No one knew how that’d go either. This was all a new tactic. They were all in the dark. Still, you had to be in it to win it.
Bang, went Lizzie outside. She wished she was in it. It was barricades, like Russia and Kollontai.
‘Me darlin’s fierce with me,’ Paddy muttered to no one in particular. ‘The girl is ravin’ mad.’ To think he’d let her stay in here.
Paddy’s mind ran over the arsenal of weapons that the pickets had collected: over the piles of blue metal and broken bricks for throwing down from the balcony, for throwing out the half-boarded upstairs back windows if the cops came up the side passage; over the stockpile of sturdy saplings and axe-handles for defending themselves if the cops did somehow manage to shove back the sandbags and get in…
And it was only by pushing through the bags, Paddy reckoned, that the cops could get in. They couldn’t climb up the outside dunny and onto the scullery roof and into the upstairs that way, for Mr Dacey had covered the dunny and scullery walls with enough barbed wire even to stop the Turks.
...Maybe we
can
stop them…
...But if we can’t…
‘Me darlin’s mad.’
Even Nobby was only let in on sufferance. Only because he was skinny enough for the gap. So Paddy let him run messages, trot in with news and food, trot out to empty the piss-buckets, but at the first hint of trouble Nobby Weston was going to be out on his pink ear and the gap sandbagged up, Paddy was determined on that.
Bang bang three four
Mrs Scab come out your door…
Lizzie had the rhythm right now: hammering, it seemed, was like skipping. Once you got it nice and steady, the nails just slipped in straight and stayed there. Happy for a moment now despite pa, despite Nobby, Lizzie hammered in time with Maudie and Bridget and Kathleen and Fee out there in the street.
Bang ten
Start again
Lock her up in a dingo’s den.
There, Lizzie’s sign was up.
Up too was Mrs Weston, right up at the loungeroom velvet curtain, peering out through a chink into the street, pressing her forehead against the cold glass to ease it. The pounding sound went on for ever now, the rhythm of the children’s feet tapping on the pavement like a wicked metronome, the small feet of the little girls, the banging of the hammer, the big shoes of Elizabeth, who ran out now, clambering through barbed wire to join them, her too-big shoes pounding out her hatred now upon the pavement.
Over the rope
And under again...
The rhythm of the skipping made the pain in Mrs Weston’s head, but it eased the pain in Lizzie’s. She was just a body, keeping time, ticking off the seconds till the trouble came, jumping off the energy that stored up in her soul without release.
Jumping, she hated less, for she was hating more these days, hating Pa now for her exile, hating Nobby for his luck, hating Nobby too because she’d shared with him her secret. But hating most that thing in that house. That was the cause of the trouble with Pa, the trouble with Nobby.
Nobby turned into the far end of the street, running full pelt down. His mother watched him from the window, Lizzie watched him from the pavement: his face on fire, his eyes shining, the effort of the run making two bright spots on his pale cheeks. They both noticed how tall he’d become as he ran straight past the both of them without a glance, past and off up the dunny-can lane, round to the back to get into the house and men’s business.
17
A man sits with the despot. He’s a big man, tough, but he’s not tough tonight. He pulls at his collar, to make it looser; his shirt seems too tight under the arms. He’s scared and ashamed. He’s out of work, and trying to get work. He has no savings, and he can’t pay the rent. Once again he pleads with the despot.
‘I’ll pay it all, soon as I get work. If you can just bear with me a bit…’
The despot’s eyes don’t warm to him. She has thin lips, and a wide mouth that is set into a straight, unrelenting
Bang, went Lizzie outside. She wished she was in it. It was barricades, like Russia and Kollontai.
‘Me darlin’s fierce with me,’ Paddy muttered to no one in particular. ‘The girl is ravin’ mad.’ To think he’d let her stay in here.
Paddy’s mind ran over the arsenal of weapons that the pickets had collected: over the piles of blue metal and broken bricks for throwing down from the balcony, for throwing out the half-boarded upstairs back windows if the cops came up the side passage; over the stockpile of sturdy saplings and axe-handles for defending themselves if the cops did somehow manage to shove back the sandbags and get in…
And it was only by pushing through the bags, Paddy reckoned, that the cops could get in. They couldn’t climb up the outside dunny and onto the scullery roof and into the upstairs that way, for Mr Dacey had covered the dunny and scullery walls with enough barbed wire even to stop the Turks.
...Maybe we
can
stop them…
...But if we can’t…
‘Me darlin’s mad.’
Even Nobby was only let in on sufferance. Only because he was skinny enough for the gap. So Paddy let him run messages, trot in with news and food, trot out to empty the piss-buckets, but at the first hint of trouble Nobby Weston was going to be out on his pink ear and the gap sandbagged up, Paddy was determined on that.
Bang bang three four
Mrs Scab come out your door…
Lizzie had the rhythm right now: hammering, it seemed, was like skipping. Once you got it nice and steady, the nails just slipped in straight and stayed there. Happy for a moment now despite pa, despite Nobby, Lizzie hammered in time with Maudie and Bridget and Kathleen and Fee out there in the street.
Bang ten
Start again
Lock her up in a dingo’s den.
There, Lizzie’s sign was up.
Up too was Mrs Weston, right up at the loungeroom velvet curtain, peering out through a chink into the street, pressing her forehead against the cold glass to ease it. The pounding sound went on for ever now, the rhythm of the children’s feet tapping on the pavement like a wicked metronome, the small feet of the little girls, the banging of the hammer, the big shoes of Elizabeth, who ran out now, clambering through barbed wire to join them, her too-big shoes pounding out her hatred now upon the pavement.
Over the rope
And under again...
The rhythm of the skipping made the pain in Mrs Weston’s head, but it eased the pain in Lizzie’s. She was just a body, keeping time, ticking off the seconds till the trouble came, jumping off the energy that stored up in her soul without release.
Jumping, she hated less, for she was hating more these days, hating Pa now for her exile, hating Nobby for his luck, hating Nobby too because she’d shared with him her secret. But hating most that thing in that house. That was the cause of the trouble with Pa, the trouble with Nobby.
Nobby turned into the far end of the street, running full pelt down. His mother watched him from the window, Lizzie watched him from the pavement: his face on fire, his eyes shining, the effort of the run making two bright spots on his pale cheeks. They both noticed how tall he’d become as he ran straight past the both of them without a glance, past and off up the dunny-can lane, round to the back to get into the house and men’s business.
17
A man sits with the despot. He’s a big man, tough, but he’s not tough tonight. He pulls at his collar, to make it looser; his shirt seems too tight under the arms. He’s scared and ashamed. He’s out of work, and trying to get work. He has no savings, and he can’t pay the rent. Once again he pleads with the despot.
‘I’ll pay it all, soon as I get work. If you can just bear with me a bit…’
The despot’s eyes don’t warm to him. She has thin lips, and a wide mouth that is set into a straight, unrelenting
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