A Cleansing of Souls (20 page)

For the man who is poor will be forever reminded of his own complete poverty. He will watch his children as they sit before the naked tree and feel like cold slaps the smiles upon their faces and the disappointment in their eyes. They will open their meagre gifts and they will say ‘Thank you mummy, thank you daddy’ in a voice that shakes. And you will want them to scream at you in full anger and to hurl at you the gifts, wrapped alone with such trepidation. But they will just sit there before the tree, quite, quite still.

And tomorrow will not be another day - for there are no other days but these.

As he looked through the wardrobe,
George's hands touched the material of some of Elaine’s dresses. He smelled them and ran the tips of his fingers lightly through them. She looked so elegant in this one and that other one was the one she had worn on her fortieth birthday. The first thing he would do when he got paid would be to take her out to dinner. And he would buy her a new dress. They hadn’t done that sort of thing for ages. Not since Little Norman.

His suit, when he eventually found it, appeared at first glance to be in reasonable condition, better than he had expected anyway. There were no great marks or faded areas that he could see. He took it into the bathroom and tried it on. The thin material brushed against his legs. He had grown so used to wearing jeans. He put on the jacket over a pale green shirt and then put on his tie, the only tie he had. Stepping furtively out of the bathroom, he returned to the bedroom.

He looked at himself in the full-length mirror. The trousers were a little tight and he wasn’t quite sure whether the brown tie went with the shirt. But, overall, George was satisfied. Dressed in his suit and with something to actually look forward to, he felt a bigger man already. And in that instant, he realized just how small he had become.

George rose early the following morning. He was a child beginning that first day at school after the longest of summers. He had his morning tea and left the house an hour before he was due at G.Allman’s Timber. He didn’t want to be late.

The sky was like a sheet of ice. There was not a sli
ver of light. The wind cut George’s face and burnt his eyes. He walked with his head bent low now, though his spirits were high. He hoped the slippery ground wouldn’t claim him. Not today. Not in his suit. Grey clouds began to break free from the white of the sky and drift slowly across town. The wind picked up loose debris from the street and wafted it carelessly into the path of any who dared confront it.

George quickened his pace lest it snowed or rained. The sign for G.Allman’s Timber reared up before him. He stopped short of his destination and, turning to face himself in the dark window of the Electricity Showroom, he pulled a metal comb through his thin hair. Satisfied, he took a deep breath and walked on into the foyer of his prospective employer.

After waiting for twenty minutes in the small reception area, George took the letter out of its envelope and read it again. Maybe he had made a mistake? But no, he was right. He had arrived on the correct day at the correct time.

“Mr Spainer?” asked a woman who entered through an unseen door.

George put the letter hastily back in the envelope and rose to meet the woman. ‘This is it’ he thought to himself.

“Mr Dawson will be with you in five minutes, Mr Spainer,” said the woman, curtly as if he had been unconsciously harassing her throughout the morning, “so if you really wouldn’t mind taking a seat, I would be most grateful.” Her eyes were magnets. He was of metal. And she lowered him back down to the chair.

The unseen door closed and, once again, George was alone. Just five more minutes and it would begin.

Ten minutes later, the woman reappeared and beckoned George to her.

“Follow me, Mr Spainer.”

She led him to a large office and withdrew from sight.

“Mr Spanker. Do take a seat,” said the man behind the desk. He had a very large voice and was at least fifteen years younger than George. He had a thin, brown moustache that seemed to have been pencilled on overnight by some errant child. And his eyes were unblinking.

“Mr Spanker, you wrote to us some time ago, did you not, inquiring as to whether or not we at G.Allman’s Timber had any vacancies?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we had no vacancies at that moment in time, but I’m pleased to say that we do now have a vacancy in our Sales Department. I have studied your curriculum vitae, Mr Spanker, and I see that you do seem to have had a good deal of experience with timber.”

“Yes.”

Mr Dawson paused and swivelled round on his swivel chair, all the way around, before facing George again. “Do you have transport, Mr Spanker?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Transport. Do you own a vehicle? Do you drive? Do you have transport?”

“No.”

George was becoming a little uncomfortable. Sales Department. Vehicles. Transport. Surely this was a timber company. It was wood. And he was the person they wanted. They had written to him.

