It was dark but not dark. We were in a near dark that was gradually being illuminated.
We looked at each other, taking in what it meant to bare our bodies. Were we also risking baring our souls? Did Chris believe in the existence of souls, in life after death? I had never asked but I thought not. Didn’t I, deep down, still believe that much at least?
‘I feel light,’ I said. ‘Freed from gravity’s pull.’
‘I said you looked fabulous,’ said Chris. ‘And you do. With clothes, or without.’
And I felt I did.
We were too far away from each other, isolated in our own fragile, naked spaces. I raised my arms, reached out towards Chris, pulled him in close to me.
‘You’re a vision,’ said Chris, burying his head in the ready-made space between my neck and shoulder.
I slid my hands down his back and gradually we sank onto his bed, embracing skin to skin, check to check, hip to hip, lips to lips.
Pinhead.
Geek.
Irish.
Greek.
Catholic.
Atheist.
‘Like Daphnis and Chloe at the beginning,’ Chris said, his voice muffled in my ear.
‘Like Adam and Eve before the apple,’ I said.
I felt Chris move his head slightly back to focus on me. ‘Adam and Eve never went as far as this, not while they were in the Garden of Eden.’
‘How would you know? Were you there with them?’
‘No,’ he chuckled, ‘but I’m in Paradise with you.’
‘Me too,’ I said. ‘Me too.’
And, once again, time momentarily took a rest.
How did I get here, to this point?
A good, Catholic girl like me.
Suddenly materialising from nowhere my childhood game-ambition to become a priest returned and rested its head gently, but firmly, on my other shoulder.
God’s finger appeared, reaching out to mine, trying to close the gap.
Part Four: The Mysteries of Light
Acronyms
It was in the paper the next morning. The headline ran:
SCUFFLE AT RESTAURANT
Underneath, the story read:
Police were called last night to the classy South
Bank Restaurant, located in the partially restored
former Memorial Chambers. Protestors attempted
to prevent patrons from entering the restaurant,
claiming that they would be violating Maori tapu.
Builders engaged in ongoing renovations to the
building, intended for restaurant expansion,
yesterday uncovered bones from an ancient Maori
burial site. The restaurant owners, protestors say,
need to close down their business until
investigation of the site has been completed and
appropriate tapu-lifting ceremonies have been
performed. Diners and protestors exchanged
blows after a placard was levelled at one of the
diners. The police were called to intervene but no
arrests were made. Diners were allowed in soon
afterwards.
‘What a load of bull!’ I exclaimed.
‘What is?’ asked Dad.
‘What they’ve written here. It didn’t happen like that. He was attacked by one of the people wanting to scoff a meal. It’s all lies.’
I passed the paper to Dad.
‘That’s the news for you,’ said Dad after he’d
skimmed the article, with Mum looking over his shoulder. ‘Preferring sensation to truth. Thus has it always been.’
‘At least they put the protestors’ view,’ said Mum. ‘Is this where you went?’
‘Where I’d planned to go,’ I said. ‘Until we found out what was going on. We ate our usual pizza instead.’
‘You were very late then,’ said Mum.
‘Were you listening out for me?’ I said, annoyed, feeling as if I was suddenly in the spotlight again.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t sleep, that’s all.’
‘If you must know, we went back to Chris’s place for a while,’ I said. ‘Seemed a pity to come home early when we’d planned on a late night anyway.’
Mum looked at me but she made no comment.
Dad, who may or may not have been paying attention to us, said, ‘I wonder if this will come up at tonight’s BDFA meeting?’
‘What’s BDFA?’ I asked, not terribly interested in knowing but preferring to steer the conversation away from Chris and me.
‘Better Deal For All,’ said Dad. ‘It’s a Church social justice action group I belong to. Thought you knew that?’
‘I knew you’d joined something’ I said. ‘I just don’t think I’ve heard you call it that before. Why would they care about the South Bank affair?’
‘Well, it’s a justice issue,’ said Dad. ‘And it has a spiritual dimension.’
‘I guess.’
I used to have a spiritual dimension once.
‘If you’re feeling outraged by what happened, come along,’ said Dad. ‘Get involved.’
‘Dad,’ I said. ‘You know I’ve finished with church things.’
‘It’s on the fringes,’ said Dad. ‘I don’t think anyone will try to win you back. Not unless you want to be won back.’
‘Well, maybe I will,’ I said, a spur of the moment inspiration. ‘The whole thing made Chris angry too. I’ll ask if he wants to come.’
‘The more the merrier,’ said Dad.
‘If he’s interested, ask him to join us for a meal tonight,’ said Mum. ‘Then the three of you can all go off together.’
‘Why not you Mum? You would have been champing at the bit once.’
‘Conflict of interests I’m afraid. Tonight the WKTP group is meeting as well.’
‘The what?’
‘Women Knowing Their Place.’
‘Oh, right. I should have guessed that one.’ What was it with all the acronyms suddenly, I wondered.
