ACCLAIM FOR Peter Carey AND
OSCAR & LUCINDA
“Carey luxuriates in language.…[Oscar & Lucinda is] a brilliant success.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“It is Thomas Wolfe one is reminded of most when reading Peter Carey…they share that magnificent vitality, that ebullient delight in character, detail and language that turns a novel into an important book.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“[Oscar & Lucinda] is very, very hard to put down. There are many pleasures to be had here, chief among them the author’s gift for telling fascinating, entertaining stories.… Like the characters of Charles Dickens and Honoré de Balzac, Mr. Carey’s creations are real in the simplest human sense.”
—Washington Times
“A commanding writer with laser eye for detail and luxuriant narrative gifts.”
—Wall Street Journal
“Peter Carey is to Sydney what Joyce was to Dublin…an absolute master of language and storytelling.”
—Thomas Keneally
“Carey can write. He is funny, humane, and profound.”
—The Literary Review (London)
“The well of talent from which Peter Carey draws his tales produces work as sweet and refreshing as a mineral spring.… Carey nears the summit occupied by Borges and Pynchon and a very few others.”
—Harlan Ellison
“[Carey] works a literary territory all his own, combining elements of absurdism, black humor, social satire and old-fashioned family saga…a pleasure.”
—Miami Herald
for Alison Summers with all my love
Contents
1. The Church
2. The Advent Wreath
3. Christmas Pudding
4. After Pudding
5. A Prayer
6. The Anglican Church
7. Stethoscope
8. Pagan Signs
9. Throwing Lots
10. False Instruction
11. Apostasy
12. To Serve and to Rule
13. Raisins
14. Trials
15. The Vicarage Kitchen
16. Job and Judas
17. Scuffed Boots
18. The Thirty-nine Articles
19. Christian Stories
20. Palm Sunday in New South Wales
21. Lucinda
22. Elizabeth
23. A Square Peg
24. Mr Ahearn’s Letter to the Parramatta Argus
25. Mrs Cousins
26. Bloomers
27. The Odd Bod
29. Epsom Downs
30. Covetousness
31. Ascension Day
32. Prince Rupert’s Drops
33. Glassworks
34. After Whitsunday
35. A Betting Ticket
36. Une Petite Amie
37. A Game of Cards
38. A Duck to Water
39. Personal Effects
40. Not in Love
41. If He Ask a Fish, Will He Give Him a Serpent?
42. Called
43. Leviathan
44. A Bishop’s son-in-law
45. Hymns
46. In a Trice
47. Babylon
48. Who Can Open the Doors of His Face?
49. The System
50. Pachinko
51. Mr Borrodaile and Mr Smith
52. Montaigne
53. Phosphorescence (1)
54. Phosphorescence (2)
55. Jealousy
56. Lure
57. Confession
58. Reputation
59. Thou Rulest the Raging of the Sea
60. Cape Town to Pinchgut
61. A Business Principle
62. Home
63. Longnose Point
64. The Multitude of Thy Sorceries
65. Bishop Dancer’s Ferret
66. St John’s
67. The Messiah
68. Serious Damage
69. The Tablecloth
70. The Good Samaritan
71. The Strattons’ Wager
72. Mrs Smith
73. Judge Not
74. A Degree from Oxford
75. Heads or Tails
76. Mr Smudge
77. Happiness
78. Ceremony
79. Pot and Kettle
80. The Private Softness of Her Skin
81. Promenade
82. Oscar in Love
83. Orphans
84. The Weeks before Christmas
85. A Prayer
86. Christmas Day
87. Gratitude
88. A Lecture Based upon a Parable
89. Of the Devil
90. A Reconciliation
91. A Man of Authority
92. The Lord Is My Shepherd
93. Doggerel
94. Mr Smith
95. Arrival of Wardley-Fish (1)
96. Arrival of Wardley-Fish (2)
97. Laudanum
98. An Explorer
99. An Old Blackfellow
100. Glass Cuts
101. Oscar at Bellingen Heads
102. Christian Man
103. Did I Not Murder?
104. Mary Magdalene
105. Miriam
106. The Aisle of a Cathedral
107. Arrival of Anglican Church at Boat Harbour
108. Oscar and Miriam
109. A Cheque amidst Her Petticoat
110. Songs about Thistles
111. A Song for Oscar
Glossary
About the Author
Other Books by This Author
Also by Peter Carey
1
The Church
If there was a bishop, my mother would have him to tea. She would sit him, not where you would imagine, not at the head of the big oval table, but in the middle of the long side, where, with his back to the view of the Bellinger River, he might gaze at the wall which held the sacred glass daguerreotype of my great-grandfather, the Reverend Oscar Hopkins (1841–66).
These bishops were, for the most part, bishops of Grafton. Once there was a bishop of Wollongong, travelling through. There was also a canon, and various other visiting or relieving reverends. Sometimes they were short-sighted or inattentive and had to have the daguerreotype handed to them across the table. My mother crooked her finger as she picked up her teacup. She would not tell the bishops that my great-grandfather’s dog-collar was an act of rebellion. They would look at a Victorian clergyman. They would see the ramrod back, the tight lips, the pinched nose, the long stretched neck and never once, you can bet, guess that this was caused by Oscar Hopkins holding his breath, trying to stay still for two minutes when normally—what a fidgeter—he could not manage a tenth of a second without scratching his ankle or crossing his leg.
