Four
Paul
A seed is planted but may not grow because the sun at its most spiteful burns any vulnerable thing.
Paul Cottingham had Reverend Whitlock pinned up against the cold bluestone of the church wall.
‘Reid is a joke,’ said Paul vehemently. ‘All he managed to give this country is Empire Day — one lousy holiday, a holiday we already had and he gave it a new name and everyone acted as though he was the workingman’s hero.’
Reverend Whitlock’s hair bristled and his thin eyes narrowed until they disappeared.
Paul was furious with the Reverend’s sermon and had hauled him off to have it out with him. Reverend or not, the man was a top-class idiot. Paul had swung his umbrella about as if it was a sword and Whitlock had retreated in the face of Paul’s advance until his back was up against the church wall and he stood pinned like a dunce in the corner of a schoolroom.
Whitlock’s cheeks turned beetroot.
‘Now, Reverend,’ Paul took the Reverend’s fine slender hand firmly in his own broader one and held it tightly.
The Reverend winced. He hated to admit it but it hurt. He wouldn’t ever tell anyone that. He might say, Oh, that Cottingham’s got a handshake like a bear, but he’d never say it hurt.
‘Do you think it’s reasonable to denounce a man in his absence?’ Paul put the question as though Whitlock was on the witness stand and he was addressing Judge Murphy.
Whitlock knew exactly what he was talking about; Cottingham made no bones about his political commitment.
‘Well now, if Mister Deakin wanted to lead this country again, then surely he put himself forward for public scrutiny, wouldn’t you say, Mister Cottingham?’ The Reverend thought he defended himself quite nicely. ‘The trouble with the protectionists,’ he went on, gathering confidence, ‘is that they want too much too fast.’ He nodded in agreement with himself. He didn’t like change. Change brought conflict and conflict unnecessarily churned up your gut and pushed acid into your throat and you could taste its bitterness. That couldn’t be good for you. He felt the need to burp and stifled it. If only Paul Cottingham would keep his blasted opinions to himself. But he could see the wretched man wasn’t going to, and after all, he never had. Obstinate fellow. The daughter was painted with the same brush. No wonder she was still single. He’d seen the outrageous shortness of her skirt. That would be the topic of next week’s sermon. He’d put a stop quick smart to such sluttiness before it caught on.
‘Yes, in the public arena,’ said Paul, ‘but your words from the pulpit are considered to come from God. We are building a new nation, Reverend Whitlock. Do you honestly believe that God would have us build this nation on the backs of starving families? This town we live in, Reverend, is gloriously built on the backs of the miners. Look at this very building, at St Patrick’s Cathedral opposite there; look at our immense Town Hall with its glorious clock that chimes every hour. It’s mining money that’s purchased those bluestone blocks and the carved organ they house. It’s the hard labour of ironwork that has decorated the buildings, but do you see the miners living in fine buildings? No sir, only the mine owners, who never get their hands dirty, can afford to buy their way into heaven with bricks and mortar. We must pray that Mister Deakin remains prime minister of this nation for many a year so he can protect our trade and our workers as much as possible.’
Surely, thought Paul, this supposed man of God should care first and foremost for those who had little.
‘Mister Deakin! Well! We all know exactly where that man got his ideas from. Mister Deakin is a Satanic spiritualist,’ the Reverend spat.
‘Mister Deakin is a staunch admirer of Bunyan and what finer Christian example could anyone wish for?’ snapped Paul.
‘I hear tell,’ the Reverend said slowly, producing his trump card, ‘that our honourable Mister Deakin claims he channelled the words of his book from the great man Bunyan himself. There is only one place spiritualism comes from, Mister Cottingham, and it isn’t our Lord Jesus Christ.’ Reverend Whitlock smiled, then he leant in close and whispered, ‘Because I am a man of God and don’t spread another man’s sins far and wide I won’t say this too loudly, but — I think you’re a bit of a radical socialist, Mister Cottingham.’
Paul laughed, loudly and deeply, rolling back on his heels. The stupid man thought he had insulted him, when in fact Paul was proud of his socialist beliefs. To him it was the only Christian option.
‘Don’t you take anything seriously?’ the Reverend sneered.
Paul stopped laughing and grinned, as though Whitlock was a bit slow on the uptake. Then Paul spoke slowly, as if he was explaining to a child — obviously the Reverend had the social intelligence of a six-year-old.
‘We have, Reverend, a choice between free trade and protectionism; one dependent on chance, the other on care. Do you leave the wellbeing of your flock to chance, or do you care for it?’
Paul’s gaze scorched the Reverend, who had to look away, and as he did so, his eyes widened. Paul turned to see what the Reverend was gawking at and saw Edie standing under a tree with the Hooley lad.
‘That girl of yours is being very forward with the church organist. If they stand any closer they’ll be fornicating in public view.’ The Reverend raised an eyebrow. ‘But I’m not one to point out another’s sins. It’s not my style, Mister Cottingham.’
Paul had already forgotten the Reverend and murmured absently, ‘You may step down.’
Paul watched his daughter closely. Hooley whispered something in her ear and after a while she whispered back. Then she lifted her face as though she expected Hooley to kiss her, right there in public, for goodness sake. But Hooley put on his hat and
