Broken Places (33 page)

‘Thrilled?
I
was appalled! My faith determines my politics – always has and always will – and McCain stands for family values, so, of course, he got
my vote. I don’t know whether you realize, Eric, but Obama supports
infanticide
.’

‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration, if you don’t mind me saying so. He may be pro-choice, but—’

She wagged an admonitory finger; her face expressing deep disgust. ‘No way is it an exaggeration. On three separate occasions, he opposed the law that said if a child was born alive during a botched late-term abortion, the doctor must do all he could to save that baby’s life. Which means Obama was forcing tax-payers to subsidize cold-blooded murder.’

Eric shifted in his chair. Sex, religion and politics were hardly ideal subjects for a first meeting with a neighbour. Clasping his hands together, he clamped his mouth firmly shut, in an effort to stay silent. Peggy, however, must have interpreted the former gesture as a sign that he was deep in prayer – perhaps for forgiveness or a change of heart – because, flashing him a triumphant smile, she rose to her feet and said she would be back in half an hour to drive him to the church.

‘That’ll give you time to change,’ she added, with an accusatory glance at his T-shirt. ‘I’ll come by for you at eleven sharp. If we get there nice and early, I’ll have time to introduce you to my friends and, of course, to Pastor Matthews. And, after the service, we all gather in the community-room for coffee and delicious home-made cakes.’

He simply didn’t have the nerve to refuse – not when she had used a tone that brooked no opposition. Peggy’s mission, obviously, was to hook another soul for God, so she would hardly be dissuaded from such a noble cause. Besides, in his present downbeat mood, he should be grateful for small mercies, such as delicious home-made cakes. And, after all, the Gospel of Prosperity might stand him in good stead if the assessors marked him down and he failed to get a bonus.

‘Right,’ he said, forcing his features into an expression of what he hoped she’d regard as piety, ‘I’ll be ready and waiting at eleven sharp.’

‘Welcome to our church, Eric!’

‘Wonderful to meet you, Eric!’

‘Honoured to have you with us, Eric.’

The warmth of their welcome was both extraordinary and gratifying. Even at this moment, he was being pressed against fragrant necks and powdery cheeks, as sundry elderly ladies embraced him with the same relief and rapture as they would the Prodigal Son. And now his hand was being pumped with enthusiastic fervour by clean-cut, well-groomed men, while other, younger parishioners flashed him beaming smiles. All the blokes seemed taller than him, and infinitely better dressed, yet it was
he
who was being fêted like a hero – such a rare experience, he was tempted to convert at once and become a regular church-goer.

And even Peggy seemed to bask in reflected glory as her redheaded, English protégé became the centre of attention; more and more people crowding round and begging to be introduced. From what he’d gathered, English congregations were distinctly on the small side, with just a
smattering
of mainly over-sixties, but, here, every age was represented, including teens like Erica. Perhaps he had made a grave mistake in not bringing her up with some religious structure to her life. At least a sense of Christian charity might have made her less judgemental.

‘This is Eric,’ Peggy beamed, to yet another pillar of the church – a
formidable-looking
lady with a massive shelf of a bosom and hips as wide as goalposts. ‘Eric, meet Rosanne.’

Another name to add to the list he was already having trouble
memorizing
. Karl was the big, swarthy one; Mary-Ann the diminutive blonde; Garrett bald and freckled, but who was the sultry brunette, with her
voluptuous
curves and mass of raven hair, swept up on top? There were also all the titles to remember: Clark, the director of music; Debra, the church
secretary; David the Youth Minister, and Arlene, the chair of the Bible Study Group.

Actually, he couldn’t say a word to Rosanne, because she was clasping him so tightly against her impressive mammaries as to render speech impossible. Not that he objected. This universal approbation was all the more agreeable when contrasted with Christine’s diffidence, Dwight’s resentment and his daughter’s downright hostility. None the less, he experienced a twinge of apprehension as people started moving from the extensive antechamber into the church itself. It was years since he’d attended a religious service, and those he recalled had been so tediously long, they called for reserves of patience he feared he didn’t possess at present. However, the church itself was nothing like the oppressive pile he remembered from his childhood, with its air of doom and darkness enveloping him each Sunday in a thick, black, silent cloud. This, in contrast, was a light and airy building; its ceiling painted heavenly-blue, its large windows letting in the sun, and with cheery splashes of colour provided by the blue hydrangeas arranged along the windowsills and by the display of hothouse flowers resplendent on the altar.

