13.STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN

A slow deterioration in Daisy as Isabel passes through Secondary school

STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN

13. Passing Years

Helen Bindle was always pleased to see her brother because his presence seemed to spread an atmosphere of righteousness throughout her home, and righteousness in the 1950s, to her, was something to be treasured. But then, that brother was a man of God, a vicar who spread righteousness wherever he went like a special invisible holy cloud. That was how she saw him, and it made her treasure him.

So when he rang their doorbell (they had an electric doorbell, which demonstrated their place in the world because all her neighbours had knockers) she was only too pleased to see him.

“You know, Jeremy, when you call in to see us it makes e think the world is a much better place than that box over there makes me think it is!” She pointed to the television set in one corner of the room, a huge wooden contration with a small screen.

“So you’ve weakened and got one of those accursed things?” he said, not frowning because he had one of his own, in the vicarage, a slightly larger screen than his sister’s set and a little secret that most of his parishioners were unaware of. But, he reasoned, life can be very drab and a little box of tricks in the corner can’t so any real harm. Anyway, June liked it and said she wouldn’t be without it. After all, it helped her to sleep! She insisted that it did, especially when he was questioning its value to a man of God. And they’d been married for ten years or so, since the war ended, and he’d never known her struggle to sleep in all that time!

“It helps Honey with her homework,” explained Helen, though she knew full well that it was a lie because all her daughter Honey was interested in was a host of boys in her class at school according to some of the things she said. It even worried her and she wondered what the youngsters were getting up to when there was nobody around to check that they weren’t being sinful Maybe, Helen thought, it’s the television and the rubbish on it that has turned an eleven year old girl to thinking about boys none-stop…

“There was a woman in a bikini on it only the other evening,” she added, reinforcing her own prejudice, and that was disgusting.”

“You mean, a two piece swimming costume?” he asked.

“That’s what they say they are, but I doubt they swim in them! They parade about in the open showing just about everything they’ve got and it’s an outrage,” snarled Helen, on her favourite subject of the week for once and in the presence of her own brother who might also be a man with righteousness oozing from his every orifice and actually agree with him. Not that she gave a moment’s thought as to what she meant in her head when she contemplated orifices.

“I like to see a lady of character in a bikini,” he shocked her by saying, “they give an honesty to the lady. You can see the real person and not what some French designer wants you to see when he creates some of the weird fashions they do come up with.”

“I suppose that might be a point,” she sniffed, “but who wants to see such long legs? They’re positively hideous, and they go too far up! Nobody’s going to see mine, I can make that much quite plain.”

“I did when you were a nipper, little sister?” he grinned.

“That’s too much smut from a vicar!” she snapped, “then, more quietly, “Honey says a girl in her class has the school stuff I left for the jumble sale.”

“Ah. That’ll be Isabel Parfitt, then. I feel for that family, I really do. Two young children, and I buried their father several years ago, now. The poor woman does struggle…”

“Then she should get a job!” snapped Helen, “it’s what holds a family together, a good income!”

“I dared say you’re looking for paid work too, then, sister,” he said wearily. He’d heard most of her prejudices before and couldn’t help wondering where she had picked them up from.

“I could work in Woolworth’s tomorrow if I needed to!” she replied, “but they don’t pay enough and I don’t need to! Though I did in the war, you know. I rolled my sleeves up back then and did my bit!”

“Dearest Helen,” he reproved mildly, “that was ten years ago and things have changed since then. Anyway, Mrs Parfitt paid for the things she took, and the church is all the better off for it.”

“They were new when I bought them and they cost a lot more than she would be able to pay,” snarled Helen, and Jeremy Pocock shook his head sadly. What’s happened to people? He asked himself, there was a time not so long ago when we had an everyone-pull-together attitude in society, and now my sister feels it’s quite all right for her to have enough and more than she needs and others to be without, and blames them for their poverty rather than herself for her greed.”

“I’ll be going, then,” he said, seeing a row between siblings brewing up and wanting to avoid it, and consequently turning back to the door.

“But you’ve only just arrived!” she exclaimed, alarmed at what might be a rift between them, one that she’d never understand, not in a month of Sundays.

“I need to consult my socialist friend, Jesus Christ,” he said, “though not on the subject of bikinis!”

She was lost for words, and he let himself out.

He was to remember that brief conversation three or four years in the future when he called on Daisy. He’d been increasingly concerned about her, though was happy to see that she and the two children put in regular attendances on Sunday mornings at his church, which was more than he could say about his sister who had been conspicuously absent from any services recently.

It was when they left and he was bidding a holy goodbye to his flock at the church door as they trickled out that he noticed Daisy and was aware of the almost vacant expression on her face.

“Nice to see you one again, Mrs Parfitt,” he said.

“Hold my hands, children,” she said as if she was addressing toddlers, “you never can tell…” and her voice trailed off, the sentence remaining unfinished.

“We’re not babies now, mum,” hissed Brian, “don’t forget: I’m a teenager and the times have moved on since I was in a push chair!”

“Your father would want it…” she mumbled, then “hello vicar,” she added.

“They’re growing up to be strong and healthy,” he told her.

“They are?” she asked, “who are?”

“Your two angels,” he smiled.

“Oh, Yes. I see what you mean… Vicar, I’ll always be grateful.”

“You will? What on Earth for, Mrs Parfitt?”

“It was you, wasn’t it? Or am I making a fool of myself… the school clothes for Issy here?”

“Of course. But that was years ago, and there’s no need for you to be grateful! You paid for them fair and square!”

“I did? I sometimes forget things. Do you want me to pay now?”

“I just said, you paid. Three or four years ago! It’s all over and done with and everyone’s happy!”

“Are they?That’s good then, isn’t it?”

“Did you want to ask me anything, Mrs Parfitt?” She’d had more than the usual few words with him and there were impatient noises from other parishioners wanting to tell him how much they took his sermons to heart or how well their families were or, occasionally, that old Mr or Mrs so and so had passed away.

“No, sir. No I don’t,” she forced out, then “do you want me to pay now? For the clothes? I’ve got my purse somewhere, Have you seen it, Isabel? My purse?”

“You paid him already, mum,” replied the girl, “come on. We’re holding everyone up, and anyway I’ve got revision for my mocks to do.”

“Of course darling,” and with the vaguest of expressions seeming to haunt her face she moved off, holding two teenagers by their hands as if they were on their way to their first infants school.

© Peter Rogerson, 08.03.23

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