‘Surely they’re not Franciscans!’ said Anneliese.
‘What?’ said Roger.
‘They’re wearing Franciscan get-up.’
The crowds that milled about were being funnelled through temporary turnstiles.
‘See,’ said Anneliese. ‘What did I tell you? It’s a bloody rip-off. You have to pay to get in.’
‘Come on,’ said Roger. ‘It’s only two bucks. My shout.’
‘But it’s the principle of the …’
‘I know. Come on. Forget your principles for this one afternoon, eh? It’s on me. Pretend I’m forcing you.’ Anneliese followed, jaw clenched. Together they moved to the turnstile.
As they stepped through, Anneliese felt a tap on her shoulder.
‘Excuse me, ma’am. Could you step over here for a moment? We do not permit bare arms and legs at the shrine, as a mark of respect for the Virgin.’ Anneliese looked down at her bare arms, her baggy khaki shorts. She shrugged.
‘I haven’t anything else.’
‘We do have some clothes for newcomers to the shrine. You will be able to find something to put on.’ The man indicated a large skip that stood a little way off in a cluster of trees. ‘If you make a small donation towards the upkeep of the clothes, you are welcome to borrow whatever you wish.’
‘Thanks,’ said Anneliese curtly.
She leaned over the skip and pulled out a bundle—a long strip of batik cloth which she wound around her waist and a green cardigan that she yanked over her singlet. Then she rejoined Roger and they followed the crowd down the path that narrowed into an uneven track, firmly trampled concrete hard, with deep dry fissures along its sides. Every few yards a marshal urged them on.
‘They’re frauds. Bloody frauds. Pretending to be Franciscans! I have great admiration for the Franciscans. They do really useful work and look at these clowns trying to give themselves the trappings of legitimacy. Christ almighty!’ Once again she felt a tap.
‘Excuse me, ma’am. We do ask all ladies to cover their heads, as a mark of respect for …’
‘… the Virgin. I know.’ Anneliese snatched the wide square of black veiling that he handed to her and wrapped it around her head. ‘Might as well be a bloody Muslim.’
‘Bigot,’ said Roger.
The sun was high overhead by now. The trees shimmered queasily in the mist of heat, cicadas shrilled their appalling, drilling summer song. The crowd moved slowly, tripping over exposed tree roots on the rocky slope, clutching at flimsy dry tree branches to steady themselves down.
When Anneliese and Roger finally stepped onto the floor of the ravine they found it crammed with people of all ages. The heat here was intense. There was not a whisper of breeze, just a pulsating press of human bodies. Babies lay in mothers’ arms, bodies sprawled on stretchers on the ground, people sat hunched in wheelchairs. (How on earth had they got them down here? Later Anneliese saw people arriving piggyback style, their wheelchairs being dragged behind.) Old men stood wheezing, leaning on their sticks, women clutched their veils under their chins and the hypnotic buzz of prayer hummed in the air. Such was the congestion and the heat that everything seemed to be rocking ever so slightly, as if the ground was breathing, expanding and subsiding, to the monotonous chanting of the rosary.
Anneliese was enveloped by nausea. She felt she couldn’t breathe. She wanted to vomit. She reached for Roger’s hand to steady herself. He mistook her meaning and squeezed her hand. She pulled free, shaking her head. In fear, unable to pinpoint her distress, she looked about her, seeking an answer for her panic. But in this crowd she was alone. Roger was moving forward through the crush. He seemed to have forgotten her. She edged sideways, making for the spindly bushes that lined the sides of the ravine. Perhaps they would offer some shade from the blinding heat. Sweat ran down her face, into her eyes, so that she had to keep blinking to clear them. She felt she was in some slow-motion, hazy, dreamlike, underwater world, where sound came to her in a distorted and distant echo. Sweltering and shaky, she tore off her cardigan and dropped it into the dust.
But the bushes offered no shelter and here, if possible, the scene was even more grotesque. Anneliese saw that others, seeking shelter too, had brought their stretcher cases here. People lay groaning, others comatose. Attendants crouched over them, waving bits of torn-off shrub as fans to discourage the sticky black bushflies and offer some movement of air. It might have been a scene from a refugee camp. The ground was barren enough, the sick sick enough, the unreality unreal enough.
