by Tess Evans
But no matter what happened on a Saturday, Hal treasured his Sunday mornings when he helped Godown prepare for the service before settling down to listen, rapt, while the pastor read from scripture and preached his sermons. Sometimes when they came home, Hal prevailed upon Godown to sing some more, and was transported as the great voice overflowed into the quiet Sunday streets.
Godown’s sermons were things of beauty, but his theology was simple. We are children of God. We must obey His word. We can know His word only through the Bible. The Bible tells us to love God, to pray, to keep the Sabbath holy and to love one another. This was the teaching that Hal listened to each week until it pulsed through his blood with every heartbeat. If he did as God commanded, he would earn sufficient grace to enter the Kingdom, where, he had no doubt now, Paulina would greet him with that secret smile.
Hal’s heart was brimming with gratitude and he decided to give Godown a gift. It had to be a worthy gift, he told Mrs Mac. An appropriate gift.
‘A Bible?’
‘His father gave him his Bible when he joined the army.’
‘Candlesticks? A crucifix?’ Mrs Mac racked her brain. What would a Protestant pastor need? ‘I know! What about a stole? He wears a stole when he preaches. He showed it to me.’ Her nose crinkled. ‘Very old and tatty.’
Hal kissed her cheek. ‘You’re a genius!’
Never one to do things by halves, Hal went to a church supply shop and ordered a whole set of stoles to be hand embroidered by the Carmelite nuns. He chose green for hope, violet for penance, black for mourning, white for innocence and red for the fire of the Holy Spirit. Red also symbolised the blood of martyrs, but Hal ignored this. Fiery red was the perfect symbol for the Church of the Divine Conflagration.
He presented his gift one Sunday at Fellowship. Godown was greatly moved and his voice was husky as he thanked Hal for ‘his kind and generous gift that will heighten our worship’.
Beryl and Ada grudgingly admired the nuns’ handiwork while Spiros, Jockey and Bert, after a perfunctory look, tucked into the passionfruit cream sponge. Chloe picked up the black stole and Ariadne the violet. Their eyes met but they said nothing.
Black for mourning. Violet for penance. Both would be required in abundance.
7
DESPITE HIS MANY NORMAL ACTIVITIES, Hal’s state of mind was far from normal. Godown’s presence seemed to keep the Voice at bay, but Hal took to the new religion with a wide-eyed enthusiasm that lead to more incidents, mortifying his children and disturbing his friends.
Sealie’s ninth birthday, for instance. Hal planned a party in the Gardens. ‘You can invite all your friends,’ he said. ‘The more the merrier.’ He looked at Mrs Mac. She only came up to his chest and weighed little more than a feather, but she could be firm when she wanted to be.
‘I can organise food for eight children plus the family. That’s it.’
Hal submitted meekly enough. ‘You’re the cook,’ he said.
The day was fine, and as the children arrived, Hal assured their parents that there was plenty of adult supervision.
‘We’ll see you in a couple of hours,’ he said. He was in top form and gave each of them a cheery wave as they left.
Zav loitered at a distance, not wanting to be seen anywhere near a kid’s party.
‘Now,’ said Hal, when they were all gathered, ‘I have a little surprise.’ Zav winced and moved further away to stare at the city skyline.
‘Mrs Mac has prepared a lovely party for you all. You’re so lucky to have lots of food and a nice bed to go home to every night.’ Mrs Mac stole a sideways glance at Godown who shook his head. He had no idea where all this was leading.
‘So,’ Hal beamed, ‘I’ve asked some people who don’t have a home to share the party with us. Do unto others, the Lord said. That means share,’ he explained to the uncomprehending little faces.
Shabby men and women appeared from among the trees and began to converge on the table as Mrs Mac, Godown and Zav looked on in horror.
‘Will there be enough cake?’ Patty Simpson had done a quick estimation and things didn’t look too good.
Anne-Marie gave a little squeal. ‘My mum won’t let me talk to strangers,’ she said, thus inciting the small guests to flee the table and huddle around Mrs Mac who seemed to be the safest person to run to. Sealie cried in Godown’s arms, her lovely party ruined. The vagrants eyed the food.
‘The little girl seems a bit upset,’ one observed. ‘Don’t cry, love. We won’t hurt you.’
