Читать книгу Keeping Faith - Roger Averill - Страница 9

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I have often thought that if, as he had secretly hoped, my father had been called to be a minister rather than a layman who sometimes preached, I would now, looking back, recall much more of my childhood. If that had been his destiny the Church would have regularly moved him to a new parish, each time taking Mum and Gracie and me with him to a different manse, another suburb. We may even have fulfilled my boyhood dream and lived for a spell in the country. No matter where these moves may have taken us, each of them would have acted as a bookmark in my memory, something jutting out, jolting me back to selected passages of time.

As it is, I grew up in the one place — a flat, windswept suburb a long way north of Melbourne — and the only shift in my childhood I can remember occurred in 1975, when I was twelve and my mother stopped attending church.

That year stands out like a ramshackle house in our otherwise neat suburban street. It began, at least in my memory, like the beginning of a new week, on a Sunday.

We were Methodists and for two years since the sudden death of Reverend Sutton we had been without a proper minister. Once a month we borrowed Reverend Gilbert from a neighbouring church to administer communion, the rest of the time we relied on Dad and old Mr Carpenter — local preachers, part-timers. People said, Mum included, that we hadn’t been given a new minister because the ‘powers that be’ had decided we were to unite with the local Presbyterians.

Dad didn’t mind. He was just grateful for the chance to preach the Gospel. And at the time, I must admit, I was grateful too. I loved listening to Dad preach. Outside the pulpit he was a quiet man, his voice soft, flat. Preaching God’s word, though, it became charged, musical, ranging from a whisper to a roar. ‘God can make a ukulele sound like a guitar,’ was how he explained it.

Rather than look at the hymn book, I liked to watch him walk into the pulpit and prepare himself for the sermon. The pulpit was simple and unadorned, made from blonde wood that quilted blue and green whenever the morning sun caught the stained glass window. Dad sat down on the bench inside it. All I could see of him was the wave of his sandy hair. The rest I could imagine: his body bent forward, elbows on knees, head bowed, his lips barely moving as he prayed.

He looked different standing in the pulpit. He was like a judge, a politician, someone on television. I snuck a look at Mum and my sister, Gracie. Mum sat straight-backed in the pew, her eyes fixed on Dad, hands loosely interlocked on her lap. Gracie was wearing her favourite lilac dress, its matching bow bobbing up and down in the brown waves of her hair. She was fidgeting with Mum’s handbag, her chubby fingers releasing and re-clasping its metal catch.

The congregation was still, expectant. Dad leant forward in the pulpit. He held the rear view mirror from our car in his hand. I had seen him unscrew it and asked what he was doing, but he wouldn’t say and told me I would have to wait and see. He turned it now in his hand, letting the sun lick at it, spitting the light in all directions. Looking down, pretending to study it, he stopped it still, the reflection settling near the organ.

‘We all know what this is.’ His voice was soft, drawing us forward. ‘We’ve all got one in our cars. But this morning I want to talk to you about the rear view mirror vision of life.’ He paused for effect. ‘In the rear view mirror vision of life we concentrate on what’s behind, on where we’ve been rather than where we’re going.’ His voice grew large, rolling over the words. ‘We worry about those left behind, slowing down for some, denying others by speeding up. In the rear view mirror vision of life we study the road already travelled, lose sight of the one we’re on.’

He placed the mirror on the pulpit lectern and, still adjusting it, making sure it wouldn’t fall, said, ‘Let me tell you about Roy Fletcher. I met Roy twenty years ago in Cunderyip, the town of his birth, in the back blocks of Western Australia. The locals there said that in his day Roy could’ve been the fastest man alive, faster even than the great Jesse Owens. By the age of sixteen he had won every foot race in the district and when he turned eighteen he and his father caught the train down to Perth where he won the State Championships by three clear yards. He was so good, they said, that in every race he ran, five feet from the line, he took a look over his shoulder to see how far in front he was, to measure the margin of his victory. Everyone knew he shouldn’t do it — he was showing off — but he always won so easily it didn’t seem to matter.’

Dad paused again and I took a look myself, over my right shoulder to where my friend Martin was sitting, his mouth slightly open, his eyes following my father’s gesturing hand. Martin marvelled at Dad’s stories; the people he had met, the places he had been.

‘No one thought taking the look mattered. That was until Roy came here, to Melbourne, to compete in the Nationals. He breezed through the heats, each time winning by a margin that allowed him the backward glance. In the final, though, he came up against Syd Peterson, the title holder from Queensland. As usual, Roy leapt from the blocks. He led all the way. The finish line loomed, all he needed do was take two more strides, stretch out and lunge forward, breaking the tape with his chest. Instead, Roy looked back, and for the first time in his life someone was there, at his shoulder, someone who beat him to the line.’ Dad touched a finger to his chin. ‘Syd Peterson represented Australia in the 1938 Olympics.’ His voice dropped again. ‘Roy Fletcher went home to Cunderyip and worked his father’s farm.

‘When I met Roy he was in his forties. He still looked fit and strong, but there was something sad and dull about his eyes that made him seem a lot older. He showed me the scrapbook of his clippings, the local headlines that dubbed him “Flash Fletcher.” And while we flipped through them he told me something he had never told anyone before. He said, “They all used to say I took the look to skite, to show off, but I didn’t. I took it out of fear, fear of being swamped”.’ Dad’s gaze shifted to the lectern, to his Bible. ‘No one doubted Roy except Roy himself. He lacked the faith to believe that the next step would carry him to the line and win him the race. And now he has lived his whole life looking backwards, at his memories, at what might have been.’

Dad picked up the mirror. ‘The rear view mirror vision of life is filled with regret, it dwells on the past, lacks faith in the future. In today’s reading Paul tells us to “Run a straight race and keep your eye on the prize, which is God’s call through Christ Jesus to eternal life.” Looking back, having doubts and second thoughts will rob you of that reward. In Luke Chapter 9, Verse 62, Jesus says, “No one who puts his hand on the plough and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.” So, remember Roy Fletcher and run a good race, plough a straight field, and never, ever look back.’

After the service, after I’d stood next to Dad while the congregation filed past shaking his hand, thanking him for the sermon, I walked out to the car park where I found Martin standing by his family’s red Holden. As we watched people unlock their cars and slowly drive away, he asked if my father’s story was true and I told him it was, even though I didn’t know that for certain.