AT TENNYSON’S CROSSING

 

Everyone knew that Brian Cummings’ dog Tommy was a silly dog, only a puppy really, black all over except for a white patch on his face as if someone had thrown a glass of milk at him.
Now Tommy lay in the shade of the water tank, his tongue lolling in the dust like a piece of red licorice. One eye was cocked in the direction of the kitchen’s open door where the women were cutting sandwiches for the lunch.
Mrs Pope pushed her way through the multicoloured plastic strips of the doorway in her Christmas apron, covered with little red and green bonbons. She wiped a line of sweat from her forehead and shouted a half-hearted ‘G’arn’ in Tommy’s direction. He refused to even raise his head. It really was too hot to shout at that dog, notorious at these church events for trying to jump on the table and grab whatever tasty morsels were available or just sniffing around their feet like an annoying vacuum cleaner hoovering for crumbs.
And Tommy was actually Patrick Cummings’ dog so the mothers turned a bit of a blind eye to his puppy shenanigins. ‘Poor little Patrick’ they said but never in Maureen Cummings’ hearing.
Mrs Pope manouvered her large bulk back into the kitchen.
“What time do we expect Fr O’Connell?”
May Cosgrove, counting out the cups and saucers, decided she was a bit over Eileen Pope’s constant use of the royal ‘we’ but quickly retrieved her patient voice, most often used with Nevil her husband, and replied: “Well, he’ll either be very late or very early, dear. I hope it’s not too soon so we can be ready in time and fit in a nice cup of tea. Of course, no biscuits…” she added quickly lest any of the older women might still be doing the pre-communion fasting thingy. With her queasy stomach and sore knees Fr O’Connell had given her a fasting dispensation. It was more than an hour’s trip from Quorn to Tennyson’s Crossing and a flat tire on those roads was always a possibility.
From the rear of the nearby church came the muffled sounds of children singing: “Hail Queen of Heaven, Hail…” The deep, almost masculine voice of Sr Francis dominated the hymn practice for today’s Mass. Brian’s Dad, Thomas, train driver and all round hero to Brian, used to reckon that Sr Francis should always sing all the male parts but jumped when his wife gave him a flick with the tea towel.
The First Communicants were being herded together like a mob of sulky heifers by Sr Margaret and a couple of mothers in the only outdoor shade available, a giant peppercorn tree as old as the timber church beside it.
The floating white veils were already drifting askance on the heads of the excited, jiggling girls and sweaty spots were appearing on the shirt armpits of some boys. Nine year old Brian Cummings was already scuffing his tight new shoes in the dust. Boys of his age were more accustomed to scuffling barefoot in the yard for the football but just for today he was prepared to put up with some discomfort.
He knew – how could he not, with Sr Margaret’s relentless lessons- that “this was a special day”, a day when he was finally old enough to “receive the Body and Blood of the Lord Jesus Christ.” His younger brother Patrick dawdled about nearby, picking up stones and examining them in great detail with the eye of a geologist. He kept asking why he wasn’t receiving the body and blood of Jesus too until Brian thought his head might explode.
Patrick was, as their mother had explained to Brian, “his special charge.” Patrick had been singled out by God she said as “different”.
Brian knew that there was something not quite right about his brother. He was slow doing most things, spoke like he had a mouthful of toffee and when Brian heard older boys taunting his brother and calling him “Dimmy Cummings”, he quickly took him by the hand and led him away. Brian wasn’t yet big enough to take on those big boys but one day he would.
“Hey Paddy, go and see what Tommy’s doing, will ya?” Brian suggested. Tommy and Patrick were usually inseperable since his dad had brought home the kelpie puppy he’d found cowering in the waiting room of the Tennyson’s Crossing station.
“Wanna,wanna, wanna…” mumbled Patrick, lining up the stones he had collected. Then he carefully chose from his assortment, a stone that was as smooth and as pale as a beach, abandoned by an ancient sea that had now retreated thousands of miles to a coast Patrick had never seen, and may never visit. Then, clutching his stone carefully in both hands as if it might break into pieces, Patrick took a few steps towards his brother and held the stone out towards him. It was always about sharing everything now, ever since Brian had hit upon the perfect solution to Patrick’s tantrums which could sometimes be frightening. Just hand over half his sandwich or biscuit or one of his precious marbles and Patrick’s frantic foot stamping and screaming would magically stop.
Sharing was now a sort of unspoken pact between the two brothers and this marvellous exchange of gifts had also made Brian feel more grown up. That he, not his parents, had discovered this ability to pacify his brother.
So Brian took the stone and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket already stretched tight on his shoulders. “Where’s Tommy?” he prompted his brother and then pointed in the direction of the water tank. The trick was to keep his brother occupied and at a distance from the crowds that always made him more nervous.
Just in time. Sr Margaret’s Batman-like shape loomed from behind the peppercorn tree. “Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…”, her fingers held firm against her lips, she hissed, like that red-bellied black snake that Mr Anderson, the school’s gardener with the cauliflower ears from a career in boxing, had cornered once in the school yard with his shovel. “C’mon now boys, Father is here…line up now…no a straight line please.” The two nuns, now like a pair of sheep dogs, hovered around the edges of the group, herding them into the church.
