MRS WILLIAM MORRIS

This week, which coincides with William Morris's 124th Deathday on 3rd October, we're delighted to feature a humorous poem by Sylvia Daly. Its subject, Jane Morris (born Jane Burden) is familiar to us all. We've seen her in many a rich Pre-Raphaelite fantasy - a sulky-mouthed, thoughtful woman, gazing past us in a kind of dreamy, wordless sadness. But Jane has her own story. 

She was born in 1839 to a poor working class family: her parents were probably illiterate. After being recruited as a model by the artist Dante Gabriel Rossetti, who spotted her in the audience at a Drury Lane theatre, she married William Morris, the influential textile designer, poet, novelist and social activitist. She didn't love him (and later had a long affair with Rossetti). Jane had two children with Morris. She and her daughters went on to become pioneering textile artists themselves, reviving ancient techniques to produce exquisite embroidery. Credit for the women's designs was given to William Morris, of course - 'in the interests of commercial success.' Keenly intelligent and self-educated, she became proficient in French, Italian, music and the arts of conversation, her queenly air enabling her to move comfortably among the upper classes. She may even be the original Eliza Doolittle. 

In this poem, Sylvia imagines that Jane is getting bored with her husband's elaborate Arts and Craft-style interior decorations...

Mrs William Morris

(A villanelle inspired by

Carol Ann Duffy’s Collection

“The World’s Wife)

My small demand you cannot hear,

Acanthus leaves depress me so.

Magnolia walls, I beg, this year.

Your art rules every choice I fear,

in many rooms I cannot go.

My small demand you cannot hear.

Whispering my request, I peer

in rooms where rose and willow grow.

Magnolia walls, I beg, this year.

Night after night I shed a tear,

as friends your patterns bold you show.

My small demand you cannot hear.

I warn, there’s one who does not jeer,

he comforts me when my tears flow.

Magnolia walls, I beg, this year.

It’s true, Rossetti grows more dear,

for he says yes, instead of no.

My small demand

 you cannot hear.

Magnolia walls, I beg, this year.

Sylvia Daly

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

"...without Miss Bennet to dominate the conversation ... "

 

Readers of Pride and Prejudice will recognise this crucial point in the story - and here we experience it from Anne de Bourgh's point of view. 

Enjoy this delightful extract from Rohase Piercy's Before Elizabeth

My cousins were due to leave us at the end of the week;  but to my surprise, they were easily prevailed upon to extend their visit by several days, with William seemingly the more anxious of the two to accede to Mama's invitation!  She of course chose to see this as a compliment to me, but I knew otherwise and was extremely puzzled.  Not once had William sought my company, encouraged my conversation or paid me any particular compliment; in fact he had seemed preoccupied and distant since the moment of his arrival, never offering to take Edward's place beside me in the phaeton but preferring to walk the Park alone.  I was at a loss to account for his continued presence with us, though glad to have Edward at Rosings a little longer.

Two days into their extended stay, Edward entered the drawing room where William and I were sitting – William engrossed in the newspaper, and I occupied with my needlework – with the following cheerful announcement: “You may congratulate yourself, Darcy, on having prevented yet another imprudent marriage! I have just encountered Miss Elizabeth Bennet quite by chance in the Park, and took the opportunity to make it perfectly clear that I have no intention of proposing to her.  It was all most discreetly done, I assure you.  You may express your approval, if you like.”

Mama was not present to conduct an interrogation, but William looked uncomfortable, as well he might; he hastily folded the newspaper and sat back in his chair. “What did you say to her?” he asked warily.

“Oh, I merely commented that younger sons cannot afford to marry anyone they happen to like.  Or words to that effect.”

“Well, that was hardly discreet!  What said Miss Bennet?”

“She said, 'unless they like women of fortune, which I think they often do!'  That was  astute, was it not?  I really do not think she will be pining for me.”

