by James Lark
Ted opened the door to Bernard Lomas, who stood in what he felt was a passionate and slightly threatening position with a passionate and threatening smile on his face. ‘Ted Sloper?’ he said, with a superficial politeness that was entirely intended to show the passionate rage simmering beneath.
‘Yes?’ Ted said, failing to recognise the threat this stranger represented and wondering why he was standing in such an odd way.
‘Ah,’ smiled Bernard meaningfully. ‘Ah,’ he added, allowing a little more of his concealed rage to unconceal itself. He shook a little with restrained passion.
‘Can I help you?’ Ted enquired impatiently, having reached the conclusion that it must be a severe case of piles.
‘Ah!’ responded Bernard, increasing the menace in every inch of his being (Ted wondered in alarm whether he ought to offer the stranger a cushion, if only to get rid of him.) ‘Can you help me? Yes, I think you can help me.’ Bernard chuckled in his most terrifying manner.
Although Bernard Lomas had come here on a serious matter, he couldn’t help realising how enjoyable it was all turning out to be. It was not merely a confrontation, it was a performance – again, he was struck by the natural skill for acting he was indubitably showing. Television and film, with the occasional wisely selected theatre role, really might be a way forward for him, he thought. But he put the matter aside for a moment – performing was, he knew, all about focus, and he couldn’t afford to lose his focus now. The confrontation really was going extremely well.
‘Ted Sloper?’ Bernard repeated for effect.
‘Yes,’ Ted answered, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice.
‘So you’re the one who’s been abusing my wife,’ Bernard stated in a tone of voice so successfully terrifying it sent a shiver down his own back.
‘What?’ Ted exclaimed. The theory about the piles was holding up well, and Ted had a second theory forming about the man’s mental state which was being confirmed equally swiftly.
‘Perhaps I should introduce myself. I am Bernard Lomas. My wife is Harriet Lomas. She sings in your choir.’
Ted surveyed Bernard, unsure whether to be amused or disturbed. This man was Harriet Lomas’s husband? It certainly explained a lot about Harriet Lomas.
Bernard was not entirely satisfied with Ted’s reaction to him – having revealed who he was, Bernard had expected to see some genuine fear, even some remorse. ‘You are the Ted Sloper who conducts the church choir?’
‘Yes.’
‘The St Barnabas church choir?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well then.’ Bernard allowed his threatening smile to give way to a far more terrifying and slightly sarcastic sneer. (He had decided at this point to model his performance on Alan Rickman’s character in the Robin Hood film he’d watched with Harriet one New Year’s Eve.) ‘I’ve been hearing all about how you abused my wife.’
‘What?’ Ted repeated, amazed by the sheer ridiculousness of the suggestion. He had never so much as gone near the woman – what possible appeal could she hold for him?
‘Abused her,’ Bernard reiterated, allowing his performance to rise in intensity.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘You know exactly what I’m talking about,’ hissed Bernard, genuinely riled by Sloper’s denials. ‘How you’ve been treating her, you and that Fauré character.’
That was the last straw. ‘If anybody has been abusing anybody,’ Ted exploded, ‘it’s your wife who’s been abusing Fauré!’
Bernard was outraged. Momentarily forgetting to be Alan Rickman, he began to bellow back, ‘That’s exactly the kind of obscene suggestion …’ The front door slammed forcefully in his face, leaving him standing on the doorstep, his mouth wordlessly opening and closing in shock. That the Sloper man had denied responsibility was objectionable enough; to have the nerve to actually slam the door midway through the confrontation …
Bernard Lomas was a passionate man. He felt the rage inside him building up, no doubt fuelled by the strong associations he had now formed with the Sheriff of Nottingham. But he could see that the situation had progressed beyond mere spoken confrontation. Sloper had taken the conflict up to a new level. Retaliation would have to be more extreme.
