There was something in his character encouraging him to jump. All his life he had been plagued by the fear of the missed opportunity. He could remember Mrs Thatcher as Prime Minister many years before talking about life as a series of chances which you either take or you don’t, for they might never be offered again. It was a sort of entrepreneurial free–market philosophy instilled into him at an early age, that we are the architects of our own destiny and as such tend to get what we deserve, and where luck or circumstance give us something, we should grab it. This ran counter to any belief in fate and the providential hand of God guiding us through life slowly and progressively to a distant goal.
These contradictory approaches to life only heightened his dilemma. He wished he could have more faith, say no to Terry, and wait for a better time, a better place, and a slow evolution of the recognition of who he was.
And yet he knew he had waited for years, not so much consciously but none the less definitely, for the experience of love. He had thought it would never happen, an illusion reserved for fairy-stories and romantic films. That had made him cynical and dismissive, and he had grown a heart sometimes loving, but never in love. But he was always vulnerable to the attack of love, his Achilles heel unshielded. Furthermore, he was convinced in all this mess there was something of God telling him to listen to his heart, which for so long had been denied and ignored. He knew in the presence of Terry he felt so alive, so renewed, so ready to face the world and to sacrifice everything, if need be. He had never felt that way before. He had come close to it in his ordination, and in his marriage, and in the birth and care of his children, but never to such depth and with such fullness. Only he could make that comparison, and only he could make the decision he faced.
Just then his phone received a text: “How was the service xxx missing you xxx can we meet up xxx.” It was as if Terry had waited for James’ thoughts to coalesce. His timing seemed divinely inspired.
“Yes please xxx meet you at 8 pm as usual xxx outside the castle this time xxx.”
A decision made, a burden lifted, and another burden imposed. There was nothing James could have done. Both routes from this fork in the road were treacherous; both dishonouring and painful. There was little he could do to lessen the agony of either. Maybe he should have chosen the road of self-deprecation and denial. But his valuing of life, having probably already lived more than half of it, meant his thirst for adventure and integrity needed to be quenched. He had to live the dream haunting him and bringing him to this crucible.
Standing up from the seat he turned to leave the Close. Still there was no one there to see him go, as his huge shadow cast by the floodlights raced across the West Front for a second or two. He escaped out through the dark archway of the gatehouse into the vibrant streets beyond.
Chapter 4
In the far distance, across a darkened and forbidding sea, were the towering mountains of Kefalonia. A storm was brooding in those distance hills. A flash of lightning was followed by the delayed ominous rumble of thunder. It looked as if the storm was coming this way, although still twenty miles distant. Perhaps it would peter out, or pass off in another direction.
James had been awake for an hour or so. He had got up to stand on the balcony of the simple Greek villa which his family had rented for the week. Leaning over the railings he could see the beach, gently lapped by a soporific sea, each wave washing the sand clean. The footsteps of the past day had long gone.
He thought of Terry, because he could think of no one else. He knew that in the months since he first met him, there had not been a day, an hour, or scarcely a minute where Terry had not been in his mind. He wondered what he was doing now, enduring the sharpness of an English late autumn evening, perhaps sitting by his open fire or wrapped up in bed. He hoped Terry thought of him, but there can be no certainty about such things.
This holiday, planned long ago, was a rude interruption in their relationship, their furtive meetings and everyday encounters. But they had decided to see it as an opportunity, a test of their love for one another, to return to their former lives, and try to pretend their encounter had only been a dream. It was a test James was finding very hard to bear. The agony of being apart had left him hollow.
A flash of lightning many miles away caught his eye, and he lifted his head to view the far off storm, made more dramatic by the distant mountains where it danced. It seemed remote and unreal, unable to reach the place where he was.
Just then he heard the bleep of his mobile. Could it be Terry, he thought. As he quickly crossed the room to the table where his phone was carefully positioned to catch the faint signal, he knew it could be no one else.
‘Hello sweetheart,’ the text read, ‘thinking of you xxx I am snuggled up in bed because it is so cold xxx Love you lots xxx’
Those few words, that in seconds had travelled hundreds of miles, were intoxicating. He held the phone to his cheek as if it were Terry’s hand, getting as close as he could to the one he loved. He longed to be with him, touch him, feel him.
His response was quick. ‘Hello my love xxx so good to hear from you xxx hope all is well xxx miss you so much xxx love you’
It is the miracle of technology that messages can be relayed across a continent, from a Greek villa to an English country cottage, all in a matter of seconds. What did lovers do before such things were possible? Perhaps in former times their love would have to endure days of aching silence, and therefore be all the more resilient, born of the patient waiting for hand-written letters. James liked the idea of something more solid than a text, and resolved to write a letter to Terry.
There was another bleep on his mobile. ‘Miss you too xxx wish you were here xxx it has rained all day xxx so I have cleaned the silver.’
James loved the references to domestic chores, because it made their relationship so ordinary, and in a strange way so seemingly permanent. How easy it had been to get to a level where they understood each other, chat about mundane things, and never be bored. James wanted to know everything about Terry, every detail of his day, as if he had followed him around the house like a doting pet.
