by James Lark
From behind a table of food, Sathan Petty-Saphon observed Ted Sloper staggering through the church hall and sighed heavily. She had long suspected that the choir director was an alcoholic, and her suspicions were being confirmed.
He would have to go. It was at events such as these that the personal problems of senior church members could really cause embarrassment.
‘Noreen,’ she whispered to Noreen Ponty, who was helping with the food. ‘Ted doesn’t seem to be entirely sober, it’s probably worth keeping an eye on him.’
‘Oh!’ Noreen was perturbed by this news, and unsure exactly what she was meant to be keeping an eye on.
‘Try to make sure that he doesn’t get too close to Jesus,’ Petty-Saphon continued. ‘That would be embarrassing in the extreme.’
‘Yes! Of course!’ Noreen nodded hastily. Petty-Saphon turned back to the tables of food and smiled sternly at a small child reaching for what she knew to be his second cake.
‘Not until the grown-ups have all had one,’ she said, with an air of patient disapproval.
Robert Phair paced up and down in one of the emptier corners of the church hall, running through his pre-prepared jokes under his breath and getting increasingly nervous. It was the third time he had compèred the parish entertainment – everyone always felt that he did a good job, and he enjoyed performing. Sometimes he wondered why he wasn’t asked to do readings in church as well, or maybe deliver the intercessions. He had plenty of ideas and a good, clear voice, and he was sure he would do a better job than many of the people they had up there.
But he was never asked, and didn’t like to cause a fuss.
Instead, he continued to present the parish entertainment, having stepped into the breach at the last minute three years ago due to the previous host (a jolly man straight out of the Brighton-pier tradition called Eddie Wicks) suffering an unexpected heart attack and apparently dying later in the evening whilst Tony Paton had been doing an impersonation of Harold Wilson.
Phair’s linking routines were simple, incorporating jokes and occasionally funny voices he’d copied from television programmes in the 1970s. It was nothing too clever, but he liked the feeling of being in control. He knew that his qualities actually lent themselves quite well to leadership – again, it was something he would have liked the chance to demonstrate a little more in the church, but which he had never been given the opportunity to do.
Occasionally he wondered if he ought to do something about it – there were courses one could do, church positions one could apply for. But he always felt that this wouldn’t go down terribly well with Lindsay. It certainly wouldn’t now, at any rate. Lindsay had entirely disowned the church of St Barnabas, and his decision to compère the parish entertainment had led to a little unpleasant friction earlier that day. As he ran over his script, her taunts regularly interrupted the patter in his head – ‘Next, you’ll be saying you think it’s okay, that you’re quite happy to have a vicar who’s gay …’; ‘I suppose you’re going to carry on going to church because you’re happy to accept it the way it is …’; ‘I suppose you think you’re going to keep taking our daughters along there, you’re not at all worried about what’s going to happen to them …’ – and the objections and arguments he should have raised at the time kept popping into his head as well, when at the time he had only been able to mutter feeble excuses about ‘not wanting to let them down’.
He looked around unhappily. Almost everyone else seemed to be there, so evidently there was no major disquiet about the recent revelations. There was Biddle himself, happily engaged in conversation with the Wilkinsons, a couple who Robert could have sworn would treat the allegations of homosexuality as very seriously bad indeed. But homosexuality didn’t appear to be a topic of conversation at all.
Instead, he’d noticed that a lot of people seemed to be talking about Jesus, which was even more strange.
‘Have you had enough to eat, Jesus?’ Sathan Petty-Saphon asked the Ancient of Days, thrusting a plate of sausage rolls in front of his face.
‘Yes, thank you,’ he replied.
‘I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to say hello properly, there’s an awful lot to organise here!’
‘So I can see.’
‘Now – do you know what you’re doing?’ Petty-Saphon said efficiently.
‘It seems fairly straightforward.’