Stalking round the side of the house as he remembered Rickman stalking the corridors of Nottingham castle (although he was now confusing the film with The Shawshank Redemption, so elements of his performance were more indebted to Tim Robbins), he began peering through the windows. He observed pot plants on a windowsill and a telephone with a little tin full of pens next to it, but little of any genuine interest. Acting with what he felt was the boldness of an outlaw (further confusing vital details about the exact role played by the Sheriff of Nottingham), he opened the gate leading into the back garden. He got on his hands and knees and approached the large window at the back of the house, then peered inside.
He found himself looking into a spacious, airy room, and immediately saw something which put all sorts of interesting ideas into his head. He smiled the bitter, grim smile of a man ready to exact retribution at any cost, almost wishing he had his camcorder on hand to film the expression, so perfect he knew it to be. No longer was he acting out the camp, over-the-top antagonism seen in action films; this was to be a harsh, gritty revenge in the nature of Get Carter.
‘How did it go?’ enquired Harriet Lomas with mild concern, as her husband, by now three parts Alan Rickman, three parts Tim Robbins and seventeen parts Michael Caine, strutted into the living room.
‘That man – will not – be rude to my wife – again.’ He smiled grimly, a hint of mania in his eyes, his affected delivery accompanied by an inaccurate attempt at a cockney accent.
‘I hope you weren’t rude to him,’ Harriet said.
‘No – no, I wasn’t rude to him,’ chuckled Bernard, maintaining his cockney accent which added an unfortunate element of Dick Van Dyke to his performance. ‘But he was rude to you, and he deserves – every – single – thing – he gets.’
‘You didn’t fight?’ Harriet asked, more worried by the embarrassment this could cause her than by any damage her husband might have inflicted on his new enemy.
‘No, we didn’t fight,’ Bernard reassured her. Then he grinned broadly, again with a manic glint in his eyes. ‘I know exactly what I am going to do to him, though.’
Harriet had known her husband for long enough to recognise the look of passionate obsession, and inwardly prayed that it wasn’t going to be anything too extreme. ‘I think perhaps you ought to let it drop,’ she suggested, knowing even as she spoke that it was hopeless to argue with him.
‘Oh no,’ Bernard said, the grin and the cockney accent growing broader and more ridiculous every second. ‘I’m not letting this drop. Oh – no.’
‘What are you going to do?’ sighed Harriet. Her husband let his grin break into a full snarl and his eyes flash dangerously, feeling within him the full menace of Alan Rickman combine with Michael Caine’s cool nonchalance, whilst actually doing a passable Jack Nicholson.
‘I am going,’ he replied, ‘to steal Ted Sloper’s harpsichord.’
Chapter 8
Biddle checked himself in the mirror and was impressed with the result. He might not be as lean as he was in his younger days, but he still cut a dashing figure when he needed to.
In a hasty Internet search the other day, he had managed to identify what he felt would be the most appropriate nightspot for Gerard’s age and inclinations, a club called Different, in the nearby town of Cogspool. It only went by this name on Thursday, on other days sporting the rather punchier alias of Rubber – so if Thursday night it had to be, he had thought, there was no point in wasting time. The sooner Gerard stopped turning up on his doorstep, the better.
Besides which, he had started to really look forward to the evening. Back in the early eighties he had enjoyed many a fulfilling evening at a gay club called the Columbino, not least because it had turned out to be a good plac
e to meet women. This would be his first proper night out since moving to Little Collyweston and he was relishing the opportunity to let his hair down a little.
As such, he had maybe spent a little bit longer than necessary over the preparations – in fact, an examination of his wardrobe had led him to the conclusion that a shopping trip was called for, so much of the day had been spent in purchasing suitably fashionable garments for the trip. But as his reflection testified, it had been time and money well spent.
He was cleaning his teeth when the doorbell rang. He frowned – it was a little early and he had arranged to pick Gerard up from his own house, but perhaps Gerard was trying to avoid parental suspicion. He rinsed out his mouth and bounded down the stairs, determined to make this an evening to remember.
Sathan Petty-Saphon recoiled in surprise as the vicarage door flew open. The apparition standing in front of her was deeply unexpected.
