Behind Bars:
Part One
by Kevin Crowe
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: With Birmingham no longer a safe place to live, Brendan and Kathleen know they must move away. Catriona has an idea where the three of them might go. Meanwhile, Brendan falls in love.
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: With Birmingham no longer a safe place to live, Brendan and Kathleen know they must move away. Catriona has an idea where the three of them might go. Meanwhile, Brendan falls in love.
Chapter Fifteen: Graham
1
It can get cold, very cold, in Birmingham, in fact anywhere in England, cold, wet and dreary; and sometimes the people imitate the climate, with their reserve that only seems to be overcome with alcohol. Not that I've got any objection to drink, after all Christ's first miracle was turning water into wine, but the English don't seem to be able to enjoy themselves without a glass in their hand. If England were a film, it would be in black and white; unlike my native Jamaica, which is a clash of colours, sound and movement, orchestrated and painted by the sun, the storms, the beaches, the forests. Although I'm often homesick, I don't ever seriously consider going back.
Most of the time I was happy at St Michael's seminary in Kingston, convinced about my vocation and celebrating with others the honour of being chosen by God. But there were times, even then, when I wasn't sure. I prayed for the strength to overcome my demons, and in the years since my ordination I have continued to do so, not always successfully.
Many people assume celibacy must be difficult, and to an extent it can be. But the biggest problem isn't celibacy itself, it's the loneliness that can come with it. Those of us who live alone in one-priest parishes have no-one to bounce ideas off, to share our successes with, to moan about our failures, just someone who we can talk to and who can talk to us. We have no-one who, on a daily basis, can encourage us or advise us or even to tell us to stop doing things that aren't working. We can't talk to parishioners about these things: they look up to us and I don't want to risk losing their respect. We can't talk to fellow priests: any juicy bit of gossip would become common knowledge as soon as imparted. We can't talk to our bishops: they are the ones who decide where we work, who are responsible for supervising and if necessary disciplining us. There is the confessional, of course, but it is very difficult, sometimes impossible, to confess some sins.
No wonder so many priests turn to drink. No wonder so many of us lack basic social skills.
Those of us not born here and whose skin is a different colour face the same racism as all those with their roots in the Caribbean or Africa or India. One of the reasons I wear my clerical collar most of the time, even when I'm socialising or shopping or just walking the streets, is that I'm less likely to be stopped by the police. Even so, there was the time a police officer stopped me and didn't believe I was a priest, even asking me where I stole the collar from. The only times I don't wear my collar are the rare occasions I don't want to be recognised as a priest, the times when I'm ashamed of being a priest.
Catholicism isn't big in the Caribbean, at least in the part I came from, and most immigrants from there who are Christians belong to one of the Protestant denominations, so most of my parishioners are white, many of them from Ireland or with Irish families. When I first arrived here, I was worried about people's reactions. No-one in the parish actually said anything to my face, but I knew I was being examined. Fortunately, most of them were just happy to have a priest after some time without one, and over time I won most of the doubters round.
But my demons remained.
Kneeling at the altar and praying before the start of the midweek morning Mass, I assumed the steps I heard echoing belonged to one of the retired women who made up most of the week day Mass tiny congregation. It was only when I came out of the sacristy to begin Mass that I noticed among the half dozen midweek regulars was a young man I recognised. He didn't take Communion and he remained in his pew after the others had left the church.
I approached him, held out my hand and said: “Hello, Brendan. How are you doing?”
He looked relieved. “You remember me then?”
I smiled. “Of course. It's part of the job description.”
He laughed. Nervously, but it was still a laugh. “Hope I'm not keeping you from anything,” he said.
I shrugged. “Nothing that can't wait. What can I do for you.”
“Nothing really. I just wanted to thank you.” He was silent for a few seconds. “Look, are you sure I'm not disturbing you?”
“Of course you're not. Why don't we go next door to the presbytery and have a cup of tea? It is tea you like, isn't it?”
He nodded. “Yes, tea. You have got a good memory!”
2
We were sat in my lounge, tea cups in front of us, the silence punctuated occasionally by small talk. He remarked on the number of bookshelves and asked: “Are they all religious books?”
“Goodness me, no,” I replied. “There's fiction, poetry, history, lots of stuff. Do you read much?”
He shook his head. “Not much. Sometimes. Never really been able to afford to buy them.”
“You could always join a library.”
“Yeah, suppose so. But I've never really been in one place long enough.”
I told him to choose any book in the room he fancied reading, and I'd lend it to him.
He smiled, a touch sadly I thought. “Thanks but I don't think we'll be here long enough for me to read it and return it.”
“Don't worry about that. Just choose any one you think you'd like.”
He stood up and began perusing the shelves. While he was doing so I asked him: “What did you mean, you might not be here long enough to return the book?”
He pulled out a book and showed it to me. “What's this one like?”
“'The Comedians' by Graham Greene? Well, its title is deceptive, it's not at all funny, actually it's tragic. It's about....”
He interrupted me: “Don't tell me what it's about. I'll find out when I read it.” He sat back down.
“You haven't answered my question,” I said, “not that you have to, of course, if you don't want to.”
“Sorry. What were you asking?”
He didn't seem to be with me in the room: it was as if his mind was elsewhere and I wasn't sure how to reach him. “Are you okay?” I asked him.
“Was that what you asked me before?”
“Er, no. You said you might not be here long, and I was wondering what you meant.”
“Oh that. Nothing really. We might be moving away, that's all.” He opened the book, began reading but then closed it. He picked up his cup, moved it to his lips, then placed it back on the table without drinking. He began to fidget, scratching his hair, rubbing his arms, crossing and uncrossing his legs, tapping his feet. He stood up and said: “Sorry. I think I'd better go. Sorry to be a nuisance.”
I too stood up and I placed my hands on his shoulders, looking him in the eye. “There's something on your mind, Brendan. Why don't you sit down and just tell me about it? If I can help, I will. If I can't, well, at least I can listen.”
He sighed, but he did sit back down, allowing the folds of the old and shabby but comfortable sofa to embrace him. “Where shall I begin?”
“Wherever you like.”
“I don't know what to do. I feel like I'm powerless, like everyone else is making decisions for me, like whatever I do is the wrong thing. I think I'm going mad, fucking mad.” He looked up at me. “Sorry for swearing.”
“Don't worry, I'm not easily shocked. Why do you think you're going mad?”
“Oh, everything I do ends up bad. I end up losing every job I get. I think everyone would be better off without me.”
“What, even Kathleen?”
“She's got someone now, a lover.”
“Has she? I hope he's not another pimp.”
Brendan laughed. “She, not he. It seems she's as queer as me.”
“As long as it makes her happy.”
“Oh, it certainly does that. And I suppose I should thank you.”
“What for?”
“Well, she's given up the game and she's now working as a musician, and a successful one at that. That's how she met Catriona.”
“And you feel left out?”
“Of course not!” He exclaimed. “Not at all. What makes you think that? Well, perhaps sometimes, but that's not really the problem.”
I felt like I was trying to navigate quicksand. I had no real idea what he was talking about, where the conversation was going. I told him so.
“Oh fu..., oh dear. My fault, entirely my fault. Look, I'd better explain what's been happening recently.”
