42 - The Lost Years.

As soon as Dave Gill has left the Vicarage, Douglas hurries back to the record player, drops an LP onto the turntable, lowers the needle, and sighs with relief as the first few bars of Tchaikovsky's Violin concerto emerge from the speakers. He knows he's been 'worked on' in some way and is pleased with the deep, rarified satisfaction that the music gives him, the way it blends with the time-softened furniture, the books from floor to ceiling either side of the chimney breast, the piano in the corner with some Bach spread out on the music rack. This is me, Douglas thinks, but as he drifts off on the waves of sound it is Dave's words that are still washing around in his mind. "Those were my 'dark years', Rev", the phrase comes back to him. This was a period of about 15 years in which Dave was drinking heavily and using heroine. It's a kind of lost period, Dave has explained. Memories a bit of a blur. Marriage breaking up. Selfishness. Not being there for Xag. Now he's 'clean'. Although Douglas has learned that this doesn't include, or rather, exclude, Pot, which after years of heroine abuse, is like a menthol cigarette, apparently.



Douglas picks up his note-book from the occasional table. He'd been writing down some ideas for his sacred play when Dave arrived full of energy, on his own trajectory, irresistable. Douglas scans over his own familiar handwriting, trying to pick up the threads, but the moment of absorption has passed. Dave clearly sees The Dark Years as an essential part of his Spritual Journey, Douglas reflects. Jesus was in the wilderness for 40 days and 40 nights, Dave was in a drug-addled stupor for nigh on fifteen years, which is why he's so obsessed with 'the voice of him that cryeth in the wilderness', "Because that's a bit like how I was, Vic, y'know?" Douglas smiles to himself. In a bizarre way he's almost jealous of Dave's dark vortex of self-annihilation. He had to reach rock bottom, absolutely rock bottom, he said, to come back out again, to choose to live. What Douglas has when he looks back is not so much dark years, as grey years. Suddenly whole decades start to fuse. From his early childhood up to and including his time at University the memories are like Chrystal, full of light and colour and magic, but after that it's just a succession of events. He tries to find some memories that have the same potency of those of his youth - there are a few high points: formal achievements, some nice holidays, the birth of his children, but where is he in all of it? He's as absent as Dave.


He feels an envious satisfaction that Dave's decades of pure unbounded hedonism did eventually lead to despair and confusion, to a splintering of his self, lost somewhere in countless random sexual encounters, in hard drugs and booze, in a strange parallel world of celebrity and excess. Douglas feels this validates his more circumspect approach to life, confirms that it has its own integrity, a core of self-preservation, at least. And it's not as though Douglas hasn't had a rich interior life, motivated by intellectual curiosity. Common sense is out of fashion, he knows that. He smiles and thinks to himself "It's society's crime, not ours." And yet in another way, there are curious parallels. It strikes Douglas that they are both performers. That they have both chosen professions in which one becomes a kind of public property, a 'persona'. Douglas' parishioners can no more fathom the real, complex, human being beneath the cassock, than Dave's fans can see the real man beneath the black leather. He has been fascinated to hear Dave talk about his fans, the care he takes not to disappoint them 'in real life'.

Douglas has also been surprised to learn that Dave is almost a decade older than him, a fact he finds some comfort in. He is not particularly relishing the thought of his fiftieth birthday. Life gets smaller as you get older. With the spaciousness of possibility gone, the boundaries of a single life become all too apparent. So this is the person he is. This is what he came to be when he grew up. He wishes he could go away for a week. Spend his birthday alone in the Scottish Highlands. Do some work on the play. Alison wants to have a family dinner, which will be fine, particularly since Christopher will be back. And then maybe he and Christopher can go for a long walk along the estuary. Father and Son. Listening to the night birds, sharing their reflections on music, and literature, and life. Comfortable with each other the way he and his own father never were.

41 - Can You Feel It, Reverend?

Douglas thinks it sounds like a frenzied lunatic bashing randomly on a pile of pots and pans, but he smiles politely and furrows his brow in concentration. He glances at Dave who seems to be lost in some sort of rapture, his head wavering from side to side as though he's trying to work it free from his neck. Dave opens his eyes slightly and gazes at him from the other side of the fireplace. "Can you feel it yet, Vic?"
"It's very...free-form." Douglas says.
"Free, yeah, but right from the gut, y'know. Feel that energy, man!"

The frenzied lunatic with a hammer is joined by a fellow with a saxophone, and Douglas is momentarily hopeful that some sort of melody will emerge from the chaos, but the second musician seems as deranged as the first, rasping fitfully like a fly trapped in double glazing.
"Oh dear, David, I'm sorry, but I'm really not sure I can take much more of this."
"But it's The Trane, man!" Dave says incredulously.
"The Train Man?"
"The Trane, John Coltrane."
"Ah."
"You really don't feel it?" Dave clenches his fist in front of his diaphram to indicate where Douglas should be feeling it, then shakes his head sadly from side to side. "One of the finest live performances ever. 1965. Antibes Jazz Festival. You just have to let yourself get carried away by it, man."
"I've never really been the carried-away type." Douglas says. "Too much of a rationalist, I suppose. I should have been born in the 18th century, not the 20th." This is an idea he's expressed before.
"Maybe if you listen to the whole thing" Dave suggests.
"How long is the whole thing?"
"Twenty one and a half minutes."

Douglas' face crumples with the pain. "What I wouldn't do for a bit of Satie right now," he sighs.
"Got the munchies have you, Vic?"
Douglas smiles vaguely. "Hmm?"
"I'm still stuffaroonied from the old roast dinner. Does a top roast, does my Pattie." Dave says, patting his belly.
"I like a good roast myself." Says Douglas, wondering how they got onto the subject.
"Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with fresh horse-radish sauce." Says Dave. "But oh man, listen to this bit," He shakes his head in disbelief, "Ah, my life, that's brutal blowing, like he's just gently ripping the throat out of that horn."
Douglas listens politely for a few more moments, but it's too much. "No, I'm sorry, David. I really need you to turn it off now."

Dave sighs and lifts the needle, then lovingly returns the album to it's white inner sleeve and cover. "Good sound, though." He says appreciatively, nodding at Reverend Carduggan's ancient record player.
"Yes, it's a good one." Douglas says. "Plays classical recordings, beautifully." He gets to his feet, hoping to put on some Brahms and sooth his addled brain fibres, but Dave has other ideas. He returns to his small leather sports bag and selects another disc.
"Just one more, Vic. For me."
"Oh, yes, go on then. But I'm going to have another sherry." Douglas reaches over for the decanter." Can I top you up?"
"We need whisky with this man, a bit of rye!"
"Oh, well, I do have some..."
"Only kidding, Revster!" Dave says, heartily, and claps a hand on Douglas' shoulder. "Now, sit back and listen to this. I guarantee, you'll love it.
"And who is this?"
"Mr John Lee Hooker." Dave says, suddenly acquiring a mid-Atlantic drawl. He lowers the vinyl onto the deck and pulls across the needle. "Untitled...Slow...Blues."

A pleasing hiss emerges from the speakers, followed by a spare, twanging guitar. The sound is raw and grainy but not jarring, and after his recent 'incident on the line' with 'The Trane' something of a blessed relief. A beat starts up, a foot tapping at a leisurely andante. Although Douglas, as he has explained to Dave, only listens to classical music, this is at least a sound he's familiar with. To him it's the sound of America; of cotton fields, and depressions and moon-shine. He doesn't find it objectionable. In fact, he finds the slow, insistent, tapping of Mr Lee-Hooker's foot quite mesmerising.
"Aaaahhh" says Dave, and this time he lets his head drop forward and loll from side to side.
Douglas watches Dave's sharply pointed, black leather shoe keeping time with the beat, and wonders how his parishioner gets his drainpipe trousers on over his feet. They are so incredibly narrow at the hem he must have to practically dislocate his ankles. Dave subconsciously mimes the guitar fingering, and watching him, Douglas can appreciate the intricacy of the music. The little accaciatura ripples, ex tempore, and yet perfectly within the overall tempo, as though the player is just letting his fingers flutter over the stings rather than plucking them. He takes a sip of fino and closes his eyes.
"That's right Vic." Dave says in a low husk. "Let yourself go, baby."

