The Best of Fiona Kidman's Short Stories (21 page)

‘It won't do any good,' said Miriam. ‘That's hers. She won't sell it to you.'

‘Then why say you want it? I don't understand.'

‘It's the only house I want. How can you understand? It is the only house I'll ever want.'

They reached the car before Cassie, who had trailed further behind them. She thought of not returning to the hotel with them, but the evening light, filtered through the trees, was falling towards them like a heavy green curtain, and they were half an hour's drive from the township. The road was quiet, as if few cars came this way except those of the residents and the day trippers. It was too nearly night. Cassie heard the word ‘slut' as she approached the car, before Alan turned on the ignition to block out what Miriam was saying.

As Cassie started to get into the car Miriam opened her door and got halfway out, as if she too had been thinking of walking home. She hesitated, changed her mind. She appeared to have also considered the distance.

They would have driven back in silence if Cassie hadn't talked about her children, and started to describe her four-year-old son's tricks and turns of phrase, and soon Miriam began telling her of her own children when they were small. She said, then, that Cassie must take their photograph in the morning if she would, of course they would pay for the film, but it would be nice to have their photo taken by a proper photographer while they were on holiday, and they would take hers too, of course it would only be a snap but it was fun to remember the people you met when you were away.

The warm scented night had fallen completely on the hotel when they drew up. Cassie suggested that they should all go to the courtesy bar for a few drinks together. ‘It's sort of quaint being your own barmaid,' she added.

‘They must be very trusting here in the country,' Alan said, stalling for time so that Miriam could make his decision for both of them.

But, ‘No,' his wife said, ‘we've had a long day. Young things like you can keep going longer than us. Besides, I'm allergic to cigars.'

Later, as it drew towards midnight, Cassie was shuffling cards at the table beside the bar. The two barmen from the public bar next door had joined her and one had his girlfriend with him. They were the only ones in the hotel still at large. The four of them had had too much to drink. Cassie wished she had gone to bed. The mosquitoes were clotting the lightshade; she had a large bite swelling rapidly on her forearm. As she scratched it she glanced along the verandah, thinking she heard a footstep.

Alan had just stepped on to the lawn and was walking across to the carpark, not looking in their direction, as if unaware that they were there. He reached his car and placed his arms on the roof, leaning his head in them for a moment. Then he appeared to look straight at them, although from that distance his face looked like a blank white hole. Across the space Cassie sensed the
blankness
of horror. A shiver of recognition passed through her. She sat very still and did not tell the others that they were being watched. Soon he straightened up, and turned to go back the way he had come, still not looking to either side of him.

‘Drunk,' said Cassie. ‘I'm drunk.' Nobody was listening. She clutched the edge of the table.

At the door of one of the annexe rooms, Miriam stood in her nightdress, the light out behind her but clearly visible in the moonlight. She watched Alan cross the lawn, going back to her.

J
EREMY
O
RDWAY
is contemplating a wasps' nest that must be removed before Sunday when he hears Eunice Brown singing in the church, over the sound of the organ. There is a touch of supplication in her reedy voice. He knows she would like him to go into the church and talk to her and he is not entirely averse to the idea. But he will not; it is not appropriate, and he has work to do. Her voice falters on,
There
is
a
green
hill
far
away/Without
a
city
wall/
Where
the
dear
Lord
was
crucified/Who
died
to
save
… there is a crash of chords, a lid drops shut …
died
to
save
us
all,
quavers Eunice, and falls silent.

In fact there seems to be a great silence all around him. Though if he listens he knows he will hear things on the solemn autumn air. For things are never what they seem.

Straining, he hears the shimmering whistle of Dash McLeavey working his dogs in the far paddocks, and then his voice,
c'maway
c'maway
now
halt
there
Rusty
c'maway
here
here
and the sad isolated cry of a cornered sheep. And coming along the road towards town there is the rattle of the iridescent green Subaru ute owned by Mortlock Crane, who is his plumber, a sensuous looking man with a full fleshy mouth for whom he has noticed his wife Sophie makes melting moments when he calls. Poor Sophie, he does not begrudge her her moments for Mortlock. Indeed, it has gone through his head more than once that some small advance by Mortlock, some reason why she could scream and clutch her breast and go to sleep dreaming might not be a bad thing.

Perhaps she would say yes
.
Yes, Mortlock, enfold me to your greasy heart, God will take care of us.

He raises his hand in salute to Mortlock, and his wave is returned. Mortlock will be eager to please. There is business in the air.

His eyes lift to the steep sides of the grey-tiled church roof, to the rusted guttering where a green and luscious line of grass grows along its edge.

