‘If you would like to come back,’ she is saying, ‘and join us in worship . . . Father John gives a lovely sermon, and we’d always welcome you.’
Thomas stands and Mrs Keillor spots him, pinned against the stone.
‘Boy,’ she yells. ‘Boy, come here!’
Thomas runs. ‘You’re fucking crazy,’ he screams, laughter rising up in him. It feels like crying.
*
Bull stands at the bar and looks out across the pub. It’s Sunday and the pub is full, more so than normal. There are people from the mainland. A group of trim little old ladies and two dry-looking men sit in the corner, sipping sherries and trying not to lean on the table. They have ordered sandwiches. In the middle of the room, a man and two girls in tight jeans are sharing a jug of beer, not saying much. One of them has a camera. Beside him at the bar, Harry Keillor finishes his drink and Darcy leans on his elbows. Bull turns back to them. The room tilts from its horizontal axis. His own glass behind the bar is empty again. Drinking the profits, old man, his inner voice whispers.
‘Bloody scam,’ he mutters.
Harry looks up. ‘What’s that?’
‘You know.’ He gestures vaguely with one hand towards the group in the corner.
Harry laughs. ‘You need the business. You should be thanking God for the boyfriend, whoever it is.’
Bull grunts. The man from the table in the middle of the room stands and wanders over, glass in hand.
‘So there is a boyfriend?’ he asks. They look at him, blank. His woollen jumper has braid down the front and a rolled collar. His shoes are dark leather. ‘I couldn’t help but overhear,’ he says, and smiles apologetically.
‘Then you would’ve heard we don’t know,’ Darcy says, mouth tight. There is something gritty in his voice.
‘But you don’t believe it,’ the stranger pushes.
‘Don’t know what to think,’ Bull mutters.
‘Sure,’ the stranger says, and his face has gone cold. ‘I’m from the local paper, over on the mainland. Can’t you tell me anything? I’ve been hearing some strange rumours about your church.’
Harry smiles, teeth wide and yellow. ‘Might be that the priest has it right.’
The journo shakes his head, a sneer passing across his face. ‘Bastards.’
Beside him, Bull can sense Harry’s hackles rising.
The man continues. ‘Those nut jobs in the church, surely you’re worried about them? That girl?’
The whole pub goes silent.
‘Jonathan,’ one of the girls from the journalist’s table says gently.
‘That’s my wife you’re talking about,’ Harry says.
The men at the bar just stare.
‘Another fucking jug, please,’ the journo says. He doesn’t wait, but walks back to his table. Harry raises his eyebrows, face red. Bull pulls the beer and takes it over. The man glances up at him but says nothing. One of the girls reaches over to drag the bulky camera bag in under the table so he can step around it.
‘He’s right,’ Darcy mutters, back at the bar.
‘Fuck you too,’ Harry says.
Bull shuffles back behind the bar, his safe haven, empties the beer trays and wipes the bench. After a while, one of the old ladies from the table in the corner signals to him. The whole group is staring at him expectantly.
‘Can I get you anything?’ he asks as he approaches them.
‘We were told the service would start at eleven,’ says the woman closest to him, straight-backed in a dove-grey suit.
‘Up at the church?’
‘Yes.’ The woman nods. ‘But there was no one there.’
‘It used to be eleven,’ Bull says. ‘They changed it. It’s at two now.’
The woman smiles. ‘Oh, I see. Thank you.’
Bull pauses for a moment. She has kind eyes. The others at the table glance at their watches, stand up, straighten their skirts and jackets.
‘Any time,’ he replies, as they begin to bustle out.
‘You’re lucky here, you know,’ the woman says. ‘It’s beautiful.’
Bull watches as they go. They hurry past the window outside, blurred shadows in the dirty glass. The journalist laughs, and Bull ignores him. Outside, the sky is a heavy dove-grey above the dark shapes of the road, the houses and the hill beyond.
*
Hannah sits with her mother in a pew at the back, waiting for the service to start. Her mother’s hands move ceaselessly, twist and fiddle in her lap.
‘You okay?’ Hannah whispers. Her mother just nods. Hannah realises that she is nervous herself. The bell finally ceases, its last notes vibrating and catching in the air. She turns to look back up the aisle. The organist starts to play. Mrs Keillor enters, walking in a stately manner between the pews. She nods and smiles at Hannah’s mother, encouraging, excited. Mary enters behind her, simply dressed, looking down at her feet, and then the priest following. The people gathered shuffle slightly, lean towards the front in anticipation. Hannah realises with a jolt that the room is over half full.
‘The pew sheet,’ her mother whispers, hand out. Hannah passes it to her, helps her to stand for the hymn. The music shifts and Hannah tries to sing along, but the words aren’t familiar. Her mother digs her in the ribs with an elbow, proffers the sheet.
‘Here,’ she says. ‘Not in the book.’
Hannah nods, looks down to find the verse. They’re already at the reprise. She stutters and flails and the singers carry on without her. She finds her place again and sings along for a line, under her breath. She can’t catch the tune. It goes up when she goes down. Her mother frowns at her. She has one hand braced against the pew in front.