At 11.30 precisely, the choir filed in, dressed in purple robes, and
accompanied
by the organist in a long, black, swishy gown. Despite the impressive attire, the singing was bound to be amateurish; the sort of off-key cacophony he had endured as a young boy, kneeling restive but obedient in the stone-chill, shadowed gloom. But, no – as the conductor lifted his baton, the sound that burst forth seemed to soar right up to heaven; spectacular in its purity and force. These were true professionals and the music was so uplifting, he felt transported to another realm; realizing only now how dull and uninspiring his everyday life had become.

As the last note died away, he sat, lost in admiration, wishing he, too, had a powerful voice; one that could move audiences to tears. He imagined greeting library customers with some impressive tenor aria, or dunning them for fines with the same outraged passion as Plácido Domingo in
Otello
. Thoughts of the library made him wonder how his colleagues were getting on without him, and how Stella would cope when she ran his group next week? She wasn’t as used as he was to depressives and obsessives, and always claimed to have a blind spot when it came to poetry. Perhaps he should have chosen an easier poet, but his objective was to challenge them; make them see that even words they didn’t understand could speak to them at some deeper level.

Pastor Matthews – whom he hadn’t yet met – had moved to the front of
the altar and was giving an address of welcome, half of which he had missed, of course, due to his grasshopper mind.

‘No one is here by accident,’ the tall, beak-nosed man continued. ‘God has summoned every single one of you for some specific purpose. Please ask
yourselves
why
you are in church today, and what the Lord is asking of you.’

Eric felt a ripple of unease. He’d assumed he’d been dragooned into the service by Peggy’s sheer insistence, but perhaps there was some daunting Higher Purpose, about to be revealed.

Get a grip, he thought. All the adulation had clearly gone to his head and, if he didn’t watch it, he would be writhing about in transports, like Paul on the road to Damascus.

Peggy nudged him to his feet for the hymn – one he’d never heard of, with a complicated tune. However, her own exuberant singing-voice more than compensated for his halting croak – less Plácido Domingo than crow with laryngitis.

After the final cadence, the pastor invited all members of the
congregation
to turn round and greet each other. Delighted by the prospect of more enthusiastic embraces, Eric was soon happily engulfed again, as total strangers kissed him warmly on both cheeks and generally made him feel a VIP. And people were actually crossing the aisle to come and say hello to him, as if he were some new, exotic species, blown in from a far-distant planet, rather than an ordinary bloke from England.

He was almost disappointed when his fan-club drifted back to their seats and the service continued with a Confession of Faith. The words were printed on the service-sheet Peggy had pressed into his hand, so he was more or less obliged to join in, despite his feelings of hypocrisy in professing doctrines that seemed to make no sense.

‘We trust in Jesus Christ,’ he faltered, ‘fully human, fully God.’ Wasn’t ‘fully human, fully God’ something of a contradiction in terms? Although, if there
was
a God, he owed Him a debt of thanks for the heartfelt affirmations Peggy was pouring forth, which conveniently swamped his nervous stutterings.

The hymn that followed was much more to his taste and, indeed, could have been penned with him in mind.

Despite the lack of rhyme and dodgy scansion, he longed for such a comforting resource: an Almighty Presence that could banish all his terrors at a stroke. Why was faith so difficult, he wondered – as difficult as love? Neither could be had to order; neither relied upon to last.

Suddenly, he noticed that four men had risen to their feet and were proceeding to the front of the church, each armed with a collection plate, which they were passing round the congregation, row by row by row. As one of the men approached, he saw with horror that the plate was full of high-value bills – twenties by the score, a good scattering of fifties and even a couple of hundreds. His cheeks were burning as he fumbled for his wallet, knowing in advance that it contained nothing but loose change. As yet, he’d cashed only one of his travellers’ cheques and already spent most of that at the thrift-shop. And, to make things worse, Peggy was now extracting a whole sheaf of bills from her purse and placing them in the collection plate. Recalling what she’d said about God rewarding her a hundredfold, he
half-expected
to see a hailstorm of gold ingots descending on her from above. But there was only the shaming clink of his own cache of coins, as he offloaded them into the plate.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘Bit short at the moment.’ God! Why had he said that? It made him seem a pauper, and only emphasized his difference from these well-heeled adherents of the Gospel of Prosperity. So far, he hadn’t spotted a single person who wasn’t well-coiffed, smartly dressed and, in many cases, clanking with jewellery. Even Dwight’s cashmere sweater, which he had donned once more, in honour of the church, looked a little commonplace in this exalted company.