I let him speak, only interrupting occasionally in order to clarify something I didn't quite catch. At first, I was pleased that they'd settled into a new home and that Kathleen had given up prostitution and was able to make a living from music. All seemed to be going well, what with driving lessons, getting a car and Kathleen falling in love. Of course, the church and many of its priests, probably most of them as well as lots of my parishioners, would continue to condemn her. I don't think Jesus would, or if he did he would have to condemn the rest of us.
I was beginning to wonder why he seemed so distracted. Then his narrative became darker and more disjointed. As he told me of the awful assault on him, he became more disturbed, his body shaking, his voice cracking, as he attempted to control himself. I put my arms around him to comfort him, to give him permission to let the tears flow.
But he refused to cry. He pulled himself up, sitting as straight as he could in the soft sofa and continued: “We never went back for the rest of our stuff, we decided it was too risky. Someone may have been watching the place. Also, we're going to leave Birmingham, don't think it's safe here any more.”
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“A small village in the west Highlands of Scotland. Just me and Kathleen, though Catriona will be joining us when the school holidays start. Catriona's parents live near there and Kathleen can play her music anywhere. I just don't feel I've had any say in it. I feel like I'm being so fucking ungrateful, and I know I've not been able to make any decisions since – well, since what happened, but I don't feel I had any choice but agree. They've both been so good to me, but still...”
He gulped back the tears and after a few moments silence said: “The thing is, sometimes I think this whole fucking mess is my fault. If I hadn't got to know Kathleen, she wouldn't have been beaten up by her pimp and we wouldn't have ended up running away. I wouldn't have ended up in hospital and would have been at work to warn the tarts and dealers about the police, and Norman wouldn't have been after me.”
“But you can look at it another way,” I said. “If you hadn't got to know her, she might still be a prostitute, she might never have had the confidence to play her music in public, she might never have met Catriona, and she could have ended up like so many other prostitutes.”
“Perhaps,” was all he said before falling into silence again. He looked at me and, smiling wistfully, said: “The thing is I've run away again.”
“What do you mean?” I asked him.
“What I say. I got up early this morning before either of them were up and drove away without telling them where I was going or even that I was going. I didn't even leave a note. I just upped and left. And we're supposed to be moving to Scotland in a few days. I feel I've let everyone down.”
This time he did allow himself to cry. As I held him, the sobs racked through his whole body and as they did he gripped me ever tighter. I don't think either of us knew how it happened, nor do I think either of us meant it to happen, but as I stroked his hair he looked up at me and we kissed.
It didn't stop at a kiss. It was as if our actions had a momentum of their own, with one thing leading to another. Our bodies and our emotions took over.
My demons had returned.
3
Afterwards I could barely look at him. I felt what I'd done was wrong on so many levels: I'd broken my vow of celibacy, I'd taken advantage of a vulnerable man who was looking for help and I'd committed an act that is condemned by the Bible and by my church. I'd also shown an immense lack of self-control. I felt unworthy to be a priest, to be someone who ministered to others, who taught the catechism to youngsters, who preached on avoiding sin. I was a hypocrite, one of those who Christ most loudly spoke against; one of those who, according to Dante, are condemned to an eternity in Hell, wandering “ever round with footsteps slow” wearing brightly coloured coats made of the heaviest lead.
“I'm sorry,” I said, knowing the words to be inadequate.
“What for?” Brendan asked.
I turned away. “I took advantage of you, knowing you were vulnerable. What I did was unforgivable.”
He took hold of my hands and turned me so I was facing him. “You did no such thing. If anything, I was the one of who took advantage of you. You gave me the best therapy you could have done. I fancied you the very first time I saw you, and I still do.”
“But I've broken the vows I took when I was ordained. I've sinned, and absolution is now behind me.”
“Are you saying you didn't enjoy it? And do you regret what we did together? Because I don't.”
“No. No to both questions, and that's the problem. How can I get absolution when I know I would do it again, when I know I would put myself in the way of temptation again? How can I be forgiven?”
“But I thought your God would forgive anything.”
“Yes, but only if I truly regret my sin and promise to try and avoid such sin in the future.” I was beginning to shout, becoming almost hysterical. “Don't you see? I don't regret a single second of what we did, not a single second, even though I know by doing so I am condemning my soul to an eternity of torture.” I began to weep, my hands covering my face.
Brendan put his arm around me, but I shrugged him off and began to get dressed. Brendan, sitting on the bed and still naked, began to speak quietly, so quietly I had to strain to hear him. “You know I've lost my faith in your God, but I do know that if any God does exist then you would have just been doing his work. I've had more fumbles in toilets and saunas and parks than I can count, and most have left me feeling dirty. I've spent much of my life trying not to be who I am. I've seen my best friend escape the grip of prostitution, become a fine musician and find love. In recent months I've been beaten up ending up in hospital; I've been arrested and beaten by the police, got myself a criminal record and given a fine I can't afford to pay; I've been stuck in God awful jobs; I've been constantly looking over my shoulder and since being tortured – there's no other word for it but tortured – I've been in fear of both my life and my sanity. Now, we're moving to somewhere I know nothing about and have never been, without any idea what awaits me. I have no idea what the future holds and can only hope it isn't as bad as what I've been through recently.”
He paused. I looked at him as he began speaking again: “I couldn't explain to Kathleen and Catriona what I was really feeling, what my fears really were. They have been good, as good as they could possibly be, to me; they've helped me in every conceivable way to get over the recent trauma of – of the executioner's hood and rope, and I've repaid them with tantrums, anger and tears. I came to see you in desperation, hoping I would find something that would help me. And I found more than I had any right to expect. The way you touched me and let me touch you, the way you made me feel wanted and needed, the physical comfort and release you provided has I think given me the strength to move forward, to find ways of living in the future.”
He put his arm around me again, and this time I let it stay there. “I hope you won't think I'm being blasphemous and trite when I say today you have been doing God's work, if he exists. Didn't Christ say something about love being more important than the law?” He kissed me.
He got dressed, and shortly afterwards he left. His parting words were: “My only regret is that I'm leaving Birmingham so soon after having found someone I think I can love. Let's keep in touch. As soon as I know, I'll let you have my address in Scotland. Perhaps you will even feel able to visit me at some stage.”
“Perhaps I will,” I said.
After he left, I got on my knees to pray for guidance.
Chapter Sixteen: Catriona
1
Living with someone is very different from dating them, even in the best of circumstances, and these were far from that. The first few days were like walking on eggshells around each other, when our major concern was for the welfare of Brendan.
It was difficult to assess how he was recovering. For much of the time it was as if he was functioning on autopilot, but any knock on the door, even the postman putting mail through the letterbox, would have him jumping and this terrified look would appear on his face. He refused to talk about his ordeal, other than the horrific outline he'd already given, and despite his claims he was okay, it was clear to both of us he wasn't.
Overnight he had gone from being self-confident, interested in everything around him and argumentative to being withdrawn, disinterested and quiet, at times very quiet. He hated being alone, yet he loathed company, even mine and Kathleen's. He fidgeted constantly, unable to settle, and had developed a nervous tic. He was also smoking far too much (both tobacco and marijuana) and drinking more than he used to. He rarely left the house and when he did, he drove even if he was only going to the corner shop. And he carried a screwdriver in his pocket.
