Hill of Grace (23 page)

Like Bruno, standing at the fence watching them. ‘Where was my invite, William?'

William refused to look over, buttering bread and shaking his head. ‘It's your choice.'

Bruno read the words on the banner and thought, maybe not.

‘Edna's frying me up some sausage.'

William whispered loud enough for the others. ‘Enjoy it, Bruno. Goodbye.'

The Millerites giggled. They watched Bruno turn to go inside, and heard him mumble, ‘I hope you choke on it.'

Bluma appeared from the kitchen with the last of the salads. ‘Wash your hands,' she called, and the children flocked to the wash-house where Nathan was waiting to make sure they used soap.

Settling in around the table they all joined hands and William began, ‘In the name of the Father . . .'

They passed onto a twenty-minute devotion which seemed longer in the presence of food, Bluma swatting flies and chasing a stray from their yard as William returned to Revelations. Explaining how the great wall with its twelve gates, each with an angel, was their way into the Kingdom: a city of pure gold and precious stones, the gates themselves pearly and a great temple in the middle.

As William prayed, Nathan looked around at the bowed heads and wondered. He caught Sarah Heinz's eye and mimicked death-by-endless-prayer, but she just bowed her head and closed her eyes. He wondered where Lilli was, and wished he was with her; he knew that of the several lives he led, some were better than others. As Nathan had expected, William dominated proceedings. Seymour was his straight man, the Stiffy of Tanunda feeding lines to a reluctant Mo. ‘Eh, William, what about Fred Murray?'

Bluma placed the meat on the table and William started carving. ‘We asked Fred if he got our brochure,' William said. ‘“Yes, sir”, he says. “But it's like this . . . I wrote three hundred odd songs for the stage, and any of them what mentioned Jesus flopped.”'

Seymour started taking plates and laying out pork. ‘Next thing you know, we're in his music room. Fred sits down at his piano and says, I wrote this one for Alec Hurley:

I've found a lovely little tart,

And every night and morning I go to court 'er;

When waltzing around the town, I fairly take 'em down,

With Mary-Anne the 'addick smoker's daughter . . .'

Without looking up, Nathan said, ‘They used to bring him to school to perform for us.' Unaware of why their concerts stopped, the piano lid lowered during a rendition of
They Went to the Usual
Place
in front of Mrs Powell's combined 4-5s.

Nathan macerated a pile of egg noodles with his fork and wondered what Phil was up to. Probably road-testing a Melchior double-wheel chair for Bob, he thought. Racing up and down the Drummond's crumbling driveway at dangerous speeds, occasionally losing his balance and ending up in Rose's petunias, fluffing up the flat ones before she noticed.

‘How are your new living arrangements, Nathan?' Catherine asked, spooning herself some of Mary's coleslaw.

‘The Drummonds are groovy.'

William looked at him through a forest of food. Groovy. Not the Nathan he knew. He put it down to the son, described by Nathan variously as a young Errol Flynn and a down-market Einstein, stopping Speaker's Corner with comments the dimwit Lefties and Rationalists couldn't counter. At other times Nathan had described him as a Mahatma in corduroy, awakening thoughts he'd never had, like how Japan was offered up as a sacrificial lamb, reduced to rubble as a warning to Stalin, and how Hitler could've been stopped, but how he was more valuable as a buffer to the East.

‘Where does he get this from?' William had asked Nathan the previous night. ‘At sixteen he understands politics better than anyone?'

Spooning herself some carrot salad, Mary said, ‘He's a lively one. Bluma says he keeps a diary of toilet scribblings.'

Nathan looked at her and rolled his eyes. ‘Graffiti.'

William stopped eating soup and wiped his mouth. ‘Graffiti?'

‘You know, “Playford couldn't run a raffle”, “The end of the World is . . .”'

Silence. William shook his head. ‘What would be the point of that?'

Bluma slapped him on the arm. ‘You have your cuttings.'

‘But they're facts. Things actually happening.'

Nathan shrugged and started eating his egg noodles. ‘These are people's opinions. I suppose he thinks people are more honest in the privacy of a cubicle.'

For the first time, Joseph Tabrar showed some interest in proceedings. ‘There are limits to what people can say, and think.'

