Sucking Sherbert Lemons

by Michael Carson

  Father Hanlon looked stern. “You must accept it! It will become clear when you die. Have faith.”

  “But when I die it will be too late!” exclaimed Benson. He was articulating these thoughts for the first time and was amazed at how easily they slipped out and how convincing they sounded when given expression. He had thought somehow that they would sound silly but it was rather Father Hanlon who sounded silly. He did not have any answers at all.

  “It’s terribly difficult to commit a mortal sin, you know,” said Father Hanlon quietly.

  “Is it? Tell that to all the people who thought they were committing a mortal sin by eating meat on Friday and died. Now the Vatican Council say it’s all right to eat meat on Fridays.”

  Father Hanlon laughed. “I don’t think that was ever a mortal sin.”

  “But lots of people thought it was!” said Benson.

  “Well I think it all comes down to faith in the end. You must pray about it.”

  “But,” continued Benson, completely carried away and determined to articulate his complaints about his friendship with Christ and the way it seemed to be falling far short of what he had a right to expect from a Friend, “I’m trying to make Christ my Friend! It is necessary that all friendships be based on complete trust and honesty. If I had a human friend who could send me to hell or let my house fall down without giving me a friendly warning, then that friend would cease to be my friend.”

  “But God always sent warnings! All those prophets tried to warn those wicked cities to stay away from vice!”

  “Yes, but that was the God of the Old Testament! I’m talking about His Son! It’s God’s Son who is supposed to be my friend!”

  “But can’t you see that They are one and the same?”

  “No, I can’t! Jesus is Love and the God of the Old Testament is all anger and revenge and Acts of God! They cannot co-exist! They just can’t!”

  Father Hanlon gave up and just looked at his hands a little angrily. Then he said, “Well, let’s hope that the Third Member of the Trinity will descend to enlighten you. All I can suggest is that you pray about it.”

  “But prayer won’t change facts!” rapped back Benson.

  Dad came in then carrying the whisky bottle and two glasses.

  “Say goodnight,” he said.

  “Goodnight.”

  “Don’t forget to clean your teeth!” shouted Mum from the kitchen.

  “I won’t. Night.”

  In bed he opened Tribes of the Southern Sudan. He gazed at the picture of the man with the spear for a long time, caressing himself under the bedclothes.

  Then he looked at himself, held himself out and compared himself to the man in the picture. It was hard to tell. Probably the man in the picture was better off than he. But perhaps not. He was, anyway, better off than Andy.

  He switched off the light and told himself the story of meeting Andy and going to the cemetery with him. As he came closer to climax, the man with the spear appeared from behind one of the graves. Andy ran away in terror but Benson stayed. He got down on his knees before the man.

  A few minutes later he heard Father Hanlon bidding Mum and Dad goodnight and God bless.

  Then he slept like a child.

  Throughout the next week things went well for Benson. He managed to produce an essay on Hamlet for Mr Stone which earned a large number of red ticks and a “Much improved! Keep it up”; he went to Confession in a new mood, mentioned his fall to the priest (at another parish) but told the priest that he did not think it was as serious a sin as the priest was making out; for the first time he got into conversation with a group of other students in his class and found they were nice and seemed to like him. And, whenever guilt and depression raised their well-known faces from the pond of unknowing, he was able to put them to flight by remembering the night with Andy and anticipating the next one.

  One side of him saw the swift sex act which had taken place among the non-Catholic dead in the cemetery as dirty and unworthy. But, for once, this side did not predominate. He felt that something which had resulted in such a change of mind in him, such a conversion, could not be really bad. When he recalled it he felt a warm glow suffuse him similar to the feeling he had when he imagined himself eating two Mars Bars in a row followed by a quarter of sherbet lemons to refresh the palate. But the new memory was much more intense. Andy had freed him from his bondage. He could not wait to meet him again to thank him and he thought he knew how he could best thank him, and this warmed him further.

  The night arrived when he had arranged to meet Andy under the railway bridge near the back of the Prom. It was also the day of President Kennedy’s funeral ceremonies. While the great of the world marched solemnly behind the dead President’s coffin through the Washington streets, Benson rushed through his Geography homework so that he could be out of the house by seven. Dad was in the greenhouse and Mum alone kept vigil with the world in front of the television.

  Then, while they lowered the President’s body into the earth of Arlington Cemetery, Benson washed himself thoroughly upstairs and dabbed his face with Dad’s Old Spice. He went in to Mum to say goodbye. Mum was dabbing the tears away from her cheeks. On the television the American flag was being folded and folded again by men in smart uniforms.

  “It’s so sad! Poor Mrs Kennedy!” exclaimed Mum.

  “Yes. I’m off out Mum. I’m going to the library.”

  “You should be watching this, son. It’s history.”

  “I’ve only got eighteenth-century European and nineteenth-century English, Mum. We don’t do any American history.”

  “What a waste!” said Mum, referring to the dead President rather than Benson’s history syllabus.

  “See you later. I won’t be late.”

  It was raining a thin drizzle as Benson made his way up the road. He turned up the collar on his mac and trotted off towards the back of the Prom.