When he was asked his opinion on anything, he either just shrugged or agreed with whatever had just been said. One of the first things I had learned about Kathleen was her short fuse, and she would regularly lose her temper with Brendan. In the past he would have given as good as he took, but in the aftermath of the assault his response to her anger was to just sit there in silence, staring into space, tears rolling down his face. Then Kathleen would feel guilty, which just fuelled her frustrations, which she would then take out on me, always apologising afterwards.
I was at work every day apart from weekends, so Kathleen had to cope with Brendan on her own much of the time, but that didn't make it any easier for me, what with his apathy and her tantrums. One evening, it all got too much for me and I responded. I suppose things had been building up for a while: a lot of the time my body worked to a different clock than hers. Also, I was still worried about gossiping neighbours and I was paranoid about the place smelling of marijuana. Whatever, I chose that moment to tell her this was my house, not hers, and to respect that.
As soon as I had spoken, I regretted my words, I wanted to take them back. Nostrils flared and speaking quietly, she said: “Fuck you.” She picked up Frankie and began to strum the guitar, gradually creating a heart-breaking melody that segued into a strident, angry syncopated rhythm before returning to the melody. I doubt she consciously created this music, it seemed to me she just emptied her mind and allowed her fingers to work. Despite all my formal musical training I had never been able to do that and it was one of the many things I loved about her. I don't think she realised just how good, just how natural, a musician she was.
As she played, I knelt in front of her, put my hands on her knees and whispered: “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”
Without looking up she said: “No, you fucking shouldn't have.”
When she finished playing, she put the guitar down and pulled me towards me, quickly kissing me. “Don't ever say anything like that again. Don't. Or, much as I love you, I'll walk out that fucking door and you'll never see me again.”
I hugged her tightly and apologised. She dried my tears and we sat in comfortable, companionable silence for a while. Later, we opened a bottle of cheap plonk. “We can't continue like this,” she said.
“Don't worry, love, I didn't mean what I said. You can stop here as long as you like, treat it as your home.”
She smiled. “That's not what I mean. It just seems like all our fucking lives are on hold. Brendan's like a fucking zombie cunt most of the time. You go to work, come home and cope with us, then go to work the next day. And we've cancelled all our gigs, no doubt royally pissing off David.”
I giggled. “Not all bad then.”
She slapped me playfully. “Look,” she said between guffaws, “let's be serious. At the moment, neither me nor Brendan are working, and really we're just living off you.”
“I don't mind,” I said.
A warning note of irritation appeared in her voice. “But I fucking do mind.” She stroked my hair. “Sorry, I really must learn to control my temper.”
I risked a joke. “A bit late for that now, I think.”
“Yes, reckon you're fucking right. Seriously, we've got nowhere to live and I don't know about you, but neither me nor Brendan feel safe in Birmingham any more. We certainly can't go back to that place in Balsall Heath.”
I nodded. When we'd left, Kathleen had packed most of her and Brendan's possessions and they had decided what was left behind could stay there. They hadn't made any attempt to contact Clement, figuring he would find out for himself why they'd left, particularly if Norman carried out his threat to tell Winston where they lived.
“Erdington's a long way from Balsall Heath,” I reminded her.
“Yeah, and Balsall Heath's some distance from Winson Green, but the wankers still found us.” After a few moments she said: “The fucking reality is we're going to have to leave Birmingham.”
I stared at her, open mouthed. “But that means leaving me.”
“We can still spend school holidays together, wherever we are.” She kissed me. “I really hope you can understand why. I really do. I spoke to Brendan about it yesterday, and yes I know how difficult it is to know what he's thinking at the moment, but he did say he would feel safer somewhere else. The last thing, the very last thing, I want is to be parted from you for even a day, but...” Her voice gave out as she unsuccessfully tried to stop the tears. I knew just how serious she was and how much thought had gone into her words: I knew because she had spoken several sentences without a single swear word.
I wanted to remonstrate with her, tell her she was wrong, she could be safe in Birmingham, that the three of us would look after each other; I wanted to say this and much more. But all I could manage was: “I love you.”
She held me close. “I love you too.”
We embraced in silence. After a while I said: “When do you plan to leave? Where will you go?”
“I don't know. I don't know.” She roared like some wild animal, abruptly stood up and dashed up the stairs. I followed her to find her lying face down on the bed, sobbing her heart out. I joined her.
2
I'd been thinking about it for some time. I loved teaching, but I hated the bureaucracy and I loved performing more. Even more than performing, I loved Kathleen. I know we hadn't known each other for that long, but I could not imagine life without her.
My mind had been going round in circles, yet I had ignored the obvious. The next morning I made two phone calls: the first was to school to tell them I was ill (the first time in all my years of teaching I had done that); the second was to an Inverness estate agent. I then cooked breakfast for all of us.
“I'm not sure I feel like eating,” Kathleen said, pouring herself a cup of tea.
“Get it down, girl,” I told her, “I've cooked it, so eat it.” I grinned at her. “Then we can talk.”
“What about?” Kathleen and Brendan said simultaneously. Brendan added: “Why aren't you at work today?”
“So many questions. About what happens now. About where we live and how we earn a living. And, Brendan, I rang in sick this morning. They can cope without me today.”
Kathleen screwed her eyes in puzzlement, saying: “We?” Brendan said nothing, slowly chewing on bacon and eggs.
“Yes, we.” I put my knife and fork down and took Kathleen's hands. At first, I'd been a bit self-conscious about holding her in front of Brendan, that was until she told me to stop being “so fucking stupid”. I looked her directly in her eyes and said: “I don't want to be anywhere unless you are there with me.”
“But what about your job?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I can teach anywhere.”
Both Brendan and Kathleen looked at me quizzically. I took a deep breath. “Okay,” I said, “just hear me out and then tell me what you think. If you don't like what I'm going to suggest, just say so, but at least hear me out. Okay?”
Brendan nodded. There was no reaction from Kathleen.
“Right. A while ago, not long before I met you, an aunt of mine died, and in her will she left me her cottage. It's in a right state, barely habitable to be honest, and I really don't know why she left it to me, particularly as I had no use for it. I put it on the market, but no-one's expressed any interest in buying it, probably because of the amount of work that needs doing to it. And to be honest I'd forgotten all about it, until last night. I don't know how I could have been so stupid.”
“I fucking do,” Kathleen said, smirking. I waved my finger in front of her face, but she just continued smirking.
“Where is this cottage?” Brendan asked.
“In Scotland,” I said. “But first let me tell you what I've done. I rang the estate agent this morning and took it off the market. Also, tomorrow when I go into work I'm going to hand in my notice. I'm a bit late in handing in my notice, but I'm sure the school will understand when I tell them why.”
“Oh yeah,” interrupted Kathleen, putting on her sarcastic voice, “I'm fucking sure they'll understand when you tell them you're a dyke living with a former tart and her queer friend who have been threatened by fascists, pimps and drug dealers. They'll be very fucking understanding!”
Unlike Kathleen, I don't lose my temper very often, but I was close to doing so then. “Please, Kathleen, please just listen will you.” She shrugged her shoulders and I continued: “I've never taken a day off all the years I've been working there, and I'll come up with a good reason, don't you worry.” I took a deep breath. “Okay, here's what I'm proposing: you two move up there as soon as you like and I'll follow in a month's time when term ends...”
“And what will we live off?” This time it was Brendan who interrupted.
