Hill of Grace

by Stephen Orr

‘Oh, love, you should go to that new place in Nuri. Everything tested, scientifically. God knows what they use here. Looking at that, could be vinegar.’

  Bluma smiled. ‘I come home like this and what do you think William says?’

  ‘I could imagine.’

  ‘Said I looked like a monkey.’

  And with that Bluma lost it, dropping her head onto the table and spilling her chamomile everywhere; sitting up and trying to fix the mess. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No, leave it.’

  Bluma looked her in the eyes. ‘All he says is, get your money back.’

  Mary pulled her chair over and put her arm around Bluma.

  ‘That sounds like William.’

  ‘Fair enough, her chemicals were weak, but it was the way he said it.’

  ‘I know.’

  Bluma started to hiccup and Mary rubbed her arm. ‘Come on, forget it, they’re all the same. Don’t think before they say something. Seymour’s the same. Doesn’t like something you’re listening to on the radio, What yer listening to that for? Like you’re stupid or something. It’s not worth letting ’em get to you.’ She threw a tea-towel over the spilt tea and rocked gently. ‘The stories I could tell you about Seymour.’

  And then she heard noises, like furniture being dragged around the room. ‘You two alright?’

  No reply. She improvised stories about Seymour the uncaring husband, lest Bluma work out what was going on and broadcast it across the neighbourhood. ‘Every time I cook something new,’ she continued, urgently. ‘I had a paella? You had a paella? Rice with peas and so forth. I bought some spices. Saw it in the Weekly, give you a copy. Anyway, Seymour just sits there, what’s this …?’

  Joseph fell back on the bed. ‘D’ you think she’ll believe I was fixing the floorboards?’ Ellen took his hand and led him down onto the rug; she moved on top of him, feeling his belly full of hot tea and sandwiches.

  Bluma breathed deeply, unable to shake the hiccups. ‘I walk out the door. Not a word. Doesn’t so much as look up.’

  Mary didn’t know what to say. There were no more noises but they wouldn’t come out.

  Bluma looked at her. ‘What are they doing?’

  Mary bowed her head to think. ‘Looking over some plans.’

  Bluma smiled. ‘Oh …’

  ‘A new house.’

  ‘Where?’

  Mary stopped to think. ‘Haven’t decided.’

  ‘You won’t know yourselves.’

  ‘If … they do it.’ Trying to cover her tracks, although she realised it was too late. ‘If …’

  Bluma sat forward, reviving. ‘Joseph said something about Elizabeth. That’ll be the place to go.’

  Ellen lay on top of Joseph, motionless, listening to the women talking. ‘Do you know anything about house plans?’

  ‘Just some brochures. Perhaps she wants to get rid of us.’

  Bluma and Mary moved out into the garden as sun broke through the cloud. Rows of yellowing, unpruned roses stretched out along fence lines, dropping their last few red and white petals into a knee high sea of soursobs. ‘Black spot, aphids,’ Mary complained, as they walked, ‘but no one’s got the inclination during winter.’

  ‘You should see the new varieties,’ Bluma said, smelling what was left of the roses. ‘Apricot, two-in-ones – white, like Chantilly lace, with a deep red heart.’

  ‘Still smell the same.’

  ‘Apparently not …’ Bluma searching for words which would describe scent, clumsy words like peppery and woody, bitter and acrid.

  Mary looked through Ellen’s window and saw a bare shoulder; the curtain closed and a crucifix swung from the rod. ‘This is the worst time of year,’ she said.

  ‘It’ll soon be spring,’ Bluma replied.

  ‘And another year, and another, and then Seymour will be changing my nappy.’

  Bluma smiled. ‘Imagine William feeding me.’

  Ellen appeared from the back, smiling, hands dovetailed across her lap. ‘Hello, Bluma, how are you today?’

  ‘Thank you, dear.’ Without actually saying.

  ‘Could you turn the taters on,’ Mary asked her daughter, taking Bluma by the arm and leading her towards the camellias.

  ‘Sure,’ she replied, following them.

  Bluma looked back at her. ‘Big place is it?’

  Ellen frowned. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your new house?’

  Ellen looked at her mother. ‘Yes, big, three bedrooms and a formal dine.’

