Currawalli Street (12 page)

Thomas doubts that the bishop even knows what the Lord's work is and is certain that he is never even touched let alone plagued by it. The bishop continues on, ‘Well perhaps this man will die soon and she will return. I will look inside our church now.'

The orange cat comes out from behind a bush. It calls plaintively once and then watches as the bishop walks past. Although he pretends not to see it, the bishop doesn't walk any closer to the cat than he has to. At the door to the church he pauses and looks around at the small patch of lawn beside the building.

‘Is this land ours?' he asks Thomas.

‘Yes, Your Eminence. I maintain it and the congregation uses it as a meeting place.'

The bishop retreats from the church door and holds his hand lightly to his forehead. ‘For a moment I pictured a statue in the middle of it. One of me in my robes would look very grand. Very grand indeed. Perhaps it could be the same as the one we have commissioned for that little country town . . . near . . . near . . .' he waves his hand delicately, ‘. . . out there somewhere. Of course the sculptor could make two. Why couldn't he?'

He turns to Thomas, who is not sure if he is supposed to supply an answer. Fortunately the bishop continues.

‘I am standing with one hand extended, calling people into prayer. Very . . . very . . . what was the word that the sculptor used to describe my pose, Edward?'

‘Serene,' Edward answers quickly.

The bishop turns back towards the grass. ‘Yes. Serene. What a good description. We could have it unveiled by the archbishop—although . . .' he scratches his chin as if in thought, continuing to peer at the space, ‘. . . he might wonder why it isn't a statue of him. Perhaps we won't ask him to unveil either of them. But a statue of a religious figure in a humble pose would be an appropriate gift to give these people. Perhaps that is something you could look into, Edward.'

‘Definitely,' Edward says with the conviction of one who will do no such thing.

The bishop walks back to the door of the church and waits for Thomas to open it, then raises his eyebrows. ‘You don't keep this door locked?'

‘Never,' Thomas replies. ‘You can't tell when people might want to come in.'

‘But you have valuable paintings and artefacts in here.'

‘I would hardly call them artefacts. They are all new and replaceable.'

‘But expensive none the less.'

‘Yes, they are expensive, but—'

‘Keep this door locked when you're not inside. Try to be a little smarter about these things. You're not out in the country any longer. People are different here in the city.'

Thomas breathes in deeply as the bishop sweeps past him and then waits at the inner door. Thomas lets Edward go forward and open it. The bishop strides down the aisle to the altar. He bows his head for a moment, holds his hand across his brow as if he has a sudden pain and then speaks to the two men behind him. ‘I must go. I have business
elsewhere.'

There is a strange set to the bishop's face as he walks back, as if he has just completed some physical exertion. Thomas feels Edward's hand grasp his arm as if warning him to stay still. Thomas looks into the bishop's eyes as he sails past. They are wide open and bright, yet Thomas sees nothing in them that he can recognise. It is a look that he will think about many times in the future. Not the look of a man of the cloth in a church; it is the look of a man barely in control of a mind in turmoil. He looks over the bishop's head to his favourite stained-glass window: Saint Peter drawing water from a stream.

The bishop turns at the end of the pews and Thomas watches as the strangeness leaves his face as quickly as it came. ‘Now, Thomas, we will leave you to lock up your church. And remember, it is only your church for a moment. Don't think you own it. It turns out that every man owns nothing—except his soul. And that really belongs to all of us. All of God's creatures own each other's souls. As for your gracious sister, I hope she is at home now.'

‘I doubt it, Your Eminence. The dying man is on the other side of the city. She will be gone for all of the day and probably all of the night. I don't ask her to travel home after dark. It is too dangerous for a woman.'

‘Is it? How dreadful,' the bishop murmurs.

They walk back out into the fading sunlight. By the time Thomas has shut the church door and pretended to lock it, the bishop is back inside the car. He doesn't look at Thomas again. Edward waves goodbye as the car moves off back down the street, the rays of the setting sun bouncing off the roof.

Standing in front of the church, Thomas watches the bishop's car turn into the little road. He feels as though he has just walked offstage from yet another of the tiny plays in which he has a supporting role. All these men masquerading. Always men.

