All Hallows' Eve
Page 4
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It wasn’t the television cameras which terrified Henry Tomlinson. Nor was it the fact that around two hundred and twenty strangers were sitting in what resembled a grimy, dilapidated, aging college auditorium, glancing at each other and him with an eager sense of anticipation in the air. It was the fact that Henry Tomlinson is massively conscious of how shiny his balding egg shaped palette becomes when he is nervous. The whole situation was further exasperated by the enormous lighting rigs which were attached to the ceiling. Henry wiped his head with his sleeve. The combination of bright lights, hushed voices and urgent skittish movement filled Henry with a sense of dread which he hadn’t felt for a long time.
The truth of the matter was that Professor Henry Tomlinson had always hated public speaking. It wasn’t due to the fact that he was a hopeless orator. It wasn’t even the mental process which went into building and transferring sentences from brain to mouth. It was the eyes. If he could have given his lectures whilst wearing a paper bag on his head he would probably have jumped at the chance.
“60 seconds.” announced a stumpy little man with far too much ginger hair hanging down his back and growing outwards from his face. Henry realised he was gripping the end of the table with such force that his fingertips were now rose red. He sat back and tried to find what he considered to be a relaxed nonchalant position. The only trouble was that Henry wasn’t really sure what relaxed people looked like. He doubted he had encountered one for at least thirty years. “5-4-3-2-1-action.”
“Good evening and welcome to ‘The Great Debates’. Tonight we have a fantastic panel of clerics and scholars. Tonight the great shall debate the place of religion in the 21st century.” intoned Graham Oxley-Smythe, the well-dressed presenter of ‘The Great Debates’. A man who the word suave was quite probably invented for. On cue a fanfare livened up the studio and the lights rose to a level which some countries would consider a form of torture. Oxley-Smythe turned and smiled to his guests. It was the kind of smile insurance agents give to their clients before they push them off the top of skyscrapers. The theme tune ran quiet, the lights dimmed slightly and Oxley-Smythe began. “Tonight in the red corner we have Reverend James Walton.” A spotlight lit up a priest who for reasons known only to him waved to the camera. “Christian writer, Sunday newspaper columnist and mother of six, Susanne Bainbridge.” The spotlight flickered to an overweight cheerful woman who looked like she had visited an outdoor hairdresser for a perm when it was raining and then walked home backwards through a jungle canopy. “In the blue corner. Professor Henry Tomlinson, award winning microbiologist and author of the best seller ‘The Futility of Sheep’.” When the spotlight lit up Henry he was laughing. The instant it dawned on him that everybody in the room was looking at him his face became a mask of horror. He nodded to the camera, wide eyed and fearful “And last but not least, Jacob Goldstein, comedian and journalist.” The audience began to applaud. Not for anyone specifically, but because it was exactly what ‘The Great Debates’ audience did after all the guests were introduced. There wasn’t a person holding up an applause board, nor was it in anyway related to their collective opinions on the panel, it was simply because it was what happened. No one knew when it started, nor why it started, the only thing they did know was that at some point it had started and that alone was reason enough for it to continue.
The studio floor was a hive of activity. The camera was pushed closer to the long desk which housed the guests. Oxley-Smith sat in the middle behind the dark green logo, the rest of the desk was painted with the team colours. It wasn’t that ‘The Great Debates’ was some kind of quiz show, it was merely to make it easier for the viewers at home to be certain who they should boo and who they should applaud. The presenter had the air of an untrustworthy uncle. The most disconcerting thing about him was that despite the fact he looked about eighty years old his hair was dyed brown and kept in a side-parting which was quite probably popular when he was a teenager. It was as if his hair refused to be a slave of time or fashion.
“The starting survey today was….” Oxley-Smith paused for what he believed was dramatic effect; instead it made him look like a wheezing asthmatic. “Did you go to church today?” The presenter’s eyes swept the auditorium. Henry Tomlinson found himself glancing down as if he was looking for a buzzer to answer the question. “Before I give the results, I would like to turn it to the panel. Reverend Walton. Did you go to church today?” Henry Tomlinson couldn’t help but shake his head in disbelief. The Reverend leant forward to speak into the microphone before remembering that he had a microphone clipped to his cassock.
“Yes.” replied the priest. The audience applauded vigorously, whilst Henry Tomlinson rolled his eyes.
“Henry Tomlinson. Did you go to church today?”
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The last time Professor Henry Tomlinson was asked that question was one week after his wife’s funeral. It was the first Sunday for almost forty-three years in which he hadn’t. It was his first weekend alone in the house which only he now inhabited. He was still in his dressing gown, he hadn’t shaved or showered and was fruitlessly trying to find something to watch on terrestrial television on a Sunday morning which didn’t involve God or antiques. He had finally settled on some kind of Indian historical epic film when the telephone rang. Henry tried to ignore it. He closed his eyes and sat back on his favourite chair. The same chair which his wife used to mock him about, by claiming that it was a sign that he was getting old. It didn’t matter, whoever was calling wasn’t going to go away. With all the enthusiasm of a teenager being told to go to school, Henry shuffled over to the telephone and picked up the receiver.
“Hello Dad, is that you?” The words were a reminder of his new found loneliness. Who else was it likely to be? It wasn’t going to be Mum. She’s dead. It’s never going to be Mum again thought Henry.
“Ste...” Henry tried to reply. The phone felt as if it was burning through his ears. “Steph. How are you?”
“So so. More importantly how are you?” she asked, her voice wobbly with feeling. She heard him take several deep breaths. The truth be told, Henry wanted to say terrible, he wanted to find the words to explain to his daughter that the emotional equivalent of an atomic bomb had exploded in his life, that the emptiness inside of him was so unbearable, that he felt as if a worm was living in his body and eating him from inside out, most of all he wanted to say that he wished it had been him.
“B-bearing up. It’s not easy mind.” The static on the telephone line served to mask the sound of two adults 130 miles apart suppressing the sound of their tears. “How are David and the kids?”
“He’s okay. He has taken the kids to his parents for a few days. I am not much fun to be around at the mo.” Her voice quivered on the word parents. The static returned. The seconds grew, increasing the distance between them.
“I should...”
“Did you go to church today?” asked Steph as she cut him off. She heard him sigh at the other end of the line and then the phone went dead. “Dad, Dad, Dad?
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“From 220 people in the audience, 46 went to church today, which is just over 20%. Does that not suggest that the reports of the demise of religion are greatly exaggerated?” blustered the presenter.
“In my case certainly.” Susanne Bambridge jumped in. “I don’t actually know anyone who doesn’t go to church.” Reverend Walton smiled at her.
“That’s not an argument which supports religion, that’s an argument which suggests you need to broaden your horizons.” Henry couldn’t help himself; he had a natural aversion to stupidity. Susanne’s face flushed in anger.
“Am I correct in thinking that in your opinion religion is dying out?” Oxlade-Smythe enquired.
“What do you mean by religion? You asked the audience if they went to church. The only religious cleric you have here is a Reverend. It’s hardly a fair representat
ion of religion when you are only talking about Christianity.” grumbled Henry aggressively. The presenter decided to try to change tack as the atmosphere had clearly taken a turn for the worst.
“What about you Jacob? Do you foresee the end of religion?” asked Oxlade-Smythe.
“Actually no.” replied the comedian in a tone which was distinctly uncomical.
“And why not?” The presenter was quick to follow up.
“Because I am Jewish.” On cue the panel turned to look at him each wearing an expression which failed to mask their surprise.