My paper arrives. The students are still revolting in Britain, Europe and America. And the Beatles have formed Apple, their own record company. I live in a town without music. Every so often we go to a house where there are records and a record player, but that’s rare. For the rest, no music. Not one bank johnny has a guitar, or if he does, he keeps it well hidden in his room and only plays when we are all dead in sleep. Polly Farmer’s new football team, West Perth, is looking like a winner. He’s the first Aboriginal to coach a league football team and I’ll bet he’s giving the shits to a few of the old-timers. I wonder if Polly has a young sister and whether she’s tall, elegant, athletic, like Polly, and if she’s a Madonna or a whore. Here’s another question: If I was back home, in Australia, in a town like Pingelly, would I sit out the front of someone’s house and whistle at a couple of Nyungar girls across the street? And if I did, would they go away and come back with their brothers and beat the shit out of me? I must ask Dorothy if she has any brothers.
One night the bank johnnies all get pissed with a coffee buyer who owns a truck and when the Jungle Bar closes we decide to visit Watkins’ house and invite him out for a drink. Just for a laugh.
I walk up to the front door of his neat little bungalow with Paterson and Franky. I knock, and Watkins opens the door and says: Muir. What do you think you are doing?
Me and the boys, Wato, I say, thought you might like to come and have a drink with us on our truck-bar.
Of course, sir, that’s why I’m about to say I love you, Wato, and I want to have your children and why I’m slurring and finding it hard to stand upright or even see you properly. That is you isn’t it, Wato, you old prick? Can I come in and lie down for a day or two?
Go home, Muir.
Someone is pulling my shirt. I think they want me to stop, but I can’t.
Not until you come and have a drink with us, I say, because we’re all here, Prem, Franky, and over there another truckful. We’re a truck full. Get it, ha ha, a truckful of blokes, a truck full. You bought us a drink once and now we want to return the favour, take you out for a night on the town, show you what goes on after dark. In the dark. Ha ha.
There is movement behind him. His wife pushes him aside. Watkins stands behind her.
Who do you think you are? she asks.
I am the Ghost Who Walks, I say, Mr Walker, The Phantom.
If you do not leave now, I will call the police.
Someone takes hold of my arm. I shake it free.
Please, Mrs Wato, madam, we were just passing on our truck-pub and we wanted your old fart here to join us for a drink. You might like to join us too. You are most welcome, my dear.
She looks at me and I think I understand why Watkins has a need to direct us with such certainty at work. It’s because he is directed with such certainty at home.
Go away, she says. Now! Or I call the police.
Just before I go, Mrs Wato, are you aware that your husband is a racist?
She moves so fast I don’t see the door move and as soon as the slamming is complete I hear Watkins say from the other side of it: Muir, you have three minutes to leave or I’ll call the police.
Right, you racist, I yell. I’ll leave, but if you talk to me again about talking to native girls on the enquiry counter I’ll call the fucking United Nations. You got that?
This is too much, Mrs Watkins yells. I’m calling the police.
I turn to dash for the truck. Prem and Franky are already there and on the back of the truck. I fall over and shout: Wato’s whatsit is calling the fucking police. Mayday mayday.
The truck is on its way by the time I get to it and I have to jump. I don’t quite make it but two blokes grab my arms and pull me on board. We have just enough beer left to do the job properly, to get well and truly pissed. I think about visiting Dorothy, but my brain collapses and I fall asleep.
It’s Monday. We’re all back at work. Mrs Watkins usually visits on Monday, but she doesn’t. Watkins doesn’t mention our visit. I reckon it is because he knows he is a racist and he doesn’t want me saying it out loud. He doesn’t look at me. I look around the office. No one is looking at Watkins. All have their heads down and their bums up. Even Higgs, but his is always down and up and then I realise not everyone was on the truck. Higgs was in his room with his head in a Holden HK manual his father had sent him.