Douglas' eyes pop open. He really should draw the line at 'baby'. But looking at Dave wavering in the music he decides to put it down to his visitor's hyper-relaxed condition. Instead, he settles himself back in his armchair and gazes out through the french-doors at the garden gradually disappearing into the late afternoon shadows. There was a chap at Oxford used to play this sort of music. He'd hear it floating down the stairway at night. It was at University that Douglas had decided he only listened to classical music. His parents used to enjoy hearing how this made him deeply transgressive in the eyes of his rebellious, teenage contemporaries: that and believing in God, of course. And yet it is an odd thing, but listening now to this slow, spare music, it brings back those days more precisely, and completely, and painfully, than any of his classical records, even the ones he listened to most obsessively as a student. He can practically smell the polish on the banisters. Colin, that was his name. Had the most terrific ginger afro.

He and Jonathan used to call him Vesta. After Swan Vesta matches. Not very original, really. One night Vesta had caught them at an inopportune moment. Lots of scrabbling for trousers and trying to look casual. He wanted matches. It wasn't that funny, he supposes now, but at the time they'd practically had a stroke trying to hold in the laughter, then collapsing on the floor in hysterics as soon as they'd closed the door. Douglas smiles to himself. Douglas and Jonathan contra mundum. Ah, the follies of youth. He opens his eyes.
"What's this?" He realises that Dave has put on another record and he's been rather drifting away on it.
"Trane, again."
"Trane? The same Trane...?"
"Yep." Dave grins.
"But it's so much more..."
"Mellow?"
"Now this I really rather like."
"This track is called Invitation."
"Ah."

The room is almost dark now, with just the light from the fire. Douglas puts on the standard lamp behind his chair and sees it reflected in the French doors.
"It's so fluid, yeah." Dave says, and watches the Reverend carefully. "Smooth like honey", he persists, and taps his foot off the beat. "Oh yeah!"
"Yes, yes. I think I do quite like this. It's actually quite complex harmonically."
Douglas leans his head back against the chair and closes his eyes. Dave carries on tapping and watching. And then it happens. Douglas stops nodding his head up and down and starts to let it move slightly from side to side. Come on, baby, come on, Dave thinks to himself watching the Vicar's head movements intently, and yes, there it goes, just slightly off the beat! Dave is so excited he almost has to stuff his fist in his mouth to stop himself laughin out loud. He's done it, he's got the Vicar swinging. He reckons he's only five shags from Elvis, musically speaking, and after that, it's all down hill. He'll get the Reverend rocking in no time.

40 - Carols on the Quay

Gabriel leans forward as though he's about to vomit and hawks up a series of dry, pain-filled, sobs. He straightens up and scratches his stomach thoughtfully. No, that's no good. He jabs at the pause button on the tape-recorder, does some relaxation exercises and gets himself into a more lyrical state of misery. He sets the tape running again and emits a descending octave of plaintive sobs. That's better.

Gabriel has decided to follow his father's advice and make The Crying Man into a short drama for radio. The story is narrated through the eyes of The Crying Man's son, Edwin, now an adult in a psychiatric institution just after The Great War and reliving a series of flash-backs to his childhood. He has decided to use the sound of the Crying Man's sobs as a kind of scene divider, fading in and out between the dialogue. He listens back to the recording, then rubs his hair and sighs. He can't decide whether the whole things is a groundbreaking tour de force, or a total heap of shit. Since this is caught up with general doubts about whether he, Gabriel Lamb, is a groundbreaking tour de force, or a total heap of shit the whole process is becoming quite draining. He puffs his cheeks then lets out another long sigh. Oh to hell with it - let Radio 4 decide!

He looks at his watch. "Shit!" He grabs his coat from the back of the armchair, pats his pocket for keys and wallet, and ducks out through the tiny front door of Oyster Cottage. Gabriel has promised his Dad that he'll call for him at six and walk down to the quay with him for the carols. A fine rain has been falling all day and Geoffrey is nervous about coming down the hill on his own in case he slips. Gabriel cuts through the churchyard, enoying the slippery twinkle of lights through the dripping branches. He shelters behind a buttress for a moment and lights a cigarette. The smell of the rain makes him feel a bit 'heightened'. He wishes he was on his way to see a lover. For some reason, he thinks of the woman who sold him those stupid books at the Christmas Bazarre, or Beth as he now knows her to be called. He still trips over the bloody box in the hall each morning. Robin Askwith's cheeky chirpy grin mocking him from the bright yellow cover of Confessions of a Plumber, as if to drive home the point.


Beth, it turns out, is not a full-time purveyor of Timothy Lea novels, but a Registrar at Saxeburgh General. They've chatted at the bar of The Anchor a couple of times. Gabriel has made full use of these encounters to sketch out for Beth a more accurate picture of his acting career - aside from the Tiny-Tom advert. He has subtly name-dropped, shared a couple of his favorite on-set anecdotes, and generally been charming. And Beth, who is earthy and self-deprecating, has held his gaze, pitched her head to one side to indicate interest, and laughed generously at his punchlines. And yet there's something about her that's a bit... withdrawn, somehow. Gabriel unlatches the wrought iron gate into Blythe Lane and closes it carefully behind him. The way she remains so self-possessed. The way her eyes slack off into the middle distance when he's not looking directly at her, even when he's still talking. The way she wanders off to laugh and hug with other friends on her way to and from the loo, sometimes not returning at all, her glass sitting half empty on the bar until Alan rings the bell. She's definitely a bit of a strange one, Gabriel decides.

Geoffrey is ready and waiting in front of his gate, swaddled in a tweed coat and cap, and leaning on his stick. "I might not stay very long." He says as Gabriel approaches.
"That's all right." Gabriel takes his elbow. "Is your knee bad?"
"Oh, not too bad." Geoffrey says, but he's limping slightly. "But how are you?"
"Fine."
"How's the script coming along?"
"Oh nearly finished." Gabriel starts to run through some ideas he has for a title. The working title is The Crying Man, only now he thinks perhaps he should call it The Crying Man's Son, or Son of a Crying Man. Only it's not absolutely clear that Edwin is the Crying Man's son after all. He might be the son of the Great Ronaldo, or even Roger the laudenum-addicted dwarf.
Geoffrey listens attentively as they make their way carefully down the hill. He thinks The Crying Man is still the best title, he says, as they reach the bottom.


The quay is already crowded with bulky figures in hats and scarves, shuffling in the ochre glow of the street lamps, and clutching their carol sheets . A few people have brought torches and lanterns and one man is wearing a pot-holer's head-torch which Gabriel thinks is excessive. He puts up his golfing umberella and scans for familiar faces but doesn't recognise anyone. The tide is in and the boats lurk contentedly on the dark water. They have a strange animal presence at night, like floating cows. He takes a hip-flask from his pocket and offers it to his Dad. Geoffrey takes a nip and hands it back to Gabe who takes a prolonged swig, enoying the feeling of the warm fruity brandy pouring down his throat and spreading through his chest. He looks again for Eleanor and Basil but still can't see them. Too many twats with golfing umberellas blocking the view, he thinks to himself, before realising he's one of them.

