Alison wipes her boots on the scraper and opens the back door. Toffee pushes his fat body ahead of her into the kitchen and bustles about aimlessly, his claws clicking on the floor-boards, his tail thumping against the cupboard doors. Alison takes off her knitted hat and scarf and lays down a large bunch of holly and assorted greenery on the table. She feels brisk and festive after her woodland walk and is looking forward to wiring the foliage into an wreath like the one in Country Life.
"Oh, you're back." Douglas wanders into the kitchen and opens the fridge door.
"It's a lovely day." Alison says, sniffing through her cold red nose. "Quite frosty still but bright and sunny. I do love these crisp winter days, don't you?"
"Mmmm." Douglas notices that there is some mucus glistening in her left nostril.
"I'd sooner have cold and sunny," Alison continues, "than warm and overcast." She takes a tissue out of her cardigan pocket and blows her nose.
"Are we out of yoghurts?"
"No, I just bought a pack. Bottom shelf."
"Oh yes." Douglas snaps off a French Vanilla.
I just saw Eleanor at the Post-office."
"Mmmm, did you."
"Eric's a bit upset with Glandice."
"Really?" Douglas looks up from his yoghurt.
"Mmmm, apparently." Alison has started foraging in the cutlery drawer for a pair of scissors.
"In what way?"
"Oh Toffee, get out of the way!"
"In what way?"
"It's no use looking up at me like that, you've been fed you old greedy guts. Yes you are. Yes you are. You're an old greedy guts." She rubs Toffee's ears.
"In what way is Eric upset with Glandice?"
"Hmmm? Oh, she suggested that TADS might dress up in Tudor costumes and hand out programmes for the Festival. I gather Eric feels it's a little beneath our dignity."
"Well, it is isn't it?"
"Oh, I don't know. I think it sounds rather fun. And it's nice of Glandice to include local people."
"Well..." Douglas stretches out his legs, "I think local people in Tendringhoe have a little bit more to offer than that." He explodes a little puff of incredulous air. "I mean, we're not your average village. We already have a thriving local arts scene and I think Eric was hoping to be more directly involved, on the literary side, certainly."
"Well, I think Glandice is being quite fair really. After all, the Festival's not just some local amateur thing, she's roped in some big names, and Geoffrey Lamb is organising the literary side of things. We're lucky to have something like that in the village. It'll put us on the map. Be good for local business. And, well, actually, I think it all sounds lovely."
"Yes. Yes. You're quite right." Douglas says. "You're quite right."
Alison straightens her back slightly and smiles. "Well, I think so."
"Absolutely, my dear. Leave the professionals to it." He opens the pedal bin with his foot and drops in the empty yoghurt pot. Good. Let the Morgan's drift away from the heart of village life. Let them establish their own exclusive London clique that doesn't include any of his parishioners. Excellent in fact!
Monday, September 25, 2006
Thursday, September 14, 2006
TT 35 - Michael Can't Wait for Christmas
"Where does the Church of England stand on homosexuality, exactly?"
Douglas' eyes widen momentarily. "Oh, gosh, good question." He laughs and pours himself some more tea. He's hoping this is one of Michael's random issues. Last week it was stem-cell research. He tips his tea-pot at Michael and raises his eyebrows. "More?"
"No. Thank you."
"So. 'The Big Question'." Douglas says, theatrically, hoping to indicate the complexity of the issue without actually having to say anything complex.
"I mean" Michael leans forwards slightly "what is the official line at present?"
Douglas finds his mind filling with set phrases from the various working papers he's read on the issue. "Well the church aims to be inclusive, of course."
"Aims to be, perhaps" says Michael. "But is it?"
"I believe it is. Yes. There are a number of openly gay clergy in the Anglican church, you know."
"But not Bishops." Says Michael, pulling the first emboucher of the evening.
Normally, Douglas would take a quick toot down the air-oboe himself at this point, but he's already feeling slightly defensive. "Small steps. Small steps."
"I'm never quite clear on where the church stands on the whole issue of gay sex, though." Michael says.
"Well, physical expressions of love within a covenented relationship are certainly more acceptable to God than unloving or promiscuous sexual relationships, whether heterosexual or homosexual."
"So gay sex isn't sinful. That's the official line."
Douglas rests his tea cup on the arm of his chair. "Well of course sex outside marriage isn't encouraged."
"But gay people can't get married."
"Well, no." Douglas feels irritated. He feels put on the spot. He wants to say "Look kid I don't make the rules!" Instead, he draws in a discrete breath and crosses his legs in the opposite direction.
"Suppose I'm your parishioner." Michael says. "And I come to you, and I say, I'm gay, I'm in a close and loving relationship. How far should I go with my boyfriend?"
"I would advise you to examine your own conscience."
"I have." Says Michael, who is good at role-play. "And I feel comfortable with all aspects of my sexuality, but I want to know whether gay sex is sinful in the eyes of the Lord."
Douglas, who isn't comfortable with all aspects of role-play, pulls on his left earlobe. "My role would be to listen sensitively to my parishioners, whatever their sexual orientation, or cultural background, or class, for that matter. I certainly wouldn't consider it my place to pry into the intimate details of their personal life."
"But if they asked?" Michael persists.