There are times when all we can do is sit and watch ourselves fall apart. We sit and stare as it all just slips away. We observe the fading of our dreams and the destruction of our hopes as if it is all happening to somebody else. And we wonder at the injustice of it all.

“Mr Spanker. Let me make our position clear. It is not our way at G.Allman’s Timber to pre-judge. We are a forward-looking company and we like to give everyone a chance to work for us. That is why we asked you here today, to give you a chance. We know what it must feel like in these times, writing to people, never getting a reply. We are not like that. We appreciate, we all appreciate, that you may indeed be very good with timber. I myself do not know one end of a piece of wood from another. We admire a craftsman as much as anybody. In these hard times, however, a company such as ours, all companies in fact, need to expand their respective markets. It’s all in the selling, the advertising and in the marketing. We need people who can do this for us. Dynamism is the watchword of our times. And we’re afraid, Mr Spanker, that you don’t quite fit the bill. As it were. Not if you don't have transport.”

George looked at the man with the large voice. What was he talking about? What did he mean by adverts and markets? And what did he know about hard times?

With each word that Mr Dawson spoke, George felt himself leave his body and float higher and higher above the scene, a prisoner staring down in awe upon his own trial. By the time Mr Dawson had finished speaking, George was barely in the room at all.

“Well,” said Mr Dawson, coming out from behind his desk, “it has been very pleasant talking to you and we wish you the best of luck in your search for gainful employment.”

But George was nowhere to be seen for he was high above it all. He came back to reality briefly and allowed himself to be led out to the foyer in shock. He pulled at the door but it would not open. He then pushed it hard and found himself stumbling back out into the street.

And there she was again, the little girl from the day before.

“Got two ones?” she asked.

She held out her left hand. In the other, she gripped her small red purse.

“What do you mean?” asked George, tentatively.

“Two ones,” she repeated. “Have you got two ones?”

He looked at her as he felt in the pockets of his suit, just stared at her. Then his fingers closed around a small metal object. It was a silver brooch. He withdrew it and inadvertently scratched his finger on the pin. The brooch was in the shape of a teddy bear and he gazed upon it. He had bought it for Little Norman to wear at the Christening and had pinned it to the tiny cardigan Elaine had knitted but the pin had kept coming loose and the brooch kept falling off. So he had put it in his pocket all those years ago. It had been in his pocket throughout Little Norman's Christening and Little Norman's funeral.

“Here you are,” said George, softly, holding out the silver bear to the little girl.

She took the brooch carefully from the palm of this stranger. She turned it over and over, flipping it in her left hand. She then held it to her frozen cheek. “Two ones,” she murmured. “Two ones.”

And George gazed in profundity at the wonder in her eyes.

Tom’s mother and father were both out in town when he heard a knock on the front door. He was lying on his bed half asleep and was reluctant to rouse himself. At the second knock, he trudged downstairs, pulling his T-shirt over his head as he did so, and opened the door. And there in the doorway stood two young women, one close to his own age, the other possibly four or five years older.

“Good morning,” said the older of the two women.

“Hello,” said Tom, trying desperately to think whether he knew them or not. They seemed so welcoming, so familiar and easy in their acknowledgement of him. “Can I help you?” he asked after some moments. “Mum and dad are both out.”

“I’m Sister Bonner,” said the first woman again, pointing to a small metal badge to verify the fact. “And this is Sister Welch.”

Sister Welch uttered an incomprehensible form of greeting and Tom looked at her quizzically. She was shorter and younger than her companion and wore thick, brown-rimmed spectacles that almost obscured her entire face. Her eyes looked wide and unnatural behind them as if they were painted onto the glass of her lenses.

“I wonder whether you would be able to spare us a few moments of your time?" asked Sister Bonner. "We’re from the Church of the Latter Day Saints and at this time of year, we like to take the opportunity to talk with people about our beliefs and about our church.”

Sister Bonner had large blue eyes and dark hair that hung to her shoulders. She sounded to Tom as if she came from the Midlands. He hadn’t the faintest idea where Sister Welch hailed from. And then, to his surprise, he found himself trying to identify the form of Sister Bonner’s breasts beneath her very masculine coat.

