the young mother had fainted.
The pew where she had been sitting was empty, but I leaned over it to make sure she wasn’t lying full stretch. Coughing politely I walked slowly down the aisle, looking up and down the pews.
‘Anyone here?’ Apart from the Almighty.
The church grew darker and the iron roof creaked as a cloud passed over. Ahead was the communion table, pulpit, and the dark opening of the doorway leading to the vestry.
An empty church is an eerie place. You can never shake the feeling you’re being watched, which is, I suppose, the point. If you’re alone, though, you’re the centre of attention.
Even my socks were damp with perspiration.
Something moved near the vestry.
‘Who’s there?’ My voice was pitched a little high.
I walked slowly over, tilting my head, trying to get a clear vision of what lay in the gloom. A figure in black stood by the wall.
‘I’m a doctor.’
Not necessarily the most reassuring thing to say in these parts. I stepped closer.
He didn’t move. I stood at the vestry entrance. A sudden shaft of sun lit a column of rising dust and I was looking at the Reverend Kerr’s black robe hanging from a hook.
I straightened, ridiculous and apparently alone. And yet I had heard something. To my left was the door, behind which a homeless thin woman and a child could hide. I stepped into the vestry and touched the knob. A dark shape rushed me.
‘Christ!’
I leapt back. The rat darted between my legs and went for the far wall, hitting the skirting board and running along until it reach the hem of the robe. It stopped there, thinking it was hidden, but I could still see its greasy tail and I took two strides towards it, lifted my foot and brought it down.
The robe slid from the hook to spill over my boot, under which the rat squirmed. I leaned my weight to it until it stopped moving.
I took a deep breath and pulled my leg away. It had all happened so fast. I pushed the cloth aside with thetoe of a boot. The rat kicked feebly in death, blood blossoming from its nose onto the floor. A great deal of blood. I saw black blood on the cloth.
I stood there feeling shaky, expecting footsteps, someone fleeing, or someone arriving to investigate the desecration. But it was quiet.
I gathered up the black robe and then used it to pick up the body. I started to wipe the bloody floor.
Damnation.
I carried the corpse in its bloody shroud to the front door and, holding it out at arm’s length, let the dead rat fall to the dirt. Blood, dust and rat hair were smeared over the cloth. I gave it a shake, and then debated whether to take it with me and burn it.
But I simply went back to the vestry and hung the thing up again, walking out of the church as quickly and casually as I could manage.
I reached the fig tree before turning around. If the young woman and her child were still in the church they could stew. I cursed myself for trying to help. I could see the small broken body of the rat in the dust near the steps. A crow swooped down and jumped towards it. I turned.
I felt a little ill as I walked away, my boots raising puffs of dust that the wind blew ahead, down a road empty at noon on a Sunday.
chapter three
The flaunting flag of progress Is in the West unfurled, The mighty bush with iron rails Is tethered to the world.
‘The Roaring Days’, Henry Lawson
THE WHEELS OF HEAVY wagons had maimed the road to the wharves, but the Carbine negotiated the lesions with a certain panache, I felt. I passed two men walking their bicycles and I even managed to raise my hat.
The thing about the Carbine bicycle, the thing that made it suitable for the North, was that it was built completely of English parts, as I said, but had been assembled in South Australia to be raced between towns. It was painted red and had pneumatic tyres, the pillion modified to take my medical bag, but I couldn’t say the streets of Townsville were ideal for the sport. It was mostly flat going, but rough, and
The pew where she had been sitting was empty, but I leaned over it to make sure she wasn’t lying full stretch. Coughing politely I walked slowly down the aisle, looking up and down the pews.
‘Anyone here?’ Apart from the Almighty.
The church grew darker and the iron roof creaked as a cloud passed over. Ahead was the communion table, pulpit, and the dark opening of the doorway leading to the vestry.
An empty church is an eerie place. You can never shake the feeling you’re being watched, which is, I suppose, the point. If you’re alone, though, you’re the centre of attention.
Even my socks were damp with perspiration.
Something moved near the vestry.
‘Who’s there?’ My voice was pitched a little high.
I walked slowly over, tilting my head, trying to get a clear vision of what lay in the gloom. A figure in black stood by the wall.
‘I’m a doctor.’
Not necessarily the most reassuring thing to say in these parts. I stepped closer.
He didn’t move. I stood at the vestry entrance. A sudden shaft of sun lit a column of rising dust and I was looking at the Reverend Kerr’s black robe hanging from a hook.
I straightened, ridiculous and apparently alone. And yet I had heard something. To my left was the door, behind which a homeless thin woman and a child could hide. I stepped into the vestry and touched the knob. A dark shape rushed me.
‘Christ!’
I leapt back. The rat darted between my legs and went for the far wall, hitting the skirting board and running along until it reach the hem of the robe. It stopped there, thinking it was hidden, but I could still see its greasy tail and I took two strides towards it, lifted my foot and brought it down.
The robe slid from the hook to spill over my boot, under which the rat squirmed. I leaned my weight to it until it stopped moving.
I took a deep breath and pulled my leg away. It had all happened so fast. I pushed the cloth aside with thetoe of a boot. The rat kicked feebly in death, blood blossoming from its nose onto the floor. A great deal of blood. I saw black blood on the cloth.
I stood there feeling shaky, expecting footsteps, someone fleeing, or someone arriving to investigate the desecration. But it was quiet.
I gathered up the black robe and then used it to pick up the body. I started to wipe the bloody floor.
Damnation.
I carried the corpse in its bloody shroud to the front door and, holding it out at arm’s length, let the dead rat fall to the dirt. Blood, dust and rat hair were smeared over the cloth. I gave it a shake, and then debated whether to take it with me and burn it.
But I simply went back to the vestry and hung the thing up again, walking out of the church as quickly and casually as I could manage.
I reached the fig tree before turning around. If the young woman and her child were still in the church they could stew. I cursed myself for trying to help. I could see the small broken body of the rat in the dust near the steps. A crow swooped down and jumped towards it. I turned.
I felt a little ill as I walked away, my boots raising puffs of dust that the wind blew ahead, down a road empty at noon on a Sunday.
chapter three
The flaunting flag of progress Is in the West unfurled, The mighty bush with iron rails Is tethered to the world.
‘The Roaring Days’, Henry Lawson
THE WHEELS OF HEAVY wagons had maimed the road to the wharves, but the Carbine negotiated the lesions with a certain panache, I felt. I passed two men walking their bicycles and I even managed to raise my hat.
The thing about the Carbine bicycle, the thing that made it suitable for the North, was that it was built completely of English parts, as I said, but had been assembled in South Australia to be raced between towns. It was painted red and had pneumatic tyres, the pillion modified to take my medical bag, but I couldn’t say the streets of Townsville were ideal for the sport. It was mostly flat going, but rough, and
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