‘Good, because I think it’s probably about time we got started,’ she continued, and raised her voice to address the whole room. ‘Okay everyone, I think it’s probably about time we got started!’ People started to slowly move towards the seats. ‘Let me find out where they’ve put you in the running order,’ Petty-Saphon said to Jesus, and bustled over to Robert Phair. ‘I’ve just told people that I think it’s probably about time we got started,’ she murmured.
‘Oh, ah, right, okay!’ Robert smiled nervously.
‘Now, I wondered where you’ve put Jesus in the running order?’
‘Jesus? Er … what …?’ began Robert, confused.
‘Haven’t you been told that Jesus is doing an item?’
‘No, nobody mentioned …’
‘Right.’ Petty-Saphon sighed and hurried over to Reverend Biddle. ‘I think it’s about time we got started,’ she informed him, ‘and apparently Jesus hasn’t been put into the running order yet.’
‘Oh, ah, well, Robert’s really in charge of that …’ started Biddle.
‘I know that, but Robert hasn’t been told that Jesus is doing an item.’
‘Ah. I see.’ The reason that Biddle hadn’t yet told Robert that Jesus was doing an item was that he was still unsure about the best place to put him in the running order. As vicar, Biddle had been scheduled to go at the end, as a kind of finale. Whilst he was aware that technically, in terms of seniority, Jesus deserved to have this slot, he wondered whether that would go down as well. After all, he was the vicar, so people knew him rather better than they knew Jesus. It wasn’t that he begrudged Jesus the limelight, but from a purely dramatic perspective it seemed better to put Jesus in maybe halfway through. ‘I was thinking it would be best to put him in maybe halfway through,’ Biddle explained to Sathan Petty-Saphon.
‘Not at the end?’ she answered, raising an eyebrow.
‘Well – if you think that would be better …’ Biddle acquiesced.
‘Whatever you think, Reverend Biddle. Perhaps you could let Robert know, and I’ll see about getting Jesus into a seat.’
‘Are you sure?’ Biddle hurriedly asked. ‘I can make sure Jesus is alright, it’s no bother.’
‘Not at all, Reverend Biddle, I’ll see to that.’ Biddle enviously watched Sathan Petty-Saphon cross over to Jesus once more and guide the Messiah forcefully towards the front row. Then he made his way over to Robert Phair.
‘Hi, Robert!’ he said with a smile. ‘Sorry, I should have let you know earlier; if we can put Jesus in about halfway.’
‘Right, okay,’ said Robert, ‘what … er … exactly is that? Then?’ He looked at Biddle, who looked back blankly. ‘I mean – who is he?’
‘Jesus. Jesus Christ. You know, from the Bible,’ Biddle explained.
‘What do you mean?’ Robert asked.
‘He’s over there,’ said Biddle, pointing to where Jesus was now sitting, a prisoner of Sathan Petty-Saphon’s attentions for the evening. ‘He’ll be doing a song, if you could slot him in somewhere … er … appropriate.’
Robert stared at Jesus. Good God, it was him.
He quickly started looking down his scribbled order for the evening, trying to find a place to add in another song. Imagine that – Jesus, singing at their parish entertainment! No wonder people were talking about him. Imagine what Lindsay would say.
On the other hand, he thought, under present circumstances perhaps it wouldn’t go down terribly well with Lindsay. Probably better to keep it to himself.
Ted had started to feel quite sleepy, and as people were seating themselves around him he found himself dozing
off. He jerked upright, aware that he really needed to pay attention because he’d have to play the piano very soon, but everything around him was confused and noisy. There was also a kind of tightness in his body which he couldn’t identify but which he knew was wrong. He wondered with interest if it might be a heart attack. Maybe he was destined to be the next fatality of the parish entertainment – or maybe Jesus would be on hand to heal him.