"If they asked, I would say that ideally, an unmarried couple, whether straight or gay, should refrain from expressing themselves genitally. But that's the ideal."
"Expressing themselves genitally?!" Michael laughs. "What does that mean? Peeing art-works into the snow?"
Douglas throws his head back and laughs loudly. The sudden levity is a huge relief. "Oh, that's very good. Yes. Strange way of putting it perhaps."
"Well it's a useful way of not saying 'anal sex' I suppose. Michael feels very bold saying these words and is a bit disappointed that Douglas seems to take them in his stride.
"Well, I suppose it's intended to cover a range of sexual...procedures."
Michael sits back and thinks for a moment. "So basically, sex outside marriage is a sin, and same-sex couples can't get married in the Church of England."
Douglas suppresses a sigh and looks beleaguered. "As things stand, at present, yes."
"I'm sorry." Says Michael, suddenly relaxing his body posture. "I realise this must be difficult for you.
" No, no. Not at all." Douglas leans back in his chair and smiles broadly to prove it. "It's a common misconception that vicars are embarassed by the topic of sex but it's a central part of Christian love..."
"I just meant, you know, for you personally."
"For me personally?"
"Well...you know...!"
On the one hand, Douglas knows exactly what Michael means, but on the other, he has no idea whatsoever. The opposing pressure of these two equally slippery hands forces Douglas to pop up like a bar of soap. Finding himself on his feet, he grabs a packet of milk chocolate digestives from his desk and waves them in Michael's face to fend off further comment. "Biscuit?!"
"No, thank you."
Douglas goes and sits behind his desk and clasps his hands together. He pulls a copy of the Parish Newletter towards him as though he were perusing Michael's rather disappointing end-of-term report. "Well, I'm glad we've had this little chat." He says. He gathers himself together. "And important, too, I think. One mustn't become complacent. And you're right. There are some ...inconsistencies in the church's position at present."
"Mmm." Michael chews at his nails thoughtfullly. He's about to say something but changes his mind.
They sit in silence for a moment. Both men would like to change the subject and cheer themselves up a bit, but neither have the energy to effect the conversational shift. Douglas tries to pour some more tea from the empy pot. He takes the lid off and peers inside as though this will solve the strange mystery of the barren spout. "Oh, we're out of tea. I'll make a fresh one."
Michael holds up his hand. "Not for me, thanks Douglas. I ought to be getting off. Busy day tomorrow." Actually, he's planning to drop in on Marcus, a German philosophy student, on his way home.
"Of course." Says Douglas. "I still have a few things to do myself."
Douglas sees Michael out then returns to his study. He stares out into the dark High Street at the Christmas lights and strokes his upper lip. Did Michael Glebe just come out to him? Of course he did. He wasn't just posing a hypothetical question, he was looking for guidance. Douglas feels that he didn't do a very good job. He decides to do some more reading on the issue. The thought of this peculiarly modern pastoral challenge rather pleases him. He's dertermined to help Michael on this difficult journey, however he can. His eyes lazily scan the framed print of Michelangelo's Ganymede that hangs over the small, white-painted wooden fireplace. He wonders whether Michael really does have a boyfriend or whether that was hypothetical, too. No, he decides: Michael's a pretty cautious young chap. Quite naive in many ways. Douglas very much doubts he has 'acted out' as modern parlance would have it. He takes a chocolate digestive and settles back into his chair with The Guardian and a ball-pen. There's still one clue in the Cryptic crossword he just can't get and he's determined to nail it by bedtime.
Douglas' eyes widen momentarily. "Oh, gosh, good question." He laughs and pours himself some more tea. He's hoping this is one of Michael's random issues. Last week it was stem-cell research. He tips his tea-pot at Michael and raises his eyebrows. "More?"
"No. Thank you."
"So. 'The Big Question'." Douglas says, theatrically, hoping to indicate the complexity of the issue without actually having to say anything complex.
"I mean" Michael leans forwards slightly "what is the official line at present?"
Douglas finds his mind filling with set phrases from the various working papers he's read on the issue. "Well the church aims to be inclusive, of course."
"Aims to be, perhaps" says Michael. "But is it?"
"I believe it is. Yes. There are a number of openly gay clergy in the Anglican church, you know."
"But not Bishops." Says Michael, pulling the first emboucher of the evening.
Normally, Douglas would take a quick toot down the air-oboe himself at this point, but he's already feeling slightly defensive. "Small steps. Small steps."
"I'm never quite clear on where the church stands on the whole issue of gay sex, though." Michael says.
"Well, physical expressions of love within a covenented relationship are certainly more acceptable to God than unloving or promiscuous sexual relationships, whether heterosexual or homosexual."
"So gay sex isn't sinful. That's the official line."
Douglas rests his tea cup on the arm of his chair. "Well of course sex outside marriage isn't encouraged."
"But gay people can't get married."
"Well, no." Douglas feels irritated. He feels put on the spot. He wants to say "Look kid I don't make the rules!" Instead, he draws in a discrete breath and crosses his legs in the opposite direction.
"Suppose I'm your parishioner." Michael says. "And I come to you, and I say, I'm gay, I'm in a close and loving relationship. How far should I go with my boyfriend?"
"I would advise you to examine your own conscience."
"I have." Says Michael, who is good at role-play. "And I feel comfortable with all aspects of my sexuality, but I want to know whether gay sex is sinful in the eyes of the Lord."