‘They’re meeting here as it happens,’ said Mum. ‘It’s not often you get such a good choice of protest options. You could come to that instead. I think I’ve convinced Kristy MacGowan.’
‘Have you?’ said Dad.
‘Yes, she’s been thinking about it since we talked,’ said Mum. ‘It’ll be good to have someone my age attending.’
‘I’ll stick with Dad’s BDFA,’ I said.
‘Meeting’s at seven thirty,’ said Dad.
‘I was wearing my Maori pendant and I hid it,’ I suddenly remembered. ‘In case the angry thug man saw it. He might have taken a swing at me instead. The South Bank thing isn’t just about justice and spirituality is it? It’s a race relations thing too.’
‘Nothing’s ever simple and one dimensional,’ said Dad. ‘Not when you start to look deeply into it.’
BDFA
I gave Chris a call and explained about the meeting.
‘It’s tonight, ‘I said. ‘Want to come?’
‘I’d rather just be with you,’ he said.
‘I’d rather spend more time together alone too,’ I said, ‘but abstinence makes the heart grow fonder. And this is important, right? You said so yourself.’
‘I did.’
‘Mum’ll cook for us,’ I said.
‘Bribery and corruption,’ said Chris. ‘OK, I’ll be there.’
After we’d eaten, we set off to the meeting. The women in Mum’s group, including Kristy who looked uncertain but determined, started to arrive just as we were leaving.
I was surprised at how respectable, how matronly, they all appeared on the outside. According to Mum, who hadn’t been able to stop herself giving Chris a little lecture about Women Knowing Their Place, they’d set themselves up against the Catholic Church by asking for a greater share in its power structure. Not only that, they’d made the suggestion that women, if called by God, should be allowed to enter the priesthood.
Rebel women, all of them.
I was very tempted to stay behind and listen to what they had to say. I couldn’t help wondering if any of them had ever played at being priests? And if any of them, despite their average age of sixty-something, still desired to play that game for real.
But it was too late. I’d picked my acronym for
the night. And my present desire was beside me on the back seat of our car. It was a serious business but it was fun as well. Chris already seemed part of the family.
‘I thought you said this wasn’t religious,’ he hissed at me as we arrived at the church where the meeting was being held.
‘It’s not,’ Dad said, overhearing.
He and Mum knew enough about Chris’s aversion to things religious, not that it had stopped Mum spouting off earlier in the evening.
‘The BDFA’s nominally Catholic but in reality it’s also interdenominational and non-sectarian.’
‘Don’t be so pompous Dad,’ I interjected.
Unperturbed, he continued. ‘The parish priest of the church where Andrea’s Mum and I go to these days just happens to be the chair of the local committee. That’s why we meet here.’
‘But actually in a church,’ said Chris.
‘It doubles as a hall,’ Dad explained. ‘It doesn’t look or feel like a church if that helps. The sanctuary is screened off by folding doors. You won’t see anything church-like.’
‘Is that OK?’ I asked.
‘Guess it’ll have to be,’ he said.
I was surprised at how many people turned up. The smallish church/hall was almost full by the time we arrived. There was a certain look, a sameness, to the people there. It felt like a throwback to earlier times, to turning points like the Springbok Tour.
Many people wore jerseys, just as the protestor of the night before had been wearing, and old-fashioned cords. Lots of the men had beards. Dad, I realised, was one of them. The women all looked
resilient, strong-armed, but not a lot younger than the WKTP lot. Surprising really, since there was a lot of active, physical stuff involved in protesting, as we’d witnessed last night. There were some younger people, too, our age, sitting at the back, looking at us as if we were gatecrashers at an exclusive party. I guess we were the newbees.
‘There’re some seats at the front,’ said Dad. ‘Unless you’d rather not sit with me.’
‘No, it’s cool, ‘I said. ‘OK?’ I checked with Chris.
‘Fine.’
Chris and I sat beside each other and held hands. If Dad noticed he didn’t let on.
A few people were huddled at a small table at the front. A couple of the men looked vaguely familiar but I didn’t recognize them until they raised their heads, ready to begin the meeting. They were both priests.
One was Father Brown, the missionary priest who had conducted Gran’s funeral. He wore his dog-collar, but the other one didn’t. I didn’t know the other’s name but I had definitely seen him before as well and much more recently than Father Brown. He was the man who had talked to Chris and me at the South Bank, the protestor who had been almost knocked over by the big thug. A protesting priest.
Actions
‘He’s the one!’ I whispered to Dad.
‘What?’
‘The one who was at the South Bank. The one who the paper said hit out with his placard.’
‘Father Mike?’ Dad raised his eyebrows.
But Father Mike was ready to start. ‘Thanks
everyone for turning up tonight,’ he said. ‘First up, apologies from me for a change in the agenda. I have a confession to make about what I’ve been up to.’
A ripple of laughter ran round the room.
Chris and I smiled sideways at one other. We weren’t about to confess what we’d been up to.
‘Some of you may have read about the incident at the South Bank restaurant last night.’
A murmur indicated that many people had read about it.
