Duty and Delusion

by Shawna Lewis

  Father O’Hanlon was close to Patrick McVeigh, and might even, over a glass or two in the presbytery following the tour of his church, have shared misgivings about the impact Rejoice with Jesus! might have on the young Roman Catholics of the Denswick diocese, and thus on his own diminishing congregation.

  This confidence coincided with two of the gypsy king’s daughters, within earshot of their father, discussing the attractions of Rejoicing with both Jesus and the entrancing Pastor Darren, whose preaching and fervent eyes they had accidentally sampled one evening outside the fish and chip shop.

  Patrick loved his daughters dearly and guarded them fiercely. On the spot, he made up his mind that neither they nor any of their many siblings would Rejoice with Jesus! in his lifetime or for many years beyond it.

  His solicitor made the necessary enquiries about ownership of the Odeon and arrangements for its immediate purchase at an attractive price for the vendor, a mere pittance for Pakamac. His architect exhumed the drawings for Bath House Court and set his surveyor to work on adapting them to suit the new site. Within days, a full application had been submitted to Denswick Council’s Department of Planning, and several quiet words had been spoken between Mr McVeigh and the political members of DOCILE, to ensure that no objections would be raised during the consultation stages. He might also have a word with a debtor who worked on the council’s IT systems, to see if a glitch to the online public access Planning Portal could be induced.

  At the service, of the half dozen DOCILE members squirming on the fifth row, only one was aware of the threats to the evangelicals’ place of worship. The other five were as shocked as the congregation when the big screen went dark, a spotlight beamed onto the stage and, clothed in black, to an ominous beating of drums, Pastor Darren strode on.

  Clutching a wireless microphone the size of a tennis ball, he began.

  “We who are born again, Rejoice in The Lord!”

  “Hallelujah! We rejoice in Him!” his flock responded in unison.

  “Brothers and sisters in Jesus. While we Rejoice in the Son of God and His Goodness, it is with a heavy heart that I must share sombre tidings with you all.”

  Darren broke off, knelt and said a quick prayer before rising to gaze out over the neatly-seated throng. A ripple of concern and fear ran along the four front rows.

  “The Lord has presented us with a great challenge. Are we up for it?” he yelled, lifting his open hands skywards.

  “Yes!”

  “The Lord is testing us. He is testing the truth of our rebirth. He is testing the power of our expanding army of re-born souls! Are we strong enough?”

  “Yes!”

  There was some mumbling between the responses from those wishing the pastor would get to the point.

  “Brothers and sisters in Jesus, I have to tell you that our church is to be cast out of our home as the Children of Israel were cast out of their land.”

  A gasp ran along the front four rows. Most of those on the fifth were puzzled.

  Darren explained the property owner’s decision to evict Rejoice with Jesus! at short notice. His congregation was stunned. The sounds of weeping could be heard here and there from the church’s less stoical members.

  “Brothers and sisters in Jesus, let not your hearts be heavy. We are an evangelical church. The Lord is challenging us to go forth and evangelise. By closing these doors to us, He is telling every one of us to go forth from this place and spread His Word.

  “Rejoice in Jesus! brothers and sisters, for He has commanded us. Go Forth! Spread The Word. Shout it on the shop fronts and on the football fields; in the public houses and the old folks’ homes. Proclaim His love in the libraries and in the council chambers; in village halls and betting shops, dog tracks and bowling alleys; in schools and hospitals, playgroups and youth clubs. Broadcast your salvation in triumphant tones on city streets and country lanes!”

  What began as a ripple of response swelled to a roar. All sixty evangelists rose to their feet, randomly shouting, “Praise the Lord! We accept the challenge!” Darren conducted the throng and boomed into the microphone.

  “We will shout thy name from the rooftops, Lord, and bring our earthly brothers and sisters to join us as brothers and sisters in Christ!”

  Another roar of assent followed. The congregation was still on its feet.