Finally, after a few words from Douglas which Gabriel can't quite hear, Alison Carduggan plays the opening bars of Once in Royal David's City on her trumpet and they're off. Normally it is Glandice Morgan's voice that rises above the amateur drone, but she doesn't seem to be there. It is Reverend Carduggan's blowy squeeze-box of a baritone that distinguishes itself in her absence. Gabriel always forgets how many bloody verses hymns have. He remembers the words to the first verse and the chorus, which frankly he thinks is ample, but then it goes on and on and on. Fortunately, Gabriel's low boredom threshold is matched by Geoffrey's aching joints, so when he senses his Dad shifting his weight uncomfortably from side to side he suggests they warm up in the Anchor.

It's quiet in the pub and they get the round table next to the open fire. Gabriel grabs the leatherette clad menu.
"Have you eaten, Dad?"
"I have actually. A lovely Lancashire hot-pot?"
"Mmm, very nice. Where did you have that?"
"Rosamund brought it over."
"Whose Rosamund?" Gabriel says distractedly, still scanning the menu.
"You know Rosamund. Works in the bookshop."
"Oh, book-shop Roz. She brought you over a hot-pot did she?" That was kind, he thinks, but doesn't say so for fear of sounding patronising. "I didn't know you were friendly."
"No. I suppose we have rather...It's quite recent."
"I might have the Thai Curry." Gabriel leans back and soaks up some heat from the fire.


"You like Rosamund don't you?"
"Oh yes, a good sort is old Roz."
"Yes." Geoffrey takes a sip of his port and lemon. "A good sort. I'm glad you think so."
"Then again, the steak and kidney pudding is quite tempting." Gabriel flips the page back to Traditional Fayre.
"So you don't mind if she joins us for Christmas dinner?"
"What?" He lowers the menu.
"I'm afraid I've already asked her. I do hope that's alright with you?"
"Well, yeah, sure." Gabriel is a bit taken aback. "We're still going to Framlington House, though?"
"Oh yes, it's all booked."
"You, me, and Roz."
Geoffrey holds his gaze with his gentle blue eyes. "She's alone too, you know."

Alone too? Gabriel thinks. It's true that he has lived on his own since Marianne pissed off with their accountant, but he's never thought of himself as 'a-lone'.
"Great. That's great. The more the merrier Dad. Not a problem." Gabriel smiles to prove it.
"You're sure?"
"Absolutely."
"I'm so pleased."
Gabriel takes his numbered wooden spoon up the bar and waits to be served. What the hell is his Dad up to now? Book-shop Roz? Sure, she's great, Old Roz, with her wild hair and her adult-sized tricycle and her psychadelic cardigans, but really. He's not that lonely. He taps the end of the spoon distractedly on the bar. Then again, perhaps his Dad has another agenda. Perhaps it's Goeffrey who's alone, that's why he wants to pair him up with Roz, to keep him here in Tendringhoe a bit longer. Gabriel sighs and pulls at his earlobe. If there's one emotion he doesn't handle at all well, it's guilt.

39 - A Surprise Party Approaches

“Mi-chael. Mi-chael” Alison calls out in a high bright voice, and she breaks into a little trot to catch up with him.
Michael turns and sees the vicar’s wife bobbing breathlessly towards him, her lilac anorak flaring outwards, and her small, mittened hands almost rotating at her sides as she runs.
Michael treats her to one of his best smiles. He likes Alison. Which is to say, he likes how much Alison likes him. “Alison!” He says, as though her sudden appearance is just the tonic he’s been looking for, and his grey-green eyes sparkle under their long lashes in the low afternoon sunlight. Alison is flushed and a little out of breath.
“I thought it was you.” She says, and tries to pulls a hankie from her pocket but it’s bound up with a tangle of keys and dog chews and boiled sweets. Her car keys drop onto the pavement. They both bob forward to pick the keys up, then straighten up, then move forward again. Alison laughs. “Oh gosh! Look at us. Like two Japanese people!” Michael stoops down and picks up the keys and hands them to her.
“There you go.”
“Oh, thankyou.” She wipes her nose.

“I’m glad I’ve bumped into you, actually.” Alison says.
“Oh yes?” They start walking down the High Street together.
“I’m organizing a bit of a surprise party for Douglas. It’s his fiftieth on the 28th. I would have asked you before but I thought you’d be in Gloucester. But then Douglas mentioned you were staying in Tendringhoe for the holidays.”
“I am yes."
"So if you'd like to...?"
"I'd love to, thanks. Anything I can do to help?”
“Oh no. It’s all under control. But thanks for asking.”
“Well let me know.” He nods earnestly. “So what time…?”
“Oh, yes, good point. Seven. And if you can try to get there exactly on time, so we can all get into the dining room before Douglas gets back."
"Ah, so it's a proper surprise party then."
"Oh yes", Alison's eyes glow with the excitement of it all. "He doesn't know a thing about it. The plan is to get all the guests assembled whilst he's picking Christopher up from the station. You’ve met our son Christopher haven’t you?”
“I don’t think so actually”, Michael drops his head reverently to one side, “but I’ve heard a lot about him, of course.”
“Oh well yes.” Alison smiles, her face suddenly filled with pride. “He’ll be down for the holidays. He’s studying medicine at King’s College. Well, you probably know that.”
“That’s right.” Michael says. “You must be very proud.”
“Oh well yes, I am. I’m proud of all my children.”
“And with good reason!” Michael beams.
“As I’m sure your parents are with you!”
“Well.” Michael looks away briefly. “Sure.” He smile tightens very slightly.

Michael’s eye catches a poster in the deli window. “So, have you got your tickets for the panto?”
Alison turns to look at the poster. TADS are putting on Aladdin this year. There’s a photograph of Gordon Green as Widow Twankey.
“Oh absolutely. Gordon will be a riot!”
“Any excuse to dress up in women’s clothing.” Michael says without thinking.
“Oh, well, it’s just a bit of fun.” Alison says hastily.
“That’s what I meant. I mean, he likes to play the fool, I mean, you know…” Michael digs his hands into his pockets and takes a breath. “I mean he’s a natural comedian, isn’t he?.”
“Oh yes, yes. He certainly is.” Alison agrees, as relieved as Michael to be back on safe ground. “Quite the clown, in fact.”

“Well, anyway.” Michael says, sensing they’re nearly done.
“Well I’d best be getting back.” Alison says. “Hungry mouths to feed.”
“Me too.” Says Michael, thinking of Bernt, the Danish scout-leader he met on the train back from London.
“Well, cheerio then.” Alison moves away with a little wave. “See you for Carols on the Quay tomorrow?”
“Oh definitely!”
“Well, good bye then.”
“Good bye Alison.”

Alison bustles away with her neat little steps towards the Vicarage. Michael stops and looks again at the poster: Gordon Green with his big puffed frock, and his false eye-lashes, and his rouge circles pouting primly for the camera. He sniggers to himself. “Daft cock!”

38 - The Gift of Giving

Even though the pub is dingy, practically empty and a good twelve miles from Tendringhoe, Sian feels anxious. What if some friends of her parents come in? What if some friends of hers come in?! She has picked a small table in the corner between the pool room and the gents, but still leans back into the coat rack every time the door opens.
“How you doing then, babe?” Dezzy says, returning from the bar with half a pint of lager and a rum and coke.
“It’s a bit of dump isn’t it?”
“It’s not so bad.” He scans the brightly patterned interior then nods at a huge games machine. “That’s a good one. Very good effects.” Dezzy drums on the table with the flats of his hands, then stretches back in his chair and puts his arms behind his head, forcing the energy down into his right leg which starts to jig up and down.

“What’s in the bag?” Sian asks, looking at the large orange carrier bag beside Dezzy’s chair.
“What’s in the bag? Now let me see. Hmmm, I don’t remember? What is in the bag?” He leans over and hangs his arm over her shoulder. “As if you didn’t know.” He kisses her ear and puts his hand on her thigh. Sian pushes it down to a respectable position, and pecks him on his bristly cheek. “Come on, then, Dezzy-Dez. Show me what Santa’s bought me for being a good girl.”
Dezzy pretends he’s about to unzip his flies and expose himself.
“Dezzy!” She grabs his hands.
Dezzy laughs loudly. “Oh sorry – you mean the present.”
Sian leans over to grab the bag from the floor but Dezzy pushes it away with his foot. “Where’s my present, first?”
“Haven’t got you one.” She picks up her drink and starts swizzling the ice cubes around with her finger.
“Yeah you have, I saw it in your bag when you was in the bog.”
“Dezzy! You shouldn’t go through my bag!”
He leans into her. “Was it expensive?”
Sian sighs. “It’s the thought that counts.”
“Cheap then.”

