“Goodness me!” he said.
Benson replaced the towel and gave Clitherow a withering look.
Clitherow, still naked, made his way to the door on the right and Benson followed. They came into a room where upwards of twenty men in various stages of disrepair stood around naked drinking beer from bottles. The hubbub of chatter faded as the men saw the newcomers. Clitherow went over to the table and asked a young man for two beers. He gave one to Benson who was the only one in the room with his towel on.
“Take that towel off, for God’s sake!” he whispered.
“I ... I can’t,” Benson whispered back.
He drank down the warm beer and then he did so.
He noticed that there was a door through which men kept going. Clitherow had seen the door and nudged Benson towards it.
“Don’t go in there unless you’re serious,” said the fat man they had seen earlier in the hall.
Clitherow did not reply. He opened the door and pulled Benson through.
When Benson’s eyes had become adjusted to the semidarkness, which was relieved only by the light of a single candle, he saw that the room was full of shadowy figures. Most of these figures were either standing against the walls or walking slowly about the room. He tried to follow Clitherow across and as he did so, a man felt his penis and squeezed it. He nearly panicked then but was saved by the relaxing effects of the beer and the dim sight of other men in a similar state of erection. He let his hands fall at his sides and found that men were placing themselves in range for him to touch. Soon he had lost sight of Clitherow and was on his own, both hands full and hands touching him all over.
He turned round to say no to the men but felt hands on him, stroking him, admiring him, whispering flattering phrases into his ears. For a moment, Benson wondered, “How can I find Dearest Him in this darkness?” But before he knew what was happening a man had knelt down in front of him.
“Mind your teeth!” he told the man.
Then he had a vision of the handsome soldier in ‘Faithful Unto Death’ turning and seeing the scene he was standing guard over. His expression changed to one of anger and contempt for Benson, “Is this what I sacrificed my life for?” And the guard aimed his spear ... but Benson’s penis was straining with excitement and he wanted to concentrate on his pleasure. “Turn around and do your job!” Benson commanded the soldier. “You watch the molten lava if you want to! I’ve got other fish to fry!” He concentrated on the shadowy view of the wet serpent, the most troublesome part of himself, pulling itself from the man’s mouth – burnished and growing – and back into it again and again, and the soldier vanished from his mind. And Benson thought, “I am a sexy bugger! With my head full of Jean-Paul Sartre and catechisms of Christian doctrine and Saints’ Feast Days and Matthew Arnold and ideals and historical dates and Ordnance Survey map symbols and the Latin names for wild flowers and beautiful works of art like ‘Faithful Unto Death’ and the complete songbook of Bob Dylan and Simon and Garfunkel and Joan Baez and Judy Collins – I am a sexy bugger.” And he loved the feeling that that thought gave him, for it banished all other thoughts but that one and left him empty to receive his molten pleasures purely.
Too soon it was over.
The man below him withdrew into the crowd of men all around. Benson caught sight of his face. He knew that face and smiled knowingly to himself. Then he strode arrogantly around the room, glorying in the reaction his still-tumescent penis was having on the other men. They would do anything for him, he thought.
He met Clitherow in the other room a few minutes later.
“Are you having a good time?” asked Clitherow.
“Mmmm, yes,” said Benson.
“Let’s have another beer. I’m having my eyes opened tonight. I know what you mean! Some of these men are real experts. The fellow I had took his teeth out.”
“No!”
“Yes! I don’t think I’d like to do it to anyone though, do you? It lovely to have it done, but I think it’s a bit perverted to want to do it.”
“I thought you said you should open yourself to everything in life?”
“Yes,” conceded Clitherow, “but there are limits.”
They drank their second beers.
“Well, I’d like to do it to you, if that’s all right,” said Benson quite coolly.
“Would you, really?”
“Yes, I would. You’re my best friend after all.”
“Then come with me. There’s another room which is quieter.”
And Benson followed Clitherow into the room. There was one couple on a mattress to one side. Otherwise it was empty.
Clitherow lay down on his back and Benson lay down beside him. They played with one another for a while and Clitherow kissed Benson on the lips. Then he said, “Show me you’re my best friend.”
Benson knelt down over Clitherow and did his best.
The bus home was, naturally enough, a different world. Benson could not believe he had experienced what had just happened. He told Clitherow his feelings.
“That was living! I feel wonderful!”
Clitherow held Benson’s hand, but discreetly. “You’re quite an expert. I hope we can do that again,” he said.
“Me too.”
“I said it would be an iconoclastic weekend. It has been, hasn’t it?”
Benson nodded.
When they got back to Clitherow’s house Dr Clitherow was at the front door.
“Where have you been? We’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
Then he turned to Benson and said, “Your dad phoned earlier in the evening. Your mum’s been taken to hospital. He’s there with her.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Benson.
“She was taken poorly and your dad came home and found her in a bit of a state. I don’t know what the problem is but I’ll run you to the hospital now. I think your dad would like to see you.”
Then Dr Clitherow turned his attention to his son: “Where did you go? You weren’t at the pictures. I rang the place. I do wish you’d tell me where you’re going. I’ve been worried sick.”
