The oval was a chaos of colour and noise. On a late summer’s day at the beginning of 1982, teenagers in shorts and t-shirts swarmed across bright green turf, the lurid primary colours of their clothing glaring beneath a high, cloudless sky. There were shouts and cheers, applause, whistles shrilling and the crackled blare of a voice bawling over the loudspeaker. Adults with clipboards barked orders as they marched between throngs of leggy, sweaty kids; other adults in polo-shirts and knee socks jogged about spitting instructions and clapping enthusiastically at students’ backs like stockmen with a cattle prod.
Thomas thought it was fantastic.
‘It wasn’t like this when I was at high school,’ he said to Elsie. He was so pleased to have taken a rare day off work. They were sitting on a long row of bleachers set up at the edge of the oval. Whole families had come to watch their kids: parents, grandparents, cousins and aunties and family friends. The three of them were nothing remarkable; they were simply here to cheer for Arthur and his team. They were at one end of the bottom row, and the feet of those on the seat behind them jabbed on frequent occasions into Thomas’s back.
‘We all wore white uniforms,’ he went on, ‘and stood in orderly lines. Although most of us skinny lads just sat in the back rows and watched the sporty kids win everything for their teams.’
Elsie grinned at him from behind her sunglasses. The lenses were purple at the top and orange at the bottom, and the frame reached below her cheekbones. ‘I did pretty well in the egg and spoon race,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t fast, but I was careful.’
Sitting on the other side of Elsie, Aida laughed. ‘Did you hard boil the egg first?’
‘They’re letting every kid have a turn,’ Thomas said. ‘They’re not leaving anyone out. It’s marvellous.’
‘It doesn’t look marvellous for that fellow.’ Aida pointed to a boy scurrying fruitlessly down one of the track-and-field lanes, chasing a yawning gap between himself and the other runners. His fists pumped, his chin thrust upwards, but his team mates had wandered away from the sidelines by the time he reached the finish.
‘Poor kid,’ Aida said.
‘At least he gave it his best,’ Thomas said.
‘Millie should have come along,’ Elsie mused. ‘She was being stubborn. She would have enjoyed this.’
‘Would you have wanted to go back to your school when you’d only just finally become free of it?’ Aida asked.
‘To come as an adult, an observer, yes I think I would have,’ Elsie maintained. She gave a little sniff and Thomas knew it wasn’t Millie’s absence at Arthur’s school sports day that Elsie was perturbed about – it was Millie’s continued insistence on taking a long holiday with her friends. She and two girlfriends wanted to travel around Australia in a van; they wanted to go across to Perth, north to Darwin, then down the east coast. The trip would take months, they would subsist on scrounged-up cash work – picking fruit, waiting tables, nanny work. Yesterday Elsie had said to Millie, But must you be gone so long? To which Millie had replied, It’s a pretty big country, Mum. I need the space.
From the corner of his eye, Thomas saw Aida give Elsie’s hand a squeeze.
Arthur barrelled up to them. He was panting; his bare knees were scuffed with greenish brown and he had GO BLUE inked in huge black marker letters on the inside of his left forearm.
‘Blue’s only twenty-five points behind Green,’ he said, grinning.
‘Woohoo!’ Aida offered up her palm and he slapped it. Crack.
‘Did you see me in the long jump?’ Arthur bounced from one foot to the other. It seemed as soon as he had turned thirteen his body had shot up overnight, his arms and legs lengthening like stretched-out dough. Thomas wondered where Arthur got his sporty, athletic frame from. Elsie’s side, he decided, as he recalled the tall, farm-brawny figure of her father. Even when he had been doubled over with drink there was no doubt Mr Rushall was an imposingly sized man. Not like Thomas, who was of average height and average build – so suitable for his white-collar job, he reflected with some amusement. He could almost see the blood pumping through Arthur’s eager body now, his muscles growing and firming, and he was glad that if school now required this kind of ‘all-in’ participation, at least his son could hold his own on the field.
Thomas beamed at him. ‘Looked like you landed clear on the other side of the sandpit.’
Arthur laughed. ‘Not quite. But I beat Sam Brekovich, and he came third last year. I’ve gotta go because I’m on the high jump soon but, Ay, did you bring them?’
