“It wasn’t a fight! He . . . took liberties with me! So I clocked him and he pushed me over. End of!”
Kev’ blinked at me curiously, but was far too sensible to offer an opinion.
The plan for the morning was that, once the parade got moving, Kevin and I would cut through the park and watch the whole kaboodle pass from somewhere nearer the showgrounds. Then we could meet up with Bridie and Asa’ later, at her donations table. That might sound like I was being fobbed off on Kevin but, generally speaking I think I’m a positive influence on him. And vice versa. We’ve a mutual support thing going on.
Nonetheless, as I looked around at the big trucks and the rumbling tractors and the sheer, joyous expectation on everyone’s faces . . . and I saw Asael’s hand trembling on the motorcycle’s clutch and Bridie fretting over her pathetic years-old ‘Miss Freedom House Ministries’ banner, and I thought of the questions I’d sorted to get Kevin to help me fret about a past that was so far gone it couldn’t possibly impact on anyone . . . I couldn’t help but be struck by what a strange sad little group of misfits we must seem to him.
Until that week, I’d never really wondered why he was so there for us. Almost like he was one of us! He was, as I’ve said, the only black man living in Sugar Town which, I suppose, suggested a kind of alone-ness – maybe a sort of parallel? Not that he ever seemed lonely! In fact, he was the most entirely and consistently jubilant, in-love-with-life person you’d want to meet! Which I suppose I’d used as an excuse for never learning anything at all about his family! Where were they? Why weren’t they here? Why wasn’t he with them? I’d never asked because he seemed so complete on his own. Which, now that I think of it, was exactly the un-parallel of us McFarlanes!
Anyhow, as the parade’s last parts moved into place, I was busy formulating questions for him; specifically about the ‘terrible deed’ referenced in the Reverend’s letter and the relationship that had existed between my parents toward the end. And a provocative thought came into my mind. What if there were more letters? What if the letter Bridie’s dream had resurrected was one of lots that she’d kept from me? And I thought, if there’s one that presents a question, why wouldn’t there be another that reveals an answer?
And so, with all the confidence of that thought and Bridie’s same day promise that there’d be nothing but the truth between us, I smiled and nodded encouragement at Asael’s nervous glance. I gave them the ‘thumbs up’ when the vehicle ahead began to move and I applauded when the band began marching in the saints. I clapped my hands with excitement when Bridie patted his shoulder and shouted, “Let’s go, Asa!” And I began to wave goodbye even before his trembling fingers eased off the clutch. And I lied to Kevin.
“I’ve forgotten something, Kev! I just need ten minutes, okay? I’ll catch you up in the street. Or at the showground. In the display sheds. In the Cakes section. Half an hour; an hour, tops! Okay?”
“Want me to come with you? You need help?”
“No, no, I’m good, thanks. Really! You go! Keep an eye on them. Make sure Asa’ doesn’t run up anyone’s backside!”
He laughed and went. He’s a trusting soul, is Kev’, and one who’d do anything for you. Even give you space, if that’s what you seem to need.
* * *
Bridie never hid the memory box – the Brooks Brothers Sandals box. She just put it out of sight (and thereby out of mind, I suspect). So it was easy to find.
That might have been the first time that I’d gone through it on my own and I remember being struck by how little it actually contained! Some ancient newspaper clippings, a dozen or so loose letters and, at the bottom, a small bundle bound with a perishing rubber band. Virtually everything the Reverend did (or didn’t do) was a sore point with me; but he’d been gone for eight years! Surely there were more letters than this! I spent ten minutes or more going through the backs of closets and drawers, coming up empty handed and deciding to give it a better look another day.
A quick survey of the letters in the box told me that the loose ones were all familiar, but the bundled ones were not. Yet the franking on the stamps said 2000 and 2001 – the same era as the fridge letter describing his ‘Gebusi people’!
‘Okay!’ I thought to myself. ‘Gotta start somewhere!’ And I put the whole small bundle into my backpack, (it being the only place that was safe from Asael’s marauding). Then I put the memory box away and headed back into Main Street.
