The Memory Tree (12 page)

Hal went to bed, impatient for his new life to begin. His new life, however, was rooted in the old. From childhood, he had been indoctrinated with the faith of his forefathers and mothers. He had come to doubt God’s goodness, His wisdom, His power, but never questioned His existence. He had accepted that his own church had failed him, but now Godown was personally wrestling for his soul on behalf of a God living in a heaven where the faithful found their true home. If there was an afterlife, and again, this was something Hal had never doubted, then Paulina would be there. He just had to find the right path. The Voice exhorting him to find a way was silent for now, and Hal took this as a sign that the answer lay in the Church of the Divine Conflagration and its pastor, Godown Moses.

While continuing with their Bible readings, Godown and Hal began to plan for a wider group, a genuine congregation for their church.

Hal thought
conflagration
was too grand for the locals. ‘Most of them wouldn’t have a clue what it means. Why don’t we just say
Divine Fire
?’ But Godown was adamant. He had found the word in a dictionary and liked the sound of it.

‘Gives us class, Hal, a nice long word like that.’

They decided to start their ministry in the Treasury Gardens and one Saturday afternoon, they loaded Hal’s station wagon with a wooden crate, a cardboard sign signalling the presence of the Church of the Divine Conflagration, a box of flyers (professionally produced after hours in the printing factory), a small Bible, a megaphone (not necessary with Godown’s voice), a thermos of coffee and some ham and cheese sandwiches packed by a doubtful Mrs Mac.

‘That Godown is nice as pie to me and the kids, but he’s a bad influence on Mr R. I mean to say, whoever heard of preaching in public gardens?’

Alice shook her head. ‘He always was a bit loony, that Mr R of yours. Remember when he decided to dig a bomb shelter in the backyard?’

‘I was that worried. But Mrs R, she just said, “Hal. I don’t think they’ll waste a perfectly good bomb on Yarra Falls.” And he gave it up, meek as you like.’

‘Well, there’s no-one to tell him now,’ her sister responded grimly. ‘Who knows where it will all lead?’

Where indeed?

A few curious passers-by stopped as Godown and Hal set up their pulpit. The businessman in Hal had looked at marketing strategies, and while Godown organised his notes, Hal handed around the bag of licorice allsorts he had secreted in his coat pocket. Godown had been very negative about the licorice allsorts but Hal felt it was only reasonable. They needed a hook, he explained. Why else would anyone stop?

‘Brothers and sister,’ Godown began, scanning the crowd of four. ‘Brothers and sister, I am here to show you the way to salvation.’ The sister’s hand shot out to grab a fistful of licorice allsorts before she melted away through the trees. Two of the men, who disappeared a moment later, glanced regretfully at the proffered bag before sheepishly shaking their heads. Undeterred, Godown continued while Hal handed out sweets and flyers to passers-by. Most shoved the flyers in their pockets or handbags and continued on, studiously avoiding his eye. Two lingered until the sweets were finished and Hal offered them a coffee. If he was to find salvation through bringing others to the Lord, it might take a while.

‘Not much joy, here,’ he said as he helped Godown pack the car.

Unperturbed, Godown grinned. ‘Plenty of time, Hal. God—He’s got all the time in the world.’

While they waited for God’s good time, Hal had a brilliant idea. It came to him in the middle of the night. There was more than one way to skin a cat. While his spare time was spent in Bible study and church work, he still had a business to run. This gave him a rare opportunity to spread the Word. He could hardly wait till morning. At ten o’clock on the dot, his secretary would come in to take dictation. The morning after the Brilliant Idea, he waited for her in gleeful anticipation.

‘To Mr Jarrod Paxton,’ he said. ‘Paxton Pacific Shipping. Dear Sir, The consignment arranged for the 25th inst. has been unavoidably delayed. We estimate that it will arrive for lading on 27th, which we believe is within the time frame required. Should there be any further delay, we understand that the consignment will be too late for the
Penzance
and that the usual penalties will apply. Paragraph.’ Sonia looked up, pencil poised as Hal continued. ‘They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters . . .’

‘Pardon?’

‘Great waters.’

‘
Great waters
.’

‘Yes. Paragraph. These see the works of the Lord and his wonders in the deep.’

‘Works of the Lord. Are you sure that’s right?’

‘Absolutely. It’s exactly right. Oh. Add Psalm 107, verses 25–30. Yours faithfully, etc.’

Sonia turned to a new page. Perhaps this was Mr Rodriguez’s idea of a joke, although everyone knew, that like so many driven people, Hal had no sense of humour at all. Two more letters followed. The one to his solicitor regarding council permits ended with the exhortation, ‘Judge me, O God, and plead my cause against an ungodly nation: O deliver me from the deceitful and unjust man.’ The other, to the Victorian Farmers’ Federation, sternly advised, ‘Let thine eyes be on the field that they do reap.’

Sonia took the remainder of the dictation without further comment, typed the letters and went straight to Bob who read them in disbelief. He knew that Hal had become involved with some religious nutter, but this was too much. This was business. He strode down the corridor to Hal’s office.

‘These letters, Hal . . .’

Hal looked up. ‘What letters?’

‘The one to Paxton’s, for instance. What’s all this about doing business in deep waters?’

‘That’s what they do—business in deep waters.’ Hal looked offended. ‘I thought it was absolutely the right text. They’re not easy to find, you know.’

‘But is it appropriate to put religious texts into business correspondence? Not everyone’s religious.’

