Anthills and Stars E-Book

Kevin Duffy

• Herausgeber: Bluemoose Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 337

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

It is 1968 and in Paris the students are rioting but in Broughton 20 miles East of Manchester The Permissive Society has arrived driving a VW camper van and the locals aren't best pleased.

Leseprobe

ANTHILLS

AND STARS

Kevin Duffy

Copyright © Kevin Duffy 2006

First published in 2006 by

Bluemoose Books Ltd 25 Sackville Street

Hebden Bridge

West Yorkshire

HX7 7DJ

www.bluemoosebooks.com

All rights reserved

Unauthorised duplication contravenes existing laws

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 0-9553367-0-8

Printed and bound in Europe by The Alden Group

To Margaret Mary Winifred Duffy

Thanks to my family, Hetha, Leo and Cal, for their patience and understanding.

Chapter 1

To a generation who had turned on, tuned in and dropped out, the lure of dark satanic hills, fast flowing streams and cheap property was ideal. And so they came, bearded, beaded, sons and daughters of the Beat generation, eager to live their idyll and commune with Mother Nature. The first rainbow-coloured van arrived at number twenty-three Prospect Street, Broughton at 9.30 one cold wet Thursday morning. Neither Broughton nor its inhabitants were ready for The Permissive Society, especially when it came in the guise of one Solomon Tump. With mills and factories closing every week, the last thing Mrs Hebblethwaite needed was a hippy moving in next door. It may have been heading towards the Summer of Love elsewhere, but the spring of 1968 was proving difficult for this northern town.

Mrs Hebblethwaite was filling the coal scuttle when she saw Solomon Tump arrive. Not trusting her failing eyes, she gave the kitchen window a quick wipe with her pinny. The vision she saw confirmed that hell was only twenty feet away. Mrs Hebblethwaite was from that school of Catholicism which applauded plagues of locusts and encouraged frogs to descend from the heavens. She spat great tracts from the gospels with a forked tongue and the jury was still out as to whether she would kill the first-born of those that didn’t believe.

The heathen that got out of the van was well over six feet tall, with a head of hair that was as wild and dissolute as the village drunk. He was wearing a moth-eaten coat and flared jeans that flapped about like a couple of half-dead fish marooned on dry land. Her first instinct was to go out, cut his hair and give him a good scrub with some carbolic but she knew it would take more than soap and water to rid Broughton of its first hippy.

Solomon made several trips into the van and Mrs Hebblethwaite was perturbed to see that books, carpets, pipes, albums, a record player, posters, guitars and even a tin whistle were being carried into the hippies new house. Finally Cass, his girlfriend of ten years, emerged with their eighteen month old son, Leo and they all disappeared into number 23 Prospect Street. Mrs Hebblethwaite seethed like a boiling kettle and after seeing Solomon take the final piece of furniture into the house, she dropped the coal scuttle, took off her pinny, blessed herself and walked as quickly as her ample frame allowed to the presbytery.

Mrs Hebblethwaite had never really taken to Father O’Dowd. He was young, he said Mass too quickly and he dished the communion host out as though he were dealing a hand of poker. However, if Satan and his works were moving in next door then she wanted all the help she could get.

The Church of The Immaculate Conception was situated at the top of Millgate; its grandeur and opulence stood in stark contrast to its barren surroundings. Two massive spires greeted the worshippers, a mini Notre Dame in the wastelands of the North West. The adjoining presbytery was a scaled-down model of the church itself, with a row of statues housed above the doorway imploring the citizens of Broughton to worship.

She knocked on the presbytery door. Miss Mcafferty, the ageing housekeeper, stuck her head round the door like a chastened child. “Mrs Hebblethwaite, you look like you’ve been chased by the four horsemen of the Apocalypse,” she said in a thick Irish brogue that had not been tempered by forty-two years of living in England.

“Is Father in?” Mrs Hebblethwaite said, annoyed that she had to get past this first line of defence. Miss Mcafferty didn’t reply. She closed the door, disappeared into the presbytery and returned a couple of minutes later to usher Mrs Hebblethwaite into the house. Miss Mcafferty stopped outside Father O’Dowd’s office and said “Father, Mrs Hebblethwaite to see you.” She returned to her domestic chores, annoyed that she’d been interrupted.