  ‘Cost you a packet.’

  ‘Joe’s got it under control.’

  William, sitting on his front porch, pulled on his workboots and football beanie. A roll of masking tape and a pile of leftover leaflets sat beside him, each with a line of extra scribble along the bottom: Come and hear. Paddock opposite my place. This Wed. afternoon. 4.00 p.m. Wilhelm M. Bluma had helped him finish them, having worked late into the previous night, buoyed by thoughts of a perm to sustain her through the dormancy of another valley winter. William had checked each leaflet. ‘Write bigger. No one will see.’

  He headed off for the barrel-house at Seppeltsfield, starting by handing out leaflets to bemused workers. He worked his way past the presses and through the new labs the festival float had depicted. He continued through Administration before he was asked to leave by an office manager in a cheap tweed suit. He repeated the whole exercise at Chateau Tanunda, nearly skittled over by a shunt as he argued with an agnostic picker.

  Then he moved on to Murray Street, working his way along, shop by shop. Wohler’s Furniture, Art and Gifts. ‘If I could place it in the window, here, visible when people come in.’

  ‘No thanks, William, this is a business. Some will disagree.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Their money’s as good as anyone’s.’

  Refusing to argue, slamming the door and continuing on.

  House Proud Decor Centre. ‘Here, I’ll stick it up for you.’

  ‘No.’

  Looking at the other notices the shop-keeper had allowed. Quilts for Sale, see Rob for my number. That was Harry Rasch’s wife. But worse still, a pair of urban ringins from Edinburgh Avenue: Eurhythmics, tues thurs school term, phone … Pottery classes and yoga, exercise bikes and a pair of week old wire-haired terriers … William looked at the man. ‘Give away pups? Have you read my leaflet?’

  ‘Everyone’s read your leaflet.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I offer my window as a community service.’

  ‘You should paint this message across the front of your store.’

  The shop-keeper laughed. ‘The End is nigh! Maybe I should give it all away.’

  William could argue but it wouldn’t do any good. He was already lost. From a street of several dozen shops he managed to convince five, and three of those, he noticed, were taken down after he’d gone. So what, the money-lenders and their Murray Street temples are lost too. Standing back in front of the Tanunda Club he thought, There must be a better way. On with the gloves. Graffiti was man’s way of saying, How come no one’s discussing this? Profound or perverted, there must be some way of getting your message across.

  WCs were plastered at the club and the Tanunda Hotel, the railway station and the public lavs on Elizabeth Street. The Langmeil toilets, St John’s, Tabor, Gnadenberg and Holy Cross. St Aidan’s and the other denominations were visited – hall doors, columns, archways and even church doors used to display William’s message. Smoothing down masking tape and scampering like a truant, passing through the Tanunda school un-noticed, leaving his apocalyptic song-line on park benches, the windows of the council chambers and civic centre and even a statue of a crucified Christ in the recreation park. Going home for tea but returning after dark to tape his message across the windows of the money-lenders. Walking home smiling, every shop in Murray Street carrying his message at last.

  Continuing the next morning with the remaining dozen or so leaflets. The door to the kegelbahn. Trevor Streim, busy practising his spin, coming
out to see what all the fuss was about. Reading the leaflet and laughing, ‘Four p.m., and who do you think will be there, Wilhelm?’

  ‘Probably not you. But then at the End, when Jesus asks me …’ He pointed his finger directly between Trevor’s eyes.

  Trevor only smiled. ‘We’ve all tried to help you, William. After this,’ pointing out his proclamation, ‘people will desert you; and when you walk down the street they’ll whisper and laugh. How could he have believed such a thing? Is he simple?

  ’ William refused to argue. ‘How did you become an Elder?’

  But Trevor wasn’t finished. ‘At least think of Bluma, and Nathan. If you approached the Elders and explained. The church is your family. You can always come back.’

  William shrugged, showing him the remaining pamphlets. ‘I’ve got to get finished.’

  ‘None of this makes it right, William … here, give it to me.’

