Siddon Rock (19 page)

Barber's Butchery & Bakery was, as the women of the town often said,
so spick and span that you could eat off the floor.
Indeed, Sybil spent many hours after closing the shop, and sometimes before opening, scrubbing and cleaning the walls, floor, pine benches and blocks.

It was Sunday morning, though, when the major weekly clean took place. Each Sunday, too, the shade of Alf Barber stood over her as she worked, commenting and remembering:
Your mother's at church, Sib, just you 'n' me at home. Good for a dad to have some time with his daughter, eh?
he'd start. Sybil concentrated on her scrubbing, ignoring the rough voice behind her.
Come on, luv
, he'd whisper,
come and sit with your dad for a minute. Remember how you'd sit on me knee? That was good, wasn't it?

Sybil scoured harder and sang loudly –
Chickery chick, cha-la, cha-la, Check-a-la romey in a bananika –
as she filled a bucket with hot water, added a good dash of vinegar and started to sluice the chopping blocks, but each time her elbow moved backwards it entered Alf's shade,
which weakened her arm until she could hardly move it. Sybil knew it was no use talking to him – reason was never a strong point for Alf Barber – and shouting just made him worse, but her anger built as she worked, pushing her faster and making her sing louder to block out Alf's insidious voice –
Bollika, wollika, can't you see, Chickery chick is me. Chickery chick, cha-la, cha-la …

Come on Sib, what's the matter?
Alf sounded as if a grave injustice was being done to him.
Ain't this mine? The shop, and you?

… Check-a-la romey in a bananika, Bollika, wollika, can't you see, Chickery chick is me …

Alf Barber would raise his voice over the song,
A wife belongs to a man, and so do a daughter – and that's you. I c'n do what I like.

Sybil scrubbed harder, banging the brush on the wooden countertop as if it were the enemy, lifting her voice to drown out her father's …
Once there lived a chicken who would say chick-chick chick-chick all day … oohhhh … chickery chick, cha-la, cha-la …

And so it went: Sybil scrubbed and sang, not looking up, ignoring the pain in her body where it touched the shade of Alf Barber. Alf cajoled and pleaded.

After a while Alf's shade would lose his temper at being ignored and retreat to the corner where Alf used to dump the bones and off-cuts when he ran the shop. There it stood, hawking and spitting into the sawdust that covered the floor behind the counter, or throwing down the knives and saws that Sybil had just cleaned. Each time he did
this Sybil would have to start again – soaking the knives in boiling water then scouring the blades with sandsoap before rinsing, sharpening and wiping on a thin film of oil to stop rust. After this the walls and countertops needed re-scrubbing as did the floor, which also had a clean layer of sawdust.

Eventually Alf Barber would tire of trying to seduce Sybil with words or tantrums, and float off out the back door, leaving Sybil to finish the weekly routine. But always, always there was the voice as she locked the door behind her on a Sunday.
I know you remember, Sib. I know you do.

The problem was, she found she could never get the smell of Alf off her hands, no matter how long she scrubbed them or what soap or abrasive she used. When she told this to Catalin, well after they knew most of each other's stories, Catalin gave her a jar of cleanser that the hospital used in the operating theatre.
Try this for the hands
, she said.
It'll take away any stain we know. But my mother used to say that to cleanse the soul you need to wash in someone's tears.

I thought we had done that already
, Sybil said.

On some Sunday nights after Alf's shade whispered to her in the butcher's shop Sybil did not go to bed, but walked at the edge of the salt lake. At other times she telephoned Gawain Evans, who was always delighted to go to Sybil's home and bed – he being a gentle man who rather enjoyed being controlled by Sybil's strength and anger. These Sunday nights fuelled his addiction to Sybil, and he would beg her
to let him stay, to let him live there with her. But this was not a thing Sybil would discuss, and her flat
No
became a full stop to the night.

On the Sunday after she had seen the photos from the camera in Macha's kit-bag, Brigid Connor dressed for church as usual. Granna, also as usual for a Sunday morning, sat on the old couch on the verandah, with a cup of tea and two pieces of buttered toast.

