by Jim Haynes
He seemed to find this quite funny and was still chuckling as he asked me what the problem was with my car.
He soon became more interested in helping me get the exhaust system back on the Prefect. This was a process that required a fair amount of fencing wire in lieu of the clamps I’d somehow lost or broken. Nev Sheedy didn’t carry a stock of clamps for ten-year-old Ford Prefect exhaust systems.
I was surprised at the way Father Connolly was enthusiastic about things apart from religion. He could chat about cars and even horseracing. Our C of E minister never seemed to be interested in anything but religion and the church.
Father Connolly even dropped by Bindi Williams’ stables sometimes when I was there helping out and chatted to Bindi and Old Nugget about horseracing.
Nugget used to tell a story about Father Connolly and an old man who went to confession and said he was having an affair with a young woman.
When the priest gave him his penance, according to Nugget, the old bloke said he couldn’t say the ‘Hail Marys’ as he wasn’t a Catholic. When the priest asked why he was telling him about the affair in the confessional if he wasn’t Catholic, the old bloke replied, ‘Are you kidding? I’m eighty-two, I’m telling everyone!’
We all knew Nugget was lying, though he swore he ‘knew the old bloke that did it’.
I was surprised at Nugget’s obvious affection for Father Connolly. He had no time for what he called ‘sky pirates’ and ‘God botherers’ and was rather enthusiastically atheistic in his beliefs.
Nugget also had a soft spot for the ‘Salvos’. He used to say, ‘At least the Salvos come to the races to collect money. And they make a bit of music and seem to enjoy themselves in their own way.’
Nugget was always pleased to see Father Connolly and pass on a few tips and yarn away for hours without religion ever being mentioned.
‘He might be a rock-chopper but he isn’t a Bible-basher like the others,’ was Nugget’s succinct summation of our local priest.
That was an opinion generally held by most of our town’s non-Catholic population.
After all, we were a fairly respectful and tolerant mob in Weelabarabak. We were mostly C of E and Methodists, with a few pagans like Old Nugget thrown in for good measure, but we knew a decent sort of a bloke when we met one.
Everyone liked Father Connolly.
FIRST CONFESSION
FRANK DANIEL
I WAS IN SECOND class at school when Sister announced that we were now old enough to make our First Confession.
Confession?
It seemed that we would be able to ‘rid ourselves of all those sins that had tarnished our souls since our baptism, when we were cleansed of Original Sin’.
Original Sin?
One we didn’t even commit, evidently.
A bloke named Adam committed this first sin when he disobeyed Our Lord and took too much notice of his wife and ate of the forbidden fruit.
The forbidden fruit was an apple his wife had been talked into eating by a snake; ‘tempted’ was what Sister said.
Sister said the snake was the Devil.
I used to think that Adam must have been real scared of snakes. He should have kept a twisted wire hanging on his verandah for emergencies. He could have given the snake a couple of good whacks and broken its back a few times. It would have been dead by sundown. Dad always said they died at sundown. We were good snake-killers in our family.
Anyhow, in order to make our first confession we were evidently badly in need of tuition in the correct method of going about it.
Firstly, we had to learn the ‘Confiteor’, a prayer admitting that we were truly sorry for having done wrong, and that we would never do such things again—something like that!
I used to get the Confiteor and a couple of other prayers tangled up together and made a bit of a mess of it. Still, I reckoned that God would know what I was talking about.
Poor Sister had a few worrying weeks trying to convince our class that all of the things we did wrong during the first seven or eight years of our lives weren’t altogether bad sins.
There was such a thing as a venial sin, which was less offensive to God. Then there was that real whoppin’ bad one called a ‘mortal sin’, which was a grievous terrible thing and was most offensive to Our Lord.
Mortal sin must be got rid of as quick as a bloomin’ wink in case you died and went to ‘flamin’ Hell’, where you would burn forever and forever in a fire bigger than the one that burnt out Charlie Martin’s feed shed a couple of years before.