Hal sighed. That was the whole point. If everyone were religious, he wouldn’t have to go to all this trouble. With some patience he explained it to Bob who left, telling Sonia on the way out that if this continued, she would need to type up two letters—one with the text for Hal to sign and another without, for Bob’s signature. They couldn’t risk the business becoming a laughing stock.

Meanwhile, Hal pored over his Bible each night to ensure that the next day’s texts were apt. It was a challenge he enjoyed and refused to give up, even when Godown said he might be going a bit too far. Bob had rung Godown and pointed out that the lifestyle he so obviously enjoyed in Hal’s home was dependent upon the business. The children were also dependent, an uneasy Godown reasoned with Hal.

‘We can praise the Lord by bein’ honest in business, Hal,’ he said. ‘Don’t need no Bible texts in our letters.’

‘We can do both,’ Hal responded, and continued to leaf through his Bible.

When Sonia began to complain about the extra workload, Bob found a solution. He suggested that Hal find exemplary texts for each of the businesses they dealt with and have them printed up on fine card to be enclosed with the correspondence. It would be a simple matter for Sonia to ensure that the texts never found their way into an envelope. Hal agreed, attracted by the thought of all those little cards he could distribute elsewhere.

‘Brilliant idea, Bob,’ he beamed as he set about calling the printer. ‘Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path,’ he added kindly as Bob headed for the comfort of the whisky bottle he kept in his desk drawer.

Every Sunday, Godown and Hal walked around to the Safouris’ shop and opened up the shed. For weeks, they saw no-one else, and Hal fretted as they waited to start the service, dashing from door to gate and back again in the dwindling hope of finding even one other worshipper. Arranging the hymn books, Godown reiterated his mantra,
all in God’s good time, Hal. All in God’s good time.

Then one week, Spiros joined them. ‘Too many women in our church,’ he explained. ‘I sneak out.’ After the service he opened a bottle of ouzo and sat down at the table. ‘I teach you
prefa,’
he said, shuffling a pack of cards. In the weeks that followed, more escapees from the local Orthodox Church arrived and the smell of cigarettes and black coffee and the shouts of the bidders drove Godown and Hal back onto the street.

‘The Lord’s testin’ us, brother,’ Godown told Hal. ‘But Sergeant Moses B. Washbourne ain’t never backed away from a fight.’

As it turned out, no fighting was necessary. When Helena and the other women discovered why their men were sneaking out of church early, the Sunday card games came to an abrupt end.

Helena apologised to Hal. ‘My husband, the pig, has no right to take your church for his filthy card games with his filthy friends. It is yours. Your friend has a lease for another two years. That will cook his chicken.’

‘Goose.’

‘That will goose his chicken.’

‘They were the only congregation we had,’ Hal said sadly. ‘But then I’m not sure they were real converts.’

Hal and Godown continued evangelising in the gardens and after many months their congregation swelled to seven.

Godown was jubilant. ‘We’re over halfway,’ he crowed. ‘The Lord himself had to make do with twelve.’

Apart from Spiros, who continued to attend the church of the Divine Conflagration to annoy his wife, the first real convert had been Fred ‘Jockey’ Winthrop. After the scandal that wrecked his career, Jockey had been warned off every racetrack in Australia and had begun to repent when he read an article about himself in the
Australasian Post
while waiting at the barbers. The headline pointed a reproachful finger.
Shame, Jockey Winthrop!
Jockeys who pull horses, the article went on to say, were simply stealing money from poor folk who wagered their last shilling in the hope of feeding their families. Jockey felt so bad about this that he left the barbers and gave his haircut money to the Sally Army lass at the pub. He declined to join the Salvos when he was told they frowned on alcohol and gambling. ‘Un-Australian,’ he pointed out to Hal. ‘So I heard you in the park and thought I’d give it a fly.’

Jockey Winthrop was quickly followed by his neighbour, Beryl Toomey, and her mother Ada. These two good souls had been slighted by the minister of their local Methodist church who had been heard to say that Beryl’s sponges weren’t a patch on his wife’s.

‘The sponges we’ve made for that church. Every fete, every Ladies’ Guild, every Christmas party . . .’ Beryl’s skinny bosom heaved with indignation as her mother, who often forgot her teeth, echoed her words with some difficulty. ‘Ery Crishmsh Pa-y.’ They looked at Hal and Godown expectantly.

‘The Lord is pleased to accept you and your sponges,’ Godown assured them. ‘And I’m sure they are dee-licious.’ After such a welcome, Beryl prevailed upon her husband, Bert, to come to the Sunday services. He sat and stood morosely, joining neither the singing nor the responses. He was as present and as animated as the storage boxes stacked against walls.

The little congregation settled into a routine of Bible readings, prayers, blessings and hymns, followed, on the first Sunday of the month, by a cup of tea and a slice of Beryl’s cream sponge. No-one said much at these social gatherings (
Fellowship
, Beryl called it) and after the shortest possible time, they all scuttled away to their own concerns.

After some months of this, the advent of the Barrett twins completed the membership. They arrived without warning, just as the service was about to begin. Godown saw them first from the vantage point of the lectern. It seemed that two Pre-Raphaelite angels stood in the doorway, dressed incongruously in blue, spotted dresses and wide straw hats. It was sunny outside and the church was dark, so it seemed to Godown that they were floating in light.

The pastor found his voice. ‘Welcome, sisters,’ he boomed, causing one of the women to jump at the sound. ‘Spiros, please find the ladies a seat.’ This wasn’t hard, given that there were twice as many seats as people, but Spiros guided them to two of the folding chairs, where they sat, slender as willow wands, demurely smiling their thanks.