Father O’Dowd stood up and greeted his parishioner. “Good morning, Mrs Hebblethwaite. What can I do for you?” he said, as he grasped her hand and invited her to sit down.

“Well Father ...” she said, not knowing how to broach the arrival of the permissive society in Broughton. “You’ll think me silly, but it’s me neighbours, they’re ...” She struggled to find the right word. “ ... they’re pagans, Father, devil worshippers, all hair and posters and speakers the size of cupboards and dressed in all manner of things.” Mrs Hebblethwaite took out her rosary beads and was rolling them around in her hands. “ And pipes, Father! They brought pipes in and you know what they use pipes forandthey’ve got a child and I don’t think it’ll be baptised, do you?” Father O’Dowd wanted to interrupt but knew better. “What are you going to do, Father? Are you going to tell the Bishop, because I think he should know if there’s devil worship in Broughton, then he can come down and exorcise them! We don’t want our children learning about smoking pipes and listening to who knows what. You’ve got to do something Father, you’vegotto. Shall we pray now? Yes, that’s what we’ll do, we’ll pray.” Mrs Hebblethwaite fell to her knees and prayed very loudly to the Virgin Mary for help. She was about to do a tour of her rosary beads when Father O’Dowd helped her to her feet.

“You don’t think you’re getting ahead of yourself, do you Mrs Hebblethwaite?” he said. She exhaled with all the contempt of a true zealot and wondered how this supposed priest in front of her had the gall, nay temerity, to profess the word of the Lord. She hadn’t spent the best part of her tragic life on bended knee to be told she was ahead of herself. Had she not embraced the Catholic Church happy in the knowledge that it never wavered in its denunciation of sin, that it revelled in making clear distinctions between what is black and what is white? However, she’d always known deep down that come the day sin arrived in Broughton he would be found wanting. And how!

She gave him her Old Testament look and said witheringly “Father Richardson would have done something!” She put her rosary beads into her cavernous handbag. “He was aproperpriest,” she continued, marching towards the door. “He’d ‘ave told them what they could do with their bloody drums and pipes!”

Father O’Dowd tried to reclaim the ground he’d lost but found himself talking to her back as she disappeared down the hallway, ranting and cursing and intoning the Holy Scriptures in that punctuated way only elderly women of the church can.

Angry and hurt, Mrs Hebblethwaite bustled down Millgate like an overweight fell runner, barely able to keep her feet on the cobblestones. It was her stout footwear that finally stopped this incensed ball of Catholicism being knocked down by the number twenty-three bus. She was in no mood to brook any nonsense from a vehicle, priest, or long-haired hippy. Still mouthing tracts from the Scriptures she strode across the market, ignoring pleas from friends who tried to find out what was wrong. She did however smile and wave to Mrs Holroyd, whose husband had recently passed away.

Never in her sixty-eight years as a Catholic had she felt as depressed as she did now. Under her breath she was still chuntering. “Not out of his nappies and he’s trying to tell me what’s right and wrong,” she said. She didn’t take too kindly to being upbraided by anyone, especially by a priest young enough to be one of her grandsons. “I bet he doesn’t know his chasuble from his cassock!”

A couple of her younger friends noticed her talking to herself, but kept their heads down, in case she unleashed her obvious anger at them. She rounded Der Lane, misty-eyed from her exertions, desperate to get home and find out what was happening. What she found was that the van that had delivered the Permissive Society to Broughton was still there along with its driver, who sat on a wall smoking.

“Typical,” she said. “I bet the lazy bugger’s never done a day’s work in his life.” She walked down Prospect Street towards Solomon like Gary Cooper in High Noon.

If Ethel Hebblethwaite hadn’t already had enough shocks that day, the next vision nearly killed her. She saw her third-eldest grandson, Gary, who lived across the street with his mum and dad and a sister, talking to the man with the hair and the van. If that deed alone didn’t warrant punishment from the Lord himself, what her grandson was actually doing, did: Gary was smoking a strange smelling cigarette.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” she said as she blessed herself. She took a deep breath and glared at her grandson. “What the bloody hell are you doing?” she yelled, managing to grab the roll-up from his teenage mouth and toss it over into next door’s garden. Gary stood there more frightened than embarrassed. He’d been belted before, but he’d never witnessed his Nan in such a mood. Her eyes bore into him like red-hot coals. “You!” she bellowed, pointing at her grandson, “Get inside and stay there until I say so.” She directed Gary to her house and he sheepishly followed her instructions.