‘Please be seated,’ the priest says. There is a shuffle and the congregation sinks back into the pews. Her mother sits with her knees together, her hands folded now, still in her lap. Hannah looks sideways at her, mystified.
‘You don’t . . .’ she leans in to whisper, but her mother nudges her again, looks determinedly forward. Hannah can see that she is watching the back of Mary’s head. Hannah frowns. The priest is praying now. She wants to ask: How are you engaging in this? What does it mean to you? All around her, people are intent on the words, pew sheets clutched in hands or neat on the ledges. There are people from the mainland, she realises, shocked. The congregation is growing. Her mother pulls at her elbow, and they are kneeling, her mother with one leg stiff and sticking out to the side. Hannah offers her an arm to lean on, but she shakes her head, nods again at the sheet. The prayer is there, Hannah sees. The whole of the service mapped out for her, like something new, a new lesson, a piece to get by rote.
‘Amen,’ her mother says.
*
Father John looks around the congregation. Betty Smith wobbles her way through the reading beside him. More and more of them are coming every week. Even the cynical part of him knows this is how it works. The hardest part of any story is starting it. It will become more routine. And the press of bodies in the church feels like a start. There are more flowers than there were, and candles. Someone has decorated the archway at the door with boughs of eucalyptus, so the whole church is filled with its smell, and candle smoke. The candles leave a haze in the rafters, blurring the light, softening it.
‘Do they actually believe, Father?’ Val Matthews had whispered before the service. ‘They’re not just here for the novelty?’
There was doubt still, obviously. ‘Yes,’ he had whispered back. ‘Yes, they believe. Or they will believe. We have to show them the way.’
But it was happening, he thought. A start, at least. Something of a movement towards redemption.
After the service, he stands in the corner of the hall, watches the congregation mingling. Most have left already. The ones who stay, those are the ones with true faith, he thinks. He counts them; there are three more than last week. It makes him smile.
‘Fruitcake, Father?’ Mrs Keillor offers, appearing beside him.
‘Thank you.’
S
he doesn’t move away, but stands there alongside him, looking on.
‘It was good today, Father.’
‘Yes,’ he says.
‘Not much of a role for the girl?’ she prompts him.
‘We can’t take over her life,’ he replies. ‘Perhaps at the baptism, the Smiths’ child . . .’
Mrs Keillor nods and smiles. ‘Good,’ she says. ‘I’ll help with the dishes, then.’
The priest watches her go, stays where he is. Looking around, he wishes his wife were there to see it – the village coming together around the church, gathering in a difficult time. She isn’t in the room. She was with him during the service, but she has gone now. It is okay, he tells himself. She is proud. For once, he doesn’t need her there to know it. It makes him feel stronger, it makes him feel safe.
*
They slip away after the service. Hannah helps her mother into the car, and catches Mrs Keillor watching them from the veranda of the hall. Outside, the day is pure winter, grey, cold. But still, people linger around the church, stand in small groups on the grass and filter into the hall. Hannah walks straight around to the driver’s side, ignores the people hanging about. Her mother is waving.
Hannah can’t hold on to her keys. She catches herself giggling. When she finally gets in, turns the key in the ignition, the radio blares out, something frenetic and loud. They both jump in their seats.
‘What on earth is that?’ her mother asks, offended.
‘Radio,’ Hannah grunts as she mashes at the buttons on the dashboard to make it go away. Finally, she just sits with both hands on the steering wheel. Her mother stares at her, but says nothing. When her hands have stopped shaking, she puts the car in gear and drives away.
Darcy is sitting on the veranda when she turns into his place. He has a beer open beside him. Hannah watches him a moment from the car, until he gestures to her, and she climbs out.
‘Well?’ he asks.
‘I took Mum home,’ she says.
‘She tired?’
‘No, not too bad. I just . . .’ She trails off.
Darcy smiles and pats the seat beside him.
‘You okay?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Did you say something?’
‘I couldn’t do it,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Didn’t say a thing. It was like the police all over again. I just froze.’
Darcy’s eyes crease at the corners, and he pats her hand. ‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘I told you it was a lot to take on by yourself. You’re trying. We’ll think of something else.’ They sit there side by side in silence until Hannah feels her body slow to normal and the world fall back into place.
‘What about your mother?’ he asks. ‘Have you spoken to her yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Are you going to?’
‘Do you think I have to? What d’you think she’d say? She’s fully capable of making her own decisions, Darce.’
He grimaces. ‘You don’t think she’s still a bit in denial?’
‘How is she in denial? She’s the one who refused treatment! They told her what is coming.’
‘Just saying, kiddo.’ He drains what is left of his bottle. ‘You won’t be able to put it off forever. She’ll have to go into care eventually. It might be better to get her settled over there sooner rather than later. You can’t look after her and work full time.’
‘We’re okay for now,’ she says, and tries to make it firm. ‘I’m not bringing it up with her yet.’