Women are different, he knows that. He can tell that they see through the playlets that he performs when he puts on his collar, and he assumes that they also see through God. It is men who need religion, men like the bishop who needs religion more than it needs him.

He stands for a long time looking at the birds flying above and around the trees. He is stepping off the grass, onto the footpath when through the fading light he sees a wagon turn into the street. And a horseman. Johnny Oatley. He draws in a deep breath of the dusk air and walks down slowly towards them. The wagon driver, whose name Thomas recalls is Cedric, doesn't move from his travelling position when the wagon comes to a standstill in number nine's yard. Neither does Johnny; he stays seated on his horse next to it. The men don't talk or look around. Almost four minutes pass before Johnny gets down from the saddle and stretches gingerly. Cedric coughs and begins to climb from the wagon. He coughs again halfway down.

Alfred, Eric, Morrie and Lazarus come around the far corner of the street. Alfred speeds up when he sees the wagon and even though he is the one who's sick, the other two struggle to keep up with him. Johnny looks up from the saddle that he has dropped onto the ground, sees the procession coming and waves to Alfred. Cedric, who looks exhausted, watches Alfred blankly as he closes.

Thomas leans against number thirteen's front fence and watches the travelling men come to terms with reaching their destination. Home.

Thomas doesn't want to go any closer. His preference is for a distant wave, not a mumbled greeting.

A
t the same time that Cedric and Johnny were travelling along Choppingblock Road, beginning to look for the little road in the hazy distance, Alfred and Eric were halfway through their second mug of beer at the bar of the Choppingblock Hotel. If Alfred had been looking out the rear window of the hotel, he would have seen the wagon and the accompanying rider approaching in a swirl of dust.

As they drink, Alfred and Eric are waiting for Morrie. He hasn't been to the pub since his wife died and the two other men, following the orchestrated suggestions of Rose and Nancy, are preparing to usher him as gently as they can back into this particular bosom. A crowded bar is a good alternative to sitting on your own in a house full of undusted memories.

The truth is that Alfred and Eric have been somewhat slow in developing a friendship themselves. They talk when they meet on the street but still hardly know each other; most of what they do know comes from what other people—mainly their wives—have told them. So this
outing to the pub is as much about advancing their relationship as it is about helping Morrie.

The first Alfred knows that Morrie has arrived is when Lazarus licks his hand. He looks down at the dog, reflecting that there is a contented depth in a dog's eyes when it feels at home in a public bar. Morrie is still standing at the door, looking for them among the sea of faces. Eric raises his arm until Morrie acknowledges him. As he walks over, the group near the door shouts in celebration at something one of them has announced. The tiniest triumphs are magnified in a bar. The three men wait until the yelling dies down before greeting each other. As Alfred turns to call the barman over, he pats Morrie on the arm. That tiny gesture is Alfred's way of a welcome. When the barman has served them, the three men touch mugs and take a mouthful of beer each. In a tiny ballet, they place their mugs on the bar at the same time. Eric and Morrie wait for Alfred to say the first words. He is the most senior of the three.

‘Still bloody hot.'

‘Bloody oath,' Eric agrees.

Morrie hesitates before he says, ‘Bloody oath.'

Then there is silence.

‘Bloody oath,' murmurs Alfred, thinking of something else to say. He remembers his wet hand. ‘Lazarus looks like he knows his way around a bar.'

Morrie glances down at the dog. ‘This is the first time I've been in here with him, but he does look as if he has been here before.' Lazarus lies down among the feet and tries to push his head under a stool.

Eric clears his throat. ‘All bars are the same. Perhaps he's been in a pub somewhere else.'

The conversation is awkward but the environment helps. The three men are reassured by standing at the bar in between the stools. Having something to lean against makes them feel secure. The path that runs behind Currawalli Street is used as a short cut from the railway station by city workers who catch the train, and the pub is full of men stopping in on their way home from work. The hotel is far enough from the centre of the city to be able to stay secretly open past six o'clock, the designated closing time of pubs in Melbourne. Only the hotel's regulars are invited to stay on after closing time, and the other men drink faster as six o'clock approaches. Many who would prefer not to be drunk have to stagger home in that state.