Sure you're not coming?
Brigid said to Granna.

Now why would I change a habit I like?
Granna said.
And I wouldn't be asking Macha either. She'll not be putting on clothes for anyone.

And why not?
Brigid said briskly.
She's always come to church with me. Macha
, she called.
I'm ready.
When Macha didn't appear, Brigid knocked on her bedroom door.
Come on, Macha, we'll be late.

But when Brigid opened the door the room was empty– no Macha, no rifle, no sign of Macha dressing to attend church.

She left early
, Granna said. And indeed Macha was at that moment at her shelter in the Yackoo, sitting by a small fire and with no apparent interest in going anywhere.

Brigid sat next to Granna on the couch.
I don't understand all this,
she said.
I wish I could know what's going on in her head. I'd rather have all the pain myself than see Mach go through this. I feel so bloody helpless.
She picked up Granna's cup and took a long drink of tea.
And surely the
things she's seen would make her turn to the church for peace, if nothing else.

Granna snorted.
It seems to me
, she said,
it really seems to me, Brigid, that it's exactly the things she's seen that's making her not want anything to do with a two-faced god who seems to support both sides.

Brigid gazed out across the paddocks of the Two Mile, towards the Yackoo where she thought Macha would be.
Do you remember when she was six or so?
she said.
She loved coming to church. There she'd be, this little thing with such a big voice, singing away – but not the hymns, she didn't know the words of the hymns. ‘Baa-baa Black Sheep' was the favourite, I think, and ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star'. No matter what the tune was that the rest of us sung, Mach sang her own song.

So, no matter how often Brigid raised the subject over the dinner table during the week, come Sunday morning Macha was not there waiting to attend church with her mother. Instead she disappeared into the bush or walked towards the inland, for these were places full of silence, and where Macha was most at home.

 

GRANNA, WHEN SHE TOLD THE STORY OF THIS DAY
, always started it:
Now, Siggy Butow may have been a bit strange, but he was nothing if not courageous.

Young George Aberline was a good man, a hard worker, and well aware of his responsibilities to his family and of God to him, and so when his business of salt-mining showed no signs of leaping to the heights of production that he expected, Young George asked the Reverend Siggy Butow to bless the venture. He said to David,
Maybe He can beat the bank to the business, because if He doesn't I think we're going to be up the bloody creek without a bloody paddle.
He gave a snorted laugh.
Or maybe it's out in the middle of the salt lake without a pot to piss in!

So there they were, the ladies of the Church Auxiliary and the men of the Harvest Festival Committee. They sat with egg sandwiches and cups of tea in hand, peacefully anticipating agreement on the usual details of the Harvest Festival service, when up booms Young George Aberline:
Why don't we hold it at the lake, Siggy? Then you can do a combined service – you can help the salt harvest with a blessing, and celebrate the Harvest Festival out there in the paddocks where it all happens.

The chorus of agreement to this suggestion made Young George glow. It also made it impossible for Siggy Butow to disagree without exposing his fear of the open expanses that lay beyond the comparative safety of the town, for he had told no-one of his first and only venture to the top of the rock just after he had arrived.

In that case
, Siggy said through his sandwich,
it must be an early service
. No-one questioned why this was so.
And of course we can't take the organ, or a piano, so you – we – must sing acapella. That means without music.
He paused, and Gloria Aberline and Martha Hinks later agreed that there was a slight waspishness in his voice as he said,
You do realise that your – our – singing may sound a little thin out there, in all that space. As long as you don't mind, of course.
Siggy drained his teacup and put it down, quite firmly, on the trestle table.
And will those arranging for the usual offerings of the Harvest Festival please find a suitable place at the lake edge, and convey the information to me?