“Please, just hear me out. It's my property, so there's no rent or mortgage to pay, just rates. Although Strathdubh is isolated, me and Brendan can drive and you, love, will pass your test at some stage. I'm going to look for some supply teaching, and we can earn money doing what we do now: playing music. I'm sure we can get an agent who will get us gigs, particularly when they hear the demos we've made, and if not we'll just have to tout for gigs or busk.” I looked at Brendan. “And you can get a job in one of the local pubs or hotels. Also, you could look after the cottage when me and Kathleen are away playing.” I took another deep breath. “There's lots of music venues in Edinburgh and Glasgow, and we can go further afield, stopping in cheap B&Bs if necessary. And the three of us can make the cottage a nice place to live. Any work we can't do ourselves, we can get local people to do for us.”
“Where exactly is Strathdubh?” Kathleen asked.
“It's a small village in the west Highlands, just a few miles from the nearest town. It's not far from my parents' croft, but far enough for them not to be in our pockets. What do you think?”
“But what about your career?” Kathleen asked.
“There are far more important things than my career. Including you. Okay, I know we're probably going to struggle a bit financially, but we'll survive. I'm sure we will.”
“And what about us?”
I was puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Us. Fucking us. You've always made it clear you can't be fucking honest about me. Is that going to change?” Kathleen folded her arms.
I tried to hide my exasperation. “I'm still going to be a teacher, even if just a supply teacher. But surely you know I couldn't ever be ashamed of you. How could I be? How could you ever think that? I'm not going to lie to anyone, I'm not going to pretend you're something you're not, so if anyone asks a direct question, I'll answer it honestly. But take it from me, no-one will. Two men, yes, questions would be asked. Two women? I doubt it.”
“I suppose that'll have to do.” She stood up and began taking dishes to the sink. “I'm sorry if I sounded ungrateful.” She touched my hand and I pulled her towards me. “I'm sure we can sort something out. But on one condition.”
“What's that?” I asked.
She said: “Never, ever say to me what you said last night. Never throw into my fucking face what you said last night about it being your fucking house. Never again.”
I lowered my eyes. “I'm really sorry about that. I didn't mean it, and it'll never happen again. Promise.” I looked up and noticed Brendan was looking downcast. “What's up?” I asked him.
He sighed. “Once again it seems I have no control over where I go, where I live, what I do. Look, I know I should feel grateful, but I can't. Sorry, this probably isn't making much sense.”
I could see Kathleen was about to say something, something she would probably regret, so I jumped in first. “Yes, Brendan, I understand what you're saying, but it really isn't like that. You have as much say as we do.”
He shook his head. “No, I don't. You two want to, need to, live together. I'm just surplus and I keep fucking up.”
“No you don't. Nothing that's happened is your fault.”
Kathleen threw her head back. “Don't listen to the cunt. He's just feeling sorry for himself.”
I told Kathleen to shut it, not to say anything if she couldn't say something helpful. She stormed out of the room.
“See what I mean?” he said. “I'm just in the way.”
I tried to reassure him. A few moments later, Kathleen came back, sat next to Brendan and said: “I'm sorry. I know you've been through a fuck of a lot recently. But this is the chance of a new start.”
He smiled. “I wonder what the chances are of me meeting someone in the middle of nowhere. I see you two together and sometimes I get jealous, sometimes I get so envious I want to scream. And sometimes I just feel in the way.”
“Well, you're not,” I told him. “You mustn't think like that.”
“I've never lived in the country,” he said, adding: “and I've never been to Scotland. “
“Neither have I,” said Kathleen. “The more I think about it, the more I'm looking forward to it.”
“Oh, don't get your hopes up too high,” I told her. “At least not until you've experienced the Highland midge.”
3
I arrived back from work to find Kathleen frantic. “Where the fuck's he gone?” she said. “Where is he? Have you seen him?”
Gradually I managed to calm her down. She told me she hadn't seen Brendan all day, that he'd gone out before she had got up, and that his car was missing. It was only then I realised his car wasn't there when I'd left for work, and when I told Kathleen she swore at me, wanting to know why I hadn't woken her or tried to do something.
“Do what? I did have to go to work, you know. Anyway, he is a grown up: he can decide for himself where he goes and when. And didn't you tell me he sometimes does disappear.”
“Fuck off,” she responded. After a few moments she continued: “You know what a state he's been in recently. We've both been worried about his sanity and what he might do. He's hardly been out of the fucking house since it happened, and now he fucks off and hasn't been seen all day. I'm worried, fucking worried about him.”
I felt ashamed of myself, I felt I should have realised something might be wrong when his car wasn't there. But I was at a loss about what to do. I could drive around the streets looking for him, but there's a hell of a lot of streets in Birmingham and he could have even gone further. There would be no point in calling the police, and anyway they had both made clear their views on the West Midlands police force. All we could do was wait and hope. That's what we did. We sat together on the sofa, drinking gin and staring at the flickering TV screen without really seeing what was going on. We held each other tight.
We heard a car pull up outside, and we both jumped up and ran to the window to see his mini parked next to mine and Brendan stepping out of the car. Kathleen had opened the front door before he had even reached it. The first thing she did was to hug him, tightly. The second thing she did was to ask him where the fuck he'd been? And did he realise how worried we'd been and just how fucking selfish he'd acted? The third thing she did was to burst into tears and dash upstairs.
A range of emotions crossed Brendan's face, but throughout he remained silent. I persuaded him to sit down and I got him a bottle of beer. He took a sip and then said: “What's up? Why is she so angry?”
I sat next to him and took his hand. “Because she was worried about you – we both were. She thought you might have, you know, killed yourself, or perhaps come to harm. Why didn't you tell one of us you were going out for the day?”
“Oh. I suppose I just didn't think. I didn't want to disturb either of you: it was so early and you would both have been asleep. I just needed to think about things. I'm sorry.” He got up. “I'd better go and apologise to Kathleen.”
I shook my head and pulled him back. “No. Leave her be for the time being. I'll go and see she's okay in a bit.” I asked him where he had been.
“Oh just here and there, you know. And I went to see a priest.”
“A priest!” I exclaimed.
He giggled. “Yes. Didn't I tell you I met this priest on one of my walkabouts? Didn't Kathleen mention it to you?”
“Ah, now you mention it, but I didn't really take any notice.”
“Well, I went to see him. Not that I'm going back to the church or anything like that. It's just he was so nice last time. And he really helped me this time, as well. He really did. He's from Jamaica, you know. He's never told me why he moved to this crap place, but I think I might know now.”
I heard a voice from the top of the stairs. “And what the fuck is it that you think you might know?”
“Kathleen,” I exclaimed. “Come down. Brendan's just been telling me where he's been.”
“Yes, I heard most of it.” She looked at Brendan, and said: “I'm sorry I lost it, but please don't ever do anything like that again. Of course, you can go anywhere you want any fucking time you want to, no-one's going to stop you. But please, please just tell us or at least leave a fucking note.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Sorry. And I'm sorry I've been such a pain recently. You must both be really pissed off at me. It's just...”
“Just what?” Kathleen asked.
“Er, I think I may have fallen in love. Too fucking late, as he's not in a position to just up and leave and follow me to Scotland.”
I asked if it was anyone we knew. He remained silent and, staring at the carpet, he blushed. It was a few seconds before the penny dropped, then Kathleen burst out laughing. “For fuck's sake! You've fallen for a Catholic priest!”
