Now he rocked and imagined arriving at Mr and Mrs Grace’s front door.
“Come in!” boomed Mr Grace. “It’s dinner time.”
Mr Grace took off Benson’s clothes and put him on a platter surrounded by roast potatoes. Benson lay on his front while Mr Grace poked around, pinching him and announcing to his wife, “What a feast he’ll make! I can’t wait!” Then Benson was scared just for a moment. “Where’s the notice? Where’s the notice?” But it was all right. The notice was there, taped to his back:
“EVERY SLICE YOU
TAKE FROM ME
WILL BE INSTANTLY REPLACED!”
With the notice in place everyone could settle down and enjoy themselves. Mr Grace sharpened his carving knife and took slice after slice off Benson’s back, bottom and legs, placing the meat on plates in tidy piles. As he sliced, Mr Grace made clucking, sucking noises, and Benson in bed rocked faster and faster and the friction on his sex and soft thighs excited him towards a sort of climax, as Mr Grace chomped and slobbered, “And now for the best part! The best part!” With his carvers Mr Grace turned Benson over ...
He felt himself jerking down there as if his sex was swallowing. He continued to rock, but the story had faded and, indeed, now that he recalled it, he was aware only of how ridiculous it was.
Soon he turned over on to his front and prayed into his pillow, “O my God, because Thou art so good. I am very sorry that I have sinned against Thee. And by the help of Thy Grace I will not sin again.” And he also prayed not to die in the night.
He knew he was only covered by the leakiest of insurance. Tomorrow it would be better. All risks. Fully comprehensive.
The relief was heavenly. Father Lynch – Benson’s prayer for deaf, old Canon Preston fell on deaf ears – gave Benson a short chat on the trouble chastity gave everyone, including himself. He compared it to an insect bite which one should not scratch but which kept on itching. Boys Benson’s age, he asserted, were more prone than most to itch and to scratch. Not to worry, he said, and would he serve Mass for him?
Benson had been somewhat taken aback at having been recognised, despite the light tenor he had tried to bring his voice down towards. But the sweet feeling of peace that always came to him after Confession was already drenching him in a lightness and a bliss that sent small worries scurrying away. His feelings were mirrored by the rising light of dawn creeping into the church through its east-facing windows behind the altar.
As he knelt down to say his penance, the sun’s light caught the life-size frieze of the Crucifixion and made the pewter catch fire. He gazed up at it, and the scene was as wonderful and spectacular as the feelings going on inside him. He began to weep tears of joy for the return of innocence, for the Christ smiling down at him, for Mary and for all the saints once more on his side.
“Thank you! Thank you!” he kept repeating. “From now on I shall be faithful ... faithful unto death! I swear it! Lord, it will be death rather than sin from now on! I would far rather die in a sea of molten lava than offend You and Your Blessed Mother! Please help me to stay pure!”
He went into the sacristy and quickly changed into the black and white robes of an altar boy. Then he took a lighted taper and went to the altar to light the candles for Mass. As he lit them he looked out into the church. There were only a handful of people there. Mr Stone was there of course. He was always there. He seemed hardly ever to go home. The Miss Dooleys were there too; two retired teachers in identical black suits, bent and frail. He did not recognise any of the other people in the congregation, but felt his warmth overflowing past the altar rails to the small flock. The Church Militant! Three or four thus arrayed could change the world!
He returned to the sacristy, then a minute later led Father Lynch to the altar. The priest bowed and stood at the foot of the steps, while Benson knelt beside him and responded to the priest’s introductory prayers.
“Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam.” He rattled off the responses as fast as he could but it was not fast enough for Father Lynch, who always started the next part of the prayer before Benson had quite finished his bit. This had often irritated Benson in the past. He had always felt sure that, were he God, he would be extremely irked by such indecent haste. But this morning nothing could irritate Benson.
He bowed down to say the Confiteor. He bowed down so low that his nose practically scraped the second step leading to the altar. And as he spoke the words his joy almost choked him.