So it happened that very early on a mild spring morning – for Siggy Butow followed the calendar of the European festivals, allowing no reversal for the Antipodes– the Ladies Auxiliary of the Methodist congregation of Siddon Rock and their husbands gathered at the edge of the perpetual pool of the salt lake. With them came a
truckload of baled hay. The men heaved some of the bales into rows as makeshift pews, and two pushed together as a base with another on top made a creditable, if unstable, pulpit. It was, however, the design and construction of hay bale display shelves that excelled. With Martha Hinks as overseer, this was done simply and to great effect: the back row was three bales long and three bales high, held in place by a tall stake hammered into the ground behind each bale, and with another at each side end. In front of this was placed a second row two bales high, and the front shelf was a simple one-bale row, staked in the front for stability.

The shelves were a huge success, and the ladies were hurrying now to arrange the Harvest Festival offerings, expecting Reverend Butow to appear at any moment. Baskets of goods were unloaded from the cars and trucks. On the top shelf jars of last summer's bottled fruit were stacked into pyramids, incandescent as the early morning sunlight shone through the purple of plums and yellows of peaches and apricots.
Could be a stained-glass window
, Gloria Aberline commented,
specially with these flowers in front of them.
Gloria was arranging big bunches of the pink everlastings that grew wild in early spring, and they did indeed make a delightful picture against the colours of the bottled fruit.

The second shelf was dedicated to several baskets of eggs, packed in straw for protection. The spaces between these were also filled with everlastings.
Why DOES Mister Butow have our festival in spring?
Mrs Sinclair Johnson
said crossly.
It should be in autumn, and we'd have so much more to put out. Instead it all looks so … so thin
. Murmured agreement came from the other women.

Mister Placer, the station-master, dragged a large sack from the back of his car.
Grew these in that sheltered patch behind the railway station last year
, he said.
And they keep so well. If I put them along here they'll fill in and give more colour.
And the piles of mixed pumpkins did indeed look superb on the bottom shelf. The pale grey-green of three Queensland Blues contrasted nicely with the orangey-red colour of several other unusual-looking pumpkins.
No
, Mary Placer said to a query,
we don't know what those funny-looking ones are. They just appeared in the garden. They're different when they're cooked too. Quite a different texture to the Blue. I don't really like it m'self.

Young George Aberline brought a lamb, as he did every year. Usually the beast would be tethered in the churchyard, waiting to go with the other offerings to the hospital kitchen. Siggy, at the first Harvest Festival after his arrival, made a small joke about the bleating lamb in the yard, calling it
the Lamb of God
, not realising that it was bound for the plates of hospital patients and staff. This year Young George tied it to a bale, but with enough slack rope for the beast to enjoy a salt lick from the dried salt at the edge of the lake.

On the hay bale pews, members of the congregation arranged themselves in their usual pattern, with various Aberlines taking the three rows on the left-hand side of the aisle, and the Sinclair Johnson and Abe Simmons families
and other individuals almost filling the right-hand side. Miss Pearson, the organist, sat uneasily in the front row, unfamiliar without the masking bulk of the church organ. There they sat in the sharp clarity of early morning, waiting for Siggy Butow.

Siggy had told Sinclair Johnson, when interviewed for the ‘Welcome to Siddon Rock' article, that he had climbed in the French Alps and that
there's nothing like a good climb up the mountains to make a man feel like a god.
Today he took a deep breath before stepping out the door and, he thought, handled the walk to the base of the silo well.

He stood there looking at the narrow track winding up the rock where he had climbed that one time, and remembered vividly the nausea in his gut when he had reached the top and seen the vast openness that he knew continued beyond the horizon. At Siggy's left another, broader track led around the base of the rock. He stepped towards this, then hesitated. If his parishioners could see the indecision: the high road or the low road? The shorter track up the rock, or the flat, longer, but easier walk around its side? Siggy was alone, there was no-one to see his dilemma. Better to walk around than climb up and try to conduct the service with a bellyful of collywobbles. But to conquer the fear, surely this was the thing? Not this time, old chap; this time the test was just to get there.

Siggy Butow followed the track around the edge of the rock: across the narrow margin between the rock and
the cemetery, through a section of open ground and into a small patch of low-growing mallee. These were nothing like any trees he had seen in England or Europe, or even during his short stay in the capital on his way to Siddon Rock. These trees had several trunks growing from a base – thin, whippy red wood that looked as if it would never break. He walked past Nell's hut, not seeing it in his absorption with the trees; but he did notice some strange-looking dogs lying in the shade, and walked on somewhat faster and more purposefully.