Douglas, who isn't comfortable with all aspects of role-play, pulls on his left earlobe. "My role would be to listen sensitively to my parishioners, whatever their sexual orientation, or cultural background, or class, for that matter. I certainly wouldn't consider it my place to pry into the intimate details of their personal life."
"But if they asked?" Michael persists.
"If they asked, I would say that ideally, an unmarried couple, whether straight or gay, should refrain from expressing themselves genitally. But that's the ideal."
"Expressing themselves genitally?!" Michael laughs. "What does that mean? Peeing art-works into the snow?"
Douglas throws his head back and laughs loudly. The sudden levity is a huge relief. "Oh, that's very good. Yes. Strange way of putting it perhaps."
"Well it's a useful way of not saying 'anal sex' I suppose. Michael feels very bold saying these words and is a bit disappointed that Douglas seems to take them in his stride.
"Well, I suppose it's intended to cover a range of sexual...procedures."
Michael sits back and thinks for a moment. "So basically, sex outside marriage is a sin, and same-sex couples can't get married in the Church of England."
Douglas suppresses a sigh and looks beleaguered. "As things stand, at present, yes."
"I'm sorry." Says Michael, suddenly relaxing his body posture. "I realise this must be difficult for you.
" No, no. Not at all." Douglas leans back in his chair and smiles broadly to prove it. "It's a common misconception that vicars are embarassed by the topic of sex but it's a central part of Christian love..."
"I just meant, you know, for you personally."
"For me personally?"
"Well...you know...!"
On the one hand, Douglas knows exactly what Michael means, but on the other, he has no idea whatsoever. The opposing pressure of these two equally slippery hands forces Douglas to pop up like a bar of soap. Finding himself on his feet, he grabs a packet of milk chocolate digestives from his desk and waves them in Michael's face to fend off further comment. "Biscuit?!"
"No, thank you."
Douglas goes and sits behind his desk and clasps his hands together. He pulls a copy of the Parish Newletter towards him as though he were perusing Michael's rather disappointing end-of-term report. "Well, I'm glad we've had this little chat." He says. He gathers himself together. "And important, too, I think. One mustn't become complacent. And you're right. There are some ...inconsistencies in the church's position at present."
"Mmm." Michael chews at his nails thoughtfullly. He's about to say something but changes his mind.
They sit in silence for a moment. Both men would like to change the subject and cheer themselves up a bit, but neither have the energy to effect the conversational shift. Douglas tries to pour some more tea from the empy pot. He takes the lid off and peers inside as though this will solve the strange mystery of the barren spout. "Oh, we're out of tea. I'll make a fresh one."
Michael holds up his hand. "Not for me, thanks Douglas. I ought to be getting off. Busy day tomorrow." Actually, he's planning to drop in on Marcus, a German philosophy student, on his way home.
"Of course." Says Douglas. "I still have a few things to do myself."
Douglas sees Michael out then returns to his study. He stares out into the dark High Street at the Christmas lights and strokes his upper lip. Did Michael Glebe just come out to him? Of course he did. He wasn't just posing a hypothetical question, he was looking for guidance. Douglas feels that he didn't do a very good job. He decides to do some more reading on the issue. The thought of this peculiarly modern pastoral challenge rather pleases him. He's dertermined to help Michael on this difficult journey, however he can. His eyes lazily scan the framed print of Michelangelo's Ganymede that hangs over the small, white-painted wooden fireplace. He wonders whether Michael really does have a boyfriend or whether that was hypothetical, too. No, he decides: Michael's a pretty cautious young chap. Quite naive in many ways. Douglas very much doubts he has 'acted out' as modern parlance would have it. He takes a chocolate digestive and settles back into his chair with The Guardian and a ball-pen. There's still one clue in the Cryptic crossword he just can't get and he's determined to nail it by bedtime.
Friday, September 08, 2006
TT 34 - Gabriel Buys a Box-full
Gabriel Lamb can hear the tinny christmas music coming from the High Street. He turns over on his side and stretches out an arm but the bed is empty. He remembers that Jasmine had to get back to London for an audition. He tilts his watch up from the bedside cabinet. It's nearly half-past seven. Since he came to Tendringhoe his hours have become increasingly erratic. Now he is practically on a night shift. Last night he stayed up to the early hours with friends, drinking whiskey and catching up with the latest theatrical gossip from London. He's glad Jasmine stayed over. He knows that since the play closed she's been seeing a musician, much closer to her own age, but it's nice that they can still enjoy the occasional night together. He rolls onto his stomach and luxuriates in the softness of the sheets for just a few moments more, then gets up with a huff of concentrated effort and puts on a CD. It's Brahm's piano quintet in F major: one of his favorites. It's just so intense.
He stands naked at the window, his hands cupping his nose in a praying gesture, his thumbs hooked under his well-defined jaw-line, and comes to terms with the day that is already night. He can see the church tower with its Christmas lights. He doesn't pull the curtains. Only the small illuminated angel on the tower's west face can see back in through the window and she won't tell anyone. He takes his cigarettes from the chest of drawers and lights one. He scratches his right eyebrow then his left armpit and wonders how he should spend his waking hours until the sun comes up again and he retreats to his bed. Perhaps he should wander up to the High Street and see what's going on. He might be able to get some ideas for the radio play he's working on. Yes. That's what he'll do. He'll go up to the church and collect some material from the real world.
