Oscar and Lucinda

I would have no

story to tell you...

if my great-grandfather

had not wagered everything...

to bring that church here

to the Bellinger River.

Or if Lucinda Leplastrier

had not been given a Prince Rupert's drop.

Surprise!

Happy birthday, Lucinda.

It's beautiful.

- Your own Rupert's drop.

- Careful, not too tight.

Gently.

- See? Not even with the hammer.

- I'll try the ax.

Lucinda, try the pliers.

- I like it just as it is.

- Go on.

- Take the plunge.

- You'll see.

- Just there.

- One, two, three.

Now!

My great-grandfather, Oscar Hopkins,

had skin like his mother's.

Although the cancer had been removed

by acid dropped onto her tender skin...

she had died anyway.

Papa!

Go!

Leave me!

- Oscar!

- Papa!

The sea, from then on,

would always smell of death to Oscar.

It shall be a day

like any other of the Almighty's days.

There will be no mockery of the Almighty

with pagan rituals.

Others may judge and laugh...

But they are in a darkness

of their own making...

And will burn in hell.

"And the light shineth in the darkness...

"and the darkness comprehended it not. "

Nay.

We shall not use the name,

the popish name others confer upon it.

Christ's Mass.

You have reclassified

your mama's buttons.

Yes, Father.

The taxonomic principle being color...

With the spectrum from left to right.

With size the second principle of order.

Very good.

- All right.

- "Give me neither poverty nor riches.

"Feed me with food convenient to me. "

- Amen.

- Amen.

Excuse me, sir, would Master Hopkins

help with the pigswill?

Very well.

Here.

What is it?

- It's Christmas pudding.

- For you.

Eat up.

This is the food of Satan.

Sir, it be Christmas Day.

Some call it that, but none in my employ.

Well, Master Hopkins...

You will be a good helper

and fetch up the specimen buckets.

Oscar had tasted the pudding.

It did not taste like the fruit of Satan.

Dear God...

If it is your desire

that your flock eat pudding...

In celebration of thy birth as a man...

Then show thy humble supplicant a sign.

Dear God...

If it be thy will

that thy people eat pudding, smite him.

Oscar was frightened

by what he had begun.

The Brethren.

Baptists.

Catholics.

Anglicans.

Now his father no longer knew

the true will of God...

Oscar devised a way

of asking the question directly.

Show me a sign that thou talkest to me.

Please, dear God, no.

God repeated the message

again and again:

Anglican.

One, two, three, four, five, six...

Oscar did not wish to leave

the shelter of the Plymouth Brethren...

but this was where God wished him to go.

That is precisely my point, Hugh.

Divine grace cannot be sought. It is given.

Look, Betty. It's a new crack.

Look, it is new.

- Stop. You'll make it worse.

- They appear overnight.

Do you know how much

was in the plate this morning?

The walls have always been damp.

We haven't died from it.

That dissenter steals our congregation,

one by one.

We'll have nothing, while he gets fat.

- That's his boy.

- So it is.

- Hugh, your back!

- Go on, go home. Go away!

Get off my lettuces! Off!

Wait! I am called.

I am called.

- They're only raisins.

- He's probably unfamiliar with them.

What will your poor father do?

Think of the pain you will cause him.

I know. But he is in error, you see.

He is not saved.

But still, you will go home to him.

I cannot, no matter how much I want to.

Surely your father loves you.

Yes. Very much.

I also love him.

But, Hugh, the cost.

- The boy is called.

- In what sense, "called"?

He's called to Holy Orders.

You've had three glasses, Hugh.

I shall coach him in his articles, Betty.

He'll go to my old college.

Think of that.

Oscar knew that the Brethren prayed

for the sinner to be returned to the fold.

But it was as impossible

for him to return...

as it was for his father to order him home.

Neither would budge.

Lucinda's mother knew that she had

produced a proud square peg...

in the full knowledge that

from coast to coast...

there were nothing but round holes.

Good boy.

Eight eggs.

I went for a swim.

We should have returned home

after your father's death.

- "Returned home"?

- To England.

I can tolerate what I have done to myself,

staying on...

But I can't bear to think

of what I've done to you.

Mama.

You're so hot.

I'm freezing.

Hey, Odd Bod! Hunt's on!

No!

Alas, alack, I love the track

Alas, alack, I love the track

And I love Nancy Dawson

I say, these are West's rooms.

- No...

- Fish.

Fish, they are my rooms.

He has new rooms on this staircase.

Damn it, I'm sure the Scout said 2.

- Maybe it was 1.

- No, please, come in.

I say, Odd Bod, do you like a flutter?

- A "flutter," Fish?

- No, of course you don't.

- What is a "flutter"?

- It is to do with the racetrack.

- Athletics?

- Horse races.

Horses?

And which part of the race

involves the flutter?

A wager, a bet. A flutter.

- You do know what a bet is?

- No, I don't.

You give your money to chaps...

And if the horse you like

is the one that wins...

Then they give you double

your money back, or treble, or whatever.

Treble your money for guessing?

Guessing correctly.

- You mock me.

- No, this is all new to me.

I was raised in a little village in Devon,

very much out of the way.

- Look here, Odd Bod, I have to dash.

- Perhaps you could call me Hopkins.

Call you what?

My name.

Do not rattle your sovereigns.

You are not a plunger.

- What is a...

- A "plunger"? West is a plunger.

He starts off with a couple of sovs,

comes up trumps...

Dabs it all down in a second

and loses the lot.

Look at her. Revenger's Lass.

Three-to-one in the first. It's the day

for a powerful varmint like that.

Look at that backside. Just look.

Now, number 10 is...

The Sailor.

- You have caught the germ.

- No, thank you.

- I am corrupting you.

- No, Fish. Don't you see?

- You should not be here.

- You are an agent of the Lord.

Odd Bod, ease up.

I have been praying to God for funds...

And now I shall be able to pay my bills.

Quick, or we'll miss the first.

I am already damned, of course.

That's the Sailor.

Fish, has that got a powerful bum?

Odd Bod, come on.

My great-grandfather won his first bet.

In the case histories

of pathological gamblers...

you find the same story told

time and time again.

Stop! Those trees are mine!

She would have talked of it to me.

- She intended to return home.

- But this is our home.

No, that is not my mother's signature.

Indeed it is. She signed it in my office.

She had it all calculated.

- Five farms at 4,000 acres apiece.

- You say all this is mine?

- Held in trust by me.

- Until you are of age.

My mother would not have done that.

Dear girl, with a fortune such as this,

you'll be married in a jiffy.

Why was I not told this?

I would have told you today,

after your mother's funeral.

- Lf you had not run away.

- No, I'm staying here.

You cannot. Your new home is with

Mrs. Ahearn and myself in Parramatta.

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