A dismayed Hal looked helplessly at Godown. He had tried to give Sealie the gift of giving, but something had gone wrong.
Godown released the birthday girl, giving her a reassuring hug. ‘You wait here,’ he said. ‘Hal—’ His voice sharpened. ‘Give me five pounds.’
Hal fished out his wallet and did as he was told.
‘I’m taking these people for a feed of fish ’n’ chips at Greasy Joe’s.’ Hal stared blankly. ‘Do you hear me, Hal? I’ll feed these people and you go on with the party.’
‘Thank you,’ Mrs Mac mouthed. Godown was such an admirable man. Smart too. She was embarrassed to think of how she had once resented his joining the family.
Seven of the eight parents complained. Hal took against them all. Sealie was lucky that Cassie’s parents were a bit more compassionate, although they did reiterate the message about strangers.
After the party, Hal again fell into a depression. He had failed his little girl. He was worthless as a father. He sat at his study window, bearing the magnolia’s reproach. ‘I’m so sorry, Paulina. I meant well.’
Sealie took a long time to forgive him. Her friends all laughed for days about her crazy father.
‘He’s not crazy, is he?’ she asked.
‘Crazy as a coot,’ Zav said glumly.
Mrs Mac and Godown remained loyal.
‘He’s not crazy,’ Godown told her. ‘He’s just kinder than most folk.’
‘A kind, kind man,’ Mrs Mac confirmed.
It was only then that Sealie forgave her father and took her old place on his knee.
Hal’s manic episodes were managed by the family and a few close friends. His depressions were seen as understandable. ‘He’s having a bad spell,’ they’d say and try to devise methods for cheering him up. But while on the surface he just appeared quieter than usual, inside he was howling with despair. At those times he was truly in a desert, a cold, arid place where an icy wind blew and no-one but Sealie could reach him.
As she grew older, and was too big to climb onto his knee, she just sat with him and held his hand. Because she wasn’t trying to cheer him up, because she never spoke, she provided a small, quiet place within the roaring of the winds that raked his consciousness.
When her father wandered that bleak terrain, Sealie needed to feel that she wasn’t alone. Mrs Mac was always there to offer comfort, but kind as she was, she had no solution. ‘He’s just in one of his moods,’ she’d say. ‘He’ll be his old self in no time.’ So Sealie turned to Godown because she understood that he could influence Hal in a way none of the rest of them could. They never talked about the issue, but from the time of her birthday party, she felt that Godown was able to control Hal’s more manic behaviour. His depressions required watchfulness, rather than control, and eventually Sealie understood that Godown always watched out for his friend.
When she was in grade six, Cassie’s mother rang Hal to ask if she could take his daughter away for a few days in the coming school holidays.
‘A trip around Gippsland,’ she said. ‘Walhalla, Buchan Caves, Ninety Mile Beach. We’ll take them out on my brother’s boat at Lakes Entrance.’
‘Sounds terrific.’ Hal was pleased for Sealie. ‘Just the thing,’ he told Mrs Mac. ‘Better see what she needs to take.’
Each night, Sealie came home with new information. ‘Walhalla is a ghost town,’ she informed them. ‘Cassie and I are going to learn how to steer the boat. Mrs Pearce says I can bring a game for quiet time
.’
‘Quiet time,’ Hal chuckled. ‘You and Cassie? Can’t imagine that!’
Then, two days before she was due to leave, Hal became quiet himself. She was dismayed when her news about panning for gold was met with an absent smile, ‘Gold. Yes.’
As usual, Hal operated reasonably well at one level. He went to the office, subdued but competent enough. After work, he greeted the family briefly and headed for his study. Godown exchanged a glance with Mrs Mac as Sealie followed her father and closed the door.
The next morning she came down to breakfast in her pyjamas. ‘I don’t feel very well this morning,’ she told Mrs Mac, who was rinsing the men’s breakfast dishes. ‘I think I should stay home.’
Drying her hands, Mrs Mac felt Sealie’s forehead. ‘You don’t seem to have a fever,’ she said. ‘What’s wrong? A tummy bug? A headache?’
‘A headache,’ Sealie decided. ‘And it hurts to swallow.’