Mrs Hebblethwaite put her handbag down and looked at Solomon, placed her hands on her hips and puffed her chest out. She didn’t need her Old Testament stare this time; she just thrust an accusing forefinger at him and shouted “You’ve only been here a bloody minute and you’re up to your tricks, aren’t you!” She paused. “I go up to church to have a word, and what happens? I come back and you’re passing the bloody peace pipe round with my grandson. First it’s drugs and then God only knows – and he’s not telling.”

Solomon got off the wall and tried to say something. Nobody interrupted Mrs Hebblethwaite, not even Solomon Tump.

“He’s sixteen and he should be at work, not bloody day-dreaming with you, smoking you-know-what.”

Solomon smiled and put his hand out in a gesture of conciliation. Mrs Hebblethwaite looked at him, then at his hand and said: “I‘m not shaking that dirty thing!” As she said it, she looked down and noticed that his nails were beautifully manicured. She looked up.

“Solomon Tump, pleased to meet you.” He kept his hand out, but she didn’t shake it.

“You may be pleased, but I’m bloody not,” she said. Picking up her handbag she walked into the house, ready to give Gary a piece of her very angry mind.

Solomon wasn’t annoyed or offended: dismayed perhaps, because he thought Broughton was slightly different from all the other towns and villages they had visited. Solomon, his girlfriend Cass and their son Leo, who was now eighteen months old and had just started to walk, had been travelling around Great Britain for three years. They had chosen Broughton because property was cheap, the countryside was stunning, and there was a burgeoning movement of like-minded people who wanted to get away from city life and live off the land. They’d been on the Hippy Trail in India and were all Ashramed out. George Harrison may have found his Chakras in the foothills of Henley, but those that couldn’t afford Nirvana looked to outposts like Broughton to start afresh. One unhappy old lady wouldn’t put them off but it wasn’t the best of starts. He walked towards their new house, a little concerned that he’d got Gary into trouble with his grandma and reminded himself to apologise to both when the time was right.

Cass came to the door smiling, her long red hair cascading over her shoulders and she flicked the locks away from her face to reveal green eyes which were alluring and beautiful, funny and strong. Although Cass had agreed to put some roots down and stay put for a while, she wasn’t that convinced running a shop in Broughton was the best idea. Two years ago they would have laughed at such a turn of events, telling each other that to run a shop and join the rest of the ants, working all hours God sent, would be selling out. How times change when your body clock enters its fourth decade. However, she acquiesced hoping that this move would bring them closer together.

She brought Leo out into the garden.

“Everything OK?” she asked with genuine concern.

“I’ve upset the neighbours,” he replied, his eyes rolling skywards. “Gave a rolly to a lad who turned out to be her grandson.” He took Leo from her arms and blew a big wet raspberry on his cheek, which made them both giggle.

“I suppose you’re the devil incarnate, and I’m the wicked witch from the west,” Cass laughed, reminding Solomon of the onslaught they received from an evangelical minister, who tried to sell them tickets to his tented mission in Salisbury last year. He laughed and threw Leo into the air.

“Come on, let’s go for a wander,” Solomon said, passing his son to Cass. He locked the door and the three of them left Prospect Street to Mrs Hebblethwaite and her tongue.

Chapter 2

It was twenty years ago to the day that Thomas O’Dowd, a spindly youth of eleven, walked into his secondary school and saw ‘The Monk’ hovering over him like a beast of prey. Thomas’s only thought was that he hoped ‘The Monk’ wasn’t angry, because he had been told at Sunday school that little children were often beaten for thinking naughty thoughts.

“There are anthills in this world, O’Dowd, and there are stars,” the Monk said. He’d obviously had a good day because he hadn’t laid a hand on him yet. “The anthills are inhabited by creatures of limited intelligence. Their role, to work tirelessly for the good of everyone.” The Monk looked heavenward and continued. “The Stars are jewels that light up our firmament with their creativity and boundless energy. They have to be nurtured and treasured.” The Monk pointed at him with a long finger and equally long fingernails. Thomas had never seen men with fingernails like that. Everyone he knew had stumpy fat things like sausage rolls.

