Read Online A River Town by Thomas Keneally - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Thomas Keneally
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your clans: Boston, Brooklyn. These matters weren’t accessible to thought or to measurement.
The Primitive Methodist waif had stood up too, though her closed demeanour gave nothing away. “Sit, sit,” said Mother Imelda, dragging one of the chairs out from under the solemn table and sitting on it, the black cloth of her thumping big hips and thighs dominating the small child on the sofa.
Tim now said who this was. The Rochester child. Mother Imelda may have heard of the accident … Now Mrs. Shea had both a child and sister on the way, hence it was impossible … The Sisters of Mercy were the only boarding school in the valley … Mrs. Shea and I wanted her well looked after … Of course, her dead father’s wishes must be respected, and her own as a child who has reached the age of reason. So she is a Protestant, and that must be observed.
Mother Imelda laughed and patted the polished surface of the table. “We don’t lack here for children who are Protestant.”
“Then I would like to see her taken on by you, Mother.”
Mother Imelda looked out past the picture of the Supreme Pontiff and through the lace at the window towards the huge glare outside. Often Tim looked into the nullity of Australian air and wondered what it meant for the existence of a living God. All that light a question put to the sorts of things people believed in dimmer regions, twelve thousand miles away. But it did not seem to wither Mother Imelda’s certainty. It did not seem to put a crease in it.
“Lucy, do you think you would like to join us here? We put a large stress on cleanliness and on obedience. We do not countenance backchat. Did you have backchat at home?”
Tim said, “I’ve found that little Miss Rochester rarely engages in forward chat let alone the back variety.”
Somehow Mother Imelda did not quite relish the little joke.
“Well, Mr. Shea. Given your domestic arrangements, I understand that you would want Miss Rochester to be a year-round boarder.”
Tim felt himself colour with shame. It was a question he had notthought of; was the child to have her Christmases and her Easters in the convent or was there a place for her at his table?
He said, prickling, “We would, of course, take the child for outings and the larger holidays. But it seems this will be … this will be where she lives. I can’t think of better.”
Mother Imelda put her hand cursorily to Lucy Rochester’s small chin. “Are those your clothes there. In the bag?”
“I will provide a better port for her, Mother,” said Tim.
“You should go outside and sit on the verandah. I want you to tell me how many magpies you count in the trees about.”
The small girl rose, keeping her eyes on Tim, and went, opening and closing the door so smoothly.
Now Tim knew he must make a proposal. Imelda would say how much a week. She advertised in the
Argus
, day pupils thrippence a week. How much for boarders? They ate of his groceries, half his anyhow. The other half from Doolan’s in West. Keep the two good Irish tradesmen happy. Happy about what? Since the goods were supplied for what could loosely be called the love of God. He hoped Imelda informed the Deity of the way she stretched him.
She stared at his chest. He was aware of the dockets in his breast pocket. He imagined they still had the faint warmth of Kitty’s firm hand on them. He would need to make a deal … only good sense. Imelda herself was that sort of practical woman. He was underwriting the convent’s edibles and useables to the tune of twenty pounds a year wholesale, and that was over thirty pounds retail. What was so blasphemous about her taking the child’s boarding fees out in jam and cheese?
Yet he was flinching within. He wasn’t scared of the woman. Rather he did not want her to shame him, or the thoroughness of Albert’s tragedy, with haggling.
So he started first. He wanted to be able to tell Kitty that.
I started first
.
He managed to say, “So, Mother
The Primitive Methodist waif had stood up too, though her closed demeanour gave nothing away. “Sit, sit,” said Mother Imelda, dragging one of the chairs out from under the solemn table and sitting on it, the black cloth of her thumping big hips and thighs dominating the small child on the sofa.
Tim now said who this was. The Rochester child. Mother Imelda may have heard of the accident … Now Mrs. Shea had both a child and sister on the way, hence it was impossible … The Sisters of Mercy were the only boarding school in the valley … Mrs. Shea and I wanted her well looked after … Of course, her dead father’s wishes must be respected, and her own as a child who has reached the age of reason. So she is a Protestant, and that must be observed.
Mother Imelda laughed and patted the polished surface of the table. “We don’t lack here for children who are Protestant.”
“Then I would like to see her taken on by you, Mother.”
Mother Imelda looked out past the picture of the Supreme Pontiff and through the lace at the window towards the huge glare outside. Often Tim looked into the nullity of Australian air and wondered what it meant for the existence of a living God. All that light a question put to the sorts of things people believed in dimmer regions, twelve thousand miles away. But it did not seem to wither Mother Imelda’s certainty. It did not seem to put a crease in it.
“Lucy, do you think you would like to join us here? We put a large stress on cleanliness and on obedience. We do not countenance backchat. Did you have backchat at home?”
Tim said, “I’ve found that little Miss Rochester rarely engages in forward chat let alone the back variety.”
Somehow Mother Imelda did not quite relish the little joke.
“Well, Mr. Shea. Given your domestic arrangements, I understand that you would want Miss Rochester to be a year-round boarder.”
Tim felt himself colour with shame. It was a question he had notthought of; was the child to have her Christmases and her Easters in the convent or was there a place for her at his table?
He said, prickling, “We would, of course, take the child for outings and the larger holidays. But it seems this will be … this will be where she lives. I can’t think of better.”
Mother Imelda put her hand cursorily to Lucy Rochester’s small chin. “Are those your clothes there. In the bag?”
“I will provide a better port for her, Mother,” said Tim.
“You should go outside and sit on the verandah. I want you to tell me how many magpies you count in the trees about.”
The small girl rose, keeping her eyes on Tim, and went, opening and closing the door so smoothly.
Now Tim knew he must make a proposal. Imelda would say how much a week. She advertised in the
Argus
, day pupils thrippence a week. How much for boarders? They ate of his groceries, half his anyhow. The other half from Doolan’s in West. Keep the two good Irish tradesmen happy. Happy about what? Since the goods were supplied for what could loosely be called the love of God. He hoped Imelda informed the Deity of the way she stretched him.
She stared at his chest. He was aware of the dockets in his breast pocket. He imagined they still had the faint warmth of Kitty’s firm hand on them. He would need to make a deal … only good sense. Imelda herself was that sort of practical woman. He was underwriting the convent’s edibles and useables to the tune of twenty pounds a year wholesale, and that was over thirty pounds retail. What was so blasphemous about her taking the child’s boarding fees out in jam and cheese?
Yet he was flinching within. He wasn’t scared of the woman. Rather he did not want her to shame him, or the thoroughness of Albert’s tragedy, with haggling.
So he started first. He wanted to be able to tell Kitty that.
I started first
.
He managed to say, “So, Mother
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