Hill of Grace by Stephen Orr Page A

distance – this would be the archetypal Aussie day. Visitors and migrants would go away understanding a little bit more about the wide, brown land.
    A stobie pole painted with acacia-entwined slouch hats was their first taste of Dinkum World. The hearse turned off and followed a paling fence covered with Aussie advertisements: homemakers with a Persil dazzle clutching their husbands’ new Pelaco shirts.
    Arriving at a carpark overgrown with asparagus fern, the group bundled out of the hearse and paid a sixteen-year-old the precise amount at group discount rate, pound notes tied up with a piece of Bluma’s recycled string. Pastor Henry was there waiting for them, smiling.
    First up, a man called Doctor Hamilton (this was never explained) showed the social committee how to attach corks to their hats. William improvised with one each side of his woollen cap. They were then led down a garden path, the joke having to be explained, and stopped before a replica outback dunny. When you opened the door and dropped a penny in a slot, the toilet seat lifted and a giant redback spider raised its head out of the pan. Bluma clung to Mary Hicks’ arm and laughed. ‘Who knows what’s living down ours?’
    â€˜It may get a bit blue, ladies,’ Doctor Hamilton said. They then continued along a path to the next exhibit: a nightie on a pole. Doctor Hamilton urged William to turn a handle and as he did the pole lifted and then dropped. They looked at the Doctor. ‘Up and down like a bride’s nightie.’
    No response.
    Jesus Christ, religious nuts, Hamilton thought, having had groups like this from the valley before. ‘A real Aussie saying,’ Hamilton explained, but no one was buying a word.
    â€˜Okay, this way to our wildlife exhibits,’ the Doctor said at last, motioning towards the path.
    As they continued Pastor Henry noticed a sandbox, the type used to stub out cigarettes. ‘That’s nothing,’ Hamilton explained, but Henry was already standing beside it. Inside the sandbox was a small jam jar full of what looked like dog’s hair; an old, winged nun’s habit was arranged around it. Henry’s expression turned from anticipation to confusion.
    â€˜What is it?’ Bluma asked.
    â€˜This way,’ Doctor Hamilton urged.
    As they shuffled along, mostly in silence, Seymour pulled up beside William and said, ‘I’ve checked all your dates.’
    â€˜And?’
    Seymour smiled.
    â€˜Seymour, to me there’s no doubt. I’ve had no theological training –
    â€™ ‘How’s it possible then?’ Ron Rohwer interrupted from behind.
    â€˜Faith,’ William replied, turning his head back. ‘Faith, the Bible, study, time . . . and a well worn Cruden’s Concordance .’
    â€˜Setting dates is a folly,’ Ron said. ‘A sin. How does it go? “No man knoweth the hour or day, not the angels in Heaven . . . the Father only.” Is that right, Pastor Henry?’
    â€˜Sorry?’ Still caught up in the old Glen Ewin jam jar.
    â€˜â€œNo man knoweth the hour . . .”’ Ron repeated.
    â€˜Yes, Matthew . . . twenty-four.’
    â€˜William seems to think he knows.’
    â€˜Who’s to say? The Bible’s a very strange, a very imprecise book.’
    â€˜But it’s the word of God.’
    â€˜And others.’
    â€˜â€œTake heed,”’ Ron continued, ‘“watch and pray, you won’t know when the time is . . .” or words to that effect.’
    â€˜â€œIt is not for you to know the times or seasons,”’ Henry said, ‘“which the Father have put in His power.”’ Going on to explain how they still knew when to pick grapes, when the leaves of the myrtle would turn, when the winter reached its equinox and the summer its most searing. ‘I mean, we’re not entirely stupid,’ he concluded. ‘Still, it’s a big ask,