  Some of the houses he passed had their curtains open and in all he saw the blue flickering of televisions tuned to the funeral of the President.

  He was not totally indifferent to these events; indeed, the death of the President had been one of the factors which had made the past week so spicy, had tinged it with an edge of unaccustomed drama and newness. Kennedy’s death had been added to the exciting recipe, but it was an incidental flavouring only. The basic ingredient was Andy.

  He arrived at the bridge under the railway track and stood beneath it to shelter from the rain, which was increasing in intensity. He heard a train approaching and looked forward to the thunderous rumble it would make as it sliced the rails above his head. He was not disappointed, and shouted loud as it passed, confident that no one would hear him.

  Andy had not turned up, but he was early. The track that led to the back of the Prom was deserted. The promenade lay a couple of hundred yards away. It was unlit but an occasional car could be seen, its headlights starkly contrasting with the gloom. Then, in the far distance, he could make out the lesser lights of ships entering and leaving the river on the high tide.

  He remembered how, for a full month, he had gone down to the promenade ship-spotting with a group of other boys. But that had been many years ago. The expeditions had ended when one of the boys had dropped a pair of binoculars which had belonged to Michael O’Boyle’s dad into the water from the pier that had been their spotting point. The group had walked home sorrowfully, trying to console Michael O’Boyle, who had started to weep and would not be consoled. After that the ships had lost their attraction.

  But now he would watch them enviously as they pointed their beautiful prows out towards the mouth of the river and the open sea. ‘The Saxonia’, ‘The Corinthia’, ‘The Empress of Canada’ nosed their way back to the wide world. Great ships on the move to the far corners of the earth along an endless watery road that led without interruption from his front gate to Accra, Sydney, Hong Ko
ng and Bandar Seri Begawan. The thought of that intoxicated him. If he put his toes in the cold brown water of the estuary, that toe was joined to the toes of people swimming on warm tropical beaches. They were just separated from him by millions of briny tears.

  He thought of Bruno then too. Bruno had disappeared like those ships. Two old ladies now lived in the Tencer house. No one seemed to know what had happened to Bruno. He had disappeared just as the gun emplacements had disappeared.

  “Well, you came then.”

  Andy had approached the bridge from the same direction that Benson had taken.

  “Yes, of course. I said I would,” replied Benson.

  “I’m glad you came. I’ve thought about you a lot since last week.”

  “Same here.”

  “That’s nice.”

  Andy and Benson walked off the path onto the sodden short grass of the back of the Prom. Benson thought of Camp on Blood Island. They did not speak for a while. Both were wondering where to go.

  Then Andy said, “This is no place for us, John. It’s a filthy night. You can come to my room if you like.”

  “That would be nice! Is it far?”

  “Not far,” replied Andy, “but you mustn’t ever tell anybody where I live, even if we stop seeing each other. And you must never come there without phoning me first. Is that OK?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry to be so tiresome, dear, but you know what we’re doing is illegal and I’m older than you. I’d get into more trouble than you, you know.”

  “How old are you?” asked Benson.

  “That would be telling! No, I’m twenty-seven,” confessed Andy.

  “Are you? You don’t look it.”

  Andy snorted but said nothing.

  They made their way back the way Benson had come only a few minutes before. As they walked Benson began to get a bit alarmed because their route was leading them frighteningly close to his own home. But then they turned to the right, towards the library.

  Outside an old Victorian house whose back faced Albert Park, Andy said, “I’m here.” And he took out a set of keys.

  He led Benson into an empty and very cold hall and up the stairs. They climbed three floors to the top of the house. A large skylight over the stairwell tapped to the rain.

  Andy, looking around him, opened the door of his room. He went over to the window, drew the curtains and then returned to the door where Benson was standing and switched the light on.

  “Well, here’s where it all happens, dear,” he said.

  The room did not impress Benson greatly. Andy had a bed, unmade, in the corner. The walls sloped against the bedhead, forming an acute angle. Across the room, near the curtained window, there was a gas ring on a table along with a bottle of milk and some pans, crockery and cutlery. Next to this was a grimy washbasin. In the centre of the room were two bald easy chairs set on either side of a coffee table which had, under glass, a picture of a Spanish flamenco dancer.

  “Let me take that wet mac,” said Andy. He motioned Benson to sit down in one of the easy chairs, and went over to the gas fire and turned it on with a lighter. Then, fishing about in a drawer, he produced a candle which he lit with the lighter. This he placed on the table and went over to the door and switched off the light.

  He sat down in the other easy chair and moved the table to the left so that there was nothing between him and Benson.

  “Well here we are,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Benson. “It’s very nice.”

  “It is thump!” exclaimed Andy. “It’s a bloody dump! Still, it’s home.”

  They did not speak then and Benson found that the silence caused him to become excited. His grey trousers bulged. He put his hand down to cover himself but Andy pushed it away.

  “Is that a pickle in your pocket or are you pleased to see me?” he asked.

  “How do you mean?” asked Benson.

  Andy smiled, stood up and knelt down before him.