And then it happens.

Crash. Crash. Slither. Tinkle and crash. Although there has been no perceptible movement of the air, only Mortlock's ute driving past, something has dislodged four more tiles from the roof.

They lie splintered at his feet.

As he stands contemplating them and grateful at least that they have missed his head, for his bald patch is covered only by a handkerchief knotted at the corners like a small tricorne, a voice calls merrily
hullo
hullo,
and
how
are
we
today
?
Jeremy wonders if he can avoid looking around and knows that in decency, he cannot. It is Glen Frew from the Gospel Hall.

Glen saunters towards him, amiable and pleased with the world. When Jeremy sits on the church roof, which he does quite often these days, he can see clear across town to Glen's spanking new brick and decramastic hall (it is they who have deemed it a hall, he has decided, he makes no apology for refusing to call it a church) and he concedes that he is envious. What matter that he represents the church of the country, the true word? The state of Anglicanism must still be measured against Glen Frew's gospelling. His hall does not have tiles falling from its roof, it is not about to be invaded by the elements, it is proof against many things, wind and water, and yes, wasps too. It has no beams arching high and shining above the stained-glass windows, ruby and turquoise and purple and gold like the cohorts of the Assyrians. But it is proof against the weather.

‘A great old building, they don't build them like that any more,' says Glen, too heartily, looking at the church roof, which has begun more and more to resemble the gumminess of an old woman whose teeth are falling out.

A wind stirs in the branches of the acacia tree alongside them, all aglitter with silver light on the underside of its leaves. There is a promise of rain in the distance.

Any moment now, Jeremy thinks, he will offer me ‘his boys' to come and mend the roof. He prepares a stiff response to indicate that the matter is under control, yet at the same time not giving away what he has in mind to remedy things.

But he is saved the trouble for another voice is calling him with an imperious urgent sound, and he thanks Sophie in his heart for being as she is, a woman who might melt momentarily for Mortlock, but will not tolerate her husband standing around gossiping with fundamentalists.

He gives a sigh of mock resignation and excuses himself from what Sophie describes as ‘that dreadful Frew man' and walks across the shaggy lawn towards the vicarage. Inside the church Eunice sings with renewed vigour
oh
dearly
dearly
has
he
loved/and
we
must
love
him
too
…
try
his
works
to
do.

Sophie keeps the blinds in the sitting room drawn halfway so that the sun will not fade the Sanderson linen covers of the large armchairs. She sits in the dim light with a tragic air. The brass table that her uncle brought her from India gleams and scarlet dahlias in a cut-glass bowl cast a glow but she projects a delicate presence against them. Jeremy notes how quickly she has arranged herself among the cushions since her stentorian roar across the grass.

As he had entered the house he heard the blare of the transistor radio which Sophie always keeps beside her wherever she is in the house. But at his footfall it is snapped off.

He looks down at her and remembers how beautiful she has been. Still is perhaps, only now he notices the outline of food in her slender throat when she swallows, and the telltale yellow tinge of ageing in her teeth. But her hair is dark and curly still, only lightly tipped with grey, and her skin is
magnolia-like
, perfectly preserved and waxen in its purity, touched lightly with
make-up
. She is dressed in a correctly pleated linen dress with padded shoulders and drawn threadwork on the bodice. It is dusty pink. She extends a fine hand towards him. ‘Where were you?'

‘You know where I was. That dreadful Frew man caught up with me.'

She nods. He has struck the right note. ‘Ah yes. Indeed. And what did he want?'

‘To commiserate.'

She flashes him a look, a touch of cunning tinged with triumph.

‘Four tiles,' he says. ‘There have been four tiles down already this morning.'

‘It will be all right,' she says.

‘What was on the radio?' he asks, knowing that he must.

‘Forrest Fleming. I wanted you to hear him. There's just been the most marvellous talkback. I could hardly pick it up, but I got it, very faintly. He was talking at the end of his last campaign. He's raised two hundred and thirty-five thousand dollars for St Dorothy's in Justville.'

‘Well,' he says. Then he says it again. ‘Well.'

For what else can he say? He is impressed.

‘There must be a catch,' he says. ‘It sounds too good to be true. Such a small town.' He is thinking of the huddle of houses across the flat plain that divides his parish from the next.

‘It is smaller than ours,' says Sophie with triumph. ‘It will be all right, we will save the church, I know. He'll save it for us. Oh Jeremy, I know you don't like the idea of a professional fund-raiser to find the money for the repairs, but it's the only thing. You do see, don't you?'

