36. Returning Home

Things might settle back to normal any day now

It was late when the taxi the Bishop had ordered for Barney finally arrived at the gates to the parsonage that he called home. It was even beginning to get dark and all he could face was something hot and wet even though the last meal he’d had was at lunch time, and he hadn’t had much.

He walked through the gate and to his front door carrying a plastic bag in lieu of having a suitcase of his own, and he searched in his pocket for the door key. There it was! His fingers clenched it and he reached out to insert it into the lock when, to shock him, the door decided to open itself before he had actually got round to turning the key. His first thought was burglars until he saw who had opened the door from within, and his second thought was oh no. Because standing there and scowling as if a thunderstorm might be about to break in the darkening blue skies above them stood a very angry looking Bishop.

“So you’ve made it home, Pickle!” the latter grated. “I arrange a couple of weeks of Heaven for you at the Cowslip Retreat and what do you do? Throw it back in my face! I even managed to get them to accept Mrs Dresden to be with you, and they don’t usually accept ladies, and you make a mockery of my efforts on your behalf! Obviously you prefer the hoodlums at Brumpton Gaol to the peace and harmony of a religious retreat.”

By the time the Bishop had reached the word Cowslip Barney was beginning to get a feeling that he was once again the subject of injustice, a feeling that was considerably amplified when his boss reached the term Brumpton Gaol.

“What”, he reasoned, “have I done that deserves this kind of treatment?”

And almost unconsciously he put the mental question into words, using his best pulpit volume to make sure he was heard and that sense was plainly available from a simple understanding of his words.

“Really, Pickle, who do you think you’re talking to?” demanded his superior cleric.

“I’m sorry sir, but Mrs Dresden chose to misunderstand me, then the Father with the daft name at the Retreat chose to take her side and now I’ve arrived home only to find that the one man I trusted more than any other has broken into my home and is haranguing me on my own doorstep!”

“Then step inside, man, and I’ll continue behind closed doors!” almost shouted the Bishop, and with a theatrically obvious movement he stood to one side to allow Pickle to step past him.

Once the door was shut and the darkening night was safely on the outside, he glared at Pickle.

“I want an apology for what you just said!” he grated. ”Anyone passing by on the street would have cause to think me a thief with you suggesting that I, what was it you said, broke into your home! I want you to know I did no such thing! I do, of course, have a key to this house and have every right to use it!”

Barney’s temper refused to subside or even shrink a little. This was his home, his castle, and the safety it offered him had been breached.

“I need a hot drink!” he snapped, “and I, at least, know where the kitchen is!”

And then, more boldly than he’d ever recalled being, he stomped past the Bishop and picked the kettle up, filled it and switched it on

You’re behaving like a spoilt brat, Pickle,” observed the Bishop, “and I can’t help wondering why you’re boiling some water.”

“I need something wet and warm inside me before I explode with justified anger!” snapped Pickle, “and a cup of tea might just do the trick.”

“So you drink it black? Without milk, I mean…” the Bishop grinned.

“Mrs Dresden will fetch me some milk then!” he snapped, revelling in a sense that he had a strange nonsensical superiority for once in his life.

Mrs Dresden? Isn’t that the woman you so thoughtless and let me say very unkindly dismissed?” asked Bishop Pyke, knowing all the answers.

Then Pickle began to see the depth of a hole he’d been digging for himself, He had told Mrs Dresden that he never wanted to see her again, hadn’t he? Because hadn’t she been implying that there was some fault in the way he relied on the lessons learned in his childhood as a guide through life.

He looked suddenly confused, and the Bishop, somewhat quietly, pointed out to him that he must know where all the shops were.

“Especially those open at this time of the evening,” he concluded, and without any more ado he let himself out of the parsonage, and before he disappeared to his car added ”Tiddly-bye, Pickle!”

Meanwhile, at another house in the town not so far from the parsonage, an ambulance car pulled up outside the Scumbag residence and Gozza Scumbag was helped down the steps until he could almost run (or rather more like trot) to the door and be greeted by his brother Jed.

“About time, bruv!” he said, hugging a rather confused looking Gozza, “I’ve been really waiting for you to tell me what it’s like being dead!”

“Just let me get in, Jed,” protested Gozza, “I’ve been proper poorly, you know.”

“But ma was told you’d been clinically dead, that’s what they called it, for quite a few minutes,” said Jed, turning a statement into a question.

“Well I was an’ I wasn’t,” Gozza told him, taking hold of an opportunity to expand a brief dream-like moment into a major occurrence in his life.

“But they said your heart, it stopped!” almost shouted Jed. But Gozza wasn’t going to waste a lovely story by letting every tiny kitten out of the Bag in one day. Let his brother wait and then, bit by bit, he’d feed to him all about it.

But that might take weeks!

“Just hang on a bit, Jed,” he said more weakly than was absolutely necessary.

“Yes!” snapped heir dad, Matthew Scumbag, who had just managed to rise from his chair in front of their oversized television set, “calm down, lad. We don’t want him to pass out again or it might be permanent!”

© Peter Rogerson 11.05.25