“Yeah. Life can be so fucking complicated sometimes.”
1
It can get cold, very cold, in Birmingham, in fact anywhere in England, cold, wet and dreary; and sometimes the people imitate the climate, with their reserve that only seems to be overcome with alcohol. Not that I've got any objection to drink, after all Christ's first miracle was turning water into wine, but the English don't seem to be able to enjoy themselves without a glass in their hand. If England were a film, it would be in black and white; unlike my native Jamaica, which is a clash of colours, sound and movement, orchestrated and painted by the sun, the storms, the beaches, the forests. Although I'm often homesick, I don't ever seriously consider going back.
Most of the time I was happy at St Michael's seminary in Kingston, convinced about my vocation and celebrating with others the honour of being chosen by God. But there were times, even then, when I wasn't sure. I prayed for the strength to overcome my demons, and in the years since my ordination I have continued to do so, not always successfully.
Many people assume celibacy must be difficult, and to an extent it can be. But the biggest problem isn't celibacy itself, it's the loneliness that can come with it. Those of us who live alone in one-priest parishes have no-one to bounce ideas off, to share our successes with, to moan about our failures, just someone who we can talk to and who can talk to us. We have no-one who, on a daily basis, can encourage us or advise us or even to tell us to stop doing things that aren't working. We can't talk to parishioners about these things: they look up to us and I don't want to risk losing their respect. We can't talk to fellow priests: any juicy bit of gossip would become common knowledge as soon as imparted. We can't talk to our bishops: they are the ones who decide where we work, who are responsible for supervising and if necessary disciplining us. There is the confessional, of course, but it is very difficult, sometimes impossible, to confess some sins.
No wonder so many priests turn to drink. No wonder so many of us lack basic social skills.
Those of us not born here and whose skin is a different colour face the same racism as all those with their roots in the Caribbean or Africa or India. One of the reasons I wear my clerical collar most of the time, even when I'm socialising or shopping or just walking the streets, is that I'm less likely to be stopped by the police. Even so, there was the time a police officer stopped me and didn't believe I was a priest, even asking me where I stole the collar from. The only times I don't wear my collar are the rare occasions I don't want to be recognised as a priest, the times when I'm ashamed of being a priest.
Catholicism isn't big in the Caribbean, at least in the part I came from, and most immigrants from there who are Christians belong to one of the Protestant denominations, so most of my parishioners are white, many of them from Ireland or with Irish families. When I first arrived here, I was worried about people's reactions. No-one in the parish actually said anything to my face, but I knew I was being examined. Fortunately, most of them were just happy to have a priest after some time without one, and over time I won most of the doubters round.
But my demons remained.
Kneeling at the altar and praying before the start of the midweek morning Mass, I assumed the steps I heard echoing belonged to one of the retired women who made up most of the week day Mass tiny congregation. It was only when I came out of the sacristy to begin Mass that I noticed among the half dozen midweek regulars was a young man I recognised. He didn't take Communion and he remained in his pew after the others had left the church.
I approached him, held out my hand and said: “Hello, Brendan. How are you doing?”
He looked relieved. “You remember me then?”
I smiled. “Of course. It's part of the job description.”
He laughed. Nervously, but it was still a laugh. “Hope I'm not keeping you from anything,” he said.
I shrugged. “Nothing that can't wait. What can I do for you.”
“Nothing really. I just wanted to thank you.” He was silent for a few seconds. “Look, are you sure I'm not disturbing you?”
“Of course you're not. Why don't we go next door to the presbytery and have a cup of tea? It is tea you like, isn't it?”
He nodded. “Yes, tea. You have got a good memory!”
2
We were sat in my lounge, tea cups in front of us, the silence punctuated occasionally by small talk. He remarked on the number of bookshelves and asked: “Are they all religious books?”
“Goodness me, no,” I replied. “There's fiction, poetry, history, lots of stuff. Do you read much?”
He shook his head. “Not much. Sometimes. Never really been able to afford to buy them.”
“You could always join a library.”
“Yeah, suppose so. But I've never really been in one place long enough.”
I told him to choose any book in the room he fancied reading, and I'd lend it to him.
He smiled, a touch sadly I thought. “Thanks but I don't think we'll be here long enough for me to read it and return it.”
“Don't worry about that. Just choose any one you think you'd like.”
He stood up and began perusing the shelves. While he was doing so I asked him: “What did you mean, you might not be here long enough to return the book?”
He pulled out a book and showed it to me. “What's this one like?”
“'The Comedians' by Graham Greene? Well, its title is deceptive, it's not at all funny, actually it's tragic. It's about....”
He interrupted me: “Don't tell me what it's about. I'll find out when I read it.” He sat back down.
“You haven't answered my question,” I said, “not that you have to, of course, if you don't want to.”
“Sorry. What were you asking?”
He didn't seem to be with me in the room: it was as if his mind was elsewhere and I wasn't sure how to reach him. “Are you okay?” I asked him.
“Was that what you asked me before?”
“Er, no. You said you might not be here long, and I was wondering what you meant.”
“Oh that. Nothing really. We might be moving away, that's all.” He opened the book, began reading but then closed it. He picked up his cup, moved it to his lips, then placed it back on the table without drinking. He began to fidget, scratching his hair, rubbing his arms, crossing and uncrossing his legs, tapping his feet. He stood up and said: “Sorry. I think I'd better go. Sorry to be a nuisance.”
I too stood up and I placed my hands on his shoulders, looking him in the eye. “There's something on your mind, Brendan. Why don't you sit down and just tell me about it? If I can help, I will. If I can't, well, at least I can listen.”
He sighed, but he did sit back down, allowing the folds of the old and shabby but comfortable sofa to embrace him. “Where shall I begin?”
“Wherever you like.”
“I don't know what to do. I feel like I'm powerless, like everyone else is making decisions for me, like whatever I do is the wrong thing. I think I'm going mad, fucking mad.” He looked up at me. “Sorry for swearing.”
“Don't worry, I'm not easily shocked. Why do you think you're going mad?”
“Oh, everything I do ends up bad. I end up losing every job I get. I think everyone would be better off without me.”
“What, even Kathleen?”
“She's got someone now, a lover.”
“Has she? I hope he's not another pimp.”
Brendan laughed. “She, not he. It seems she's as queer as me.”
“As long as it makes her happy.”
“Oh, it certainly does that. And I suppose I should thank you.”
“What for?”
“Well, she's given up the game and she's now working as a musician, and a successful one at that. That's how she met Catriona.”
“And you feel left out?”
“Of course not!” He exclaimed. “Not at all. What makes you think that? Well, perhaps sometimes, but that's not really the problem.”
I felt like I was trying to navigate quicksand. I had no real idea what he was talking about, where the conversation was going. I told him so.
“Oh fu..., oh dear. My fault, entirely my fault. Look, I'd better explain what's been happening recently.”
I let him speak, only interrupting occasionally in order to clarify something I didn't quite catch. At first, I was pleased that they'd settled into a new home and that Kathleen had given up prostitution and was able to make a living from music. All seemed to be going well, what with driving lessons, getting a car and Kathleen falling in love. Of course, the church and many of its priests, probably most of them as well as lots of my parishioners, would continue to condemn her. I don't think Jesus would, or if he did he would have to condemn the rest of us.