There is something touchingly girlish about the way she clasps her hands. Her fine dark eyes flash with excitement. How can he help but love her for her
enthusiasm? And a bishop's daughter as well. How envied he had been when she had said that she would marry him. How the cathedral choir had sung.

‘There,' he says, ‘I've already agreed, you don't have to convince me.'

‘We should tell Eunice,' she says. ‘It was her idea. To be fair,' she adds, as a subtle way of reminding him that although the organist has had an
inspiration
, only she, Sophie, had the foresight and the drive to carry it through. Or the contacts. ‘Eunice is in the church, isn't she?'

‘Ah yes,' he says. ‘The wings of song. Practising away in there. Couldn't you hear her?'

‘A tiny sparrow,' says Sophie, in sudden poetic flight. ‘I heard the notes squeezing — squeezing up.'

‘Through the holes in the roof.'

‘Oh Jeremy, what is the matter? Why don't you believe? What's happened to your faith?'

When he does not reply she says, ‘If you are going near the church would you tell Eunice that I am about to heat some pumpkin soup?'

As he recrosses the lawn Jeremy sings under his breath. To the tune of ‘There is a Green Hill' he whispers
What
is
the
matter
oh
by
gosh?/What
is
the
matter
—
oh?/What
is
the
matter
…
?
When he enters the vestry door he raises his voice, giving a sign to Eunice that she commence playing again. But the other woman in his life has already packed up her papers and the organ lid is down and locked. She has heard him but she pretends that she has not.

Instead she kneels at the altar rails in a prayerful attitude. Her slight frame is clad in a scrubbed yellow sweatshirt and a brown dirndl-like skirt that flows around her bent form. He sees her roman sandals peeping out from underneath and winces.

In spite of her signal to keep his distance he approaches Eunice Brown, local organist, dressmaker and cub mistress. He is, after all, her spiritual mentor. Well, isn't he?

‘So what is the matter?' he asks.

Eunice gives an exaggerated start, which he decides to ignore. He sits on the altar chair and fixes her with what he hopes is a penetrating gaze.

‘Oh why can't everyone be happy?' she cries, seeing that he is unmoved by prayer.

‘My dear Eunice,' he says, ‘I am delirious with joy. Why should I not be?'

‘You are not,' she says. ‘Forrest Fleming is coming to save us, and you're going round with a face like a fiddle.'

‘He may be coming to save you, but I may be beyond Mr Fleming's redemption.'

‘How can you say that?' She bends her head, suddenly ashamed. ‘Oh Father Jeremy,' she says, ‘forgive me, it is only He who saves us I know. But the church. Mr Fleming is His instrument. Surely we must have faith in something or everything will fall down around our ears.'

Jeremy is unconscionably moved by the sight of her scrawny neck bowed before him. He has never touched Eunice Brown's neck but he senses that it may be softer than it appears.

He looks up towards the roof. He could swear he can see light shining through.

‘Did you hear the story about the church out in the bush? It had a light above it. No? Well they put the power lines through, this was way back, you know, and the electricity was a miracle. So. To the glory of God and the power supply, the locals put a neon sign over the church. Proclaimed the house of the Lord for all to see. One night the church burnt down, so what did they save?'

‘The sign?' whispers Eunice.

‘Of course, Eunice, the sign. Well there you are. Churches come, they go, but old Claude Neon, he keeps on getting his cut. You can't be too careful.'

‘That sounds like the way they used to sell television sets and refrigerators to people before they got the power put in,' she reflects, entering into the spirit of the story. ‘Well, something like that.'

‘It does, doesn't it?' he says in a hearty amiable way.

She reacts as if stung, tries not to blink the unshed tears which threaten to roll down her hairy earnest face. ‘You made that story up, didn't you?'

He is silent for a moment, and still. This is the house of the Lord, which, in spite of everything, he loves. And he is not without affection for Eunice Brown.

‘I heard something like it once,' he says after while. ‘It is a story not entirely without truth.'

And because she is Eunice Brown she believes him. Why should she not? It is a kind of truth.

When they have eaten pumpkin soup and wholemeal bread washed down with squeezed lemon juice (it keeps them healthy, Sophie says), Jeremy retreats to the garden to consider anew the problem of the wasps' nest. He must also think about Sunday's sermon, for with the arrival of the fund-raiser there is a real hope abroad that the church will be at least half full.

But he has barely set foot outside when he hears the telltale slide of more tiles broken loose and skidding down the roof of the church. Around the bell tower a large gaping hole has opened up.

Above, the sky is full of rushing and accumulating clouds and beyond the edge of the town the paddocks lie blue and jade, shadowed by the onset of the approaching rain.