Part 1:
In
the beginning, well near it anyway
Sunday
12.30am, 1993
LES HAPPLES imagined for a moment that he was an
Irishman transported to the penal colonies for seven years' hard labour.
Back in the 1840s, when Tasmania was still the British
colony of Van Diemen's Land and Colonel Nigel Northan established the
township of Windy Mountain, a convict could be banished from the
Mother Country for stealing a handkerchief.
What penalty they had now for men who dressed in
women's clothing between the hours of sunset and sunrise, heaven knows.
Les stood quietly and surveyed his new surroundings,
the Windy Mountain jail cell. He wasn't alone.
Another man snored loudly from the bottom deck of one
of two bunks in the tiny room.
The cell was lit by a single low-watt lightbulb which
did not illuminate much aside from faint graffitti on the walls and a
tiny window with bars about two metres off the cold concrete floor.
A stainless steel, lid-less toilet in the corner of
the cell stank of urine and stale disinfectant.
Les sat down quietly on the bottom of the vacant bunk
with his feet on the floor and he folded his arms, wondering how he
was ever going to sleep in this awful place. As his eyes started to
adjust better to the light so too did his sense of smell become
sharper. The stench of urine and disinfectant wasn't confined to the
toilet in the corner; the sleeping prisoner was on the nose, too.
He stank mainly of liquor; cheap and nasty liquor
which Les guessed was probably only slightly more refined that
whatever cleaner lingered in the loo.
The man's snoring became louder and louder and louder;
so loud that it reached a crescendo and he awoke, obviously startled
from his own noise.
Les said nothing but the man must have sensed his
presence. He craned his neck and looked across to the other bunk
where he saw, much to his surprise, what appeared to be a woman.
"Oh goodness me,'' he said in a well-polished
voice as he covered his eyes with his right hand. "A lady!''
"I'm not a lady,'' snapped Les. "Can't
anyone tell the difference in this town?''
"Oh dear,'' said the man, slowly uncovering his
eyes with the realisation that he had heard a man's voice. "I've
made a faux paus, haven't I?" he said, as he swung his feet
around, sat up and eyed his new cellmate up and down. "I am
sorry, but . . . but . . . why are you wearing a dress?''
"It's a free world, isn't it,'' said Les, still
agitated. "I can wear what I like, can't I?'
"Well . . . no . . . I think there's some kind of
law against men wearing women's dresses . . .''
"Yes, I know . . . between the hours of sunset
and sunrise,'' Les lamented. "Everyone in Windy Mountain seems
to know, except me. I suppose they hang deviates at dawn here, too.''
"No, no, no,'' said the man, breaking into a
broad grin. "Sergeant Birtwistle always makes sure everyone gets
a fair trial. He's hard, but fair. I don't recall him lynching anyone
for years.''
Les felt his agitation subside. He, too, broke into a
smile. He had never been in jail before. Now he could see the funny
side. He leant forward from his bunk and extended his right hand to
the man.
"My name is Les Happles,'' he said, shaking
hands. " 'Apples with a H, but my mates just call me Apples.''
"Glad to meet you, Apples," said the man.
"I'm Father John Whitchurch.''
"Father?'' said Apples.
"Yes. I'm a Catholic priest.''
"A priest? What's a priest doing in jail?'' said Apples.
"I'm also the town drunk.''
"Town drunk?'' said Apples. "You're not the
bloke who reckons he saw a Tasmanian Tiger in the High Street, are you?''
"No, no, that was my predecessor, Bert Whish-Willson.''
"What happened to him?'' asked Apples.
"I replaced him.''
"Are you pulling my leg about being a priest?''
asked Apples suspiciously.
"I wouldn't lie,'' said the man earnestly. "I
am a priest, believe it. I just haven't got my collar on.''
"And . . . and you double as the town drunk?''
said Apples hesitantly.
"Not quite,'' said the man. "Being town
drunk is pretty much a full time job for me at the moment. When I'm
not here in jail, I'm working off my sentence. At night, the good
Lord provides me with the shelter of the home coach's box at the
Windy Mountain Recreation Ground.''
"But why?'' said Apples.
"It gets very windy and cold in Windy Mountain.''
"No, I mean: why is a priest now the town
drunk?'' asked Apples.
"Well, there was a vacancy.''
"So aren't you a priest any longer?'' asked Apples.
"Technically, yes; practically, no.''
"I don't understand,'' said Apples.
"You see, Apples, I'm on indefinite leave of
absence from the church. I might never go back.''
"So you're really an ex-priest?'' said Apples.
"You could say that. I haven't lost my faith or
anything though. Some of the intensity has dwindled; that's all.''
"I don't understand,'' said Apples, who still
wasn't convinced.
"The Lord moves in mysterious ways. Perhaps being
town drunk is my true calling?''
"Don't you miss being a priest?'' asked Apples.
"Not a great deal.''
"It must be better than being the town drunk?''
said Apples.
"Oh, I don't know, Apples. There's really not a
lot of difference, what with chastity and poverty; I just don't
preach any more. And being the town drunk gives me more time to think.''
"What do you think about?'' asked Apples.
"About going back to being a priest, I suppose.''
"Did you do something wrong?'' Apples asked.
"We're all sinners, Apples.''
"And what was your sin?''
"I got drunk, fell over and they locked me up.''
"When?''
"Tonight.''
"I don't mean that,'' said Apples. "I mean:
what did you do wrong to get thrown out as a priest?''
"Nothing. I told you: I'm on leave of absence.''
"When do you go back then?''
"I don't know? Tomorrow? Next week? Next month?
Whenever the archbishop will take me?''
"But you said you hadn't done anything wrong?''
"I haven't; not as a priest.''
"Then why do you need the bishop's permission to
go back?''
"That's what archbishops do. It's their job. They
hire and they fire. Someone's got to do the administrative work.''
Apples gave up. He had always had difficulty with the
concept of God; maybe priests, if this man really was a priest, were
just as perplexing.
He could see the town drunk quite clearly now. He was
about 50, of medium build and balding. He wore old but shiny shoes, a
khaki jumper and a pair of paint-speckled green and brown corduroy
trousers with a rope for a belt. The police were supposed to
confiscate the belt each time they locked him up but they figured
that a Catholic priest wasn't about to hang himself.
"I've been to a fancy dress party at the football
club,'' explained Apples after a short silence. "I'm originally
from Melbourne, you see, and I didn't know I was breaking the law. I
was riding my bicycle home minding my own business, when two
policemen arrested me. I thought the Sergeant was very unreasonable
for locking me up. He seemed to take an instant dislike to me. He
accused me of being a greenie.''
"Are you?''
"I'm not a greenie nor a deviate,'' said Apples indignantly.
"Too bad,'' said the town drunk with a straight face.
"Why?'' said Apples, puzzled.
"Oh, I wanted to see if I still knew the words.''
"What words?'' said Apples.
"The words to say before the hanging at dawn,''
said the man, breaking back into a smile. "You know? The last rites.''
