Gordon’s First Parish
During Gordon’s childhood the east Melbourne railway line ended just beyond Box Hill. Trees dotted the landscape and cows grazed in the lush paddocks. People lived in separate houses with fenced frontlawns and backyard vegetable gardens. At weekends neighbours chatted over the back fence and children played ball games in the quiet streets.
Now all that was behind him. Braving the rain in his new leathers Gordon set out for his first visits in the parish. The closer he came to the area the fewer trees and flowers he saw. Decrepit houses faced each other across the narrow streets, each warped front door opening directly onto the cracked pavement. Through broken windows stuffed with yellowed newspapers came sounds of crying babies and radios blaring 1950’s hit tunes.
Rainwater gushed across the footpaths and swirled into rubbish- clogged gutters. He would have to wade if he wanted to visit the inhabitants of these houses. He drew up at the kerb and removed his rain spattered goggles. People actually lived in these grimy streets and lanes. He stepped up onto the footpath and walked to the end of the block to get a better view. As far as he could see each house had a bedsheet-sized backyard with a battered outside toilet in one corner and a sagging clothesline strung from fence to fence. Craning his neck he saw a few struggling potted plants in some yards, but most enclosed an accumulation of broken chairs, twisted iron bedsteads and useless cycle tyres.
Gordon’s spirits drooped slightly. The smells were even worse than the sights and sounds. Nauseating odours hung like fog in the cheerless atmosphere. As weeks passed he learned that the pervading odour depended largely upon which direction the wind blew. Certain days it came from the abattoirs where the city’s meat was processed.
At other times a mingled smell of sweat, dust and trampled manure drifted across from the adjacent cattle saleyards. On other days a choking stench from the tannery which cured the hides of the slaughtered animals. Worst of all was the frightful odour of stewing offal when the wind blew from the direction of the boiling-down works. The slum’s inhabitants accepted the various smells with resigned black humour, “At least we can tell which way the wind is blowing,” one of them said.
To say that Gordon suffered cultural shock on his first day of visitation would be an understatement.
“I never dreamed that people in Australia lived like this,” he told Beverley that night. “I’ve read about London slums, New York ghettos and places in India and China where landlords refuse to repair decrepit buildings for their tenants but—” he shook his head wordlessly. In all fairness he later found out that much of the area had been earmarked for demolition to make way for government housing commission development. In view of this the landlords’ reluctance to repair condemned buildings was understandable, but it did nothing for the unfortunate tenants.
However, on this miserable Melbourne morning Gordon determined that he was going to be a faithful shepherd. The two local Churches of Christ did not boast many members so he decided to visit every house in the area, whether the inhabitants were church-goers or not. He planned to introduce himself and invite the people to worship. Full of zeal he left his motorbike parked in the gutter in Albert Street and strode to the nearest front door.
A weary-looking woman opened to his knock. She wore ancient steel-rimmed spectacles and her straight grey hair was drawn back into a tight bun. She wiped her hands on her apron and regarded him suspiciously.
“My name is Gordon Moyes,” Gordon assumed his most disarming smile. “I’m the new Churches of Christ minister for this district and I’m visiting every house in the area. May I come in and tell you how our church hopes to help you?”
The woman eyed him warily, apparently trying to fathom his motive. Eventually she seemed to decide that he looked harmless.
“Well, all right.” She led him into a front room that opened off the dim hall running full length of the house. “Sit down.”
Gordon’s eyes adjusted to the gloomy interior and he made out a worn lounge chair protected by a lace antimacassar.
The woman said her name was Mrs Harvey, though she pronounced it as “Mrs ‘Arvey.” She and granny lived there alone. They were both war-widows and managed on their small pensions—granny’s from the First World War and Mrs ‘Arvey’s from the second.
Mrs ‘Arvey talked non-stop and he listened politely. The talk was all about the woman’s husband, Captain ‘Arvey and her father, who had been killed in the first World War. Gordon gave up trying to sort out which story concerned which man and which war, concentrating instead on what he intended saying when or if he had a chance.