I heard me father say that it was hotter than flamin’ Hell.
My father ought to know, too. I remembered him saying that he went to Hell and back during the war.
My best mate, John Doyle, got in a bit of a fix worrying about ‘venerial sins’ and Sister had an embarrassed look on her face every time he mentioned it.
Nancy Collins wouldn’t admit to having any sins and declared that she would not have committed even the ‘simplest little fib’ in her whole entire life, but Sister said she must’ve.
‘Struth!’ I thought. If Nancy had sins on her soul, us poor silly boys would have to own up to a lot. Most of us used to work in the shearing sheds, taking time off from school for the occasion. Our fathers all said that working with ‘stupid mongrel sheep’ would make ‘any man swear and drive a bloke to drink’.
Cripes! What was I gonna do? I always used shearing time to practise my swearing so that I could get it right when I learned to shear.
‘Blimey,’ I thought, ‘do I have to tell all them swear words to the Priest in confession? Geez, I’m in for it!’
The day before the big event Sister gave us a final run-through on what we were to say when we went into the confessional.
‘Bless me Father, for I have sinned. This is my first confession. I have already said the Confiteor and these are my sins.’
‘Struth!’ I thought, ‘If we ain’t got it right by now, it ain’t ever gonna be right.’
From that point onwards it was up to us as individuals to admit to our own collection of sins, tell the number of times each sin was committed during our young life, and then ask for forgiveness.
To finally have your sins fully and completely forgiven, you had to pay a penalty. This was given to us by the Priest according to the severity of our sins.
It was generally felt by most of us boys that we shouldn’t tell him too much in case we dobbed ourselves in for things that he really didn’t care about. It wouldn’t do to tell him too much—we didn’t want the old fellow to think we were real bad eggs.
The penalty was known as ‘penance’. Sister said that we were not to tell each other what our penance was.
When we compared notes afterwards, however, it appeared that most of us copped the same fine. Like the rest of my mates, I managed to get away with ‘The Lord’s Prayer and three Hail Marys’.
It was obvious that we must have all been as sinful as each other.
So we all felt good about that—no one was in any real trouble at all.
Except for me!
You see, I hadn’t told him everything and I knew that God knew everything, and that He was everywhere. I knew that God would ‘get me’ as Mother always used to say. You couldn’t keep nothing from Him.
What could I do?
I agonised about it until Second Confession, a month later.
I had no plan at all, right up until the fateful day. Then, as we were waiting our turn, I was sitting nervously in church next to my best mate John Doyle, who was rehearsing his sins in a loud whisper—loud enough for me to hear him practising.
I listened very carefully.
‘Eating meat on Fridays—twenty-seven times; missing Mass on Sundays—fifty-two times; swearing—a hundred and twenty times; not saying my prayers—eighty-nine times; back-answering my parents—nineteen times; being lazy in class—seventeen times . . .’
Blimey! Was that a sin?
‘Teasing my little brother—nine tim
es; drinking Dad’s beer—five times . . .’
Bloody flamin’ Hell! Could you get forgiven for that!
My mate concluded his rehearsal for confession, ‘That is all I can remember, Father, and I am very sorry for my sins.’
I was a new man after hearing all that. No longer would I be afraid to tell my sins in confession. From now on I would let it all out. I would get rid of all those that I didn’t admit to and get forgiven for the first time around. I would be a sure candidate for Heaven if I should cark it on the way home from school.
My mate didn’t seem to be in there very long with his great long list of misdemeanours. Then it was my turn.
My patter went something like this, ‘Bless me Father for I have sinned. It is four weeks since my first confession and these are my sins: missing Mass on Sundays—ninety-seven times; eating meat on Fridays—fifty-two times; not saying my prayers . . .’
Here the priest erupted in a kind of suppressed fashion!
In an angry whisper he pointed out that it was impossible to miss Mass on Sundays ninety-seven times in four weeks, and furthermore he said that I should wake up to myself and come to my senses.
