CONDOMONIUM 1970
A short story by Maggie Redding
The hand of the clock jerked towards twenty-one minutes past five. Theresa glanced over her shoulder into the dispensary. Mr Patel, sparkling white coat and jet black hair, was absorbed. If anyone came into the shop, she would have to deal with them.
‘Theresa,’ Mr Patel had said only yesterday evening, ‘I think you must overcome your unwillingness to deal with this section of the counter.’ Now there was a figure hovering in the doorway of the shop. Theresa held her breath. The figure moved away. She breathed again.
She turned to rearrange the display of scented soaps once more, taking yet another glance at the clock. Seven minutes to closing time. No one would come in now.
The door bell rang aggressively as the door was flung open. A man strode in, straight towards the section of the counter that Theresa had been avoiding. He felt in his coat pocket for money, his gaze fixed on those horrible little packets on the counter, not seeing Theresa, her youth or her reluctance. He grabbed a handful of the packets. She held out a small bag for him to slip them into, avoiding touching them. He shoved a selection of coins into her empty palm. She checked the amount, put it in the till. A receipt extruded itself rudely. She handed it to him blindly. The man mumbled his thanks and turned, head lowered, and left the shop. Theresa looked at his retreating figure, her top lip lifted in faint disgust.
The clock said five twenty-nine. She moved from behind the counter to the door. Tears welled in her eyes. She shoved the bolts into place and turned the key. She felt angry. There was a lump in her throat. Collecting her coat, she said ‘Goodnight,’ to Mr Patel.
‘Goodnight, Theresa,’ he said. ‘Have a nice weekend. See you Monday.’
Theresa did not reply. She was not so sure.
Mrs Sullivan soon sensed that something was wrong with her daughter that evening. Theresa left her chips, refused a second cup of tea and did not even mention Mr Patel. Usually she chatted about him to such an extent the Mrs Sullivan feared her eldest baby daughter was about to fall in love with him and he not even a Christian and she having known him only a week.
‘So, how was Mr Patel today?’ she asked Theresa at last.
Theresa burst into tears. Mr Sullivan lowered his evening paper and Bridie, at fourteen, the next eldest baby daughter, drew her attention from the television. Wiping her eyes, Theresa told the whole story.
‘Not them.....?’ Mrs Sullivan began.
‘Condoms!’ blurted Bridie.
‘I’ll not have that word in this house,’ Mr Sullivan said sternly.
‘It’s my conscience, Mum,’ Theresa explained.
‘Oh, love, what are you going to do?’ wailed Mrs Sullivan.
‘It’s all right, Mum. I’ve made up my mind. I’ll speak to Father Sherrington tomorrow. After Mass.’
‘Oh, yes. Of course. Be guided by him. He’s a good man. And a gentleman.’
Father Sherrington of Our Lady’s parish was, a well-spoken, well-educated English gentleman of aesthetic leanings and unworldly aims. He had the tight lips and taught cheeks of one who saw redemption through self-denial.
‘There is no question, Theresa,’ he explained. ‘You have a delicate and finely tuned conscience. You will know what to do.’
Theresa had to concentrate on what he said, fascinated by his plummy voice and overstretched vowels. ‘You mean---leave?’
He refrained from nodding. ‘Is that what your conscience tells you to do?’
Her face crumpled. ‘Yes, Father.’
‘Have you discussed this with Mr Patel?’
‘Yes, Father. Several times. He says I must sell them.’
Father Sherrington shrugged. ‘You must pray about it. The decision is yours.’
‘Oh, I have. Yes. I know. But, Father, the money was so good.’
He shrugged again.
Theresa tried once more, hoping there might be a gap in her conscience’s reasoning. ‘But what about the covenant form I just signed? What about all the tax relief going to the parish?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that, child. I doubt if it amounted to more than a couple of pounds a year.’
Theresa gave in her notice to Mr Patel. He was very sorry and even more mystified. Father Sherrington did his best to make it easy for Theresa. He contacted a friend of his who worked for a Catholic paper. A reporter and a photographer came to take photographs and ask questions. Theresa’s happy, smiling face appeared on the front page of the paper with her story. Father Sherrington gave a powerful sermon on sacrifice and told the story. Most of the congregation knew by now who this saint-in-the-making was. After Mass, people spoke to her and shook her by the hand and congratulated her. Mrs Sullivan was so proud of her.
The last to speak to her that morning were Mr and Mrs Phillips who were waiting modestly on the pavement outside, with their five daughters. They were a short, plump, happily-blooming family, always calm, always smiling; and were the sort of people Theresa admired.
‘I do admire what you have done,’ Mr Phillips said, smiling and shaking her by the hand. ‘It’s a real example to us all. I am in a quandary myself. I work for a drug company. A great company, makes all sorts of marvellous drugs that cure dreadful diseases. Unfortunately, one of our products is the contraceptive pill.’ Theresa blushed because he said ‘contraceptive’ as easily as he said ‘marvellous’. ‘I am having a struggle with my conscience.’