Sian puts both arms round Dezzy’s neck and looks into his eyes. “Come on baby, give me my present.”
Dezzy hands her the bag. She pulls out a large, untidy shaped package wrapped in supermarket-thin paper dotted with snowmen. There’s no tag. She can feel the contents through the wrapping. Soft and squishy but too firm to be clothes. Oh no, she thinks, please don't let it be a stuffed toy. She pauses. “Actually, I’m going to wait until Christmas Day.” She says, and tries to put it under her chair.
“I want you to open it now.” Dezzy says, pulling it back onto the table. “I want to see your reaction.”
“It’s unlucky.”
“Open it!” Dezzy insists, draping his arm across the back of her chair.

She tears back the paper and reveals a large fluffy white toy cat. It has a collar round its neck with a red love-heart hanging from it. She’s seen them on the market. A whole stall of them, all the same. “It’s sweet.” She covers it back up with the paper and tries to reseal it with the furzy tab of sellotape. “Thanks”.
Even Dezzy senses her disappointment. “Look, it’s cute.” He pulls it back out of the paper, and holds it in front of his face. “Hello, lovely lady” he mimes in a high-pitched meow. He leans towards her and angles the cat’s head on one side. “Why you look so bloody miserable?”
She pushes him away. “I’m not miserable. I’m just a bit tired. I’ve got a bit of a headache coming on, actually.”
“Whassa matter baby. Don’t you like my pussy?”
Sian glances across at the elderly couple at the next table. “Dezzy! Keep your voice down!”

He drops the cat face down on the table. It has a rough nylon base with a label on the seam. The fact that it’s fire retardant doesn’t strike Sian as a good thing.
“You don’t like it.” Dezzy says, dejectedly.
“I do. It’s cute. It’s just…”
“What?”
“Nothing. It’ll be my mascot. For my car, when I pass my test”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Dezzy lies. “So where’s my present then?”
Sian hands him a small, flat, square package. He takes off the raffia binding.

“What you tied it up with straw for?”
“It’s raffia.”
“Oh, well pardon me, m’lady, I didn’t know it was raahfiah – ooh la la!” He takes off the hand-made paper and flings it to one side without a glance. “Oh yeah, cheers babe, that’s fierce.” It’s the new United Stereo Collective CD he’s been dropping hints for. Sian leans over and opens the case. “There’s something else.” Inside the case are two tickets to see United Stereo Collective, who is in fact one man, performing live.
“How d’you get tickets! I thought it was sold out?”
“I got them ages ago. Day they came on sale”
“You did?” He looks up at her. “For me?” He turns the tickets over in his hands. “No-one’s ever….” He stops himself. “Wow. Thanks babe. .” Dezzy places the tickets carefully back in the case. He doesn’t know what to say. “Happy Christmas, baby!” He raises his glass. Hers is empty but she clinks it against his anyway. He takes the glass from her hand. “What you having then?” He’s already on his feet. “Another rum and coke?” He goes up to the bar without waiting for an answer. “A rum and coke for the lady, please, Mein Hose.”

Whilst Dezzy’s up at the bar Sian stuffs the cat back in its wrapper and puts it down on the floor. She really does have a headache now. She doesn’t want another drink. She just wants to go home.

37 - O Come All Ye Faithful!

Len lays down his tools on the work bench and turns on the light. He fires up the Calorgas heater and spreads out the pizza box. The biro hasn’t worked too well on the greasy spots, but he can still make out his design. He pulls a large crate of materials from under the bench. On top is a folded white sheet, a clothes-peg still attached at one corner, which he lays carefully on the bench. Next is a child’s back-pack in the shape of a lamb which he rescued from a bin in Blythe Lane. It’s a bit raggy but it will look fine in the dark, lit only by a small Camp-a-lamp. “Ah!” Len smiles. “Now then!” He takes the two prosthetic legs, props them against the wall and admires them for a few moments. They’ll look quite realistic once he’s dressed the whole thing with the sheet.

Next he lays the polystyrene head on the bench. He takes a few strands of copper wire and presses them into the scalp. Yes, that will work nicely, Len nods to himself, for the hair and the beard. He turns on the radio. Christmas carols. Perfect. He rummages around a bit more and pulls out his fawn cardigan. It’s the one he accidentally set fire to in a late night smoking incident, he had to douse it with Heinekin, then the zip rusted shut, so he doesn’t wear it much these days anyway. He gazes at it for a moment, and considers how he’ll attach the water filled rubber gloves to the cuffs. Staple them perhaps? Len scratches his bottom. What else?

He bites his lower lip and looks back to his drawing. Yes, some foliage from the Marbury’s garden can be wound into a thorny corona, but what about the blood?! Len sucks his teeth and looks around him. Browsing through the old pots of paint on the shelf above his bench, he finds half a can of rust red primer. He shakes it to check if it’s still in liquid form. It is, and a quick test with a ten pence piece reveals that the lid is still willing to come off. Well, that’s about it. He’ll draw the face in with a fat felt-tip. Coat-hangers will hold it all together, and the handle from a broken hoe he found in the vegetable patch will keep it upright. He considers using a blob of vaseline to suggest a single tear rolling down one cheek, but doesn’t want to gild the Lily. The main thing now will be the timing.

TT -36 Good News

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!

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.

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.

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.

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!"

TT31 - An Upset in the Deli

“And a large tub of green olives.” Glandice comes to the end of her shopping list. “
"Stuffed or unstuffed?” says Jason, with a facial expression that makes his chin ruckle up like a peach stone beneath his lower lip.
Glandice gives a big, fleshy laugh. “Oh definitely stuffed.”
Jason fills a polystyrene tub. “So - you having a bit of a soirée?” The peach stone disappears and the neck tendons take over.
“Just a couple of friends over for supper.” Glandice says, but she is slightly distracted by a tweed elbow that is agitating in her peripheral vision. She turns.

“Oh hello Eric.” She smiles warmly. She is aware of Eric's keen interest in the festival and he is rather on her guilt list.
“Ah, Glandice. How are you? How are you?” Professor Briding says, clutching the handle of a willow shopping basket awkwardly with one hand, and waving a jar of capers around with the other.
“I’m good, thank you, Eric. Although”, she rolls her eyes upwards, “horribly busy as usual.”
“Ah yes, of course. How are the festival plans coming along?”
“Oh lord, I haven’t even had time to think about that, I’m so busy with recitals right now.”
“Ah, I see, I see.” The reply subdues Eric somewhat and he is able to finish placing the capers into his basket.
“Although actually, I’m glad you've mentioned it. There’s something I want to ask you.”
“Of course. Fire away! Fire Away!”

Glandice pays Jason and guides Eric over to the chutneys. “You’re pretty involved with the local Am Dram scene, I gather.”
“I am indeed. President of TADS no less!” He laughs self-consciously.
“Oh, well that’s just great! Because I’ve been thinking…” she drops her head to one side thoughtfully, “it would be really terrific if you guys could dress up in Tudor costumes and hand out the programmes.”
Eric blinks as though Glandice has just tapped him on the nose quite hard. He would like to say ‘my book on membrane proteins has been translated into 17 languages’, Instead, he adopts an air of wry bafflement and says “Well, I’ll certainly put it to the committee…”
Glandice is impervious. “Well, that would be just terrific.” She says enthusiastically. “We really want local people to feel involved.” She looks at her watch. “Oh, Good Lord, I have to dash! Great to see you though, Eric.”
“Well, yes, you too Glandice.”