  On the fifth row, the DOCILE members were stunned. Even Pakamac was feeling nervous about the fervour just unleashed. In his seat next to the aisle a very rare event was taking place: Patrick Kevin McVeigh was doubting the wisdom of his own actions.

  In the mind of the Methodist minister’s wife, a new train of thought had been sparked. As the impassioned evangelists filed out of the building with tearful backward glances, Marina Batty lingered. She had a suggestion for Pastor Darren.

  28

  It was early evening when Belinda crawled out from under the duvet, driven by hunger. She boiled herself an egg and ate it with a slice of stale bread, thickly buttered, while debating the wisdom of contacting her parents. When the phone rang, she answered without thought, heart momentarily uplifted in the hope it might be Aidan calling. At least he was still her boy; at least he still loved her, she was sure.

  It wasn’t her son, but her father, desperate to know how to handle Melanie’s latest tantrum and his wife’s decline.

  “I’m not feeling too well, Dad, I’ve been in bed all afternoon. What’s all the fuss about?”

  “The girl’s carrying on about no one loving her. Something about being humiliated. I don’t understand what she’s talking about half the time. Mind you, I blame the school, keeping her there till nearly midnight doing extra classes every couple of nights. It can’t be good for her – for any of them. A growing girl needs her sleep.”

  Belinda concurred.

  “I didn’t know about any extra classes. I’m sure they wouldn’t keep them there till midnight.”

  “That’s because she’s living here and you’re not. You never talk to her. We’re piggy in the middle and we’re sick of it. It’s not fair, Belinda. I thought better of you than this!” Dad’s outbursts were rare but frank, more so since the stroke, and all the more cutting for their rarity.

  Not fair of her! Was it fair of them to lure her treasured child away with lax discipline? The option of adding Mum and Dad to her little list fluttered like a butterfly round the rim of her thoughts before being flattened with an imaginary rolled-up newspaper.

  “I’ve got to go. I’m not well.” She hung up, leaving her father upset and helpless in the face of all this feminine malfunction.

  The morning’s post still lay on the mat inside the front door. Maybe there would be something pleasant – a surprise Thank You card from a hirer or an invitation to a party, perhaps – though she’d never received either before. She shuffled through the pile: junk, junk, water board, seed catalogue, notification of changes to council services. Bottommost in the pile was a cream, windowed envelope of some quality. It was addressed to the Chairperson, Sallby Village Hall, c/o 18 Dapple Grove, etc., but it was not this that made Belinda start. It was the black crown in the top left-hand corner, arched over a portcullis edged by chains, and the words House of Commons in bold black type.

  Her first, instinctive reaction was guilt. The government was on to her! The Charity Commission had gone straight to the top! She sank onto the bottom stair, trembling. Her saner self, audible somewhere at the back of her head, told her the Charity Commission had nothing to do with the House of Commons; it had its own methods of dealing with transgressors.

  The louder voice at the front of her head shouted, “Run!” She resisted, and sat a little longer.

  An envelope as important as this demanded a paper knife. She prolonged the dread by searching the desk drawer. Dread was better than accusation. Her fingers lighted on a souvenir from New Zealand, brought back from an international conference
once by her sister. It was fine and sharp and made of pale wood. She studied it, took a deep breath, and inserted the point under the flap.

  There were two letters. The first was from her local Member of Parliament, Bob Topliss. Belinda had never met him, but knew his face from the local papers. He was one of the old brigade, having once worked at the local pit, and was probably on his way out at the next election.

  The first letter referred to the second, which the Hon. Topliss had been asked to forward to the person in charge of Sallby Village Hall.

  The second, longer and more pompous at first glance, was from the office of Miles Baxter-Hatton MP, Junior Minister for Communities and Social Cohesion.

  Belinda gasped. Her hand shook. The prose was complex, something to do with consultation, with particular reference to maximising the services provided by volunteer-run community facilities such as village and community halls.