Now Robert Phair was making his way up onto the tiny stage in the hall and people were clapping. Effortfully, Ted joined in with the applause, and yawned. Unfortunately, his yawn was mistimed so that the second half of it was loudly audible as people stopped clapping. He was aware of a few disapproving faces turning to look at him and then there was laughter, which he initially thought was also caused by him, but which he then realised was to do with Robert Phair’s introduction to the proceedings. Phair was doing some kind of silly voice – it was the kind of thing that epitomised the parish entertainment for Ted. It was cringeworthily, fist-clenchingly crap. Yet, as Ted watched, he realised that he’d had a sufficient amount of alcohol to be able to really enjoy it. With the clarity induced by his recent consumption of seven pints of quite strong ale, he found that every tiny awful detail of the spectacle in front of him was magnified to absurd proportions. Yes, it was terrible. It was so terrible, it was incredibly funny.
Ted guffawed loudly. Again, he was aware of people turning to look at him, but he didn’t see how they could possibly object to him laughing. It was meant to be funny, after all.
Phair faltered a little, then continued with a comment that Ted thought might have been meant as a reference to him – he wasn’t really hearing words clearly, but in any case it made people laugh and so he let out another huge guffaw. He couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t ever thought of getting tanked up for the parish entertainment before – suddenly, the prospect of three hours of this didn’t seem so bad. He felt sure that there was fun to be had.
The first item was being announced, and it was the young American student who sometimes came along on Sundays – Ted couldn’t remember her name, but she ought to be a laugh. She was American, after all.
She turned and looked expectantly into the audience. ‘Uh … Ted Sloper?’ she asked, uncertainly. Ted suppressed another guffaw – there was something terribly funny about the way she said his name. Probably the accent.
Then he realised that she had said his name for a reason and that he was meant to be playing the piano for her. ‘Oh, right, sorry,’ he slurred, lifting himself out of his seat with some difficulty and knocking the chair over in the process. He tried to pick it up but it was unexpectedly heavy and he dropped it again. He made another attempt, but failed to get hold of the chair altogether, so just staggered about grasping at air. At this point, he decided that he should probably give up on the chair and go to the piano, in case he drew attention to his difficulties he was having. This he did, reaching the piano without too much trouble and, he was sure, without anybody realizing that he was a bit tipsy. He shuffled through the music on top of the piano, wondered which piece he was looking for. He had no idea, except that he was sure the American girl had been going to sing one of the dreadful West-End numbers.
She announced the piece. He was right. He quickly located the music and started to play. He couldn’t hear her singing, but he imagined that he probably wasn’t missing very much, so continued hammering out the disgustingly obvious notes and sickly chords.
He was well into the second page before somebody in the audience had the bright idea of tugging at his jacket to alert him to the fact that he was playing the wrong piece of music.
He apologised to the audience, radiating sincerity, and after all it could have happened to anyone – these musicals all sounded the same, didn’t they? After a little more shuffling, he located the correct music and started to play. This time he heard the American girl start singing, remarkably out of tune and with a nasal affectation he was sure she had got from some pop star. My God, it was such a horrible sound he ought to award her a place in the choir on the spot.
He started to amuse himself by putting more interesting chords into the music. This was not difficult, so he further elaborated the music with melodic flourishes which improved it to an extent which the content didn’t merit. He decided to push the boundaries of experimentalism in his accompaniment; no great challenge in his inebriated state. His improvisation began to get quite unintentionally avant-garde. So that’s how Anne does it, he thought to himself.
He finished the piece with an impressive flourish of atonal fanfares and turned to take a small, seated bow. He glanced at the American girl, who was glaring at him testily, something else which he found unaccountably amusing. Then he lifted himself off the piano stool, realising as he did so that the reason for the tightness in his body was that he quite urgently needed to use a lavatory. Not to worry, he would sneak out during the next item and empty his bladder.
Oh – hang on, the next person needed accompaniment as well. He walked uncomfortably back to the piano and started the process of shuffling through the music again.