Darcy sighs and rises, goes inside and comes back out a moment later with a pair of bottles. He sits one down in front of her and she is caught by the colour of the light through amber liquid. A young magpie appears on the scrappy lawn, bobs its head up and down at them, begging. Its mother cocks her head speculatively from the closest tree. Darcy finishes his beer and lines the empty bottle up with its friends against the wall. She takes a sip from her own bottle. They are ginger beer, she realises, not his usual. The sweetness seems almost restorative.
‘Well then,’ he says. ‘Mary. Where do we go next?’
Sophie phones that night. From the study Hannah can hear her talking to their mother while she finishes her marking for the morning, waits for the interruption. Eventually the call comes: ‘Hannah! Sophie for you.’
She drags herself out to the lounge room.
‘How’re you going?’ she asks, taking the phone.
Her mother shakes her head and disappears into the kitchen with her teacup. For once, there is no family noise in the background; Sophie is alone.
‘I’m okay,’ Sophie says. ‘But what the hell is happening over there?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I just saw the island on the late news. They were talking about Mulvey going under, and something about a cult? Since when did they all become so righteous?’
Hannah laughs. ‘A cult? Not that I’ve heard of.’
Hannah hears Sophie inhale, can imagine her eyes bulging.
‘They had footage of the church. And something about a pregnant girl. It was a bloody filler piece. Shit, Han, she didn’t look much older than Lulu. What the hell’s going on?’
‘She’s one of my students.’ There is a moment of silence and Hannah can tell Sophie is trying to comprehend it.
‘How old is she? Is she really pregnant?’
‘I think so. We went today.’
‘Mum said. Why the fuck would you go?’
Her anger is a surprise. Hannah stretches the phone’s cord to sit down on the couch. ‘It’s not that simple,’ she says. ‘Mum’s getting worse. She’s the one who wanted to go. I think it’s a comfort. And it’s the only way I get to see Mary. They’ve taken her out of school. I wanted to make sure she was okay!’
Sophie hesitates. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Sorry. Can you do anything? Stop them somehow?’
‘I reported it. I wasn’t the only one – someone else had as well. And I’ve told the Department of Education.’
‘Social services?’ Her voice is quiet, sad.
‘They already know. And her mother, the crowd at the church, they’re not abusing her, as such. They just have her there at all their services. They keep saying she is a miracle. Darcy and I, we’re thinking on it, we’re trying . . .’ Hannah can feel a lump rising in her throat, feel everything rising. ‘I meant to say something, today. I was going to. But instead I just sat there. I didn’t, I couldn’t say anything.’
‘Jesus,’ Sophie mutters.
Hannah can feel laughter bubbling up inside her. ‘Yes,’ she says.
Sophie groans, muffled down the line. ‘Not funny,’ she says. She is smiling though, Hannah can tell. It soothes her; she feels herself smiling in response.
‘What about Mum? How bad is she?’
‘She’s in pain.’
‘Do we need to get her into palliative care? We could bring her over here?’
Hannah sighs. ‘You really think she’ll go?’
Sophie doesn’t reply. The seconds tick over.
‘We’re not there yet,’ Hannah says. ‘I’ll tell you when we get to that stage. But she’s managing for now.’
‘So why is she going to church?’
‘I don’t know. Like I said, I think it’s a comfort. Or just more like normal, maybe? More like she has a life still? The women have been coming up and visiting her. I think it makes her feel wanted.’
‘What does she think about the girl?’
‘About Mary? I’m not sure . . . It’s hard to tell.’ Again, Sophie doesn’t reply. They sit there together and let the moment trail away. There is nothing left to say.
‘How’s Ghost?’ Sophie asks. ‘And the black horse?’
‘They’re fine,’ Hannah replies.
‘You going to be okay, kiddo?’ Sophie asks. ‘You know you can call me, right?’
‘I’m okay,’ Hannah reassures her. ‘Don’t worry about us.’
Their mother appears in the doorway.
‘Here,’ Hannah sa
ys. ‘Talk to Mum again.’
Her mother reaches for the phone and she passes it over. She thinks of her marking but doesn’t move. Their chatter washes over her. She imagines the footage Sophie had seen. They’d show the church, cut to the locals down in the village. She wonders if they were there, in the service. They’d have recorded the sound of the bell. The thought of the island on the news is strange, but also a relief. The world has noticed, she thinks. Perhaps someone will intervene.
XII
July 1992
Saint’s Day of Thomas the Apostle, 3 July
Saint’s Day of Mary Magdalene, 22 July
HANNAH STANDS IN THE doorway to her classroom and watches her students enter the schoolyard, some on foot, some emerging from the odd assortment of cars and utes and quad bikes that appear and disappear as 9 am approaches. They are all looking battered by the wind. Her mother had not emerged from her room that morning before Hannah left for work. She could hear her in there, hear the creaking and groaning of her moving in the bed, and standing there Hannah feels that the change in the weather is to blame. Yesterday, washing blew off the line. One of the younger children rings the bell enthusiastically from the steps in front of her. The clamour of it flies backwards, she can feel it in her teeth. The kids file into the room slowly, and Hannah ticks them off mentally as they each arrive. Mary’s absence doesn’t feel strange anymore. Two of the parents are gossiping with Mrs Culliver by the office and she hears talk of the church fly up on a gust.
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