* * *
I’d spent more time than I intended. Either that or the parade had sped to a premature finish because the street was already deserted. There was an ankle-deep litter of paper and streamers and soft drink cans and splattered food bits, all being turned over by stray dogs; but no people at all. I knew they’d be milling around the parking lot in front of the showground, waiting their turns to get in, so I took my time, looking in windows, dawdling in the crosswalk, picturing the people who’d normally be there – imagining my father scowling his way amongst them.
The air was full of pockets, that day, some bearing the warm closeness of coming summer, others the cool leftover sweetness of departing spring. Thunder storms would come in a few weeks and drive the dogs howling in circles. I looked up. And in a corner of the sky, I caught a glimpse of a little red dot, moving way up against the blue – Johnathon Cranna and his Tiger Moth!
I wasn’t surprised. They were a familiar sight in the skies over Sugar Town, and weren’t an uncommon sight in advertising spreads on the pages of local and state newspapers. Promotional stunts were one of Johnathon’s gifts to Sugar Town – his way of keeping us from falling off the map. The best stunt, though, was reserved for us alone – the Harvest Festival lolly drop!
When I spied that little spot of colour at the top of the sky, I knew that, for the moment, he had to be sight-seeing. The drop, after all, couldn’t happen until the crowds had had time to file into the grounds and that couldn’t happen until the Grand Gourd was in place on its pedestal, at the gate. And anyway, he was way too high to be thinking of the lolly drop. I tried to imagine lying on the wind like a lazy hawk, looking down on Sugar Town. A small stony island in a green sea. With a Ferris wheel and a loop of colourful tents at one end, and a parade piling up like river-wash against the big green pea of The Grand Gourd.
There’s a poem about a guy who doesn’t know what turning to take next in his life. He looks to the sky and wishes he was a bird, ‘to whom such thoughts must seem absurd’. That was me, thinking that Johnathon Cranna, in his Tiger Moth, must be the free-est person in the world! No walls, no restrictions, no ties. Nothing to hold him down or in or out. If I was that free, I imagined, I’d take Bridie up and away from all her cares and responsibilities and Asa’ away from his strange visions and me . . . back in time, maybe. Back to a fuller family time.
* * *
As I watched, the Moth dipped and fell, out past the river and out of sight. I shifted my track into the middle of the empty street and walked slower, scanning between buildings for a glimpse of it. To my surprise, though, it reappeared dead ahead of me, standing on the point of one wing as though it had just spun around the corner out of Mill Street. It wavered briefly, steadied itself and, like a hound on a scent, began a run straight up Main Street. So low that it made the wires sing!
Curious to think I was watching the second-to-last flight that the Moth would ever make.
They passed directly over me, waggling their wings and I instinctively raised my hand to wave. Then they tilted lazily away and I zig-zagged on, working to keep them in view. At one point, they pulled back into a heart-stoppingly vertical climb and I drifted to a standstill, waiting for the long, beautiful arc of their fall. I waited and waited while they continued impossibly on, straight up, as though intent on punching through the blue. In the silence at my end of the street, I could hear the tiny buzz of the engine. I could hear when it started to cough and sputter as Johnathon held it there, clawing and straining through the thinning air. Until finally it gave a popping n
oise and died!
I shaded my eyes and squinted as, for what seemed an age, the Tiger Moth hung, way up in the middle of the sky! Connected to nothing at all! Inside it, in the ringing silence a kilometre up in the air, Johnathon was sitting, staring out into space! What could possibly be going through his mind, I wondered? Disappointment that he couldn’t keep going? Satisfaction, that he’d gone that far? Was he smiling? Talking to himself or to the Moth? Eating a sandwich? What? What kind of a man was he?
Whatever kind he was, of course, the moment was only a moment. The Moth began to slide tailwards, then toppled over onto its back. So no long beautiful arc! It fluttered like a leaf, and then spiked into the dizzy, frenzied spin of a wounded goose. Eventually, of course, the engine hiccupped into life and the plane became a sort of Earth-Thing once again, skimming the tops of the cane. I wished there was someone else with me, to share my wonder, but there wasn’t. I was the only one there.
Chapter 2 – Sideshow Alley
It was always a muddle near the gate. The floats and the bands and the marchers had all shouldered up, as far into the parking lot as they could get, and then they’d stopped, in whatever chaotic order had resulted. They’d stopped and begun the wait for was the placement of The Grand Gourd.
