Writing for Fun
July 2015
Deception or The Word of God? - Jan Osborne
It was Sunday morning and I was already tired and miserable. For the last hour I had been at the beck and call of Gran. Fetching her this, helping her with that and making her breakfast. All the while listening to the usual torrent of venomous abuse that she always threw at me, however well I did the task. Now I had barely half an hour to make myself presentable before pushing her all the way uphill to Staley Street Methodist Church to our usual Sunday morning service.
I looked into the old, pitted dressing table mirror in my bedroom to straighten my limp and frayed tie. It complemented my tired old suit. The clean shaven face staring back at me was fair enough but was prematurely lined and looked careworn and displayed an air of despair and desperation. Tomorrow was my birthday. Tomorrow I would be thirty eight years old; a middle aged man who so far had had no life of his own; no joy; no love; no fun. There would be no celebrations in this house. Granny said I had not deserved to live. I had killed my mother. To atone she said I had to do all in my power to please her and look after her for the rest of her life. She said I was an abomination in the eyes of the Lord.
To my dismay I saw tears starting at the corners of my eyes. I slumped down onto the lumpy bed swiping away the salty wetness from my cheeks. If Gran saw these she would taunt me anew. Reaching over to my bedside I popped a pill from the bubble pack of anti-depression tablets recently given to me by my GP and swallowed it. They had not helped me so far, in fact, if anything, I felt worse. I had no friends and no loving family. I had never known the soft touch of a woman's lips on mine, not even a chaste mother's kiss for mine had died giving birth to me. I had been raised by my Gran Gladys who let no day go by without telling me
that I was useless, an unwelcome child of no account. Her shrill call aroused me from my unpleasant reveries. 'Tom, you useless lump; where on earth are you? Get me into my wheelchair. We need to leave now. Hurry up!'
In the churchyard I had to stop because boys were larking about and blocking the path to the church door.
'Out of the way you louts,' shrieked Granny, prodding any boy imprudent enough to come close enough to her chair and be within reach of her deadly stick.
'Witch! Witch!' chanted the boys, dancing nimbly out of reach of her wrath. Her face contorted with rage and with spittle flying screamed, 'Don't stand there like the imbecile you are, get me inside and out of this biting wind!'
Once inside I had to spend the next ten minutes finding the exact spot to place her that was not too hot, too cold or too draughty.
The sound of her berating me, and seeing my face pucker up, as I was close to tears, sent minister John Barley scurrying to my side. After five minutes soothing Gran he put his hand into the small of my back and propelled me across the hall to the stand of religious literature on the other side, on the pretext of giving me the latest news sheet.
'Tom, Tom, my poor boy,' he said, whilst patting my arm. 'Take heart; the Lord sees what sterling work you are doing. You will assuredly have your reward in heaven.'
I looked down at my feet, not trusting myself to reply. Letting out a sort of strangled grunt was the best I could achieve at this moment in time as I felt so low. I wanted my reward now. I wanted the sort of rewards that leaned more towards carnal and worldly pleasures not my ideas of heavenly ones.
Feeling my hurt he rushed on saying, 'Turn to the bible Tom. In the old days when people were troubled or needed solace they used to do what was called sortes biblicae to seek God's guidance and find a way of coping with their problems. Go home and in a quiet moment hold your bible and let it fall open. Whatever verse your eyes first alight upon will be God's message to you. Following the Lord's word can never be wrong. You can even do this more than once if the meaning is not crystal clear in the first instance. Tell you what, seek the Lord's guidance and then try to get away and come to our weekly meeting on Thursday, here at seven. You would be very welcome and will give you a chance to make some friends as well.'
I walked back to my seat as if walking on air. For once the cruel barbs of Gran's words missed their target. I had some hope at last.
In the midnight hour, with Gran safely tucked up in her bed fast asleep, I cleared away the craft materials leaving only the nearly completed model of the Golden Hind, flagship of Sir Francis Drake. It was my pride and joy and truly the only thing that was really mine. For years, night after night I had worked on making a scale replica of this fabulous ship out of matchsticks. Gran did not give me an allowance. Money for my hobby was saved from my judicious shopping for food and household items. Gran would have it that the money for this hobby was taking the very food from her mouth. How selfish I was.
I took the family bible and held it by the front and back covers. Closing my eyes and taking a deep breath I placed it spine down on the table and then let my hands fall away. The pages fell open at Timothy: chapter 2: verse 12. My eyes devoured the words of St Paul: I do not permit a woman to teach or to have authority over a man. She must be silent.
I was stunned. God's word was clear. I must not be ruled by Gran. I must exert my authority. I must take control. Overcome and with shaking hands I dragged out Gran's bottle of sherry from the sideboard and gulped down three forbidden glasses. Reeling a little I headed for bed to plan my future . . .
Gran's wrath knew no bounds. She exploded when I told her that I would be going out that evening to the fellowship meeting at the church. She rained abuse upon my head saying that I would have her death on my conscience. She said she was feeling unwell and was surely going to have heart attack but when she saw that this argument had not moved me she hinted darkly that I would be sorry if I went out. I heeded her not and, buoyed up by the words of God, l left her alone for the first time in my life. I returned home on cloud nine. Although the minister, being unwell, had not attended the meeting, the people there had made me feel very welcome. I could not wait for next week.
The sight that met my eyes as I entered the living room horrified me. Gran did not greet me but smiled a slow wicked smile as her eyes slid towards the floor. There was my beloved ship in thousands of pieces strewn across the carpet. No words would come. I felt the hot rage boil deep within me. I raced upstairs and, grabbing my own bible, flung it open on the bed. What I read brought a slow wicked smile to my face. Exodus: chapter 22: verse18: Do not allow a witch to live.
I could dimly hear Gran's ranting but it did not now have the power to affect me. I moved as if in a dream. I closed the shed door behind me and picked up the can of petrol and walked back into the house. Now all I needed was a box of matches and my troubles would be over.