William seemed to find this both pleasing and amusing.  He rose and strolled over to the window, smiling to himself, while I begged an explanation from Edward as to what he meant by 'yet another imprudent marriage'.

“Oh, Bingley,” he replied airily; “At least I assume it was Bingley – Darcy, will you not confirm for us that it was Charles Bingley you referred to when you said you had advised a friend against an imprudent marriage?”

I turned questioningly to William and he did confirm it, though without further elaboration.

“And who was the lady?” I pressed, eager for details.

“No-one you would know, Anne.  A Hertfordshire acquaintance.”

“And why would it have been an imprudent marriage?”

“The usual reasons: vulgar connections, an unsuitable family – the lady herself was pleasant enough.  Excuse me, Anne – Fitzwilliam – I believe I must speak to my aunt.”  He bowed perfunctorily in my direction, and made towards the door.

“Well, Miss Bennet seems to think your interference in the matter unnecessarily officious,” commented Edward with a shrug, picking up the newspaper and preparing to occupy the chair that our cousin had just vacated. William froze abruptly in mid-stride, and wheeled around with an expression horror on his face.

“Miss Bennet?  You mentioned the matter to her?  By what right?  What on earth possessed you to speak of such a thing?”

Edward and I were equally astonished, and he not a little annoyed.  “For heaven's sake Darcy!” he retorted, “Am I now not allowed so much as a word of conversation without your permission?  Yes, I mentioned the circumstance to Miss Bennet, as an example, if you must know, of the constancy of your friendship.  I was speaking in praise of you; but I will save myself the trouble in future!”

Now, I thought, William must surely apologise; but instead he persisted with his questioning.

“Did you mention Bingley by name?  Did you speculate as to the identity of the lady involved?”

“Yes, I mentioned Bingley by name.  No, I did not speculate about the lady; why on earth would I?  I have no idea who she is!  Now, if you will allow me, Darcy, I should like to read my newspaper in peace!”  And Edward sat himself down in high dudgeon, unfolded the broadsheet and left William to wander distractedly from the room.

I remained in my seat, lost in silent speculation as to the cause of his discomposure.  The unsuitable lady, I surmised, must be a mutual acquaintance, though why Miss Bennet's knowledge of William's involvement should agitate him so I could not imagine.  There was more to his interest in Charles Bingley's affairs than he was willing to disclose;  could he perhaps be hoping to secure his friend for Georgiana?  I dwelt long upon this possibility, which fitted neatly with another that I had already considered, viz. William's own plans regarding the unmarried Bingley sister, Miss Caroline.  If Charles Bingley were to marry William's sister, might he not feel obliged to be punctilious in returning the compliment?  Could he even now be speaking to Mama, releasing himself from his supposed obligation to me?  Was that why he had prolonged his visit?  If so, we were in for an uncomfortable evening, especially as the Collinses and their guests had once more been invited to drink tea with us!

The evening arrived, however, without my having observed any ill humour between William and Mama; I concluded that I had either been precipitous in my surmise, or that William, for whatever reason, was biding his time.

When our guests arrived, I found myself greeting only the Collinses and Miss Lucas; Miss Bennet, it transpired, was indisposed with a headache and sent her apologies. I was initially disappointed, having planned to scrutinise her manner towards Edward; it occurred to me that his declaration of disinterest might have disappointed her more than he supposed.

Mama was extremely put out – she did not much like Miss Bennet, but expected her to attend upon us when invited to do so, and now Mrs Jenkinson must be called upon to make up the numbers for cards.  William seemed likewise put out, inquiring most particularly into the severity of Miss Elizabeth's headache as though he also suspected her of shamming. 

The visit progressed well enough however;  without Miss Bennet to dominate the conversation I actually managed to engage Miss Lucas, and discovered her to be, beneath her shy exterior, a pleasant and intelligent girl.  When tea was over we prepared for cards, and I hardly noticed when William excused himself and left the room.