Gabriel dresses in black jeans, a grey cashmere sweater, a pair of hand-made brown brogues and his trade-mark long, dark overcoat. At the last moment he adds a silk paisely scarf. It belonged to his grandfather and he always feels a little more protected from the world when he's wearing it.
When Gabriel gets to Joyce Kettle's stall all the best cakes have gone but this doesn't matter because Joyce herself has plenty to offer. Joyce remembers Gabriel from when he was so-high, and now he's all grown-up and on the telly and its nothing short of a miracle. Joyce has also sprained her wrist. Her spaniel Tucker pulled her over on some wet leaves outside the post-office but she's got it well strapped up now and she'll survive. Gabriel gathers Joyce's verbal flotsam carefully in the nets of his literary memory and moves on to the next stall. He wants to know how long the grey-haired lady with the two butterfy hair-clips on either side of her brow spends making quilted cosies in the shapes of animals? Where did she get the idea? Do the cosies have names? All of which comes under the general heading of 'How mad are you exactly?', although he never articulates the question as such. She says she got the idea from Bella. Gabriel, who is not familiar with this publication, thinks Bella is the quilted-cat-lady's best friend. Since he has just divined that the quilted-cat-lady's own name is Ella he enjoys this detail.
Gabriel pushes his way up to the ever-popular second-hand book stall.
"Hi." He says to the woman who is tidying up the Jilly Coopers to make room for an unexcepected donation of the entire series of 'Confessions' books.
"Hi." She says back with a smile. She is about his age, maybe a little younger, and more attractive than the average stall-holder. "I can recommend this if you're looking for a challenging read?" She says, holding up Confessions of a Plumber.
"Oh, I've read that one, thanks." He says, matching her ironic twinkle. "Mind you" he adds, "I should think these are collectors items now."
"You're probably right." She laughs. "I can do you the whole lot for a fiver."
"Yeah. Go on. Why not!"
"Really?"
"Sure." Gabriel is laughing now, not just socially but because he really does find the whole idea amusing. The woman pops the books back into the box and exchanges them for a five pound note.
"It's for a good cause." She says, pointing to the Sight-Savers International poster cellotaped to the front of the table.
"Even better."
She holds his eye for a moment and a thoughtful expression comes over her face. "Do I know you from somewhere? You look very familiar."
This presents something of a problem for Gabriel. If someone says this to him in London he can be pretty sure they recognise him from his TV work; mostly bit-parts in Casualty and The Bill, but recently a more substantial role in a Ruth Rendell mystery. (He's never recognised for his theatrical work.) Here, in his home town, on the other hand, it's possible that someone genuinely recognises him, perhaps from school.
"Well, I grew up here." He explains. "And my father still lives in the village. Geoffrey Lamb?"
She shakes her head. "No. I don't think I know you from here. I've only lived here a couple of months myself."
"Well" Gabriel supresses a smile. "I'm an actor, actually. I've done a few little TV roles... so maybe..."
"Oh yes - that's it!" She puts her finger tips on her mouth. "I'm sorry. That must be really annoying."
"Not really."
"Oh God - I remember now!" She says, suddenly excited.
Gabriel braces himself for "You're the mad doctor that killed all his patients" but instead she starts to sing.
"Tiny Tom, Tin-y To-om. Your little toilet pal that lasts the whole flush lo-ong"
"Oh Good Lord, that was years ago!" Gabriel says as though he can scarcely cast hs mind back that far.
"Wow! The guy from the Tiny Tom ad., I can't wait to tell my friends." She says with a big smile. Gabriel can't help finding her ironic twinkle somewhat less charming now.
She composes herself. "So what are you doing these days?"
"I've just played The Duke of Norfolk in A Man for All Seasons at the Haymarket." Gabriel Lamb says rather crisply and he picks up the entire set of Confessions books and tucks them under his arm.
"Oh that's great." she says but her eyes are still dancing from her Tiny Tom performance.
"Well, it pays the rent." he says. Then he gives her one of his sexy smiles but her expression doesn't change.
"Well, enjoy the books." She bursts out laughing again.
Gabriel squeezes out a smile. "Mmmm, well, I'll try." He turns and walks away with what he hopes is a stylish swagger, which isn't easy when you're balancing 5 kilos of comic erotica on your hip.
He stands naked at the window, his hands cupping his nose in a praying gesture, his thumbs hooked under his well-defined jaw-line, and comes to terms with the day that is already night. He can see the church tower with its Christmas lights. He doesn't pull the curtains. Only the small illuminated angel on the tower's west face can see back in through the window and she won't tell anyone. He takes his cigarettes from the chest of drawers and lights one. He scratches his right eyebrow then his left armpit and wonders how he should spend his waking hours until the sun comes up again and he retreats to his bed. Perhaps he should wander up to the High Street and see what's going on. He might be able to get some ideas for the radio play he's working on. Yes. That's what he'll do. He'll go up to the church and collect some material from the real world.
Gabriel dresses in black jeans, a grey cashmere sweater, a pair of hand-made brown brogues and his trade-mark long, dark overcoat. At the last moment he adds a silk paisely scarf. It belonged to his grandfather and he always feels a little more protected from the world when he's wearing it.