”You, however, have been allocated to the anthill, so you must work hard O’Dowd. It may not be the best of starts but, with some application and good honest toil, you may get a chance to star! ”

Monsignor Dodson took it upon himself personally to welcome the new entrants into the school and it was done with great theatricality. Thomas thanked the priest, who told him he would pray for his soul and with a sweep of his black coat, he was off to care for all the other souls who’d just started their first day.

Father O’Dowd sat in his office, collar off, shoes undone and feet on his desk. He shook his head at the thought of his old headmaster and his fine words of wisdom.

“Thank God for Elvis Presley, the Beatles and Afghan coats,” He said to himself. Perhaps if he played ‘A Hard Day’s Night’ to Mrs Hebblethwaite she might undergo some kind of tolerance conversion and embrace her new neighbour. He enjoyed these bouts of fancy and laughed, just in time to see Miss Mcafferty round the corner. He took his feet off the table and rearranged his collar.

She tapped him on the shoulder and said: “Dinner’s ready, Father.”

“Right,” he said, smiling weakly in the knowledge that his housekeeper excelled in many things but cooking wasn’t one of them. As she left the room he grimaced at the prospect of yet more tortured cabbage, distressed carrots and minced meat you could play marbles with. When his mother came, and that was often, there was always high tension before his mother realised that Miss Mcafferty lived and worked in the kitchen and it wasn’t her place to tell the housekeeper what to cook. He didn’t know who the patron saint of lost culinary causes was, but he was desperate to find out.

They sat down at the table which had been waxed and polished for over a hundred and thirty years, giving the table a buffed-up look. However, it did mean that whatever was cooked had an added herb. Beeswax. He addressed the food and said grace.

As soon as his eyes opened Miss Mcafferty looked at him inquisitively. “Well, what are you going to do about yer man Father?” His housekeeper said, biting into her cheese and biscuits. She never had a cooked meal herself, he noticed. Father O’Dowd realised that the man she was referring too wasn’t your man in the general sense that she normally meant, but yer man Mrs Hebblethwaite was concerned with.

“Listening at the door, were we?” he asked.

“Well, Mrs Hebblethwaite doesn’t hide her voice under a bushel, does she Father?” she said, paraphrasing the scriptures with her usual skill.

“Her new neighbour’s done nothing wrong as far as I can see, Miss Mcafferty, apart from wear flared trousers, long hair and smoke roll-ups,” he said, viewing the meal in front of him with some trepidation. Every meal was like fire-walking. “And there is nothing in the Bible that says he can’t.”

Father O’Dowd took the plunge and put the tepid cabbage into his mouth and swallowed, relieved that the pepper he always had at hand managed to give it some taste. The mince created a far more difficult problem because it couldn’t be just swallowed, it had to be addressed, drawn and quartered, and then eaten. As he was busy chopping and cutting, his housekeeper asked: “When’s your mother coming?”

He had a mouthful of food and gestured to her that he would answer once he’d finished eating. “Two weeks,” he replied eventually. She nodded.

Only two more mouthfuls and he could go for his early evening walk. Mouthfuls two and three dutifully followed and the meal was over. He thanked Miss Mcafferty, who seemed annoyed that she hadn’t received first-hand knowledge of what Father was going to do. It was one of the perks of the job to know what Father was doing. There were so many ladies in the parish who craved such information, Mrs Hebblethwaite being one of them. He placed his knife and fork on his plate, and said grace.

Father O’Dowd closed the presbytery door behind him and walked leisurely down Millgate, glad to get some fresh air. Ever since he’d arrived in Broughton, he’d taken it upon himself to walk through the town, giving himself a presence, raising the profile a bit and enabling him to try and get to know the town and its people. It also gave him the opportunity to get away from the phone and enjoy the beautiful scenery that hugged the valley to its chest. The hills, which formed a natural amphitheatre, tore through the shroud of greenery like brooding, grumpy teenagers, full of anger and were constantly being punished by the incessant rain. It seemed that in centuries past, some unimaginable slight had been done to the gods and their punishment was to have the heavens open up on Broughton whenever the mood took.