‘Reverend Biddle?’ she enquired, suspiciously. He could hardly have looked less like a vicar – his clothes were unsuitably, almost provocatively casual and he looked breathless and animated. ‘I’m sorry, were you … painting?’
‘Oh! No, I …’ Biddle laughed, awkwardly. He didn’t think that the truth, on this occasion, would go down particularly well. ‘I have an engagement in town, that’s all.’
‘I see,’ she said disapprovingly. An engagement in town that required him to disguise himself as a lay member of the public could not come to any good. But she would let it pass this time, since she was here on a more important errand. ‘I hope that you’re not in such a hurry that now would be a bad time to talk to you?’
Biddle’s heart sank. ‘You’d better come in,’ he said as she came in. He glanced at his watch – assuming he could get rid of her within the next half hour he wouldn’t be too late picking up Gerard. At least he could use the tea trolley, he thought to himself – Mrs Petty-Saphon definitely constituted a parishioner who could be trusted with bone china. Just nothing else.
‘Can I offer you a cup of tea?’ he asked, showing Sathan Petty-Saphon through to the living room (not for the first time).
‘Yes please,’ she responded, in a tone of voice intended to make it clear that although she would show all Christian grace in accepting and drinking his tea, it did not mean she was going to forget about the important matters on which she had come to confront him.
The important matters on which she had particularly come to confront him were, to Biddle’s despair, all wrapped up in the omelette he had made at the family service.
‘Mrs Petty-Sathan,’ he began, trying to interrupt her tirade before it got into full flow.
‘It’s Petty-Saphon,’ she corrected him (not for the first time).
‘Sorry,’ he smiled, berating himself internally and wondering what had possessed her parents to name her so confusingly, ‘sorry, Mrs Petty-Saphon …’
‘Please, call me Sathan,’ she coldly interrupted.
‘Sathan,’ he continued helplessly, ‘I had my reasons for making an omelette in the family service, and I hope that they will become clear over the course of the next few weeks. Perhaps if it still concerns you after that …’
‘Reverend Biddle, it was not the omelette itself I took offence to,’ she clarified. ‘Naturally, it wasn’t a style of presentation that any of us are used to, nor did I find it particularly appropriate, but I suppose we are going to have to get used to these contrarieties of taste since you are undoubtedly here to stay.’ Biddle squirmed in his seat underneath the thin disguise of his friendliest vicar’s smile. ‘What I took offence to, Reverend Biddle, were the liberal attitudes that the omelette embodied on a symbolic level.’
Biddle sighed, wondering how many different things the omelette had come to symbolise for different people. ‘I’m not sure exactly which liberal attitudes you are talking about, Mrs … Mrs … Sathan. Sathan.’
‘I think it is perfectly clear which liberal attitudes I am talking about, Reverend Biddle,’ she declaimed. ‘The liberal attitudes which are eating away at the heart of the church in these worldly times.’
‘Perhaps you could tell me which liberal attitudes you have identified eating away at our church, Mrs … Sathan?’
Sathan Petty-Saphon stared at Biddle witheringly. This was her usual reaction to any question she was unable to answer directly. The truth was that she couldn’t think of any specific examples of liberalism in St Barnabas; her fears revolved around vaguer impressions of omelettes and slightly Jewish-looking men in need of haircuts. Clear as the dangers signified by these things were, if Reverend Biddle hadn’t seen them already, they were going to be rather difficult to explain.
Biddle excused himself to make the tea, worried that Petty-Saphon’s objections were going to solidify into a particular hostility towards the growing tendency of the clergy to accept homosexuals in the church, just as he was about to take a young gay parishioner clubbing to explore his sexuality.
Whilst he was in the kitchen, Sathan Petty-Saphon cast her eyes over the contents of the living room, as she had on several previous occasions. She was disappointed to see that the unsuitable birthday card she had noted on her first visit still sat on the mantelpiece above the fireplace, even though it must be long after the Reverend’s birthday now. That aside, there was little in the room that she felt any strong antipathy to; the pastel green of the carpet, the beige wallpaper, the reproduced art on the walls, all seemed to have been arranged to sap any opinions from the people observing them. They were just – there.
