by Alan Beechey
***
Oliver and Ben let themselves out into the chilly night air and cautiously traced an overgrown path that skirted the building. Light from the streetlamps ahead of them glinted off cigarette butts, broken beer bottles, and a couple of discarded condoms among the nettles, indicating that God’s name may have been called upon outside as well as inside the church. The path led them to a small, gravel car park in front of the building, separated from the main road by a low wall.
“Has organized religion had any impact on your life, Ben?” Oliver asked cautiously, as they turned into the street. There was little traffic on the road that Sunday evening.
“Yeah, when I was growing up, there was that hour every Sunday evening.”
“When you went to church?”
“No, when we turned off the television because all the channels were showing religious programs. I’ve always hated Sundays, Ollie. London Sundays are a black-and-white day in a technicolor week. They’re like that squishy package you got among your Christmas presents—the one from your father’s childless aunt that always turned out to be socks.”
“I never minded socks,” Oliver reflected. “Should I get Effie socks for Christmas? Not very romantic, I suppose.”
They turned into the gateway of the manse and studied the facade of the large, square, nineteenth-century house. It had been denied any of the ugly ornamental features that later generations would pretend to adore, in a desperate attempt to believe that most Victorians were whimsical madcaps. Instead, the manse stood behind a shallow but well-tended front garden and scowled glumly at the road with the half-naked bulkiness of a sumo wrestler.
The front door was ajar, although there was nobody in the hallway. They heard voices and a few notes from a piano in the large reception room on the left. Ben took Oliver firmly by the elbow and guided him into the room, aware that the prospect of stepping into a room full of people he didn’t know would be enough to keep his friend studying the hallway long-case clock all evening.
The girl who had been picking out “Wonderwall” on the poorly tuned piano seemed too young to have seen a lot of westerns, but she still stopped playing abruptly. Everyone in the room stared at the new arrivals. Oliver realized with relief that he had already met more than half the room’s occupants—the Potiphars sitting stolidly on a hard couch in front of the bay window, Sam Quarterboy perched on a dining chair beside the upright piano, and the young teenage girl on the piano-stool, whose face he’d last seen above a pile of hymn books. There were only two strangers: a woman in a deep armchair beside Quarterboy and a slim young man in his twenties, sitting at the far end of the room on another hard dining chair.
Quarterboy leaped up and drew the visitors smoothly into the room, introducing the woman as his wife, Joan, the girl as his daughter, Tina, and the young man as Barry Foison, before splitting them as neatly as a pack of cards. Oliver found himself irresistibly guided to a raffia-topped stool between the Potiphars’s sofa and Joan Quarterboy’s armchair, while Ben took a seat between Tina and Foison.
Joan Quarterboy was in her late thirties and clearly believed in going to church dressed in her Sunday best. She wore a blue two-piece suit, artificial pearls, and an odd hat shaped uncomfortably like an overturned dog dish on her frizzy hair, which was already styled in anticipation of her retirement years. Her small features seemed to huddle for protection in the middle of her face. Lipstick was her only makeup, exactly the same shade of orange as the spine of a Penguin novel. Oliver took one look and guessed that Joan had never owned a pair of jeans in her life.
Both she and Potiphars were smiling encouragingly at him, as if willing him to speak. Ben was already deep in conversation with Foison and the girl, and Oliver once again envied his handsome friend’s confidence and social ease. Being alluring like Ben must be like having your self-consciousness surgically removed at birth, and Oliver remembered his fear that even the harshly professional Effie Strongitharm would not be immune to the good-looking photographer’s potent pheromones, back in the days when Oliver was nobly but inexpertly concealing his passion for his uncle’s Sergeant. But Effie had chosen him, and the last four months had been the happiest in Oliver’s life. He wished she were here now. No, definitely something more romantic than socks. He swallowed and tried to think of a question for his neighbors.
“Er, have you been members of the church long?” he asked nobody in particular. Joan Quarterboy looked abruptly terrified and turned toward her husband.