I was beginning to wonder why he seemed so distracted. Then his narrative became darker and more disjointed. As he told me of the awful assault on him, he became more disturbed, his body shaking, his voice cracking, as he attempted to control himself. I put my arms around him to comfort him, to give him permission to let the tears flow.
But he refused to cry. He pulled himself up, sitting as straight as he could in the soft sofa and continued: “We never went back for the rest of our stuff, we decided it was too risky. Someone may have been watching the place. Also, we're going to leave Birmingham, don't think it's safe here any more.”
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“A small village in the west Highlands of Scotland. Just me and Kathleen, though Catriona will be joining us when the school holidays start. Catriona's parents live near there and Kathleen can play her music anywhere. I just don't feel I've had any say in it. I feel like I'm being so fucking ungrateful, and I know I've not been able to make any decisions since – well, since what happened, but I don't feel I had any choice but agree. They've both been so good to me, but still...”
He gulped back the tears and after a few moments silence said: “The thing is, sometimes I think this whole fucking mess is my fault. If I hadn't got to know Kathleen, she wouldn't have been beaten up by her pimp and we wouldn't have ended up running away. I wouldn't have ended up in hospital and would have been at work to warn the tarts and dealers about the police, and Norman wouldn't have been after me.”
“But you can look at it another way,” I said. “If you hadn't got to know her, she might still be a prostitute, she might never have had the confidence to play her music in public, she might never have met Catriona, and she could have ended up like so many other prostitutes.”
“Perhaps,” was all he said before falling into silence again. He looked at me and, smiling wistfully, said: “The thing is I've run away again.”
“What do you mean?” I asked him.
“What I say. I got up early this morning before either of them were up and drove away without telling them where I was going or even that I was going. I didn't even leave a note. I just upped and left. And we're supposed to be moving to Scotland in a few days. I feel I've let everyone down.”
This time he did allow himself to cry. As I held him, the sobs racked through his whole body and as they did he gripped me ever tighter. I don't think either of us knew how it happened, nor do I think either of us meant it to happen, but as I stroked his hair he looked up at me and we kissed.
It didn't stop at a kiss. It was as if our actions had a momentum of their own, with one thing leading to another. Our bodies and our emotions took over.
My demons had returned.
3
Afterwards I could barely look at him. I felt what I'd done was wrong on so many levels: I'd broken my vow of celibacy, I'd taken advantage of a vulnerable man who was looking for help and I'd committed an act that is condemned by the Bible and by my church. I'd also shown an immense lack of self-control. I felt unworthy to be a priest, to be someone who ministered to others, who taught the catechism to youngsters, who preached on avoiding sin. I was a hypocrite, one of those who Christ most loudly spoke against; one of those who, according to Dante, are condemned to an eternity in Hell, wandering “ever round with footsteps slow” wearing brightly coloured coats made of the heaviest lead.
“I'm sorry,” I said, knowing the words to be inadequate.
“What for?” Brendan asked.
I turned away. “I took advantage of you, knowing you were vulnerable. What I did was unforgivable.”
He took hold of my hands and turned me so I was facing him. “You did no such thing. If anything, I was the one of who took advantage of you. You gave me the best therapy you could have done. I fancied you the very first time I saw you, and I still do.”
“But I've broken the vows I took when I was ordained. I've sinned, and absolution is now behind me.”
“Are you saying you didn't enjoy it? And do you regret what we did together? Because I don't.”
“No. No to both questions, and that's the problem. How can I get absolution when I know I would do it again, when I know I would put myself in the way of temptation again? How can I be forgiven?”
“But I thought your God would forgive anything.”
“Yes, but only if I truly regret my sin and promise to try and avoid such sin in the future.” I was beginning to shout, becoming almost hysterical. “Don't you see? I don't regret a single second of what we did, not a single second, even though I know by doing so I am condemning my soul to an eternity of torture.” I began to weep, my hands covering my face.
Brendan put his arm around me, but I shrugged him off and began to get dressed. Brendan, sitting on the bed and still naked, began to speak quietly, so quietly I had to strain to hear him. “You know I've lost my faith in your God, but I do know that if any God does exist then you would have just been doing his work. I've had more fumbles in toilets and saunas and parks than I can count, and most have left me feeling dirty. I've spent much of my life trying not to be who I am. I've seen my best friend escape the grip of prostitution, become a fine musician and find love. In recent months I've been beaten up ending up in hospital; I've been arrested and beaten by the police, got myself a criminal record and given a fine I can't afford to pay; I've been stuck in God awful jobs; I've been constantly looking over my shoulder and since being tortured – there's no other word for it but tortured – I've been in fear of both my life and my sanity. Now, we're moving to somewhere I know nothing about and have never been, without any idea what awaits me. I have no idea what the future holds and can only hope it isn't as bad as what I've been through recently.”
He paused. I looked at him as he began speaking again: “I couldn't explain to Kathleen and Catriona what I was really feeling, what my fears really were. They have been good, as good as they could possibly be, to me; they've helped me in every conceivable way to get over the recent trauma of – of the executioner's hood and rope, and I've repaid them with tantrums, anger and tears. I came to see you in desperation, hoping I would find something that would help me. And I found more than I had any right to expect. The way you touched me and let me touch you, the way you made me feel wanted and needed, the physical comfort and release you provided has I think given me the strength to move forward, to find ways of living in the future.”
He put his arm around me again, and this time I let it stay there. “I hope you won't think I'm being blasphemous and trite when I say today you have been doing God's work, if he exists. Didn't Christ say something about love being more important than the law?” He kissed me.
He got dressed, and shortly afterwards he left. His parting words were: “My only regret is that I'm leaving Birmingham so soon after having found someone I think I can love. Let's keep in touch. As soon as I know, I'll let you have my address in Scotland. Perhaps you will even feel able to visit me at some stage.”
“Perhaps I will,” I said.
After he left, I got on my knees to pray for guidance.
Chapter Sixteen: Catriona
1
Living with someone is very different from dating them, even in the best of circumstances, and these were far from that. The first few days were like walking on eggshells around each other, when our major concern was for the welfare of Brendan.
It was difficult to assess how he was recovering. For much of the time it was as if he was functioning on autopilot, but any knock on the door, even the postman putting mail through the letterbox, would have him jumping and this terrified look would appear on his face. He refused to talk about his ordeal, other than the horrific outline he'd already given, and despite his claims he was okay, it was clear to both of us he wasn't.
Overnight he had gone from being self-confident, interested in everything around him and argumentative to being withdrawn, disinterested and quiet, at times very quiet. He hated being alone, yet he loathed company, even mine and Kathleen's. He fidgeted constantly, unable to settle, and had developed a nervous tic. He was also smoking far too much (both tobacco and marijuana) and drinking more than he used to. He rarely left the house and when he did, he drove even if he was only going to the corner shop. And he carried a screwdriver in his pocket.
When he was asked his opinion on anything, he either just shrugged or agreed with whatever had just been said. One of the first things I had learned about Kathleen was her short fuse, and she would regularly lose her temper with Brendan. In the past he would have given as good as he took, but in the aftermath of the assault his response to her anger was to just sit there in silence, staring into space, tears rolling down his face. Then Kathleen would feel guilty, which just fuelled her frustrations, which she would then take out on me, always apologising afterwards.