Eric maintains his expression of quizzical amusement until Glandice has left the shop then scissors up to the counter as though he’s been pinched on the arse. He waves a dismissive hand in the general direction of the cheeses. “Oh the Brie will do, I suppose."
Jason sucks in his cheeks. “de Meaux or de Melun?”
Eric adopts the facial expression of a man who has just been asked whether he'd prefer a free holiday or a slap round the face. “The de Melun , of course."

TT - 30 Mrs Green's system

To understand Mrs Green's casting system for the Tendringhoe JMI nativity play you will neeed a ruler, a pencil and a blank sheet of paper. Draw two twenty-centimetre lines at right angles to make a graph. On the horizontal axis, subdivide the line into twenty and plot all the parts of the play. Start with the back-end of the donkey, work up through the sheep, the inn-keeper's wife and sundry messangers, then Gabriel and the narrator until you arrive at Mary and Joseph. Now subdivide the vertical axis into twenty and plot the professions of the children's parents according to the Registrar General's Scale. Remember this is a Church of England school so Vicar comes above Doctor. Finally, plot the twenty children in Miss Green's class between these two axes and you should have a nice left to right rising diagonal.

Only this year Mrs Green is running into difficulties at both ends of the scale. According to her system Basil, the son of a university professor and a GP, must be Joseph, but Basil's parents are not like other group 'A' professionals. Last summer, when Eric was away teaching in America, Eleanor took her two children to Glastonbury for their annual holiday. Basil's vivid and fully illustrated account in his News and Story Book of camping in mud, having his face painted, and singing along to Keane on the main stage received a tart 'adequate' from Mrs Green. Not surprisingly, Basil is 'not like other boys' and his disgusting theatricality is hardly something his teacher wants to encourage. Val Green comes up with a clever solution and casts Basil as the black Magus, a part she normally reserves for any child who in her opinion has had 'a slap from the tar-brush' at some point in their genetic history: which in a village like Tendringhoe usually means divining some ancient Spanishy genes in a child with a Welsh surname. It amuses her that the Bridings will be too 'left wing' to complain.

The other problem child is little Rita Magma. Her parents, a clinically depressed single mother with two other children by different fathers and an alocoholic unskilled father who smells, fall so far outside the usual social parameters of the village school that Mrs Green has had to toy with the possibility of inventing an entirely new part just for her. But whilst the role of 'stable door' is perfectly coherent in terms of the Christams narrative even Mrs Green realises that she cannot simply duck-tape a child between two pallettes and leave her standing in the middle of a stage for 40 minutes. Instead she has introduced the equally inanimate role of the Star of Bethlehem. Rita doesn't get to actually sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, she just gets to stand on the side of the stage whilst little Bethany Tidwell of Tidwell Farm Pork Products sings it.

Rita's grandmother says Rita is the 'star' of the show, and then she repeats it in case the sutlety of the pun has been lost: "Rita is the 'STAR' of the show!" Rita is pelased that Granny thinks its lovely and has started to make her a pretty sparkly costume, because Rita understands only too well her place in Tendringhoe JMI's Great Chain of Being: objects, even celestial ones, come below animals come below people come below angels come below Holy Family. Mrs Green's place in the great scheme of things is not yet something that she is able to articulate to herself.

Mrs Green is delighted with the casting of Suzie Carduggan in the lead role. Such a bright and creative child and a pretty little thing, too! She'll make such a sweet little Mary. Suzie, outraged that Basil, by far the best actor in the school, has been relegated to a non-speaking bit-part, has other plans.

TT - 29 Alison Holds Back

When Eric and Eleanor moved into Anchor House they were so besotted with the place they hardly dared furnish it. Objects were not so much chosen for their new home as offered up to it for its approval: if they fell in with the rhythms of the time-worn interior they stayed, if not, they went back to the antique shop or were returned to the ever rotating stock of Briding family heirlooms. Conversely, the temporary items that were bought from junk shops to stop the gaps in this long organic process received no thought or care whatsoever. Inevitably, some of these items grafted themselves onto the house by default, eventually becoming as much a part of its personality as the 'beautiful pieces'. The Bridings, encountering the familiar contours and surfaces of their home on a daily basis, have gradually ceased to distinguish between the two classes of furnishing. It is only the visitor who is surprised to find that the Victorian brass light switch in the hallway illuminates a red plastic light shade, or that the walnut escritoire on the upper landing is complimented, or rather insulted, by an old school chair.

Today it is Alison Carduggan who sits in the Briding's kitchen and enjoys the unconventional relationship between a splay-legged Formica-top table and a beautifully restored fireplace with working bread oven. She is less bothered by the aesthetic shortcomings of the table, however, than by an almost perfect circle of jammy clag that sits just centimetres from her right elbow. Alison knows she has the self-control not to grab a damp dishcloth from the draining-board but she doesn't trust herself not to set about the offending smirch with a spit-dampened tissue. To lessen the temptation she turns her chair slightly to the left.

"I'll give them another shout." Eleanor says.
Alison has popped round to collect Suzie who has not returned home at the agreed time. This is because Suzie is busy upstairs playing the lead role of Mrs Green in Basil's latest musical extravaganza and is quite properly reluctant to interupt the artistic process for something as prosaic as 'tea'.
"Just five more minutes then." Alison hears Eleanor call up the stairs.
The shuffles and thumps that can be heard on the ceiling are the sounds of Suzie and Basil perfecting the choreography to their big show-stopping number 'Oh Dem Tartan Cardies!' in which Valishiana Green, the colonial plantation owner, is tied up with her own Pringle cardigan by her angry slaves, led by Lame Gordy but much aided by lil' Sue and Blind Boy Bridie.

Eleanor comes back into the kitchen. "Glass of wine? I've got a nice white already opened in the fridge."
"Oh that's kind of you..." Alison is prepaing to decline the offer but then changes her mind. "Oh go on then, why not!"
Alison feels quite devil-may-care as she sips the cold Vouvray and simply pushes aside the mental image of her cassoulet drying out in the oven at home.
"God, I need this." Eleanor says with a sigh.
"Bad day?"
"Well, just the usual really, although I can't say being bollocked by an octogenarian for being five minutes late whilst I've got my finger up his rectum is my ideal way to end the day."
"Oh dear!" says Alison.

"How about you?"
"Oh, quite busy. Drove Douglas's mother to her hospital appointment this morning. Then picked up Mr Dudly's pension. Cleared out the under-stairs cupboard." She casts around for more things that she has done that day. "Oh, and made Suzie's costume for the nativity play."
"Oh God, have you done that already!" Eleanor says. "You're so organised. I'll be doing it the night before the dress rehearsal."
"Well, yes, but I don't have a career..."
"Well, I should think full-time mum and vicar's wife is demanding enough."
Eleanor pours some more wine and both women manage to feel inadequate for exactly converse reasons.

"How's Douglas? Haven't seen him for ages." Eleanor says, then gives an embarrassed laugh. "Oh dear, that's not a very good admission to make to the vicar's wife is it?"
"Well, you're out ministering to the sick. I'm sure that's a much better way of expressing your love for the way of the Lord than droning though a few hymns on a Sunday morning."
"Mmmm, that's a nice way of putting it." Says Eleanor. The truth is, since Basil left the church choir she's been enjoying her Sunday morning lie-ins again.
"Douglas is fine, by the way." Alison says.
"Good."
"Well, I say fine." Alison frowns slightly and turns her wine glass in her hand. She takes a breath as though she's about to say something but doesn't. She looks Eleanor in the eye, opens her mouth, but still nothing. She looks down again and smiles.
"Is something worrying you, Alison?"
"Oh it's nothing, really."
Eleanor tops up her glass. "Come on, what is it?"

