I, Romantic

by Anthony North

  A MATTER OF FAITH

  Life is the test of faith. As a vicar I'm well aware that faith comes from within. But it must be strong indeed to counter the challenges - the obstacles - that can arise with simply living. Every day we need to reinforce faith through moral behaviour, through an iron will, through abstinence. But occasionally will can be challenged beyond endurance.

  It is several months now since I met Tanya. My Parish is small and on the edge of a vibrant town. Such a place leaves me with time to spare from my pastoral duties, and a mission to fill it with good work about the town. And it was in this respect that I met Tanya, and determined to get to know her more. Although my introduction to her was more than revealing.

  It had been the Bishop who had suggested going to the seedier areas of town to show the way. A fellow priest accompanied me to the lap dancing club. Not in case we individually strayed, but more for moral support. And as I saw Tanya gyrate in ways I never knew God allowed, I guessed the Bishop had been prescient here.

  Our attempts to coax the clientele to leave were met with further gyrations, with opening of legs, with shake of ample breasts. And when we persisted, the shake of a heavy's fist decided the issue. My brother departed as we got outside, but I decided to wait longer, attempting to show some of them the errors of their ways as they left.

  Again, it brought me nothing but ridicule, and somewhat dejected I sat despondently on the wall by the door.

  Eventually a voice said: 'Don't be too unhappy, luv, you tried.'

  I looked up to find Tanya - the lap dancer - standing by me. In her late twenties, she was attractive and I couldn't help but notice the perfection of her body, squeezed into those impossibly tight and revealing clothes. Thinking back, I wondered if she would have even bothered talking to me if I hadn't been in my early thirties and - as many a younger parishioner had advised - was a little on the handsome side.

  'I can't be unhappy with God on my side,' I told her.

  She said: 'I've heard about Him. I must meet him some time.'

  Glibly, I said: 'Well come to my church.'

  Little did I know she'd take me up on my offer.

  She did so the following Sunday. A light, conspiratorial mutter arose as she entered and confidently placed herself on a pew. She obviously had some knowledge of the church, as she knew what she had to do during the service, and even came forward for bread and wine, as if Confirmed. I hovered over her with the chalice, her eyes staring up at me from her kneeling position, and I, looking down on her ample cleavage, showing from this angle even in supposedly respectable attire.

  As she seductively sipped the wine, I could see in her eyes her pleasure at my discomfiture; could see a hint of knowing in her mind.

  'A very nice service, vicar,' she said as we shook hands as she left.

  'Will we see you again?’ I enquired.

  She smiled. And I hoped we would - hoped I would have a chance to make an impression on this lost sheep.

  She came every Sunday from then on. It is often the case that a new parishioner can upset the political balance of the congregation, and Tanya was certainly no exception. The ladies of the church obviously shunned her, but there was no such trouble with the servers and organist. Happily, they chatted following the service, when a cup of tea was usually had. And at first I was quite glad to see a small rise in the congregation as lapsed husbands returned, briefly, to church.

  The resentment was of course clear in their wives, who, obviously jealous of their husband's behaviour towards Tanya, remained hypocritical in not telling their spouses of the furtive advances they had previously made to me. But regardless, my sermons came to be filled with warnings from Eve, Jezebel and other temptations.

  'Why do you come here?' I asked Tanya one day, when she expressed an interest in doing further work for the church.

  'I feel comfortable with religion,' she said.

  I was heartened. 'In what way?' I inquired.

  She seemed momentarily in deep thought. Then her big eyes threw their rays upon me. 'Your faith is like sex,' she said. 'It involves submission, it talks of passion, and in the height of religious passion, you talk of ecstasy.'

  She walked away with that knowing look on her face; and I with the physical proof of my unGodly inner thoughts.

  It became a mission to convert Tanya from her ways; and I became sure it was her mission to convert me. She would turn up at the vicarage for instruction and we would pray together, she seductively on her knees.

