Freedom Ride Read Online Free

hand. “Your nan is Dawn, right? With the mulberry tree?”
    “That’s her.”
    Barry grinned. “When I was young, me and my mate Gaz used to steal the mulberries, or at least try to. Your nan was a mean shot with a broom.” He pointed to a gap in his front row of teeth.
    “Fair dinkum? Nan did that?”
    “Yep. One time Gaz copped three stitches to the eyebrow. She’s tough.”
    I rolled my eyes. “Don’t I know it.”
    He nodded at the mower. “Do you like mowing?”
    “It’s kind of soothing.” I glanced at Bat Face Fielding’s front windows. The curtains fluttered. “Not a fan of being watched all the time, though.”
    Barry’s laugh made me feel lighter. “You’re on holidays, aren’t you?”
    I nodded.
    “Would you consider mowing for me at the caravan park?” He pointed at Bat Face’s ancient mower. “With a powered mower.”
    “Today?”
    “Tomorrow. If you’re interested.”
    Nan hadn’t said if she’d arranged another job. “I guess so. Sure.”
    “You know where to go?”
    “Walgaree Caravan Park.”
    “See you tomorrow, then.” He waved as he strolled towards the river and the caravan park.
    The lightness in my stomach drifted away like smoke.
    Last night Nan and Dad had talked about Barry Gregory as though he was the devil in disguise. In fact, not even in disguise. Would they let me work for him?
    Barry had reached the corner when Bat Face Fielding flapped out the front door, more flustered chook than cockatoo. “What did Barry Gregory want?”
    “Nothing.”
    “That was a lot of talk about nothing.” She folded her arms.
    I swallowed a sigh. “He said I was doing a good job.”
    Bat Face Fielding frowned. “A slow job.” No wonder she and Nan were friends. “Well, get on with you. I want this finished before dark.”
    When she didn’t move, I clenched my teeth and pushed the mower forwards.

CHAPTER 6
    Bone and sinew bobbed in a tomato sea on the plate in front of me. I grimaced. Of all Nan’s concoctions, this was the worst. Meat – chops, I think – and a can of tomatoes cooked until the meat was tougher than the soles of my school shoes. Thank goodness for the mashed potato island. Nan did good mashed potato.
    She pulled her chair up to the table. “Frank, grace.”
    Dad bowed his head and mumbled a string of words. “Blessuso Lord and these Thy gift swhich we receive from Thy bounty through Christour Lord Amen.”
    “Amen,” echoed Nan. “How was work, Frank?”
    “Alby Duncan dropped in today.” Dad held his cutlery over the plate. “There are plans to let Abos into Walgaree High next year.”
    Nan shook her head. “He must be mistaken.”
    “Alby’s on the school board. He’d know. Some government initiative to get them out of Mission schools into the state system.”
    Nan clutched her chest. “In all my days …”
    “Four for starters, as a trial.”
    Nan fidgeted in her seat. “This really isn’t a dinner conversation. Tell me, Robert, how was Thelma today?”
    And Bat Face
was
a dinner conversation?
    I stared at the tomato sea splashed against the edge of my plate. “Good.”
    Which was a complete lie. When Nan said she had organised a job for me, I expected to be paid with actual money. Bat Face Fielding, after making me mow and rake the lawns, trim the edges, prune the shrub out the front, clean up the leaves and branches, sweep the paths and wash all the outside windows, paid me with a jar of pickles. Pickles!
    “Did you work hard?” asked Nan.
    “Yes, Nan.”
    “And cheerfully?”
    “Yes, Nan.”
    “And you refused payment.”
    I dropped my fork onto the mound of mashed potatoes.
    Dad stopped sawing the meat.
    “Well? Did you?”
    “As it turns out, she offered me pickles. I didn’t take them.”
    Nan gave a smug nod. “As you shouldn’t have. Thelma’s pickles are sour.”
    “Hold on, Mum,” said Dad. “You told the boy it was a job.”
    If I’d been holding my fork, I’d have dropped it again.
    “And a job means being