  “On a more personal note,” the letter concluded, “I recall your enthusiastic support for my ideas when our paths crossed last summer, and invite you to join the Northern Focus Group to develop the concept of Broadening Experiences in Local and Community Halls.” It was signed with a flourish.

  She was asked to confirm her acceptance in writing by 30th April, after which details of the first BELCH meeting would be circulated. Travel costs would be reimbursed.

  The bushes at Hepworth House, kneeling on the folded towel, chisel in hand, marking out the pilgarlic crest. Again, the surge of elation, the smell of damp earth, the scrape of metal on metal as she worked. Then the shame. This might be Baxter-Hatton’s revenge. He had unearthed her culpability and the letter was a lure, precursor to an exposé, as she had exposed him! She could write ‘Not known at this Address’ on the envelope. ‘Return to sender.’ But Baxter-Hatton would have his ways of tracking her down.

  She tucked the letter behind the bread bin with all the others. She’d make time to think about it once Aidan was home.

  Belinda needed to get out of the house, away from the phone and the letter. Collecting the hall keys from the drawer and the Betting Chronicle from the kitchen table, she set off on foot to clear her mind.

  The sight of the tile-free roof took her unawares. She’d tried to block Anita Su’s call from conscious thought, convinced it was a wind-up or exaggeration, but even in the dusk of early evening the building looked ravaged. She could make out the holes in the felting under which sparrows nestled and chirped. If only Guy Dance were here right now. He’d surely give her some praise for taking action. A collage of Drago’s dead pet, the Serb’s broad, hairy back and Anthony Montano’s face slotted into place in the revolving picture show of her mind’s eye.

  Ravaged: the word seemed apt. Her logical brain told her it could be fixed. Her emotions told her it was beyond repair, a metaphor for her life. Stolen, maybe; more likely, thrown away through carelessness and her own love of self.

  She hadn’t got the energy to fix either of them. She reached the hall breathless, made a hot drink and sat down with the paper and a pencil. She knew she’d chosen Drago’s chair, the one he’d used at their last meeting. She sniffed the upholstery, trying for one final breath of his body’s aroma. Satisfied, she opened the paper and studied its contents. Tomorrow she would place a few bigger bets and splash out on the scratch cards. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.

  It was nearing midnight when she returned home to find Doug on the doorstep. A frightened call from his father-in-law had brought him at speed from Sunderland, without his house keys. The one hidden for emergencies was missing.

  Belinda, who had chosen her runners and was determined to place her bets first thing next morning, was not particularly pleased to see him. She unlocked the front door with barely an acknowledgement. She was already resenting his presence, his acting as if he owned the place.

  He asked where she’d been.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” she retorted.

  “You know where I’ve been, and why I’ve been there.” He tipped out his pockets, allowing a few coins and a small bundle of £20 notes to fall onto the sofa.

  “Huh! Money. That’s all you care about.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because you’ve gone. You’ve left us. You’ve left me to cope and I can’t.”

  “That’s rubbish and you know it. I’ll ask you again. Where have you been?”

  No reply.

  At this moment a pair of headlamps pulling into next door’s drive flashed their beam through the uncurtained window. Doug drew a sharp breath.

  “With him? That jerk from next door?”

  At first, no reply, then, “He’s not a jerk.”

  Doug took the answer as an admission of guilt. He left the house, calling over his shoulder, “I’m going to collect my daughter!”

  “She’s my daughter too!” yelled his wife.

  “No one would guess!” The van door slammed shut; the engine revved; he reversed at speed onto the road and disappeared from view.

  *

  She was asleep by the time he returned, bringing their daughter and her belongings with him.

  In her dreams she climbed an insurmountable hill, dragging behind her unidentifiable impediments which kicked and screamed at every step. As she neared the summit, she saw that the hill had a roof, supported on tall pillars, pillars built of fools and horses. She was glad to wake. Glad to see that although there was an indent in Doug’s pillow, the man himself was absent from the room.