As the minutes passed, however, his absence began to impinge upon us and at length Mama sent a servant to inquire for him.  He was not in his room; and it soon transpired that late as the hour was, he had gone out – alone, on foot, and without explanation!  Mama excused his rudeness to our guests as best she could, though her displeasure was evident for all to see; and eventually she made up a table with Edward, Mr Collins and Miss Lucas, leaving Mrs Collins, Mrs Jenkinson and myself to occupy ourselves as we pleased. 

It was a fine May evening, and I chose to take a book to the window seat while the other two conversed alone. There was plenty of light still to read by, but I could not keep my mind upon the page for speculating about my cousin's strange behaviour and current whereabouts.  Nor could I help overhearing Mrs Collins and Mrs Jenkinson, who were speculating likewise.

“It is most unlike Mr Darcy,” Mrs Jenkinson was saying, “to leave so suddenly, and with no explanation to Lady Catherine. I thought at first that he had been taken ill; but if that were the case he would not have gone out.  I do hope he has not received distressing news!  But no message has arrived this evening, and if anything of import to the family had occured Lady Catherine and the Colonel would have been likewise informed.  'Tis all very strange – do you not think so, Mrs Collins?”

Mrs Collins concurred.  “It is certainly most strange. He cannot have gone further than the village on foot; but who could he possibly be calling on so late?  We are all here excepting Miss Bennet, and he knows her to be indisposed.”

We are all here excepting Miss Bennet. I was just suppressing a gape when the jolt shot through me, rendering me fully awake as the scales finally fell from my eyes.  Miss Caroline Bingley, forsooth!  How could I have been so blind?

'Such unequal matches take place all the time'. 'It would be as well to make yourself clear, Fitzwilliam - I think Miss Bennet does find your company a little too agreeable'.  'You have mentioned this to Miss Bennet?  By what right? Did you speculate as to the identity of the lady involved?'

Oh yes, I echoed silently, grimly exultant, it is certainly most strange that Fitzwilliam Darcy should be so very concerned as he seems to be about the inclinations, opinions and matrimonial prospects of Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

My dreams of you were vivid ...

This ballad by Sylvia Daly is meant to be sung - yes, really - and the Weird Sisters once had the pleasure of hearing her do it. Remember the tune to Lili Marlene? Well, that's the one. We hardly dare wonder what inspired these lyrics. Could it be based on a true story?

The Novice Mistress

by Sylvia Daly

I went into a Convent, I thought I heard the call.

That’s when I first saw you, standing in the hall.

You glided towards me silently,

You welcomed me, and offered tea -

My Lovely Novice Mistress,

Please teach me all you know!

Those weeks and months together, we studied canon law,

You were to me a mentor, and I of you in awe.

The love that I felt began to grow,

I was afraid that it would show.

My lovely Novice Mistress,

Please teach me all you know!

My dreams of you were vivid, I knew not what to do.

If I declared my love, I would surely startle you.

Then braving your wrath at last I spoke,

I saw you gasp, I heard you choke -

My lovely Novice Mistress,

Please teach me all you know!

The scandal was tremendous – you were sent to Rome.

They said it was horrendous and ordered me back home.

I left you without a fond farewell,

I missed you so, it was sheer hell.

My lovely Novice Mistress,

Please teach me all you know!

Standing by the lamp-post, near the Convent gate,

Waiting in the shadows for you to keep our date.

I’ve tickets for two to join the train -

We’ll run away, and love again.

My lovely Novice Mistress

Who taught me all I know.

A loyal lie

 Jane Traies has kindly given us permission to use an extract from her forthcoming novel. Set in the late nineteenth century, it centres on the lead mining communities of Shropshire, England, where Jane herself lived for many years. Here we meet Edie, missing school to bring lunch to her father.

