A Place For Us—A melancholy musical episodic intro to the Father O’Way Chronicles

Owning a passport was the worst mistake I ever made.

At the time it seemed harmless.

A small blue booklet.

Photograph.

Date of birth.

Several pages apparently provided so that foreign governments could record the precise order in which I made a fool of myself.

I kept it in a drawer at St Generic Brand and thought no more about it.

Then Billy became Bishop Bishop.

Promotion did not improve him.

It gave him a larger office, a secretary who disliked him professionally, and access to a drinks cabinet he regarded as a sacrament.

The Bish had also taken up herbal medicine.

At least that was what he called it.

I called it smoking dope with the window open.

One afternoon I was summoned to the diocesan offices.

Billy was behind an enormous desk wearing purple robes and holding a glass containing something the colour of furniture polish.

A thin cloud hung above him.

“Incense?” I asked.

“Medicinal.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Administration.”

Fair enough.

He poured me a drink.

I declined.

He looked hurt and poured it for himself.

“Sandy, how would you like to travel?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Excellent.”

Billy had retained an irritating habit from childhood of interpreting any answer he disliked as agreement.

“The Pig’s Arms needs a foreign correspondent.”

“Why?”

“Merv says international affairs are becoming important.”

“Merv is a barman.”

“He has a television.”

This was apparently sufficient qualification.

I knew the Pig’s Arms well. Officially it was the Window Dresser’s Arms Pig and Whistle, but language exists to communicate efficiently and life is too short.

“What does this have to do with me?”

Billy opened a folder.

Inside was a photocopy of my passport.

I stared at it.

“How did you get that?”

“God moves in mysterious ways.”

“You took it from my desk.”

“Mostly through unlocked drawers.”

“I’m not a journalist.”

“You can write.”

“I can write sermons.”

“No one reads those either.”

He had me there.

Billy pushed an airline ticket across the desk.

“Kerobokan.”

“Where?”

“Barley.”

“Bali?”

“That too.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“There’s an Australian woman in jail. Shappy Corebee.”

“For what?”

“Smuggling thugs.”

“Drugs.”

“That’s what I said.”

“No, you said thugs.”

Billy looked at the file.

“Either way, Australia has plenty. Get her out.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me.”

“I’m a bishop.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“It usually does.”

And that was how the international career of Father Alexander Leonard Lyndhurst O’Way began.

Not with a calling.

Not with a revelation.

With a return economy ticket and a threat to my accommodation.

• • •

Barley was an island in Donesia.

Donesia had once been voted one of the most corrupt countries in the world, narrowly defeating several sporting organisations and a municipal planning department.

I landed at Nazi Goering Airport.

[Author: Sandy.]

[Sandy: What?]

[Author: You know perfectly well what.]

[Sandy: It was called that in the original.]

[Author: Carry on. I’m merely establishing an alibi.]

My instructions from the Bish gave me the names of two private investigators.

Beef Satay and his brother Chicken.

Their office was above a restaurant.

This caused confusion at lunchtime.

Beef was short and serious.

Chicken was taller and nervous.

Both came with peanut sauce.

“The Bish says you know the island,” I said.

Beef nodded.

“We know everybody.”

“Good. I need information about the prison.”

“We can get information.”

“Excellent.”

“Cost extra.”

Naturally.

The following morning Beef telephoned my hotel.

“We have uncovered high-level criminal activity, hookers, corrupt officials, money changing hands and inappropriate reporting procedures.”

“Beef, I asked you to investigate the prison, not an Australian trade union.”

There was silence.

“Ah.”

“Anything useful?”

“The governor likes money.”

“That’s hardly intelligence.”

“In Donesia it is a national philosophy.”

Eventually I arranged to meet the prison governor, Berguling Gado Gado.

His secretary answered the telephone.

“Name?”

“O’Way. Sandy O’Way.”

“Thank you, O’Way Sandy O’Way.”

“No. Just Sandy O’Way.”

“Very good, Just Sandy O’Way.”

“No, my name isn’t Just—”

I stopped.

Experience has taught me there are moments when language becomes a hole and the wisest course is not to continue digging.

Governor Gado Gado greeted me warmly.

I decided to get straight to the point.

“Governor, what would it take to have Shappy released?”

“Certainly.”

That was easier than expected.

He opened a diary.

“I can offer 27 July 1965, 8 February 1982 or 1 August 2003.”

I stared at him.

“Those dates have already happened.”

“Yes.”

“She wasn’t in prison then.”

“Correct.”

“So how can you release her?”

He smiled.

“You asked for a release date. You did not specify future.”

This was my first serious exposure to international diplomacy.

I began to understand why wars lasted so long.

We negotiated.

I pleaded.

I threatened ecclesiastical consequences, which impressed neither of us.

Finally Gado Gado leaned across the desk.

“You are priest?”

“Administratively.”

“You believe in God?”

“No.”

He blinked.

“Then why priest?”

“Accommodation.”

He considered this.

“Very sensible.”

We had found common ground.

Shappy was not released.