‘Well, I was there,’ said Father Mike. ‘Not,’ he added quickly, ‘as a patron of the restaurant but as one of the people protesting outside. My involvement wasn’t planned, obviously, just a spontaneous reaction to the unbelievable arrogance of the restaurant management who refused to shut down for a couple of days. Well, nothing has changed yet as a result of that protest so I want to put it to the meeting tonight that BDFA aligns itself with local Maori, as
well as the various interest groups, to continue protesting until change is effected and the people who have a right to be heard are listened to.’
Our spontaneous reaction hadn’t been planned, either. Or had we been planning it for a long time without admitting it?
‘Hear hear.’
‘Thanks for that,’ said Father Mike. ‘I see there’re some new faces here tonight.’ He included me and Chris in his sweep of the room so I made an effort to pay attention. ‘For their benefit I’ll just sketch in the background to what this is all about.’
Most we knew already. We also learnt that the owners of the South Bank had wanted the information about the bone-find kept quiet. If it hadn’t been for the fact that one of the builders was Maori himself,
chances were that far fewer people would have known the bones were there. But this guy had kicked up a stink when he had uncovered the South Bank’s plan and he’d quickly got onto his people.
‘What is the Council doing about it?’ someone asked.
‘Being cooperative,’ said Father Mike, ‘but not to the extent we’d like.’
Another voice. Dad’s. ‘So what are the issues Mike?’
Trust Dad to ask a question like that. A question that needed a long reply. Squeezing Chris’s hand, I drifted off into a happy and still hard to believe recollection of last night, Father Mike’s words sounding more and more like waves breaking on a distant beach.
‘We’ve asked that the restaurant shuts down and all rebuilding stops until it gets sorted out. It’s true that the area we’re talking about is in an adjacent part of the Memorial Chambers so technically the restaurant isn’t in the way but because the renovations are going to benefit the South Bank by allowing it to expand and because the burial site may extend beyond the confines of where the alterations are happening, we’ve suggested that all operations cease until a thorough investigation takes place. The South Bank doesn’t want that to happen, not unless they’re compensated every step of the way and the Council planners are scared that long delays are going to cost them big money. The Council actually owns the Chambers you see. I think, and the BDFA committee agrees, that we should lend our support. I now want to put that formally to the meeting.’
Most of the people in the room seemed to think it was important to support some kind of action.
‘What exactly are you saying our group should do?’ asked one woman. ‘The same as last night?’
Absolutely, I thought to myself.
‘This may sound a bit naff,’ Mike said, ‘but I wondered about the BDFA holding a candle vigil outside the South Bank. Just a silent, peaceful protest with some clear information - maybe a flier - to give out to people who are going in to eat, saying why we’re there and what this means to Maori. May be even more effective than what the other groups have done. What do you think?’
Once again the members of the BDFA agreed. Father Mike clearly carried a lot of clout.
‘Can’t hurt to try,’ said a voice. I realised it was Dad’s again.
‘Right,’ said Mike. ‘I’ll organise the candles.’ More laughter. He went on. ‘Can I have some volunteers to record the names of those who are going to be available over the next week and on what days and a few more to ring round confirming a date when we can get the most people there.’
People stirred, got up off the hard wooden chairs and formed a queue in front of the desk at which someone had already started to write down names.
‘What d’you think?’ I asked Chris. ‘Shall we put our names down for the candle vigil. I’d like to.’
‘I’m game.’ he said. ‘As long as we don’t
sing any hymns.’
‘Father Mike said silent,’ I reminded him. ‘And,’ I whispered to him, ‘next time candles for us might be a nice idea as well.’
Candles
It was a really special evening. I was so pleased we had joined the protest. I was doing something
worthwhile. Our relationship aside, I hadn’t felt so energised for ages. And, what was more, this was another thing Chris and I were doing together.
We huddled on the cold steps of the South Bank, exhaling frosty breaths at regular intervals, holding candles in gloved hands, lighting the way for the restaurant diners as they climbed the steps.
Father Mike was there of course, and Dad. Mum had joined us, too.
None of us said much, we mostly kept the silent vigil as agreed, passing out leaflets which most people accepted. Some read our statement, a few even turned around and went somewhere else to eat that night.
The candlelight reminded me of Gran’s funeral. After an hour or so I fell into a contemplative mood and my mind drifted off. I thought about the history I’d learnt at school over the years. About the ways in which mistakes kept on being repeated, how the new ones papered over the old, how civilisations vanished as they were overrun by invaders or overtaken by events, how human structures fell and got built over, about the way in which time spiralled, curving inwards and outwards, forwards and backwards seemingly forever, into eternity; and the cold hard fact that there were endings as well as beginnings.
Gran felt very close that night. Was it just my imagination or was she actually there? I couldn’t help but hope it was Gran, out among the wintry stars. Her notion of turning points seemed particularly meaningful then, as was her comment that people’s lives needed colour. Mine had developed a lot more of that as the year had gone on. There had been several turning points and more to come.
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