“My wife and I moved to Plumley when we got married,” Sam Quarterboy cut in, to Joan’s evident relief. “The Quarterboys have been Diaconalists for generations. But the record at this church is held by young Cedric here. He’s been serving the Lord as a deacon now for more than forty years, without a break. Isn’t that right, Cedric?”
Cedric Potiphar was staring ahead of him as if he hadn’t been listening, but he spoke in his deep Cornish tones.
“‘For he that is called in the Lord, being a servant, is the Lord’s freeman.’ One Corinthians, chapter seven, verse twenty-two.”
“Very true, brother, very true,” Quarterboy agreed, and Oliver found himself nodding sagely with the others. But only he seemed to hear Elsie Potiphar’s whisper:
“Needs a servant himself, to pick his dirty knickers off the bedroom floor.”
Oliver looked at her quickly, but she seemed lost in thought. He realized it was time to pose another question.
“So, Mr. Potiphar, I imagine you must be an honorary deacon for life by now?”
Potiphar frowned, and looked as if he was going to dredge up another biblical reference, but again Sam Quarterboy spoke first.
“Every deacon has to be elected, Mr. Swithin, every year at the annual church meeting. In fact, it’s taking place on Friday evening. There are four places on the diaconate—Cedric and I are humbly putting our names forward for consideration, as we do every year. And Patience Coppersmith and Dougie Dock are also standing again—I imagine you’ll be meeting them shortly.”
Oliver noticed that Quarterboy hadn’t mentioned Nigel Tapster. Didn’t Paul say he was running, no doubt on the bearded twit ticket?
“Why don’t you join us on Friday at the church meeting?” Quarterboy continued. “I’m sure it would give you some valuable information for this article of yours.”
“Your minister already invited me,” Oliver replied swiftly. “But on Friday, I’m scheduled to see my uncle’s Bottom.”
There was an uncomfortable silence, apart from a small suppressed squeak from Elsie Potiphar. The smile drained from Joan Quarterboy’s face.
“I’m not sure I understand you,” said Sam Quarterboy tentatively.
“Oh. Well, my uncle’s playing Bottom in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, you see, and I’m going to a performance.”
Oliver waited in vain for the comprehending laughter. Quarterboy adopted a look that suggested he was about to explain Diaconalism to a slow eight-year-old (something he might have attempted). “Then perhaps, you could have put it that way in the first place,” he said starchily. “I’m sure you didn’t mean it, but your comment implied you were going to look at a close relative in an unclothed state.”
“It’s just as well our Tina didn’t hear,” whispered Joan. They all looked across to where their young daughter was talking animatedly to Ben Motley and Barry Foison. Ben glanced up at that moment and noticed Oliver’s shamefaced expression.
“Oliver,” he called quickly, interrupting the girl’s flow of words, “you should really hear this. Tina’s been telling us how much she likes writing.”
Tina Quarterboy swivelled on the piano stool and fixed her intense brown eyes on Oliver. Her face had a permanently eager expression, as if someone had grasped her nose and pulled it forward slightly, dragging the rest of her features after it. Oliver just had time to notice her long dark pigtail and the casual clothes on her t
hin body, which were mercifully contemporary, when she began speaking to him, very rapidly.
“Oh yes, I love writing,” she said, beaming. “I write all the time. I was just telling Mr. Motley here that I want to be a writer when I grow up. Every evening, you know, instead of watching television, I take out my journal and put down everything that happened and everything I’ve thought of during the day. I don’t mind at all. I’d spend my whole day writing if I could—stories, poems, my thoughts, my ideas, anything and everything. I just want to be a writer.”
Ben interrupted quickly. “Yes, I was just saying, Ollie, that since you’re a writer yourself, Tina might want to pick your brains, gather a few tips.”
“That’s so interesting,” Tina cut in again. “It must be wonderful to be a professional writer. What sort of things do you write?”
“Well, I write stories for children,” Oliver began cautiously.
“How marvelous!” cried Tina. “I’d like to write stories for children. I’ve done some adventure stories, imagining myself in all kinds of peril, but they’re really for grownups. How do you think of your stories, Mr. Swithin?”
