Church cameos

A touch of sun

Linda's surprise beach encounter

Linda slapped sunscreen over her bare limbs and lay back on her towel. It wasn’t often that the south coast enjoyed hot sun beaming from an azure sky. She’d picked the right week for her holiday.

    There was even a beach holiday club to occupy Martin with songs, stories and games for the morning. Its only downside was that it was religious. He’d just stopped believing in Father Christmas. Linda didn’t want him to replace one fantasy with another. But he seemed to be taking it all in his stride.
    She picked up her magazine and leafed through it. An article caught her eye: “Martha bears all”. A large photo of a soap star everyone loathed filled a page. Sandi Curtis played Martha, the unforgiving, ever-complaining, never-smiling and often vicious scourge of the fictional community.
    The anodyne interview with the actress revealed nothing new. Linda laid the open magazine on her lap and dozed off, lulled by the surrounding murmur of chatter and the gentle burble of the sea.
    “Mummy!” She woke with a start. Martin had come back, holding the hand of a middle-aged woman dressed in the green shorts and red T-shirt of the holiday club team.
    The woman knelt down beside Linda. “Hi. I’m Sandra. I’m afraid Martin’s had a little accident.”
    “I cut my foot on some glass, mummy. It hurts.”
    “Someone had buried a broken bottle in the soft sand just beyond our enclosure,” Sandra continued in a gentle, motherly voice. “Fortunately he only scraped it. We’ve a nurse on the team. She’s cleaned it up and covered it. It doesn’t need stitches. But it’ll be sore for a day or two.”
    Linda sat up. “Thank you,” she said. “That was so kind of you.”
    A man from the team joined them. “Hello. How’s the wounded soldier?” He ruffled Martin’s hair and the child beamed up at him. A fleeting thought flashed into Linda’s mind. “Martin’s missing his dad more than he says.” She quickly banished it.
    “My husband, Pete,” explained Sandra. He too knelt on the sand, reducing the gap in height between them. Martin sat himself between the two strangers, and fingered the bandage on his foot.
    “I’m sorry you’ve been put to trouble,” Linda began apologetically, wondering why they didn’t leave. “I should have been looking out for him. I just drifted off while I was reading.”
    She saw Sandra’s eyes flicker towards the magazine, and back again. Linda’s heart missed a beat. She looked again at the photo, and back to Sandra. “Sorry. You look like …” she began.
    Sandra smiled, and nodded. “My alter ego, I’m afraid.” She twisted her face and snarled in a harsh voice, “Nasty woman, that. Nasty.”
    “Fortunately she keeps Martha locked up in the studio,” Pete interjected. “Well, most of the time.” Sandra aimed to hit him, and he ducked. “We wouldn’t have any congregation if she didn’t!”
    Sandra nodded towards him, her voice becoming gentle again. “He’s a vicar.”
    Linda stared. The word hypocrite came into her mind. “So, how come …”.
    Sandra said it for her. “If I’m a Christian how can I play a she-devil? Too easy! We’ve all got a dark side. Well, I have, anyway. In real life you just learn to keep it in check with God’s help. Martha doesn’t even try. I feel sorry for her, actually. She’s so brittle that she lashes out at everyone. She wants to be loved, but makes herself unlovable.”
    There was a pause. Linda wriggled her feet, unsure what to say. Then Sandra leaned across and laid her hand on Linda’s shoulder. “There’s an air of sadness about you,” she said quietly. “Divorce? Recent?”
    “How did you…”
    “Just intuition. Are you local?”
    “No. From London. Near the bottom of the Northern Line.”
    Sandra laughed. “There’s a coincidence! Or something. So are we. Coming here’s a busman’s holiday for us. Pete, have you got a flyer?”
    Her husband pulled a piece of paper from his shorts pocket. “Sorry it’s crumpled,” he said. “Here’s who we are and what we do. Come and see us.”
    “Thanks,” Linda replied cautiously, “but I’m not really religious.”
    “You don’t have to be,” Sandra said. “There’s a coffee shop. I help there when I can. It’s somewhere to meet people, chat. Kids’ playgroup in the holidays. No pressure.”
    There was another pause. Linda feared the silence but warmed to Sandra’s laid-back sincerity. She fished in her bag for a pen. “Could you sign this? My friend’s a fan.”
    “Of course,” said Sandra, autographing the magazine. “But she won’t believe you. People much prefer their established ideas to the stranger truths of reality. She’ll think you had too much sun!”
    “Unless you persuade her to try ‘Martha’s’ coffee!” added Pete.