He was so mortified, he missed most of the sermon, although partly because his attention kept straying back to Erica. If she was so unhappy here in the States and subjected to such invidious pressures, might she not welcome the opportunity to return to England and go back to her old school? Or would any further disruption upset her even more? She would never agree, in any case, to live with such an inadequate father, nor would Christine ever permit it of course. Besides, it was bound to involve the lawyers again, which meant he wouldn’t stand a chance. All the lawyers he had ever met believed children should stay with their mothers; clearly regarding fathers as an inferior species, never to be trusted.

As if on cue, the congregation began reciting the
Our Father
. By now, his mind was all over the place and he began reflecting on his own father – a pretty useless exercise, since he hadn’t the faintest notion as to who the guy
might be, or what he did. But supposing he had suffered from depression and Erica had inherited the gene and would never be happy anywhere? Or perhaps she’d inherited his own fears. She didn’t actually seem fearful in the slightest; showed no apprehension about riding, sailing, swimming, skiing – all panic-inducing pursuits
he
avoided like the plague. But she might have secret, existential fears, even now preying on her mind, although he had scant chance of finding out when she refused point-blank to confide in him.

Another brilliant offering from the choir succeeded in suppressing his gloomy thoughts, so triumphant was the tune. And the final
Amen
was almost a performance in itself, as the word was tossed from voice to voice; sopranos chasing altos; tenors outsoaring baritones. This wasn’t just a tame ‘So be it’, but a magisterial ‘
Yes
!’, as the entire choir affirmed, approved, avowed, in total validation. He himself had rarely said such eager ‘Amens’ to the happenings in his life, but been forced to acquiesce in what others decided on his behalf; be it the string of different placements in his
childhood
, or the bitter losses brought by the divorce. Would things ever change, he wondered, as he tried to imagine shouting an impassioned ‘Yes!’ to some new and lasting love – or even to a new and fearless temperament?

His attention was shunted back to the service by a near-repeat of the sentiments he had heard at the beginning; now recited by the congregation.

As if to emphasize the theme, the pastor declared in ringing tones: ‘We go nowhere by accident. Christ has something specific and important He wants to do through every one of us. Be attentive to His promptings.’

Again, Eric felt on his guard, knowing he was dangerously susceptible, due to lack of sleep and worry over Erica. All too easy to believe in some Message from Above. If he didn’t try to distance himself, he’d be setting up a mission to convert the Jews, or the heathen, or even entering a monastery and taking vows of chastity. Although, in truth, the latter wouldn’t be so different from his present celibate state. He cast a lascivious glance at the voluptuous brunette he’d noticed earlier on, now sitting in an adjoining pew. Her hourglass figure made him feel more saint than stud and, if only the merciful Lord would cause their paths to cross, he would have better things to do than be a monk.

He was soon lost in erotic fantasies – so much so he failed to realize that the service had actually ended, until Peggy took him by the arm and steered him down the aisle, towards the door. As they made their stop-start way, the same fervent tide of well-wishers began clustering around again, asking had he enjoyed the service and how different was it from his own church back home? He hadn’t the heart to tell them that the nearest he had to a church was the Dog and Duck.

‘Don’t you think our pastor is just awesome?’ Arlene purred.

‘Er, yes.’

‘Well, now you know who we are and where we meet,’ Debra said, clasping his arm with as much affection as if they’d just become formally engaged, ‘I hope you’ll be attending all our Easter services.’

He muttered something inaudible, hoping she would interpret it as a murmur of assent, although, in point of fact, he had no intention of making church a habit. He hadn’t overcome the heights of terror and flown 5000 miles to spend all his time on his knees. OK, the rapturous reception he’d received was little short of a miracle, but there were limits to his hypocrisy. He could hardly celebrate the Resurrection when the whole concept of someone rising from the dead struck him as highly improbable, if not a shade grotesque.

However, he was saved from further argument by being swept along the corridor and along to the community-room, conveniently losing Debra in the crush. A long trestle-table had been set up at one end of the room, spread with a white linen cloth and heaped with cakes of every kind – a veritable patisserie.

‘This is Eleanor,’ Peggy said, introducing a plumpish, fair-haired female, whose ample curves were enticingly set off by a pink gingham pinafore. ‘She makes the cakes, along with her lady helpers, of course.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ he smiled, suddenly realizing that he had hardly eaten anything since the decidedly scanty meals on the plane.

‘Do help yourself,’ Eleanor urged. ‘And we cater for most allergies here, so if there’s anything you need to avoid, just let me know, OK? As well as all our regular cakes, we have fat-free, egg-free, nut-free, sugar-free and gluten-free.’