  Trevor took the leaflets and the tape and started sticking them to the door, one by one, until they covered the iron completely, hanging loose here and there, overlapping. He finished the roll, making sure they were well and truly stuck down, working without saying a word as William watched. ‘There,’ he said, finishing, handing back the empty roll. ‘All of this isn’t going to make it happen … William, I’m trying to help you.’

  To save you from yourself.

  ‘Afterwards, we’d still have you back, but things would be different.’

  William threw the empty roll on the ground, turned and walked off as Trevor returned to his shed, walked the length of the alley and set up the pins.

  As William slept deeply that night it started raining. The next day, dozens of blank, pink sheets were found taped up around town. A council worker named Alberts was sent to remove them, saving the paper for the floor of his guinea-pig hutch.

  Wednesday afternoon. The threat of rain wasn’t enough to deter William. In the great spelling test of life, he would sound out God’s name regardless: S A L V A S H U N. Wet or dry, hot or cold, hoarse or full-voiced, his belly full of fire, captivating the crowd with the unassailable logic of the Bible, summoning sweet venom like Pastor what’s-his-name at the Vectis Mission Rally. ‘At the consummation of the world, Christ will appear.’

  And all at once, several thousand voices. ‘Amen!’

  William was wondering whether he’d be up to it. His performance at Langmeil had been scripted and woody; he knew now he should have just said what was in his heart. And the business of the name change, what had that got to do with anything? No, today there’d be nothing written down. He’d let God speak through him, through the Bible he’d brandish like a sword in his left hand.

  Arthur helped him wheel his movable ark up the garden path, across the road and into the empty paddock. It was council land but they’d never looked after it, slashing it twice a year in anticipation of the housing development no one had ever built. There’d been some talk of a fertiliser works but Bruno had gathered signatures from everyone on Langmeil Road and threatened to move all of the Hermanns out of Tanunda. The council gave in, turning to Laucke’s to set up a new feed mill, but they’d found cheaper land out along the highway.

  So now it was just weeds, stretching out towards Anthelm’s mushroom flood-plains and the North Para River. The council’s agents put up a FOR SALE sign which William and Bruno were forever knocking over, so that in the end it was just left in the mud.

  William positioned the ark and climbed on the table, jumping up and down to test it. Reciting Hamlet’s soliloquy, he sent Arthur back towards Langmeil Road to do a sound check. Eventually Arthur stopped, listened and applauded, but William thought, So many bodies are sure to absorb the sound.

  At three-thirty Bruno and Edna brought kitchen chairs out onto their porch and settled in with a thermos, determined not to miss a thing. A reporter from the Oracle walked up Langmeil Road and called to them from the fence, ‘Can I come in?’ Settling in at their feet he asked them questions about William. ‘No no, Wilhelm,’ Bruno smiled, and the reporter started scribbling madly on his pad.

  At four p.m. exactly the show began. Bluma and Arthur stood on either side of the ark, facing the listeners. They banged saucepan lids together and Bluma blew on Nathan’s scout whistle. William climbed onto the ark and Bruno remarked that it could have been Golgotha, minus the crosses. The reporter scribbled again, mumbling something about a crucifixion by-line, standing, thanking them and wandering over towards the paddock.

  Seymour and Joshua stood together, applauding, turning around to encourage Mary and Catherine and the children to do the same. Sarah Heinz sat drawing pictures in the mud with a stick, sitting up and smiling as the reporter approached her. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi. Do you know Mr Muller?’

  ‘Muller? No one calls him that. Miller.’

  The pencil trailing short-hand across the page. Sarah patted the ground for him to sit down. ‘I’m Seymour Hicks’ daughter. I have a big part in William’s play.’

  ‘His play?’

  ‘Yes, Play For The Apocalypse.’

  She continued whispering to him as William got into full stride. The thirty or so listeners sat, knelt or stood about in small groups. William gave them the once over. There was no one from Langmeil or St John’s. No Pastor Henry, or even the Elders, at least willing to hear him out. Although it could have been worse, William thought, it wasn’t a turnout of Vectis proportions. They were the good old days, before the radio and the Weekly got to people. Pastor what’s-his-name was blessed with an audience that cared; instead of a half-empty paddock of Salvation Jane and sedge, wild oats and a car body dumped during the Depression years.