As a matter of tradition, The Gourd sat on a re-enforced plinth, under a purpose-built awning, just inside the gate, so the show-goers could pay their entry fee and their respects at the same time. If you stood near, you could hear a chorus of truly spiritual comments like:
‘Jesus Weeping Christ!’ or ‘Bloody hell, that’s a porker!’ or ‘Strike me dead! You could feed the multitudes with that bastard!’
Folks took the opportunity to reach up and give it a slap or a stroke as they passed and that’s when patches of paper would appear, attached with Blue-tak or a gobbet of gum. No one ever commented. As a rule, you’d rather be caught peeking in your neighbour’s window than commenting on their private communion with The Gourd! At least with the window, you could pretend you weren’t; that you’d only stopped to tie a shoe!
So anyhow, the crowd oozed in slowly and I was happy to hang back. Especially considering that, somewhere up ahead, the Suttons might be lurking, soaking up congratulations. And it surely was way too soon to be running into them again.
* * *
I was in no hurry anyhow. I knew exactly where Bridie was, which meant I knew exactly where Asael was. And I knew that I still had plenty of time before I had to meet Kevin. So, a bit of solitude being a precious thing, I found a possie on the ground against a fence and started digging through my backpack. I had a water bottle in there. And a packet of Sultanas and my wallet. And down the bottom, my bundle of pilfered letters.
A quick survey of the bundle showed me that I needn’t have taken the newspaper clippings. I knew them all by heart. Still, I scanned them again, for certainty’s sake.
* * *
‘TOWN’S FAREWELL’, the title of one read. ‘The body of local identity, Mrs Rita MacFarlane . . . laid to rest . . . Several hundred mourners . . . Scant months after the death of her mother. . . service conducted by her husband, well known local identity, Rev’ Jacob . . . leaves behind two daughters, aged 15 years and 4 years, and an infant son, aged 16 months . . . sadly missed . . .’
* * *
Not much in the way of detail but, of course, everyone in town would have known the details – where and how she did it, the condition of the body when it was found, etcetera, etcetera. You start reporting that sort of stuff in the local paper and next thing you know you’ll be writing about the infant son’s eventual guilt complex; or his nightmares, with Rita showing up on her skeleton feet! Nobody wants that sort of stuff in print.
There was another clipping, dated almost exactly a year after that one.
* * *
‘FAREWELL TO OUR FATHER’, the title read. ‘Much loved local minister, Jacob McFarlane . . . farewelled by . . . congregation . . . temporary duties . . . Papua New Guinea. . . . lately bereaved by tragic losses . . . wife and mother-in-law . . . no reservations about leaving his three children in the care of friend and housekeeper, Bessie Crampton. “Such is my faith,” he said, “in Sugar Town’s commitment to caring for its own.”’
Such was his faith. Yada yada. Shame the commitment wasn’t his!
* * *
I was actually able, by that time, to catch glimpses of Bridie and Asael. They were in her usual spot, directly opposite The Grand Gourd where, just for the first few hours of each day, she habitually sat, under an umbrella, sporting her worn ‘Miss Freedom House Ministries’ banner, humbly accepting donations to verify the Reverend’s ‘faith’. Which, of course, was the annual test of ‘Sugar Town’s commitment to caring for its own’!
And I guess, if he was right about nothing else, the Rev’ was at least right about that because, give them their due, the people of Sugar Town never stinted in their support. Practically everyone gave at least a silver coin at Harvest Festival and lots took the opportunity to ask after ‘the work’.
‘Still battlin’ the heathen hordes, is he, Bri’?’
‘Good on ya, girl! The Lord’s got hisself fine workers in you McFarlanes!’
Bridie was totally comfortable with it. But I wasn’t. I’m sure humility takes a lot more practice than I’ll ever be willing to give it.
Still, I did admire her ability to chat happily with givers and non-givers alike, while As’ gazed dreamily at her side. I decided to leave her to it a bit longer before presenting myself. Instead, I slipped the rubber band off the thin packet of letters – the ones I was fairly certain I’d never seen before. Still wondering why that was.
