucy. Being his first court appearance, he received a warning. Back at the Mount, he was treated to a whipping for thieving. Brother John delighted in vigorously wielding the belt in the name of Christ. After that, Fox spent a week in the Tower. Four small, barred rooms above the granary were used to imprison boys deemed in need of discipline. There, Fox began dreaming at nights. At first, his dreams were nothing more than images of country presented in striking colours of rich ochre. But gradually, they presented messages. One night he was visited by a powerful ancestor from his mother’s family. By the time he left the Tower he felt able to focus upon achieving right outcomes from any adversity.

Seven months later, Fox attended the Coroner’s Court; this time as a witness regarding Mullett’s death. Mullett’s rape and murder of Lucy was indisputable and the body of evidence fell in Fox’s favour — he had been trying to save his sister. In that respect, the Reverend McManus was at least supportive. Eventually too, Brigitte Murphy broke her silence concerning Mullet’s behaviour towards Lucy and other children at Turkey Creek. No charges would be levelled against Fox.

After this hearing, Fox was deemed wild and uncontrollable and sent to the Tower for three months. This, the Brothers believed, was appropriate given the Court’s failure to exact justice. The truth, more likely, was their abhorrence of his regular incantations for illness to befall Brother John, a practice not unnoticed by the boys. And later, when Brother John experienced a paralysing stroke that halted his delivery of brutal beatings, Fox was regarded as someone special. Brother John’s replacement on the belt, Brother Mark, was much less vitriolic and a mere shadow of the former’s fury.

Over time, the Tower became a place of retreat, growth and nourishment for Fox. It was no longer a place to be feared. He exercised and dreamed expansively and vividly. His dreams revealed knowledge, brought comfort and enabled profound spiritual connection to his Gija family. In the Tower he recalled stories and experiences involving his mother, his country and his family. Slowly he devised and mastered a form of meditation which facilitated his entry to this realm of dreaming at will. Above all, time in the Tower began sharpening his desire for escape.

Over the next two years he worked hard, immersed himself in the available schooling and extended his already proficient use of code-switching (the transfer of linguistic items from one dialect to another). Fox discovered that he was naturally curious and thirsted for knowledge. He learned patience, kept his counsel and scoured the library for stories about the first and second world wars, particularly those of escape. One day he chanced across a battered paperback by Lobsang Rampa called The Third Eye. It contained a phrase that resonated deeply and would become central to his life: “the strong can afford to be gentle, the weak and unsure brag and boast.” Every day he found some way to make the phrase work for him. He despised bullies and befriended the smaller, younger boys set upon by sexual predators at the mission: some of them Brothers, some of them older Aboriginal boys. He talked to the young kids, listened to them, shared their fears, reassured them, told them his story and encouraged them not to lose hope. And never did Fox stop believing he would return home.

Over the months and years at Mount Barker, life became a treadmill of hard labour, privation, prayer and joylessness made bearable only by Fox’s personal quest for survival. The one hypocrisy that always made him laugh was the six monthly welfare inspection. On this day the boys dressed in white shirts, clean trousers and black shoes without socks. Unruly locks were trimmed and every dormitory was neatened and straightened. The day after inspection, normalcy resumed as the white shirts, trousers and shoes were put away until the next assessment.

Throughout his tenure, Fox had come to hate the Brothers’ embargo upon his traditional language. Every boy heard speaking in his own language not only received a thrashing, but was bullied to believe he was white. And white people didn’t speak “gibberish.” Despite many a beating for breaching these rules, Fox would be an adult before he fully appreciated the calculated harshness of this policy and its legacy of deprivation, a deprivation that he learned constituted one of the several elements of genocide.

One day in the stables, Fox heard a whimpering cry from a stall at the far end of the run. Quietly, he went to investigate and found sixteen-year-old Dan Lovett sitting on top of eight-year-old Charlie Dyar, a friend of Fox’s. Charlie’s pants were halfway down his legs.

‘What’s goin’ on Dan?’ queried Fox.

