Oscar and Lucinda

holding Mrs Trevis's newborn babe, a bad-tempered little chap, always 'sucky' and given to banging his little head against the governess's shoulder.

'You might mourn for me, or Mr Trevis,' suggested Mrs Trevis.

'Oh, there is no likelihood of that,' said Miriam Chadwick tossing her hair back off her shoulders-beautiful hair, coal-black hair, raven hair, but who was there to see its dark blue lights out here at Marx Hill? 'No likelihood at all,' said Miriam, bouncing the babe resentfully, and leaving her comment ambiguous as long as she dare, 'with both you and Mr Trevis in such fine health.'

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'Here/' said Mrs Trevis, reaching out for the babe while she gently cuffed her little boy who was reaching for a saucepan on the kitchen table. 'Here, 111 take bubba. You try your hand at t'other.'

'T'other' was the butter churn which wooden wheel of torture Mrs Trevis now abandoned to her governess.

'If you have nabbed young Reverend Hasset,' Mrs Trevis began, an observation that had nothing to do with mourning or widow's weeds, but was intended to bring her uppity governess (she thought herself too good to set the fires or scrub the milk pails) to a proper understanding of her place in this society.

'I did not attempt, as you put it, to 'nab' the poor man, although there is no doubting he was properly 'nabbed' without him knowing what had happened.'

'Jealousy killed the cat/' said Mrs Trevis, dipping her finger in the butter jar and then slipping it into her infant's sucky mouth.

Miriam Chadwick looked on with her handsome nose wrinkled.

'Curiosity.'

'Beg yours?'

'It was curiosity that killed the cat.'

'Curiosity in the beginning,' said Mrs Trevis, 'but jealousy in the end. It is bad luck to throw away your widow's weeds.'

This conversation was in Miriam Chadwick's mind on the hot Thursday afternoon when, with the Trevises all gone into Boat Harbour to buy provisions for the Easter feast, she was savouring her solitude, sitting on the wooden step, looking down at the curve of the Bellinger River. She was running through her list of unsatisfactory or irritating or boorish suitors when she saw a church made from glass towed into her field of vision by two men in wide straw hats. Her first thought was disappointment that Mrs Trevis was not here to witness this thing with her, that she must exclaim to nothing but the empty air. 'Oh, my,' she said, feeling that some subtle victory had been somehow denied her, 'just look at what you have missed. Just look. Just look at it.'

It came up the river, its walls like ice emanating light, as fine and elegant as civilization itself.

'Who?' demanded Miriam Chadwick. 'Who? Just answer me that.' Who in this valley of muddy boots could be responsible for such a thing? For it was not simply that the little steep-roofed church was made from glass, but that it had all the lovely proportions and gracenotes of a fancy constructed for a prince, say, in Bavaria.

All along its roof ridge there was a decorative edging, a frill-she

Miriam

could not make it out exactly but it would seem, there, to be like a line of fleurs-de-lis. The glass sheets of its walls were not square and dull like window panes, but tall and thin, with a triangulation at the top, and a lovely cast-iron frieze made of medallions (crests?), which repeated in a frieze along the bottom of the walls. This cast- iron frieze must be nearly three feet high-ornate like the rood screen in a cathedral.

She did not see or appreciate Mr Flood's speciality-the cast-iron barley-sugar scrolls of which he had been so proud-and indeed it would not be more than a minute before she forgot the miraculous building entirely-it soon assumed no more importance than a pretty wrapping paper for, as the lighters slewed in the river, the glass regained its transparency, and she saw the blacksuited figure sitting on a chair inside the church. At this moment her sense of wonder was completely swamped by more practical concerns, for if this lovely building was a church — and was that not a cross at the termination of the cresting?then the blacksuited man inside was almost certainly a clergyman. She had an aqua moire-silk riding habit, which was thought 'unsuitable' in Boat Harbour. She put it on. She had a little hat with a veil. She fastened it with a long pin. There was no time for bathing. She went out into the home paddock and caught the bad-tempered little Shetland which had been left at home, smacked it hard across the nose when it tried to bite her. The beast pulled its head back and its eye, though wild, was less wild than usual. 'So,' thought Miriam Chadwick,

'you are a bully like the rest of them.' The pony pulled. Miriam hit it again, refllecting bitterly on the brutalizing effects of life at Fernmount.

The pony would not go slow. It went at speed, cantering, almost galloping down the rutted shaleloose hill towards the river. She lost her pretty little whip at the gate but the pony was hardmouthed and would not pull up. She came on to the cattle path beside the Bellinger. She came beside the rowing men and the glass church on the barge.

'Oh, dear God,' she prayed, 'do not let me appear as such a fool.' She cried with fright as the pony stumbled on a crumbling piece of riverbank, regained its footing, and continued, leaving the church behind, in the direction of the landing wharf at Boat Harbour. She thought it obvious to everyone what she was up to and was, in consequence, ashamed. At Boat Harbour she had to hide an hour or two and not be seen by her employers or their children, who were, it seemed, at every

Oscar and Lucinda

draper's shop and corner. She sat in the prayer room above the cobbler's shop and having begun by pretending to pray, ended by doing it in earnest.

9

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The Aisle of a Cathedral

The Bellinger was not like it is now, with wide electric-green fields pushing down on to the river. The banks were like green cliffs of camouflage pierced with giant knitting needles and spun and tangled all about with ferns and creepers. It was a landscape already bleeding from the stabbing and hacking of the cedar cutters, but the wounds were all internal, in the belly of the bush, and although Oscar saw how Percy Smith and his two helpers must jump and poke with their punting poles to keep them clear of floating cedar logs, he did not guess the history of these logs. He saw only the shrieking walls of jungle which threw up wide-winged birds as the church approached.

Laudanum or no, he was not at ease. He called for Percy Smith to lock the door. He placed his hard wooden chair in the very middle of the church. He prayed out loud and his voice had a hard vibrant quality inside the glass. He said: 'Oh Lord, I am alive in the midst of Thy dreadful river. All Thy glory surrounds me, but I am afraid.'

Outside the walls, he could hear the man named 'rumgo' giggling. This had no more importance to him than the cries of savage birds.

My great-grandfather drifted up the Bellinger River like a blind man up the central aisle of Notre Dame. He saw nothing. The country was thick with sacred stories more ancient than the ones he carried in his sweat-slippery leather Bible. He did not even imagine their presence. 41A

The Aisle of a Cathedral

Some of these stories were as small as the transparent anthropods that lived in the puddles beneath the river casuarinas. These stories were like fleas, thrip, so tiny that they might inhabit a place (inside the ears of the seeds of grass) he would later walk across without even seeing. In this landscape every rock had a name, and most names had spirits, ghosts, meanings. He had given his hat to Kumbaingiri Billy's father's sister. It was the Wednesday before Good Friday, and although it was now cool in Sydney, it was hot at this latitude. Under the canopy of glass it was very hot indeed. Only on the dog-leg bend at Fernmount was the riverbank able to provide any shade.

Kumbaingiri Billy saw the glass church. He was a young boy, initiated only the year before. He was with the men, hunting, at the place which is now named Marx Hill. He saw the glass church in the distance-a prism, a cube, a steeple of light sliding into the green shadows of Fernmount. There were men with blue shirts and wide-brimmed hats. They held long poles. They stood around the perimeter. In the middle was a man. Even in the shadow, so