The Great Arch

349 Pages·2008·1.49 MB·English

by  Vicki Hastrich

The Great Arch
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The Great Arch
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First published in 2008
Copyright © Vicki Hastrich 2008
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by
any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information
storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The
Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of
this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its
educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it)
has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
This project has been assisted
by the Australian Government
through the Australia Council,
its arts funding and advisory body.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: [phone]
Fax: [phone]
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Hastrich, Vicki, 1960–.
The great arch.
ISBN 978 1 74175 399 8 (pbk.)
A823.4
Internal design by Kirby Stalgis
Set in 12/16pt Bembo by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Printed and bound in Australia by Griffi n Press
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For Mum,
a city and a bridge;
and for Frank Cash,
a second volume.
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Est-ce une vie à mépriser?
Is this a life to disregard?
auguste friand (1880–1918)
Auguste Friand was an academic at the Sorbonne, best known for his discourse
on the New Humanism. He became a captain in the army during the Great
War and a slim volume of his fi ne war poetry was published posthumously in
1919. Though he was by far a better philosopher than he was a soldier, he made
it through the worst of the war only to die of a freak accident when, just prior
to receiving his discharge, he was run over by an English tank backing out of a
warehouse.
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1967
Mater Hospital
The nuns are washing him. They talk quietly to each other, something
about a golden throne or is it the cricket scores, he can’t be sure.
He is sure of nothing.
Though they have put a towel over his genitals for modesty, he
feels naked as an old plucked bird as their hands lift limbs to wash
crevices. They are young or not young? This is the unknowable thing
about nuns. And do they mind tending the ageing body of an Anglican
minister? Their handling is fi rm but gentle and he cannot hold onto
his embarrassment, it takes too much effort, he drifts and their touch
becomes Stella’s. In their honeymoon bed she lay beside him and let
her hand roam under the blankets all over. The next morning she
sat back and stared frankly at his anatomy. ‘You—and I suppose all
men—look an untidy mess.’ This was the fi rst and last time they spoke
openly about sex, though enough was accomplished mute: occasional
pleasure, and four children.
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V I C K I H A S T R I C H
She leans over him now, hello, and he’s glad to see her. He’s missed
her, but he’s not entirely sure what she’s doing here, since she gave up
the ghost in ’62, dead of a heart attack on the rectory kitchen fl oor,
feet pointing towards the pantry. What were you thinking, Stella, to
get about in your bare feet at such a crisp hour? He cannot help
wondering if footwear might have prevented her sudden departure.
‘Where have you been?’ he says to her, a little peevishly.
She snaps back, ‘Where I’ve been every morning. To get you a cup
of tea.’
He would like to smile, but cannot. The familiar is comforting, even
conversation between them which borders, as usual, on argument.
She disappears as doctors arrive. ‘Will you be coming again?’ he
asks after her.
The senior doctor examines him and the junior ones stand at a
distance in a semi-circle like fence posts around a dam. The senior
man pats Ralph’s hand from time to time as if he’s considering putting
him down. It’s true he’s old—he was born in 1887, so has a leg in each
century—and it’s true he does not wish his dying to drag on because
he’s always been energetic—but neither does he wish to be denied the
full experience of the process. This is personal. And professional—
the meeting of his Maker. The doctor bends down and talks loudly and
very closely into his left eye, as if whatever cognitive abilities he has left
are now all centred there. ‘WHAT IS YOUR NAME?’
Disappointingly, his eye does not speak back to the man, but he
does feel responses forming themselves into boat-like shapes in the
mist of his brain. Ralph. Reverend. Cage. Anderson. Cage Reverend.
‘We’ll have to wait for the swelling on the brain to subside,’ says the
doctor to the eye, ‘and then . . . we’ll see.’
We’ll see, indeed. What we’re left with.
They go and quiet settles. He has many times wished for quiet
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