‘Mind yer bisness and fuck off,’ said Lovett.

‘You right Charlie?’ Fox asked.

Before he could answer, Lovett grabbed a handful of Dyar’s hair and twisted it hard. ‘I told ya, fuck off. He’s orlright.’

‘Can’t do that. Get off ’im.’

‘Make me.’ Lovett laughed.

‘Dan, leave ’im alone. If you don’t, I’m gonna beat the shit out of ya. And there’ll be more. Same as ’appened to Brother John.’

Lovett blanched but, being bigger, older, stronger and unwilling to lose face said, ‘You and what army Fox? Yer too bloody big for yer boots. Think just ‘cos you killed a wadjella I oughta be scared – fuck off!’

As Fox opened the stall gate, Lovett rose. He was just on six feet tall and a good two stone heavier than Fox – pudgy. Little Charlie Dyar rolled over and Fox watched him scuttle out of the way. Fox stood holding the gate open.

‘What are ya waitin’ for Dan? Ya piss weak!’

Lovett bellowed at the taunt and charged at Fox, arms whirling. At the last moment, Fox stepped aside and viciously swung the heavy half gate shut. Winded and stunned, Lovett fell to the ground in a heap. Fox stepped into the stall and delivered three well-placed kicks to Lovett’s abdomen. When he curled into a ball to protect himself, Fox grabbed a riding crop from a hook outside and laid into Lovett, thrashing all parts of his body except his face.

‘Had enough?’ Fox enquired breathlessly.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ sobbed Lovett.

‘Leave Charlie and his mates alone. If ever I hear ya touched one of ’em again, ya for it. Ya hear me?’

‘Yes,’ blubbered Lovett.

‘Good. Other big kids here think same as me. I’ll be tellin’ ’em about ya. Today. So ya won’t only have me to worry about. I know there’s more of your lot ’ere too, so give ’em the message.’

‘Okay, okay,’ said Lovett.

‘So get. But before ya do, tell Charlie here you’re sorry for what ya done. Oh, and don’t tell the Brothers, otherwise you’ll be walkin’ the line – my line.’

But two days later, Lovett told his special friend – the hulking Brother John. Late that evening, the “line” was assembled and Fox was dragged into the meeting hall by two brown robed Brothers. With a clutch of cassocked tormentors nearby, Brother John stood at the head of the line, huge, aroused and leering; right arm hanging uselessly.

‘So Fox, not so clever now are we?’ he mumbled, his speech affected by the stroke. ‘After this, Tower for a month! Get down that line,’ he bellowed. With that, Fox was hurled into “the line”.

But Fox had his own ideas and the line was not among them. After the Brothers released him he dived to the floor in a forward roll smoothly rising to sprint to the end. He ran at Brother John, leapt, somersaulted and delivered a mighty kick to John’s chest. Shocked, unable to defend himself, John thumped onto his arse and sprawled on his back.

Pandemonium erupted as the boys watched Fox’s powerful and brazen defiance. They whooped and hollered, stomping their feet when Fox broke three of Brother John’s fingers by viciously plunging his boot heel onto his scrabbling left hand. Fox turned and glared at the clustering, brown demons, staring them down, his own malevolence outgunning their resolve and anger. An uneasy silence fell.

‘Lovett, you slimy bastard,’ called Fox softly, ‘I warned ya to tell your bum-fuckin’ mates to leave us alone. Ya brought this down on yourself.’ He gestured to the remnant line. ‘You’re dead. I’m sendin’ your black soul to hell. And while that’s happenin’, don’t think ya can be saved. No one’s gonna’ worry about ya. Ya head will be filled with snakes and you’re gonna waste away. I warned ya.’ Fox’s quiet voice was menacing and unequivocal. He turned to Brother John. ‘I’m not goin’ to the Tower and you’re joinin’ Lovett.’

Stunned by Fox’s audacity, no one tried to stop him as he stalked from the hall. Ten minutes later, when three brown vultures hunted for Fox to punish him, they found that he and his meagre possessions had vanished.