by Shawna Lewis
Watching the girl, Marnie began to see the downside of having kids and wasn’t going to pander to this little madam. Belinda was embarrassed by her daughter’s unwelcoming posture. What had become of the sweet, compliant, pre-puberty child?
“Doug seems to be taking a long time to fetch the car,” she ventured, to break the awkward silence.
“They’ve gone to Gran’s,” offered Melanie, with no explanation.
“How do you know that?”
“Got a text.”
“Who from?”
“Aidan.”
“When?”
“While you were queuing.”
“Go on!”
“That’s it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
A shrug. There was something else going on with her phone which demanded her attention.
“What does it say?”
“’S from Chelsey.”
“Aidan… what did he say?”
“Sshh… Hi Chels! What did he say…? He didn’t…? You didn’t…? Hang on a sec, babe…” The girl stood and walked away, animated at last, gasping and giggling into the plastic box, relieved that the purgatory of festive isolation had been breached.
Belinda’s embarrassment flared, yet as a doting mother she tried to hide it under a veneer of pride.
“That Chelsey! I don’t know how she’d cope without Melanie. Always turning to her for support… got a bit of a hang-up for some boy who actually fancies Mel. And I don’t think her parents are that stable, from what I hear. Mel’s always there for her…” She smiled weakly and tailed off.
Marnie adjusted her position on the shiny chair of moulded beech, and winced in pseudo-pain.
“Don’t you think you should find out why they’ve gone to your mother’s house?”
“I didn’t bring my phone and I doubt if Doug’s carrying his.”
“I’ve got mine,” Marnie volunteered. What a chance! “Do you know Aidan’s number?”
The youth’s mother rattled off the eleven digits, then repeated them slowly as Marnie tapped them into her Numbers list, pressed Save, then Dial. At the ringing tone, she handed the device to Belinda.
This stroke of luck accomplished the true purpose of Marnie’s visit, which was to find a way of contacting Aidan in private. Now she had it. Her thoughts could turn freely to the happy chance of her meeting with Mick the minister. She was excited. Bel was speaking quietly into the phone, beneath the clatter of trays and piped background carols. She walked to a quieter place, away from her daughter, her expression concerned. Marnie twiddled the empty cookie wrapper in her manicured fingers and looked about her. This was her first visit to a garden centre; yet so far, she had seen no plants. She quite fancied having a pot of flowers or even a window box on the ledge of her dingy bedsit. Even this short time in a proper family home had nudged her dormant nest-building instincts towards wakefulness.
The call ended, Belinda sat down, face pale, hands shaking.
“It’s Dad. They’ve called an ambulance. Looks like a stroke.”
Her breathing was controlled; exhalations came through pursed lips. This was the dreaded moment: the moment that proved her parents were not invincible.
It had been Mum who answered the call – quite lucid, rational, controlled even. She’d had the presence of mind to dial 999 when Dad had suddenly stopped talking mid-conversation, struggled to carry on, but failed, one side of his face drooping, his arms unmoving.
“It was just like that advert on the telly,” she’d said.
She’d wrapped the throw from the settee round his shoulders and phoned Enid from next door, who’d run round to give moral support. The paramedics had been wonderful and taken Dad off in their ambulance to the hospital. Doug and Aidan were going to take her there now. She must dash as they were waiting in the car.
Melanie was still wandering round oblivious, engrossed in her conversation with Chelsey. At Marnie’s approach, she turned away. Marnie grabbed the girl’s shoulders and spun her round. There was a scuffle, during which the phone clattered to the floor.
Aghast, Melanie shrieked, “Get off me, you perv!” and staff came running.
“Your granddad’s had a stroke! Your mum needs you!” Marnie yelled, and the staff backed off.
“Selfish little cow didn’t bother passing on a message,” she explained.
The staff backed off even further and other customers tut-tutted at the crassness of youth nowadays. The girl was scrabbling on the floor in search of the pink sliver. It was found, accidentally, by a passer-by, who kicked it under a stack of aquariums and related equipment.
*
Belinda was still seated in the café, dazed and shaken, only dimly aware of the kerfuffle in the fish aisle. The stomp of muddy trainers roused her: she expected her daughter to come running up in tears. What she got was a teenage tantrum over the potential damage to an essential piece of electronic hardware.
“Your granddad’s had a stroke!” she interrupted.
“So? Get a doctor! What is a stroke, anyway? Can’t be serious.”
“It is very serious, Mel. We have to be prepared for the worst.”
“The worst is that my iPhone… the one that you bought me for Christmas… has been kicked under a load of fish ‘n’ stuff. It’s that tarty cow’s fault!”
Her mother couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Knowing that her legs wouldn’t hold her, she remained seated, silent. The café manageress came over and led Melanie away, speaking in soothing tones. Marnie asked someone for the number of a local taxi firm, dialled and ordered a ride to the hospital. A fine day this was turning out to be.
