The wind howled that Christmas night ...

Well, it is the first Sunday of December and we all need some winter cheer. This marvellously evocative account of a Christmas in Wales by Maggie Redding is just the thing. 

 An Adult’s Christmas in Wales

(‘A’ certificate – for adults only)

With apologies to Dylan Thomas.

'Twas the night before Christmas

when all through the house

not a creature was stirring

not even a mouse.

But at Pantyfer, at Christmas in 1984, this was not strictly true. Life here was raw in tooth and claw and everything was stirring, including spiders in the roof, my Scottie, Haggis, as well as two mice, both of whom were pounced upon by Haggis. They squealed at the death blow, poor little things.

But that was nothing compared to the mass slaughter going on around us – and I do not refer to our next door neighbour – a quarter of a mile down the valley – who had attempted to murder his wife and was securely behind bars by now.

No, I mean the business of preparing for Christmas by every farmer in the area. Turkeys and geese were being made ready for the Christmas table in poorly lit barns, by people in long overalls, heads covered, in snow storms of down and feather. A lucrative trade, it was.

And we, being mini-farmers (in our eyes at least) with our one and a half acres, had geese, chickens and ducks needed to deal with two geese, one for our table the other for that of a friend. They were dispatched according to the advice sought of the RSPCA, after a neighbour, the Mink Lover, we called her, not for her coats but because of her protection of these pests, had complained about our intention.

We had four geese who were terrific watchdogs, setting up a fervent honking and gaggling on the approach over our bridge of anyone, friend or foe, especially, for some reason, if they were wearing wellingtons. We preferred not to kill one of the chickens for Christmas. That was to be for the New Year.

Sylvia was efficient in the dispatch to their maker of the geese. This East End girl had quickly adapted to country life. They didn't know, the geese, what had hit them. It was over and they would no longer wander beneath our apple trees nor swim on our stream. 

The two carcasses had to be plucked, an irritating procedure as particles from the feathers and down floated in the air and up our nostrils. Their wings, when viewed close to, were a marvel to behold and the down, on their chests, so soft. The feathers and down went on to the compost heaps.

Now that we had naked carcasses we had to clean them, that is, deal with their innards, an interesting procedure from an anatomical point of view. We kept the hearts and livers for gravy.

These procedures took place in our rickety conservatory which was in desperate need of conservation as was the rest of the cottage. Dusk fell and we needed to switch on the light, a 40 watt bulb. Once plucked and drawn, all that remained was to burn from the flesh (bumpy goose flesh) resistant down and quills with a lighted spill. I turned the first of the carcasses over. It honked, a familiar, angry sound. I screamed. Air, remaining in the carcass had been pushed through the windpipe in the neck and it made the same sound as when it had roamed under the apple trees. In the dim light, the sound was haunting and eerie. 

For the next days, the goose now being in the fridge and filling it, we made other preparations for Christmas. Holly and mistletoe grew on our one and a half acres, holly on the boundary, with sharp protective leaves and red berries, none of the tame stuff, and mistletoe on our apple trees. Mistletoe grows also on other rough-barked trees, like oaks and poplar.

Our home, Pantyfer, meaning ‘hollow of fir trees’, although by now there were none, had been a pair of cottages knocked into one, the homes of the blacksmith and the stone-mason. We had four, low ceilinged rooms, two up two down with exposed beams downstairs, supporting the upstairs floors.  The roof trusses were exposed upstairs, so we had only tiles above our heads up there – with spiders and dust, dust especially when the wind blew.

Father Christmas would not be paying a visit as the fireplace in the sitting-room smoked because the chimney, in relation to the size of the fireplace, was too small, and there was not sufficient draught. But by the time we had decorated the cottage with holly, the place looked a treat, no garish colours just holly and ivy and a bit of tinsel.