At quarter to six, the three men wave goodnight to the barman and leave through the side door, Lazarus close behind them. Alfred is the first to see Cedric's wagon sitting in his yard. He looks back down the little road to see if the other is coming, then increases his pace to reach his gate. Alfred is puffing, yet Morrie and Eric struggle to keep up with him. Johnny waves and then returns to the saddle at his feet. Cedric stands silently by the wagon. The reverend is leaning against a fence further up the street.

‘Where is she?' Alfred calls out when he comes close enough.

Johnny turns to him. ‘They're fine. They just want to take their time, that's all—they'll be here tomorrow or the next day.'

Alfred looks at him and then at Cedric. ‘They? Who's they?'

Cedric comes across to him and holds his arm. Alfred looks at Cedric's hand then up at his face.

‘Fred. Everything went well. She went good.'

‘What do you mean
they
?'

Cedric continues. ‘All the measurements are exact, I made sure of that.'

‘Ced, who's
they
?'

Cedric looks around at Johnny and Eric watching him. Morrie is looking up at the church. He turns back to Alfred. ‘She went and got married, Fred. You must have met the boy when you were up there with her on the first trip. Nice sort of bloke. His name's . . .'

‘Walter.' Alfred scratches his head. ‘Walter. But he was already getting married. To a girl up there.'

Cedric shrugs. ‘Yeah. Well you know how it is. Things change pretty quick when you're . . .'

‘. . . a woman,' Rose says, as she comes around the corner. They hear the back screen door slam after she is with them so she must have moved quickly. She walks up to Cedric and kisses him on the cheek. ‘Hello, Ced. Hello, Johnny. How did you go?'

‘Pretty good. A couple of flooded creeks. A bushfire that we had to move out of the way of.'

‘We've been smelling it for a few days.' She looks at Cedric seriously. ‘So, she got married did she?'

‘Yeah. At that little church in Darraweit.'

‘To Walter? You were there?' Rose asks quietly, moving in front of Alfred.

‘Yeah. Walter. I was best man,' says Cedric, smiling for the first time.

Rose turns to Alfred. ‘She told you that she might do something like this. She told you. I told you.' Her words are curt, her voice is sharp.

Alfred's hands curl into tight fists. ‘I heard both of you. But I thought
he was coming in a few months?'

‘No, Fred,' Rose says impatiently. ‘That was the boy from Sydney. She didn't like him. I didn't like him. Only you liked him. She thought she did for a while and then she thought she should because you seemed to so much. You started to build a house for them next door.' Rose sees the confusion in Alfred's eyes so she softens her voice. ‘She told you about Walter. I told you. But the whole world could have been telling you. You wouldn't hear.'

Rose nods at Eric and Morrie as their discomfort grows and they decide to leave. Johnny picks up his saddle and holds it strongly in one arm, as Cedric leads off one of the horses.

Rose steps closer to Alfred and touches his cheek. ‘What did you think our daughter would do? When she thinks you are trying to take over her life? Picking a husband for her? You're lucky she is coming back at all.'

Alfred suddenly looks older. Johnny walks over and joins Cedric at the water trough where he is patting the horse's neck and muttering something under his breath. Johnny can't make out the words. He looks across at his own house. He wonders whether Kathleen is in there waiting and will soon pass by a window and see the wagon. He wonders whether she will see him walking across the street and rush out the front door to meet him. He feels exhausted by the journey now that he has stopped.

Johnny says a quiet goodbye to Cedric, wishes him ‘all the luck', placing his hand on Cedric's shoulder for emphasis.

‘Maybe I will have been to a war when next we meet.' Cedric's words are chilling even though Johnny knows it is just his way of saying that
he expects they will meet again.

Johnny calls goodbye to Alfred and Rose as they continue their intense discussion, now on the porch. Alfred shakes his head in despair, then walks over to Johnny. He picks up an apricot stone from the ground and throws it high over the wagon towards the hotel. He has been talking so angrily to Rose that his thankyou to Johnny comes out as a croaky whisper.

He shakes his head, continues, ‘Elizabeth thought I would get angry that she wants to marry a country boy instead of the Sydney city man I met in my shop. But I'm not. She's my daughter. I want her to be happy. I only picked him because I thought he was the type of fellow she would like. But apparently she doesn't like him anymore. Women! Will I never learn? I only get angry because Rose says that she tells me things but, in fact, I think she keeps them from me.'

