boy heard speaking in his own language not only received a thrashing, but was bullied to believe he was white. And white people didn’t speak “gibberish.” Despite many a beating for breaching these rules, Fox would be an adult before he fully appreciated the calculated harshness of this policy and its legacy of deprivation, a deprivation that he learned constituted one of the several elements of genocide.
One day in the stables, Fox heard a whimpering cry from a stall at the far end of the run. Quietly, he went to investigate and found sixteen-year-old Dan Lovett sitting on top of eight-year-old Charlie Dyar, a friend of Fox’s. Charlie’s pants were halfway down his legs.
‘What’s goin’ on Dan?’ queried Fox.
‘Mind yer bisness and fuck off,’ said Lovett.
‘You right Charlie?’ Fox asked.
Before he could answer, Lovett grabbed a handful of Dyar’s hair and twisted it hard. ‘I told ya, fuck off. He’s orlright.’
‘Can’t do that. Get off ’im.’
‘Make me.’ Lovett laughed.
‘Dan, leave ’im alone. If you don’t, I’m gonna beat the shit out of ya. And there’ll be more. Same as ’appened to Brother John.’
Lovett blanched but, being bigger, older, stronger and unwilling to lose face said, ‘You and what army Fox? Yer too bloody big for yer boots. Think just ‘cos you killed a wadjella I oughta be scared – fuck off!’
As Fox opened the stall gate, Lovett rose. He was just on six feet tall and a good two stone heavier than Fox – pudgy. Little Charlie Dyar rolled over and Fox watched him scuttle out of the way. Fox stood holding the gate open.
‘What are ya waitin’ for Dan? Ya piss weak!’
Lovett bellowed at the taunt and charged at Fox, arms whirling. At the last moment, Fox stepped aside and viciously swung the heavy half gate shut. Winded and stunned, Lovett fell to the ground in a heap. Fox stepped into the stall and delivered three well-placed kicks to Lovett’s abdomen. When he curled into a ball to protect himself, Fox grabbed a riding crop from a hook outside and laid into Lovett, thrashing all parts of his body except his face.
‘Had enough?’ Fox enquired breathlessly.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ sobbed Lovett.
‘Leave Charlie and his mates alone. If ever I hear ya touched one of ’em again, ya for it. Ya hear me?’
‘Yes,’ blubbered Lovett.
‘Good. Other big kids here think same as me. I’ll be tellin’ ’em about ya. Today. So ya won’t only have me to worry about. I know there’s more of your lot ’ere too, so give ’em the message.’
‘Okay, okay,’ said Lovett.
‘So get. But before ya do, tell Charlie here you’re sorry for what ya done. Oh, and don’t tell the Brothers, otherwise you’ll be walkin’ the line – my line.’
But two days later, Lovett told his special friend – the hulking Brother John. Late that evening, the “line” was assembled and Fox was dragged into the meeting hall by two brown robed Brothers. With a clutch of cassocked tormentors nearby, Brother John stood at the head of the line, huge, aroused and leering; right arm hanging uselessly.
‘So Fox, not so clever now are we?’ he mumbled, his speech affected by the stroke. ‘After this, Tower for a month! Get down that line,’ he bellowed. With that, Fox was hurled into “the line”.
But Fox had his own ideas and the line was not among them. After the Brothers released him he dived to the floor in a forward roll smoothly rising to sprint to the end. He ran at Brother John, leapt, somersaulted and delivered a mighty kick to John’s chest. Shocked, unable to defend himself, John thumped onto his arse and sprawled on his back.
Pandemonium erupted as the boys watched Fox’s powerful and brazen defiance. They whooped and hollered, stomping their feet when Fox broke three of Brother John’s fingers by viciously plunging his boot heel onto his scrabbling left hand. Fox turned and glared at the clustering, brown demons, staring them down, his own malevolence outgunning their resolve and anger. An uneasy silence fell.
‘Lovett, you slimy bastard,’ called Fox softly, ‘I warned ya to tell your bum-fuckin’ mates to leave us alone. Ya brought this down on yourself.’ He gestured to the remnant line. ‘You’re dead. I’m sendin’ your black soul to hell. And while that’s happenin’, don’t think ya can be saved. No one’s gonna’ worry about ya. Ya head will be filled with snakes and you’re gonna waste away. I warned ya.’ Fox’s quiet voice was menacing and unequivocal. He turned to Brother John. ‘I’m not goin’ to the Tower and you’re joinin’ Lovett.’
Stunned by Fox’s audacity, no one tried to stop him as he stalked from the hall. Ten minutes later, when three brown vultures hunted for Fox to punish him, they found that he and his meagre possessions had vanished.
CHAPTER 5
1970
By the age of seventeen, Fox had worked for two years with Joe Darrigan’s Boxing Troupe. He was lean, muscular and tough. At five feet ten and weighing eleven stone, Darrigan decreed Fox good enough to mix it with the suckers. On this afternoon, he was on the platform banging the old base drum: ba – boom, ba – boom, ba – boom. Behind him, a weathered mural portrayed long past pugs in a montage of combative postures. Tent boxing these days was a threatened activity. Whispers from government, as yet unconfirmed, hinted at new rules to control fight frequency. The do-gooders proclaimed: too brutal, too crude, too violent, too foul. Too uncomfortable.
‘Bloody neo-religionists,’ Darrigan had responded, ‘too thick to realise one of Australia’s best known pastors, Doug Nicholls, was a tent boxer.’
Ba – boom, ba – boom, ba – boom. Darrigan whistled through his fingers and bellowed, ‘Holdah! Holdah! Holdah! C’mon boys – step right up and give it a go. Don’t be lily-livered. Twenty dollars to go the round – fifty if youse last the full distance. Show us ya courage. Holdah! Holdah! Holdah! If youse have a score ta settle this is the place! Who’s gunna take on “Killer” Conroy here? Me little firecracker from Tassy. Get up here “Killer”.’ Darrigan whistled again. “Killer” Conroy, a short, nuggety man in his early fifties climbed onto the platform, white towel around his neck, resplendent in a crimson satin robe.
‘“Killer” here, ladies and gents, is a gun woodcutter from Tasmania. He’s yusta felling big bluegums and mountain ash. Shearers, stockmen and miners are mere kindling to ’im.’ The balding Conroy, whose original features had been generously reshaped by his many battles, scowled at the crowd.
One by one, showcased in spurious tales of pugilistic glory, Fox drummed Darrigan’s team onto the platform – a colourful, pseudo belligerent, shockforce of warriors. And slowly too, the platform filled with volunteers as Darrigan conned them from the throng, challenging their manhood with his mixture of flattery, scorn and financial reward.
Fox paused as Darrigan continued his invocation. Indifferently, he scanned the crowd, wondering who next would step up to the mark. The mugs were all types: serious brawlers, bullies, brash kids, tough stockmen, half drunks chasing a quid and occasionally, the odd nervous one who wanted to boast later that he’d done it