When Gabriel gets to Joyce Kettle's stall all the best cakes have gone but this doesn't matter because Joyce herself has plenty to offer. Joyce remembers Gabriel from when he was so-high, and now he's all grown-up and on the telly and its nothing short of a miracle. Joyce has also sprained her wrist. Her spaniel Tucker pulled her over on some wet leaves outside the post-office but she's got it well strapped up now and she'll survive. Gabriel gathers Joyce's verbal flotsam carefully in the nets of his literary memory and moves on to the next stall. He wants to know how long the grey-haired lady with the two butterfy hair-clips on either side of her brow spends making quilted cosies in the shapes of animals? Where did she get the idea? Do the cosies have names? All of which comes under the general heading of 'How mad are you exactly?', although he never articulates the question as such. She says she got the idea from Bella. Gabriel, who is not familiar with this publication, thinks Bella is the quilted-cat-lady's best friend. Since he has just divined that the quilted-cat-lady's own name is Ella he enjoys this detail.
Gabriel pushes his way up to the ever-popular second-hand book stall.
"Hi." He says to the woman who is tidying up the Jilly Coopers to make room for an unexcepected donation of the entire series of 'Confessions' books.
"Hi." She says back with a smile. She is about his age, maybe a little younger, and more attractive than the average stall-holder. "I can recommend this if you're looking for a challenging read?" She says, holding up Confessions of a Plumber.
"Oh, I've read that one, thanks." He says, matching her ironic twinkle. "Mind you" he adds, "I should think these are collectors items now."
"You're probably right." She laughs. "I can do you the whole lot for a fiver."
"Yeah. Go on. Why not!"
"Really?"
"Sure." Gabriel is laughing now, not just socially but because he really does find the whole idea amusing. The woman pops the books back into the box and exchanges them for a five pound note.
"It's for a good cause." She says, pointing to the Sight-Savers International poster cellotaped to the front of the table.
"Even better."
She holds his eye for a moment and a thoughtful expression comes over her face. "Do I know you from somewhere? You look very familiar."
This presents something of a problem for Gabriel. If someone says this to him in London he can be pretty sure they recognise him from his TV work; mostly bit-parts in Casualty and The Bill, but recently a more substantial role in a Ruth Rendell mystery. (He's never recognised for his theatrical work.) Here, in his home town, on the other hand, it's possible that someone genuinely recognises him, perhaps from school.
"Well, I grew up here." He explains. "And my father still lives in the village. Geoffrey Lamb?"
She shakes her head. "No. I don't think I know you from here. I've only lived here a couple of months myself."
"Well" Gabriel supresses a smile. "I'm an actor, actually. I've done a few little TV roles... so maybe..."
"Oh yes - that's it!" She puts her finger tips on her mouth. "I'm sorry. That must be really annoying."
"Not really."
"Oh God - I remember now!" She says, suddenly excited.
Gabriel braces himself for "You're the mad doctor that killed all his patients" but instead she starts to sing.
"Tiny Tom, Tin-y To-om. Your little toilet pal that lasts the whole flush lo-ong"
"Oh Good Lord, that was years ago!" Gabriel says as though he can scarcely cast hs mind back that far.
"Wow! The guy from the Tiny Tom ad., I can't wait to tell my friends." She says with a big smile. Gabriel can't help finding her ironic twinkle somewhat less charming now.
She composes herself. "So what are you doing these days?"
"I've just played The Duke of Norfolk in A Man for All Seasons at the Haymarket." Gabriel Lamb says rather crisply and he picks up the entire set of Confessions books and tucks them under his arm.
"Oh that's great." she says but her eyes are still dancing from her Tiny Tom performance.
"Well, it pays the rent." he says. Then he gives her one of his sexy smiles but her expression doesn't change.
"Well, enjoy the books." She bursts out laughing again.
Gabriel squeezes out a smile. "Mmmm, well, I'll try." He turns and walks away with what he hopes is a stylish swagger, which isn't easy when you're balancing 5 kilos of comic erotica on your hip.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
TT 33 - Dave has a Plan.
If Michael Glebe, who is only now beginning to question his anglican upbringing, finds some of the Christmas stalls in St Maggies contemptibly familiar, Dave Gill, after a life-time of biblically proportioned sin, finds the whole thing not just charming but positively exotic. He has stopped at the home-made cake stall with his youngest daughter Jemima, who is 6, and his son from his first marriage, Xag, who is 39. Xag's own son, Octavian, is strapped to his chest in a high-tec rig that allows the baby to look outwards, his arms raised at his side as though he's enjoying the view from the helm of the Titanic. The knot of curious villagers who are now loitering in front of the stall to eavesdrop on their local rock-guitarist, are surprised to find that the recent subject of Hot Riff's 'Senior-Hitizens of Rock' feature is discussing the relative merits of Dundee and Fruit Cake.
"What would you like, darling?" Dave asks Jemima.
Jemima, who is wearing stripey tights, a fairy costume, and a $300 cardigan from Wooky-Wah of Greenwich village, holds Dave's hand and surveys the goods laid out before her on doily-covered paper-plates.
"I think we should have these ones, Daddy." She points at a plate of Joyce Kettle's parkin.