Presently Mrs ‘Arvey stopped in mid sentence. “You must come out and meet granny,” she directed him to the crowded kitchen. The kitchen was only minimally less dark than the lounge room. At one end he saw an ancient fuel stove where a large black kettle steamed noisily. A cluttered sink clung to one wall and several ancient padded chairs were covered with drying washing. Sagging clotheslines full of damp garments hung from the ceiling. The smell from them reminded him of the men’s urinal at the railway station.
“This is granny, Mr Moyes. Granny, this is the new minister at the Churches of Christ.” Mrs Harvey made the introductions.
Straining his eyes into the gloom Gordon scarcely discerned the figure of a little old lady huddled under a pile of shawls and rugs in one of the big chairs.
Granny cackled something in reply. She had one tooth in the front of her mouth and the way she peered up at about the level of his belt buckle made him realize that she was almost blind. In a sudden flash of intuition he realized something else too. Granny must be incontinent. Surely nothing else could account for the terrible smell and the amount of women’s underwear drying on the clotheslines.
The sudden impact of these facts of life left him a trifle dazed so when Mrs ‘Arvey asked him whether he’d like a cup of tea, he nodded.
“We ‘aven’t got much milk in the ‘ouse,” she said. “Do you mind ‘aving it black?”
“Of course not,” Gordon spoke up manfully. He had never drunk black tea in his life. This was the first lie he had told as a student pastor, but something warned him that it would not be the last.
Mrs Harvey selected a cup from the sink and placed it on the table in front of him. As she turned to get the teapot stewing on the range, he saw that inside the chipped cup were brownish rings of what looked suspiciously like sour milk, apparently Mrs Harvey’s eyesight was not too good either.
Mrs Harvey filled the cup explaining volubly that they would not have any tea themselves, they’d both had a cuppa just before Gordon arrived.
Both of the old ladies watched him as he picked up the cup, no saucer was provided and there was no sugar as well as no milk. Gingerly he turned it around in his hands, the rim was stained and chipped in several places, only the portion directly in front of the handle looked a little less dirty than the rest. Twisting the cup awkwardly in his hands he gulped the tea and thankfully replaced the cup.
“That’s funny,” Mrs Harvey commented as she watched him. “In all my life I’ve only known one other person drink from over the cup ‘andle like that.”
“Oh,” Gordon told his second lie. “It’s just a queer little habit of mine. I always drink my tea over the handle of the cup.”
Granny cackled as Mrs ‘Arvey continued, “Yes, the only other person I know who does that is granny ‘ere. She always drinks over the ‘andle and that’s ‘er cup you’re using.”
Gordon’s stomach heaved. He was beginning to realize that the work of being a minister and visiting people in their homes was somewhat different from what he had imagined.
It did not take Gordon long to find out that the two churches he pastored were as different as sugar and sand.
Situated less than a mile apart they represented vastly different socio-economic groups. The Newmarket church was typical of the inner city where people lived in dilapidated old houses, there was a high incidence of unemployment, vandalism and crime and even those who worked were in the low income bracket.
On the other hand the Ascot Vale Church owned a large property including two halls and a tennis court, saw itself as much more refined and genteel and the suburb’s dwellings were usually resident-owned and kept in better condition. The business section boasted several banks, the general stores polished their big windows daily and the bakers’ and butchers’ shops had screen doors.
For seventy years unacknowledged rivalry had existed between the two churches. Usually each congregation had its own minister and went its own way largely independent of the other. Now, because of declining membership and dwindling finances, they had to share the same minister.
Three years ago, while he was still their student minister Gordon had hit on the ideal solution to the financial problems bedevilling both churches. Sell the old Newmarket Church, unite the two congregations, and everyone work together in unity and love to build up the Churches of God in the area.
Only a brash nineteen year-old devoid of training or experience, but with a mind full of idealistic dreams, could come up with such a proposal. The leading members of both congregations shook their heads in disapproval and set about putting the young upstart in his place.
Now he was the first full-time minister either of the churches had supported since World War II, and he worked hard to win the confidence of both. Even so it took seven years of patience, perseverance, and a fair amount of sanctified scheming before they sold the Newmarket Church and amalgamated the two. As a result the combined Ascot Vale Church became stronger and had greater outreach than ever before.