The Consecration arrived. The Host rose white above the priest’s head and Benson rang the bell and gazed at the transubstantiating Host for a moment before swooning in adoration. Then the chalice was raised. He rang the bell again and glanced up at the perfect symmetry of the gold chalice, held with such grace by the pale, tapering fingers of Father Lynch. As he bowed down again he could feel a shiver passing up his spine to his neck and fancied that he was feeling there the footprint of Christ as He walked up to the altar to take possession of the bread and wine and enter into it and lose Himself in man’s daily food.
And when he received Christ upon his tongue every thought disappeared save for the slight physical sensation of the softening wafer in his mouth and an image of light-rays radiating from it and filling his body and soul with a vast, silent waterfall of grace and peace. Automatically he stood and led Father Lynch down to the altar rails where he held the plate beneath the chins of the other communicants. He found himself longing to be relieved of these duties so that he could commune with the Friend alone and in silence; discuss past problems and disagreements and make a pact with Him to be Best Friends from now on forever and ever.
“O Lord, be merciful to me, a Pharisee,” Benson repeated as the Mass came to an end and he set about clearing the altar.
He spent longer than he should have done alone in the church on his knees. Sin felt like a complete impossibility to him now. The future would be as different from the past as night is different from day. The Rude Club now seemed like a terrible misunderstanding between friends, Benson and Jesus, that could not possibly be repeated. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could make him let his Friend down again. Jesus was all he wanted or would ever want. And when his exile on Earth ended and he cast off the bitter yoke of life’s sorrows, he would meet his Friend face to face. The interim would have its share of trouble and sorrows but could be borne now.
He was in Grace.
He was too late for breakfast and too late for the train but he didn’t mind. The energy of happiness had taken hold of Benson’s rotund frame and he asked Dad for the keys to the shed.
“You’re not going on your bike, are you?”
“Yes, I am,” replied Benson.
“Wonders will never cease.”
“How do you mean?” asked Benson, making for the back door.
“Oh, nothing,” said Dad, pleased that his son was taking the bike. A keen cyclist himself, it had disappointed Dad that the heavy, pristine Raleigh which he had bought Benson for Christmas from a retiring policeman had not been used more.
“Got your lunch, dear?” asked Mum.
“Yes, Mum.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
The truth of the matter was that Benson did not care to be seen on the big bike, because he felt his bottom overflowed the saddle and became an object of mirth and ridicule to drivers behind him. He had tried to solve this problem by wearing his raincoat over the saddle instead of tucking it in underneath him. A nasty mishap had been caused by this attempt at camouflage, with the end of the coat getting itself caught in his back wheel, causing it to lock and sending him at speed against the road surface. The bike had not suffered too much, because it had landed on Benson. Benson had not suffered too much either, because the heavy raincoat and his own natural padding had cushioned the impact. The raincoat, however, had been a write-off.
So the bicycle had been sent into ignominious exile in
the shed. Dad’s plan for turning Benson into a slim and muscular example of Catholic Youth had foundered on his son’s fear of being made fun of while en route to that desirable state.
To get to school Benson had to negotiate the docks, which were criss-crossed with railway lines that could easily swallow the wheels of his bicycle. Today, though, he challenged the railway lines to unseat him. He was not careful. What need of care when all is well with the world? He approached each set of rails much more acutely than he had ever done before and not once did the bicycle falter. He was not in the least surprised. Guardian Angel Tom was once more back on his shoulder and was as gay as he was.
He did not change into an easier gear, even when he was negotiating the long hill that led up to St Bede’s. Neither did he stop pedalling for an instant. Mr Plunkett passed him on the road through the park. He beeped his horn and Benson waved and remembered that he had forgotten Mr Plunkett’s jam jars. At once, reasoning that to be faithful unto death required that he be faithful in small things too, he stopped his bicycle, reached into his pants pocket and tied a knot in his grubby handkerchief. Then he continued on.