Johnny lifts up his shoulders and holds his hands out, palms upward. He says goodbye and leads his horse across the street into his own yard.

Morrie and Eric shake hands and say goodnight. As Morrie and Lazarus stroll up the street, Morrie sees the reverend ahead of him, turning into the gate of number fifteen with the orange cat at his feet.

Morrie's thoughts are full of the pub: all those men of all ages, and with all sorts of lives. The regulars are easily identified: they have their names printed on the side of their mugs. Other drinkers are given anonymous mugs from under the bar. Alfred and Eric both have one of these personalised mugs and they told Morrie that he will be offered one the
next time they all go for a drink. Morrie is the only man in Currawalli Street who doesn't have his own mug. Even Cedric, the man who works for Alfred, has been given one. Morrie decides that he will instigate another session at the pub soon, and looks down at Lazarus. ‘Even the reverend has his own mug.'

Lazarus doesn't show any interest in what he is saying; instead he is intent on finding the orange cat.

Kathleen and Maria have just stepped out onto the porch of number sixteen; they have been talking about onions, but they stop their conversation to watch Morrie open his front gate and wait for Lazarus to walk through. Maria quickly looks up to the heavens and offers a silent thanks to her saint who she asked to watch over Morrie as he steps out into the world more. Kathleen doesn't notice; she has seen the wagon sitting in the yard next to number nine.

Cedric is soon standing in the bar at the Choppingblock Hotel. The curtains have been drawn and the pub looks from the outside to be closed up for the night. But there are many men inside, talking in whispers. Cedric has said his goodbyes to Alfred and Rose; he declined Rose's invitation to stay the night, and as he left he saw Alfred—clearly unable to wait any longer—climb into the back of the wagon to look through the measurements.

Cedric quickly finishes his beer and puts his tin mug firmly on the bar. He nods to the barman, who comes over and shakes his hand. The other men wait in line to do the same. Cedric is to be the first drinker from the bar to join up. He doesn't say a word but nods his head continually at the words of each man as they stand in front of him. They all
wish him well. The barman stands on the bench behind the bar so that he can reach up high enough to screw a hook into the wall. On it he hangs Cedric's mug, with his name showing.

‘I'll take it down when you get back,' he says to Cedric. ‘The first beer you drink from it will be on the house.'

The men clap. Not because of what he says but because it is a speech of sorts and men always applaud at the end of a speech. Also because there is the feeling that there is something in the air and Cedric might just be the first of many. Indeed, a man from a sheep farm further up Choppingblock Road calls out to the barman, ‘I hope you've got a lot of them hooks!'

Everybody cheers. Under the cover of the yelling and clapping, Cedric disappears out the front door.

Kathleen opens the back door and finds Johnny sitting at the kitchen table, taking off his boots. He is happy to be home. The smell of smoke is still in his nostrils and it has taken him longer than normal to reassure his horse that all is safe and well.

When Kathleen first saw a herd of wallabies, she burst into tears. This was the first time Johnny had seen her cry and it confused him. He had just finished art school and had come home to the farm. She was just out from England, a nervous teacher for her mother's cousin's children on the biggest estate in the district.

It was their third meeting and they were getting to know each other more, perched on a fallen log at a district Women's Association picnic. He smiled nervously as he consoled her then.

He doesn't smile at her tears anymore; her sobs are too wrenching
for him not to be torn apart in tiny ways. At the picnic he wasn't sure why she cried when she saw the wallabies, but he now knows there are many reasons why she does.

The moment she sees him at the kitchen table she bursts into tears. He rushes across the room and holds her in his arms.

She tells him she is pregnant.

Instantly he can feel the presence of another person in the room, and he is shocked.

After dinner and no longer tired, he walks into his studio and ponders the fact that it will be the baby's room one day and that he will have to do his painting somewhere else. He looks at the unfinished portrait of the bishop. Without a word, he picks up his palette and begins to mix together reds, whites and yellows to give him the skin colour that will be appropriate for the bishop standing in the shadow of a large golden crucifix.

Kathleen looks in on him and then walks back down the hallway, smiling. Johnny doesn't notice. The painting was almost complete when he went away and now, in a single session, he will finish it. By the morning it is done.