There was a perfectly good road leading out of the Dingle all the way to the mine, but Edie preferred to go over the hill. She liked the effort of the climb through the moving shadows of the wood, and the sudden brightness as she came out onto the top of the ridge. Her path (hers, because she knew no-one else who used it) started just behind the cottage and climbed steeply between the trees. No wider in places than a sheep track and slippery with rotten leaves, it was familiar as the path to her own door, or the road she walked to school. The ground between the trees was mined with holes and burrows, but she rarely saw anything move, however quietly she tried to walk. The birds gave her away, so that anything that lived in the wood had hidden itself before she came in sight. Once, a pine marten had poked up its head at the mouth of its tunnel and looked straight at her, bright eyes in a black mask; and sometimes in a mild winter she had seen a day-time badger, too hungry to stay asleep. Today it was quiet.  She stopped to catch her breath and to hoist Father’s dinner onto her other shoulder. Looking back, she could no longer see Wren’s Nest. A stranger passing by would not know it was there, or that anyone at all lived at the bottom of that dark wooded cleft. Which must, of course, be how the cottage had got its name.

She turned her face uphill again and walked on. The brambles along the edge of the path had only a few shrunken berries left now, unwholesome for people but useful for the birds and wood mice. She started to look in earnest for fungus; the weather was just right. Soon she found a clump of yellow and white toadstools; then a sprinkling of tiny brown ones just off the path; pretty, but not special. Further on she spotted a strange bright yellow fungus between the toes of an oak: it was crumpled into a wriggly pattern, like one of the pictures of south sea corals in the Children’s Encyclopaedia. Edie stood still and looked at it, storing its colour and shape in her head, and then walked on. 

However many times she came this way, she always had the same little rush of joy as she came out of the trees into the huge sky. After the enclosed space of the wood, the world was suddenly endless and the air always moving, even on the calmest day. She stood in the October sun breathing hard. Below her the Dingle was a dark crack furred with trees. Ahead, autumn bracken gilded the rocks at the valley’s mouth, where the land fell away in a patchwork of greens. Straight ahead, the clump of trees on Bromlow Callow stood out in silhouette against the sky. The mist and fog that had hung over the Dingle that morning had gone, and a brisk south-easterly was blowing the sky blue. Edie set off at a trot along the path above the valley.

The land still rose gently as she crossed the grassy hilltop, bitten close as a lawn by wandering sheep; and then she was on the windy crest of the ridge, and queen of the whole world. The wide expanse of green and blue and purple was patched here and there with whitey-brown ploughed fields, netted with hedgerows and sprinkled with farms. The tall chimney at the mine, standing up like a warning finger, was way below her, dwarfed in the great sweep of the view. Whenever Miss Deakin read them the Bible story about the Devil taking Jesus up into a high mountain and showing Him all the countries of the world, this was the picture that came into Edie’s head. Slowly, she turned in a circle, naming the familiar shapes: the bump of Earl’s Hill, the long slope of the Mynd, the ridge of Corndon; and, as she came full circle, a view which stretched beyond the Callow far into Wales. Right on the horizon she could just see Cadaer Idris. The air was so clear today, the colours so beautiful, it made her almost want to cry.

As she ran down the last field towards the stile, the dark chimney grew taller and taller, its red brick sides towering over the trees, until she could smell the soot that sifted down day and night from its mouth. The stile was the door to another wood, but this one was different. Beyond the fringe of crisp brown bracken, the trees were ghostly grey, their leaves sparse and coated with ash. Further down the hill, nearer to the chimney, the trees were quite dead, bare as winter all year through. Nothing twittered or rustled here. Edie hurried through the birdless silence towards the thump and wheeze of the engine house. Trapped behind stone walls two feet thick, the great beam engine groaned like a monster in chains, pumping water from the deep shafts so that men could work in the dark, hacking out the lead ore. Her father had been one of them, long ago. The rock fall that had crushed his leg had happened when Edie was a baby – all her memory of him was as she knew him now, a man with a crutch and an uncertain temper.