His wife Ellen looked strangely at him. ‘Like what?'

‘C'mon, look around, this country bans more books than any other.'

Nathan offered Lilli's
Lady Chatterly's Lover
as an example. Ellen looked at Joseph, convinced he was only skirting around bigger issues. ‘What else?'

Joseph smiled and shook his head disbelievingly. ‘Your friend Phil,' he said to Nathan, ‘is a rare sort, stick with him.'

Ellen still wasn't happy, but guessed it was best left until later. William, comfortable in his spot at the head of the table, wasn't so coy. ‘Joseph, you mean things happening here?'

‘Where?'

‘Here, around this table?'

‘William, if everyone at this table could say exactly what they thought . . .'

William pursued him like a dog. ‘What are your concerns then?'

‘I'm concerned that you're full of . . . you're telling lies.'

‘What lies?'

‘God throwing people into burning pits? What about the children? What about the millions who've never heard of God?'

William stood up, leaning over the table. ‘That's why we call for missionaries.'

‘I'm concerned that you're brainwashing my children.' Looking at Seymour but stopping short.

William opened his arms graciously. ‘Take your children then, I won't force anyone to do anything.'

Ellen looked at her husband and shook her head. ‘Have you finished?'

Joseph lowered his head. William sat down. Silence. He pointed his finger at Joseph. ‘Don't be afraid to say it . . . if you don't agree with me.'

Joseph stood up and walked off. Ellen stood to follow him but Mary cleared her throat. She sat down and William whispered, ‘I won't have people say I'm a bully. I'd rather one person who believes me . . .' Looking after Joseph.

In the silence that followed everyone was waiting for someone else to leave. Nathan kept his eyes down, feeling like he was already copying out Hebrews. Bluma was a lemon tree, sending out roots at the base of a giant, stone wall, seeking shelter from the wind but unable to grow in the absence of sun. Joshua said, ‘We're with you, William . . .' starting a chain of joined hands. Seymour didn't know what to say. ‘Joseph's a good Christian.' Later pleading with William to forget today's business, if only for Ellen. Like most, he explained, Joseph was uncomfortable trusting in the prophecies of the Bible.

William led them in prayer and then said, ‘My play is finished, if anyone is interested.' Outlining the story and asking the children to stay with him to workshop ideas.

Arthur led the others through a tour of his garden. Standard and spray carnations formed a sea of colour around an experimental hydroponic set-up. Arthur showed them how he dissolved nutrients in a tank of water which fed into pipes watering individual pots. Mary was surprised to find the plants growing in sawdust and crushed quartz, although Arthur insisted Tanunda topsoil was as good as anything. ‘Growing chrysanthemums this way, we could supply the valley for Mother's Day,' he smiled. ‘And beyond that . . .'

The adults arrived back in William's yard to find the banner raised, Joshua's two youngest fighting the breeze to keep it aloft. Arthur's ark was moved and quickly filled by an audience hushed in anticipation.

William stepped forward and read from his script. ‘“Play for the Apocalypse, a children's drama in progress. Blessed is he who hears these words and keeps those things which are spoken, for the time is at hand . . .”'

Sarah Heinz and Vicky Hicks took the stage, a dead square of grass between William's myrtle and Bluma's vegetables. ‘The scene is a department store,' he continued. ‘Sarah and Victoria are at the sales.'

‘These shoes are a steal,' Sarah began. ‘I'll look six inches taller.'

David Hicks approached and helped her try on the imaginary shoes. ‘I can give you these cheaper than sale price, if that's what you want.'

Arthur's ark sparked with fits of laughter. ‘C'mon, Sarah,' Catherine called, ‘you can always give them to your mother.'

‘There was more to this salesman than meets the eye,' William said. David looked at the audience and smiled like a pantomime villain, greeted with boos and hisses and a pickled onion thrown by his younger brother.

‘These will do just fine,' Sarah continued. ‘Can I have an account?'

William continued with a not-so-subtle description of the accounts we all keep, and how they'd have to be settled with the big finance manager in the sky. ‘In the end it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle . . .'