‘There is a storm on the next island but think it will not come this way xxx sky is clear overhead xxx I can see the moon xxx can you xxx love you.’
It was a minute or two before the reply came. ‘Yes I can out of my window xxx a full moon xxx round and beautiful xxx love you.’
James now felt the closeness of Terry, connected through their sight of the same thing. He could look at the moon at the same time as Terry and know that they were looking at it together. It was beautiful that night, quite untarnished, not perfect but certainly pure. It shone very brightly, with no stars for competition.
As he gazed into the sky another text arrived: ‘wish you were here sweetheart xxx only three more days and then I see you xxx cant wait xxx love you lots and lots.’
Just then there was a noise from the bedroom where James had been sleeping. It was Rachel. He thought she might have woken when she heard the bleep of the phone as each message came through. He went back out onto the balcony, where he hoped the signal would be strong enough to send another message.
‘Must go xxx very late here xxx lots and lots of love xxx good night, big cuddle.’
The message had gone and his final strand of contact for that day had been cast. He felt both happy and sad. Elated that Terry had been in touch, that they could be together in looking at the moon, but sad he could not hold him, or tell the world of his love for the man who had filled his mind, his body, his life.
Just then a gush of wind came up from the beach, drawing up angry waves crashing against the harbour wall. The storm, once so far, had moved much closer, and the perimeter of its fierce and intemperate life, had arrived. The sea was beginning to rise and fall in turmoil, the trees and shrubs tossing in agitation. A small emaciated cat scuttled across the forecourt seeking shelter in the undergrowth. Before long the full force of the storm would be felt. James went inside, bol
ting the balcony doors, hoping that it would pass over quickly.
The next morning when everyone sat around the breakfast table, the air was gloomy. The children looked excited but cross. They could see that today was not a good day for the beach with the high winds and crashing waves. Yet they still wanted a day like yesterday, when they paddled in the sea and danced on the sand.
‘It must have come in the middle of the night,’ said Rachel. ‘Something woke me.’
‘I knew it would come,’ replied her mother as she fussed with the breakfast things. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ the remark addressed to her husband. He did not look up from the paper he was reading. It might have been three days old, and undoubtedly already read, but it was a good place to hide.
‘Anyway, what can we do?’ asked James. ‘It will have blown over by lunch time, I am sure.’
‘Beach, beach, beach,’ was the chorus from the children.
‘Don’t you mean, bike, bike, bike,’ said James, reminding his daughter of a previous obsession, two days ago.
‘I know, shall we go to town this morning, and the indoor market,’ said Rachel’s mother, always eager to be organised, to have everything sorted.
‘I am a bit tired. Perhaps I could stay behind, and we could go out on the bikes this afternoon,’ said James.
It was in this way James managed to find time to write the letter. He had no envelope, but had found in a drawer in the old dresser five sheets of thin paper. While the others were out, he carefully crafted, first in draft and then in neat and precise handwriting, an account of his life, up to the point of meeting Terry.
As he wrote it seemed to present to him a picture of a flower, at first a tiny spike of green in the ground, pushing up for air and gasping for moisture, then a thickening stem, a leaf or two, and at last a bud, about to burst into a beautiful extravagant bloom. All his life had been a waiting stage, a culmination of years, to be fulfilled in a relationship of two people so much in love with each other that their lives made no sense when separate and apart. He wrote things he had never written before, explaining what had happened in 44 years. Only now did he know what the journey was for, and only now did he know now it would reach its destination.
Just as he carefully folded the thin papers together and slipped them into his pocket, he heard the others return. They were laden with fruit and vegetables from the market, the children bribed with some dubious sticky sweets.
‘Look what we got,’ said his daughter, delighted that she could annoy her daddy with treats from granny.
‘What have you been up?’ asked Rachel, not so much out of suspicion but interest.
‘Just a bit of reading,’ was the less than completely truthful reply. It still hurt him to not be completely honest with one who was still special to him. But his growing allegiance to, or perhaps infatuation with, someone else, had put him in this predicament. Rachel knew about Terry, though perhaps not to the full extent she needed to, and she trusted her own judgement to think of it as a storm that would blow over.
‘It looks beautiful out there now,’ added James. ‘I think I will pop to the village on the bike. Is there anything we need?’
‘But we have just come from the shops,’ said Rachel’s mother, who sometimes despaired over the impracticality of men. A moment later a second thought entered her mind, a suspicion that seemed to be confirmed by James’ actions.
“I think we need some milk. I won’t be long,” shouted James who, before anyone might ask to join him, was down the steps and selecting a bike from the garage below.
‘What is he up to?’ was the mother’s question once he had gone. But no one answered either because they were too preoccupied or quite unwilling to enter into speculation.
James rode up the dirt track at the back of the house that led away from the scenic beach to a hinterland of scrappy buildings and old olive groves. This is where the locals lived, a utilitarian landscape of half-finished houses and small tin shacks. Amongst them James knew there was a Post Office, and he wanted to get there before it closed. He had no idea of the times of opening, and knew such things were strange in these foreign places. When he found the little shed that served as the Post Office he was pleased to see the door was still open, though no one at the counter.
