More Tea, Jesus?

by James Lark

  The rest of the choir sang a roughly equal spread of passables and possibles with varying degrees of confidence; Harriet’s ‘possible’ came through loud and clear, whereas Robert Phair was so worried about singing it wrong and being noticed by Harriet Lomas (so specific had she been on the subject), that he mouthed the word silently, meaning that the chord lacked a tenor note altogether. Others tried blending the two pronunciations to keep everybody happy, whilst some had their own ideas about French pronunciation and decided that if it was to be a free-for-all, then they would jolly well sing what they thought it ought to be. The person who never made a noise when singing actually had a degree in linguistics, and for the first time since joining the choir made a sound on one word only, to ensure that at least one pronunciation would be correct.

  Panicking to hear the rest of the choir singing the word which he had been thinking so hard about, Harley Farmer quickly started to sing ‘possible’, changed his mind half way through and turned it into a ‘passable’, and in the transition got his mouth in such a twist that it came out as ‘ploriboss’. He then realised that he had lost his place in the music, and illogically started again from the beginning of the page.

  Ted Sloper listened to the mess of mixed paisibles in furious disbelief; then, as he heard Harley Farmer singing entirely the wrong section fairly loudly, he used both arms to make his beating more emphatic, conducting with unnaturally wide and angry gestures and an expression of passionate rage on his face.

  The singers around Harley Farmer noticed the wild looks they were getting and started trying to help him find the right place in his music. In the process of doing this, they all lost their places as well.

  Anne Hudson, confused by the fact that, due to his emphatic beating, she could see Ted Sloper for the first time ever, also lost her place. At this point, those singers who weren’t already lost had no idea whether to follow Ted or stick with the organ; some of them decided to follow Harriet Lomas, who continued to sing fairly confidently and, to her credit, this group was the only one that managed to finish with any semblance of unity at all.

  As Ted Sloper conducted the piece to the end with firmly gritted teeth and expletives running loudly through his head, he suspected that there wasn’t a single person following what he was doing.

  He was right.

  Chapter 12

  Andy Biddle stood at the doorway as people left, shaking hands and smiling. To his amazement and relief, it all seemed to have been well-received.

  ‘What a lovely sermon, vicar,’ Noreen Ponty told him, ‘lovely. And you will try what I said with the herbs, won’t you? I think it adds something to an omelette, do you know what I mean?’

  Biddle smiled his thanks. Mrs Feehan gave him a nod as she left, which was about as much approval as he could hope for from her. Gerard followed her out, offering a brief ‘thanks’ and giving him a look which suggested he was in for another household call in the very near future.

  Even Sathan Petty-Saphon was pleased; both the sermon and the mass had been short and civilised. There were areas that left something to be desired – the choir had made a dreadful mess of everything as usual, and there was still the problem of that disreputable man in the back pew (somebody surely ought to make him sit nearer the front where they could see him), but her notice about the church entertainment had been very well-received and all the rotas were full, so for once there was little to complain about.

  ‘Nice to see you singing in the choir today,’ Biddle said to Robert Phair as he left with his two girls in tow. ‘No Lindsay?’

  ‘No, er … she’s, she’s got a lot on, you know – work and things – she’s under a lot of pressure, so er … no, wait a minute Esther, please – yes, she was very sorry to have to miss it, but … Esther, wait, Esther! Um … I’d better …’

  Biddle smiled and nodded understandingly as Robert left.

  ‘Lovely sermon, vicar,’ Mrs Carpenter said approvingly on her way out, and those around her murmured their assent. Biddle was hugely gratified; evidently his church was far more open-minded than he had assumed.

  ‘Reverend Biddle?’ enquired a young man he had not seen before.

  ‘That’s right,’ he replied.

  ‘Um … my name’s Mick Breen, I really need to talk to you about something … personal.’

  ‘I see. Do you live nearby, Mick?’ Biddle enquired, immediately responding to Pender’s convincingly agonised voice with a comforting, sympathetic smile.

  ‘Fairly near, yes.’

  ‘If you want to pop round to the vicarage some time tomorrow afternoon, I’d be more than happy to speak to you.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’ll do that.’

  ‘Some time before five?’

  ‘Yes, I will.’

  ‘Yes, do.’

  Jesus was also in the line of people shaking the vicar’s hand, as he had been for the last month, though in the rush of people waiting to get out of the church it was easy for individuals to get missed. But Jesus was keen to make his presence known, ideally before having to sit through another sermon on his own bodily fluids.

  ‘Could I come and talk to you at some point as well?’ he asked quietly as Biddle squeezed his hand.

  ‘Of course, erm …’ Biddle was suddenly a little alarmed that the idea of his being available to talk to people during the week was catching on in the queue of parishioners. It wasn’t that he minded talking to people, but he saw all of his free time this week disappearing as every Tom, Dick and Harry popped round with their petty problems. ‘What’s the … er … I mean, is it a personal thing?’

  ‘Not entirely,’ Jesus answered.