The parish of Broughton was home to several different communities. Father O’Dowd administered to Poles and Ukrainians who both came to the town after the Second World War, and a host of Irish workers who had left the Emerald Isle during the famine. There were a few Italian families that had settled in Broughton, mainly those Italian soldiers that were prisoners of war in a nearby camp and had stayed on after 1945. It was a heady mix, especially when a few pints had been downed.

It was six o’clock and he was the only person about, apart from two young boys who tried to hide when they saw him and his collar approach. They coughed on their cheap cigarettes and giggled as he walked past, fully aware that Mrs Bingley and Mrs Arkwright would not be best pleased their thirteen-year-old sons were already smoking. Most of the working men were in one of the pubs having a pint before returning home for their tea. Those that weren’t working would be reading their newspapers, tending their allotments or sleeping.

He crossed over the bridge where the river separated the two Town Halls. He had been told that this had nothing to do with civic munificence, but everything to do with the pride and arrogance of a mill-owner’s son.

Father O’Dowd passed the town halls and looked across at the canal, which ran parallel to the river. The canal was a star-gazy pie of a navigation, a watery repository of household waste, a floating tip. The glory days of bringing coal and cotton had long gone; these days it left Broughton rather embarrassed at its own indolence and scuttled off towards Manchester.

Broughton had suffered terribly in the past ten years. Mr Macmillan may have told everyone else that they’d ‘never had it so good’, but the good folk of this northern town had not. Of the eighteen mills that produced textiles after the war, only three remained. Unemployment was four times the national average and there had been a Diaspora of young men and women in the past five years. The town was battered and bruised, too busy trying to look for gainful employment to notice the Swinging Sixties.

Father O’Dowd had been there only three months and although, as yet, they hadn’t accepted him with open prayer books, he was beginning to feel more at home in Broughton. He crossed Water Street and idled by The Flying Swan, one of eight pubs in the town. Mr Hetherington sidled out, a cigarette in his mouth and his cap at an angle that told the priest he’d had a good time. “Good evening for one,” he said as he tipped his hat.

“Yes,” Father O’Dowd replied without understanding.

The priest looked down the street and saw some colourful clothes approaching, two sets of big hair, and what looked like a small baby. “The Permissive Society no doubt!” he smiled to himself, quite pleased with his detective work. Solomon, Cass and their baby son were also taking in the sights of Broughton.

“Lovely evening,” Father O’Dowd said to them. Cass smiled.

“It is, isn’t it?” she replied as they passed each other. Solomon didn’t speak but nodded in recognition.

“So those are the people who are going to turn Broughton into Sodom and Gomorrah,” Father O’Dowd said to a lone pigeon that had joined him for this part of his walk. It was unfortunate for Broughton that where music was concerned the town was at least a decade behind. They had just discarded the big band era and were quiffing up for Elvis when the Beatles arrived. People in Broughton were happily parading around in drainpipe jeans, brothel creepers and beehive hairdos. Afghan coats, patchouli oil and the mystical East were not on the radar, and although Solomon looked like thousands of others in 1968, Father O’Dowd could well understand how Mrs Hebblethwaite felt. He crossed New Road, and down Hill View, before turning into Prospect Street.

“Oh, it’s you!” Mrs Hebblethwaite said as she opened the door. She was still angry he thought as he went into her house. He walked through the hall, past the picture of the Pope and also one of President John F.Kennedy, which was quite the norm in Irish Catholic households. Although not a shrine to the Catholic faith, there were four statues of saints: Agnes, who protected virgins; Anthony, who was one for lost causes; Philip, the apostle, and finally Bartholomew, who was flailed to death in Armenia and was chief of the hair shirt brigade. Father O’Dowd guessed these were the Hebblethwaite household’s security. They didn’t require the services of a dog or an alarm system; these statues were enough to deter the hardest of criminals. Or so they thought. If you drew a line from each of their eyes, in true spot the ball fashion, at the intersection of all four would be the Hebblethwaite fortune. It was common practice, and well known amongst the clergy. It was a good job he wasn’t a common-or-garden thief, because he could see straight away where their limited funds were hidden.

Mr Hebblethwaite was at the table, still in his overalls, reading the Daily Herald. He turned, put the paper down, took his reading glasses off and greeted the priest far too warmly for his wife’s liking. “Hello Father, good to see you,” he said, smiling his toothless smile. “Cup of tea?” He stood up. “Ethel, get Father a cup of tea.” His wife grimaced slightly and went into the kitchen.