"You like the look of those do you babe?" Dave says, delighted. "My old gran used to make them."
"The one that lived in that funny white hut with bits of wood on the front?" Says Jemima, looking up at him with her striking pale green eyes.
"In the bungalow, yeah. How d'you remember that?" Dave says, impressed. He only showed Jemima the photograph once, when she was about four.
Jemima shrugs and plays with her nephews toes.
Dave tucks the parkin into the pocket of his patchwork leather coat. As they turn to go he spots Reverend Carduggan chatting to a rather nerdy-looking young blond guy.
"Word up, Vic!" He ambles over with Jemima.
"David! Nice to see you here. And hello Jemima." Douglas leans forwards and puts his hands on his knees. "How are you?" Jemima holds onto Dave's hand and huddles into his body.
"I'm fine." She says, shyly, then recovering slightly, adds "Daddy bought me Parkin. That's what people used to eat in the olden-days."
"That's right, they did." Douglas smiles at her, then returns his attention to Dave.
"Um, David. This is Michael Glebe. Michael is a research student at the University."
"Ah, a scholar!" Says Dave, warmly, and shakes his hand. "Good to meet you, man."
Michael, suddenly confronted by the cool, slightly bleary self-assurance of the sixty-year-old rocker, retreats into his 'elegant young intellectual' posture.
"How do you do?" He smiles one-sidedly and lets his fringe flop over his forehead.
"I do bloody good, thanks." Says Dave, and gives out a laugh that sounds like water sucking on gravel.
"Hey Vic!" Dave puts his arm round Rev. Carduggan's shoulder, an expansive gesture that exceeds Douglas' capacity for physical spontaneity and forces him to clasp his hands self-consciously behind his back. "I've been thinking about our idea for a Sacred Rock Spectacle."
"Oh yes?" Says Douglas, who has no clue that they have shared an idea for a sacred rock spectacle.
"I met up with an old friend of mine, Jay Mitchell." Dave continues. "Great bloke. Used to do the special effects for our shows. Bloody wizard with the old electrics. He's a healer down in Dorset now - very spiritual guy." He nods earnestly and holds Douglas' eye. "I love him."
"Oh well that's nice." Says Douglas.
"Yeah." Dave gives Douglas' shoulders a squeeze. "But here's the really wierd thing, man. He says to me, Dave, I'm thinking of doing some kind of spiritual event. A festival, sort of thing, but with a really beautiful, spiritual kind of vibe, yeah?"
"Sounds interesting."
"And I'm like, that's amazing, cos I've been talking about exactly the same thing with a mate of mine."
"What a coincidence."
"Cos, you know, Vic, we don't need the money, right?"
"Well, no..." Douglas has lost track slightly.
"But it's such a bloody joy just bringing people together, through the music, you know?
"Indeed, music is a central part of worship."
"Oh well, yeah." Dave pulls his craggy, drug-addled features into something approximating pious. "Your lot got there, first, of course."
Douglas laughs modestly.
Dave can feel Jem starting to hang off his arm with boredom.
"Anyway, we'll have to talk about it some time."
"Absolutely." Says Douglas.
"Right then, angel." Dave looks at his daughter. "Let's go find Xag and Tavey. He looks at Michael, whose been standing by with a fixed grin on his face the whole time trying not to mind that Dave hasn't made eye-contact with him once. "Nice to meet you, man." He struts away, clicking his heels slightly on the ancient tomb slabs and whilstling an old blues number.
"Likewise." Says Michael Glebe.
"What would you like, darling?" Dave asks Jemima.
Jemima, who is wearing stripey tights, a fairy costume, and a $300 cardigan from Wooky-Wah of Greenwich village, holds Dave's hand and surveys the goods laid out before her on doily-covered paper-plates.
"I think we should have these ones, Daddy." She points at a plate of Joyce Kettle's parkin.
"You like the look of those do you babe?" Dave says, delighted. "My old gran used to make them."
"The one that lived in that funny white hut with bits of wood on the front?" Says Jemima, looking up at him with her striking pale green eyes.
"In the bungalow, yeah. How d'you remember that?" Dave says, impressed. He only showed Jemima the photograph once, when she was about four.
Jemima shrugs and plays with her nephews toes.
Dave tucks the parkin into the pocket of his patchwork leather coat. As they turn to go he spots Reverend Carduggan chatting to a rather nerdy-looking young blond guy.
"Word up, Vic!" He ambles over with Jemima.
"David! Nice to see you here. And hello Jemima." Douglas leans forwards and puts his hands on his knees. "How are you?" Jemima holds onto Dave's hand and huddles into his body.
"I'm fine." She says, shyly, then recovering slightly, adds "Daddy bought me Parkin. That's what people used to eat in the olden-days."
"That's right, they did." Douglas smiles at her, then returns his attention to Dave.
"Um, David. This is Michael Glebe. Michael is a research student at the University."
"Ah, a scholar!" Says Dave, warmly, and shakes his hand. "Good to meet you, man."
Michael, suddenly confronted by the cool, slightly bleary self-assurance of the sixty-year-old rocker, retreats into his 'elegant young intellectual' posture.
"How do you do?" He smiles one-sidedly and lets his fringe flop over his forehead.