The wind howled that Christmas night. The fireplace smoked, the Rayburn roared joyfully, consuming Polish anthracite even though we lived close to a colliery mining the best anthracite in the world. This was the time of the miners’ strike. We were at the western edge of the valleys. The people suffered at that time. All the children, with few exceptions, in the Gwendraeth Valley Comprehensive School were on free meals.

Next to our land was a bluebell wood, in spring. In winter, the wind roared down the little valley of the Isfael and the river was in spate. Shallow-rooted trees often fell and the Gwendraeth River, further down where it received the rushing, gushing Isfael River, would flood. The cottages seemed to have survived for two hundred years nearly, so we worried about neither falling trees nor rising floods, only dust in our eyes.

Haggis slept, all through that windy night, by the roaring Rayburn in the kitchen, the warmest place in the cottage. The goose next morning was soon in the Rayburn's oven, a good hot fire having been stoked up.

The observant among you would be recognising in that four roomed cottage, two up, two down, no bathroom has been mentioned. There was none. A shower had been installed above the kitchen in one bedroom, but no toilet. We had an Elsan chemical toilet, outside, in a crumbling shed without a door. We had rigged up a shield for privacy and also place for a torch or candle when it was dark. We called it Tenko, after a TV programme at the time. No, we had no television either.  Reception in the valley was non-existent.

Buckets featured heavily in our lives. Buckets of earth had to be moved around the garden in preparation for spring vegetable planting, buckets of compost, to the heaps or from the heaps, buckets of wood for the open fire, buckets of anthracite for the Rayburn, buckets of ash from the fireplace and the Rayburn, and buckets from Tenko to the compost heap.  Our lives were lived promoting nature’s cycles.

At this time, some seven or eight months in our crumbling little grey home in West Wales, we had to fetch all our shopping, including corn and potatoes to fatten the geese, by shopping trolley and bus to Carmarthen and back, seven miles from the village, which was one mile uphill. There was a village store up at Llanddarog which later delivered many of our groceries. Milk, unpasteurised, was delivered by a bullying milk-lady, and anthracite was delivered by the half ton to our smithy, the also crumbling blacksmith’s shop on our land, where we stored gathered wood and fuel. Wood and anthracite, in buckets of course, we carried over a bridge and into the cottage. The only catastrophe that ever befell us was the freezing of the water pipe under the bridge, when winter did its worst. Being Wales, there was still plenty of water available. Neighbours were helpful. And winters were otherwise wonderful, what with sledging down the hill, snowball fights and snow people galore in the garden.

Our Christmas dinner that year consisted of our delicious goose, of course, locally grown vegetables carried from Carmarthen market along with the ingredients for our home-made Christmas cake, mincemeat for mince pies and Christmas pudding.  Drink was only cider, obtained on a trip by bus and train to Hereford, some eighty miles across the border to the county of apples and cider. Here we would visit my relatives.

For the Christmas meal we had our own apple sauce for the goose and cream – oh, so thick – from the milk-lady. In later years, everything came from our own garden except dried fruit and bread for the bread sauce.

Every year, we recall the Pantyfer Christmases. We were poor, we had little money, even on a trip to Carmarthen shopping, we could afford only one cup of tea between the two of us. But those times were challenging, creative. We learned a lot, about ourselves and each other and life. Only outside events caused us to leave our idyll.  Ever since, we have dreamed about doing it again. Now, we couldn't cope with the cold, the carrying, the chopping of wood, the dispatch of livestock. But we are happy and proud that we did it.

TIT FOR TAT

Maggie Redding's story - published for the first time today - is just a little dark. It reminds us of Roald Dahl's Tales of the Unexpected - 'sinister, wryly comedic with an unexpected twist at the end'. We do like that sort of thing.

“Why not?”  Colin’s tone was puzzled and demanding.

“I just don’t feel the need,”  Tilly said.

Colin shrugged.  “I just thought it would make the most superb Christmas present.  I thought I was being original, considering your needs and all that.”

Tilly felt she had offended him.  Indeed, the word rejection hovered in the air like a threat.  Colin must not be allowed to utter it.