  William quoted the Augsburg Confession, about how the Anabaptists would suffer eternal pain and torment and how the Jews were lying (as they always had) when they said Jesus would choose godly men to annihilate the sinners. Strange how the Jews themselves had practically been annihilated. But that’s what you get for messing around with the Bible.

  From then on it was the usual stuff: the seven plagues, angels and seals, all of which he’d studied and could explain, although not here and now. Then there were the dates, the decree of Artaxerxes and a few simple sums scribbled on an old blackboard Rechner had supplied, held up by his two lieutenants as he repeatedly broke pieces of chalk.

  It was like Einstein explaining Relativity to the Nuriootpa CWA. No one argued because no one knew if he was right or wrong. Either way, it sounded logical, and there was no denying that he’d carried his tens to the proper column. Maybe if they prayed and bowed their heads they might scrape in next March by the skin of their teeth. And if they were wrong, almost no one need know. As long as they were careful to keep their name out of the Oracle.

  William opened his Bible and read: ‘“And he showed me a pure river of water of life …”’ Looking up. ‘Amen.’

  Silence. The reporter stood up from transcribing the plot of William’s play. William looked at him. ‘Are you with us?’

  ‘No, the Tanunda Oracle.’

  Seymour turned around and smiled at his wife, whispering, ‘We should help out.’ Leading to a small chorus from the Heinzes and Hicks’. ‘Amen.’

  William looked at them as if to say, Take your cue from me. Turning back to the reporter. ‘Are you going to write about the Truth?’

  ‘I’m going to write about your rally.’

  ‘But are you going to write about the Truth?’

  ‘That’ll get a mention.’

  William shook his head. ‘Just because we’re few in numbers.’

  ‘Is this your whole following?’

  ‘We’re a young movement.’

  The reporter shrugged. ‘Taken, but people would tend to either agree or disagree. You’ve been at it for some time now.’

  William seemed unconcerned. ‘Most come around slowly.’

  ‘Surely not.’

  ‘We need to explain ourselves.’

  ‘And this is where your …’ he looked at his notepad, ‘Pla
y For The Apocalypse comes in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Seymour turned around and looked at Sarah. She shrugged, mouthing, What’d I say?

  ‘I’m looking forward to your play,’ the reporter continued.

  ‘Perhaps you could do a preview?’

  William realised he was losing his momentum. ‘It’s not an entertainment.’ He opened his Bible and continued.

  Bruno and Edna wandered across Langmeil Road with their chairs. They set up just within ear-shot at the back of the paddock and topped up their mugs. ‘There,’ Edna said, settling in, ‘he won’t be able to see us from here.’

  William wiped spits of rain from the page as he read. ‘“To him that overcometh will I grant to sit with me …”’ But as he read, he thought of other things. Like how it wasn’t his fault, how no one could inspire a bunch of duds like this, how Pastor what’s-his-name didn’t have Satan with his short-hand in the audience, how Vectis was a product of its time and how this was a product of his. But how this was another sign, how the low, contented hum of a world caught up in other things was a test set up for him. Which meant that when a car pulled up and two council inspectors alighted, he was ready for a fight.

  ‘Mr Miller, do you have a permit?’ one of them asked.

  ‘A permit? Why? For standing in a paddock?’

  ‘Regardless. I’ll have to ask you to stop. I have an application form you can fill out.’

  He produced a yellow form and waved it in the air.

  TANUNDA ORACLE, 2 AUGUST 1951 A SOGGY START FOR THE MILLERITES

  … at which point Mr Miller-Muller produced a document entitled Augsburg Confession. He quoted a section (apparently based on Acts chapter five) which said Christians were obliged to obey civil authority only insofar as it agreed with the Bible. But when ‘civil authority cannot be obeyed without sin, God rather than men must be followed’.

  At this point the inspectors, Mr Snow and Hobbs, explained to Mr Miller-Muller that if he continued they would be forced to fetch the police. ‘Dramatics,’ Mr Miller-Muller replied, explaining how the council was stacked with many of his detractors, several of whom were also Elders at Langmeil church …

  The reporter chose not to bring their names into it, going on to explain how council had already turned a blind eye to Mr Miller-Muller’s posters and leaflets.