Time's Long Ruin by Stephen Orr Page B

People would also come in to catch their breath on their way home from the supermarket on Port Road.
    I sat down beside a man in a singlet drinking water from an old jam jar. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
    â€˜Henry.’
    â€˜I’m Jack. You eat yer carrots?’
    I turned up my nose. ‘I have to.’
    â€˜What you gonna do when you grow up?’
    I shrugged. ‘Policeman.’
    â€˜Ah.’ He drank and water ran down his chin and chest. ‘Bugger that. You look like a smart kid. Do your sums, read your books and study law. They’re the only bastards makin’ money. And Don fuckin’ Bradman. Sittin’ on his arse sellin’ shares.’ And with that he stood up, lifted a box of carrots and continued on his way.
    I took a book out of my bag. It was the Child’s Manual of Devotion , given to me by Grandma Page for my birthday. It had a big picture of Jesus on the front, his heart glowing gold. It wasn’t much of a story, just more religious claptrap as Dad called it. Even I could do better, I thought.
    Dear God, bless the rat. Give him strength to make it home. Lay your hands on his legs and fix them. If he does happen to die, help out his family. Bless the skink. Let him find flies. Bless Dad, and help him find out who the mystery man is (you must know). Bless Mum, help her with the washing. Bless the Rileys. Keep them safe as they climb the rocks on Granite Island.
    Jack walked past with another box of carrots. ‘What you reading, Henry?’
    I showed him.
    â€˜Christ,’ he replied, ‘that isn’t going to help you.’
    And God, make Jack’s carrots as light as rose petals . . .
    â€˜You need yer times tables,’ he continued. ‘What are seven eights?’
    â€˜Fifty-six.’
    â€˜Forget Jesus, leave that for the feeble-minded.’
    Jack may have had more to do with my spiritual development than he knows. I was already thinking along these lines. I’d picked up clues from Dad. Once, when Mum insisted I go to Sunday school at the Croydon Baptist, Dad replied, ‘Well, you can take him.’
    â€˜You should be supporting me.’
    â€˜Ha.’
    There was a single visit, attempts to draw Jesus in crayon on butcher’s paper, a sing-along, endless prayers, and an invitation to borrow a book from their library. Library, ha! A thousand books about Jesus. Libraries were meant to expand the mind, not shrink it. Still, I borrowed a book on the crucifixion of Christ. I only looked at the pictures: crappy illustrations for a crappy story. So what if he was crucified? Everyone’s got to die.
    When I got home Dad asked, smirking, ‘How was it?’
    â€˜At least I try,’ Mum replied, throwing the book at him. He moved and it fell to the ground and the spine cracked. Mum tried to fix it but couldn’t. She left it on the front step of the church with a note: H. Page no longer able to attend S. school. Unforeseen circumstances. God bless you anyway. Ellen Page.
    But Mum mustn’t have been too concerned. If it was something she really cared about she would have fought tooth and nail. She would have turned into a doll with red eyes and fangs and had it out with my father. And if she didn’t get her way she would’ve flown down the hall, slammed the back door and locked herself in the woodshed. And then it would be up to Dad to make peace. ‘Ellen, come on, the Rileys can see.’
    Talking of Mum, she’d be out any time now looking for me, wandering into the cold store in her slippers and apron, hair in rollers and her arms folded. ‘Henry, what are you doing here?’
    So I headed home across the tracks, dropping my new shells off at the gatehouse. ‘Do you want them, Con?’
    â€˜There’s never too many shells on the altar.’
    As ‘Scotland the Brave’ played in the distance I crossed the road and Doctor Gunn came out of his shop. ‘What