Originally published in Quintet magazine, July 2017, under the pen name of William Lawrence.

© Derek Williams 2017

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Counting on the beans

A single mum's dilemma 

 

“Muuumm!”
    “Whaaat?”
    “I’ve got to take something.”
    “What d’you mean, you’ve got to take something?”
    “I’ve got to take something. It’s harvest. They said to take some tins or stuff.”
    Pauline’s heart sank. She was glad Chris went to Sunday School. She’d been herself, as a kid, and some of the stories had stayed with her. But the God they spoke of always seemed far away. Not this. Not now, she thought.
    Aloud, she said “We’ve not got anything,” adding quickly, “to spare.”
    Chris ran into the kitchen. He ran everywhere. “We must have something.” He opened the cupboard. “That’ll do.” He pointed to a tin of beans on the top shelf, beyond his reach.
    Pauline sighed. “It’s bashed or something. You can’t take that.” As she reached up she ran her fingernail down the label, tearing it. “Look, the label’s torn. They won’t want that.”
    Chris snatched it from her. “They won’t mind. They’re not fussy. Thanks mum.” He ran into the hall to get his coat. “Bye.”
    Pauline went to the door. “Be careful on the road,” she called. The church was only a short distance away, and there was only a side road to cross. She watched as he ran and skipped along. Then she closed the door and sank to the floor sobbing uncontrollably. Her lunch, and her dinner, was gone.
    She stayed there for a while. Exhausted, she eventually went back to the kitchen. She boiled the kettle and made black coffee, first checking the fridge. There was just enough milk for Chris to have on cereal before school tomorrow. Black coffee was fine.
    Then she checked the cupboard, counting the slices of bread remaining. Enough to last the two of them a couple of days if they ate it sparingly. Thank heavens he gets free school dinners, she thought. She spread a slice thickly with jam. The sugar rush helped to revive her.
    She’d shopped carefully with the little that she earned from whatever cleaning jobs the agency gave her. She had rice and some frozen veg for Chris later. He had a big appetite, and she doubted there’d be much left for her. She’d been counting on those beans. But the rest of the week? There’d been no work last week, so no money. Her estranged husband still paid the rent. She saved cash when she could for the other bills. Food was always short. She laid her head on the table, and cried again.
    Chris came home and hold her about the service. He’d enjoyed it. He showed her the leaflet he’d been given. “Give and you will receive,” the Bible text on it said. “Your gift will return to you in full measure.” Oh yeah, she thought. Nice idea. She remembered her beans, felt the tears rising, and fought them back. I need some help here.
    There was a few hours’ work the next day. By the end she felt weak, and her anxiety level was high. She was tense. She was afraid she’d snap at Chris. As she walked home, she detoured to the surgery. At the desk, she burst into tears. “I need to see someone,” she blurted. “Anyone. Please.”
    The receptionist began to explain there were no appointments left. A nurse about to leave after her shift noticed Pauline’s distress. “I’ll see her,” she said. “Come on, love.”
    Pauline explained her problem. “Isn’t there somewhere that gives food?” she asked. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to do.”
    The nurse nodded. “It’s OK,” she said gently. “Don’t beat yourself up. I can give you a voucher for the food bank. They’re open for a bit in the morning. And they’ll know people who might be able to help you get more financial support too. Agency work is always precarious.”
    In the morning, she was given a couple of hours’ work but had to turn down another hour in order to get to the food bank before it closed. The assistant looked at the voucher and gave her two heavy carrier bags. “Can you manage this?” she asked.
    “I’ll have to,” Pauline replied wearily.
    “This is your first time here, isn’t it?” the assistant asked. Pauline nodded. “Wait here. I’m not supposed to do this but as I’m going home I’ll give you a lift.” She piled a few more goods into another bag. “We’ve had some extras. Don’t tell anyone!”
    At home, Pauline unpacked the bags. There was more than enough to keep her and Chris going for a week. She lifted the final tin from the bottom of the third bag. Beans! And the label was torn. Where she’d run her fingernail down it on Sunday. Thank you, she breathed. Thank you.

