THE FERALS

By Tessa Harvey

Just then there was a tremendous crash coming from the old marketplace in the main street. Jake leapt up with the idea of perhaps of helping if there had been an accident.

Wordlessly he looked at Brodie, then to Ethel, a question in his eyes. "You go, lad. He's fine wi' me!"

Jake ran up the steep slope and straight onto the main street.

What he saw appalled him. A large group of protesters had arrived in an old bus and managed to pull down a statue that had obviously been there in the centre island of the road for decades. Locals had gathered hastily to protect their monument, but were too late. Jake realised the attack had been carefully planned.

Christmas Day had been well-chosen with most families being busy with children, guests, meals.

There was a stunned silence, then outrage as the protesters decapitated the statue, defacing the fallen figure with paint and graffiti. None of the vandals stayed to face the townspeople, but made their way to the bus and were gone, leaving dark sadness in their smoke-stained wake. 

Listening, Jake heard that no-one knew who the perpetrators were. Some people were just standing there, shocked and stunned, speechless...

Older people were visibly upset. At least one old man was saying "it were only a memorial to the war dead. Me grandad's name were there and me great-uncle." The townspeople knew the names represented their history.

It was a terrible scene and as Jake returned slowly to his son, he thought of all the nameless people encouraging and financing all this desecration of history in order to control the future, as one clever social commentator had said - paving the way once more for anarchy and tyranny.

Jake knocked, and Ethel took one look at his face and realisation dawned. "Not our statue?" she whispered. He nodded, and tears welled in her eyes.

Quietly, she left the lounge room, through the adjourning kitchen as Jake checked on his son. Brodie was absorbed in the worn old Dinky and Matchbox toys, lovely cars that still ran smoothly.

After about ten minutes, he told the little boy he would be back soon and pointed to the back door. "Just out there," he said.

Brodie nodded. Jake knew he would keep playing or come and follow him. Some children wandered off, still and six and seven years, but Brodie never had. As a precaution, he latched the front door, and locked it, pocketing the key.

Ethel was sat outside on an old wooden bench in the garden.

Jake soon saw that Brodie's "dead" bushes were merely dormant. The little guy was more used to eucalyptus and wattle. Hearing Jake approach, Ethel slowly stood. She seemed to have aged and her eyes were pools of sadness and grief. "Only a statue," she said quietly. "Others have lost much more." Jake had no words.

Ethel made an effort. "Anyhow, would you like to stay in the spare room. There's two beds, like. No-one's visiting just yet - to stay, I mean. At the moment, I would be glad of a bit of company."

Jake nodded, "but I am paying," he added firmly.

"Fine," agreed Ethel, "but I shan't rob you! I keep meself busy so won't be mitherin' you half to death. Meanin' there'll be privacy for you both."

Jake smiled and they agreed a price and went inside out of the cold.

Next day, when he went out with his son, there was little sign of the desecration.