‘You’re going away tomorrow. Perhaps you’d better stay home and see if you can shake it off.’
But Mrs Mac wasn’t convinced. When Godown came home from work, she met him at the door. ‘Sealie didn’t go to school today,’ she whispered. ‘Said she’s sick, but I’m not sure. It’s so unlike her . . .’
‘Hal home yet?’
‘No. You don’t think . . .?’
‘Yes I do. That poor little girl thinks she has to be with her daddy.’
Godown knocked on Sealie’s door and went in to find her reading in the chair by the window. ‘Not too well today?’
Sealie affected a raspy throat. ‘Might have to miss the holiday,’ she said, refusing to meet his eye.
‘That’s too bad. I was going to tell you I’d keep an eye on your daddy while you’re gone. But if you don’t need me . . .’
‘I might feel better in the morning.’
‘You very well might.’
8
AS MY FATHER NEGOTIATED THE perilous footbridge between childhood and manhood, a new face began to emerge from the rounded boy-features. His jaw lengthened, and sharp cheekbones and a slightly aquiline nose arranged themselves in uncompromising angles and planes. He was tall, vigorous and fit, but for those who cared to notice, his eyes would sometimes betray the twelve-year-old child who had wept in the cupboard under the stairs.
Not many people did notice. Godown did, but Zav resisted his efforts to help. Mrs Mac did, but then she had all but been his mother since Paulina died. To his friends, he was a leader— to girls, a charming and loyal daredevil.
And what of Sealie? She who once knew him best? Well Sealie was busy growing up herself and the age difference meant that she had become something of a nuisance.
‘Why can’t I come with you and Lisa (or Natalie or Belinda)?’ she’d whine. ‘Mrs Mac, (Dad,) Zav’s being mean.’
Mrs Mac would give her short shrift but Hal would try to explain. ‘Zav is much older than you are. He has to be able to see his friends without his little sister tagging along. Tell you what. This afternoon we’ll go to the museum (or the cinema or to buy a milkshake).’
‘No,’ she’d pout. ‘I want to go with Zav.’ And Hal would promise her an outing on Zav’s behalf.
Zav found this insufferable and refused to cooperate. ‘She’s got plenty of friends of her own. I don’t ask to go out with them.’
Hal would sigh then, and shake his head. ‘Very disappointing, Zav. That’s all I can say.’
Zav had been a boy of bruises and scabby knees. He had a scar where he split his chin in a fall from his bike and among a pile of junk in the round room he kept a signed plaster cast from when his arm was broken in a rollerskating accident. A twice-broken right collarbone left one shoulder slightly higher than the other and he’d once been concussed after diving into a roiling pack of under-twelve footballers. All these incidents may suggest that he was clumsy, but this was far from the truth. Rather, he was always pushing boundaries, trying to be the best, the fastest, the most daring.
It was this attitude that nearly cost him his life. When he was sixteen, he attended a school bush-camp in the mountains. Zav relished the thought of a new physical challenge. Not to mention a whole week without books.
Camp activities included orienteering, abseiling and white-water rafting. The last two particularly appealed to Zav. The adrenalin rush from swinging out into space or hurtling through the rapids had left him on a high that culminated in a solo attempt to climb the nearby escarpment known locally as Satan’s Slide.
Formal activities finished at three o’clock and while his mates kept watch, Zav prepared for his climb. Mozzie Morris looked up at the small cloud in the otherwise pristine blue sky then doubtfully at Zav. ‘My gran lives around here,’ he said. ‘Weather sets in pretty quick. Might be better to wait till morning.’
Squinting, hands on hips, Zav appraised the steep ascent.
‘Looking for an excuse to pike out, Rodriguez,’ Bill Packard sneered.
‘Go! Go! Go!’ the pack chanted. ‘Go! Go! Go!’
So Zav went.
He set out along a clearly marked track and made good time before stopping for a drink. He was round the corner from the camp site now and the path had become more difficult, with steep steps carved into the rock and places where he had to scramble up on his hands and knees. He reached a wide, flat outcrop that overlooked the valley and searched in vain for the continuation of the track. Shit. From now on he had to find his own way but he’d need to hurry if he was to make it back before rollcall.