“Yes, I know.  It’s certainly original.  But it’s not a need I have.  It’s not even a want.  I’m quite happy really -.”

“Are you sure?”

“Colin, of course I’m sure.  I know I’ve said a couple of times I wish I could add a few inches, but -.”

“Okay, okay.  I get the message.  I’ll have to think of something else.  I thought I’d come up with something most women would jump at.”  He pointed at her, his finger and eyes at the level of her chest.  “but that must be the flattest bosom in Wales.”

With that he made a huffy exit from the room not quite slamming the door after him.

A couple of times before Christmas, Colin mentioned boob jobs but it was in a light-hearted way and Tilly felt he must have understood her point of view.

On Christmas Day she was relieved to see a beautifully wrapped package with her name on it and a loving message from Colin.  Several times she picked up this package and turned it over.  It was not large, about the size and shape of a large box of chocolates.  Chocolates, however, it was not.  Colin could be relied upon to be original.  Always.

Colin opened her present to him.  She wished she could think of something for him that he would acknowledge as original.  But she lacked the imagination he had.  So some video games and a ticket (or two tickets) for a show in London were certainly acceptable.

But when she tore off the wrapping paper her heart and her hopes descended to rock-bottom.  Surely he was not giving her chocolates?

But the box was not sealed.  She lifted the lid.  Inside was paper money, £50 notes.  Lots of them.  And a little card was with it.  “Oaklands Clinic” she read.  “Mrs Tilly Carter.  Your initial appointment is on 8th January at 3pm.”

Tilly stared at the card, comprehension dawning slowly.  She felt her cheeks growing hot.  She was angry.  But it was Christmas Day and she mustn’t be angry.  And this was a Christmas present.

She looked up.  Colin’s face was a picture of expectancy and self-satisfaction.

Tilly fingered the currency notes.  “There’s an awful lot of money here,” she whispered.

“I know.”  He really had no idea.  He sat there, elbows on knees, hands clasped, waiting to be thanked, praised, admired.

Tilly met his gaze.  “You are incredible,” she said.

He took it as a compliment.  “You deserve it,” he said.  “I want you to have everything.”

“With knobs on,” she thought and stifled a giggle.  He thought she was laughing in delight.

“A boob job,” she said, “for Christmas.  Who would have thought.”

“Are you pleased?”

What could she say?  “Of course I’m pleased.  Thank you, darling.  What on earth will my friends say?”

“They’ll say they wished they were married to me!  How many husbands buy their wives a boob job for Christmas?”

The conversation continued in this vein for some time, each line slightly missing the aim, his because he did not understand her, hers because she did understand him, only too well.  She needed time to think and while she played the grateful wife out loud, her brain was working out how to deal with what, to her, was a problem.

Could she hide her true feelings from Colin?  That would mean undergoing an operation.  Tilly had a fear of operations and hospitals.  Perhaps she could keep the appointment and pay the clinic to say she was not a suitable case.  Or, and this was absolutely the worst, perhaps she should go ahead and have it done?

It was so unfair, she told herself.  Could she just take the money and run – literally, run away from the marriage?  Tonight?  If only!  If only she dared.  It was so unfair.  Why didn’t men feel the same pressure to enhance their bodies?  Perhaps she could demand the same kind of sacrifice from him, all over tattoos, for example?

Tilly managed to smile through Christmas, through her teeth and through her resentment.  She smiled so much she gave herself a headache – several, in fact.

January 8th, the day of the initial consultation arrived.  Tilly allowed Colin to accompany her to the Clinic, but he waited in the waiting room for the consultation itself.

As a preliminary to that, she had an interview with a nurse.

“I’ve got to tell you,” Tilly said, “I’m not comfortable with this idea.  I’ve had a small bust all my life and I’m not too bothered about it.”

The nurse was silent for a moment.  “Hubby’s idea?” she said at last.

Tilly nodded, staring at her feet.  “Christmas present,” she mumbled.

The nurse nodded.  “Divorce him,” she said.