  'Turn away from your previous ways and embrace God,' I would demand. And she would reply:

  'Yes, Oh! yes, yes, yes.' And the ecstasy would appear on her face and I would kneel by her erect.

  When she was away I would almost indulge in Medievalism - in self-flagellation to put down the passion that was rising in me. And eventually I decided I must tell her of what she was doing to me; and what she must not do if she were to become a Christian.

  She listened, open mouthed, to what a priest must do to take away such longings. And that knowing look came again as she equated self-flagellation with sado-masochism; and from then on she looked upon me with an intense gaze.

  'But she must not come here again. We won't take it.'

  It was a delegation of the more sober ladies; the flower arrangers and others. 'She's no Christian, and she's providing temptations. You can feel it in the air.'

  I spoke of forgiveness; of the need to take those sinners amongst us and be victorious; of hating the sin but not the sinner. But it was no good.

  Yet others of the ladies seemed happy with Tanya amongst us. For a long time I didn't understand why. But a slip of the tongue from one of them told me the sorry facts. Tanya had caused passions to rise in many a husband, and many a wife found a renewed sex life at home as their husbands, aroused, satiated their desires.

  'The flower arrangers have left,' I told Tanya.

  She smiled. 'No worry,' she said. 'I'll do it.'

  'You will?'

  But never did I imagine you could do THAT with flowers.

  Never did I imagine her sexuality, her eroticism, would go that far.

  It was those acts that resigned me. It was those postures before Christ's altar that proved to me a drastic confrontation was required to purge Tanya's soul of such depravities. It was clear things had come to a head.

  So now it is over - for now, at least. I take off the used condom and flush it down the toilet, sure in the knowledge that I will succeed, no matter how often penitence is imposed upon me.

  PLAY AN OLD SONG

  He was pleased the sun had shone. And as he watched his mother's coffin lowered into its grave, he knew that God was looking down and smiling.

  Brad 'Iron Man' Slater could not have wished for a better funeral - a few close friends and family, a lovely day, and a settled mind full of happy memories of the woman who had looked after him most of his life.

  Iron Man had passed fifty now and his mass of tattoos seemed to fall off his wrinkly skin. His hair still managed to be long, but always in a pony tail, hiding the tell-tale signs of thinness, split ends and approaching alopecia. Even his fingertips were now soft, where through most of his early life they had been as hard as the hard rock he used to play.

  The funeral over, he chatted briefly with old friends before making his way, slowly, through the cemetery to where he parked his Harley Davidson. There would be no wake for his mother. Indeed, few of his family ever talked to him - how could they - this hard man of rock; this legend who, to them, had sullied the family name? Except, of course, for his mother. She knew. She understood. She had loved.

  He never noticed the two miniature clones of himself until he was straddling his bike.

  'Iron Man,' one of them called, 'can we have your autograph.'

  'Piss off,' said Brad, 'can't you see this is a funeral?'

  But Grebos will be Grebos, and they said: 'Oh shit, Iron Man, great. Balshy to the end. Cool.'

  Brad Slater smiled to himself. 'No kid
, not cool,' he said, 'just me.'

  Brad Slater had been a recluse ever since the band split up. To the outside world, he had lived his whole life in those few years. He had snorted and shot and shagged and supped enough for anyone. As had the other band members. But as is oft the case with high testosterone of youth, when egos are allowed such power, argument is the result. And within three years it was all over.

  What times they were, thought Brad as he sat in his country cottage. What times indeed. The music, the lifestyle, the girls. At least, there was one girl.

  He hated the term, groupie. Always had. Maybe it was his mother who influenced that, as with much of his life. And when he met Sal, how could he ever think of them as groupies again?

  'I love you, Sal,' he had told her. 'I love you so much.'

  He remembered her laughing. 'Love? Do me a favour. We've no time for that.'

  He wished she had. He wished he could have been the kind of man she wanted. But it was not to be; and she was gone, such a fleeting, if omnipotent, part of his life.