He passed a gang of boys dawdling towards school. Their cries of “Fall off, Wobbles!” fell on deaf ears. Even his overhanging bottom did not worry him. To worry, fast-pedalling Benson decided, was a betrayal of Our Lord. He resolved never to worry again.
It was five minutes before Assembly time when Benson, glowing somewhat from his exertions, took his place in the Hall surrounded by his classmates. He did not talk to anybody but took out his library copy of Robinson Crusoe and pretended to read. His heart was still pounding from his exercise. Benson closed his eyes to shut the hubbub out and prayed.
“Thank You, Lord, for the Grace of forgiveness. Thank you for forgiving me the unforgivable sins of my past life. I am a miserable sinner, Lord, and deserve to be cast down into the pit of everlasting fire for ever and ever. But You, Lord, saw fit to forgive me and not demand the just and reasonable punishment for so wounding Your Sacred Heart and the Blessed Heart of Your Most Holy Mother, Mary. Please help me, Lord, to keep myself pure and sweet to You. Help me to avoid temptation and the company of wicked companions.”
Then Benson turned his attention to his favourite saints to put in a good word for him:
“St Aloysius Gonzaga! You who were so pure at my age and went on to die in the odour of sanctity, pray to Jesus for me so that He, hearing your words and seeing my abject weakness and powerlessness, will see fit to grant me the miracle of a pure and good life, Amen.
“St Dominic Savio, whose motto was ‘Death rather than sin!’, intercede for me with Jesus and His Holy Mother, that I may at all times shun sin as you did throughout your tragically brief sojourn in this, our vale of tears. Amen.
“Guardian Angel Tom! You who look just like the faithful soldier in ‘Faithful Unto Death’, only you’ve got wings where he has got secular armour, guard my unworthy soul in the same way as the faithful soldier guarded Pompeii. Stay with me! Do not look away for a minute! You know what a sinful creature they have given you to guard! I am like the city of Pompeii, Tom! All the time the lava of sin threatens the fragile home of my soul! I implore you, by the wounds of Our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, to be ever-vigilant in keeping my step steady on the path of righteousness. Amen.”
Then Benson opened his eyes to find that Eddie Rudge was sitting on his left side and was staring at him unsmilingly.
Usually, Benson, by much toing and froing, managed to avoid Eddie Rudge, the most notorious boy in 3B. Eddie Rudge was trouble, even though he had only one lung and false teeth top and bottom. He had once thrown a blackboard compass across the classroom. Like a javelin it had whizzed through the air, missing Benson’s head by inches, and lodging in the door of the cupboard where Drury kept a bottle of school milk to see how the passage of time would change it. Eddie Rudge smoked in the toilets as a matter of routine and made dates with the girls from Maria Assumpta Convent in the park. Eddie Rudge had dirty pictures in his wallet and stole from the school tuck shop, which he ran with his henchman, O’Gorman.
“Deep in thought are we, Wobbles?” asked Eddie Rudge.
“My name isn’t Wobbles,” said Benson.
The teachers filed in at that moment and took their places at the back of the stage like some motley Greek chorus. Then a few seconds later the swish of a cassock announced the arrival of Brother Hooper. The whole school froze into silence and the swishing sound made its way down the right aisle of the Hall and then stopped at Benson’s row.
The tall, bespectacled Brother pointed, Benson thought, at Benson.
“You!” barked Brother Hooper.
Benson stood up fearfully. “Me, sir?”
“No. Not you. You! Rudge!”
Eddie Rudge stood up.
“You! Stand out in the aisle.”
Eddie Rudge got up without another word and stood in the aisle to attention.
Something dreadful was about to happen to Eddie Rudge, thought Benson. He was relieved no longer to be sitting next to him but could not help feeling sorry for Eddie all the same.