As Siggy reached open ground again, he could hear his congregation talking although he could not see them yet. He heard Young George Aberline say,
I'm going to contact those blasted Bush Bashers again. Just look at that old machinery sitting there.

Can't see them wanting them now anyway
, Abe Simmons replied.
How many years ago was that? Four? Five? And just look at what the salt has done to them in such a short time. Can you imagine anyone wanting to use that tractor now, all rusted up and falling apart. They're real old dinosaurs.

Yeah
, Sinclair Johnson said.
Look at that huge old bulldozer standing there with its scoop up – come to think of it, it could be a Tyrannosaurus rex waiting to strike.

The voices were clear, and he knew that around the next curve in the rock was the lack of containment that had frightened him off the rock and into reclusion at the Methodist manse. He peered around the curve and yes, there was his congregation huddled at the edge of the salt lake
like a small flock of sheep. They looked lost under the vastness of the deep blue dome of sky that swept below all horizons. At Brigid Connor's fence several dun-coloured merino rams gathered, warily watching the unfamiliar intrusion.

Siggy pulled back. At that moment there was only himself, just the beating of his heart, the quivering breath in his lungs. Black threads floated across his eyes, and the swirling nausea began. But he was prepared this time; from his pocket he took a packet of peppermints, popped one in his mouth and leaned back against the rock for a few minutes until the nausea subsided somewhat.
It's all in knowing what to expect
, he thought.
I can handle this.

And so Siggy Butow arrived at the Harvest Festival service at the salt lake.
How cheerful he looked when he arrived
, the chatter went later.
Full of confidence, he was. And didn't he tell us a story before the service, about what the hills and dales of his Yorkshire are like. You'd never have guessed. Just goes to show, you can't judge a book by its cover.

After greeting his waiting flock, shaking hands and admiring the display behind them, Siggy placed himself behind the straw pulpit and smiled at the congregation. He felt in his jacket pocket for the book of services … and found it empty. The nausea swept back and his mind trembled precariously as he realised that his memory, not the best at any time, would not serve him well with two services to combine.

Siggy stood there dumbly, trying to decide what to do: postpone the service and go get the book? Cancel it altogether? Admit he'd forgotten the book and try to adlib?

Miss Pearson, knowing him as well as she did from anticipating his words every Sunday, was aware there was a problem and thought that he was waiting for the organ to play the introductory hymn. She stood suddenly and started to sing:

The congregation hesitated to its feet and joined in, the words drifting thinly across the treeless paddock between the lake and the rock.

By the end of the verse Siggy Butow's well-developed sense of ritual and theatre had exerted itself and, finding the hay bale pulpit too unstable to hold firmly at each side, he tucked one hand into his jacket and looked sternly at his parishioners, motioning them to be seated.

Was the sea of Galilee an inland lake
, he roared suddenly, making the grazing rams start and run a few steps,
strong enough to take a man's weight?
His normal stance took over for a moment, and he raised his head.
Bright blue sky rushed down at him, and he quickly brought his gaze back to his congregation. Martha Hinks said later that she felt as if she had been singled out by those fierce eyes, and indeed she had started to rise to answer the question, when Siggy continued.

Today we celebrate the gifts of the harvest and this glorious and imposing lake of salt
.
This magnificent place on God's earth is like that which our Lord knew, with its lake and open spaces.
He carefully kept his eyes off the horizon as he spoke.
Like those who lived at Galilee and fished its waters, here too will be an enterprise to make us proud. Young George Aberline and his son David will bring more prosperity to the town by their business of salt-mining.

So bless, oh Lord, this enterprise of Geo. Aberline & Son Minerals. Let it prosper and use your gift for the good of all. And at the same time, bless our harvest of grain from these fertile paddocks.

Bloody fool
, Young George muttered to Sinclair Johnson,
he doesn't even know that the effin' salt buggers up ‘these fertile paddocks'.

Without warning, Miss Pearson stood again.