Since he had returned home, Tom had found plenty of time to reflect upon the previous six months of his young life. No matter how much he thought though, he could not reconcile what he had been through with what he had set out to achieve. He couldn’t see that anything had been gained by his actions. His soul was still in turmoil, raging and ragged. He had lost his job and the connection he had with society now seemed more tenuous than ever.

The two women on the doorstep had arrived at the right moment. Fate? Who knows? Tom was curious. But it has to be said that the big blue eyes and indeterminate breasts of Sister Bonner certainly played their part in his decision to allow the women into the house.

Sister Bonner and Sister Welch entered and sat beside one another on the settee.

“Do you want a drink or anything?” asked Tom.

“No. We’re fine,” replied Sister Bonner.

Tom sat down in the armchair opposite the two women, the initial silence rising, only to fall and settle comfortably above the three young people in the room; three young people trying to find their way through life.

“This is a nice home,” said Sister Bonner. “I can feel peace here.”

“It’s okay,” replied Tom, casually. He felt quite secure at this time, in control. He could also sense something happening, or about to happen. There was a feeling in the air. His loneliness had left him receptive to experiences. It had left him vulnerable.

“That’s a nice picture,” said Sister Bonner, indicating the painting above the fireplace. “Who is it by?”

“I don’t know. Dad bought it for mum in a boot sale a few years ago.”

Sister Bonner turned towards him. Sister Welch continued to stare at the picture.

“You live with your parents, then?”

“Yes. They’re out,” he replied, somewhat meekly.

Sister Welch turned and said something unintelligible to Tom. He thought for a moment that she might be American, or maybe Scottish. Wherever she came from, he could still not follow the words she spoke. He just smiled at her and she smiled back broadly, her huge white teeth all but swallowing up her pale, thin lips as she did so.

“Well,” began Sister Bonner. And then she stopped. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t think we know your name, do we?”

“Tom.”

“As in Thomas?”

“As in Joad.”

“Oh. Right. Well, Tom. Have you ever had a belief in God?”

Tom thought for a short while before replying. It just seemed the right thing to do. “I believe in something, I suppose,” he said, a little taken aback by the gravity in his own voice. “I think there probably is something else, but as for what you call it, God or whatever, I couldn’t tell you.”

“Do you know of Jesus Christ?”

“All the stories you mean?”

Suddenly, a picture flashed before Tom’s eyes. It was an image of Michael, sprawled on the ground, stained and wet and covered in blood. And then it was gone, gone as quickly as it had appeared. This had been happening lately.

“You’ve read the Bible, Tom?”

“Not really.”

He began at once to feel that tempting urge to manipulate, to take control, to shut out the child. He could not resist. He felt ashamed, though impotent, consciously allowing his mind to proceed whilst his heart and his soul gazed mournfully on.

The two women were polite and they were safe. They were women and they were interested in him. And that was all he needed right now – somebody to show him an interest, to listen to him and to validate his precious existence.

Sister Welch leaned over and whispered something to Sister Bonner. Tom looked at them both and waited. He looked closely at their hair and at their skin, wondering if it had ever been touched in the midst of passion. He became analytical. He observed, as much as he could around the spectacles of Sister Welch, that her complexion was smooth and tanned. A thought came into his mind that without the spectacles and with her hair down, she might be quite pretty. This thought soon passed. Sister Bonner was different. She was strong and powerful and pretty was a word that could not readily be applied to her. Handsome was closer. Yes, thought Tom, handsome.

“Do you mind, Tom,” said Sister Bonner, “if we start by saying a short prayer together?”

“No. Fine.”

“Would you like to say it, Tom, or would you rather one of us did it?”

“You can do it,” said Tom, hoping in a way that the incomprehensible and potentially pretty Sister Welch would be given the task.

Sister Bonner bowed her head and closed her big blue eyes. Sister Welch did the same. Tom bowed his head too, but kept a curious eye slightly open.

Personalities come and go. You change and you return and you perform. And in the quietness of the night, you ponder the susceptibility of your very existence. Things happen to you. They just happen. We are above it and we are within it all at once, above it and within it.

