Censored
In the Glass House
Well there’s a blow. I thought I was but I’m told I’m not because I don’t attend the meetings. It was a shock. I wondered does God know, because he don’t act like it, bounty-wise. I thought ‘Best have it out’. So, Sunday morning, 6-ish, in the greenhouse for the beard trim. He’s usually around the garden about then. I felt the air thicken behind me; the light buzzed in the mirror, so straight in-
“Father, there’s-““I’ve read it” he cut in. I gave him a while to fill his pipe, or whatever he does to settle himself for a mardle, then I asked-
“What do you reckon then?”
“Well first off, don’t worry”, and I smelled my Grandad’s Condor Twist, and I knew they’d been round the garden together. That was encouraging.
Look at it this way. All my children are like an army fighting evil. Not some geezer with a red Lurex suit and steaming lugs, but pain, hunger, oppression, despair- need, basically. Now first there’s the General Staff, 200 miles to the rear- bishops and that lot. Next, the commissioned officers- parish clergy; what a mixed bunch. The worst of them, you’ll find hiding in bunkers, praying for postings to left wing councils, or social work; the best seem to live and sleep on the firing step, up to the armpits in muck and bullets with the other ranks- the congregations, who do all the bayonet work and take all the flak. Staff get the mansions, pensions and posh ‘do’s; the ranks get arthritis, ulcers from coffee and cake fund raising, for church repairs, and subsidising the ‘yahoos’ back at staff, and glowing thanks in parish mags. Then there’s you and your sort”.
Pause. All the House-mites of the Apocalypse started drilling up through my shoe-soles. When he went on, it wasn’t that the sound of the voice in my head got louder, but the silence had doubled in volume.
“You are the Fifth Column. Secret Agents, deep cover, nothing in writing- get caught and you’re on your own. Despised by the Ranks as shirkers and conchies, but you are constantly dropping behind enemy lines to distribute sulphur ointment and soft toilet tissue through the dens of life’s iniquities, as it were. A friendly word, sincerely meant can be more warming than a flaming fanatic or a pyrotechnic parson”.
“So you’re not miffed at my not carrying a party card?”
“Listen. All I want is for people to love each other, and care, as I do. If they could just master that, then there’d be no need for these drag artists with their smouldering handbags, shouting ‘Hallelujah!’ up our stairs, at all hours. Well, best go and open up the shop, sorter thing. Busy day”.
“Who, me? I asked, hopefully.
“No, me! You- barbarian barmpot!”
The mirror flashed again, the door squeaked slightly, and the smell of twist was all but gone. So I went in, to take Valerie’s tea up.