Anneliese bent towards the batik cloth, lifted it and swabbed her dripping face. She could feel the pulse in her temples throbbing, the tense, stressed thumping of her heart. From where she now stood she was able to see the object to which the rosary was being directed. It was a huge wooden cross, held aloft by sweating acolytes. The body of Christ arched in agony upon it. The cross seemed to sway to the drone, like the rhythm of giant blowflies, of the prayers.
Suddenly there was a hush, a momentary pause in the droning, an intake of breath, held and held longer. Tension created immobility. Then, suddenly, the crowd surged, exhaled, cried out:
‘Lord have mercy. Lord have mercy. Lord have mercy.’
‘It’s bleeding.’
‘Christ is bleeding.’
‘The blood.’
‘The blood.’
‘The blood.’
Anneliese craned forward in horror at the ecstasy around her. The horror was that she was alone and abandoned and empty of connection. She stared desperately at the rapt faces. There was nothing for her.
‘Roger,’ she screamed. ‘Roger. Where are you? Roger. Let’s get out. This is crazy. Roger!’ But he had disappeared. She was screaming but no-one took any notice. Carrabubbulla Bottoms was one living scream.
She stumbled further into the bushes, fighting to escape the noise but the undergrowth grew thicker and the walls of the ravine sheered up in front of her and forced her to stop. Trapped, she fell down into the bushes, pulled her veil over her eyes and rested her head on her knees. She was overwhelmed with despair at the yawning chasm between her and every other human being. Her thoughts were chaotic, senseless, insistent, yet still she battled to make an intellectual response, for what other response was possible to this outrage? Why should all this be upsetting her, sending her almost crazy with distress? If these foolish misguided people wanted to spend their Sunday afternoon getting heatstroke and going hysterical over a bit of wood that leaked resin, well, what was that to her? What harm was it doing them? Was she really so outraged because some charlatan was ripping them off? Did she really care that much about all these people that she wanted to protect them from themselves? What were they to her? Nothing! Nothing! That was the worst part. Nothing was anything to her anymore. She connected with nothing, nobody.
The unrestrained screaming had subsided slightly. Listlessly she raised the veil from her eyes and turned her head, still on her knees, to look. People clutched at each other, eyes shining, acknowledging the thrill of the bleeding cross, sharing their experience and their joy. Anneliese looked again for Roger. She saw him, just the top of his head (beginning to show a bald patch in recent months) up near the cross. She saw him turn, look vaguely. She sprang to her feet. Over here, over here, her arms signalled. He did not see. She sat again. Alone.
The afternoon wore on. The sun started to lose some of its harshness and the acolytes staggered away with the cross, down the ravine to an old tin shed surrounded by barbed wire. The mood became less fervid. People rooted in bags and bundles, drinks were dispensed, invalids were attended to. People moved closer to where Anneliese sat, and squatted to urinate. It was interval. Then suddenly, a trumpet blast cracked through the ravine. People flung their possessions together, grabbed children’s hands, crammed themselves forward once more.
Anneliese saw a man mount a ladder to the platform where the cross had been on display. The cries rang out. ‘Little Tadpole! Little Tadpole!’ The man stood silently, his arms outstretched
acknowledging the cries until finally he raised his arm and blessed the throng and it fell silent. Now he reiterated his story, just as Anneliese had read it in the pamphlet. He described his walk up the ravine, the time of day, the look of the clouds, the suddenness of the vision, his own fright and so on. The crowd listened tranquilly to the well-known story.
Then the singing started, the ‘singing for the Virgin’ as the Little Tadpole called it. He exhorted the crowd to burst the gates of Paradise with the swell of the sound so that the Virgin would know how much she was wanted and welcomed and would, in compassion, come to them. The sound of thousands of voices rang through Carrabubbulla Bottoms.
‘Hail Queen of Heaven.
The ocean star,
Guide of the wanderer
Near and far.’