"I don't want to bore you with it."
"You won't bore me."
Alison drinks some more wine. She can hear the children still romping around upstairs.
"This is absolutely between you and me."
"Of course."
"Well, Douglas and I. We're not...We've stopped... How can I put it..."
"You've stopped having sex."
"That's about the long and short of it." Alison laughs nervously. "I mean, I know we're not love's young dream, anymore, but still..."
"But still, you miss the intimacy."
"Yes. Yes, I do."

"Listen, Alison, I have people coming to me all the time with exactly the same problem."
"Really?"
"Of course. Work demands, tiredness, children, it all takes its toll. I mean, when was the last time you both got into bed together when you weren't completely exhausted. I know there are times when Eric and I hardly get to speak to each other let alone make love."
"Yes, you're right. And Douglas has been so busy lately." She pauses. "It's just that...sometimes...it's as though we've stopped connecting on some level."
"It sounds to me as though you need to make some time to be with each other. Pack the kids off and have a romantic meal or something."
Alison laughs. "Douglas would wolf it down, say thanks, that was delicious darling, then be back in his study working on his play, or his sermon, or engrossed in one of his books!"

"Well, take him out somewhere then. Look, I know it can't be easy with Douglas's work schedule, but if you could manage to get a couple of days away you know I can always have Suzie."
"That's kind." Alison fiddles with the clasp on her bracelet. "Yes, perhaps you're right. Perhaps we just need some 'quality time' together.
"It's amazing how just making some time to be a couple again can really 'rekindle the spark'."
"It's such a relief to have someone to talk to, Eleanor. Thank you for listening."
"Of course. What are friends for. But look, if it doesn't resolve itself, I can recommend a really good marriage guidance councillor."
"Oh goodness, it's not that serious!”
"People always think of Marriage Guidance as the last resort, but all marriages have their ups and downs and a good councillor can really help."
"Maybe."

Alison can't see Douglas agreeing to discuss their sex life with a third party. There are good reasons why he won't discuss it with her, his own wife. Alison suppresses a sigh and drains the last of her wine
"Is there something else?" Eleanor says.
"No, no." Says Alison, quickly. "Just what I've told you."
They hear children’s voices followed by the thump of boisterous feet down the stairs.
"I'm sure it'll be fine." Eleanor rubs Alison's arm reassuringly.
"Of course." Says Alison brightly. "I mean, that's the wonderful thing about Douglas and me. First and foremost we're the best of friends."

TT 28 - Who's Been Cleaning Geoffrey’s Toilet?

“There you go, Dad.” Gabriel puts a mug of tea on the table beside Geoffrey’s armchair.
“Ah, bless you.” Geoffrey opens his eyes.
“I see you’ve got a cleaner in at last, then.” Gabriel has been gently nudging his father in this direction for some time.
“A cleaner?" Geoffrey laughs. "Dear me no! What made you think that?”
“Well, the place is looking a bit more…well, I just thought the place was looking nice and cosy.”
“Well I haven’t done anything to it.” Says Geoffrey. “And I haven’t had a cleaner in, either. They’re more trouble than their worth. Your mother and I tried it once, couldn’t find a bloody thing.” He chuckles at the memory.

It is true that Gabriel’s mother, the actress Sophie Masson, was just as ‘free-spirited’ in the domestic sphere as her husband and Gabriel himself grew up quite happily amongst a chaos of books and papers and dogs. But under his mother’s reign the house was at least clean if not tidy. But now his Mum is gone. His Dad’s mobility isn’t what it was, and his eyesight isn’t brilliant these days either, even with his glasses on. It isn’t that Gabriel cares about the dirty loo per se, but it makes him anxious about how much longer his Dad will be able to live independently. On his last visit, he noticed mould growing on the bathroom towels. Which is why this time he’s noticed that the towels have been washed. And the toilet brush holder replaced by one almost identical. And the toilet looks as though it has had a bit of a bleaching. So who is secretly cleaning his father’s house?

“What have you been up to this week then?” Gabriel asks, thinking this might shed some light on the matter.
“Oh, not much. Too cold to go out. They’ve had a very nice play on the radio this week, though. You should write for radio. It’s such a lovely intimate medium.”
“It’s a thought. Had any visitors?”
“No, not really. How’s your play coming along?”
“Oh God, I don’t know.” Gabriel slumps back into his armchair with a sigh. “I had this idea. Well, you know, the one I told you about. Which I really liked. Only when I came to write it… I don’t know. It would be impossible to stage, really. Maybe it should be a novel. Or maybe I should just start again.” Gabriel rubs his right eye and looks slightly beleaguered. “What about Eric. Has he been up lately?”
“Not recently, no. So what is all this with the writing anyway?”

Gabriel gets to his feet and walks over to the mantelpiece. “Oh I don’t know Dad. Something different. Thought I’d give it a go.” He picks up his graduation photograph. “Good Lord. Who’s this handsome young beast?”
They both laugh.
“Well, you were.” Geoffrey says. “And still are.”
“Jesus, Dad, how does it happen?”
“What?”
“Age.”
“You’re not old.”
“I’m nearly 50.”
“You’re 45.” Corrects Geoffrey sensibly.
“I’m as near to 50 as I am to 40.”
“You should try being nearly 80” Geoffrey says.

Gabriel picks up the painting of the two horses. “This is very sweet.” He turns it over. On the back in a child’s handwriting it says ‘Dear Geoffrey, thank you so much for my beautiful astrolabe. With lots of love from your friend Basil.’
“Is this from Eleanor’s boy?” Gabriel asks.
“Ah yes.” Says Geoffrey affectionatley and is about to add something but thinks better of it.
“Does Eleanor ever come up with Basil?” Gabriel can just imagine Eleanor sneaking up to the bathroom with a phial of bleach and a j-cloth.
“Not usually.” says Geoffrey, reading the question quite
differently. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about Dad.” Gabriel says, smiling broadly.
“No, of course not Gabe.”
“Another cuppa?”
“That would be lovely.”

TT -27 Len in Love

Winter has finally set in. The trees are black and bare. It is dark when the villagers get up in the morning and dark when they come home from work. And it is cold. The whispering North Sea breeze that wafts gently up the estuary in the summer has become a continual icy drone. Up in his loft, Len Magma lays blinking in the darkness. It was a lock-in the night before at The Railway and his clammy rumpled bed, so gratefully received when he’d stumbled back at nearly 2 O’clock that morning, is now a vast and inhospitable plain of loneliness and self-loathing.

Len didn’t used to drink this much. He’s always ‘liked a drop or two’ as Douglas puts it, but he would make a gradual descent into a boozy blur each evening and still be up for work the next morning with a reasonable degree of spring in his step. It is Len’s job to go around the village with a sack and a stick and pick up bits of rubbish. This might seem a lowly profession to some but for Len it is something of a vocation. Urban Bushman, Human Fox, One Man Recycling System, see it how you will, Len finds beauty and meaning in that which others carelessly discard. He is particularly fond of rubber and plastics, particularly if they have a vaguely clinical look about them - his most treasured item is the prosthetic leg he found a skip behind the old folks home.

In fact, up until now, Len’s life has been like a scruffy old item of clothing, the kind of thing that anyone might lounge around in when no-one is looking, only in Len's solipsistic world, no-one is ever looking. Now it has all gone wrong because Len is in love. Mrs Carduggan has knocked on the door to Len’s heart and Len has had to answer it in a gravy-stained vest. “How’s the barn?” “Busy again I see.” And if that weren’t enough provocation, there she is, wherever he looks, disporting herself before him in a dizzying array of saucy rubber hand-wear: pink, yellow, dimpled, lined, reinforced, until, by some strange process of transference, he has fallen in love with her. Now she is unhappy with him, but try as he might, Len can’t understand why. He pulls the turmeric stained quilt more tightly around him. Clearly Alison Carduggan is a sex tease.

