by Jack Dey
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CHAPTER 22 - THURSDAY ISLAND 1881
Warrammarra preached directly from God’s word and his refusal to water it down upset some of the weaker elements in the church. He often came under criticism for his raw stance and today was no different. He was on his way to talk with one of the women who was an outspoken member of the church. Her husband owned a pearling business. She had become insulted at Warrammarra’s insistence that the Bible was clear, and Jesus Christ is the Son of God and there is no other way to God but through Jesus. He was becoming exasperated at her continuing stance and wanted to concentrate on a few positive things before meeting with the woman. He walked slowly through the village and up into town, thinking of all the changes that had taken place since his ill fated journey with the preacher, twenty six years ago.
Merinda was a beautiful woman now and had married Jundah only a few weeks ago. Four years ago, the pearling fleet had made T.I. its main port for the Torres Strait and there were white folk everywhere now, the harbour full of sailing boats. The new ‘Pearl Shell and Beche-De-Mer Fishery Act of 1881’ made it safer for the divers searching for pearl shell and the skippers of the pearling vessels had to licence their divers and their vessels, making it harder to exploit the village young men. A lot of the native men had found good employment with Robert Jennings aboard his pearling luggers. Most of them liked the man and were grateful to have such a good boss. Merinda’s friendship with Jennings’ daughter, Elizabeth, had come as a welcome surprise. She was not only beautiful to look at, but she was lovely inside, as well. The church was growing and Jesus was bringing in new people every week.
Warrammarra was just passing the telegraph office, deep in thought, when the telegrapher called after him, shaking him from his thoughts.
“Warrammarra!”
Warrammarra turned on his heels to face the caller. “Good morning, Mister Connor. What can I do for you?”
“Cablegram for you, from Britain,” the telegrapher replied.
“For me? From Britain?!” he quizzed, taking the cablegram, and thanking the telegrapher. Much surprised he began to read.
Dear Sir,
Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Reginald Belgrade, the Third. I have anonymously supported your wonderful work through your first preacher at the Thursday Island church, for many years. I have been impressed that so many have taken our Lord into their hearts through your labours. As my son, Philip, has a desire to make the church his career, I would be indebted to you if he may sit under your wise tutelage. I have taken the forward step as to have already installed him aboard a ship, to be arriving at your island two weeks hence.
Yours faithfully,
Reginald Belgrade, the Third.
Warrammarra was stunned. He read it over and over in disbelief. “Philip Belgrade...? Two weeks...?” he repeated to himself. He worried at such an important guest arriving. Obviously it was Philip’s father’s intention for Philip to stay and learn some sort of wisdom, but he wasn’t sure he possessed such wisdom. The thought crossed his mind that he was being checked up on and a report card would be sent back to Reginald to grade Warrammarra for further financial assistance.
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Nirrimi just laughed and teased, “I think God is going to use you to sharpen this young man as iron sharpens iron. Wasn’t that your last teaching from the pulpit, dear preacher? God has a way of making us live out what we teach others.”
“Where is he going to live?” Warrammarra thought out loud.
Nirrimi’s smile suddenly disappeared. “I didn’t think of that.”
Aunty Rosa didn’t get around as fast as she used to. She was eighty five now and though her mind was as sharp as ever, her steps were slow and painful.
“Good morning, dear ones,” came Aunty’s voice from the doorway.
Nirrimi and Warrammarra were talking in their small hut and had not heard her approach, and her sudden voice startled them. Warrammarra grabbed a chair and placed it on the porch where Aunty could sit. She didn’t like being inside much anymore and preferred to sit outside. She would often say, with those cheeky eyes smiling, “When the Lord is ready to take me home, I want to make it easy for him to find me.” Warrammarra and Nirrimi sat at her feet on the porch, with great admiration and obvious concern for the octogenarian.
“He will stay with me,” Aunty declared.
“Who?!” Nirrimi responded.
“Philip, of course, child. I will make up a bed on a mat for him and he can sleep on the floor,” Aunty said matter-of-factly.