It was ineffably sweet, full of love and hope. Anneliese could not bear to hear it. She crouched low and covered her ears, the sense of loss slicing her heart. Verse after verse, relentlessly, it stabbed into her. Then the hymn faltered, swelled, faltered again. Now, hubbub.
The energy of the tightly massed crowd was at fever pitch. Voices were crying out.
‘Look. Over there! Look.’
‘See?’
‘Where?’
‘There.’
‘Over there.’
‘Pax. Pax mundi,’ cried the Little Tadpole. ‘Pax.’
‘Pax, pax,’ cried the pilgrims.
People were pointing to the west where the late afternoon rays of the sun were radiating through the clouds.
‘See. There.’
‘See. She’s coming.’
‘Here she comes.’
‘Where?’
‘There.’
Children started to yell, hopping from foot to foot in frustration and parents hoisted them onto their shoulders.
‘See.’
‘There.’
‘Where? Where, where, where?’
People pointed, guiding those who could not see. The Little Tadpole was on his knees, babbling at the skies. Mothers cupped their children’s faces with both hands to point them in the right direction.
‘Pax mundi.’
‘Pax mundi.’
‘There, there, see? The little dot.’
The what?’
The little dot. Pax. Pax. Pax mundi.’
Men hoisted stretchers up onto their shoulders, offering the groaning ill. People cried for mercy, arms flung in supplication. Babies bawled as they were held up, elevated like hosts at the Mass. Smaller children danced in an agony of excitement.
‘Where? Where? Where?’
‘There! The dot, the dot.’
‘The what?’
‘The little dot, the little dot.’
‘Pax. Pax. Pax mundi.’ It reverberated through the gully.
Then, without fanfare, the sun slipped behind the ridge, the ravine was cast in shadow and an eerie silence fell upon the crowd. The apparition was over. Like trees petrified they stood motionless and silent. Time, space, hiatus.
The figures, fugue-like, began to move. Reality reasserted itself. Anneliese had stood, some time. Now she focused on the people collecting their possessions, packing up, preparing for the long climb back to the car park. As she looked at them her emptiness seemed a physical pain, so great was her need. Her life and her feeling were as exhausted and sere as the cracked surface of a drought bowl. Oh God, she prayed in her emptiness, let me feel, give me something to feel.
The people bustled methodically but tiredly around her. They had a long journey ahead and dependants to help. Some of the babies cried, some whinged, others prattled. Anneliese watched the family group beside her. The mother was changing her baby’s nappy and her small son was tugging at her veil, demanding her attention. She had little to spare. Twice she twitched her veil angrily from his grasp and went back to wrestling with the squirming baby.
‘Well, what is it? What is it?’ she finally demanded, turning to face the little boy. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’
‘I saw …’ She had turned back to the baby. The little boy tugged at her arm.
‘What?’
‘I saw …’ Anneliese strained to hear but his words were swallowed by a squawk from the baby.
‘I saw …’ he persisted. His mother had her back to him. He twisted in distress, pleating his lips in frustration. He saw Anneliese watching him.
‘Yes?’ she said, astonished by the eagerness in her own voice. ‘Yes, you saw, what?’ The child’s face cracked into a delighted smile. He stood on one leg and twisted his fingers together in front of his eyes. ‘What did you see?’ Anneliese encouraged. He looked briefly to his mother. She did not notice him. He moved two steps towards Anneliese then stuck his finger in his ear uncertainly. She smiled. He came and stood before her and whispered at the ground.
‘What did you see?’ said Anneliese, crouching down so she was level with his face.
‘The little dog, the little dog,’ he said with utmost seriousness. Anneliese was so surprised she nearly laughed, but the sober look on his face stopped her.
‘The little dog? What? Up in the sky?’
‘Yes,’ he said and hopped in excitement. ‘Max Monday.’
‘What?’
‘His name. Max. We were calling him. Max Monday, Max Monday.’
‘Come on, Tommo,’ interrupted his mother, laden with baby and baggage. ‘Hurry up, we’ve got a long walk.’