The swishing sound of Brother Hooper continued to the stage and ascended the steps. Not a sound was heard in the Hall. In the silence Benson could hear the shrill tinkling of milk bottles being stacked in the far corner of the playground. Then, as if the need for silence had communicated itself to them too, even that sound ceased.
Brother Hooper stood behind his lectern and gazed out over the silent boys. His thin, fortyish face communicated a cynical distaste for what he surveyed, rather as if a bad smell was wafting up at him from the body of the Hall. He smiled a thin, dry smile and inhaled breath to say, “Good Morning, School!” but at that precise moment Eddie Rudge let out a fart, and a giggle like birdsong in a cemetery rose from the section of boys near enough to have heard.
The Headmaster, aware of the giggles but not of what had caused them, stared long and hard at the mid-section of the Hall. Benson fancied that he was looking directly at him. He had not laughed. He did not find that sort of thing in the least bit amusing.
“Good Morning, School!” said Brother Hooper even more coldly than usual.
“Good Morning, sir!” replied the school.
Then, with a greatly magnified gesture, the Headmaster crossed himself: “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost...”
“Amen,” replied the school.
The Headmaster launched into the Litany of the Blessed Virgin and the school responded, “Pray for us!” to each recitation of the names of Mary:
“Queen of Angels!”
“Pray for us!”
“Queen of Patriarchs!”
“Pray for us!”
“Queen of Prophets!”
“Pray for us!”
“House of Gold!”
“Pray for us!”
But Benson, as he responded prayerfully, head lowered and eyes closed, could hear some of his companions responding, “Play with it!”
He increased the volume of his own response to try to drown out his companions’ blasphemy. At the same time he tried to persuade his Friend, Jesus, and His Holy Mother and all the saints to ignore the wicked responses of the wicked minority. Why, wondered Benson, was he surrounded by wicked boys? How was it possible to remain good and pure in the company of evil, indecent and impure companions?
“Ark of the Covenant!”
“Play with it!”
“Gate of Heaven!”
“Play with it!”
“Morning Star!”
“Play with it!”
“Tower of Ivory!”
“Play with it!”
The Devil, Benson knew, was all around him. The Presence was almost palpable. Tom and the Devil were waging an invisible battle for Benson’s soul just above his head among the climbing-ropes and the scout f
lags.
“Pray for us!” and “Play with it!” were alternating through his brain. He could not think of one without the other. He said the good and thought the bad.
“O Lord! Be merciful to me, a Pharisee!” screamed Benson to himself.
Then, mercifully, the Litany ended and a boy came onto the stage to read the lesson:
“Put you on the armour of God that you may be able to stand against the deceits of the Devil... “
“How true!” thought Benson, mentally strapping on a set of burnished armour. He stood guard, portly and determined, holding his spear at the ready to ward off the Devil in all his guises.
“Stand, therefore, having your loins girt about with truth... “
Benson could hear Eddie Rudge tutting over ‘loins’ but shut him out as he tried to imagine his own loins covered in Truth. It was a problem, but once again ‘Faithful Unto Death’ inspired him and he was able to imagine himself in a brown pleated skirt with ‘TRUTH’ written on it in beautiful calligraphy.
Then prayers were over and it was time for Brother Hooper either to dismiss the school or talk to it. He settled, his arms folded across the lectern. He was going to talk.
“I have two items to draw to your attention today, School. One is pleasant and one is most decidedly not pleasant. Let us dispose of the latter first. Edmund Rudge!”
Eddie Rudge squirmed where he stood. Benson noticed that his left hand had clenched into a nervous fist, and felt sorry for him again.
“Yes, sir,” said Eddie Rudge in a trembling but dark voice.
Benson envied Eddie Rudge that voice, especially when – as now – he was under pressure. His own voice was betwixt and between. For the purposes of everyday intercourse it had descended to the lightest of light tenors, but whenever he was nervous or excited it piped up into a childish soprano. Eddie’s never did that. Not even now when pressed to the limits.
Sucking Sherbert Lemons Page 7