“Aunty, you are getting too old to be taking care of people like this and anyway, he is a gentleman’s son. He won’t be used to sleeping on the floor,” Nirrimi chided.
“Nonsense, child. If Jesus has sent him to us, He has plans for that young man and he needs to have some corners knocked off. It is settled,” Aunty said, planting her feet.
Nirrimi knew when Aunty made up her mind, then nothing but a direct command from Jesus would change it.
Warrammarra walked Aunty back to her hut. He could see the door still open and as usual, there was someone waiting to talk with her. Warrammarra noticed the long, auburn hair and warm smile, back from where he was fifty yards away.
“Elizabeth is waiting for you, Aunty,” Warrammarra remarked.
“Yes, she said she would visit today,” Aunty explained, a look of anticipation in her eyes.
“Hello, Elizabeth,” Warrammarra greeted.
“Good morning, sir,” Elizabeth replied.
Elizabeth engulfed Aunty in a hug and Aunty returned the gesture. Warrammarra kissed Aunty on the cheek, bid Elizabeth goodbye, turned on his heels and headed back to his hut.
“Hello, child. Sit with me and tell me all that you have been doing,” Aunty quizzed expectantly.
Elizabeth had made many visits to Aunty over the past weeks and the bond was growing between them. She carefully picked her way through the deserted paths on the back of the island. It was a longer way to walk, but at least she would not run into Davis. Merinda, aware of Elizabeth’s love for Aunty and her questions about Jesus, would let her spend time at Aunty’s before searching her out. Elizabeth spoke candidly about her family; how her father had been under some kind of deep stress that he refused to talk about; her mother’s concern; John’s return and his engagement. She even worked up the nerve to tell Aunty about Davis and how he made her feel, the argument with her father and the accident at the cliff. Aunty just listened, the concern showing on the old lady’s face.
“Let’s talk to Jesus, child, and let him know of our concerns,” Aunty suggested.
Aunty committed Elizabeth’s concerns and her family into Jesus’ hands. Elizabeth could feel the presence of a great warmth that engulfed her as Aunty prayed. She opened her eyes and looked around to see if anyone was there.
“Who is Jesus?” Elizabeth enquired of Aunty.
Aunty’s eyes twinkled as she explained the Ten Commandments; our fallen sin nature; how God is a perfect God, allowing only perfect people to live eternally with him; and how the lake of fire awaits all those who don’t accept Jesus as Saviour.
Elizabeth looked shocked!
“But... I am a good person. I don’t rob anyone, kill or any of the other things in the Ten Commandments.”
Aunty replied, “Have you ever told a lie or gossiped about anyone? Jesus says that’s the same as murder in His standards. Yes, Elizabeth, you are a good person, but Jesus judges us by His standards, not ours. No one can get into Heaven by being good, because our good is not good enough.”
“Then... who can get to Heaven?” Elizabeth replied, confused and a little annoyed.
“That is the beauty of Jesus’ plan, child. We are not good enough. So He, being God and perfect, offered Himself as the sacrifice for us. Anyone who recognises their sin and believes that Jesus took our sins on Himself can confidently march into Heaven when they die, using His perfect goodness as a ticket to get through the doors. All we
have to do, is ask.”
Elizabeth pondered Aunty’s explanation. She wasn’t ready to jump into this.
She needed time.
Merinda arrived. Seeing the look on Elizabeth’s face and the twinkle in Aunty’s eye, she knew Jesus was doing business in Elizabeth’s heart.
“Hello, Aunty,” she said, giving her a hug.
“Hello, child,” Aunty replied.
“Merinda!” Elizabeth jumped up, her face lightening up with a smile as she hugged her.
“Hello, beautiful lady,” Merinda complimented, returning her hug.
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CHAPTER 23 - THURSDAY ISLAND 1881
Philip leaned over the railing of the three masted schooner and felt the coolness of the sea air blowing directly into his face. Above him, the sails were full of the strong northwest wind. The schooner moved swiftly and quietly through the water, bucking and rolling, throwing up misty spray. The outside world promised him excitement at every turn, the taste of salt on his lips and the fire of adventure burned in his belly.