‘I’ll bring him along, if you like,’ said Anneliese to the woman. ‘You’ve got your hands full.’
‘Thanks,’ said the mother. ‘Stay with the lady, Tommo.’
Off they went together, Tommo running a few paces, stopping, looking back to see that Anneliese was following. Hip de hop, over a cowpat, whoopsie do, a stumble on a tree root, hoppity skip along the track.
‘Max, Max, Max,’ carolled the child. He surged ahead and Anneliese hurried to keep up. Away he went, a tiny figure in his shorts and T-shirt, dancing with delight. When she reached the top of the ravine he was standing right in the middle of the path, hands on his hips, triumphant.
‘Come on, Tom, out of the way, you’re holding everyone up,’ said his mother, panting behind Anneliese. ‘Thanks for the help.’
‘That’s okay,’ muttered Anneliese, imbued with the joy of the child. He spun around twice, tried to do a somersault, fell on his bum, got up and scampered into the car park. A minute or so later when Roger appeared she was leaning against the car with a faraway look of blissful happiness on her face. He thought, how miraculous, she was smiling at him but, in fact, she was listening to the almost vanished sound of a little boy singing his hymn of praise to the little dog, Max Monday.
the birthday party
I’m well known for my rainbow butter cake. The trick is to get the butter and sugar absolutely smooth before you add the eggs. Elbow grease is what’s called for. Electric gadgetry has no business in the cake-making process. If you’re going to make the effort at all you may as well do the job properly. That has been my philosophy of life and my mother’s before me. These young ones today don’t know what hard work is. Convenience is all they think about. Oh, I haven’t got the energy arriving home after a hard day’s work, they say. That’s all very well but what are their priorities? Hearth and home come first, for a woman, I always say. Once I’ve got the rainbow separated into three sections, pink, chocolate and plain, I pour them into square tins that I have greased and lined with old butter papers. The old ways are the best ways. It’s important to deal with the cake very gently at this stage so as not to scare the air out of it. A good rainbow has plenty of height. I don’t swirl the colours together, although some do. I like to layer the three sections with jam and cream before I cover it with my vanilla icing. Blue for boys. Pink for girls. I may be old-fashioned but some traditions are, I think, sacred.
I am not an insensitive woman and just because I have not actually given birth to children of my own does not disqualify me from having some firm and practical opinions o
n the matter of childrearing. I am intelligent, observant, strict but kind. I am not without sympathy but, really, I do have to wonder whether my niece Suellen’s total lack of domestic competence didn’t play a large part in sending her husband fleeing from his home. It’s all very well for a woman to get a law degree, but at the end of the day, someone has to pick up the underpants.
Since he’s been gone it’s become, if possible, even more anarchic. I am wondering how much longer I can keep visiting. I’m only trying to be helpful, God knows, but small thanks I get from those children and Suellen. Well, if you ask me, she’s dropped her bundle. If I’ve told her once I’ve told her a thousand times, ‘Don’t drop your bundle’, but she has. And her manner—so offhand.
For example, the silly girl insisted that she would buy a cake from the patisserie for Ferdy’s birthday, but, two things here: she doesn’t have the money for such extravagance (I know for a fact newly graduated law students, especially female, earn a very small income) and second, a child, even a child as frightful as Ferdy, is entitled to know that someone had gone to a bit of effort for his birthday.
It is not always convenient to go over there. I’m not complaining, just stating facts. Wouldn’t I rather stay at home, pour myself a whisky and soda, grill some little cutlets and eat in a dining room that does not resemble a battle ground? Of course, but at least I happen to have a strongly developed sense of familial duty. Just as well someone has! What my poor dead brother would make of his daughter I don’t know … Still, a little appreciation, a little appreciation …
Let me tell you about the birthday party, little Ferdy’s fifth birthday party. No, little’s not the word. It gives the wrong impression. Ferdy is made like a bullet, all muscle and cropped hair and violence. He butts. However, I was pleased that I had gone to some trouble with my rainbow. I would not like young Ferdy to feel both his mother and myself had neglected him!
Disreputable People Page 8