St Barnabas was not a church blessed with a great deal of musical talent. However, this was made up for by the enthusiasm of the congregation, and for many of them, when asked to contribute a performance of some kind, music seemed the simplest option. For this reason, the parish entertainment was a rather music-heavy affair, and as it unfolded Ted found he was being called on again and again, without so much as a break between items for him to make his much-needed dash for the toilet.
He thought that his moment had come when it was announced that a small boy was going to read a short section from the famous children’s book Bibby Bobbit and the Giant Mermaid, but the budding entertainer was apparently being sick, having eaten too much quiche, so the item was passed over in favour of Noreen Ponty’s rendition of the aria from Madame Butterfly called ‘One Fine Day’ (Oh, the irony, thought Ted). His hopes were also raised when a sprightly old lady called Norma got up to recite poetry, but it turned out to be only the first of many limericks which she intended to perform across the whole evening; no sooner had she finished than Ted was required to struggle back to the piano to play along with a small boy and girl doing a recorder duet. As Ted hammered out the notes and listened to the squeaky cacophony coming from the stage, he muttered to himself his oft-repeated views that the recorder was an instrument that should be banned from all primary schools. The whole event had quickly ceased to be funny.
A group of people who had formed a close harmony group were announced – Ted watched them with a feeling of dread, waiting for the moment when they would start singing and he could use the distraction to head for the toilets. ‘We’re not quite the King’s Singers,’ the soprano in charge understated, a big grin on her face, ‘oh, and we don’t have any tenors today, so some of the chords might … er … sound a bit wrong!’ She laughed and Ted buried his face in his hands. The choir tensed up, ready to perform. ‘Oh, Ted, we need you to accompany this one!’ the soprano said, enthusiastically waving a sheet of music. His bladder groaning in protest, he staggered to his feet and made his way over to the piano, a journey which was taking on all the characteristics of a recurring nightmare.
Finally, it was announced that Jeffrey Slater (the church’s chief bell ringer) was going to perform a monologue written by Peter Cook. Without even stopping to hear the late comedian turn in his grave, Ted made a beeline for the door.
In more agony than he’d ever experienced in his agony-filled life, he limped into the fresh air and made his way towards the toilets in the car park outside the hall. He tried the door and discovered that it was locked. He pushed it harder, then pulled it, aware that he had known the state of drunkenness to make the opening of unlocked doors this difficult. Satisfying himself that the toilet was definitely locked, he banged on the door in case it had been locked from the inside. Realising that if somebody was inside they were unlikely to open the door to anyone banging on it, he
groaned in pain and limped to the women’s toilets on the other side of the main church-hall doors. Similar experimentation revealed that they, too, were locked.
‘Why the bloody hell has somebody locked the church-hall toilets at a bloody church event?’ he roared in his distress. There was nothing for it, he would have to use the bushes.
Turning to the bushes, he was confronted with the most surprising revelation of the evening so far, and in spite of his discomfort he stood frozen in astonishment for several minutes.
The emissary of Sloper’s astonishment was currently sitting in the back row of the audience listening to Jeffrey Slater doing a poor impersonation of Peter Cook. Bernard Lomas had slipped into the performance several minutes after the event had started, a mysterious smile on his face. It hadn’t taken him long to locate Sloper, one of the intended recipients of his cleverly constructed revenge, but he was waiting for the man claiming to be Jesus to reveal himself. His scheme – and his way of revealing both Sloper and the Jesus man for the frauds they really were – was so gloriously inventive that he found he was chuckling in anticipation every few minutes.
Mrs Feehan had also slipped into the back row of the audience some time after the show had kicked off. She had found herself in a difficult situation – she couldn’t offload her tuna-and-broccoli quiche onto the food table without risking drawing attention to the fact that she was carrying a 9mm Browning L9A1 semi-automatic pistol in the same bag. She had, therefore, deliberately waited for the performance to begin and found a seat at the back, keeping her quiche with her and biding her time. Her plan was not particularly inventive, but she was doing the Lord’s work and the anticipation of seeing that carried out was enough to give her the patience to sit through the parish entertainment.