Free An Angel In Australia by Tom Keneally

a strange beauty. Seated beside her on a plain kitchen chair was a lean but muscular young man, fair-headed, drinking tea and holding in one hand, folded for reading, a newspaper entitled The Worker . Seeing Bert Flood and Darragh arrive, he creased it exactly to the size of a legal deed and laid it on the table like an opening bid. His left hand was heavily bandaged.
    â€˜Rosie,’ said Mr Flood, gesturing with embarrassment towards Darragh, ‘this is the priest from up the road.’ There was a clear, pleading message: you deal with him. You send him on his way with a flea in his ear. There was no doubt Mrs Flood had the presence for such a task. She and the young man studied him in committee. Mrs Flood’s red hair had sinuous curls, apparently of its own volition, without the intervention of beauty parlours. Her eyes glittered. She wore a generous trace of smile that gave Darragh hope of a welcome.
    He heard himself repeat his name and tell her he’d heard she wasn’t well. Breathing harshly, and her eyes glimmering in some kind of appreciation, Mrs Flood rubbed her lips with an immaculate handkerchief. She said, ‘Sit down, Father Frank.’ Generally only the close friends of priests had the liberty of calling them by their first names. She was, of course, aware of this, and was possibly sending him a signal—he would not be getting conventional reverence in this kitchen, but then he would not get typical denial either. And perhaps, in her voice crimped by her disease, with thesecond syllable of ‘Father’ reduced to a wheeze, she was presuming on the authority of her illness to help her through this meeting.
    â€˜It’s years since we’ve had a priest here,’ she told him from her chair.
    â€˜But you’re on the parish roll,’ said Frank.
    â€˜Yes,’ she admitted. ‘I used to go up there sometimes for Mass. But that monsignor of yours, he’s money-crazy.’
    â€˜Not for his own sake,’ said Frank.
    â€˜Oh, Father Frank, he used to drive a pretty nice car. You met Bert, did you? And this is our friend, Ross Trumble. Ross crushed a finger at the brickworks. He’s off on compo.’ Darragh exchanged nods with blue-eyed Mr Trumble.
    â€˜Get us some tea, eh, Bert?’ suggested Mrs Flood. Bert went to the stove willingly to check on the state of the kettle, which was close to boiling.
    â€˜Sit down, Father Frank. Take that chair, that’s right. I bet those old biddies the Clancys told you to come and try to improve me. Did you drive down yourself?’
    â€˜Walked,’ said Frank.
    â€˜Good for you, young feller,’ said Mrs Flood. She called to her husband, ‘See, Bert, not all of them have cars.’ It sounded as if they had once had a bet on the matter.
    Ross Trumble still considered him, and the man’s cheeks had become flushed from mounting discomfort or hostility. It was clear from these signs he had not met many priests, had preconceptions about them, and waited in uneasy certainty for Darragh to manifest himself.
    As Bert came to the table with the replenished teapot, and a fresh cup and saucer for Darragh, Mrs Flood asked, ‘What can we do for you, Father?’
    â€˜Well,’ said Frank, ‘since you’re ill, and no doubt you find ithard to get to Mass, I thought you might welcome the chance for me to hear your confession and bring you communion occasionally.’ The young man was looking utterly away now, not willing to share his gaze with Darragh. He knew it wasn’t his place to say yes or no, however.
    Mrs Flood was overtaken by an authentic tubercular coughing fit. It was not opportunistic, a disguised answer to Darragh’s offer. Mrs Flood did not need to disguise anything. The young man, Trumble, rose, turned his back to the company, and went to a bench and poured a brown liquid into a glass. He brought it back and put it down in front of Mrs Flood who, gasping and