This was obvious to me, but I said nothing. I sat, tense, my hands locked underneath my thighs. In a moment the Bishop would ignore our big noses and many other pieces of contradictory evidence, and remark on our resemblance to this pioneer clergyman. We lined up: my mother, my brother, me, my sister. We had red hair, long thin necks like twisted rubber bands.
My mother was pleased to imagine she looked like the photograph. I would rather have looked like my father. He was not like us at all. He was short, broad-faced, pigeon-chested. He had crinkled eyes and crooked teeth. He laughed and farted. He was a cunning spin bowler. He could roll a cigarette with one hand. He was not like us, and when my mother told the visiting Bishop the story of how Oscar transported the little church of St John’s to Bellingen, my father would peel a match with his broad fingernail and look out through the windows to where the great physical monument to his marr
iage, the Prince Rupert’s Glassworks—the roof painted bright red then, in the 1930s—sat high above the Bellinger River.
My mother told the story of the church in a way that always embarrassed me. There was an excess of emotion in her style. There was something false. We must have all known it, but we never spoke about it. I could not have named it anyway. She was the same in church: her responses to the Sanctus (Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of Hosts) were loud and showy in their reverence. My father made jokes about many things, but never about this.
My father was jealous of that church, although if you could see it now, it is hard to imagine why. It sits on a patch of flood-prone land beside Sweet Water Creek at Gleniffer—a tiny weatherboard building with a corrugated iron roof. For fifty years it was painted various shades of brown, and then, in 1970, it was painted a harsh lime green. Now it has gone chalky and sits in that generous valley like something on which lichen has grown. It tucks in underneath the long line of casuarinas that mark the course of the river. High above, behind this line of river, the mountains rise sharply to three thousand feet—the back wall of the valley, so steep there are no tracks, although they say there is an old tin mine up there where they planned to hide the women and children from the Japanese during the Second World War. I was away at the time, but it seems unlikely to me. I learned long ago to distrust local history. Darkwood, for instance, they will tell you at the Historical Society, is called Darkwood because of the darkness of the foliage, but it was not so long ago you could hear people call it Darkies’ Point, and not so long before that when Horace Clarke’s grandfather went up there with his mates—all the old families should record this when they are arguing about who controls this shire—and pushed an entire tribe of aboriginal men and women and children off the edge.
These are the same people who now want St John’s removed on a low-loader. They want it taken to Bellingen to be used as a Sunday school.
My father, for one, would have been appreciative. He was, as I said, jealous of it. He did not like my mother’s proprietorial attitude to it. Perhaps if the church had been in the town of Bellingen itself it would have been different. But Gleniffer is ten miles away. She would not hear of attending service in Bellingen. They must motor out to Gleniffer. During the war they used their petrol ration just going to church. We were all baptized there, confirmed there. I was married there. When my father died he was carried ten miles to Gleniffer for the funeral service, and then ten miles back into town to be buried.
My father did not get drunk, but once, after drinking two beers, he told me that my mother walked around the perimeter of St John’s like a dog pissing around a fence. But only once did he ever show my mother the intensity of his feelings.
2
The Advent Wreath
There was no torch available for my father because I had dropped it down the dunny the night before. I had seen it sink, its beam still shining through the murky fascinating sea of urine and faeces. My father did not, as he had on an earlier occasion, come out and retrieve it.
So when the lights went off in the storm the following night, he had no torch to examine the fuse-box. Lightning was striking all around us. The phone was giving small pathetic rings in response to strikes further along the line. We thought our fuses were blown by a back-surge in the power system. My father took a candle out on the veranda. The candle blew out. When he came back into the house he did not have the fuse with him.
We were sitting in silence at the kitchen table.
My father said: “Where is the fuse-wire?”
I was ten years old. I sat next to my mother. My sister was sixteen; she sat next to me. My brother was fourteen; he sat next to my sister.
“I used it,” my mother said. People described her as a tall woman. She was not. She was five foot six, but she had an iron will and a suspicious nature and this, combined with her power as an employer in the glassworks, was a tall combination.
I could smell the smoking candle. Although my father held this candle, I knew he could not smell it. He had no sense of smell at all.
“How did you use it?” I could not see my father. I waited for the next flash of lightning. “How?” He had a hoarse voice. This was somehow connected with the loss of his sense of smell. He syringed his nasal passages with salt water every morning. Often he would ask: “Does it smell?” “It” was his nose.
“I used it,” my mother said, “to make the Advent wreath.”
There was no note of apology in her voice. Lightning sheeted the kitchen. She had her head tilted in the air in that disdainful pose which, in the family mythology, was said to resemble a camel.