  A knock at the door brought him out of his reverie. Slowly, he forced his old bones to the window, looked out.

  He remembered what he'd said to the Grebos the previous day.

  He remembered inviting them back, letting them know what it had been like. He'd given them his address - the fool - but never, for a minute, thought they'd actually turn up.

  With a sigh, he went to the door. Opened it. Let them in.

  'Cool.’

  He remembered the buzz as he played. The ultimate axeman, his Stratocaster was an extension of himself. It was almost telepathic the way his mind communicated straight to the strings, as if his fingers were mere pawns in the amazing game of creation. And the Grebos were determined to know what it was like.

  'Come with me, then,' he eventually said, as he went down the cellar steps, and there, in the corner, the Strat stood on its stand, the 200 watt stack silent, imposing and ready.

  It had been a long time since he had played, but when he began it came flooding back, filling the cellar with its vibes, the odd loose plaster falling with the sound waves.

  'Give us the song,' said the Grebos, and Iron Man felt compelled to oblige.

  'We shoot, we shag; we sleep, we dream;

  Then we awake, and do it all again.’

  It had been a standard all those years ago; a licence for excess. And later, back upstairs, sat around the living room, a can in every hand.

  'Was it really like that?'

  Brad was momentarily silent. Then, finally, he said: 'No.'

  'No?'

  'It was all a con.'

  'I don't understand. The parties?'

  'Public relations.'

  'The drugs.'

  'A lie.'

  'The smashed up hotels.'

  'The roadies.'

  The Grebos looked shocked. It was as if their world had come tumbling down. Eventually, they stood, took a hypo out of a pocket, and placed it down. 'Well I doubt you'll be needing this,' they said, and walked out, disgusted.

  Brad Slater had often felt guilt as the years had progressed.

  Why had they kept up the myth so long? They all knew it had never been like that. But would hard rock have been the same if the public had known that as soon as he returned from tour he went back to mommy?

  Okay, there had been a few idiots, he knew. But the entire culture, the entire media circus, based on a few odd-balls and saddos?

  They could have told the truth. They should have. Maybe then, the drug culture wouldn't have grown as it did. Brad 'Iron Man' Slater suddenly knew he had a lot to answer for, especially as the hypo seemed to stare back at him, accusingly.

  It was later that night that there was another knock at the door. He had watched the news item for the umpteenth time - his mother's funeral, the media spewing old footage of the wild man on stage, the myth repeated of the parties, the drugs, the smashed up hotels.

  He turned off the TV and went again to the door. And as it opened, he gasped.

  Much of the beauty had gone, replaced with the more tranquil loveliness of age. But he couldn't mistake that look, that posture, that energy.

  'Sal.'

  Maybe she was drawn. Maybe, after all these years, she had to see him again. But whatever the reason, after hearing of his mother's death, she had to see him. And also to hear him perform. For he had had that magic touch. And he played again. And as he did, it dawned. It may well have been a myth then, but it wasn't now. People really did live this lifestyle.

  And after the music was over, two lovers lay out in a cellar and made love. And later, they shot. And after the trip was over, they didn't sleep or dream, but died. And as the media learnt the news, a myth lived on.

  SECOND TIME AROUND

  Jenny Stevenson sat in the cafe watching the world go round.

  Slowly, she sipped her coffee and wondered what secrets the people held in their heads. It was a mass of humanity outside, seeming to go about in ordered bliss. But how many of them were like her, an individual for the first time in decades, and a new batch of secrets to analyse and to act upon.

  Jenny was forty five years of age. Still attractive, she had let herself slip of late. But with a new lease of life, she had endeavoured to wear make-up once more; and to take more care in the clothes she wore. And she had to admit, she was pleased with the result. Not that her husband, Philip, had noticed. She wondered if HE would ever notice anything about her again. She even wondered if she loved him any more. Had she ever loved him, come to that?

  The question was just one of the many secrets in her head.