“That’s a bit drastic.”

“So’s an unwanted boob job.”

“I just wish,”  Tilly burst out, “I just wish there was something that he could have done that’s equivalent.”

“Men are such cowards,” the nurse said.

There was silence.

“There is a way,” she added quietly.  “We do have this special arrangement.  And I mean special.”

“What special arrangement?”

The nurse paused again.  “If you come into the other consultation room, we’ll explain.  Then we’ll need to see your husband ...”

Christmas a year later was so different.  The flattest bosom in Wales was now a respectable “C” cup and its owner looked genuinely happy.  Colin also looked relaxed and happy.

“It was a good thing we did, wasn’t it?” said Tilly.

“Indeed!”  Colin beamed.  “I never thought life could be so good.”  He passed the gravy to her without being asked.  “More bread sauce?  Do you have enough turkey?”

“I’m fine, thanks.  And I’m fine because you are fine.  Colin, you are so much more caring.  All that macho stuff, worrying what your mates thought, being tough and competitive – it’s all gone. It was a good decision,” Tilly said

Colin chuckled.  “And we’re the richer for it!  The only sacrifice was a few hormone injections and some hypnotherapy.  Much as I hate injections your surgery was by far the greater sacrifice – all to please me.”

“We’re pioneers, aren’t we?  The social implications of these experiments are so far-reaching.  A reduction in crime, in male aggression, a more caring society.  You really are a hero.  It was very, very brave of you.  And, as you say, we’re richer, and in so many ways.”

“As I thought,” said Colin, “when I was having the first injection – all this for a little prick!”

HOW TO GROW OLD WITHOUT REALLY MINDING

 Maggie Redding shares her insights into positive ageing:

I have good news. Getting older can be a liberating experience.

Imagine two images: one of an old lady, bent and with a stick.  You can’t see her face.  But she is clearly old, recognisably so.  She is like the image on road signs that warn of old people crossing the road.

We have stereotypes of old people, old women, old men, that put fear into the hearts of those approaching their later years, their retirement, a fear endorsed by jokes, birthday cards and the emails that circulate amongst Silver Surfers.

I met this lady (from my imaginatiom) in real life, staggering slowly with two sticks, her clothes ill-fitting and footwear that told me she had problems dressing.  I watched her agonising progress for a moment then went up to her.

‘Are you going far?’ I asked her.

She lifted up her face and gave me a wonderful, and unexpected smile.  She was beautiful, I could see it now.

‘No, dear. I’m only going to that car.  That’s my daughter loading up for me.  I don’t drive now, you see.  So she drives me.  Thank you so much for asking.’  Her voice was beautiful, too.  She indicated with one of her sticks a large blonde woman with unkempt hair and a hang dog expression.

Yes, she was my imagination-lady but in my mind, she had a miserable face, even though I couldn’t see it.  It is hard to resist stereotypes.

The second image I have is of someone attempting to do just that.  This woman is in denial in a big way.  She joins in everything.  She tries to act young..  Some of these attempts are most inappropriate.  She sleeps the sleep of the utterly exhausted and rises early just to make more time for more efforts to prove her point - to herself of course - that she is not getting old.  

I feel we are in danger of creating new, dangerous and really silly expectations, aims and models of behaviour for our rising older generation.  

But I have good news. Getting older can be a liberating experience.

Old age is a time when others cease to have expectations of us and when we cease to have expectations of ourselves and others.  We don’t need to succeed, improve, inspire.  We can give up work, we have fewer responsibilities, we forsake our illusions.  Retirement, old age can be a time for happiness, peace, freedom, contentment, liberation. Yes, we are all going to die. But I am not going to die until I have lived and lived to the full. I believe it is the role of older people to show younger people how to live fully.

We don’t need to do anything spectacular. Old age is a time to live, not to show off or prove something. It is a time for being who you really are, not worrying what people think.  You can do what you want. There is no need to pretend you are young.

Yes, I am old. I am getting older. I have problems. I’ll have more.

