Luckily, Sunday morning was no longer Baptist. It had been, for years. Mum would drop me and Jen, Bibles in hand, hair combed, faces washed. Me in my best slacks, one of Pop’s shirts, cardigan, and freshly ironed hanky. You couldn’t spit in church, or anywhere near it, and hell awaited those who wiped their nose on the back of their hand.

Val Donnellan had a cross on her wall, and I’d asked her, What do you think the chances are, really? She’d told me it was a sure bet. Jesus, apparently, had saved her. He’d jumped down from his cross and explained how there were worse things in life than crucifixion. But she’d told me, You’ll have to wait, make up your own mind.

It continued, even in the Burrells’ lounge room. Curtis, the premature adult, lying on the couch in his pyjamas watching Songs of Praise. A village choir and an old man with an accent like Ernie’s saying how God had saved him from falling off a cliff. Curtis mimicked him. ‘I took one step back, to focus me camera, and I slipped …’

Anne Burrell walked past and said, ‘Curtis, there’s no need to be disrespectful.’

‘Ah, then I was falling, doon, doon, I went!’

We cracked up. Anne returned to the kitchen.

I said, ‘Don’t ask Pop about the Catholics. He had a sister, and she went blind.’ I whispered. ‘His mum had the clap.’

‘The clap?’

‘You know, cos she had no …’

The dishes stopped rattling, and I waited.

Curtis listened to the old fella on the telly. ‘I reached up, and praise the Lord Jaysus, a hand!’

‘Curtis!’

‘It’s on the telly.’ He leaned forward, and said, ‘Had no what?’

‘Contraception. So she’d got the clap, and it got in his sister’s eyes as she was emerging and she went blind.’

He sat back. ‘Catholics. I’ll put them on my list too.’

It wasn’t just a mental list. An actual one, four pages long, starting with clumsy kiddy scribble (the mailman), progressing through his primary school years (Mr Gottl), high school (all teachers, principals, office staff), up to the most recent, a few days before (Les Champness). And now, Catholics.

Curtis said, ‘So your aunt couldn’t see?’

‘I never knew her. She died before I was born.’

He sat forward. ‘They’re no better, you know.’

‘Who?’

‘The Catholics. This AIDS thing. They reckon it’ll wipe out half the planet. The Christians reckon it’s some punishment from God. That’s what we’re up against, Whelan.’

You could never quite believe him. ‘Half the planet?’

‘It can wipe out a whole village in a few days.’ Then he sat back, eager for the next testimonial.

‘Not much point doing matric,’ I said.