Piety, and Other Lies
by Stewart Wright
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: A glamorous Catholic woman causes her Protestant husband, and her son, some consternation.
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Most people on the street knew Joanna was a left footer. Angus had got some stick for it when he first started seeing her; little things, like having his front window put in, and occasionally bigger things, like being refused a pint at the labour club.
These were trivial annoyances as far as Angus was concerned. What needled him the most was that he got the same amount of stick from the prods as he did the fenians. Some of his mates, with whom he’d sung chants on the pews of St. Andrews and terraces of Ibrox, would extinguish their fags in his drink, and release their vitriol upon his person.
He knew his unpopularity had as much to do with jealousy as it did piety. Joanna’s skin spoke of a sun that had never shone in Govan; her unfettered breasts sported the same outline through her blouse as they did when she wore a bra. Her hair had a habit of cascading down over Angus’ stomach; such was its impenetrable lustre, it was only after he had bunched it up and held it aloft that he could witness her lips fashioned in the manner about which he knew all his mates fantasised.
Angus stopped going to church, and began listening silently to matches on the radio. Joanna was worth the sacrifice.
At the insistence of the Pagnotella family, Angus married Joanna in her native St. Peter’s church. Some of his friends came, but there was no trouble. The last Old Firm game had ended in a draw, so there were no recent bragging rights with which either side of the church could goad the other.
The taunting Angus had endured petered out, as if his marriage to Joanna had removed the religious divide between them. Still suspicious of the motivation behind the original objections to his courting of Joanna, Angus suspected the cessation of hostilities had as much to do with the fact that Joanna was now off the shelf; a married woman, and therefore not worth fighting for.
He kept a close eye on his friends when they were in her company.
It was a vigilance he kept up even when Joanna was pregnant with their first child; her breasts swelled long before her belly.
Joanna was a doting mother to Jake, and by the time he went to school, the religious persuasions which had initially aggravated his parents’ union had all been forgotten. She took Jake to worship at St. Peter’s every Sunday, but even this failed to reignite any hostility.
There were the occasional murmurs among the women who collected their children outside St. Andrew’s primary school. Usually on the days when Joanna chose to wear her hair long, or her frock short; or when she wore her blouse sufficiently unbuttoned so as to display the crucifix between her cleavage.
Jake was a jet of olive and Cola as he came running out of the school gates to him mummy, waving bye-bye to the lurch of batter and Irn-Bru. And, with this Mediterranean flare, Joanna suspected the other mothers’ censure had as much to do with physical envy as it did moral edification.
The fact that, since Joanna had begun collecting Jake from school, a growing number of fathers were now collecting their children was proof that this suspicion was justified.
More and more, Joanna wore her hair down and her frocks short; the fathers outside the school gates absently consented to idolatry as they peered between her cleavage.
Jake was seven when he noticed his mother’s stomach start to swell. She told him he would soon have a little brother. Jake cried at first, thinking his mum and dad were being stolen from him by another person. But both Angus and Joanna assured Jake that he would always be their number one.
Jake remembered this assurance, and believed it for years. He never saw his mum give his brother, Peter, any affection. His dad did, up until Peter’s third birthday. That day was the first time Jake had seen his dad hitting his mum.
It was also the day that his dad started ignoring Peter.
He soon noticed other changes. His mum still collected him from school, but instead of meeting her as she talked and laughed with his friends’ dads, she now stood across the street, away from the mums who had started appearing again.
They no longer attended Sunday mass at St. Peter’s, which was a big blow to Jake. He had only recently been made an altar server, a job which he both enjoyed and took seriously. He enjoyed the Catholic rituals of his mum’s church, the hymns, the idols.
His dad had never shown any objection to Jake’s growing devotion; but he did now. One night, Jake was dragged out of bed. He sat in a corner and watched his dad size up the bedroom.
Holding aloft a bible, Angus opened it, tearing down the spine. “Lies! Hypocritical fucking lies!” He threw the remains at Jake.