Then he dismissed me from the confessional without any penance.
I didn’t ask Doyley how he got on, but I had a sneaking suspicion he was evicted early for the same reason—stockpiling his sins.
We never went back to Confession again.
Doyley’s uncle died about that time and we discovered that if someone advised the priest of your impending death, he would administer the last rites to get rid of all your sins, whatever they may be, and you would still go to Heaven.
So, just as long as we kept an eye on each other’s health, we figured we’d be all right.
THE PARSON’S
BLACKBOY
ERNEST FAVENC
THE REV. JOSEPH SIMMONDSEN had been appointed by his bishop to a cure of souls in the Far North, in the days when Queensland was an ungodly and unsanctified place. Naturally, the Rev. J., who was young, green and zealous, saw a direct mission in front of him. His predecessor had never gone twenty miles outside the little seaport that formed the commercial outlet of the district; but this did not suit Joseph’s eager temperament. Once he felt his footing and gained a little experience, he determined on a lengthened tour that should embrace the uttermost limits of his fold.
Now, although beset with the conceit and priggishness inseparable from the early stages of parsonhood, Simmondsen was not a bad fellow, and glimpses of his manly nature would at times peep out in spite of himself. This, without his knowledge, ensured him a decent welcome, and he got a good distance inland under most favourable auspices, for, the weather being fine, everybody was willing to lend him a horse or drive him on to the next station upon his route.
The Rev. Joseph began to think that the roughness of the back country had been much exaggerated.
In due course he arrived at a station which we will call Upton Downs; beyond it there were only a few newly taken-up runs. On Upton Downs they were busy mustering, and when the parson enquired about his way for the next day the manager looked rather puzzled.
‘You see,’ he said, ‘we are rather short-handed, and I can’t spare a man to send with you; at the same time the track from here to Gundewarra is not very plain, and I am afraid you might not be able to follow it. However, I will see what I can do.’
Mr Simmondsen was retiring to rest that night when a whispered conversation made itself audible in the next room. No words were distinguishable, but from the sounds of smothered laughter a good joke seemed to be in progress.
‘I think I can manage for you,’ said the superintendent at breakfast next morning. ‘When you leave here you will go to Gundewarra, twenty-five miles. From there it is thirty-five miles to Bilton’s Camp and ten onto Blue Grass. From Blue Grass you can come straight back here across the bush, about forty miles. I will lend you a blackboy who knows the country well and will see you round safely.’
The young clergyman thanked his host, and, after breakfast, prepared to leave. The blackboy, a good-looking little fellow arrayed in clean moles and twill shirt, was in attendance with a led pack horse, and the two departed.
For some miles the Reverend Joseph improved the occasion by a little pious talk to the boy, who spoke fairly good English, and showed a white set of teeth when he laughed, as he constantly did at everything the parson said. At midday they camped for an hour on the bank of a lagoon, in which Mr Simmondsen had a refreshing swim. In the evening they arrived at their destination, and received the usual welcome.
‘I see you adapt yourself to the customs of the country,’ said his host at mealtime, and a slight titter went round the table. The Reverend Joseph joined in, taking it for granted that his somewhat unclerical garb was alluded to. In reply to enquiries he was informed that Bilton’s Camp was a rough place, and Blue Grass even worse; and he was pleased to hear it, for up to now his path had been too pleasant altogether; he hadn’t had a chance to reprove anybody.
Bilton’s Camp proved to be indeed a rough place. The men were civil, however, and as the parson had had another exhilarating bath at the midday camp he appreciated the rude fare set before him, although here, as at the other place, there seemed to be a joke floating about that made everybody snigger.
The next day’s journey, to Blue Grass, was but a short stage, and as the reverend gentleman had by this time become very friendly with Charley, the blackboy, the two rode along chatting pleasantly until they came somewhat unexpectedly on the new camp.
