Shout Every week, the Assembly of God church in Rockhamption would hold an open air meeting in the main part of town, as a witness to the Christian gospel. Mostly, only Dad attended from our family, but occasionally my friend Essie and I would go along to swell the ranks. Now, one of the more visible (in many ways) members of the congregation was a lady named Mrs. Crone. Her abundant curves were in proportion to her loud voice, laugh and rather fervent but off-beat view of life. One got the impression that she had hoped for better things in life, than living out at the back of Burke (which she did), with a skinny nondescript husband. She was a big personality. So there we all were with my Dad on point duty. We were standing around in a tight little semi-circle, singing choruses and giving testimonies like we normally did at these gatherings. Then I spotted him. Down the adjacent footpath I saw this drunken chap slowly stumbling and staggering towards us. His impending arrival didn’t seem to raise the alarm bells that I felt it should have. I noticed that Dad had spotted him, but he maintained his concentration and continued that required solemn form. Finally the drunk lurched to a stop right in front of our merry little band and grasped at the lamp post least he fall. Haaaaallelujah. Aaaaaamen. Mags dear just keep you head down and concentrate on your hymn book, I said to myself. Don’t look at him and don’t encourage him, he will go away soon enough. But he didn’t. Then he spotted Mrs. Crone. His eyes lit up and this crooked smile split his face. Leering at her intently, he dragged one hand up to his face, crooked his finger and beckoned her to join him with those little summoning gestures. Mrs. Crone just praised the Lord even more loudly. Essie and I giggled. I looked at Dad up front. He was still trying very hard to look serious and unperturbed. Having not achieved the desired response, the drunk just stared at Mrs. Crone awhile. I gave a head-down sideways look at her and noticed that she seemed oblivious to the fact that this drunk actually fancied her. Having let go of the security of the lamp post and now freely swaying from side to side, the drunk tried again. He beckoned to Mrs. Crone once more. Then with no response, he recoiled his finger and placed it on the tip of his very large bulbous nose, before proceeding to squash it all over his face. It was too much – Mrs. Crone let out a snort that reverberated right round the block. It certainly drowned out any of the exalting Hallelujahs being expressed by our group. I just had to sneak a look at our front-man Dad – poor old fellow. With shoulders shaking, he had fittingly taken refuge in his large hanky.