  She rolled over and smelt the pillow. Subtly, its familiarity gave her comfort; barely discernible but real, like the faint green tinge of a newly-sown lawn. Her face was still buried in his scent when the door creaked a little further open. Balancing the tray on one hand, he pulled back a curtain to let the sun in.

  “Come on. Sit up.”

  She did as she was told, trying to settle her hair into something acceptable.

  “Thank you.” She munched the toast and jam in silence, waiting for him to speak. She waited a while longer. She sipped the tea and winced at its heat.

  He just stood there, watching. At last, he twitched his head in the direction of the girl’s room.

  “She’s still asleep.”

  “Mm.”

  “There’s been a call for you. Someone wanting to book the village hall. I said you’ll ring back.”

  “Righto.”

  She began the second slice of toast and held out her empty mug. He took it from her. “Want another?”

  “Mm.”

  She heard him go downstairs, his stockinged feet soft on the carpeted treads; heard the click of the kettle’s switch and the sound of water returning to the boil. This time he was carrying two mugs. He perched his behind on her dressing-table stool to sip in silence.

  “About the village hall,” she ventured.

  “What?”

  “Someone’s stolen the roof.” Her composure ended with the sentence, eyes filling with tears, voice a childish whine, the whine of a brat whose favourite toy has been broken.

  “Don’t talk daft. How can a roof be stolen?”

  “You’ll see.”

  If he didn’t believe her, she wasn’t going to argue. It wasn’t worth the effort. She slid down the bed again and turned on her side, dismissing him as he had dismissed her sorrows.

  He was out by the time she got up. He hadn’t left a note and she wasn’t going to ring his mobile. She’d had enough of pandering to people who didn’t care about her.

  *

  Doug paced the long grass around the perimeter of the building, looking for signs of fallen pantiles. Every now and then he paused, stroked his chin and shook his head. He didn’t know what else to do. For once, his wife was not making a fuss about nothing.

  He knew how hard she worked for the village hall… though he didn’t know why. He knew how impor
tant it was to Belinda to ensure its survival… though he doubted anyone else felt the same. He did not know about the missing bank books and accounts, the bags of money stashed in her wardrobe, or the pile of neatly addressed envelopes stacking up beneath the letter box at Sphynx Lodge.

  He stooped now and then to pick up a sweet wrapper or plastic bottle and headed for the bin by the back door, just as a car pulled onto the field. A slightly-built man wearing a Denswick Council name tag climbed out and walked towards him.

  “Pleased to see action’s being taken to address the problem of bird ingress,” said the man, stretching out his hand in greeting. “Guy Dance. Public Health Inspector, Denswick Council.”

  He first glanced over one shoulder, then the other.

  “What have you done with the tiles? They were all in excellent condition – I made a note when I was last here. Put them in storage, have you? Good idea. Leave ’em lying about and some thieving bastard’s bound to make off with ’em.” His tone was genial with a touch of smugness.

  Doug’s silence passed for assent. The two shook hands.

  “You can see how the little blighters have got in, can’t you? It only takes a small hole or two and you’ll have a flock of ’em roosting up there. They’re an at risk species, y’know, though it’s difficult to believe, the mess they make.” Guy paused for breath. “Mrs Lowe about?”

  “I’m her husband. She’s not well.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Any idea how long the job’s going to take?”

  “What job?”

  “The re-felting and replacing the tiles.”

  “No. She didn’t say. I’ve been working away. Only come home ’cos she’s not well.”

  “No problem. Get her to give me a call when it’s done and I’ll pop out and give the hall its hygiene certificate. Nice to meet you. Hope she’s well soon.”

  Guy’s polite and helpful tone belied his inner resentment. He’d felt sure the woman would have ignored his instructions and given rise to a closure order. Damn it. Still, the roof was currently in an incomplete state and there was plenty of scope for things to go wrong. Guy would keep his fingers crossed. He really needed to close something down if he wanted to keep his job.