He must make her a gift, he decides, to win back her affections. Len uses this thought to pull himself, hand over hand, out of his love-sick inertia. Very soon he is able to lever himself from the dank hollow of the collapsed mattress and pull on some wear-sodden clothes. They smell like a dish-cloth that has been left in sprout water but continuous usage has imprinted into the fibres the memory of every possible position of his knees, arse and elbows, making them sumptuously comfortable. He must be especially vigilant for new materials today, he thinks as he descends the stairs, and by the time he arrives at the front door he is whistling in joyful anticipation of a morning well spent.

TT - 26 An Entertaining Evening

Tony Styles, Editor, Reporter and Photographer for the Tendringhoe and Chasmundham News knows the rules when it comes to reviewing amateur productions: just enough criticism to make it credible then unadulterated praise from there on in. So it is that Eric Briding, as he stands at the makeshift bar in the foyer of the Reginald Spurgeon Hall, is still glowing from “Captures Perry’s pomposity perfectly”, “a decent first attempt at a principal part…” and “ a wholly entertaining evening.” Having taken a dreadful bollocking from Meg on the opening night for saying “Sorry Ann, I didn’t quite catch that” to the prompt, he feels quite exonerated. Alison too is pleased with “Alison Carduggan, as the vapid, twittering Felicity, provided some unexpected comic moments.”

It is true that they are both slightly niggled by the totally disproportionate amount of praise that has been heaped onto ‘undoubtedly the star of the show’ Gordon Green. In their opinion, Gordon’s was a rather clownish performance, based principally on much ad libbed ‘business’ with his trousers, that did nothing to enhance the development of the plot and a great deal to upstage the rest of the cast. Nonetheless, in the general after-show buzz they are all the best of friends and are certainly more interested in each other than they are in the friends and relatives who have turned up to give their support.

“Did you like the way I stood in front of Perry when talking to Hugh at the cocktail party.” Alison asks Douglas.
“Hmmm, very good, dear.”
“Yes, I thought that was quite a telling moment. Quite poignant.”
“Absolutely.” Douglas has no idea what she is talking about. Like everyone else, his attention at that moment had been on Gordon who had thrown himself onto the couch with such force that he had tipped it over backwards, ending up sprawled beneath it. What had made this even more hilarious was that, judging from the look of surprise on Gordon's face as he flipped backwards, it had been entirely unintended. His impromptu decision to deliver his next line comically from within the upturned piece of furniture had met with a foot-stamping cheer.

Alison, realising that she has milked all the praise that she is going to get out of her husband, wants to gravitate back towards the other cast members who still glow with self-congratulatory excitement. Douglas is trying to move in precisely the opposite direction. He is still extremely perturbed by Cleanth’s accusation. He is particularly anxious that Eric, once he realises that Douglas is being excluded from the Festival plans, will go digging around to try and find out why and, in the process, excavate the extraordinary slander. Douglas knows that for a man in his position any suggestion of sexual impropriety, particularly that kind of sexual impropriety, is a serious matter. The less people that come into contact with it the better, which means the longer he can put off discussing the festival with Eric the better. He is about to manoeuvre Alison just a little further away when feels a large hand clamp down on his shoulder.

“Reverend Carduggan!” It’s Gordon Green. “Enjoy the evening?”
“Oh Hello Gordon." Douglas lets out a little laugh. "Yes, yes, very much.” He leans back on his haunches and prepares to deliver a generous verdict.
“Good-good!” Gordon, who has already received more than enough love from the hilarified villagers, turns his attention to ‘his leading lady’.
“You were marvellous!” He says to Alison.
“Oh well, you were the star of the show” Alison says, and is annoyed to see that Gordon believes her.
“Oh darling! That’s so sweet of you! Bless you!”

“Gordon!” Val Green approaches closely enough to be within Gordon’s earshot, but not close enough to be drawn into the group.
“Hello Val.” Alison calls over.
“Oh hello Alison, hello Reverend.” Val, realising who Gordon is talking to, arranges her face into a more amenable expression and comes closer. She smiles at them obsequiously, “You were very good, Alison!”
“Oh, well, thank you!” Alison is delighted.
Val squeezes out another little smile in response then takes Gordon by the elbow and says more quietly “Are you getting me a drink or not...darling?

Gordon moves away with His Lovely Wife. There’s plenty more sharing of himself to be done at the bar and he can get Val off his back with a G&T at the same time. He propels Val in front of him . “Anything you desire sweet love of my life!” he proclaims, beaming, and without changing his facial expression adds, sotto voce, "And here's hoping you choke on the slice!"

TT - 25 Douglas Takes Michael by Surprise

Michael Glebe steps out into the cold November air and thinks about gloves for the first time in seven months. It seems so long since he's had to think about dressing his hands before leaving the house that he recalls the old routine as though it were some some strange and forgotten ritual from his distant past, like the annual letting down of his school blazer cuffs. He slings his bag across his body, courier style, and decides to brave it manually naked. He has already spent more time than seems possible in a hamster wheel of self-defeating tasks that morning and he can’t face going back into his flat above the cafe for another round of re-losing his keys whilst looking for his gloves which he knows he had right before he started looking for his library card...

Michael passes down the narrow side-passage between the cafe and the Morgan’s house and opens the gate into the little courtyard garden where Sal lets him keep his bike . Roz is standing outside the loo which has been tacked onto the back of the cafe. Her wild, aubergine hair is in two bunches today.
“Not planning on going in there, are you?” She says, nodding her head towards the lav door and dipping into a packet of Revels
“Hmm? Oh no - just getting my bike.” Michael says with a brief smile and takes hold of the handle bars.
“Good. I’m waiting to do a second flush.” She takes another handful of brown shiny nuggets and pops them into her mouth.

Michael is now in a bind. His flat is an existential horror scene of overdue library books, belching bins, and unopened mail. Beyond the passage is the High Street with its endless stream of beaming villagers looming up at him like manikins in a ghost ride "So?! How did it go? Should we call you Doctor Glebe? Not yet? Oh well, never mind. Chin up!" And between the rock and the hard place: Roz, hand dipping rhythmically into the Revels, waiting to go back in for a second flush.

Michael decides to make a dash straight across the High Street and into the church yard. Then it’s just a short stretch up Blythe Lane before escaping onto the footpath. This will take him across the railway tracks and out through the new housing development where he doesn't know anyone - where nobody knows anyone - and bring him back onto the University road a safe quarter of a mile beyond the village. He wheels his bike back up the passage, checks for oncoming pedestrians in both directions, then darts across the road and through the wrought iron gates of St Maggie’s churchyard. It’s a clear bright morning and the large trees cast strong shadows across the grass and the old tombs. One or two leaves still spin on invisible threads beneath the branches. The air smells of cold.

As Michael approaches the small gate that opens onto Blythe Lane he realises he is not yet ready to leave the tranquility of the churchyard. He leans his bike against a bench and sits down. Emboldened by the quietness of the village, he starts to fantasise about making it to the Village Deli unaccosted for a capuccino and a still-warm pecan slice. He’s already been through the ‘failed my viva, oh dear, how sad, never mind’ routine with the exuberantly camp proprietor, Jason (“never mind lovey, the examiner was probably just jealous of your biceps.”), and the shop should be quiet at this time of the morning.

Michael leaves his bike unlocked, not because Tendringhoe is idyllically free of crime, but because he has faith in its inbuilt anti-theft device, which is to say, only he knows that the handlebars have to be directed 6º east of the actual direction in which the rider intends to travel. The Deli dash is successful. The bike is still there when he returns. The Capuccino keeps his hands warm. It’s too good, of course, and sure enough, just as Michael has dabbed the last remaining dob of maple syrup from the paper wrapper he hears the vestry door open. Looking up he sees Douglas Carduggan swishing towards him in his Church of England frock, his crisp white surplus as beautifully shadowed as sculpted marble, and an oversized green and gold book-mark hanging round his neck.