“So what brings you round here?” he asked.

“Your new neighbours, Sam.”

“You mean that thing parked outside?” he said, pointing in the general direction of next door. “Ethel’s told me all about them, bloody long-haired louts.” Mr Hebblethwaite wasn’t the devoutest of souls but he did realise he had sworn in front of a man of the cloth and, although not worried about embarrassing the priest, he was concerned about his wife’s response. “He even tried to get our Gary smoking funny baccy, can you believe that Father? Only been here half a day and he’s started selling the stuff? Even Vatican Two would have something to say on that, wouldn’t they?” Mr Hebblethwaite laughed. He liked laughing at his own jokes, as did the rest of his body, which was quite considerable.

“I’ve just passed them on the High Street and yes, they may be wearing strange clothes but they seemed decent enough,” the parish priest said as he sat down on the sofa that the Hebblethwaite’s had received as a wedding present. “I think we should give them a little bit of time to settle in before we start making judgments.” The priest looked at Mr Hebblethwaite and smiled.

Mrs Hebblethwaite came in with the tea. “You mean give them enough time to get people like our Gary,” she snorted, handing the cup of tea to Father O’Dowd. “Going round getting up to all sorts! By the time you think it’s about right to have a say, it’ll be too late, won’t it Father?” She handed him a biscuit, re-filled her husband’s mug and sat down.

“It’s like I said to our Jessie about the Pill and the like, putting all these contraceptives into young people’s minds, it’s not right.” Mrs Hebblethwaite was known to pronounce on everything and her opinion was not to be challenged, well not in the Hebblethwaite household ... “Before you know it, there’ll be young girls having babies willy-nilly in the High Street and what will you do then, I’d like to know?” She took a biscuit. “No, you have to make a stand somewhere and mine’s here.” Her dentures demolished the digestive in two angry bites. “They’ve already had their music on full blast and that was a bloody racket. Sounded like they were killing a cat, which I wouldn’t put past them.”

Mr Hebblethwaite witnessed what she said and logged it for future reference: his wife swore in front of a priest. She paused, took a mouthful of tea and continued. “And what about the baby, they have a duty to that child ...” Father O’Dowd feared he had walked into a rant, and he was right.

“Mrs Hebblethwaite.” He placed his hands together as in prayer, paused and said: “Look, I know you’re concerned about the permissive society and –” He didn’t have time to finish.

“Concerned?Concerned?” She wasn’t ranting, she was apoplectic. “I’ve got seven grandchildren and I don’t want them cavorting around with the likes of those with no respect for their own or anyone else’s bodies.” She didn’t pause for breath; she was being fuelled by a divine wind. “They can have their permissive whatever it is in London, but I don’t want it next door to me. Bloody music and drugs, chanting like animals and doing heathen things to each other.”

Mr Hebblethwaite wanted to know what all these heathen things were and how his wife knew about them. She made a fateful pause and the priest seized his chance.

“Look, I’ll go round and have a word –” He didn’t get to finish his sentence because she stood up, motioned to her husband, nodded to Father and left the room. If there was one thing Mrs Hebblethwaite detested more than young priests, it was young priests who didn’t grab things by the horns and deal with the issue in hand.

“She’s not happy, Father, and to tell you the truth neither am I.”

Father O’Dowd drank his tea, thanked Sam for his hospitality and went next door.

Chapter 3

Solomon was coming down the stairs, having put Leo to bed, when he saw Father O’Dowd walking down the front path. He called to Cass, who was busy in the kitchen, “Swiss Guard’s arrived!” Solomon opened the door before Father O’Dowd had time to knock or announce his arrival. “Come in, Father.”

The priest smiled wanly. He went into the front room, which was still full of boxes and books. The only item that had been unpacked and positioned was the record player and it was on, much to their neighbours’ annoyance.

“I thought I’d just pop round and welcome you to Broughton,” he said and proffered a hand to Solomon. “Thomas O’Dowd.” He looked across the room to see Cass enter.

“Hello again,” she said.

“I was just saying to ...” He looked at Solomon.

“Solomon. Solomon Tump.”