By his reckoning, he wasn’t far from the top and he grinned as he imagined the teachers’ reaction when they saw the school flag and Packard’s underpants planted on the ultimate ridge. Replacing his water bottle, he set off along a narrow ledge that became suddenly steeper. He reached up and grabbed a tree-branch, testing its strength gingerly as he pulled himself across to a wider shelf of rock. It held firm and he stretched for a sturdy-looking shrub with more confidence. Holding it tightly, he found a foothold and began to pull himself up to the next outcrop. A small clod of earth hit his upturned face, but his other hand was working its way to a cleft in the rock.
Soil and stones rained on him as the shrub gave way. His feet scrambled to find a foothold but found only air. He was sliding now, hands clawing, at one with the crumbling face of the escarpment. He heard a scream that stretched thinner and thinner, and his eyes, filled with grit, had a brief glimpse of the sky before he was knocked unconscious by the rock that arrested his fall.
A currawong perched on the rock and looked at the prone body with bright eyes. Wandering beetles, scuttled over and around him. The mountain swallowed the sun and in a short time, the mountain itself was swallowed by the mist. By the time Zav regained consciousness, there was nothing to be seen but white.
Back at the camp, the boys were uneasy. There was no flag yet and a curtain of clouds obscured the rapidly falling sun. When the mist began to roll in, Mozzie made a decision.
‘He what?’ Tom Franklin, the physical education coordinator, stared at Mozzie in disbelief. ‘Where is he now?’
‘He hasn’t come back, sir,’ the boy replied.
By the time they were able to contact Zav’s family, the escarpment was shrouded in mist and the damp air was heavy with cold.
Meanwhile, Hal and Bob were speeding through the gathering night, Bob doing his best to comfort his distraught friend. ‘The SES are there. They’ve probably found him already.’
Hal ignored him, so Bob tried another tack. ‘Zav’s a sensible young bloke. He’ll find shelter.’ He glanced over at his friend. ‘What the—’
Hal was gabbling into the night. ‘Out of the depths I have cried unto thee, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice . . .’
‘What was that, Hal?’
‘Nothing. Nothing.’ Hal’s head sank into his hands. ‘Let thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplication . . .’
‘Hal! That’s the prayer for the dead! For God’s sake, man— pull yourself together.’
Hal shook a weary head. He did everything for God’s sake. And he was asking God for just one thing.
Zav knew better than to attempt a descent. He felt blood on the back of his head and a sharp pain in his side. He tried to move but the pain bit at him with a savagery that took his breath away. He knew that cold was his greatest enemy, so he pulled down his beanie and adjusted the hood of his parka. Checking his backpack, he found that he had an apple, a near whole block of chocolate, half a bottle of water and three cigarettes. He’d have to ration everything. There was no hope of rescue before morning. Propping himself against the rock, he draped himself in the flag for extra warmth and with grim resolution, wrapped his gloved hands in Bill Packard’s underpants.
The night rolled out a cold, black curtain. There was not one star to show where the earth finished and the sky began. Zav tried to stay awake so that he could keep his blood circulating. He rotated his feet and rubbed his arms and swore that if he came out of this alive, he’d never be so stupid again. To his horror, he found himself snivelling like the frightened child he was. What if he died here, on the mountain? He tried to picture himself dead but imagination failed him. Would his father mourn a dead Zav? There was some comfort in the thought of Hal weeping over the loss of his son. The boy saw Hal and Sealie planting another tree. It’s not enough. A tree is not enough. He didn’t want to be a tree, rooted in one place forever. He wanted to see the world, do things. His things. Like captaining the school football team. Playing for the Magpies. Taking Suzanne Downing to the school formal. Owning an MG. He began to cry again at the unfairness of it all.
Zav wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. What was happening down at the camp? If help was on its way, there’d be a light. His eyes strained to pierce the blackness and he felt himself choking on the viscous air. Was this what it was like to be buried in the ground? He returned to thoughts of death, but this time, it was not how other people might feel, nor the life he would miss out on, but the moment itself. Would there be pain? They said his mother felt no pain. But he would feel everything—the creeping cold, the hunger, the thirst. How long did it take to die of thirst? His tested his mouth and throat. They felt ominously dry, and panicking, he swigged at his water bottle, regretting it immediately.