But I am learning to accept myself as I really am, faults and all. And it doesn’t matter.

All the things I used to believe were important, I realise now, they weren’t. Pleasing people, being conventional, worrying about big issues, worrying about small issues - I’ve let them go. I am less judgemental. I let people be. I realise that the world will never be perfect. In fact I could be really miffed at the thought that it might become perfect after I’d gone.

Of course, everyone has fears growing older as well as before that. We fear looking old, dying alone, being attacked, being robbed, cheated, we fear illness, not being taken seriously, being abandoned. Yes, we all fear these things and more.

But I think security is a myth. It is in the interests of a lot of people to make you feel afraid. Fear makes money - for those who are younger. It doesn’t make money for you, when you are old.  Shrug off these fears and get on with living.

I had a friend a few years ago who died before she was 60.  She was always talking about her plans for her life once she was 60.  Women of that age, in those days - those days! - could receive a state pension. She had always been a rather bitter woman, a bit angry about lost opportunities, about people she felt had failed her, about her lot in life.  She became ill and realised she was going to die. In the last six weeks of her life, she changed.  It was dramatic, impressive.  Her bitterness went, she put life in perspective and she began to live.  From her sickbed.  She became wise. She had some remarkable insights. She relaxed. Her family could not accept her demise. She stopped seeing her grandchildren. There was no point, she explained lightly.  She taught me by her example, how to live. She appreciated life.

‘We shouldn’t be moaning and criticising each other,’ she said, ‘we should be telling each other how wonderful we all are.’

It was the most important and amazing lesson of my life.

So, I would contend that even when you are ill, dying, or even in pain, it is possible to be happy.  It seems to me that life is lived on a higher level, a higher starting point or base.  These days I find myself saying things like, ‘Even when I’m miserable, I’m happy’.

My friend had acquired wisdom.  Wisdom is not the same as being clever, or intelligent.   It is more profound.  Even those who are not very clever can be wise.

I learned from my friend that death gives a shape to life. It seemed to free her, once she had faced it.

We need to talk about death a lot more.  Sex and death are still taboo subjects.  When you are older, these days, you almost feel that sex, or at least talking about it in a nudge-nudge way, is compulsory, and death you must not even think about.  But death, or the nearness of it, is what defines us as we get older.  A friend of a friend is 84 and is planning a Live Wake.  She is having a big party, inviting all her friends and will tell them all what she wants to happen when she dies.  That is brave and healthy.

I don’t know about anybody else, but myself, I don’t want to live forever.  Already I am seeing history repeat itself in my lifetime.  How hopeless and helpless to know that things would change, but only in the way they have before, that nothing is new and that that pattern would be going on and on.... 

No, I am happy to grow old and have more and more wrinkles until....

Wrinkles!  Oh, yes, you develop more and more of them, sometimes overnight even. I love wrinkles my own and those of people near and dear to me.  Wrinkles are a badge of wisdom.  Mine are my record of love and laughter.  When people die, their faces become smooth.  They take their smiles with them.  Accumulate your wrinkles!

Noel Coward said,

‘How foolish to think one could even slam the door in the face of Age.  Far better to be polite and gracious and ask him to lunch in advance.’

Coda

I wrote the above when I was 70, for a celebration of Older People’s day in Cardiff City Hall.  Eleven years later, I stand by all I said. As an 81 year old lesbian woman with, apart from my partner of 39 and-three-quarter-years, no visible family support, my views are even stronger.  I have concluded that the rejection of my family, over 40 years ago, is, in some strange way, a gift.

 There is nothing on the horizon except death, and it is not in the least scary.  Rather the opposite, suggesting completion, satisfaction.  I have no money, property, car or jewellery.

 Why keep anything, for it will all end up in black plastic bags.  Or worse. Meanwhile, I am happy, very happy.

Maggie Redding September 2020

'Condoms!' blurted Bridie. 'I'll not have that word in this house,' Mr Sullivan said sternly.

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.