“Now that’s an interesting question. I suppose—”
“I really don’t know how I think of my stories,” Tina interrupted. “They just come to me. I was writing this really fascinating one the other day…”
The front door to the manse slammed. Tina trailed off as Paul Piltdown appeared in the doorway, to Oliver’s great relief, since the beaming Quarterboys showed no inclination to wrestle their daughter to the ground and gag her. Piltdown greeted his guests and immediately took orders for tea and coffee.
“Patience and Dougie will be joining us shortly,” he added. “They’re just running the church flowers round to poor Mrs. Aymis, who’s been in bed with her leg.”
Oliver sniggered, but nobody else seemed to see the humor, so he turned it into a throat-clearing.
“Let me give you a hand,” said Joan Quarterboy, making no attempt whatsoever to rise from her comfortable chair.
“No, let me, I know where things are,” shouted Tina, to Oliver’s relief, and she bounded off the piano stool and followed Piltdown toward the kitchen.
“The minister thinks a lot of our Tina,” Joan said softly. She signaled this family victory with a peculiar smile, which actually turned the corners of her narrow mouth downward. “She’s very fond of him.”
“He’s a good man,” Sam Quarterboy cut in, as if the remark were a work in progress rather than a final judgment. “Of course, there were those of us who didn’t take to his High Church ways at first. And there’s a little too much theology in his sermons, for my taste. But we’ve come to respect him.”
“Well, I for one prefer a little meat on the bone of my sermons,” cried Barry Foison unexpectedly, in a high-pitched voice. “I found this evening’s sermon refreshing and thought-provoking, and frankly, I’m disgusted that horrible man Tapster had the gall to criticize Paul in front of the whole church.”
“The question I ask myself,” said Potiphar, stirring to life, “is who granted this Nigel Tapster the dispensation to preach unto us this evening? The elders of the church were not consulted. Is this to become a regular part of our worship? There’s nothing in my Bible about guitars.” He fondled the book, which lay in his lap.
“The young people seemed to enjoy Mr. Tapster’s music,” Oliver commented as he wrote some thoughts in his notebook. When nobody answered, he looked up. Eventually, Joan Quarterboy broke the clumsy silence.
“We’re a little concerned about Nigel’s influence over our young people, Mr. Swithin,” she explained, leaning forward as if sharing a secret, although the entire room was following the conversation. “We’re rather afraid he wants to alienate the children from the church. They’ve taken to meeting privately in the Tapsters’ home after the evening service, and sometimes during the week, too. Nigel and Heather Tapster have some odd ideas, it seems.”
“Odd ideas?” Oliver echoed. Joan seemed to warm to her new role as storyteller.
“Well, Patience Coppersmith’s son, Billy, is about the same age as our Tina, and he got her to go with him to a couple of Nigel’s prayer meetings. But she came back with some very peculiar stories, about spirits making her do things, hearing people speak in tongues, and the like. She’s at that impressionable age, you see, Mr. Swithin. So Sam put his foot down and insisted that she come home with us after church from now on. Billy is still part of Nigel’s little group, though, and I know Patience is sick with worry about him. Apparently, Nigel tried to do the same thing at his last church, Thripstone Central. But there was some sort of scandal, and he was asked to leave.”
“What sort of scandal?” Oliver pressed, sensing fodder for his story. Joan looked uncomfortable.
“I believe it had something to do with a girl,” she said, mouthing the last word as if she was referring to a gynecological problem. “Barry can tell you. He used to go to Thripstone.”
Foison crossed his slim legs and wrapped his right shin behind his left calf. “This was a couple of years ago, before Heather and Nigel got married,” he claimed. “They’d only just met. She was a missionary in Brazil for most of the time Nigel was at Thripstone.”
“Now, now, Barry,” Quarterboy interrupted, “I’m sure we don’t want to give Mr. Swithin the impression that we sit around after church gossiping like a lot of old women.”