‘Right here.’ Aida bent down and dragged a large tartan bag from beneath the bench. She unzipped the bag and withdrew a foam cooler.
‘Cool!’ Arthur cried.
‘I’m sure it is cool, that’s its job,’ Thomas said.
Arthur rolled his eyes and dropped a kiss on Aida’s cheek, then another on his mother’s. ‘Bye!’ Clutching the cooler to his chest, he jogged away, to a group of boys standing clumped and jiggling at the edge of the oval. Thomas watched as Arthur approached the group and they all turned to face him, gathered around him as he opened the cooler. Like a flock of seagulls at fish-and-chip leftovers at the beach, they all dived into the cooler.
‘Pasties!’ Thomas cried. ‘Where’s mine?’
Aida delved into the tartan bag and out came a foil-wrapped parcel. ‘I didn’t forget you,’ she said, smiling.
Thomas peeled away the foil and was on his second luxuriant mouthful when Elsie cried out.
Thomas looked up from his pasty.
Aida gasped, ‘What the . . . ?’
‘What?’ Thomas said. ‘What is it?’
They were both staring over towards Arthur’s group. Elsie’s hand flew up to cover her mouth. Arthur had dropped the cooler; it lay on its side on the grass. It was hard to tell how many boys were involved in the tussle, because it was a moving, stomping flurry of arms and legs.
Dropping his pasty onto Elsie’s lap, Thomas leapt to his feet as more gasps and cries came from the seats around him.
‘Hey,’ he yelled, running towards the boys. ‘Hey, stop that!’
Two teachers arrived at the scrum at the same time as Thomas. He hesitated, trying to assess the situation, as the teachers attempted to separate the brawlers. Thomas searched for Arthur and found him startlingly close to the centre of the skirmish – he was gripping one boy’s collar in his two fists and yanking on it with surprising force. Another boy had hold of Arthur’s forearm and was trying in vain to pull him away. Yet another boy had that boy in a double-armed grip around the waist in some kind of attempt at a rugby tackle, and banging into this trio were two other boys who had each other in simultaneous head locks. Several more boys had attached themselves to various appendages or pieces of clothing. There were grunts as hands or fists found bare skin, sharp tears of fabric, howls of outrage. A crowd of multi-coloured teenagers gathered quickly around the fracas, awed and cheering, pointing and egging-on.
The two teachers had swiftly established themselves as a failing counteractive force. Thomas made a snap decision and allied himself to their cause. He dived in. It was Arthur’s ruthless grip on one boy that seemed the nucleus of the fray and Thomas figured if he could dismantle the nucleus, the rest would fall away. Pushing himself into the centre, Thomas, as assertively and non-aggressively as he could, hip-and-shouldered one boy out of the way, then another.
‘Arthur,’ he shouted. ‘Let go.’ Finally reaching his son, Thomas put his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, and heaved. ‘Let him go.’
Reflexively, Arthur snarled in his direction and then, realising who he was, abruptly opened his fists. He and his opponent both tumbled backwards, and Thomas stumbled to keep a hold of him. More teachers had joined the good fight and the boys were being hauled off one at a time, the crowd of onlookers instructed in no uncertain terms to disperse and return to their team sites. Even the voice over the loudspeaker had joined in, declaring there was ‘nothing to see, so please stay seated wherever you are.’
Thomas managed to half-drag, half-push a hyped-up Arthur into the clear. ‘What the hell is going on?’ he demanded, panting.
Arthur flung himself free and bent double, his hands on his knees. His shoulders heaved. He spat into the grass then straightened, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. He was glaring murderously over Thomas’s shoulder.
‘Arthur? Answer me.’
‘He started it,’ Arthur finally said.
‘Who?’
‘Him.’ He thrust his chin. ‘Dickhead Ron Brown.’
Thomas glanced over his shoulder. The crowd had begun to thin; teachers were interrogating some boys, other boys were sneaking away. Fingers were being pointed in all directions.
‘Is he Brown’s Freightlines’ kid? What did he do?’
Arthur said, ‘He called Mum a lemon.’
‘Mum? Your mum?’
‘Yeah.’
Thomas frowned, confused. ‘He called her a – what now?’
‘A lemon.’
‘Like the fruit?’
‘Yeah, but – no. Not the fruit. You know?’