The organ was pumping away, wheezing in an arthritic rendition of Ave Maria as the First Communicants filed in two rows down the aisle, hands seemingly soldered together against little, thumping hearts. Father O’Connell at the altar stood facing the procession, dressed in his special, magic Mass vestments of green and gold, fraying at the edges despite the constant repairs carried out by Miss O’Neil whose life it appeared was dedicated to the service of all priests. A pair of dusty and cracked black leather shoes peered out from under the edges of his black soutane. An involuntary twitch in his left eye was the only indication that he was impatient to get this show on the road and then get home for lunch, a beer and a good lie down. Miss O’Neil alone noticed his twitch and offered up a little prayer that those dear little communicants would not annoy Fr O’Connell today of all days. He had been known to shout at children she recalled with a shudder.
Altar boys were the usual target of his glowering face. Today his “In nomine patre…” in a voice, surprisingly lighter than that of Sr Francis, was the starting gun to set everybody off and running. Heads were dutifully bowed and clenched fists beat out the “mea culpas” on breasts, punctuated only by a groan from Mrs Pope and her arthritic knees. Eventually people settled their various shaped and sized bottoms onto seats, ready for the sermon. Ladies adjusted hats and two men standing at the back of the church took the opportunity to nip out for a quick smoke.
Just as Fr O’Connell was launching into his sermon based on the text of “suffer the little children” Paddy Cummings, sitting behind the communicants gave Sally Fraser’s veil a quick tug. Sally’s squeal surfed all along the row to Sr Margaret who fixed her most disapproving ‘not-during-the-sermon’ face at Paddy.
Mrs Pope, having raised six of her own children, was thinking: “what would Fr O’Connell know about little children?” And Fr O’Connell who had left Ireland to come to Australia at the age of twenty-five, kept all the photos of his little nieces and nephews in the back of his bible was thinking how he missed being their favourite uncle Paddy and taking them fishing in the River Fergus just at that spot before it enters the estuary. He would probably never see them face-to-face again. That’s why he sometimes shouted at the altar boys.
Tommy too had wandered into the church and was lying at Paddy’s feet, his nose twitching every time a fly brushed by. Here at Tennyson’s Siding even Sr Margaret turned a blind eye to Paddy’s dog coming to church. It usually kept the boy quiet.
The prayers of the Mass surged toward the climax of the communion; the end was in sight and Sr Francis was relaxing. But Sr Margaret’s stomach started rumbling and several little girls were getting the giggles. Sr Margaret had been fasting since midnight according to those old rules.
Fr O’Connell raised the host for all to adore and Greg Ryan, being in charge of bells that day, rang and rang them until his wrists ached. He was a rather overdramatic little boy in those days and did in fact go on to have a career as an adored star of the upcoming TV series, Neighbours. Something called Transubstantiation had happened in the flash of an eye and although Mrs Pope had never come across the term, she truly believed that this host was now indeed the body and blood of her Saviour.
The two nuns began herding their young flock down the aisle towards the altar, where Fr O’Connell was preparing to open the ciborium and give communion to all these little children who reminded him too much of his nephews and nieces. His face squeezed up with all the concentration.
One by one the children shuffled forward and stretched out little hopeful hands to receive the host as instructed, with Sr Margaret’s “don’t bite Jesus” command ringing in their heads. Paddy squirmed in his seat when he saw his brother move forward. “Wanna, wanna…” he moaned and jumped to join his brother in the queue. Sr Margaret went into a hovering pattern nearby. Tommy decided to join Paddy in the queue too.
Then as Brian reached out for the host, Paddy began to scream and stamp his feet. “Wanna, wanna…” Brian took the host and broke it neatly into two halves and gave one half to his brother. The screaming stopped. This was something new, something round like a stone but not a stone. Not what he wanted. Paddy gave his half to Tommy who took it dutifully between his teeth and trotted towards the open door. Sr Margaret, the only witness to this crime, gasped and gave chase. Her faith depended on it. She lifted her heavy brown skirts and sprinted after the disappearing puppy.
“Jesus,” shouted Jeff O’Brien, a non-Catholic, married to Eileen, having his quiet smoke outside as Sr Margaret shoved him out of her way. The shove was witnessed by Michael(‘Bluey’) Henderson, sitting in his car (also a non-Catholic who had driven his Catholic wife Marie to Mass);who thought the move was similar to that famous Timothy(‘Slugger’) 0’Neil shove at the 1965 Grand Final between Tennyson’s Siding and Quorn Imperials. ‘Slugger’ O’Neil’s winning goal was still legend and Sr Margaret, her veil now definitely askew, was well on the way to legend status too as she sprinted in a cloud of red dust past the peppercorn tree and towards the railway station after the disappearing puppy.
Mrs Pope who had slipped out of the church to make sure the hot water urn was boiling and saw Sr Margaret disappearing into the distance, later told the mothers, listening open-mouthed, she reckoned that Sr Margaret “should been signed up for those Olympic games in Munich, only weeks away.” In fact Sr Margaret had been a top sprinter at St Joseph’s High School in Port Augusta but chose to join the convent and teach little children instead of a life dedicated to running.
But to this day Sr Margaret is remembered in Tennyson’s Siding as “that nun who shoulda gone to the Olympics” and Tommy as “the dog that ate Jesus”.