“Our Father in Heaven,” began Sister Bonner, “we thank thee for giving us the opportunity to speak with Tom and for allowing us the chance to share with him the glory of your Kingdom. We ask thee to look after Tom and to reveal to him the truth of your majesty and your word. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.”

The prayer affected Tom in a way he was unable to explain. His flippancy departed and was replaced by a respect for these two young women. Change. Change.

“Do you have a Bible, Tom?” asked Sister Bonner.

“No. I don’t think so.”

“You can borrow one of ours.”

Sister Welch searched her handbag and retrieved a small Bible that she handed across to Tom.

“Have you lived here long?” asked Sister Bonner as she flicked through the thin, almost translucent, pages of her own Bible.

“A few years.”

“Good, right. Now Tom, I’m going to read to you a passage from the Bible and I would like you to tell me your thoughts about it when I’ve finished.”

Tom nodded in acknowledgement.

Sister Bonner read slowly and clearly and without expression. Her voice was soft and smooth.

“Have you heard that before, Tom?” she asked, when she had finished reading.

“Something like it at school, I think. It might not have been exact, but I’ve heard the story.”

“How did it make you feel?”

Tom thought for a moment. “Sad,” he said at last. “Nobody helped him. They just let him die.”

“Remember, Tom, He was God’s son. He knew what He had to do and He was given the courage by God to do it. But, of course, He rose again and his body and soul were reunited. And that is why we’re all here, Tom, because of Jesus Christ, because he gave up his life on earth for our sins."

Tom began to think he was elsewhere. He was sure that were he to look out of the window, he would see neither cars nor houses. It was so quiet in here, so perfectly serene. Sister Bonner’s voice invoked within him something spiritual, passive. Innately, he needed and desired direction. When he had opened the door to the two women and sensed the meaning of their visit, he thought he would remain in control, maybe toy with them, test them and show them how a man of the world feels about their textbook beliefs. He had wanted to disturb them with rational questions. But now, when it came to it, the security and the beauty of somebody else saying his own name left him overwhelmed. Just something so simple.

“Do you have any questions, Tom?” asked Sister Welch.

He looked at her and realized he was beginning to understand even her crazy diction.

“There’s one thing I get confused about. If there was only one Jesus and only one God, how come there are so many different religions?”

“We were just coming to that,” said Sister Bonner, glancing quickly at her colleague. This time, it was her turn to search through her bag. She brought out a book and placed it beside her on the arm of the settee. Tom couldn’t see what it was called, just that it had a dark cover with small gold lettering upon it. He waited in silence.

“If you were to read the Bible on your own, Tom, from start to finish, you may find some of it confusing. It is as complex as it is simple. People tend to interpret those things that they don’t understand and it is these interpretations, or should I say, misinterpretations, that give rise to different religions.” She could have been reading it off a card. But it made perfect sense to Tom, there, at that moment.

“So who’s right then?” he asked, just as Sister Bonner was about to speak again. Whether she had heard his question or not, he was unsure. She just continued on in the same, steady voice.

“The Bible is God’s word, Tom. He spoke to his prophets here on earth and they wrote down what they saw and what they heard. And those things they wrote were put together and became what we know today as the Bible. Therefore, everything written in the Bible is what God wants us to know. In that sense, all religions are right. However, God only let a very few people know the correct interpretations of the translation from the original.

Sister Bonner paused and lifted her head. She smiled at Tom, a full, comforting smile. And she looked into his eyes. “I will tell you a story, Tom,” she said softly.

The story Tom heard was set in the 1820s and it concerned a man named Joseph Smith. It told how an angel appeared before him one day and guided him to a hill wherein he found some gold plates. Upon these plates had been etched the words of God. Joseph Smith had then, under the guidance of God, translated the words on the plates and transcribed them onto paper.

“And here, Tom,” said Sister Bonner, passing him the book that rested beside her, “here are the words of Joseph Smith. The words of God.”

Tom leafed solemnly through the book. It was not a large volume but the print was small. The pages were very thin, so thin that he thought he might accidentally tear them with a crooked fingernail.

“Does that make sense to you Tom?” asked Sister Welch.

He looked at her. She seemed to have reverted a little to her previous incoherence, no more clear than the fading in and out of a far away radio station.