Chapter 8: New Developments – in Spades!

I went back to school the following Wednesday, over a week behind with my work. ‘Catching up’ with my study and our sex life, meant that I spent more time than usual with Bronwyn, and Dad made a slightly pointed comment about the amount of time I was spending at the Reed’s place. I told him that I was not just spending time with my girlfriend, but mainly catching up with the work I had missed. He grumped that if I had not gone to the ‘bloody demonstration’ none of this would have happened, but eventually he dropped the subject.

Mr and Mrs Reed didn’t let go so easily. Nor did Bronwyn and Brian. I didn’t get it at the time. They seemed more outraged and upset by the situation than I was, and my injuries were a lot worse than Brian’s skinned knees.

“Matter of Human Rights.” Mrs Reed explained. “We were shut down by the same people who support a racist apartheid regime.” It was simpler for Brian.

“I didn’t like being called names and threatened at the protest, and I wish I hadn’t been recognised and targeted at school, but I wasn’t taking shit from those rugby pricks and I wasn’t going to be pushed and shoved by the dickhead that I finally fought with.” Bronwyn didn’t say much about her reaction to the abuse.

“I guess I just got to see what oppressed people have to put up with. I wonder about what it’s like for Maoris.” Her father was quite definite.

“They get the shit end of the stick. Most of my clients are guilty, but the Maori ones get prosecuted harder, convicted more often, and sentenced more heavily. But that’s a different issue from ‘The Tour’.”

I wanted to talk about the Reed’s response with Uncle Frank, but when I eventually got him on his own, the conversation went in another direction. He started by having another go at me about self-defence training.

“That’s twice mate!” I don’t know whether I looked puzzled or resentful, but he reached out to put his hand on my arm. “You put yourself in harm’s way again without assessing the situation, and you got hurt. Again!”

“I’m still thinking about it.”

“Keep thinking about it. Your Dad is feeling bad about what happened.” That was news to me.

“Nah. He’s just pissed off I went to the protest. He doesn’t like protestors. Particularly about rugby. He thinks they are too scared to play.” I probably sounded pretty bitter.

Frank reacted quite strongly. He put down his hammer and led me over to sit on a low wall next to the fence we had been repairing. Looking back, I now realise he had lots going on himself – but at the time, I was too thoroughly caught up in my own process and hurt and wonderings to have any awareness of anything else.

“You have no idea! You have no fucken idea what goes on for him!” He was holding on to my arm, and gripped it hard enough to hurt. “He woulda been an All Black if it wasn’t for the fucken war! And he came back wounded and he was still good enough – but his head injuries made him susceptible to concussion so they wouldn’t let him play!”

I still didn’t get it. Sure – being an All Black was equivalent to sainthood in NZ in those days, but in my mind ‘self-defence’ was inextricably mixed in with my Dad’s depression and angry outbursts, and the rugby culture saturated in what I would later come to call ‘macho bullshit’.

“What’s he feeling bad about?”

“He feels terrible that he’s always depressed and bad tempered. He feels terrible that he can’t be a proper father to you, and I’m not sure, but I expect he feels bad that you are moving to be close to some people that are on the other side politically, and he’s not close enough to you and not stable enough emotionally to discuss things with you!” Frank took a big breath. “And he feels worried about your brain. We all do! You’ve had two concussions now and he hasn’t been able to protect you or teach you to protect yourself!” He let go of my arm and dropped his head into his hands.

For the first time in my life, I found myself comforting my Uncle. I put my arm around him and we sat side by side on the wall in silence. Eventually, he raised his head and met my eye.

“He’s broken! And it’s all because of the fucken war!”

“Was he different when he was younger? Before the war?”

“I’m twelve years younger than him, so as far as I was concerned, he was always pretty remote, but Mum and Dad say his wounds and shell shock changed him completely.”

“My mum manages him pretty well.”

“Yup – without her I reckon he’d have topped himself. Lotsa guys did!”

“I suppose I could ask him to teach me to look after myself.”

“That would make everyone happy.”

We went back to the fence, and over ‘smoko’ I got to ask about my agenda.

“The Reeds seem to have got really disturbed about the Tour. It wasn’t a huge deal until we went to the march, but they were upset about that, and Brian being hassled at school made things much much worse as far as they are concerned.”

“I guess being sworn at and spat on and hassled brings home what being a second class citizen might be like.”

“Bronwyn felt hated. The ‘ruggerbuggers’ were calling out sexual stuff to her, but she reckoned they didn’t actually want sex, except as a way of hurting her.”

“Yup. That would be right. You’re too young to remember the waterfront strike in ‘51.”

“I was only six, but I remember Dad got really angry with ‘The Wharfies’!”

“That was much worse than the present dispute over ‘The Tour’. I remember there were lotsa sexual putdowns directed at the Wharfies’ wives.”

“That’s awful!” Frank nodded.

“I think so too!”

“What do you think about the ‘Tour’?”