After dropping Melanie off at Chelsey’s, the two women travelled in silence to the hospital, where Marnie stayed just long enough to reunite the rest of the family in the A&E waiting room. She was an intruder now, not a guest; anxious to be of service but in the way, and sensitive enough to recognise the fact.
“I’ll leave you now. Thank you for a lovely day – I do hope your father will be alright.”
“But how will you get home?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll call a taxi. God Bless…” and she was gone, wondering what on earth had made her say that. It had been a useful day. Shame about the old man.
With Doug and her son close, Belinda just wanted to think about Dad. Sitting on the turquoise vinyl seats they waited, in trepidation.
13
Despite the sprig of holly in the hall, the manse was not a welcoming home, lacking as it did any signs of a feminine touch. Heart pounding, Marnie stood in the porch and pressed the bell. The sound echoed through the house. Peering through the stained-glass panels of the Victorian front door, she could make out a tiled floor, a newel post of dark-stained wood, and the bottom six treads of a flight of stairs gaudily carpeted in the old-fashioned way, with brass rods and dusty edges.
She rang again; heard sounds of water draining from a bath, footsteps descending. Michael, in tartan dressing gown, opened the door. Neither of them spoke. With both his eyes smiling into Marnie’s, the minister stepped back, held open the door, and gestured her inside.
Overcome with emotion, he leaned his back against the closed door, opening wide his arms. It mattered little that his dressing gown fell open as Marina moved forward and laid her head on his chest; it was a joy just to hold someone close. That it was this woman he held was enough to wipe out the doleful ghosts of ten Christmases past. He could begin to live again, and for this he thanked the Lord – even as he felt this woman’s teeth nuzzle his right nipple. All the Hallelujahs and Glorias of the Methodist hymnal rang in his head in glorious exultation at God’s goodness.
Many issues were resolved on the night of 27th December: importantly, no consummation outside wedlock. It seemed odd to Marnie, but Michael insisted that everything must be done with complete propriety
and she accepted his resolve. They were each carried on a tide of relief towards a haven of love: relief that at last things could be explained and understood; love that would make sense to no-one but the two people involved.
*
By seven o’clock, Michael had gone down on one knee and proposed. When Marina accepted, he went down on two, in silent and thankful prayer.
This whole prayer thing was a mystery to Marnie. She remembered “Our Father…” from the few school assemblies she’d attended, but the concept of belief and religion was a blank. Michael’s explanation of God’s love as ineffable was to her just that: beyond understanding.
“I can learn,” she told Michael. “I need to find out what it is that you believe in, and why you’re so sure. I’ll give it a try.”
Never before had she cared what people believed or thought of her… or had that been an illusion? Now, she wanted to be approved of, for Mick’s sake.
*
The sparsely-furnished second bedroom in the manse was cold and unloved, so after the elation of the proposal and acceptance, practical matters had to be dealt with. Donning his bike-riding outfit, Michael set off for the cash dispenser and late-night supermarket, leaving Marnie to sit in his old armchair and smell his absence.
First in importance was bedding. Thrift was second nature to the clergyman: he eyed the prices of duvets and examined the tog ratings, imagined Marnie cocooned in their warmth, of waking her with a morning cup of tea and chaste kiss. Duvet chosen, he moved on to pillows, covers and cases. Should he go for plain or patterned, subtle or cheery? He stood for a long time, gazing and dreaming, eyes glazed over, smiling happily. He stood in that aisle and composed the announcement he would make to his congregation: should it be before or after the wedding? Reaching out, he grabbed a cellophane-wrapped duvet cover of vibrant red and yellow. It was impossible not to smile. He swapped the cover for a plain one of pale green, and then again for one of a blue floral design.
*
The store detective watched this odd-looking guy in the balaclava and cycle helmet with mounting suspicion.
Michael pushed his trolley to the display of scented candles: so many, prices slashed. So tempting. He had often weighed up the likelihood of enduring power failure, and moved on, but now he fondled and sniffed with sensuous delight. Bubble bath, toiletries, fluffy white towels – his Marina would need all these.The trolley was overflowing.
The detective followed at a distance. He had not felt a collar since before Christmas Eve and his productivity statistics were in need of a boost. This chap was a shoplifter if ever he’d seen one.
Michael moved on to Food. They would need a hot meal this evening. The only things in his cupboards were teabags, a couple of eggs and multiple tins of baked beans. Looking for something quick but wholesome, he opted for the supermarket’s own-brand Luxury Shepherd’s Pie. A pineapple pavlova for dessert, some fresh bread, milk and breakfast cereal, and he was done.
There being no more room in the trolley, Michael lifted out the plastic-wrapped quilt so he could add the foodstuff. The duvet went underneath, balanced on the wheel supports.
This confirmed the suspicions of the security man. He edged nearer to the checkouts, watching from behind a display of Australian wine. The hooded man was pretty clumsy, dropping merchandise onto the conveyor belt as he chatted cheerily to the girl on the till, paying finally with cash fished from an ancient wallet.
