Hill of Grace Read Free Page B

sung of Hessen and Posen, the town’s founding father, August Kavel, and the promise of thirty-five bushels to the acre. As they made their way back along the familiar creek, William stopped to pick up a tin can he saw reflected in the moonlight. And said, ‘This is the future, if we don’t watch ourselves.’
    On Saturday night, as the Seppelt date palms cast long shadows across the paddocks of West Tanunda, and the sun dipped and flattened itself against a horizon of stray eucalypts, William stood with his hands on his hips in his darkening kitchen as Bluma paced out their living space. ‘Thirty by twenty-four, that’s . . .’
    William furrowed his brow. ‘Seventy-two square . . . around eight yards.’
    Bluma’s eyes lit up. ‘William, we could afford at least one room.’
    â€˜Bluma.’
    â€˜This floor’s no good for my lungs.’
    Bluma had read that patterned lino was out for thirty-seven shillings and sixpence a yard at the Big Store. Still, what was the point? William wouldn’t have a bar of it. Just like the suits they were practically giving away at five-and-a-half shillings. Same story. She knew he was determined to go on wearing Robert’s. ‘This suit is so dated,’ she’d argue, but in the same way he’d retained his chin whiskers, he would retain his dad’s clothes. As long as they still fit and as long as the naphthalene did its job.
    â€˜I’m late,’ he said, consulting Anthelm’s fob-watch, slipping on his jacket and making for the door.
    â€˜At least consider it,’ she pleaded, brushing him down as he left.
    As the sun disappeared below the horizon the Langmeil bells rang out across the town, as they did from Gnadenberg and Strait Gate and every other church throughout the valley, reminding everyone that tomorrow was a day of worship.
    William made his way between an avenue of candle pines which led up a hill to Langmeil. At the top, in front of the church’s open oak doors, Joshua Heinz stood smiling, watching William’s progress and sucking on a pipe.
    â€˜Evening,’ William greeted him, crunching gravel and stepping over the crumbling steps. ‘Is everyone here?’
    â€˜Just about,’ Joshua replied. ‘Apart from Carl Sobels, he sends his apology, apparently his daughter-in-law’s in hospital.’
    â€˜Serious?’
    â€˜The voices again. She’s soft, if you ask me.’
    â€˜Satan,’ William smiled. ‘What she needs is a good praying over.’
    â€˜Running over,’ Joshua grinned at his old friend, tapping out the used tobacco.
    Joshua lived in a three-roomed cottage with his wife and six children, all of whom slept in a single room with triple bunks which Sarah, his eldest, had pointed out, were no different from the ones in Auschwitz. He supported them by selling insurance, and at harvest, helping out with picking here and there. His Bible was just as well worn as William’s, but he didn’t share his friend’s fixation with the promises of Revelations. I’m happy with an old-fashioned Jesus, he’d say to William. A Jesus who buys insurance and stops my milk from curdling.
    While the Tanunda Liedertafel set up for Saturday night’s rehearsal in the Langmeil vestry, the wives of the singers gathered in William’s lino-less living-room, talking, drinking coffee and stuffing a quilt for Mary Hicks’ daughter Ellen. It was an impromptu Federschleissen, a quilting-bee sustained by Bluma’s finest rhubarb crumble. The feathers were replaced by a synthetic stuffing Bluma had ordered from a catalogue but not told William about. The coffee was instant – again, hidden in the cold cellar.
    Back at Langmeil, William and Joshua sat among the small group, waiting for their conductor Harry Rasch. There were only three more Saturdays before Farm Day, their annual celebration of cucumbers and cows, work-wear, boots