“I’m against it.” He thought for a minute. “I haven’t got off my arse to protest, but I suppose I should.”

“How will that go down with the rest of the family?”

“Probably badly!” He had a thought. “I could go along to help keep you safe!”

“That would certainly help. I’ll let you know if I hear of something planned. Robyn’s aunt Emma is on a ‘phone tree’.” We went back to the fence.

I got together with Bronwyn later in the week. She was keen to continue our discussion about our fantasies, and we snuggled and smooched in her bed to talk.

“You were going to tell me about your fantasies of fucking Robyn.”

“I haven’t exactly had any developed fantasies. You asked if I wanted to fuck her and I admitted that of course I do, but I haven’t tossed myself off thinking about exactly what I might get up to with her.”

“So what would you like to do?”

“Same as with you – kiss lots, explore her breasts and pussy, some licking and sucking to take the edge off me and warm her up, then fuck – gently at first, then a full on rogering. Multiple simultaneous climaxes. Gallons of spunk and pussy juice!” I was thinking my account was a bit tame, but Bronwyn seemed to be enjoying it. She was flushed and panting, and was humping her mons against my thigh.

“Have you ever seen her pussy?”

“No. Have you?”

“Her lips are huge!” Bronwyn paused and stifled a giggle. “She said you’d smelled her juice!” The giggle emerged. “She said you pretended it was no big deal, but she saw you get hard!”

I was gobsmacked. I had followed Uncle Frank’s advice not to say anything about anybody to anybody else. Specifically, I had never told Bronwyn or Brian about Robyn playing ‘stinky finger’ with John Oxford. But bloody Robyn had talked about me!

For a few seconds outrage wrestled with lust. Lust won. I remembered the intoxicating smell on John’s fingers, and groaned as I twitched against Bronwyn’s belly.

“You said something about her cunt. She said that was the first time she had ever heard a boy say the word.”

“I never knew whether it was her or the other girl on his fingers.”

“It was her. She said your cock looked big in comparison to the other boys’. That’s one reason I started to ask Brian about you.”

“Glad you did!”

“Brian told me his favourite fantasy about fucking Robyn. It’s the one he usually pulls himself with.” I waited. “He showed me.” I kept waiting, and eventually Bronwyn reached for my stiffy and moved to lick my ear and whisper. “It won’t work as well for you because you’re circumcised, but he starts with his foreskin over his knob and makes a ring with his finger and thumb. He leaves that dry and puts a couple of big gobs of spit on his palm and other fingers.”

I was on the edge of spurting. Bronwyn was jacking me as she was whispering, and she seemed to know instinctively how to get me close and keep me there. She went on. “He showed me at the ski lodge. He squeezes the foreskin over his knob and imagines he’s pressing between those big dry lips. That rolls his foreskin back as his knob goes in where it’s slippery and wet in his palm, and he imagines he’s in her. That’s when I can set him off just by ‘cunt talk’.”

It set me off too! I spurted all over the place, and after Bronwyn licked me clean, I reciprocated and licked and fingered her to a couple of climaxes.

We marched again a fortnight later. I went with Frank and we met up with the Reeds and Robyn, Emma, and a couple of her friends, so we could march together. It was different from the first time. There were a thousand of us, and two or three thousand pro tour counterdemonstrators. And there were heaps of cops. They kept the two groups well apart. There was lots of noise, but we couldn’t hear the details of the abuse the ruggerbuggers were screaming, and it wasn’t nearly as stressful as the first time. We watched the way Frank and Emma were relating with interest. They seemed to like each other. I also got a new slant on Mrs Reed’s professional standing. One of Emma’s friends was the daughter of a QC and the granddaughter of a High Court Judge. She was newly admitted to the bar, and it was clear that she regarded Mrs Reed as a very ‘big cheese’ indeed in the area of Family Law.

I rode home with Uncle Frank. I was brave enough to tease him a bit about getting down and dirty with Emma. He just laughed and reminded me that he wouldn’t tell me even if there was ever something to tell. He seemed more interested in Mrs Reed’s expertise in Family Law.

I asked Bronwyn about that later. She said her Mum had written some articles for International Journals, but that there was ‘some shit at the firm’ about her work. I made a mental note to ask Mrs Reed about it so I could tell Uncle Frank.

Just asking set her off. She was passionate about the legal disadvantages that women still suffered in NZ and most places overseas, and was a founder member of a local group of women lawyers lobbying for effective protection for women whose husbands controlled them with violence and threats. She had written a number of articles for Law Journals overseas, and had been invited to speak at an international conference but didn’t feel able to afford the travel and take time off work to attend.

I asked her about the ‘shit at work’. That set her off again. The senior partners at the firm disapproved of her advocacy, didn’t appreciate any kudos her international reputation might bring the firm, and were unwilling to defend her (or themselves) against jibes and ‘tut tutting’ from the ‘old boys’ network that dominated the legal profession in NZ in those days. Mr Reed largely kept his mouth shut.