splinter around the nail on the other side, and the other side would swing down. The nails were too big for this thin wood, or something.
Be buggered if she’d yell and ask Pa what to do. She could hear him sniggering inside the house, inside the hallway.
‘That’s me darlin’,’ he laughed, as another nail came out and she started again. ‘If at first you don’t succeed…’
Pa was watching her through the spy crack.
‘What’re you makin’, me darlin’?’
‘A wigwam for a goose’s bridle.’ Treat him like a child.
Pa treated
her
like a child. Just because she was a girl. Nobby was only a year older, and Pa let Nobby in the house. Pa let Nobby be the runner. Whereas she, Lizzie, a true Cruise and not a feeble-blooded Weston son-of-a-traitor, had been sent to stay around the corner at Mrs Kennet’s with Ma and the girls. Even though she’d be much better at being the runner than Nobby, for she was a better size for squeezing through the gap.
Bang. She hated Pa for that.
Bang. Hated Nobby too.
Lizzie peered through the spy crack and saw Pa’s face on the other side. Heard him grunting.
‘Heave-ho!’ she heard, and Pa’s face and the spy crack disappeared. They must be building the sandbags higher. Five foot high they were already at the door, and six feet thick. No way the cops could get in the front. For the window to the loungeroom was boarded up too, with sandbags six feet thick behind it.
‘Heave, me mates, one-two-three-up!’
Bang, Lizzie hammered.
Not that the cops would even get to the front door, for the front fence and gate and the little front yard were criss-crossed back and forth with roll upon roll of barbed wire, going up about six foot high.
‘Even better, see? than we done it at Gallipoli,’ reckoned Mr Dacey, who’d come to lend his Redfern experience to the Newtown pickets.
‘It bloody better be!’ Pa reckoned.
‘Whadda you mean! We done it great at Gallipoli.’ Mr Dacey was a fervent old digger, for all he was a Communist.
‘So great you lost!’
‘Maybe,’ Ex-Sergeant Dacey grunted. ‘But we won’t lose this one, see?’
‘That’s for certain-sure,’ Paddy Cruise agreed, though deep-down he had his worries. They could make the house a fortress, and he and the other twenty-odd blokes who’d decided to picket inside the house could barricade themselves in, could wait there for the cops…and the dear knows, the barricades were strong. Strong enough to sustain an attack by twenty cops, forty cops, coming in front and back. For there were towers of sandbags against the back door too, and against the kitchen window that looked into the breezeway, and against the kitchen side window…and all these doors and windows had been boarded up with stout palings, layer upon layer of palings first, before the sandbags were piled up and up. The only way in or out of the house now was via the diningroom window at the end of the side passage. They needed that free so the runner could come and go. Even that window, though, was three-quarters boarded and sandbagged – leaving just enough of a gap for Nobby’s skinny body – and they kept the gap sandbagged unless Nobby was actually coming through.
‘One-two-three-
up
!’ Another sandbag landed on top of the front-door pile.
‘They’ll never get in,’ said Mick Cruise.
‘That’s for certain-sure,’ agreed Paddy, as he agreed night and day. But though twenty cops couldn’t get in, and maybe forty of the beggars couldn’t get in, maybe sixty, maybe even eighty, Paddy had been in enough trouble in his life to know that if the cops were really determined they could just keep upping the numbers, and in the end no amount of sandbags could prevail. Paddy had been in the Easter Rising: had been barricaded in the post office in Dublin in 1916…where they’d been beaten.
Still, you had no choice but to make a stand. Out at Bankstown, at the edge of the suburbs, the UWM was barricading itself into another house.
Be buggered if she’d yell and ask Pa what to do. She could hear him sniggering inside the house, inside the hallway.
‘That’s me darlin’,’ he laughed, as another nail came out and she started again. ‘If at first you don’t succeed…’
Pa was watching her through the spy crack.
‘What’re you makin’, me darlin’?’
‘A wigwam for a goose’s bridle.’ Treat him like a child.
Pa treated
her
like a child. Just because she was a girl. Nobby was only a year older, and Pa let Nobby in the house. Pa let Nobby be the runner. Whereas she, Lizzie, a true Cruise and not a feeble-blooded Weston son-of-a-traitor, had been sent to stay around the corner at Mrs Kennet’s with Ma and the girls. Even though she’d be much better at being the runner than Nobby, for she was a better size for squeezing through the gap.
Bang. She hated Pa for that.
Bang. Hated Nobby too.
Lizzie peered through the spy crack and saw Pa’s face on the other side. Heard him grunting.
‘Heave-ho!’ she heard, and Pa’s face and the spy crack disappeared. They must be building the sandbags higher. Five foot high they were already at the door, and six feet thick. No way the cops could get in the front. For the window to the loungeroom was boarded up too, with sandbags six feet thick behind it.
‘Heave, me mates, one-two-three-up!’
Bang, Lizzie hammered.
Not that the cops would even get to the front door, for the front fence and gate and the little front yard were criss-crossed back and forth with roll upon roll of barbed wire, going up about six foot high.
‘Even better, see? than we done it at Gallipoli,’ reckoned Mr Dacey, who’d come to lend his Redfern experience to the Newtown pickets.
‘It bloody better be!’ Pa reckoned.
‘Whadda you mean! We done it great at Gallipoli.’ Mr Dacey was a fervent old digger, for all he was a Communist.
‘So great you lost!’
‘Maybe,’ Ex-Sergeant Dacey grunted. ‘But we won’t lose this one, see?’
‘That’s for certain-sure,’ Paddy Cruise agreed, though deep-down he had his worries. They could make the house a fortress, and he and the other twenty-odd blokes who’d decided to picket inside the house could barricade themselves in, could wait there for the cops…and the dear knows, the barricades were strong. Strong enough to sustain an attack by twenty cops, forty cops, coming in front and back. For there were towers of sandbags against the back door too, and against the kitchen window that looked into the breezeway, and against the kitchen side window…and all these doors and windows had been boarded up with stout palings, layer upon layer of palings first, before the sandbags were piled up and up. The only way in or out of the house now was via the diningroom window at the end of the side passage. They needed that free so the runner could come and go. Even that window, though, was three-quarters boarded and sandbagged – leaving just enough of a gap for Nobby’s skinny body – and they kept the gap sandbagged unless Nobby was actually coming through.
‘One-two-three-
up
!’ Another sandbag landed on top of the front-door pile.
‘They’ll never get in,’ said Mick Cruise.
‘That’s for certain-sure,’ agreed Paddy, as he agreed night and day. But though twenty cops couldn’t get in, and maybe forty of the beggars couldn’t get in, maybe sixty, maybe even eighty, Paddy had been in enough trouble in his life to know that if the cops were really determined they could just keep upping the numbers, and in the end no amount of sandbags could prevail. Paddy had been in the Easter Rising: had been barricaded in the post office in Dublin in 1916…where they’d been beaten.
Still, you had no choice but to make a stand. Out at Bankstown, at the edge of the suburbs, the UWM was barricading itself into another house.
Similar Books
