at the time, a certain Sister Edmund. I’d mentioned to Sister Edmund I’d seen something in the main street of Katoomba that hit me like a fend from Eddy Pettybourne, but we’ll get back to that, Inshallah. Suffice it to say that neither autopsy nor subsequent coronial inquest made any mention of scarification or wounds to the hands and feet, or so I was assured by the men in black. I couldn’t locate the documentation. I must assume the zambucks noted nothing untoward and as Tosh had returned to the wilds of Aotearoa within a month of the incident, I was sole witness. As to a transverse lesion in the region of the fifth to ninth ribs, I hadn’t looked at the inmate’s ribs. But when I took a closer look at the noose around his neck, I saw
it was made of toilet paper — toilet paper, rolled lengthwise into half-metre strips then pleached into three strands.
Where there’s a will there’s a noose.
Do not hurl that toilet roll into the vast blue yonder
Wipe your arse or neck yourself the choice is yours to ponder
But should you choose to neck yourself, to foil the First Responder
Who’ll earn a commendation should he thwart your anaconda
Just eat up big distend your bowel
And offer him a chore from hell
A who’s who of blue
After a spell at uni in the cold reign of Bob Ellis, and having returned to Grabby where I tried and failed to make the farm a goer, I found myself once more in Sydney, this time way out Matraville way, doing such silly things as entering a disused, teargas-filled tower, there to remove a gas mask and utter my name and rank.
Dudley Leahy cough choke, probationary cough choke officer.
Oh how they laughed.
It was Bill informed me of Mumbles’ impending funeral, old Bill, canon residentiary, retired chalkie much given to quoting from poets like William Cowper in his sermons; that’ll bring the young folk in, Bill, though it makes a pleasant change from C.S. Lewis and W.H. Auden. Somehow, Bill had learned I was in the gaol when Mumbles was governor. I don’t drink at the Gordon or the Workers Club so don’t keep in touch. Don’t read the Goulburn Penny Post. Bill sings in our miserable excuse for a choir when not required to celebrate, and he only preaches if the sub-dean’s ill or the dean attending a synod. Our choir may well be the world’s worst, but our organ, famously, is one of the best, a splendid Forster and Andrews from 1884, and from a tonal perspective, the Hull-based firm (Hull is other people? Larkin?) was producing its finest instruments between 1870 and 1900. Our building’s architect, Edmund Blacket, had a say in the design of the organ. He was hands on, our Edmund; hand carved, as a piece of scrimshaw, the crucifix that hangs over the pulpit.
The voicing and finishing of our organ ensures we attract the best players, and we recently enjoyed Martin Rein’s rendition of Marcel Dupré’s Variations sur un Noël, with Martin’s wooden dummy work on flute stops between each variation well-nigh Jackie Chan speed. The postlude, or concluding voluntary, is the consolation of the choral Eucharist, as we may expect the likes of Henri Mulet’s Carillon Sortie, or J.S. Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. Blame it on the organ I’m Anglican, though I do admire sandstone, and St Saviour’s Cathedral Church is white Bundanoon sandstone. In contrast, SS. Peter and Paul down the road, our ex-Catholic Cathedral, is Bungonia greenstone and only has a W. Hill organ. That said, it has the Murphy bell.
Bill needs a hip job for mine; he finds it a struggle to ascend the pulpit. His mic, egged on by a daemon in his trousers pocket, is prone to feed back. He does the service at St Stephan’s Pejar if it’s the fifth Sunday in the month and returns the collection tied in the corner of a two-tone blue handkerchief. As in the manner of Javier Bardem in No Country for Old Men he came limping down the aisle on the Seventh Sunday after Pentecost, veering toward the pew it appears he knows I arrogate, without so much as glancing towards me he side-valved ‘See me after the service Dud.’
Always one to avoid me in the greeting of peace, the canon. Never once have I felt the strength of the man’s hand. He just shakes hands with the verger then, from the choir stalls, gives our picayune congregation a generalised wave of benediction.
It would have been the assistant priest alerted Bill to the funeral, but she wasn’t present on the Seventh Sunday after Pentecost. Nor did she process in the procession of Stephen Saint and Martyr the following week. Always makes a beeline for me in the greeting of peace though, bless her, and still pulling in that much-needed sixty-seven grand a year paid direct to the diocese. It is she serves as full-time Anglican chaplain at what is at present four gaols, though it has been one and on occasion two. While formerly a place of dark cells and hardwood gags to which the government flogger was still paying visits from Darlinghurst, it today consists in the High Risk Management Correctional Centre, HRMCC, SuperMax; A-wing and the MPU or Multi-Purpose Unit (segro, protection and strict one-out protection); the low-security X-wing and the maximum-security main: four gaols housed within one inexpugnable complex of six wings with twelve yards housing five-hundred-plus malefactors.
Visiting some miscreant for the first time and don’t know which way to turn? Then don’t bother looking for a street sign pointing to ‘Correctional Complex’ because there isn’t one and it can’t be because we’re ashamed of the place when it employs half the district. Reverend Ruth, at present on her annual recycling scrounge for spent Christmas cards, will have done the three-day security awareness course, and the five-day orientation, and the pastoral education course, all run by the CCAC, but I’d be surprised if too many lads feel commoved to consult her. Her main challenge would have been finding someone to explain the computer.
There is one scumbag in for the duration when all he’d wanted was a few smiles, to which as a registered nurse he’d been helping himself. As to the fire he set, which put a few oxygen thieves out of misery, the devil made him do it, or so he told the rozzers. And he’s Anglican.
Isn’t it a shocking thing entirely when the former VC of a university can set fire to a nursing home?
It’s a Messy church, our Anglican Church. One glimpse of the deeply uncharismatic Archbishop of Canterbury tells you that. No Thomas à Becket our Most Reverend and Right Honourable Justin Welby. Beckett led an army through Poitiers.
‘Honour Guard’ says your man in the Sam Browne belt, swagger stick a-tuck, ‘Slow March!’ And six screws in navy blue, including a bull dyke and a Filipino, wearing white gloves and black left plastic shoulder bands, march from the car park. They march to the beat of the NSW Department of Corrective Services Band, as represented by a bass drum muffled to produce a lifeless thump, and two snare drums, snares released to create the field drum timbre. A solitary bugler brings up the rear in front of the shiny black Sidney Craig hearse. The bugler is there to sound the Last Post as the coffin retreats behind the curtain. CS bandsmen, despite the uniform, are not as they once were serving prison officers, but rather musos, riff-raff employed at a casual rate of thirty bucks an hour, and will make no attempt to fraternise with such officers as find they cannot fit into the Gothic chapel. Well, it was a chapel once: you can still see the stump of what was a sandstone cross on the ridge over the gable, hasn’t even been angle-ground off square. During the service the drummers seek the shelter of the Cypress pines behind the columbarium. If they’d contemplated a furtive smoke they decide against it. I’d swear as to short-sleeved shirts; as to the kilts, I may have watched too many Bundanoons as Brigadoon, and caution; like Canberra’s Floriade, if you’ve seen it once, you’ve seen it.
Goulburn was once renowned for music. Our