‘I really don’t,’ said Thomas.
Arthur stepped close to him. Right up to his chest. They were almost the same height; tears of outrage glimmered in his son’s eyes.
‘A lemon is a lezzo,’ he hissed.
Thomas said, ‘Oh.’ He put a steadying hand on Arthur’s shoulder; the muscle was hot and damp, the joint shifting beneath his palm.
Arthur said, ‘I wouldn’t give him a pasty because he’s a jerk. He’s a couple of years older but he only picks on the younger kids because he’s a wimp and a bully. Anyway, he wanted a pasty but I didn’t give him one, so he said my mum was a . . . you know.’
‘Right,’ said Thomas. ‘The citrus thing.’
‘They’re always saying dumb things,’ Arthur went on, ‘mean things about other people: that Mrs Barnaby has to wear adult nappies; that Lizzy Truro’s dad’s a communist; that Chris Withers was left on a church doorstep as a baby. But this one is disgusting, Dad. And about Mum? It’s gross.’
Thomas’s guts sank at the same time as his mouth soured. He took in his son’s infuriated, revolted expression; he was acutely aware of the people milling about them. That his son had heard a stupid urban rumour – probably, Thomas’s mind raced to realise, a legacy of one of Watsons’ kids – and been understandably protective of his mother wasn’t what mortified Thomas now. No, what Thomas found most confronting, as he faced this adrenalin-hyped, deeply impressionable, not-yet-man in front of him, was that his own son was so repulsed by the mere idea of homosexuality that he would get into an enormous brawl over it.
What would Arthur do when he realised those silly rumours were actually based on fact?
‘Arthur,’ Thomas began, ‘look, son, we should talk.’
‘I don’t want to talk, I want you to tell those kids it’s not true.’
A few faces had turned to look at them. Thomas said, ‘I’m not going to do that.’
‘Why not? Why won’t you stand up for me?’
Thomas glanced over at the group of kids, some still being interrogated by teachers, some reforming into cliques and looking over at Arthur. Then he looked over at the stands, where Elsie and Aida were peering at him anxiously. Elsie had half-risen from her seat, her hand at her throat.
‘Dad?’
‘Mate,’ Thomas sighed. ‘Listen –’
‘Wait – it’s not . . .’
‘Arthur –’
Arthur paled. ‘It’s not bloody true, is it?’
Thomas’s heart began to thud. ‘Just stay calm.’
His son took a wobbly step back.
‘Arthur Mullet,’ a voice barked.
They both looked up as the teacher appeared beside them. A squat, flushed man with a whistle on a rope around his neck.
‘Mr Theonopalis,’ Arthur mumbled.
The teacher turned to Thomas. ‘Who are you?’
Thomas was flustered, reeling. He was almost too afraid to answer. ‘I’m, uh –’
‘This is my dad,’ Arthur said.
‘Mr Mullet. I’m Leon Theonopalis, from phys-ed.’ The teacher extended his hand and Thomas took it. The man’s forearms were covered in a thick mat of dark hair. ‘I’d otherwise say it’s a pleasure to meet you,’ Theonopalis went on, ‘but the circumstances are anything but pleasurable, it’s a shame.’
Thomas couldn’t answer. Was the teacher talking about the boys’ fight – or his wife, the ‘lemon’?
‘Young man, you need to come with me.’
‘Why?’ Arthur suddenly stood straighter. ‘It wasn’t me. Ron Brown started it.’
‘He says you started it, so until we can get some straight answers, you’re all off to the headmaster’s office.’
Arthur looked at Thomas.
‘Sir,’ Thomas said, ‘I don’t think that will be necessary. I can take Arthur home right now.’ Please, he thought. Please let me take him home so we can work this out.
‘He needs to be disciplined by the school, I’m afraid,’ Theonopalis said. ‘We have a policy on fighting and Arthur needs to face the consequences of his actions.’
Thomas looked at Arthur, who glowered at him.
‘Mr Mullet, thank you for your assistance. Arthur, come along now.’
Thomas put a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘I’ll see you at home, okay?’ He gave him what he hoped was an imploring, yet also firm look. Arthur shrugged him off and dropped his eyes to the ground.
Face the consequences of his actions.
Thomas watched as Arthur walked off behind the teacher.