I felt very tense. I was the one who had helped my mother make this Advent wreath. There had been no holly or ivy, but I had found camphor laurel leaves, which are shiny and green. I knew she had not only used the fuse-wire but had taken the wire netting from my brother’s rabbit hutches. The rabbits were, at this moment in shoe boxes in the linen press. She did not think that they would piddle. It did not occur to her.
My father lit the candle. He did not approach the table. He did not go back towards the door. He stood in the middle of the room.
“Where is it?” he asked.
“At church,” my mother said. “Please, David, sit down.”
“Which church?”
“What does it matter?”
“It matters to me.”
I cannot explain how frightening this was. My father did not speak like this. He liked life to be quiet. Even when he was dying, he tried to do it in a way that would not upset my mother.
“St John’s,” she said.
Of course it was St John’s. What else would it have been? But for some reason this announcement seemed to outrage him. He clasped his head. He put the candle on top of the Kelvinator where it promptly went out again.
“Oh, Christ,” he said. “Jesus, Joseph and fucking Mary.”
In the lightning I saw my sister’s mouth drop open.
My mother stood up. She never made gentle or gradual movements. She stood so quickly her chair fell backwards. It crashed to the floor. The phone rang—two short bleats, then stopped.
“Kneel,” my mother said. She meant for God to forgive my father his blasphemy. We understood her meaning, but we were outside our normal territory. Only “divorce” could have frightened me more, only “sex” been more embarrassing.
“Kneel,” she shrieked.
Later we knew she was a bully. But when we were children, we felt too many confusing things. Mostly we wanted her to love us. So we came and knelt beside her, even my brother although he liked to stay up late and talk cricket with my father.
Then my father knelt too.
We stayed there kneeling on the hard lino floor. My brother was crying softly.
Then the lights came on.
I looked up and saw the hard bright triumph in my mother’s eyes. She would die believing God had fixed the fuse.
3
Christmas Pudding
There would have been no church at Gleniffer if it had not been for a Christmas pudding. There would have been no daguerreotype of Oscar Hopkins on the banks of the Bellinger. I would not have been born. There would be no story to tell.
This was not a normal Christmas pudding. It was a very small one, no bigger than a tennis ball. It contained two teaspoons of glacé cherries, three dessertspoons of raisins, the peel of one orange and the juice thereof, half a cup of flour, half a cup of suet, a splash of brandy, and, apart from the size, you would not think it was such an abnormality were it not for the fact that it was cooked in the cottage of my great-great-grandfather, Theophilus Hopkins, in Hennacombe, Devon, England.
Theophilus Hopkins was a moderately famous man. You can look him up in the 1860 Britannica. There are three full columns about his corals and his corallines, his anemones and starfish. It does not have anything very useful about the man. It does not tell you what he was like. You can read it three times over and never guess that he had any p
articular attitude to Christmas pudding.
He was a dark wiry widower of forty, hard and bristly on the outside, his beard full, his muscles compacted, and yet he was a soft man, too. You could feel this softness quivering. He was a sensualist who believed passionately that he would go to heaven, that heaven outshone any conceivable earthly joy, that it stretched, a silver sheet, across the infinite spaces of eternity. He steeled himself in the face of his temporal feelings as a Royal Guardsman—a carouser and a funny man when at the pub—must remain poker—faced when flies crawl across his eyelids. He was one of the Plymouth Brethren and he thought—there is nothing mad in this particular bit—that the feasts of the Christian Church were not Christian at all. His problem was his temper, although the word is misleading. His problem was his passion. His body was a poor vessel for containing it, and when it came to Christmas each year it was all he could do to keep himself in check. For the most part he used his passion constructively—he was a preacher and it was his great talent to make his listeners share his feelings. He would not call it Christmas. He would call it Yuletide. He had so convinced his small congregation of farm workers, thatchers, warreners, charcoal-burners, fishermen-all those earnest white-laundered folk who, if they could read at all, could only do it slowly, with a finger on each word-so convinced them that Christmas was not only pagan but also popish, that they went out about the fields and lanes on Christmas Day as if it were any other day. Their Baptist neighbours laughed at them. Their Baptist neighbours would burn in hell.
Oscar was fourteen, an age when boys are secretive and sullen. Yet he did not question his father’s views. He knew his own soul was vouched safe and when he read the Bible, aloud, by the fire, he placed no different interpretation upon it than the man who poked the little grate and fussed continually with the arrangement of the coal. They both read the Bible as if it were a report compiled by a conscientious naturalist. If the Bible said a beast had four faces, or a man the teeth of a lion, then this is what they believed.
But on this particular Christmas Day in 1858, they had a second servant where previously they had one. The first servant was the large bustling Mrs Williams who brushed her untidy nest of wire—grey hair with a tortoiseshell brush whenever she was agitated. She had been with the family fifteen years, ten years in London, and five years in Devon. In Hennacombe she brushed her hair more often. She fought with the butcher and the fishmonger. She swore the salt air was bad for her catarrh, but it was—as she said—”too late to be making changes now.” She stayed, and although she was not “saved,” and they sometimes found her hair in their scrambled eggs, she was a part of their lives.