"I do bloody good, thanks." Says Dave, and gives out a laugh that sounds like water sucking on gravel.
"Hey Vic!" Dave puts his arm round Rev. Carduggan's shoulder, an expansive gesture that exceeds Douglas' capacity for physical spontaneity and forces him to clasp his hands self-consciously behind his back. "I've been thinking about our idea for a Sacred Rock Spectacle."
"Oh yes?" Says Douglas, who has no clue that they have shared an idea for a sacred rock spectacle.
"I met up with an old friend of mine, Jay Mitchell." Dave continues. "Great bloke. Used to do the special effects for our shows. Bloody wizard with the old electrics. He's a healer down in Dorset now - very spiritual guy." He nods earnestly and holds Douglas' eye. "I love him."
"Oh well that's nice." Says Douglas.
"Yeah." Dave gives Douglas' shoulders a squeeze. "But here's the really wierd thing, man. He says to me, Dave, I'm thinking of doing some kind of spiritual event. A festival, sort of thing, but with a really beautiful, spiritual kind of vibe, yeah?"
"Sounds interesting."
"And I'm like, that's amazing, cos I've been talking about exactly the same thing with a mate of mine."
"What a coincidence."
"Cos, you know, Vic, we don't need the money, right?"
"Well, no..." Douglas has lost track slightly.
"But it's such a bloody joy just bringing people together, through the music, you know?
"Indeed, music is a central part of worship."
"Oh well, yeah." Dave pulls his craggy, drug-addled features into something approximating pious. "Your lot got there, first, of course."
Douglas laughs modestly.
Dave can feel Jem starting to hang off his arm with boredom.
"Anyway, we'll have to talk about it some time."
"Absolutely." Says Douglas.
"Right then, angel." Dave looks at his daughter. "Let's go find Xag and Tavey. He looks at Michael, whose been standing by with a fixed grin on his face the whole time trying not to mind that Dave hasn't made eye-contact with him once. "Nice to meet you, man." He struts away, clicking his heels slightly on the ancient tomb slabs and whilstling an old blues number.
"Likewise." Says Michael Glebe.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
TT - 32 Michael Has a Plan
Michael Glebe leaves his flat above the cafe and strides ebulliently into the High Street. Tendringhoe's Christmas lights have just been switched on, bringing an air of the sea-side promenade to the wintry village. The ladies at the Fat Cat Cafe are giving out veggie sausage rolls and serving tea and hot-chocolate in polystyrene cups. Slightly further down on the other side of the road, Jason is serving mulled wine and ginger biscuits from a trestle-table in front of the Deli. St Maggie's is crammed with bric-a-brac and cake stalls which spill out into the churchyard. Only Ellison and Copp, the local estate agents, slightly mar the scene by giving out lurid, helium-filled orange baloons on which they've had printed their loathsome logo, but even these, for the hoards of glow-stick waving toddlers who have taken to the streets in their hundreds, are as much a part of the magic as the more tasteful contributions.
The Christmas lights are not the only thing to have been switched on this evening. Michael Glebe is officially on good form and more than ready, after several months in the social wilderness, to rekindle his love for mankind. He wends his way smiling and touching and bantering through the villagers like a cat weaving through the legs of strangers. He is particularly keen to wipe his scent all over Glandice Morgan, but she is already wedged into a love-scrum with other village notables. Michael joins the nearby queue for Jason's mulled wine. To keep his social charm on full charge, he delivers a warm and intimate discourse on the nature of childhood memory to the woman behind him, his eyes glowing almost as brightly as the lights that glitter through the leaves on the trees. She responds graciously and Michael can tell that she's very taken with him.
The exchange with Jason is also very pleasant. Michael didn't used to like him but he does now, and he smiles to himself when he sees that Jason has filled his cup right to the top and given him the largest biscuit. He looks around for Glandice but she has been lost to the crowds. Next to him, a small child lets go of his Ellison and Copp merchandise and Michael watches with satisfaction as the over-inflated orange balloon bobs up through the branches and into the velvety blackness. He feels as though he could follow it, right up into the night sky, for Michael has done it. He has had sex with another guy. He has pulled a fit, young American sports science student called Greg in the University Gym and he has done it.
If there's one thing Michael hates, he decides, as he walks, with his slightly bouncing step towards the church gates, it's repression. He looks at all the faces of the people around him and feels irritated, threatened even, by their strange composure, their flatness. He can only imagine what kind of secret desires they are tragically holding in. He squeezes his way through the church porch and into the nave. The series of cheery greetings that he recieves as he makes his way up the south aisle are as satisfying to his ear as the sound of a stick pinging across railings.
"Hi Michael."
"Michael."
"Evening Michael."
"Ah, it's Michael!"
At the sound of this last voice he swings round.
"Doug-las!" He launches himself towards the vicar and hugs him with a delighted laugh. He draws back slightly, but continues the love with a hearty handshake and a beaming smile. "Douglas!"
"Well, you're certainly in the Christmas spirit!" Says Douglas, who can't help but be moved by this overwhelming display of affection.
"Where's Mrs Miggin's plum duff stall?!" Michael asks, looking around him.
"I don't think I know a Mrs Miggins...?"
"And little Timmy and his sugar-frosted goose-legs?!"