* * *
How I wish I could show you children what God has wrought here in these remote valleys and mountains! It is an Eden of green foliage, with life stirring at every conceivable level. And though I’m only beginning to understand their language and culture, I believe the people to be among the most innocent of God’s children, seeming to want for none of their daily needs. What they need to eat, they take from the jungle and from the earth and from their own labour.
I know you will be wondering about my health so let me hasten to assure you that I’ve quickly become accustomed to – even appreciative of – the local diet. Yams, sweet potatoes and taro, though humble fare, are more than sufficient to the daily needs of the Gebusi and so I give thanks to God that they are also sufficient to my needs. And of course (on feast days at any rate) there is pork! (Pigs being here, as elsewhere in PNG, ubiquitous and much valued.)
I don’t mind telling you, however, that, between feast days, when the occasional bit of meat does come our way – be it only a bird or a possum or even a few frogs – well, you would laugh to see the excitement in my hut! Only last week, Agnes (more of her in a moment) discovered a rat in the thatch of my ceiling. It was astonishing to see how quickly she was able to capture and dispatch it. Smartly skinned, it was, and into the pot it went! Of course I was reluctant to taste such a creature, but Agnes was insistent and seemed so hurt by my refusal that I finally gave in. Such small gestures are the least I can do to thank her for the dedicated manner in which she tends to my needs. (And anyhow, as I’ve always said, those of us charged with carrying God’s word must be prepared for a hard road.)
* * *
That was the first page, and it left me none the wiser. For the most part, just a follow-up to the fridge letter that had spent years becoming dog-earred, reminding us of the Fly River and the Gebusi! So why hide this one? I read that page twice and the only part that meant nothing at all to me – so therefore, I decided, must be a clue – was the reference to Agnes. Who was Agnes?
By this time, almost the whole of the crowd had passed through the gate and I calculated that Kevin would soon be starting to look for me. Also, there was the inevitability that someone would soon point me out to Bridie, leaving me no choice but to make up a story to explain my sitting against the fence, reading, instead of coming to claim
Asael. I was okay with making up stories, but doing it well is always a strain, and I didn’t need more strains right then.
My compromise was to scan the second page as I walked. I didn’t have to scan far before I met Agnes.
* * *
Agnes, I am very pleased to say, is my first convert – and already my most valuable tool in the further spreading of the Word. She came into my service almost as soon as I arrived, some three months ago. (I’ve been trying to keep track of the days on paper, but I fear I sometimes forget to mark the day or sometimes, inadvertently, might mark it twice!) The Gebusi, you see, are very fine hosts and go far out of their way to ensure the comfort of their visitors. And yet I long for the day when I’m no longer viewed as a visitor, but rather acknowledged as a significant member of the community!
(Interesting, since it clearly hadn’t been enough for him to be a significant member of this community!)
I’ve taught Agnes rather a good bit of English (mostly in the form of prayers, of course – though she seems remarkably able to adapt that language to everyday use). As well, I’ve begun teaching her to read! Which is to say that I read to her nightly, from the Bible! My belief is that, if I first instil in her an appreciation of the perfect beauty of its wisdom and promise, then she will soon enough wish to ‘see’ those things for herself.
On Agnes’ behalf, Bridie, I must thank you for the used blouses you sent in your last mission package. I brought all those goods with me and have distributed them amongst the villagers. The clothing issue presents particular challenges, I must say. I have been used to the people around Daru who are well used to the wearing of clothes. But here in the mountains, things are quite different. Here it is not particularly important, for example, for women to cover their top halves.
Obviously I cannot have Agnes coming into my hut in such a state so I’ve taken to keeping a number of your blouses near the entryway and requiring her to put one on whenever she enters. They are snug on her – (I do hope you’re not losing weight! Are you quite well?) – but they do an admirable job. It’s odd but, for a young woman with very adept fingers, Agnes has a remarkably difficult time with the buttons and I seem forever to be having to button her up as she will not or cannot do so herself. (If you could send a roll of Velcro and some needles and thread and perhaps some trousers, in your next package, the ministry would be much obliged.) Just to show how Agnes does value the blouses, I must tell you that, when I took her to the stream to baptise her (the name ‘Agnes’ was my choice, chosen for that much harried saint!) she insisted on wearing one. I was very proud of her.