Michael started towards the door with his trolley, only now wondering how he would get the goods back home. In a bubble of perplexity, he paused at the entrance. There came a tap on his shoulder.
“Excuse me, sir. I’m from the store’s Security Department. Would you come with me please?”
“Yes of course. Is someone ill? I am a First Responder, you know. How can I help?”
He made to leave the trolley where it was.
“Bring the trolley, sir. No, no-one’s ill. I think we have a problem with your shopping.”
He was led to a small office, where sat the store manager and another security officer.
“Could you give me your receipt, sir?”
“Which receipt?”
“For the shopping in this trolley, sir.”
Michael dug into his pockets and finally found the crumpled strip. He handed it over. He was beginning to feel uncomfortable.
The security guard unloaded the items onto the manager’s desk as the manager ticked them off on the receipt. Michael was puzzled but not afraid. He had done nothing wrong. Why had he been singled out thus, on what had been one of the happiest evenings of his life? When the trolley was empty, the men did not smile in apology. Instead, the security guard bent to retrieve the duvet from underneath.
“Just check again will you, Mr Martin?” he asked the manager. “Is there £59.99 for a SupersoftSnuggles microfibre 15-tog king-sized duvet on the receipt?”
The manager scanned the list and confirmed the item’s absence. Only slowly did understanding come to Michael, so convinced had he been of his own innocence and, this night, of the goodness of God and the justness of all mankind.
“Didn’t I pay for that?” he blurted. “I’d forgotten it was there!”
“Indeed, sir?” said the store manager, a bitter man who had recently been passed over for the Area Manager’s job. “I’m just calling the police. The company has a policy of reporting every shoplifter apprehended.” He sighed impatiently as his call went unanswered.
All four men waited in silence listening to the ringing of the phone. Michael, getting hot and bothered, took off his helmet and balaclava. He had remembered the recent debate on the inadvisability of wearing hooded garments in shopping centres. Surely no one would take him for a hoodie!
“While we’re waiting, sir, for our records, would you tell me your name please?”
“Yes. It’s Michael Batty. Actually, it’s Reverend Michael Batty. Look, I haven’t stolen anything… not deliberately.”
“Well you would say that sir, wouldn’t you?”
“What can I do to make you believe me?”
“Now you wouldn’t be offering an inducement there, would you, Reverend?”
The security chap was enjoying this. Reverend! As if! The guy looked like a cross between a tramp and a psycho. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’d escaped from some sort of supervision, psychiatric or penal.
At last the call was answered. An officer was on his way. The group sat and waited, Michael with mounting hysteria and loss of faith.
Marina would think he’d abandoned her again! And if he were to be found guilty of shoplifting, his career would be over…unless he pleaded temporary insanity. There were people who would take satisfaction in testifying to that effect, though Michael still contended that the sermon in which he’d drawn a parallel between a wind farm and a community at prayer was one of his best ever. The congregation had laughed when he told of the Windfarm Prayer Movement in the USA, and quoted Ezekiel 37 at them.
He’d told of the resurrection of the dry bones and how the Lord commanded Ezekiel to summon the winds. “Thus saith the Lord God: Come from the Four Winds, O breath, and breathe upon these slain, that they may live… and the Lord breathed his spirit in them and led them to their own land.” Just as wind-generated power could breathe life, hope for the future and clean air into communities blighted by fossil-fuel pollution, so the power of mass prayer could bring guidance and enlightenment to benighted souls and rogue nations.
‘As a sermon, it rocked!’ Michael had thought, but others disagreed.
“This new minister’s a bit eccentric, isn’t he?” they’d mumbled to one another on the way out of church that first Sunday morning in Denswick. “A bit ‘off the wall’? Not sure I could follow his reasoning, though he probably meant well.”
And the old ladies had shuffled off home, reminiscing on the simplicity of the old minister’s
sermons and his preference for cheery hymns rather than the mournful ones favoured by Reverend Batty, though those who knew of his sad loss put it down to grief and felt his pain.
*
That evening of 27th December, the only police patrol vehicle on duty in the south of the county happened to be parked up on the edge of a country estate three miles from the supermarket. The officers were officially on the look-out for under-age drinkers and over-age drug dealers who’d been littering the woods with cans in their hundreds and crack bongs by the dozen. In reality, on a cold December night, the odds were long. The coppers were bored, cold and tired. When the chance of a change of scene came up they were off like a shot, siren blaring – “Just to show it were still working, like”.
On arriving at the supermarket they adjusted their dress and assumed their most authoritative demeanour, walking the length of the checkouts glaring at staff and customers alike just for the hell of it, before heading to the manager’s office. The shorter one tapped on the door.
“PCs Stuart Willis and Robert Daley,” extending their right hands. “We’re here in response to your call to HQ. I believe you’ve apprehended a shoplifter.” Stuart spoke ponderously.
“That’s right, officer.” There was self-importance in Mr Martin’s voice.
“Where is the suspected thief?”
“Right here.” The manager pointed to Michael.
PC Daley looked round the room. Catching sight of the minister, his eyes lit up.