As he stood at the threshold and looked in, a voice from behind a pile of old boxes said, "You want letter?"
“Yes - envelope - airmail - stamps – England.”
“Ah Yes,” said the voice, and with it emerged an old man, like all the others who sat around the market place, small, dark, wrinkled and undoubtedly wise. “Yes, I have all.”
It was if he knew the secrecy of James’ business. Perhaps he had often serviced the tourists who came to send their clandestine letters. Perhaps he could tell the importance and urgency of what James wanted to do. Perhaps he could recognise love written on his face, in a way that those who have lived a long time and seen many things can. Perhaps he was just a good shopkeeper, eager for business.
He soon provided an airmail envelope, the right stamps, and a rather fine pen with which to write the address. James hurriedly licked and sealed the precious letter, but the glue was not sticking. Without any further comment, the old man brought out a small pot of glue, as if he had rehearsed this scenario a hundred times.
“Your letter,” he said, drawing closer in a conspiratorial manner. “Put it in the box.”
James looked round but could see no post box, or anything that looked like one.
“Outside,” said the old man, pointing with a wizened finger to the far wall across the street. James found what looked like a small municipal dustbin, the sort that in England is used by dog owners. It had a black lid, yellow sides and indecipherable Greek letters written on the front.
“Here goes,” James said, and slipped the letter inside. It fell with thud, indicating the box was otherwise empty. It took some considerable faith to believe that a small envelope put in a yellow tin box on a Greek island could ever wend its way across expansive seas, snow-capped mountains, and bustlingly towns and cities to an English village. From obscurity to obscurity thought James and yet he trusted it would happen, and when it arrived it would announce a love that was anything but obscure.
James almost forgot to pick up the milk that was his cover for going to the Post Office. Fortunately there was one carton left, almost out of date, and far too warm to have retained any freshness, but it would do.
He took the long way back via the fields and the olive groves. He enjoyed the freedom of being on his bike riding through a sun-drenched countryside, feeling alive and being in love. He had committed his hopes and fears onto paper, for the first time in his life he had expressed what he really thought about his love for a man. It was deeply personal, perhaps a little scary, and certainly cathartic. He had made himself vulnerable in a way he had never done before. What is more there could be no turning back. The letter had been entrusted to the postal services and when it arrived the one who would read it could not fail to respond.
Just then he heard a bleep, and skidded to a halt under the shade of a large olive tree. He reached for his phone in his pocket, pulled it out with growing excitement and read the text with a smile: ‘morning sweetheart xxx just got up xxx still wet and cold here xxx have made all the fires xxx think I will light them today xxx thinking of you all night xxx as the deer pants xxx love you loads.’
He worked out that it was 6 in the morning back in England, and probably still dark. If only he could take some of the Greek sunshine and wrap it around Terry, to make him feel warm and loved. But he knew the letter would do that.
When he got back to the villa, Rachel’s mother said, "What did you buy that for, we have got loads of milk in the fridge?"
‘Thought you might like to bathe in it,’ he wanted to say, but chose not to respond, other than comment on how warm it was now that the storm had passed by.
Rachel watched and listened intently from the sofa having put down her book. She
was quite aware of much of what was happening, with her strange mixture of emotion and intellect, never letting the former get the better of the latter. Her quick brain was attractive to James, and this meeting of minds had been the basis of a long and supportive friendship. Only latterly had it turned into marriage and sexual love when both had managed to conquer their inhibitions.
James had found it hard to truly love a woman in a physical sense but his training as a clergyman helped him to pretend about a lot of things for the sake of others. It was natural to carry this on into his private life, and he was a dutiful, gentle and caring husband, the kind of man for which many women would have settled. Until now James had known no better, seeing love more as an academic concept, something you read about, but never experience it in its most passionate, all-absorbing, and self-destructive form. He almost wished the revelation had been denied him, for life would have been so much simpler.
Rachel had never fallen in love, and could not understand what it meant. It was too much an affront to her intellectual understanding of life, to the logical way things have to be. She was fond of words, having read from an early age, and was often to be found buried deep in some novel or other. She read of passion but never experienced it. In the same way she avoided the indulgences of all her senses, not liking strong drink, spicy food, bright colours, very hot or cold weather or loud music. It was her way of coping with the world, to moderate it through a filter, and in this she was by no means unique. It is probably the way most of us live most of the time, perhaps occasionally letting ourselves go as a reminder we are human. The moderated form is the way other people want us to be, and what society, our families, and our employers demand we shall be.
James thought of how Rachel would visit an art gallery and instead of standing back to take in each picture and enjoy it for what it is, she would rush over and read the little attached notice. When they had been for a walk he might point out a stunning view, of countryside and clouds, but she would turn and look at him bemused. When they were travelling in the car he often wanted to pump up the volume on the radio if there was a good piece of music, but she would complain and ask for it to be turned down. It was something he thought happened in all relationships, certainly something that could be tolerated for the sake of a quiet life. Now he knew otherwise.
Gay Before God: An Awakening Love Forbidden by the Church Page 5
