CHAPTER 10
Seventy-five miles north of Geraldton, near Kalbarri, the orphanage hovered above jagged cliffs that gave no hint of human inhabitation save the serpentine dirt road roughed out by convicts more than a decade before. Green fingers of hopbush worked daily to reclaim the road, their roots creeping over wagon ruts and lines sluiced by years of winter rain; immovable boulders blocked every turn. But few needed to pass along this route. The people of the north, the wild country, stayed in the north; the people of the south, the sun country, stayed in the south.
So this road met the Bishop’s experimental petrol-fueled car with great amusement. Pointed rocks poked at the thin rubber tires and bounced the iron frame precariously over hidden roots and ruts. The whole of the orphanage watched the steel and rubber creature. Not even age precluded a gaping mouth as the battered car pulled up to the level lot of the church amid a cloud of dust and exhaust. Through the blanket of smoke, a man floundered with a gearshift, each jolt bringing loud screeches from the engine and more smoke farting from the tailpipe until he pulled something hard and the engine closed down with a whine. The passenger’s door opened and an arm clothed in black smacked away the fumes.
Father McIntyre reached a hand into the smoke. “Welcome, Your Grace.”
The Bishop stepped from the car, leaned against the car looking ill, then chuckled. “That journey is not for the faint of heart.” He beat at his cope. Sprays of dust clouded and stuck to his red, sweaty face. Putting his palms to the small of his back, he arched his spine in a long, tight stretch, his stomach bulging. Another man fumbled with bags tied to the trunk platform and then, with hands draped with vestments, joined the Bishop’s side.
Father McIntyre’s lips parted. Recognition reached his body first and his face drained.
“My new assistant, Deacon Johnson,” introduced the Bishop.
“Hello, Father McIntyre.” The man addressed the priest calmly, but his eyes were questioning and apprehensive. “It’s good to see you again.”
The Bishop looked up in surprise. “You know one another?”
The Deacon did not take his eyes off Father McIntyre and answered gently, “We were at the seminary together in New South Wales. I was his tutor for many years.”
Father McIntyre tried to remind himself that the man had once been a friend and he let that memory obscure the others until the blood returned to his face and his chest opened again. “Deacon Johnson,” he greeted formally. “It’s been a long time.”
“Good we started here,” noted the Bishop. “Always helps to see a familiar face.”
“We’re not your only stop?”
“Hardly!” the Bishop huffed. “We’ve almost a dozen other missions to visit.” He slapped a hand to the Father’s shoulder. “You’re not the only one in need of money, you know. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to clean up and have a rest.” The Bishop walked past the children, did not greet them with expression or voice. “Besides, I’m sure you and Deacon Johnson have a lot of catching up to do.”
Father McIntyre watched the retreating figure, fully conscious of the Deacon’s weighted gaze against his profile. He clasped his hands behind his back, breathed the briny sea into his nostrils before speaking. “It was a long time ago, Robert. There’s no need to speak of it.”
The Deacon’s round cheeks twitched. “I know, but I feel I should—”
He stopped the man’s sentence with one piercing look. “It was a long time ago.”