Just above the engine house the railway cut across her path. She stopped and listened for the rattle and chug that meant a coal wagon climbing up from Minsterley. When she was sure none was coming, she stepped carefully over the shiny rails and the sharp grey chippings between them. There had been no railway when the Cornish Giant was set up here – Edie’s grandfather had seen the great stone blocks for the engine-house pulled uphill from the road, each wagon-load drawn by ten horses. Edie let her eye travel up the smooth grey wall, as high as three cottages, and heard her name called in greeting. It was Arthur Jones, Tom’s father, whose job it was to feed and watch the engine. She waved back, though she could not hear what he said above the noise.

Shifting the satchel to her other shoulder, she followed the stony path down towards the road. The noise of the engine house was replaced by the clang of hammer on anvil from the smithy, the shouts of men and the creak of the winding gear bringing the ore from under ground. The smell of soot gave way to the wood-smoke of cottage chimneys and the warm smell of horse dung. No one was waiting at the head of the shaft, for it was two hours yet to the next shift. The wheels atop the great black head-frame revolved slowly against the bright blue sky, winding up the cage with its baskets of ore. A steady whine came from the smithy, where men took their drills to be sharpened before each shift. Across the road from the shaft-head, a trio of men were smoking and rolling dice outside the barracks where some of them lived in the week. It was a long hard walk to the mines from Priest Weston or White Grit, especially in winter, and many of the single men preferred the companionship of a shared billet, however lacking in home comforts.

They worked eight-hour shifts in the pit, and John Dorricott must be there at the candle-house before each cage-load of men went down, to provide them with fresh supplies. He worked from five in the morning until ten at night, winter and summer. If Mother was well, she would get up and make his dinner before dawn, and he would take it with him and be gone before Edie woke in time to walk to school. But on the days when Jane Dorricott lay staring at the wall and did not speak, there would be no school. Instead, Edie must light the fire and sweep the house, make her father’s dinner and take it to him prompt at noon. School for Edie was a special place, orderly and satisfying. The other children, especially the boys, grumbled about going to school as much as their parents cursed about having to send them when they would be more use on the farm or in the shop, but Edie loved it. At school she was praised for doing things well, as she never was at home. She was in the highest standard now; her father wanted her to leave next summer, but she could not bear to think about that. Since Mother had been poorly more often, Edie had tried her hardest to wake at four o’clock, to see her father off in the cart with everything he needed for the day, so she would be free to go to school after. But it was tiring work, running a home. There were more and more days when she slept too long, or forgot to light the copper or to set the bread to rise, and she had missed school far more often.

She tried not to think about that now. The candle-house lay across the road, a little beyond the mine buildings and the handful of cottages that made up the settlement. As Edie arrived outside the squat stone building, a short man in the moleskin working trousers of a miner swung up the path towards her, stowing a fistful of candles in his jacket pocket. 

He saw her and smiled. ‘All right, our Edie?’ He nodded at the satchel. ‘That’s a good girl. No school today?’

It was Uncle Andrew. He must be on the two o’clock shift. 

Edie looked at the ground. ‘I don’t mind about school. I’d rather see to Father.’ 

He patted her arm, knowing it for the loyal lie it was, and knowing that his brother did not tolerate what he saw as a meddling curiosity in his family’s affairs.

‘Well, it’s good luck for me, meeting you,’ he said, reaching into his pocket. ‘A man that has neither wife nor sweetheart does well to meet a pretty maid in the path, that will put a light in his darkness.’

She smiled, grateful to him for changing the subject, and put out her hand for the candle.

Uncle Andrew took off his hat. It was a bowler such as all the men wore in the pit, rubbed with resin to stiffen it and with a lump of clay stuck to the brim in front. The clay had hardened round the first candle that had been pushed into it, forming a socket for the one she fixed there now. 

She kissed his cheek. ‘Good luck and God bless, Uncle.’

‘And so He will, my dear, thanks to you.’ His hand was warm on her shoulder. ‘Now in to your father with his bait.’   

She listened to him whistling up the path, and turned towards the door.

'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.