“We went for a walk instead,” replied Clitherow.
Dr Clitherow ran Benson to the hospital. They found Dad sitting alone outside the ward. He looked glum and did not cheer up when he saw his son.
Dr Clitherow introduced himself.
“They’re operating on Mum,” Dad told Benson.
“I’ll go and see if I can find out something,” said Dr Clitherow.
Benson sat down beside Dad but didn’t say anything.
“I found her unconscious on the hall floor, son. She must have been trying to get to the telephone.”
“It isn’t really serious is it, Dad?” asked Benson.
“I don’t know. She’ll need all our prayers.”
Benson felt suddenly dirty. His mouth tasted of old beer and a memory of sex. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom, Dad.”
In the bathroom he washed his mouth. He pushed a finger round the inside of it, trying to clean it. He gagged and retched and started to cry.
When he got back Dr Clitherow was standing next to Dad looking solemn. “It’s looking bad. I can’t understand why it wasn’t noticed earlier.”
“Mum was never one to complain,” said Dad.
Dr Clitherow left them alone. Dad did not speak, but just sat and smoked and gazed at the linoleum floor.
At last a nurse came up to them. “Your wife’s through the operation but she’s very weak.”
“Can I see her?”
“Just for a moment.”
Mum was lying in bed with tubes up her nose and down her throat. Her breathing was slow and came in heavy sighs with dreadful silences between. Dad and Benson looked down at her for a long time. Then the nurse came over and said that she would keep them informed about her p
rogress.
Dad nodded and wandered out of the door of the ward without a word. He did not look back to see if Benson was following.
Mum never regained consciousness.
A week later Benson found himself, dressed in an altar boy’s surplice and cotter, standing by her grave as Father Hanlon recited the prayers for the dead.
Clitherow, his mother and father, Brother Hooper and many of Mum’s friends and neighbours stood ranged round the grave. When the time came they all poured some earth on to the coffin. Benson noticed that the gravediggers stood, leaning on their spades, beyond the hedge that separated the Catholic and the non-Catholic sides.
The service ended. He heard a loud motor bike pass on the nearby road and wanted to shout obscenities at it for not understanding what was taking place. How dare it continue as if nothing had happened! How dare it not show more respect!
Dad walked back to the big funeral car with the priest. In the five days that had passed since Mum’s death he had been even more silent than usual and had spent a lot of time in the bedroom upstairs packing up Mum’s clothes.
Benson had caught him coming down the stairs with a parcel of her things. On top of the clothes, all of which Benson could recognise and see Mum wearing, was the Stratton powder compact with a Chinese crane on the front which he had given to Mum for Christmas, only a month ago.
“What are you doing with Mum’s things, Dad?” Benson had asked.
Dad had not looked at him. He stared unhappily at the pile of things in his arms. He had tied the bundle together with green garden twine.
“I’m taking them to the Sisters, son. They’ll be able to use them.”
“Yes,” said Benson and he had started to cry.
Dad did not stop to say anything to his son, but brushed past him, opening the front door and banging it behind him. Benson could see him through the mottled glass of the door, lifting the boot of the car.
Benson had followed Dad out to the car and opened the boot just as Dad was starting up. He picked up the powder compact and rushed back into the house with it, ignoring Dad who asked him what he was doing.
That night he had slept with the powder compact cradled against his cheek. He spoke to Mum through it and asked her to understand what was happening.
“Now you know everything, Mum. Help me! Are you happy? Please be happy! You were the best mum in the world. You know me now! Help me to be honourable and faithful unto death.”
After the funeral there was a wake at Benson’s house. He passed round sandwiches that Mrs Brown had made.
“Your dad will need you now,” said Mrs Brown.
“Yes,” replied Benson.
“But don’t you worry, your mum is happy now.”
“Yes.”
The plate of sandwiches shook. Mrs Clitherow relieved him of them. She held his hand and said, “You’re always welcome at our house. Always. My son needs a good friend. We’ll all enjoy having you around at any time, son. You’re a real tonic for us. And I know your dad is proud of you. You should have heard him talking about you just now!”
Benson tried to smile at Mrs Clitherow but instead his mouth turned downwards, his chin quivered like a child’s and the tears gushed from his eyes.
“Come here, son!” exclaimed Mrs Clitherow and she took him to her and hugged him tightly.
Some time later, Brother Hooper said that he wanted to leave but could not find Dad. Benson excused himself and went out to the front room. Dad was not there. He went upstairs but there was no sign of Dad.
On his way downstairs he met Clitherow.
“Have you seen my dad?” he asked him.
“No, I haven’t. Not recently anyway.”
Clitherow accompanied Benson to the kitchen. Dad was not there. They looked through the kitchen window at the winter garden and at a watery sun which seemed to be setting before it had properly risen.
“There he is,” said Clitherow, pointing towards the greenhouse.
Benson saw Dad, alone and hunched in the greenhouse, muttering to the flowers.
That evening, when everyone had gone, Dad announced that he was going out for a walk.
“Would you like me to come along, Dad?” Benson asked.