Ah, now Douglas sees that Michael is on a 'comic flight of fancy', and he suddenly feels rather literal and foolish by comparison. He tries to let himself go a bit.
"Ah well, I'm sure they're hiding round here somewhere."
"Hiding? Hiding?!!" Michael lifts up a hand-made quilted cat from a nearby stall and peers inside it with a mischievous giggle."
Douglas would like Michael to know that he doesn't take the quilted cat marmalade-cosy entirely seriously either, and allows himself a judicously supressed laugh.
Michael leans the cat against a quilted tartan rabbit so that they look as though they are sharing a dirty joke.
"So, Douglas, how are things with you?" Michael says with an engaging tilt of his head.
"Not at all bad, actually. Just honing the Christmas sermon." Douglas rubs his hands together.
"Excellent! I look forward to it."
"Oh, you'll be in Tendringhoe for the festive season then?" Douglas knows Michael has family in Cheshire, and he's rather surprised he won't be going home for Christmas.
"Well, yes. Thought I'd hang around here this Christmas. Catch up with all my friends" Michael drops just below brimming for a second.
"Ah, well, you must come over to the vicarage for supper one evening."
"I'd love to." Says Michael.
And he would love to. He feels like a man who has struggled up the side of a densely wooded hill and, having finally arrived at the prow, finds a wide open vista suddenly stretched out before him. He looks at Reverend Carduggan with a mixture of affection and frustration. Now I shall do the same for Douglas, he thinks to himself. He has helped me out, and I shall help him out. I will set the vicar free!"
The Christmas lights are not the only thing to have been switched on this evening. Michael Glebe is officially on good form and more than ready, after several months in the social wilderness, to rekindle his love for mankind. He wends his way smiling and touching and bantering through the villagers like a cat weaving through the legs of strangers. He is particularly keen to wipe his scent all over Glandice Morgan, but she is already wedged into a love-scrum with other village notables. Michael joins the nearby queue for Jason's mulled wine. To keep his social charm on full charge, he delivers a warm and intimate discourse on the nature of childhood memory to the woman behind him, his eyes glowing almost as brightly as the lights that glitter through the leaves on the trees. She responds graciously and Michael can tell that she's very taken with him.
The exchange with Jason is also very pleasant. Michael didn't used to like him but he does now, and he smiles to himself when he sees that Jason has filled his cup right to the top and given him the largest biscuit. He looks around for Glandice but she has been lost to the crowds. Next to him, a small child lets go of his Ellison and Copp merchandise and Michael watches with satisfaction as the over-inflated orange balloon bobs up through the branches and into the velvety blackness. He feels as though he could follow it, right up into the night sky, for Michael has done it. He has had sex with another guy. He has pulled a fit, young American sports science student called Greg in the University Gym and he has done it.
If there's one thing Michael hates, he decides, as he walks, with his slightly bouncing step towards the church gates, it's repression. He looks at all the faces of the people around him and feels irritated, threatened even, by their strange composure, their flatness. He can only imagine what kind of secret desires they are tragically holding in. He squeezes his way through the church porch and into the nave. The series of cheery greetings that he recieves as he makes his way up the south aisle are as satisfying to his ear as the sound of a stick pinging across railings.
"Hi Michael."
"Michael."
"Evening Michael."
"Ah, it's Michael!"
At the sound of this last voice he swings round.
"Doug-las!" He launches himself towards the vicar and hugs him with a delighted laugh. He draws back slightly, but continues the love with a hearty handshake and a beaming smile. "Douglas!"
"Well, you're certainly in the Christmas spirit!" Says Douglas, who can't help but be moved by this overwhelming display of affection.
"Where's Mrs Miggin's plum duff stall?!" Michael asks, looking around him.
"I don't think I know a Mrs Miggins...?"
"And little Timmy and his sugar-frosted goose-legs?!"
Ah, now Douglas sees that Michael is on a 'comic flight of fancy', and he suddenly feels rather literal and foolish by comparison. He tries to let himself go a bit.
"Ah well, I'm sure they're hiding round here somewhere."
"Hiding? Hiding?!!" Michael lifts up a hand-made quilted cat from a nearby stall and peers inside it with a mischievous giggle."
Douglas would like Michael to know that he doesn't take the quilted cat marmalade-cosy entirely seriously either, and allows himself a judicously supressed laugh.
Michael leans the cat against a quilted tartan rabbit so that they look as though they are sharing a dirty joke.
"So, Douglas, how are things with you?" Michael says with an engaging tilt of his head.
"Not at all bad, actually. Just honing the Christmas sermon." Douglas rubs his hands together.
"Excellent! I look forward to it."
"Oh, you'll be in Tendringhoe for the festive season then?" Douglas knows Michael has family in Cheshire, and he's rather surprised he won't be going home for Christmas.
"Well, yes. Thought I'd hang around here this Christmas. Catch up with all my friends" Michael drops just below brimming for a second.
"Ah, well, you must come over to the vicarage for supper one evening."
"I'd love to." Says Michael.
And he would love to. He feels like a man who has struggled up the side of a densely wooded hill and, having finally arrived at the prow, finds a wide open vista suddenly stretched out before him. He looks at Reverend Carduggan with a mixture of affection and frustration. Now I shall do the same for Douglas, he thinks to himself. He has helped me out, and I shall help him out. I will set the vicar free!"
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