I was at work every day apart from weekends, so Kathleen had to cope with Brendan on her own much of the time, but that didn't make it any easier for me, what with his apathy and her tantrums. One evening, it all got too much for me and I responded. I suppose things had been building up for a while: a lot of the time my body worked to a different clock than hers. Also, I was still worried about gossiping neighbours and I was paranoid about the place smelling of marijuana. Whatever, I chose that moment to tell her this was my house, not hers, and to respect that.
As soon as I had spoken, I regretted my words, I wanted to take them back. Nostrils flared and speaking quietly, she said: “Fuck you.” She picked up Frankie and began to strum the guitar, gradually creating a heart-breaking melody that segued into a strident, angry syncopated rhythm before returning to the melody. I doubt she consciously created this music, it seemed to me she just emptied her mind and allowed her fingers to work. Despite all my formal musical training I had never been able to do that and it was one of the many things I loved about her. I don't think she realised just how good, just how natural, a musician she was.
As she played, I knelt in front of her, put my hands on her knees and whispered: “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”
Without looking up she said: “No, you fucking shouldn't have.”
When she finished playing, she put the guitar down and pulled me towards me, quickly kissing me. “Don't ever say anything like that again. Don't. Or, much as I love you, I'll walk out that fucking door and you'll never see me again.”
I hugged her tightly and apologised. She dried my tears and we sat in comfortable, companionable silence for a while. Later, we opened a bottle of cheap plonk. “We can't continue like this,” she said.
“Don't worry, love, I didn't mean what I said. You can stop here as long as you like, treat it as your home.”
She smiled. “That's not what I mean. It just seems like all our fucking lives are on hold. Brendan's like a fucking zombie cunt most of the time. You go to work, come home and cope with us, then go to work the next day. And we've cancelled all our gigs, no doubt royally pissing off David.”
I giggled. “Not all bad then.”
She slapped me playfully. “Look,” she said between guffaws, “let's be serious. At the moment, neither me nor Brendan are working, and really we're just living off you.”
“I don't mind,” I said.
A warning note of irritation appeared in her voice. “But I fucking do mind.” She stroked my hair. “Sorry, I really must learn to control my temper.”
I risked a joke. “A bit late for that now, I think.”
“Yes, reckon you're fucking right. Seriously, we've got nowhere to live and I don't know about you, but neither me nor Brendan feel safe in Birmingham any more. We certainly can't go back to that place in Balsall Heath.”
I nodded. When we'd left, Kathleen had packed most of her and Brendan's possessions and they had decided what was left behind could stay there. They hadn't made any attempt to contact Clement, figuring he would find out for himself why they'd left, particularly if Norman carried out his threat to tell Winston where they lived.
“Erdington's a long way from Balsall Heath,” I reminded her.
“Yeah, and Balsall Heath's some distance from Winson Green, but the wankers still found us.” After a few moments she said: “The fucking reality is we're going to have to leave Birmingham.”
I stared at her, open mouthed. “But that means leaving me.”
“We can still spend school holidays together, wherever we are.” She kissed me. “I really hope you can understand why. I really do. I spoke to Brendan about it yesterday, and yes I know how difficult it is to know what he's thinking at the moment, but he did say he would feel safer somewhere else. The last thing, the very last thing, I want is to be parted from you for even a day, but...” Her voice gave out as she unsuccessfully tried to stop the tears. I knew just how serious she was and how much thought had gone into her words: I knew because she had spoken several sentences without a single swear word.
I wanted to remonstrate with her, tell her she was wrong, she could be safe in Birmingham, that the three of us would look after each other; I wanted to say this and much more. But all I could manage was: “I love you.”
She held me close. “I love you too.”
We embraced in silence. After a while I said: “When do you plan to leave? Where will you go?”
“I don't know. I don't know.” She roared like some wild animal, abruptly stood up and dashed up the stairs. I followed her to find her lying face down on the bed, sobbing her heart out. I joined her.
2
I'd been thinking about it for some time. I loved teaching, but I hated the bureaucracy and I loved performing more. Even more than performing, I loved Kathleen. I know we hadn't known each other for that long, but I could not imagine life without her.
My mind had been going round in circles, yet I had ignored the obvious. The next morning I made two phone calls: the first was to school to tell them I was ill (the first time in all my years of teaching I had done that); the second was to an Inverness estate agent. I then cooked breakfast for all of us.
“I'm not sure I feel like eating,” Kathleen said, pouring herself a cup of tea.
“Get it down, girl,” I told her, “I've cooked it, so eat it.” I grinned at her. “Then we can talk.”
“What about?” Kathleen and Brendan said simultaneously. Brendan added: “Why aren't you at work today?”
“So many questions. About what happens now. About where we live and how we earn a living. And, Brendan, I rang in sick this morning. They can cope without me today.”
Kathleen screwed her eyes in puzzlement, saying: “We?” Brendan said nothing, slowly chewing on bacon and eggs.
“Yes, we.” I put my knife and fork down and took Kathleen's hands. At first, I'd been a bit self-conscious about holding her in front of Brendan, that was until she told me to stop being “so fucking stupid”. I looked her directly in her eyes and said: “I don't want to be anywhere unless you are there with me.”
“But what about your job?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I can teach anywhere.”
Both Brendan and Kathleen looked at me quizzically. I took a deep breath. “Okay,” I said, “just hear me out and then tell me what you think. If you don't like what I'm going to suggest, just say so, but at least hear me out. Okay?”
Brendan nodded. There was no reaction from Kathleen.
“Right. A while ago, not long before I met you, an aunt of mine died, and in her will she left me her cottage. It's in a right state, barely habitable to be honest, and I really don't know why she left it to me, particularly as I had no use for it. I put it on the market, but no-one's expressed any interest in buying it, probably because of the amount of work that needs doing to it. And to be honest I'd forgotten all about it, until last night. I don't know how I could have been so stupid.”
“I fucking do,” Kathleen said, smirking. I waved my finger in front of her face, but she just continued smirking.
“Where is this cottage?” Brendan asked.
“In Scotland,” I said. “But first let me tell you what I've done. I rang the estate agent this morning and took it off the market. Also, tomorrow when I go into work I'm going to hand in my notice. I'm a bit late in handing in my notice, but I'm sure the school will understand when I tell them why.”
“Oh yeah,” interrupted Kathleen, putting on her sarcastic voice, “I'm fucking sure they'll understand when you tell them you're a dyke living with a former tart and her queer friend who have been threatened by fascists, pimps and drug dealers. They'll be very fucking understanding!”
Unlike Kathleen, I don't lose my temper very often, but I was close to doing so then. “Please, Kathleen, please just listen will you.” She shrugged her shoulders and I continued: “I've never taken a day off all the years I've been working there, and I'll come up with a good reason, don't you worry.” I took a deep breath. “Okay, here's what I'm proposing: you two move up there as soon as you like and I'll follow in a month's time when term ends...”
“And what will we live off?” This time it was Brendan who interrupted.
“Please, just hear me out. It's my property, so there's no rent or mortgage to pay, just rates. Although Strathdubh is isolated, me and Brendan can drive and you, love, will pass your test at some stage. I'm going to look for some supply teaching, and we can earn money doing what we do now: playing music. I'm sure we can get an agent who will get us gigs, particularly when they hear the demos we've made, and if not we'll just have to tout for gigs or busk.” I looked at Brendan. “And you can get a job in one of the local pubs or hotels. Also, you could look after the cottage when me and Kathleen are away playing.” I took another deep breath. “There's lots of music venues in Edinburgh and Glasgow, and we can go further afield, stopping in cheap B&Bs if necessary. And the three of us can make the cottage a nice place to live. Any work we can't do ourselves, we can get local people to do for us.”