“Yes, I was just saying to Solomon that I thought I’d pop round and welcome you to Broughton.”

“That’s very kind,” Cass said. “Would you like a cup of tea? Coffee? Something stronger?”

He didn’t really want anything, having just had a cup of tea at the Hebblethwaite’s’, but he didn’t want to appear rude. “Coffee will be fine, thank you.”

Father O’Dowd sat down opposite Solomon. Having just been on the receiving end of one of his parishioners’ rants about life, death and ineffectual clergy, he waited for his host to speak. He didn’t. Father hated silence and so he always talked, to himself if needs must or to God if everything else failed. Solomon, however, seemed to embrace the quiet and looked up every now and then, smiling. He was preoccupied with rolling a cigarette. Father didn’t know whether there was anything strange going into it, as the neighbours would have him believe, but as he couldn’t smell any unusual aroma he felt assured that it was only nicotine. Solomon sat cross-legged on the floor, his head bowed slightly, consumed with the activity in hand.

For the first time he could remember, Father O’Dowd didn’t want to break the silence, he was content to just to watch and gaze at Solomon. He hadn’t really noticed him before when they passed on the street, just that he had big hair which consumed most of his face. Sitting in his front room he saw his face properly, as the curtain of hair was flicked away from each cheek at regular intervals. The priest found himself gazing intently at him and blushed slightly when Solomon raised his head and caught him watching. It was like a child caught stealing some sweets for the first time, but he just kept on looking at Solomon. He had beautifully chiseled features, fine and delicate, and a flared jaw that exuded character. His cheekbones had been stolen from Bridget Bardot and looking down onto them were eyes, incandescent, translucent, emerald green windows that shone with an energy and vigour, as compelling as they were frightening. They seemed to be aware of how he was feeling, how he’d felt and what he may feel in the future.

Solomon was calm, serene, and worldly. Thomas had never felt like this before. The man in front of him, engaged in the erotic act of rolling a cigarette, was doing to Father O’Dowd what nobody had ever done before. He was arousing him, and with such an intensity. He flattened his coat and could feel the erection trying to fight its way out of his soutane, trying to exit any which way it could. He was pleased, offended, angry and annoyed. Solomon placed the lit cigarette between his puckered lips. He drew on it, exhaled and proffered it to the priest. Blushing slightly, Father O’Dowd declined. Cass came into the room with the coffee but he didn’t notice: his gaze was still firmly fixed on Solomon. He couldn’t think, talk, respond. He just sat there transfixed by the beauty that sat before him smoking a cigarette. He’d never had such an experience before and wanted to get back to church as quickly as possible and ask forgiveness. He’d witnessed the naked gambolling of fellow seminarians in his college, but that had never aroused him. To be aroused so blatantly by a man he had just met, not touched, or had hardly spoken to, was unnerving.

The spell was finally broken by Cass bending down and giving him his coffee.

“Thank you,” he said tremulously.

Cass sat next to Solomon and put her arm round him, and kissed him on the cheek. She took the cigarette from his mouth and started to smoke it herself. Nicotine harmony. ‘Well, there are some perks of a relationship,’ she thought as she blew a perfect smoke ring across the room towards Che Guevara and all his other revolutionary friends.

“Is it about Gary?” Solomon finally asked, combing his hair with his long slender hands.

“Well, I suppose ...” Father O’Dowd checked himself, then continued. “ ... in a way. Mrs Hebblethwaite seems concerned that your presence here might lead to him being led astray, so to speak,” he mumbled.

“I see. Long hair, flares, roll-ups and music. Is that such a threatening sight?” Solomon said, retrieving his cigarette from Cass.

“No, but you have to realise that some people are not used to –”

“People like us,” interjected Cass.

“Yes,” Father O’Dowd said, slightly annoyed that his train of thought had been disrupted.

“A little bit of something can add to a community, don’t you think, Thomas?”

“Yes,” he agreed.

“And we’ve done nothing wrong, have we?” Solomon said.

“No.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Father O’Dowd, still erect and confused, was incapable of formulating a Jesuitical response and tried to gain some time by drinking his coffee. “There isn’t a problem as such,” he prevaricated. “It’s just that I’d like you to know that there are some people in Broughton who’ll find it difficult to accept you straight away.” Father Thomas was not one for debate. “But I’m sure in time they’ll get used to you.”

