Free The Memory Tree by Tess Evans

pockets. He draped it around his neck and raised his hands, palms out.
    ‘Give thanks unto the Lord,’ he intoned. ‘For he is good; for his mercy endureth forever.’
    Hal looked around. Where was the rest of the congregation? ‘Give thanks unto the God of gods; for his mercy endureth forever.
    ‘Give thanks to the Lord of lords; for his mercy endureth forever.’
    The pastor looked meaningfully at Hal. ‘For his mercy endureth forever. That’s the response, brother.’
    ‘For his mercy endureth forever,’ Hal mumbled, shuffling his feet.
    ‘To him who alone doth great . . .’ Godown shut the book. ‘It’s no good,’ he said. ‘I can’t preach the Word to just one person. Still, it’s a startin’ point. In His own good time, the Lord will send us companions in worship.’
    Hal, used to stained-glass windows and marble altars, was unable to imagine why anyone would want to worship in a shed full of junk. He looked at the cardboard cartons, the cobwebs and the battered lectern. Then he looked at the pastor who was eagerly scanning his Bible for next week’s text.
    ‘What do you think of this one? “Come to me all ye who labour and are heavy burdened?” I do so enjoy preachin’ to a text like that. Showin’ the Lord’s mercy and compassion and all.’ Meanwhile, he bustled about, tidying up his meagre belongings, planning his sermon and humming an unfamiliar but haunting tune.
    Hal recognised simple goodness in the other man’s face and understood, that it was the pastor himself who would draw people to this church, just as he, Hal had been drawn. He turned to leave but felt the sharp realisation of impending loss. He was sure now that this man had access to the knowledge he craved.
    So Hal, rather than risk losing this opportunity, fell back on the banal. ‘Come over to my place for a beer,’ he said, ‘and you might as well stay for lunch.’
    The pastor shook his head and sighed. ‘A beer? Get thee behind me, Satan.’ But he was ready enough to jump at the offer, especially if it came with a family meal.
    Mrs McLennon and the children were more than a little surprised to find an exceptionally large, black man, wearing a purple stole, drinking beer in their lounge room. At first, Zav thought that their visitor was the coolest person he had ever seen, but Sealie hung behind her brother. She was even more alarmed when a large, albeit gentle hand was placed on her head and a loud voice entreated the Lord to bless and keep her. She backed out of the room, her eyes large with fright while her oblivious father asked Mrs McLennon to put a few more veggies in the oven.
    Over their Sunday roast lamb, the family listened to Godown’s story. He was born and raised in Washington DC, he told them and his father was a driver for a US senator. His mother was a dressmaker, ‘a God-fearin’ woman, who sang in the church choir. I was workin’ on buildin’ sites when Pearl Harbor was bombed so, quick as you like, I joined up in one of them Negro regiments.’
    ‘How did you find yourself in Australia?’ Hal asked. ‘Did you come here on leave?’
    ‘I surely did. Came here on furlough in forty-five and married a girl from Brisbane. She was a sweet girl, but it didn’t last. Those parents of hers didn’t want no coloured grandchildren. They poisoned my little Judy against me.’
    Mrs McLennon looked at him doubtfully. Underneath the courteous exterior, she sensed something—energy? Fervour, maybe? She couldn’t put her finger on it, she told Alice later. But it was there. Maybe the girl’s parents felt that too , she thought, although she was realistic enough to acknowledge that black skin was probably more than enough to alarm them.
    After lunch, Hal took his guest back into the lounge room and quizzed him some more over coffee. There was a question he couldn’t ask at the table.
    ‘How is it that you work in a brothel? I mean, with your religious convictions, it’s a strange choice of