Freedom Ride Read Online Free Page B

could see a huge book open on the counter beside a black telephone and pencils.
    I wheeled my bike after Barry.
    “Have you met Mum?”
    “I don’t think so. I used to see your dad around school. He had the cleanest tools.” The moment I said it, I cringed. Nan had told me a thousand and one times not to talk about the deceased, as she called them. Face burning, I spun to face Barry. “I’m sorry.”
    He dismissed my panic with a smile. “He took care of everything like that. I’m not as fastidious, I’m afraid. Mum would like to hear what you said.”
    “What?” I sprayed the word as though it was too hot to keep in my mouth.
    “She’d like to hear that you noticed how he took care of his things. Come and have a cuppa, then I’ll show you around.”
    I rested my bike against the fence and followed him into a secluded backyard filled with fruit trees, vegetables, lush lawn and roses in bloom. At the back of the yard, obscured by a creeper of some kind, was a sleep-out. A fence, taller than me, hemmed the whole garden.
    “This is Mum’s piece of paradise. Spends every spare moment out here.”
    “It’s beautiful,” I said, and meant it.
    Barry slipped off his work boots at the back door. So did I. The house smelled of vanilla and pine. The kitchen walls were painted lemon and the cupboards cream, and the daffodil-patterned curtains were open. A crystal vase with yellow roses sat in the middle of the table. Between the kitchen and what I guessed was the lounge room, a Christmas tree reached to the ceiling. A string of Christmas cards hung above the windows and a nativity scene was spread across a sideboard. Other Christmas decorations were scattered around the room.
    “Have a seat,” said Barry, taking the kettle from the stovetop and filling it. “I’m making tea, Mum,” he called over his shoulder.
    The room somehow became lighter when Mrs Gregory entered. She pushed a stray grey hair into her loose bun and smiled. I thought of apple cake and fluffy towels.
    “Tea, Mum?” Barry’s voice broke the trance I’d fallen into.
    “Love one, thank you.” Though she was small, her voice was strong and clear. “You must be Frank Bower’s boy,” she said, turning to me. Barry introduced us.
    “Hello, Mrs Gregory.” I didn’t know whether to shake her hand or hug her. Instead I bobbed my head.
    “Sit down, Robbie.” She gestured at the table and walked to where Barry stood by the sink. “You too, you big oaf. I’ll make the tea.”
    “Didn’t think you’d ever offer.”
    On his way to the table, Barry picked up a tin from the bench and opened it. “Anzac biscuit?” he asked, offering me the tin. “Wrong time of year for them I know, but I love them.”
    “And so his mother makes sure he doesn’t run out,” said Mrs Gregory, with a grin. “Would you get a plate, please, Barry? Robbie will think we’re uncivilised.”
    “He’ll be right, won’t you, Robbie?” He shook the open tin towards me.
    I looked from Barry and back to his mother. They were so comfortable with each other, acting as though they were friends. After a moment I took an Anzac. “Thanks.”
    Barry took two and closed the lid, placing the tin beside him on the tablecloth. “Anyway, Robbie, you didn’t tell me, does your grandmother let you eat her mulberries?”
    “Barry! Leave the boy alone,” said Mrs Gregory. “How is Dawn, Robbie?”
    “She’s …” What could I say? Grumpy? A gossip? “She’s … you know.”
    Barry laughed.
    His mother raised her eyebrows and turned back to the kettle, which hissed steam. “She did a wonderful job with Arthur’s afternoon tea.”
    “Robbie was telling me he noticed Dad at school, Mum.”
    “His tools were the cleanest I’ve ever seen,” I blurted, unsure of what else to say.
    “He loved working at the school.” Mrs Gregory stood, teaspoon of tea leaves poised over the pot. She looked out to her garden. “Poor Artie.” With a sigh, she tipped the tea into the