  She was facing all the worries, all the hopes, all the fears, of so long ago. And as Andy came over and sat by her - said 'hi' - she knew she was living her life a second time around.

  'Oh, stuff the garden, Philip! Can't you think of anything else to do?'

  Philip Stevenson was older than Jenny - over fifty - and in his respites from work, he liked nothing better than to tend his garden. It was his sanctuary from his busy life; and even more so that now the last of his children had moved on to university. He saw it as a new lease of life; as a time to wind down and approach retirement satisfied that he was a success in his life.

  Jenny, on the other hand, saw it different. Philip had never been a hands-on dad. It was Jenny who had done it all. And he simply could not see that, with the children gone, there was a huge gulf in her life.

  'The roses will be out soon,' said Philip.

  Jenny wanted to stuff the roses down his mouth and shut him up. 'Philip,' she said, 'do something.'

  'You know it's going to happen, don't you.'

  Jenny's coffee was cold. 'Can I have another?' she asked, running away from the question. Or was it a statement of fact?

  Andy raised his hand. The waiter came over. He ordered. He sighed.

  A silence followed, until the coffee arrived. During the silence, Jenny looked furtively at Andy. He was younger than Philip - about her age. Good looking, well dressed, looked affluent. And he had that hint of danger about him. But he did have faults. Indeed, Jenny was well aware that, in many ways, he was a shallow man.

  Philip may well have fallen in love with his garden - may well treat her as a piece of the furniture - but in most things he was not shallow. He was dependable - always had been; had never let her down.

  Maybe that's the damn problem, she thought. Doesn't he realise a woman needs a touch of nastiness in a man, even if it's only make believe. A woman needs a touch of passion, a means to make the heart want to burst, to fill itself with the vitality of life.

  Andy could offer that. She knew he could. But could she do it to Philip?

  'You're weakening. You know you want to come with me. It's only a matter of time.'

  'Oh yes, the last one goes off to university tomorrow. I know I shouldn't be pleased. But after so long, I'm really looking forward to having the house to ourselves.'

  It was a party and Philip seemed a touch ecstatic at the
prospect. He seemed to carry his suit that bit fuller, his shoulders less sagged.

  Jenny came over, then. 'Jenny, dear, meet Andy, a colleague of mine.'

  'Hello.'

  Andy's eyes seemed to burn into her, and she felt a warmth inside. Could chemistry really work like this, she thought.

  It only happens in stories, surely? But her heart just wouldn't cool down.

  Small talk followed, supposedly between the three of them, but Philip just didn't seem to get a word in. But finally he asserted himself.

  'We have that contract to discuss, Andy.'

  'Of course.'

  'Will you excuse us a moment, dear,' said Philip, taking Andy away from her.

  Did she feel cheated?

  It was another day, but the same old garden. 'I can't live like this, Philip. Everything is so boring. I think I'm going to explode.'

  Philip was hoeing. He stopped momentarily. 'But life's so beautiful, dear. What more could you want?'

  'You don't understand.'

  Philip gave a knowing look. 'I think I do, dear. It's the children. They were your life. You need something to take up your time. Ever thought of night classes?'

  It was too much. Far too much for her to take.

  'I told you, you'd come.'

  She stood before him in his flat. She hadn't worn such a dress for many a year. But suddenly she felt right in it - felt hot, demanding.

  He took her in his arms. At first she held back, a last tinge of guilt washing away, and then she relented and her soul fell into this new experience.

  When they kissed, the dam that for so long had held her frustrations burst, and she became a full woman with needs to be satisfied.

  Jenny Stevenson made love as she had never made love before.

  Another cafe, another coffee. But this time no Andy would come to meet her. Part of him was still within her, and she felt a warmth she did not understand. But beyond the warmth was something else; a sense of the forbidden - a sense of the forbidden that she had touched.

  What had she done?

  Philip came into her mind, then, and she felt an unbelievable longing. Suddenly, he was not so bad. He was so different from Andy, but when she analysed her capacity for love, which of them was most important in her life?