The journey from Plymouth to the Australian north coast had taken nearly three months. They had encountered three large storms on their voyage and the thrill of the experience had left him hungry for more. He had climbed the ropes of the tallest mast during a squall, to rescue a young crewman who had become stuck in the rigging some thirty feet up, whilst the vessel yawed and bucked on the huge waves, threatening to forcefully eject them overboard. Successfully helping the young crewman back on the deck, Philip tripped over a rope and banged his shin, requiring bandaging.
Philip loved the Lord and had felt an urge in his heart to go to Thursday Island. His father had reluctantly agreed, hoping that some wise counsel and bad experiences would calm his only son’s desires and to serve Jesus in a more conventional attitude. A nice parish in Bristol would have suited Reginald perfectly.
His mother had chosen the name Philip for him. He mischievously told her it suited a cat, not him, but Philip loved his mother dearly and it broke his heart when she suddenly took ill with tuberculosis and died. He remembered that day, nearly three years ago, like it was yesterday. It left an emptiness and a longing in his heart, that only the softness of a mother’s love could fill. Philip kept his name as a mark of respect for his mother, but his close friends called him ‘Patch’. His nickname suitably imposed upon him because of his inquisitive nature and careless abandon at attempting dangerous things just to see where they led and in the process, usually ended up bandaged, patched or splinted on some place or other.
The long exhilarating journey was coming to its end and Philip was trying to enjoy the last tastes of freedom before settling down under his new tutor. He wondered about the man his father had talked so highly of. Still, in a matter of hours he would know.
Philip was a tall, twenty five year old man, nearly six foot two and had a wiry build and quick wit. He had dark hair; a handsome, well featured face; and deep grey eyes, like storm clouds holding back their rain. Although he was a gentleman’s son, he often forgot his genteel background and preferred the rough outdoors. There was only one thing in his life that was more important than the love he held for his mother.
The love for Jesus.
He would follow Him anywhere.
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The ship finally docked and the passengers and their luggage were offloaded. Philip went below deck to say goodbye, a reluctant parting to the crew members who had become his friends. He had calmed some of the younger sailors during the fiercest storm and earned their respect and friendship. Philip gazed around the crowded dock and noticed two handsome, middle aged native people and a stunning young native woman, holding hands with a finely sculptured, young native man. He guessed these were his tutors.
With all the gentleman he could muster, he approached the people, bowed his head and announced, “Philip Belgrade, at your service. Mister Warrammarra, I presume.”
Warrammarra, in the depths of discomfort, simply said, “Yes, that is me.”
After introductions, they walked into the village and arrived outside Aunty Rosa’s place. Philip had one bag, which he insisted on carrying.
“This will be your home, Philip,” Warrammarra announced.
The door was open. Aunty was inside, cooking dinner and slowly ambled out to meet Philip.
Philip bowed his head to Aunty. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, madam.”
Aunty looked directly at him and reprimanded, “That is the last time you are to bow your head to anyone, unless you are praying for them. My name is Aunty Rosa, not madam.”
Shock rippled over Warrammarra’s face and his mouth hung open.
Aunty sauntered over to Philip and took him in a hug. “Now that’s out of the way, are you hungry, child, after your journey?”
“Yes ma... Aunty Rosa,” Philip corrected, a twinkle in his eyes.
Six people huddled around Aunty’s small table made for a close, intimate meal. Aunty bowed her head and gave thanks for the food. It was as if all Heaven stopped to listen to the prayer of the Godly old woman and a little tear formed in the corner of Philip’s eye at the power of such a simple prayer. Soon after the meal began, Philip had everyone laughing as he explained his nickname and then showed them the bandage around his leg. At his invitation they found it easy to drift into calling him Patch. As the meal came to an end and people were returning to their own huts, Aunty’s rumbling laugh could still be heard coming from her hut.
