The Memory Tree by Tess Evans

as Bob headed for the comfort of the whisky bottle he kept in his desk drawer.
    Every Sunday, Godown and Hal walked around to the Safouris’ shop and opened up the shed. For weeks, they saw no-one else, and Hal fretted as they waited to start the service, dashing from door to gate and back again in the dwindling hope of finding even one other worshipper. Arranging the hymn books, Godown reiterated his mantra, all in God’s good time, Hal. All in God’s good time.
    Then one week, Spiros joined them. ‘Too many women in our church,’ he explained. ‘I sneak out.’ After the service he opened a bottle of ouzo and sat down at the table. ‘I teach you prefa,’ he said, shuffling a pack of cards. In the weeks that followed, more escapees from the local Orthodox Church arrived and the smell of cigarettes and black coffee and the shouts of the bidders drove Godown and Hal back onto the street.
    ‘The Lord’s testin’ us, brother,’ Godown told Hal. ‘But Sergeant Moses B. Washbourne ain’t never backed away from a fight.’
    As it turned out, no fighting was necessary. When Helena and the other women discovered why their men were sneaking out of church early, the Sunday card games came to an abrupt end.
    Helena apologised to Hal. ‘My husband, the pig, has no right to take your church for his filthy card games with his filthy friends. It is yours. Your friend has a lease for another two years. That will cook his chicken.’
    ‘Goose.’
    ‘That will goose his chicken.’
    ‘They were the only congregation we had,’ Hal said sadly. ‘But then I’m not sure they were real converts.’
    Hal and Godown continued evangelising in the gardens and after many months their congregation swelled to seven.
    Godown was jubilant. ‘We’re over halfway,’ he crowed. ‘The Lord himself had to make do with twelve.’
    Apart from Spiros, who continued to attend the church of the Divine Conflagration to annoy his wife, the first real convert had been Fred ‘Jockey’ Winthrop. After the scandal that wrecked his career, Jockey had been warned off every racetrack in Australia and had begun to repent when he read an article about himself in the Australasian Post while waiting at the barbers. The headline pointed a reproachful finger. Shame, Jockey Winthrop! Jockeys who pull horses, the article went on to say, were simply stealing money from poor folk who wagered their last shilling in the hope of feeding their families. Jockey felt so bad about this that he left the barbers and gave his haircut money to the Sally Army lass at the pub. He declined to join the Salvos when he was told they frowned on alcohol and gambling. ‘Un-Australian,’ he pointed out to Hal. ‘So I heard you in the park and thought I’d give it a fly.’
    Jockey Winthrop was quickly followed by his neighbour, Beryl Toomey, and her mother Ada. These two good souls had been slighted by the minister of their local Methodist church who had been heard to say that Beryl’s sponges weren’t a patch on his wife’s.
    ‘The sponges we’ve made for that church. Every fete, every Ladies’ Guild, every Christmas party . . .’ Beryl’s skinny bosom heaved with indignation as her mother, who often forgot her teeth, echoed her words with some difficulty. ‘Ery Crishmsh Pa-y.’ They looked at Hal and Godown expectantly.
    ‘The Lord is pleased to accept you and your sponges,’ Godown assured them. ‘And I’m sure they are dee-licious.’ After such a welcome, Beryl prevailed upon her husband, Bert, to come to the Sunday services. He sat and stood morosely, joining neither the singing nor the responses. He was as present and as animated as the storage boxes stacked against walls.
    The little congregation settled into a routine of Bible readings, prayers, blessings and hymns, followed, on the first Sunday of the month, by a cup of tea and a slice of Beryl’s cream sponge. No-one said much at these social gatherings ( Fellowship , Beryl called it) and after the