  ‘Then if it’s not urgent … erm … you see, I’m already seeing somebody tomorrow in the afternoon …’ The restless queue of people was beginning to bottleneck in the doorway. ‘Look, come round, er … later in the week, okay?’ Biddle hurriedly suggested. Honestly, he couldn’t arrange an appointment for everyone or he’d have no time left to do his job.

  As the congregation continued to move impatiently past him, all eager to grip his hand on their way out with a word of thanks, he started to feel uneasy, though he couldn’t say why. He put the feeling to the back of his mind as something to be considered later on.

  ‘Well,’ said Sathan Petty-Saphon as the church finished emptying, ‘another Sunday morning.’

  ‘Yes. I’ll lock up here, if you want to go.’

  ‘If that’s okay by you.’ Petty-Saphon smiled tightly. ‘And I’ll see you during the week?’

  ‘Oh, are you …?’ began Biddle, wondering how his week had already filled up with visits, then remembering the church entertainment. ‘Of course, yes – you want a hand putting the chairs out in the church hall at some point, don’t you?’

  ‘If you could, that would be extremely good of you.’

  ‘That’s what I’m here for!’ laughed Biddle.

  ‘Then I’ll be in touch to arrange that.’

  ‘Thank you, Sathan,’ Biddle said.

  He was about to leave when he noticed that Ted Sloper was still in the building, standing alone at the conductor’s stand between the choir stalls.

  ‘Uh … shall I lock up here, or are you using the organ?’ Biddle called. There was no reply. ‘Ted?’

  Ted turned round, a miserable look on his face. He didn’t speak.

  ‘I’ll … er … I’ll leave you to lock up, shall I?’

  As Biddle left, he turned again and said, ‘lovely anthem, by the way … er … yes, one of my favourites, very … yes.’

  Ted Sloper didn’t respond.

  As he got a microwavable meal out of his freezer, Biddle began to have doubts about his sermon.

  It had been well-received, he thought. But people had said that it was lovely. Nobody had suggested that they felt in the least bit challenged. Nobody had been remotely disturbed by his harsh home truths or his unconventional take on morality.

  In fact, he had provoked more of a response by making an omelette.

&
nbsp; Depressed, Biddle took a fork out of a kitchen drawer and stabbed holes in the plastic covering of the chicken noodles he was about to microwave. So much for challenging people’s opinions. So much for broadening the perspectives of his congregation. That they had sat through the whole sermon in mute acceptance suggested that nobody had taken any notice of his actual words at all.

  It might have been better for Biddle if nobody had taken any notice. In actual fact, one person had been paying special attention throughout; as a result, his sermon was preserved, in a dramatically truncated and somewhat inaccurate form, in the shorthand notes of Pender Gannit.

  Chapter 13

  Pender Gannit approached the vicarage a little after half past four, affecting a look of agonised confusion as he walked up the driveway. He was greeted by the Reverend Andy Biddle’s most understanding smile.

  Andy Biddle knew a tortured soul when he saw one, having ministered to a fair number in his time. In fact, at this precise moment his own soul was undergoing something not far from torture. Following what he now considered to be a completely failed attempt to engage his congregation with something challenging, he had spent a distracted twenty-four hours questioning his reasons and desires for being a priest. His reasons he had long since forgotten, and as for desires – he wasn’t sure whether he had any left. After a sleepless night and much contemplation, he still couldn’t think of a single positive thing about what he was doing.

  But he didn’t see that his own tortured soul was any reason not to give his undivided attention to another – and he could see in an instant that the poor young man on his doorstep had a soul fitting that very description. He knew that look of agonised confusion well.

  ‘It’s Mick, isn’t it?’ he enquired in a calm, kindly tone of voice.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Pender. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’

  ‘Not at all, that’s what I’m here for!’ Biddle smiled, feeling the beginnings of the glow of satisfaction in his stomach that he inevitably felt when helping people with matters of the soul. Could it be a sign that this was the right job for him after all?

  It seemed a bit optimistic. After all, he wasn’t unique in feeling satisfaction in helping people.

  ‘Won’t you come in?’ he asked, inviting Pender over the threshold and guiding him into the living room. ‘Tea? Or coffee?’

  ‘Is it real coffee?’ asked Pender, forgetting for a moment that he was supposed to be too distracted to think about such trivialities.

  ‘Ah! I’m afraid I only have instant coffee,’ Biddle explained with an apologetic chuckle.

  ‘Tea, please,’ said Pender, quickly readopting his look of suffering.

  Biddle had decided that, whilst mugs were most definitely the order of the day with those he couldn’t trust with bone china (especially tortured souls, who had enough to worry about without taking care of valuable cups and saucers), his Edwardian hostess trolley could still be used without endangering its safety too much. It seemed a bit incongruous putting mugs on such a stylish piece of furniture, but he liked to show it off.

  ‘I’ll leave your tea here,’ he said to Pender, ‘on the Edwardian hostess trolley. I picked this up for a remarkably good price, you know.’

  Pender nodded without interest – the vicar’s furniture was not going to be of any great worth in an exposé of his homosexuality, at whatever bargain price it had been obtained.

  ‘So. What is it you wanted to see me about?’ Biddle looked at Pender with a warm smile that invited openness and frankness.