This news, that a good Catholic like Mr Phillips, with five children and a pregnant wife, who had been given blessings like a house with clematis round the front door and a gleaming car, should be breaking God’s laws in such a blatant way, shocked Theresa. She confided her disgust to Bridie on the way home. Bridie was shocked, too.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘I think I’ll give up my job on Saturdays. I can’t be working in a newsagents with all those dirty books on the top shelf. It’s not right.’
Bridie was as good as her word. Mrs Sullivan, though proud of her daughters, was irritated because neither girl had any money and spent their days slouching around the house.
Then came another shock. Theresa received a letter from the Benefits Office to say that because she had given up her job with no a good reason, she would not be entitled to any benefit.
‘I’ve got no money!’ she wailed.
‘Neither have I,’ said Mrs Sullivan. ‘Come on, get your coat on. I know where we’ll get help. I can’t afford to keep you. Father Sherrington. Come on.’
Father Sherrington’s aesthetic lip curled a bit at the inability of the lower classes to organise their financial affairs. He offered to do two things. The first was to accompany Theresa to an appeal to the Benefits Office, and the second was a promise to subsidise Theresa to the amount of her lost benefit each week and to make an appeal from the pulpit for an increase in contributions to the weekly collection.
Events followed rapidly. Theresa lost her appeal, even with Father Sherrington’s support. One evening, Mr Phillips appeared on the doorstep. He had lost his shiny, smooth, well-dressed appearance and was unkempt and casual. He was still smiling, however. Mrs Sullivan said to ask him in. She smoothed covers, plumped up cushions and straightened rugs, impressed that such a person as Mr Phillips should visit her council house. She made him welcome and a pot of tea.
Mr Phillips smiled more ‘I have formed an organisation,’ he announced. ‘It’s called ‘Catholics for Conscience in Work’. I have several members already, including a teacher who refuses to teach about sex. Then there’s a man from up north somewhere who gave in his notice after realising he was working for a company printing gay magazines. And lots of doctors and nurses whose consciences have been awakened by your brave stand, Theresa.’
‘Did you have trouble with the Benefits Office, Mr Phillips?’ asked Bridie.
‘Oh, yes, indeed. Father Sherrington is setting up a fund for people like us. He is the chaplain for Catholics for Conscience in Work. Unfortunately, we are a little short of funds. But Father Sherrington will help. He’s keeping us. I don’t know what my wife and children would have done without Father Sherrington to sustain us.’ He frowned. ‘A pity, this is all causing some dissent in the parish. Not a lot, but people are lapsing. I saw the Murphy family last week. They haven’t been to Mass for some time. They were on a demonstration—a group called Catholics against Poverty. Such a shame to bring politics into religion.’
Theresa became a mascot for Catholics for Conscience in Work. She travelled around the country giving talks. She appeared on television and in the newspapers. Her name became almost a household name, to good Catholics at least. Money rolled into Father Sherrington’s fund. It also rolled out again as more and more people made claims on it. Mrs Phillips had another baby a girl, again, whom she called Theresa, as a mark of admiration. And Theresa’s self-confidence grew. She had a pleasant singing voice and Mr Phillips was a passable songwriter and wrote songs about consciences which Theresa sang to the accompaniment of a guitar played by a young man, Joe, who had been sacked from a chemist shop for refusing to hand over some prescribed contraceptive pills to a young woman who was not married. The movement grew and grew and Father Sherrington allowed his aesthetic lips to curl into a warm smile on occasions, so justified in life did he feel.
The beginning of the end came one night during a rather windy spell, not a storm, just a strong wind. All the leaves were stripped from the trees and the guttering was stripped from the west roof of Our Lady’s church and the presbytery. Rainwater poured through the windows, plaster began to peel, wood began to rot and black mould began to spread faster than Catholics for Conscience in Work. Amateur attempts to right these matters resulted in damage to the central heating in the presbytery. Father Sherrington fought the bitter cold of winter with bottled gas fires. One evening, after an extra whiskey to keep out the extra cold, he forgot to turn out the gas fire before changing the bottled gas cylinder. There was an almighty explosion which, mercifully, blew Father Sherrington through the window and into the churchyard. The fire that followed destroyed both presbytery and church. There were those who muttered darkly about debts and insurance but they were the ones who had not seen poor Father Sherrington in hospital. The money stopped coming in—and going out. Catholics for Conscience in Work collapsed. The bishop, when Father Sherrington eventually recovered, arranged for him to be parish priest serving the employees of a nuclear power station and waste reprocessing centre. Here the parishioners were well educated, affluent and had no consciences. The returns from the tax covenants were fantastic.
Bridie, destitute, joined the hippies at Stonehenge one midsummer and has never looked back. She washes her hair rarely but otherwise is very clean. She cohabits with an ex-nuclear physicist called Fred by whom she has two beautiful free children.
The Phillips family sold their house—the car had belonged to the drug company—and fled to the Welsh hills, the land of Mr Phillips’ fathers. There they live with an earth closet, organically grown vegetables, chickens, ducks, geese, goats and a wood burning stove. Mr Phillips is totally unrecognisable and Mrs Phillips has been sterilised. The Phillips children are very happy except for the earth closet.
As for Theresa, well, she had a brief affair with her guitarist, Joe, then studied to be a sex therapist and is now running a successful clinic and has ceased to be amazed that nearly all her clients seem to have been Catholics.
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