The girls passed through a succession of departments: white-goods and cosmetics, jewellery and women's fashions, receiving discounts from other salesmen (played by Joshua's sons), stumbling around with arms full of imaginary parcels, stopping for coffee, complaining about their husbands and laughing at those less fortunate, relegated to the Woolies basement. Finally they sat down for a rest, taking off their shoes and rubbing their feet. Nathan walked towards them, picking up imaginary cans from the ground and smoking someone's leftover butts. ‘Spare a penny?' he asked, grinning and doing his best Quasimodo.

‘The beggar who appeared before them was also not what he seemed,' William read. ‘His smell repulsed them. His manner sickened them.'

‘A penny?' Nathan repeated.

‘Go away, you repulsive creature,' Sarah began, turning up her nose and looking away. Vicky felt in her pocket and found a penny, giving it to him. ‘There.'

Sarah frowned. ‘I can't believe you gave him that.'

‘It'll do him more good than me,' Victoria replied.

William's narration went on to explain how the beggar then gave them some advice. How all the wars of their time were signs, how Luke had predicted nation would rise against nation, kingdom against kingdom. How earthquakes and famines and floods had also been predicted. How the only way to escape the terror of their times was to give up worldly things and surrender to Christ. ‘Which of you will throw away your parcels?' Nathan asked.

Sarah looked at Vicky. ‘He's simple.' She stood to gather her parcels. ‘Coming?'

But Vicky looked to Nathan. ‘I'll walk beside you . . .' And leaving her parcels behind, exited stage left with him.

Sarah shook her head and strutted off in the opposite direction.

‘And so Christ saved another soul,' William read, beaming. ‘At the End of Days no one shall stand before the pearly gates with his account unsettled. Christ is the greatest book-keeper of them all.' And that was the end of Part One, William explained, stepping up to take a bow with the children. Bruno Hermann, watching from his kitchen window, shook his head and said, ‘Next he'll be building a church.'

Nathan excused himself early. William, feeling more than ever in charge, threw a few mulga logs on the fire and asked where he was going.

‘Walking.'

‘We haven't finished here.'

William was aware that small stirrings could cause an avalanche; he was interested to see if he could keep the momentum going. ‘I was going to ask if anyone wanted to stay on . . . we've more than enough.'

Seymour bit his finger nails and looked over to Mary. She smiled at William. ‘We should get the children home,' passing the ball to Catherine Heinz. ‘Yes, it's too cold to have them out late.'

And William, looking back at Nathan. ‘Go on then.'

Curt. Nathan feeling the need to explain himself. ‘Mr Drummond said he'd like some . . . yeast.'

No reply.

Standing, disappearing up the side of the house. Passing Joseph and Ellen sitting on the front porch, under galvanised iron rusted through, patchwork sun settling on their hair and face. ‘See y' Joe, Ellen,' Nathan mumbled, jumping his great-grandfather's picket-less side fence and heading up Langmeil Road.

Nathan could smell chimneys smoking – burning eucalyptus and melaleuca, ti-tree and old shingles salvaged from deserted cottages. He floated in a snowdome past rusted mangles and crankshafts displayed on the porches of ironstone cottages with sage and rosemary in pots. Quaint, he thought. But if that's what people wanted. Like the Davy Clarke Singers, always choosing the pretend over the real.

Back on William's porch, Joseph sat with his hands in his lap. Ellen was turned into him, holding his hands and looking into his eyes, lost on the High Eden Ridge – on hills of green velvet pulled tight, clumps of gum trees where their parents' parents hadn't reached with sharpened axes. Ellen looked at the whiskers growing out of her husband's nose and said, ‘Joseph, what do you want?'

He turned to her and replied, ‘I want you to listen.'

‘I do.'

‘Me first, mother second.'

‘Joseph, if we accept their help – ' ‘Charity.'

‘No. If we accept their help we can't say, Oh good, you'll babysit, but you'll have to let them stay up, no baths, no smacking Chas if he pees in the hallway.'

She smiled. Joseph leaned forward. ‘How much longer?'

She shrugged. ‘When we've saved enough.'

‘How much do we need?'

He knew she thought it was his fault. Low-skilled worker. They'd warned her; and when she'd shared this with him he'd said, ‘And yet, if I was a chicken boner, a
Lutheran
chicken boner . . .'