A very greasy cook and two or three gins in dilapidated shirts were the only people at home, and they stood open-eyed to greet the stranger.
Although Mr Simmondsen had suited his attire to his surroundings, he still retained enough of the clerical garb to signify his profession. The cook, therefore, at once took in the situation, and invited the parson under the tarpaulin which did temporary duty as a hut.
He informed his visitor, at whom he looked rather curiously, that ‘everyone’ was away, camped out, and that no one would return for a couple of days; that he was alone, excepting for two men who were at work in a yard a short distance off, and who would be in to dinner; in fact, they came up while he was speaking. Mr Simmondsen took great interest in this, the first real ‘outside’ camp he had seen, and as the two bushmen had gone down to the creek for a wash, and the cook was busy preparing a meal, he called Charley to ask him a few questions.
‘What are these black women doing about the place, Charley?’
‘O! All about missus belongah whitefellow,’ was the astonishing reply.
It was some moments before Joseph could grasp the full sense of this communication; then he considered it his duty to read these sinners a severe lecture, and prepared one accordingly.
‘Do you not understand,’ he said, when the three men were together, ‘the trespass you are committing against both social and Divine laws? If you do not respect one, perhaps you will the other.’
The cook stared at the bushmen in blank amazement, and the bushmen at the cook.
‘I allude to these unfortunate and misled beings,’ said the parson, waving his hand towards the half-clad gins.
A roar of laughter was the reply. ‘Blessed if that doesn’t come well from you!’ said the cook, when he could speak. The others chuckled in acquiescence.
‘What do you mean?’ said the indignant Joseph; ‘I speak by right of my office.’
‘Sit down and have some tucker,’ said the cook. ‘You’re not a bad sort, I can see, but don’t come the blooming innercent.’
The indignant pastor refused. He saw that his words were treated lightly, that no one would listen to him, and he left in high dudgeon. Charley had told him that there was a good lagoon about twelve miles on the road back to Upton Downs; he would go on there and camp—they had plenty of provisions on the pack horse—and taking his bridle and calling the boy he went to catch his horse.
As he came back he overheard
the fag-end of a remark the cook was making to the others. ‘They came round the end of the scrub chatting as thick as thieves, and when I seed who it was—Lord! You could have wiped me out with one hand.’
This was worse than Greek to the Reverend. Greek he might have understood. In spite of a clumsy apology from the delinquent, he departed, and near sundown arrived at the lagoon Charley had spoken of. It was a lovely spot. One end was thick with broad-leaved water lilies, but there was a clear patch at the other end promising the swim the good parson enjoyed so much.
When the tent was pitched he stood in Nature’s garb about to enter the water, when Charley called to him. Pointing towards the lilies he told Mr Simmondsen that he would get him some seed pods which the blacks thought splendid eating.
The clergyman had only got up to his waist before he heard a plunge behind him and saw Charley’s dark form half-splashing, half-swimming towards the lilies. Presently his head emerged from a dive, and he beckoned towards the clergyman to come over and taste the Aboriginal luxury. The Reverend paddled lazily over and investigated. The seed pods proved of very pleasant flavour, and as the sun was nearly down, Mr Simmondsen wended his way to the bank and emerged in the shallow water, with Charley a few paces behind him.
For some reason he looked back.
Shocking predicament! There was no shirking the fact: all the quiet laughter about ‘the customs of the country’, the unexplained allusions, the ribald manner of the cook, were evident at a flash.
Charley was a woman!
The wicked superintendent of Upton Downs had started him on his travels with (‘after the customs of the country’) a black gin dressed in boy’s clothes as a valet, and that gin had evidently been recognised by everyone on the road. Mr Simmondsen thought of the past and blushed. That night was spent in fervent prayer.
‘My dear sir,’ said Davis, the super. of Upton Downs, ‘I did the best I could for you. Charlotte is as good as any blackboy and knows all the country round here. Now, own up, did not she look after you well?’