Of all the silhouettes that currently threaten to pop up at windows, spring out of doorways, or lever up from the ground like a Western-themed target practice, Douglas’s is the most dreaded. Although he has never articulated it to himself explicitly, Michael intuitively understands that Douglas relishes a role; whether it be liberal vicar, godly gastronome, or Post-Bultmannian centre-forward, and he understands perfectly the bit-part that he is expected to play. Indeed, this is his own particular area of expertise. But how can Michael be Phaedrus to Douglas’s Socrates when he comes from the house of Lysias not with an exquisitely crafted speech but with a big fat turkey of a fail.

“Well if it isn’t young Mr Glebe!” Douglas sits beside him on the bench. Michael feels the wooden slats bow slightly beneath him.
“Hello Douglas, and before you ask - No - not good news I’m afraid.” Michael says with a grim smile.
“Oh dear.” Douglas replies, then adds quizzically “In what sense ‘not good news’?”
“The viva.”
Douglas looks lost for a moment, then he takes a sharp little breath of recognition. “Ah, yes. You’ve had that already, have you?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Oh dear. Sounds like it didn’t go too well.”
“Referred. Six months.”
“But you were expecting that you’d have to make some changes.”
“Well, minor corrections yes. But another six months! It was a bit of a blow to be honest with you Reverend.” Michael screws up the sticky cake wrapper and squeezes it inside his cardboard cup.


Douglas sits back on the bench and pretends to admire the day for a few moments. He has noted Michael's untypical use of his title and he guesses correctly that it is an implicit request for professional counsel. “Hmmm.” He says, after a while. “Suppose I were to ask you this - who are the people in your life whom you most admire? You don’t have to tell me, just make a little list in your mind.”
Michael thinks for a while. His grandfather comes instantly to mind, then he has to cast around a little further. He realises that there is something to admire in most of the people he loves, but his thoughts keeps coming back to his friend David, still fighting back from a devastating car accident.
“What do you admire about these people?”
“Oh God. Lots of things.” Michael sighs. “I suppose…I suppose I admire their dignity. And courage! And perseverence.” He stops talking and looks at Douglas. “Ah - I think I see your point.” He gives a little laugh but it unexpectedly catches on a tiny sob and he has to squeeze his eyes tightly shut for a moment.

Douglas puts a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Sometimes God allows us to fail one test so that we can pass another.”
Michael thinks it has nothing to do with God, but he’s comforted by the general gist. "Thank you." Michael smiles at Douglas appreciatively. "That helps, actually."
"Of course, of course." Douglas stands up with a grunt of effort. “I'm afraid I do have to dash off. Hospital Day today. But pop over later if you feel like a chat.”
“I might, actually, if that’s OK.”
“Of course.”
Michael gets up and throws his cup into the waste-paper bin then wheels his bike round onto the path.
“No cycling till you’re out of the gate!” Douglas says jokingly, as he walks away.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Vicar!” Michael says, rather camply. His spirits are quite improved.

Douglas continues across the churchyard. “Poor old Michael.” He thinks. He can see that he his young friend has had a bit of a blow to the old self-esteem. He rather imagines that this is Michael’s first brush with academic failure.

As Douglas strides through the church gates he is spotted by Cleanth Morgan, who is staring idly from an upstairs window with his extra strong cup of early morning decaff. The sight of the vicar, a billowing pillar of black and white, still fills Cleanth with the unpleasant memory of a situation left unconfronted - unconfronted because of his own impotence and cowardice. As Douglas turns into the High Street, Cleanth suddenly puts down his cup and flings open the window, sending a pigeon flapping into the air. Douglas looks up, startled.
“I KNOW EVERYTHING!” Cleanth announces.
Douglas can only assume that Cleanth is enjoying some kind of obscure joke. “Surely only The Lord knows everything, Cleanth” He replies, adopting the usual embouchure.
The Vicar's smug jocularity only enflames Cleanth further. “Pervert!” He shouts, his Canadian ‘r’s’ almost entirely swallowing the consonants, but although he forces his head agressively forwards his shoulders are already retreating and his arms have begun to pull the windows closed behind him.

Douglas stands in the street below, stunned. What does Cleanth think he knows? What riduculous conclusions has his nasty little mind drawn from what he's just seen? Was it because he put his hand on Michael's shoulder?! Douglas consciously directs his mind to the thought that Cleanth must have gone quite insane, either that, or he's projecting his own fears and desires, but another voice says ‘How could Cleanth know? How could Cleanth possibly know!"

TT 24 - Douglas Has an Unexpected Pleasure.

When Douglas hears the side-gate open he is convinced that it is Michael Glebe, and he adopts the attitude of a man deeply immersed in thought.
"Alright Vic!"
It's not Michael at all, but St Maggie's newest parishioner.
"Don't mind if I join you, do you?" Dave Gill plops down onto the bench beside Douglas and lets out a sigh of effort. 30 years of Cocaine, alcohol and blonde model-actresses have taken their toll on his ticker. "What a fantastic bloody day, eh Vic?!" Dave clasps his hands beneath his grey pony tail and stretches out his drain-pipe legs.
"Ah, Mr Gill, an unexpected pleasure."

Whilst the Reverend Carduggan is not immune to the celebrity status of the former lead-guitarist of Crimfish, nor uncognizant of the fact that he could pay for the much needed repairs to the church organ with a single flourish of his cheque-book, he feels somewhat perturbed by Dave's bullish familiarity. Since leaving school, Douglas has successfully created a cordon-sanitaire of intellectualism and cultivation around himself: his little white collar the final ring of protection against the oppressively 'cool', easy-going popularity of Dave types. He is certainly not accustomed to being addressed as 'Vic'. To regain his priestly dignity, Douglas adopts a position of wry detachment in relation to Dave, and there is plenty to be wry about. At the same time, there is, in this battered old rocker, an openness, a curiosity, an innocent ability to relish the part without bothering with the whole, that Douglas can't help being drawn to.

"What you reading then?" Dave picks up Douglas's book, and nods his head sagely. "Ah, the old Saccry Representatziony eh? Quite interested in that myself."
"Really?" Douglas is slightly affronted for a moment, then the wryness returns. "In what capacity?"
"When we were doing the really big stadium tours back in the 70's, we did some pretty spectacular shows. For our 'Flick of the Devil's Tail' tour, yeah?, we kind of took some ideas from old christian mystery plays and spectacles, then twisted them, you know..." Dave trails off. He has realised what he is saying. "It's quite interesting though, that whole history of Christian theatre, isn't it Father"
Douglas winces. He wonders whether Dave cares at all which denomination provides his spiritual fix.

"I'm not a Catholic Priest, Dave."
"No, I know that, Vic." Dave is slightly puzzled.
Douglas decides to let it go. "So - to what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I want to talk to you about Isaiah, chapter 40, that bit about the voice that crieth in the wilderness...” Dave holds out his hands and looks skywards. Douglas puts his arm over the back of the bench and prepares himself to listen. Which other of his parishioners, after all, would bowl in full of the joys of spring to talk about Isa.40:3.

By the time Dave leaves, Douglas decides he rather likes the fellow, extraordinary as he is. What's more, he's left Douglas with some interesting thoughts about how the rock gig is today's equivalent of the old religious spectacle. No wonder the Anglican church faces an uncertain future when it leaves the task of affecting the mind, memory and will of the unlearned masses to scruffy young rock stars. He picks up his empty mug and his book and makes his way back to the house. Again Alison catches sight of him and again he is lost in thought. This time, he is pondering whether he would look preposterous in a leather jacket, not unlike the one Dave was wearing. Which is odd, because as Dave drives back to the farm in his Land Rover he’s thinking he’d quite like a proper tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows like the Vicar’s - and perhaps a cap to match.