But I returned to Inner Cyberia with several jars of satay sauce, a wooden carving I could not identify and a receipt for expenses which the diocesan accountant refused to process because Beef and Chicken Satay appeared under “catering.”

Billy called the mission a success.

“Shappy’s still in jail.”

“You came back alive.”

“Is that the new standard?”

“It gives us room to improve.”

Then he handed me another ticket.

• • •

China.

Billy wanted me to interview a senior official named Hu.

“Who?”

“Exactly.”

“Who am I interviewing?”

“Hu.”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

“No, Hu is who you’re interviewing.”

“I know that. Who?”

“Hu.”

This continued for some time.

Belinda eventually entered the room carrying tea.

She listened for approximately thirty seconds.

“Would either of you like me to hit the other one?”

We stopped.

Belinda had become my housekeeper some years earlier.

Housekeeper was still technically accurate in much the same way that the Titanic was technically a form of transport.

She organised the rectory, organised me and had begun displaying disturbing signs of having opinions about my continued survival.

“You only just got back,” she said.

“I know.”

“And now you’re going to China?”

“Apparently.”

“Why?”

“Hu.”

She closed her eyes.

“Don’t.”

China went surprisingly well.

This worried me.

Whenever one of Billy’s assignments went well, it generally meant I had misunderstood the assignment.

I met Hu.

Or possibly Wu.

There were translators.

At one point seven officials conferred for ten minutes over whether I had asked about human rights or the correct way to cook noodles.

The answer I received appeared to cover both.

I filed six hundred words to the Pig’s Arms.

Merv published twenty-three of them beside the meat raffle results.

My career in international journalism was flourishing.

• • •

I had been home four days when the telephone rang.

“Sandy. Bish.”

“I recognised the slurring.”

“I need you in Lourdes.”

“France?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Religious story.”

“No.”

“I’ve already booked you.”

This time I took precautions.

I wrote LOURDES — FRANCE in large letters.

I put the note in my pocket.

I checked it before leaving the rectory.

I checked it in the taxi.

Then I met a cricket enthusiast at the airport.

Several hours later I was standing outside Lord’s Cricket Ground in London.

I telephoned Billy.

“I’m at Lord’s.”

“Good.”

“There’s a match on.”

“What?”

“Cricket.”

There was a pause.

“Sandy, I sent you to Lourdes.”

“That’s where I am.”

“No. LOURDES.”

“Exactly. Lord’s.”

“In France.”

I looked at the cricket ground.

“Parts of the MCC are fairly conservative, Billy, but I don’t think they’ve actually annexed it.”

The line went quiet.

Then I heard him pouring something.

“Stay there.”

“Why?”

“Find a religious angle.”

I watched an opening batsman leave three deliveries outside off stump.

“I’ve just witnessed a man place enormous faith in something he cannot see.”

“Perfect. File six hundred words.”

Merv printed forty-one.

Progress.

• • •

The Tour de France assignment occurred because Billy had discovered package fares.

He rang while I was still in England.

“You’re already in Europe.”

“I’m already regretting Europe.”

“Tour de France.”

“I don’t own a bicycle.”

“You won’t be riding.”

“That’s the first good thing you’ve said.”

My journalistic brief was to investigate allegations that professional cyclists were using artificial means to improve performance.

I interviewed a rider.

“Do you take performance-enhancing drugs?”

“No.”

“Have you ever taken performance-enhancing drugs?”

“No.”

“Would you tell me if you had?”

“No.”

This was refreshingly efficient.

I sent the interview to Merv.

He published the final answer.

It became one of my most widely read pieces.

• • •

Rome followed.

I don’t remember agreeing to Rome.

I have subsequently come to believe Billy simply redirected my luggage.

The Vatican was hot.

Very hot.

My clerical shirt stuck to me.

I discovered that centuries of theological scholarship had failed to produce an adequate doctrine regarding perspiration.

There was a fountain.

I looked at the fountain.

The fountain looked at me.

[Author: Fountains don’t look.]

[Sandy: You weren’t there.]

[Author: Neither was the fountain, once you’d finished with it.]

The important thing is that I cooled down.

The less important thing is that a Swiss Guard objected.

The even less important thing is that somebody photographed it.

By the time I returned to my hotel, the photograph had been transmitted internationally under the headline:

AUSTRALIAN PRIEST TAKES REFRESHING APPROACH TO ROME

Billy rang.

“You’re on television.”

“Good television?”

“There is no good television involving a priest without trousers.”

“I had trousers.”

“Not according to Channel Nine.”

“They were wet.”

“That distinction has not survived editing.”

Back home, Belinda kept the newspaper clipping.

She claimed this was for legal reasons.

For several months it appeared mysteriously whenever we had guests.

• • •

My next assignment involved cricket.

This cheered me enormously.

Geoffrey Boycott was involved.

This cheered Geoffrey Boycott considerably less.

I had been sent to discuss batting.

I like batting.

Batting is one of the few activities in human civilisation where avoiding danger while somebody else does all the work is considered technically correct.

Boycott and I understood one another immediately.

He believed in occupying the crease.

I believed in occupying the rectory.

Neither of us saw any reason to leave voluntarily.

We talked for hours.

Mostly Geoffrey.