In a way that was the problem. The previous vicar, a considerably less predictable man, had possessed several objects of extreme tastelessness which he had proudly displayed as if he deliberately wished to wind her up.
(Actually, the previous vicar, an irascible and rather elderly man called Amos Cavanagh, had been well aware which among his possessions were not liked by Mrs Petty-Saphon and had indeed moved them into more prominent places in his house deliberately to wind her up.)
The dearth of genuinely objectionable things to examine, the birthday card aside, had given Sathan Petty-Saphon considerably fewer grievances to muse on during her visits, and she wondered if this absence of things to properly focus her mind was one of the reasons why she did not seem to have established any real control over the new vicar. She might have used his current attire more to her advantage, except that every time she focused on that, she suffered the unnerving illusion that she was talking to a children’s television presenter.
‘It’s very kind of you to come, Mrs … Sathan, Sathan,’ breezed Reverend Biddle as he came back into the living room proudly pushing his tea trolley.
‘I’m only too glad to help,’ she responded with a tight smile. ‘There are so many things to think of in a church, I’m sure you must have a lot on your mind.’
‘Yes, indeed, yes,’ agreed Biddle.
‘There are some jobs that have in the past been delegated to other responsible church members,’ she continued. ‘You might consider this, should you feel that you have too much to deal with.’
‘Well, yes – I’m coping!’ he laughed.
She frowned. Did Reverend Biddle think it was acceptable to merely cope? He was so clearly almost out of his depth. ‘It is difficult for you to keep your eyes on everything all of the time,’ she told him. ‘So, purely in the name of being helpful, I hope you don’t mind if I draw your attention to a few things which may have escaped your attention,’ she continued. Biddle nodded, absently.
‘I wonder if you’ve noticed my Victorian tea trolley?’ he asked, as he poured two cups of tea. ‘I picked it up a number of years ago for a remarkably low price.’
‘Are you sure it’s Victorian?’ she asked, narrowing her eyes at the article like an animal critically assessing its prey and finding it wanting.
‘Oh, yes,’ Biddle said, avoiding her gaze.
‘You’ve had it dated? And valued?’
‘Not valued, no …’ he faltered, ‘well, not dated as such, but I
know that it’s Victorian.’ He handed her one of the cups of tea and took the other back to his chair, which he was sure had once been comfortable.
‘It looks Edwardian to me, that’s all,’ she sniffed.
‘Ah!’ chuckled Biddle, sipping his tea and wishing he hadn’t brought up the subject. Edwardian was still respectable, wasn’t it? A little less antique, but respectable and antique nevertheless.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have mentioned the remarkably low price. That was unlikely to impress somebody like Mrs Petty-Saphon.
‘Reverend Biddle,’ she said, drawing his attention back from the distant past, ‘I did not come here to discuss your tea trolley.’
‘Of course not. Perhaps you could elaborate on your concerns?’
(But Edwardian was in some ways rather more fashionable than Victorian, wasn’t it?)
‘You might not have realised that church services have seen certain newcomers in the last couple of weeks,’ Sathan Petty-Saphon slowly began.
‘Yes. Indeed, yes,’ nodded Biddle, an enthusiastic smile on his face, concealing the sudden feeling of dread as he realised the conversation had turned to the ‘scruffy outsider’ mentioned in her letter, before Ted had even had a chance to enlist said stranger in the choir.
‘You must surely be aware that not every addition to a church is necessarily good?’
‘Well,’ laughed Biddle nervously, ‘actually, I’m only too happy when another person steps into my church, whoever they are.’
‘But you can’t ignore the fact that there are such people as who might have – a damaging effect on the church.’
‘You mean devil worshippers, perhaps?’ suggested Biddle with mock seriousness.
‘Indeed, that would be one extreme,’ Petty-Saphon agreed, ‘but a person doesn’t necessarily need to worship Satan to be one of his agents.’