  It was as good as the last time. Perhaps, if that were possible, rather better. They took longer than before and Benson was able to lie back in the easy chair, relaxing, taking the pressure off in order to keep his excitement from spilling over. Andy accepted the change in rhythm and seemed pleased whenever Benson enforced his desire on him.

  When they had finished and both lay sighing in their easy chairs, Benson asked, more because he felt he ought than because of anything he wanted to do, “Can’t I help you at all?”

  “Oh, no, dear. You’ve already done more than enough.”

  “Yes, but you haven’t er...”

  “Come? No, I haven’t. But don’t worry your head about that. When you get to my age you don’t need it as much.”

  “Don’t you?” asked Benson, incredulous.

  “No. You acquire more sophisticated tastes. I’m happy to see you satisfied. You’re a real man, you know that?”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Oh, yes! And believe me I’ve seen a few in my time.”

  Benson could hardly believe Andy was talking to him. “Who, me? Are you sure you mean me?” he kept wanting to ask Andy. But it was obvious that Andy must mean him. Who else was there?

  “How long have you been doing ... er ... have you been a ho ... er?” asked Benson.

  “I was born with sequins up me arse, dear,” replied Andy.

  “Were you?”

  “Never mind. I have been a homosexual for as long as I can remember. How about you?”

  “Me too more or less,” replied Benson. “But I’ve been fighting it.”

  “I know you have. That’s bloody obvious. You’ve stopped fighting now, have you?”

  Benson was uncertain. “I don’t know. You see, it’s a sin.”

  Andy nodded knowingly. “You’re a Catholic too. I remember you shouting it out on our honeymoon!”

  “Yes, and you?” asked Benson.

  “I don’t believe in it any more,” stated Andy. “Fancy a coffee?”

  “Er, yes, please. Thank you very much,” said Benson, wondering if he should. The bed-wetting was now only an occasional lapse but he still felt insecure when he drank anything in the evening.

  As Andy filled the kettle and put the water on his gas ring, Benson asked, “So you don’t go to church?”

  “No, never. Well, sometimes I go if something really bad happens or at Christmas or something.”

  “But not every Sunday?”

  “No!”

  “And you don’t go to Confession?”

  “Never!” And Andy banged the coffee tin down on the table for emphasis. He turned towards Benson and said, “I am a typical lapsed Catholic, dear. Well, perhaps not typical. I always think that ‘lapsed’ is the wrong word for what happened to me. It makes you think that you just got too bloody lazy to do the necessary. But that’s not how it was with me, dear. When I found out that I was a gay-boy the whole bloody house of cards fell down. Yes, that’s more how it is. I just collapsed. I’m a collapsed Catholic.”

  Benson was shocked and puzzled. “How do you mean?” he asked.

  “I’ve just told you. It’s a house of cards, the Catholic Church. You build it up slowly and you’ve got to keep your hands from shaking. Don’t steal ... don’t lie ... don’t talk about people behind their backs ... The house starts easily enough and you start getting really cocky, so up you go to build the next floor. Don’t eat meat of a Friday ... don’t go to Communion if you’ve eaten after midnight ... don’t use swear words.

  “Then on to the next floor. Love Jesus and Mary and Joseph and Uncle Tom Cobley and all. Then you’re up in the attic. Get married and raise a good Catholic family and don’t marry a Protestant and don’t commit adultery and don’t use contraceptives and don’t whatever you do go with a man even if it is the only thing in the whole world that you really w
ant to do, the only thing that nature seemed to have made you to do ... And in my case the fucking attic roof fell in, dear, and it brought the rest down. I’m a collapsed Catholic trying to make the best I can by searching through the rubble for something to call my own.”

  “I see,” said Benson.

  “I don’t think you do, but you probably will. That’s not my concern. I’m not going to make you a bloody apostate as well as a fully fledged queer.”

  “But that’s it, isn’t it?” asked Benson. “I mean it’s one thing or the other. You can’t be a Catholic and do what we’re doing, can you?”

  “Not easily, no. But some manage it. I had my first bit of real sex with a priest and he’s still a priest as far as I know ... and not a million miles from where we sit neither.”

  “No! Who?”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  “Go on, don’t be a meanie!”

  “Wild horses wouldn’t...”

  “Tell me!”

  “Father Clarke at St Peter’s.”

  “No!”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean he really did ... er?”

  “Yes, and I was in my altar boy’s cotter at the time.”

  “And he’s still at that church?”

  “Yes, he is. He’s the parish priest.”

  “He isn’t.”

  “All right, he isn’t,” stated Andy, tiring of Benson’s disbelief. “I’ve told you what I know. Believe me or don’t believe me. I don’t care. Anyway, why are you so shocked?

  Priests are human beings too! If he can eat his cake and have it too, good luck to him I say. The more queers there are in places that count the better.”

  Andy made the coffee and brought it over. He placed Benson’s mug on the flamenco dancer’s face.

  Benson changed the subject and asked, “Are your mum and dad living near here?”

  “My mum lives in town, near the cathedral. I see her once or twice a week. My dad was a sailor and died in the Far East when I was little.”