The criticism found its mark. Foison seemed to shrink inside his large, baggy sweater, aware of the eyes watching him. Behind Oliver, Elsie Potiphar mumbled something that sounded like “lot of old women, yourself, tosh,” but when he turned, she was staring into space. Ben diplomatically started a conversation with Foison.
“If Tina’s friends continue to go to the Tapsters’ meetings, aren’t you worried she might still be drawn to their circle?” Oliver asked Joan quietly.
“She’d never defy her father,” Sam cut in, with a small self-satisfied smile. “We only had to have that conversation once. I see it as my parental duty to protect her from wrong-thinking people who’d fill her little mind with things we don’t agree with. That includes smutty talk, which is why I may have seemed a little old-fashioned about your unintended remark earlier, Mr. Swithin.”
“As it is, Tina will lose her innocence soon enough,” Joan quavered sadly. “In fact, Sam and I have been discussing when we should do this.”
Oliver started. He was unaware that virgin sacrifice was one of the rituals of the United Diaconalist Church. Now this would make the article a little more interesting. But it quickly occurred to him that the Quarterboys equated the word “innocence” with a basic ignorance of avian and apian matters. “Surely she’s already had some sexual education in school?” he suggested. Sam winced at the word.
“Oh, we’ve insisted that she be removed from those classes,” he replied.
“We told Tina that babies are a gift from God to a mother and father,” said Joan. “Which is true, of course. And then we made it clear that we wouldn’t answer any more questions, so we know she doesn’t have any.”
Sam sighed. “I wouldn’t trust schoolteachers to tell my child the facts of life. They’re bound to make copulation sound pleasurable. If we left our children in ignorance a little while longer, we’d have far fewer teenage pregnancies and nobody would be murdering unborn children—”
He stopped himself abruptly as Tina paced slowly into the room, holding the handles of a large wooden tray. She placed it on a coffee table and began to hand out small plates and paper napkins to the group. Then she passed around a platter of bread rolls, cut in half and slathered with butter and fish paste.
“Aren’t you having some, too?” Oliver asked her, taking a roll and balancing his plate on his thigh.
“No, that stuff makes me blow chunks,” Tina answered blandly. Joan tutted, but Sam, now drawn into the conversation with Ben and Barry
Foison, didn’t notice. “A lot of things make me puke these days,” the girl continued. “Besides, I’m on a diet.”
“Where do they get these ideas?” asked Joan in wonderment, as if her daughter had just declaimed Newton’s first law of motion in High German.
“It’s true, Mum, I’ve been putting on weight lately.”
“But that’s normal, lovey, you’re a growing girl. You know, Mr. Swithin,” Joan added, after Tina had slipped out of the room again, “I wonder if we need to have that conversation sooner rather than later. Oh dear.”
They heard the front door open and close, and a slim woman in her late forties came into the room. In contrast to the other women, she was smartly dressed, in a way that suggested style had won out over fashion, and her graying hair was expensively cut into overlapping spikes that folded around her skull like flower petals. She had just been introduced as Patience Coppersmith when Piltdown finally made an entrance, carrying another large tray laden with cups, saucers, and an enormous teapot under a bright quilted cozy. Tina trotted in behind him, reverently clutching a coffee pot.
“Is Dougie with you?” Piltdown asked Patience.
“He’s just parking the car.”
Joan Quarterboy tapped Oliver on the arm. “Have you met Dougie Dock yet?” she asked softly.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Oh, he’s a character, you’ll like him.” She leaned in close and whispered, as if giving Oliver a secret password. “He’s a bit of lad, on the quiet.” Oliver, not knowing what this expression meant or why it seemed to be a confidence, took a bite out of his roll and wondered why Ben was suddenly frowning at him.
“I’m sorry it’s all a little basic,” Piltdown said apologetically as he poured tea and handed the cups around the room.
“You do very well, considering you’re on your own,” declared Patience. Her voice was clear and musical, as if she were used to addressing children. There were polite murmurs of agreement around the room. “But it’s about time you started looking for a wife, Paul,” Patience continued. She grinned. “I can say that because I’m nearly old enough to be your mother.”
