There were presents at Christmas, Easter egg hunts for the small ones, and church every Sunday. Alfie enjoyed going to church. He didn't understand why someone would let himself be crucified to save all the others, but the priest and Mr. Tokely promised him that someday he would understand.
He passed three idyllic years there. When he was eleven years old, disaster struck the station: disease wiped out much of the sheep flock, and the remaining animals had to be killed to prevent the spread of the virus. But worst of all was the fatal car accident that took Mr. and Mrs. Tokely. When the bank sent its men out to repossess the station, the buildings and the vehicles, Alfie found himself without a home and still under the control of the resettlement program.
His friends among the Aboriginal workers had offered to take him in, but that wasn't part of the resettlement program. He'd fought back tears as he stared out the back window of the beat-up government Land Rover at his friends standing, hats in hand, in the dust outside Tokely Station. That was his final memory of the good years, watching his friends fade away in the dust trail as the silent white man and woman in the front seats took him away from all that he'd learned to love to yet another new home.
The Edwards household was a way station to hell.
Their primary interest was the state stipend they received for the expenses of fostering a half white, half Aboriginal child. Their other interest was the income they could get from farming out a healthy eleven-year-old who knew his way around a sheep station to other families. Mr. Edwards had contempt for everything and everyone, including his own family. He'd especially abused his boy, Roy, who at fourteen was the oldest. But at least Roy got to sleep in the bedroom with his younger brother and his sister, while Alfie slept in a dank corner of the basement on a pile of tarps and blankets.
The first time Alfie ran off, he caught a professional beating from Mr. Edwards. Edwards had boxed in the Merchant Marine and was still handy with his fists, as the men who drank at the Quinkin Bar in Laura were quick to affirm. Edwards had spent more than his share of nights in the primitive barred enclosure that served as the Laura jail. The first night Edwards beat Alfie into unconsciousness, then dragged him into the basement and chained his leg to a support beam and left him there without water, food, or a toilet for three days.
"That'll teach you to run off," Mr. Edwards said. "Next time I'll break your bloody legs."
And the next time he did.
The doctor wasn't sympathetic or enthusiastic about patching up an Aboriginal child, but the state paid the bills, and the doctor and Edwards had a wink and nod agreement over how the billing should be presented to the proper authorities.
Over time they worked out a system that worked to both their benefits.
Worse than the beatings was Mr. Edwards taste for some sexual activity that his wife wanted no part of. A young Aboriginal boy provided an outlet for those tensions, something that Edwards found convenient and enjoyable. Roy Edwards, who'd been the recipient of some of those attentions from his father, was relieved; he welcomed the opportunity to direct some of his own deep-seated anger onto the defenseless target that Alfie provided.
Six years it went like that, until Alfie was seventeen by the state's count. The duly timed paperwork had him reporting to a bureaucrat who informed him that he would be on his own in a year. Alfie left the office, his hat in his hand, studying the floor in a state of confusion, looking round for Mr. Edwards who'd dropped him off for the meeting. In the lobby of the courthouse a military recruiter had set up a table. He was a staff sergeant in the Airborne Regiment, his maroon beret set at a cocky angle, and he hid his distaste for the bushy-headed young man in ragged clothing who stood before him but would not meet his eyes.
The recruiter looked Alfie
He passed three idyllic years there. When he was eleven years old, disaster struck the station: disease wiped out much of the sheep flock, and the remaining animals had to be killed to prevent the spread of the virus. But worst of all was the fatal car accident that took Mr. and Mrs. Tokely. When the bank sent its men out to repossess the station, the buildings and the vehicles, Alfie found himself without a home and still under the control of the resettlement program.
His friends among the Aboriginal workers had offered to take him in, but that wasn't part of the resettlement program. He'd fought back tears as he stared out the back window of the beat-up government Land Rover at his friends standing, hats in hand, in the dust outside Tokely Station. That was his final memory of the good years, watching his friends fade away in the dust trail as the silent white man and woman in the front seats took him away from all that he'd learned to love to yet another new home.
The Edwards household was a way station to hell.
Their primary interest was the state stipend they received for the expenses of fostering a half white, half Aboriginal child. Their other interest was the income they could get from farming out a healthy eleven-year-old who knew his way around a sheep station to other families. Mr. Edwards had contempt for everything and everyone, including his own family. He'd especially abused his boy, Roy, who at fourteen was the oldest. But at least Roy got to sleep in the bedroom with his younger brother and his sister, while Alfie slept in a dank corner of the basement on a pile of tarps and blankets.
The first time Alfie ran off, he caught a professional beating from Mr. Edwards. Edwards had boxed in the Merchant Marine and was still handy with his fists, as the men who drank at the Quinkin Bar in Laura were quick to affirm. Edwards had spent more than his share of nights in the primitive barred enclosure that served as the Laura jail. The first night Edwards beat Alfie into unconsciousness, then dragged him into the basement and chained his leg to a support beam and left him there without water, food, or a toilet for three days.
"That'll teach you to run off," Mr. Edwards said. "Next time I'll break your bloody legs."
And the next time he did.
The doctor wasn't sympathetic or enthusiastic about patching up an Aboriginal child, but the state paid the bills, and the doctor and Edwards had a wink and nod agreement over how the billing should be presented to the proper authorities.
Over time they worked out a system that worked to both their benefits.
Worse than the beatings was Mr. Edwards taste for some sexual activity that his wife wanted no part of. A young Aboriginal boy provided an outlet for those tensions, something that Edwards found convenient and enjoyable. Roy Edwards, who'd been the recipient of some of those attentions from his father, was relieved; he welcomed the opportunity to direct some of his own deep-seated anger onto the defenseless target that Alfie provided.
Six years it went like that, until Alfie was seventeen by the state's count. The duly timed paperwork had him reporting to a bureaucrat who informed him that he would be on his own in a year. Alfie left the office, his hat in his hand, studying the floor in a state of confusion, looking round for Mr. Edwards who'd dropped him off for the meeting. In the lobby of the courthouse a military recruiter had set up a table. He was a staff sergeant in the Airborne Regiment, his maroon beret set at a cocky angle, and he hid his distaste for the bushy-headed young man in ragged clothing who stood before him but would not meet his eyes.
The recruiter looked Alfie
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