  ‘I’m gay,’ said Pender, openly and frankly. He didn’t see any point in delaying the confession, since his own fictional problems were not the reason for the visit.

  Biddle nodded understandingly, wondering if God was calling him to a particular ministry for Christian homosexuals. Would he have to make regular trips to Different to sort them out? That would be more exciting than the conventional weekly Bible-study group.

  ‘How long have you felt that you are gay, Mick?’ Biddle asked.

  ‘I only really realised it a few months ago,’ lied Pender, ‘but I just didn’t believe that it could be happening to me. It felt so … wrong.’ Pender didn’t really have any idea what it would be like to be uncomfortable with his sexuality since he’d been happily screwing men since the age of fourteen, but his instincts seemed to have paid off.

  ‘Well, Mick,’ smiled Biddle, trying to remember how he’d approached the issue with Gerard a week ago, ‘I have experienced these worries before.’ (Have you indeed? thought Pender, feeling the first stirrings of success.) ‘You say it felt wrong – but did you choose to be gay?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ shrugged Pender, who had certainly never stopped to make choices when that would surely only slow him down in getting results, usually in the form of some kind of sexual transaction.

  ‘Right,’ nodded Biddle. ‘In that case, who must have made you gay?’

  ‘My father,’ Pender told Biddle.

  Biddle sighed. Why did they always want to blame their parents? ‘Mick,’ he began, bringing a subtle note of teacherly sternness into the warmth of his voice with a skill born of experience. ‘What makes you think that your father has anything to do with it?’

  ‘He used to come in home from the pub and fiddle with me,’ explained Pender, ‘me and my brother. I used to kind of enjoy it.’ The brother was real, the rest was invented. But Pender thought some sort of child abuse would lend verisimilitude to his story. And, as a journalist, he had a tendency to overdramatise.

  Biddle was slightly thrown by the answer. ‘Oh. Er … well …’ His amateur psychology was rather hazy on this point, so he thought it best to skirt around the issue. ‘You may well have some issues of forgiveness to deal with, Mick, er … but as far as your sexuality goes, nobody really knows what causes somebody to be, er …’ He looked at Pender’s sceptical expression. ‘I’m not saying that wasn’t a factor in your … er …’ Biddle hurriedly added, ‘but you didn’t choose to be gay, that’s important. And let’s for the moment assume that your father can’t be blamed, either – which is not to vindicate his actions at all, that’s er … wrong, very wrong, but …’ – Biddle felt that he wasn’t making himself very clear, but felt that he ought to plough on, now that he’d started – ‘that being the assumption – for now – who is it that made you what you are?’

  Pender shrugged. He had seen the question coming and the answer he was expected to give was obvious. ‘God, I suppose,’ he answered. Biddle beamed.

  ‘That’s right. You don’t think that God would create somebody in a certain way and then say that it was wrong?’

  ‘But he does say that it’s wrong,’ Pender argued. He had encountered, and been thoroughly condemned by, various Christians in the course of his rather promiscuous life, and it had always been made very clear to him that he was sinning and hated by God. He was curious to see how Biddle would get round this issue.

  ‘What the Bible says and how people interpret it are two very different things.’ Biddle smiled, enjoying the predictable direction the conversation was taking. It might almost have been pre-rehearsed. He put his mug back down on the Edwardian hostess trolley. ‘We can talk about what the Bible says as much as you want, Mick, but you need to work out what it says to you, not what other people have told you it says.’

  ‘I’m just – so confused, so unsure about what I ought to do. It’s so hard to see what is right,’ Pender ad-libbed, wondering if he was pushing the melodrama too far. But he seemed to be hitting the right note.

  ‘I know exactly how you feel,’ nodded Biddle, thinking about his own worries, about his career, his life. ‘I understand everything you’re saying more than you can imagine, Mick.’

  ‘You do?’ Pender replied, trying to radiate hopeful uncertainty, rather than the exultant triumph he was really feeling. He already had more than enough material to write his story – if he could push Biddle into actually admitting that he was queer …

  ‘I’ve been the
re, Mick. I know how it feels to be unsure, to feel isolated.’

  ‘But … there’s nothing as confusing as being in love with another man.’

  ‘Well—’ Biddle chuckled. ‘Love is confusing in itself, isn’t it? The love that we feel for a friend, or for a parent who we maybe thought we hated – or even the hate we sometimes feel for somebody we love.’ By now Biddle was impressing himself – he was exceeding everything he’d ever said to anybody on the subject and he had no idea where it was coming from. He was experiencing a growing sense of certainty in his vocation. This was what it was all about; it wasn’t about himself, it was about helping other people, that was why he had become a priest and moreover it was something that he enjoyed. ‘And what about the love it takes for one man to give up his life on a cross – for you, Mick? That isn’t easy to understand, either.’

  Pender nodded, bored. This wasn’t the kind of response he had been hoping for. It was all starting to sound like one of those three-minute sermons they put on the radio every morning. ‘Yes,’ he said quickly, hoping to stem the flow of religion from the vicar’s mouth. ‘But I – I wondered if you could really understand how it feels to be surrounded by people telling you that what you are is wrong.’