“What, like they do cats and dogs?” Solomon asked.

“No. But for the time being, if you could keep a lowish profile ...”

Solomon looked at Cass and laughed. “How can I keep a low profile in clothes like these?” he said, pointing to his orange and maroon flared jeans. “Look Thomas, we just want a quiet life. We’re not into anything heavy, we’ve got a young child and we just want to bring him up as best we can.”

“That’s fine, but could you just be careful with Gary, he’s only sixteen and –”

Again Cass finished the priest’s sentence: “Impressionable. Don’t worry, Father. We’ve all been there.” She realised what she had said, smiled and continued. “Well, I suppose some of us have been there.”

Father O’Dowd laughed politely, thinking what might have happened if he hadn’t had the call and gone to the seminary in Rome at the tender age of fifteen.

“We get the message, Thomas, and I promise not to sacrifice any children –” Solomon paused. “Well, not this week anyway.” The hippy stood up. “Thanks for popping round, much appreciated.”

Father Thomas O’Dowd wanted to stay. He wanted to be in Solomon’s company for as long as possible but he wasn’t quite sure what would happen if he did. He stood up and he was still erect.

“And if you ever want to come round for a chat again, the door’s always open.”

Father O’Dowd put his coffee cup down, thanked Cass and Solomon, and took his aroused body out of the house.

He returned swiftly home, making light work of the hill up Millgate. He’d never considered himself gay. As a young man of eighteen he had been propositioned by a much older cleric but had laughed it off, dismissing it as playful exuberance on the older man’s part. He entered the presbytery, took his coat off, said ‘hello’ to Miss Mcafferty, and went into the main body of the church, where he knelt and began to pray.

“Father, forgive me, for I don’t know who I am!”

Unnervingly he was still erect, but after a rosary and a full personal confession, he returned to his normal state. He went to bed early, slightly worried what kind of dreams he would have.

Chapter 4

Solomon Tump was thirty-three years old, the same age as the priest. His past was shrouded in secrecy and even Cass knew very little about his family or formative years. He liked it that way. He had spent a great deal of time and energy creating the enigma that was Solomon Tump; he didn’t want his past to destroy that image.

“What did you make of that?” he asked her as he sat down.

“Very strange. I couldn’t help but notice the way he kept looking at you,” she said, sprawling out on the couch. “I think he fancies you!”

“He can’t, he’s a Catholic priest. Anyway they’re celibate,” Solomon replied, not wanting to acknowledge the truth.

“Celibate or not, he can still fancy you. I can see the headlines now. Vatican celibacy police to investigate local priest!” Cass laughed out loud.

“Hilarious, but what about all that stuff he was saying, you know, Mrs What’s-her-face next door?” He tried to look serious.

“Stop changing the subject. Did you fancy him?”

“No. I don’t go for men in skirts.” He tried to make light of it.

“I wouldn’t mind having sex with a priest, that would be a laugh. What about all three of us? ‘The Holy Trinity.’ That’d stir things up a bit round here.” She giggled and put her arms round Solomon. “I could have sex with the priest, then have confession, and after absolution me and you could get down to some serious business.”

She wasn’t joking, thought Solomon, as he kissed her.

“I don’t think so. We don’t want the walls of Jericho falling down round our ears just yet. Anyway, didn’t you hear what I said about being here to lead a quiet life?” He began to nibble her earlobe.

“I don’t wanttooquiet, Solomon. A little bit of quiet here and there’s OK, but too much isn’t fun. Is It?” Cass purred.

“No, but we’ll do quiet for a little while.”

She put her hands down his trousers. “Not too quiet. Well, not just now.” Cass forced her mouth onto his and pushed him back onto the couch. “I’ll be your priest if you want.” She took her top off to reveal her breasts, which Solomon tried to grab.

“Now, now,” she admonished. She forced his arms down. “And now, just for tonight the Vatican brings you blood, sweat and orgasms.” She climbed on top of him and laughed.

*****

Father O’Dowd turned over in a cold sweat, to hear somebody knocking on his bedroom door. He sat up and heard Miss Mcafferty say “Are you all right, Father?”

“Yes. I was –”

“It’s just I heard you call out somebody’s name,” she said anxiously.