Patch had captured their hearts.
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Patch’s six foot frame lay on a canvas mat down on Aunty’s floor, his feet sticking out onto the wooden boards. The night was deeply balmy and the dank humidity made him sweat, and discard his thin covering. From his position, he could see out the open door and into the star studded sky above, while Aunty’s gentle snoring kept an offbeat rhythm with the cicadas outside. He felt strangely at home with the people he had just met and he wondered what Jesus would do with his time among these gentle folk. Aunty’s hug had warmed him and it felt like he was sleeping on the floor of the throne room of God Himself. His lips moved in the dark, but didn’t utter a sound.
“Jesus, I am ready to learn whatever I must; to serve you as I should,” he whispered, then rolled onto his side and drifted off to sleep.
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A blinding flash, followed by a deep rumble that shook the floor beneath him, woke Patch in a panic. He sat bolt upright, woken from a deep sleep and stared into the darkness outside. There was the noise of what sounded like rocks dropping on the tin roof and then it increased into a crescendo of noise as the tropical rain teemed down. In the half light, he could see waterfalls were flowing off the roof as the dirt road outside quickly became a river.
Aunty stirred, mumbled something in her sleep, turned over and started snoring again. Patch laid his head back down on the makeshift pillow and drifted back to sleep.
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The sound of someone humming ‘Amazing Grace’ and the smell of something delicious cooking nearby, woke Patch. He followed his senses to find the author of the pleasantries and found Aunty smiling back at him.
“Did you sleep well, child?” Aunty asked.
“Like a log, Aunty,” Patch said, yawning and stretching.
“Good. Breakfast is nearly ready,” Aunty declared.
Patch sat with Aunty as they ate together, then helped her with the dishes and any of the chores around that she needed doing. By the time Patch had completed the tasks Aunty wanted done, the morning had nearly gone.
“Come sit with me, child,” she called from the porch.
Patch folded his six foot frame onto the porch next to Aunty, while in the distance she could see another person she wanted to talk to. There was no mistaking the graceful walk, the velvety, red flowing hair and those deep green eyes. Elizabeth came straight up to Aunty and hugged her, not even noticing Patch.
“Patch, this is Elizabeth,” Aunty said, her eyes twinkling.
/> Patch just stared up at this beautiful woman, tripping over himself trying to get up, his mouth hanging open.
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CHAPTER 24 - BRISBANE 2008
The street lights spilled an eerie glow over the dashboard of the parked vehicle. Every time a car passed by, he sank down in his seat, trying not to arouse suspicion from the surrounding neighbourhood. He pulled back the sleeve of his dark shirt and pushed the illuminate button on his wrist watch. 0500. The woman ran her schedule like clockwork and if she maintained her normal routine, she would be coming out about... now.
The front door to the old Queenslander opened and a woman of slender build, dressed in a black tracksuit and jogging shoes, jogged down the stairs, off onto the foot path and disappeared around the corner.
Ok, that gives me thirty minutes, the dark clothed stranger thought.
He reached for the dome light above his head, switched the light off and opened his door. The car was parked adjacent to the old Queenslander. If his previous night’s work had been correct, the back door had a deadlock and a push-button locking door handle. He quickly made his way around the back of the house, climbed the back stairs, reached into his pocket with a gloved hand and produced a small glasses case. In the semidarkness, he picked out a long piece of steel resembling a large needle, slid it into the lock and gave it a twist. The handle turned in his hand and made a thunk noise as the button on the inside of the door jumped out, into the open position.
One down, one to go.
This time, he chose a key shaped, flat piece of steel with one flat tooth on the end, inserted it into the deadlock and twisted it. He could feel each spring loaded bar and gently pushed each one up as he twisted and inserted the key. He felt the last bar give way and the door pushed open. He checked his watch... fifteen minutes left. He produced a small pencil torch and found his way into the back of the house. Quickly, he searched each room as he went, then he pushed the door into the bedroom.