Originally published in Quintet magazine, September  2017, under the pen name of William Lawrence.
© Derek Williams 2017
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Gerald's Christmas Present

A Vicar takes a risk

 

It was Christmas Eve, cold, grey and wet. Gerald felt a sneaking sympathy for old Scrooge. Christmas had lost its magic. He was tired of trying to teach about the miracle and meaning of the incarnation, while forcing enthusiasm for the presents children brought to play with during the family service. His words would go unheeded, probably unheard. Maybe it was time to retire.

            It was worse since Betty had died. He’d made a feeble attempt to put up some decorations in the vicarage, but that had been her job, and anyway what was the point? There was no-one else to enjoy them. His daughter and grandchildren weren’t coming this year, his son was abroad.

            The doorbell rang. He sighed and took his time answering it. A young woman stood there. “Hello Father,” she said, holding out an envelope. “We’ve brought you a card. We did appreciate the christening.”

            Gerald took the envelope slowly, trying to recall who she was. “Siobhan!” He remembered baptising her year-old daughter a couple of months before. Siobhan had waited for the ceremony until her husband had been released from prison. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

            Siobhan hesitated. Gerald looked over her shoulder and saw a battered van in the road, with what was his name – Darren – sitting at the wheel. He could hear a child crying. Instinct kicked in. “Is everything OK?”

            “We’re all right,” she began. “But – I don’t suppose you know if there’s anywhere we could stay? Our boiler’s broken and our kitchen flooded. We’ve had to turn the water off…” Siobhan shrugged. “It’s the little one…”

            Where can you find a plumber after dark on Christmas Eve? Gerald had the emergency number for Social Services, but all they’d do is find the family a bed and breakfast, probably miles away. That was no way for a struggling couple to spend Christmas. “Come in,” he said. “All of you. I’m rattling around on my own. Stay here for now.”

            “I wasn’t…” Siobhan began, but he stopped her.

            “Get Darren and, Cathy, isn’t it? Get them out of the cold and wet. I’ve even got a cot.”

            Gerald organised a spare room, and, guessing they were hungry, told Siobhan to raid the fridge and cook something.

            The phone rang. It was his daughter. “Hi, dad! Just phoning to see if you’re all prepared for tomorrow. Are you doing midnight tonight?” He wasn’t. His curate and a retired priest had drawn the short straw. Cathy could be heard trying to talk as she looked at the Christmas tree lights. “Got visitors?” Gerald explained what had happened.

           “That couple? The one who’s done time for what, robbery, affray, or something?” He guessed what was coming and closed the study door so that he wouldn’t be overheard. “Dad! You can’t! Are you mad? It’s not safe. No! Please! Not when you’re on your own.”
          Gerald took a deep breath and tried to remain patient. “Darren’s trying to go straight. He’s got a job and he’s devoted to little Cathy. I can’t throw them on the streets. It could set them back. Besides, it’s Christmas. You know…”

          “I know. No room at the inn. Then for goodness’ sake be careful. Lock your valuables away. Keep your mobile beside you. You know, in case. Phone me tomorrow. Promise?”

           He did, then made another call, checked his notes for the morning, then joined his visitors in the kitchen. “I’ve been thinking. There’s a Christmas lunch for people on their own. I was going anyway. I’ve called the organiser and they’d love to have you as well. And I’d really like it if you came to the service.”

           Darren spoke first. “We wouldn’t know the words, Reverend.”

           “And Cathy’s awful in crowds. She’d make such a noise,” added Siobhan.

           “All the words are on a service sheet, and there’ll be loads of visitors and chattering kids anyway. Besides...” Another deep breath. Siobhan was an articulate woman, an infants’ teacher. “I’d like you to help me in the service. I want to talk about the bewilderment and the vulnerability of Mary, Joseph and Jesus. Siobhan, what did you feel when the boiler broke?”

           She was quick with her response. “Scared. Helpless. Lonely, in a way.”

           “Would you say that into the mic in the service? I don’t want to spoil the awesomeness of the Christmas story, but I do want us to get real. And then we’ll organise a group to help clean your place up, and sort out a plumber as soon as we can. It’s called working for your dinner!”

            The next day a hush came over the packed congregation as Siobhan, holding a chuntering Cathy, described her unexpected problem. Even the children listened. Gerald called his daughter afterwards. She asked him how he felt. “Younger,” he said. “Much younger. Maybe I won’t retire yet, after all. Happy Christmas!”

Originally published in Quintet magazine December 2017 under the pen name of William Lawrence.

© Derek Williams December 2017