At some point a coat hanger became involved in a demonstration of the forward defensive.

There was an accident.

The headline said Boycott had been “hung up by Father O’Way.”

This was inaccurate.

He was not hung.

He was caught temporarily.

There is an important difference in both cricket and criminal law.

Billy congratulated me.

“You’re developing a profile.”

“I’m developing extradition problems.”

“Same thing in journalism.”

• • •

Between trips I came home.

Or, more accurately, I returned to Belinda’s supervision.

The rectory changed while I was away.

Belinda had moved things.

She called it cleaning.

I called it destruction of navigational landmarks.

“Where’s my blue shirt?”

“Wardrobe.”

“It was on the chair.”

“That’s why I put it in the wardrobe.”

“How am I supposed to find anything if you keep putting things where they belong?”

She stared at me.

Belinda was very good at staring.

Eventually she asked, “How long are you home this time?”

“I don’t know.”

The telephone rang.

We both looked at it.

“No,” she said.

“It might not be Billy.”

It was Billy.

“Sandy—”

“No.”

“The Oval.”

“No.”

“Cricket.”

I hesitated.

Belinda pointed at me.

“Don’t you dare.”

“What sort of cricket?”

She walked out.

This is how relationships develop.

• • •

The Oval assignment was different.

I noticed that almost immediately.

For one thing Billy’s instructions made even less sense than usual.

I was supposed to locate something called a Stat-o-matic.

“What is it?”

“No idea.”

“What does it do?”

“No idea.”

“Who wants it?”

Billy paused.

“A friend.”

This was new.

Billy’s friends generally wanted money, bail or access to the diocesan cellar.

“Which friend?”

“You’ll know him when you see him.”

This statement is universally made by people who have failed to provide useful information.

I went to the Oval.

There was cricket.

There were statistics.

There were men who could tell you the batting average of someone who had played two Tests in 1927 on Tuesdays following rain.

Eventually I found the Stat-o-matic.

Or it found me.

That part remains unclear.

And then I saw the man in the flat cap.

White laboratory coat.

Fingers near his mouth.

A face that tugged at something very old in my memory.

A Mintie wrapper.

A boy.

A conversation that could not possibly have happened.

The man smiled.

“Hello, Sandy.”

I stared at him.

“Do I know you?”

“Yes.”

“Should I?”

“Eventually.”

I disliked him immediately.

Not personally.

I simply dislike people who answer questions as though time is optional.

“You’re Billy’s friend?”

“He knows me.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

“No.”

That was somehow worse.

He took the Stat-o-matic.

“What do you want with it?”

“Research.”

“What sort?”

“Cricket.”

This was the first sensible thing he had said.

Then he added:

“And the universe.”

There it was.

I knew we’d been getting along too well.

“What’s your name?”

“Gordon.”

“Gordon what?”

“O’Donnell.”

He waited.

I did the arithmetic.

“G.O.D.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, piss off.”

Gordon smiled.

Then, in a manner I still cannot adequately explain, he did.

• • •

After that I went home.

Properly home.

Back to Inner Cyberia.

Back to St Generic Brand.

Back to Belinda.

Back to the Pig’s Arms, where Merv put a beer in front of me without asking.

I sat at the bar.

No airports.

No prisons.

No governors.

No bishops.

No bicycles.

No Swiss Guards.

No Geoffrey Boycott.

For the first time in months nobody required me to solve an international incident.

“This,” I told Merv, “is the life.”

Merv polished a glass.

“You reckon?”

“I am never leaving Inner Cyberia again.”

“Fair enough.”

“I mean it.”

“Good.”

“I’ve travelled enough.”

“Right.”

“I’ve seen the world.”

“Yep.”

“I’m staying home.”

Merv looked towards the door.

“Oh dear.”

“What?”

Bishop Bishop had just walked in.

He was followed by Gordon.

Billy looked delighted.

Gordon looked worried.

Gordon always looked worried.

Billy sat beside me and ordered a whisky.

Gordon declined one, accepted tea, changed his mind and asked for a whisky.

I looked from one to the other.

“No.”

Neither had spoken.

“I don’t care what it is. No.”

Billy grinned.

“Sandy, I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine.”

“We’ve met.”

Gordon nodded.

“At the Oval.”

“Unfortunately.”

Billy looked surprised.

Then pleased.

“Excellent. Saves time.”

“Billy, whatever you are about to ask me—”

“I’m not asking.”

“Even better.”

“Gordon is.”

I looked at Gordon.

Gordon put his fingers to his mouth.

“I need someone to do some field work.”

“No.”

“You haven’t heard where.”

“I’ve learned from experience.”

Gordon glanced upward.

Not towards Heaven.

Further.

Much further.

I followed his eyes.

Then I looked at Billy.

Then at the whisky.

Then back at Gordon.

“Absolutely not.”

Gordon smiled.

Billy raised his glass.

And Merv, who had been listening to the entire conversation, quietly put another beer in front of me.

I should have taken that as a warning.

Because after Kerobokan, China, England, France and Rome, Bishop Bishop had finally found somewhere further O’Way to send me.

Space.