“No, son. Thanks all the same, but I’d rather be alone.”
Then, seeing his son’s crestfallen expression, he added, “We’ll have plenty of time for walks soon. But now I need to be by myself. You’ll understand one day, Martin.”
“I understand now, Dad,” Benson replied, his voice breaking.
Dad nodded and took out his coat from the hall cupboard.
Benson stood at the dining-room window as Dad walked up the road in the amber light thrown out by the new street lamps. Then he turned back to the room and caught himself in the wall mirror over the sideboard. He gazed at his reflection for a long time, wondering who was looking back at him so steadily, with such a sad, sober expression.
“I’ll show you,” he told the stranger.
Martin Benson placed ‘Missa Luba’ on the Dansette, turned the volume to maximum and danced his way through the African mass.
He danced for Mum and Brother O’Toole and Ninian and Novvy and Clitherow and Brother Michael and Bruno and Mrs Brown and Eric and for the calm, wild creature he saw in the octagonal mirror, who had not drawn the curtains and who, for the moment at least, did not care.
Exclusive extract
From the first draft of Michael Carson’s all-new sequel to
Sucking Sherbet Lemons, Benson at Sixty
1
His trusty backpack over his shoulder, Benson walked from the station through the park. As he walked, listening to The Coffee Cantata on his MP3 player, he kept a weather eye out for druggies, and rough boys and girls from Sir William Grout’s Media City Academy, while at the same time trying to stop his earphones from dropping out.
The earphones were irritating Benson. They had come with the bottom-of-the-range MP3 player and were worked into the cord that he was supposed to place around his neck in order to allow the little player to sway on his front like some flash medal of modernity. Problem was, no matter how he fiddled and twisted them into his ear canal, they fled from him.
Should he take the MP3 player back to ASDA and inform some hapless Associate that there was no such thing as progress? Or soldier on and see if his ears would get the message and somehow exercise muscles not exercised before to hold the ear pieces inside his cavities? It might just happen, of course. But if Benson’s experience of life was anything to go by, it probably wouldn’t.
What would he say to the lady at Asda’s help desk? He could not find any fault in the little player. No, it was the mode of delivery that did not suit him. Had he got freaky ears? Once upon a time he’d thought they’d stuck out, but he’d forgotten about all that for many a long year. He had not heard people complaining about ear pieces falling out. He’d seen kids barrelling along on bicycles – on the pavement, of course – with them sticking in their ears as if held by superglue. Even the queer little jumps the kids made atop their queer little bikes would not shift them. It was the devil’s own job to find earphones with a band that sat atop the crown of the head, affixing themselves to the ears. They were never offered as part of the MP3 package.
Were these designed for Chinese ears – and Chinese ears only? Did the manufacturers not think to collar a few expatriate English teachers to have a look at the geographies of the western ear canal in all their variety and wonder? Had ASDA bought a consignment from China that didn’t suit the Western market?
Perhaps he’d arrive at the help desk and the lady would say: ‘Don’t tell me! It’s the ear piece isn’t it, Love? I wish I had a pound for every customer who’s had to bring them back because of that. A real design fault. Pity. Nice little player otherwise, and designed with an eye on the customer-on-a-budget. Did you try the
m in the wind by any chance? A lot of customers say they just fly out of the ear in the least bit of wind ... Is that The Coffee Cantata you’ve uploaded – or is it downloaded? I thought so. And it’s the Fischer Dieskau isn’t it? Hard to find, but well worth the search. Never been bettered.’
Benson sometimes tried making his black woolly cap – bought at Gap in a sale so deep that the purchase had made him feel cheap at checkout – fit over the ear-pieces and anchor them into his ear canal. This worked after a fashion, but the weather was not cold enough to justify a hat, so he sweated as he listened to Bach, which was really not the object of the exercise.
Benson turned off the MP3 player, surrendering to the hubbub of the real world, as opposed to the hubbub of his own mind, and let the buds fall from his head and hang down below his chest, a bit like his chests were starting to do.
What was he doing walking up this road? He hadn’t walked up this road since 1965!
St Bede’s was still going. He knew from Friends Reunited
– a site he tip-toed around anonymously – that it was. But The Brothers had taken a back seat. The MP3 player of the school still pushed out education in Catholic Surround Sound, but the means of communication, the little earpieces of The Lord that had made such a deep impression on Benson, had largely fallen by the wayside.
Benson came to the roundabout thinking of change, decay, transmutation and disappointment. Up the hill stood the gates of St Bede’s. All I need to do is knock at the door and ask for Brother Hooper, he thought. Then I’ll tell him that I am Martin Benson, make my apologies for the past, and wish him a happy retirement. Then off to Littlewood’s Closing-down Sale for a suit. What could be simpler?
Well, a lot could be simpler. Like spreading an MP3 player with peanut butter and Marmite, popping the confection into his mouth like a savoury Mars Bar, and swallowing it. That would be easier. Still, Ted says that it has to be done. If I am to be well-adjusted and stay sober, I’ve got to clean my side of the street.
Sucking Sherbert Lemons Page 26