“Where exactly is Strathdubh?” Kathleen asked.
“It's a small village in the west Highlands, just a few miles from the nearest town. It's not far from my parents' croft, but far enough for them not to be in our pockets. What do you think?”
“But what about your career?” Kathleen asked.
“There are far more important things than my career. Including you. Okay, I know we're probably going to struggle a bit financially, but we'll survive. I'm sure we will.”
“And what about us?”
I was puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Us. Fucking us. You've always made it clear you can't be fucking honest about me. Is that going to change?” Kathleen folded her arms.
I tried to hide my exasperation. “I'm still going to be a teacher, even if just a supply teacher. But surely you know I couldn't ever be ashamed of you. How could I be? How could you ever think that? I'm not going to lie to anyone, I'm not going to pretend you're something you're not, so if anyone asks a direct question, I'll answer it honestly. But take it from me, no-one will. Two men, yes, questions would be asked. Two women? I doubt it.”
“I suppose that'll have to do.” She stood up and began taking dishes to the sink. “I'm sorry if I sounded ungrateful.” She touched my hand and I pulled her towards me. “I'm sure we can sort something out. But on one condition.”
“What's that?” I asked.
She said: “Never, ever say to me what you said last night. Never throw into my fucking face what you said last night about it being your fucking house. Never again.”
I lowered my eyes. “I'm really sorry about that. I didn't mean it, and it'll never happen again. Promise.” I looked up and noticed Brendan was looking downcast. “What's up?” I asked him.
He sighed. “Once again it seems I have no control over where I go, where I live, what I do. Look, I know I should feel grateful, but I can't. Sorry, this probably isn't making much sense.”
I could see Kathleen was about to say something, something she would probably regret, so I jumped in first. “Yes, Brendan, I understand what you're saying, but it really isn't like that. You have as much say as we do.”
He shook his head. “No, I don't. You two want to, need to, live together. I'm just surplus and I keep fucking up.”
“No you don't. Nothing that's happened is your fault.”
Kathleen threw her head back. “Don't listen to the cunt. He's just feeling sorry for himself.”
I told Kathleen to shut it, not to say anything if she couldn't say something helpful. She stormed out of the room.
“See what I mean?” he said. “I'm just in the way.”
I tried to reassure him. A few moments later, Kathleen came back, sat next to Brendan and said: “I'm sorry. I know you've been through a fuck of a lot recently. But this is the chance of a new start.”
He smiled. “I wonder what the chances are of me meeting someone in the middle of nowhere. I see you two together and sometimes I get jealous, sometimes I get so envious I want to scream. And sometimes I just feel in the way.”
“Well, you're not,” I told him. “You mustn't think like that.”
“I've never lived in the country,” he said, adding: “and I've never been to Scotland. “
“Neither have I,” said Kathleen. “The more I think about it, the more I'm looking forward to it.”
“Oh, don't get your hopes up too high,” I told her. “At least not until you've experienced the Highland midge.”
3
I arrived back from work to find Kathleen frantic. “Where the fuck's he gone?” she said. “Where is he? Have you seen him?”
Gradually I managed to calm her down. She told me she hadn't seen Brendan all day, that he'd gone out before she had got up, and that his car was missing. It was only then I realised his car wasn't there when I'd left for work, and when I told Kathleen she swore at me, wanting to know why I hadn't woken her or tried to do something.
“Do what? I did have to go to work, you know. Anyway, he is a grown up: he can decide for himself where he goes and when. And didn't you tell me he sometimes does disappear.”
“Fuck off,” she responded. After a few moments she continued: “You know what a state he's been in recently. We've both been worried about his sanity and what he might do. He's hardly been out of the fucking house since it happened, and now he fucks off and hasn't been seen all day. I'm worried, fucking worried about him.”
I felt ashamed of myself, I felt I should have realised something might be wrong when his car wasn't there. But I was at a loss about what to do. I could drive around the streets looking for him, but there's a hell of a lot of streets in Birmingham and he could have even gone further. There would be no point in calling the police, and anyway they had both made clear their views on the West Midlands police force. All we could do was wait and hope. That's what we did. We sat together on the sofa, drinking gin and staring at the flickering TV screen without really seeing what was going on. We held each other tight.
We heard a car pull up outside, and we both jumped up and ran to the window to see his mini parked next to mine and Brendan stepping out of the car. Kathleen had opened the front door before he had even reached it. The first thing she did was to hug him, tightly. The second thing she did was to ask him where the fuck he'd been? And did he realise how worried we'd been and just how fucking selfish he'd acted? The third thing she did was to burst into tears and dash upstairs.
A range of emotions crossed Brendan's face, but throughout he remained silent. I persuaded him to sit down and I got him a bottle of beer. He took a sip and then said: “What's up? Why is she so angry?”
I sat next to him and took his hand. “Because she was worried about you – we both were. She thought you might have, you know, killed yourself, or perhaps come to harm. Why didn't you tell one of us you were going out for the day?”
“Oh. I suppose I just didn't think. I didn't want to disturb either of you: it was so early and you would both have been asleep. I just needed to think about things. I'm sorry.” He got up. “I'd better go and apologise to Kathleen.”
I shook my head and pulled him back. “No. Leave her be for the time being. I'll go and see she's okay in a bit.” I asked him where he had been.
“Oh just here and there, you know. And I went to see a priest.”
“A priest!” I exclaimed.
He giggled. “Yes. Didn't I tell you I met this priest on one of my walkabouts? Didn't Kathleen mention it to you?”
“Ah, now you mention it, but I didn't really take any notice.”
“Well, I went to see him. Not that I'm going back to the church or anything like that. It's just he was so nice last time. And he really helped me this time, as well. He really did. He's from Jamaica, you know. He's never told me why he moved to this crap place, but I think I might know now.”
I heard a voice from the top of the stairs. “And what the fuck is it that you think you might know?”
“Kathleen,” I exclaimed. “Come down. Brendan's just been telling me where he's been.”
“Yes, I heard most of it.” She looked at Brendan, and said: “I'm sorry I lost it, but please don't ever do anything like that again. Of course, you can go anywhere you want any fucking time you want to, no-one's going to stop you. But please, please just tell us or at least leave a fucking note.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Sorry. And I'm sorry I've been such a pain recently. You must both be really pissed off at me. It's just...”
“Just what?” Kathleen asked.
“Er, I think I may have fallen in love. Too fucking late, as he's not in a position to just up and leave and follow me to Scotland.”
I asked if it was anyone we knew. He remained silent and, staring at the carpet, he blushed. It was a few seconds before the penny dropped, then Kathleen burst out laughing. “For fuck's sake! You've fallen for a Catholic priest!”
“Yeah. Life can be so fucking complicated sometimes.”
About the Author
Born in Manchester in 1951, Kevin Crowe has lived in the Highlands since 1999. A writer of fiction, poetry and non-fiction, he has had his work published in various magazines, journals and websites. He also writes regularly for the Highland monthly community magazine Am Bratach and for the Highland LGBT magazine UnDividing Lines.