Angus then seized a statue of Mary, tossing it from one hand to the other. “Virgin my arse,” he said, shattering the head against the wall. “Whore. Hypocritical fucking whore.”
He turned to see Jake being cradled in his mother’s arms, shielding her son from the violence. Angus tossed the headless Virgin at her. “You’re welcome to her, son.”
At sixteen, Jake became the youngest Acolyte in St. Peter’s history. At church, he was often asked why his mother no longer attended. He smiled, and made references to his handicapped brother keeping her busy. At home, he kept his bible under his mattress, and committed passages to memory despite his dad chanting could you go a chicken supper Bobby Sands? whenever there was an Old Firm game on the radio.
His mother’s complexion began to resemble that more commonly seen in Govan. And when he went into Peter’s bedroom, Jake would make his little brother do things; penance for robbing Jake of his mum and dad.
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: A glamorous Catholic woman causes her Protestant husband, and her son, some consternation.
_____________________________________________________________________
Most people on the street knew Joanna was a left footer. Angus had got some stick for it when he first started seeing her; little things, like having his front window put in, and occasionally bigger things, like being refused a pint at the labour club.
These were trivial annoyances as far as Angus was concerned. What needled him the most was that he got the same amount of stick from the prods as he did the fenians. Some of his mates, with whom he’d sung chants on the pews of St. Andrews and terraces of Ibrox, would extinguish their fags in his drink, and release their vitriol upon his person.
He knew his unpopularity had as much to do with jealousy as it did piety. Joanna’s skin spoke of a sun that had never shone in Govan; her unfettered breasts sported the same outline through her blouse as they did when she wore a bra. Her hair had a habit of cascading down over Angus’ stomach; such was its impenetrable lustre, it was only after he had bunched it up and held it aloft that he could witness her lips fashioned in the manner about which he knew all his mates fantasised.
Angus stopped going to church, and began listening silently to matches on the radio. Joanna was worth the sacrifice.
At the insistence of the Pagnotella family, Angus married Joanna in her native St. Peter’s church. Some of his friends came, but there was no trouble. The last Old Firm game had ended in a draw, so there were no recent bragging rights with which either side of the church could goad the other.
The taunting Angus had endured petered out, as if his marriage to Joanna had removed the religious divide between them. Still suspicious of the motivation behind the original objections to his courting of Joanna, Angus suspected the cessation of hostilities had as much to do with the fact that Joanna was now off the shelf; a married woman, and therefore not worth fighting for.
He kept a close eye on his friends when they were in her company.
It was a vigilance he kept up even when Joanna was pregnant with their first child; her breasts swelled long before her belly.
Joanna was a doting mother to Jake, and by the time he went to school, the religious persuasions which had initially aggravated his parents’ union had all been forgotten. She took Jake to worship at St. Peter’s every Sunday, but even this failed to reignite any hostility.
There were the occasional murmurs among the women who collected their children outside St. Andrew’s primary school. Usually on the days when Joanna chose to wear her hair long, or her frock short; or when she wore her blouse sufficiently unbuttoned so as to display the crucifix between her cleavage.
Jake was a jet of olive and Cola as he came running out of the school gates to him mummy, waving bye-bye to the lurch of batter and Irn-Bru. And, with this Mediterranean flare, Joanna suspected the other mothers’ censure had as much to do with physical envy as it did moral edification.
The fact that, since Joanna had begun collecting Jake from school, a growing number of fathers were now collecting their children was proof that this suspicion was justified.
More and more, Joanna wore her hair down and her frocks short; the fathers outside the school gates absently consented to idolatry as they peered between her cleavage.
Jake was seven when he noticed his mother’s stomach start to swell. She told him he would soon have a little brother. Jake cried at first, thinking his mum and dad were being stolen from him by another person. But both Angus and Joanna assured Jake that he would always be their number one.
Jake remembered this assurance, and believed it for years. He never saw his mum give his brother, Peter, any affection. His dad did, up until Peter’s third birthday. That day was the first time Jake had seen his dad hitting his mum.
It was also the day that his dad started ignoring Peter.
He soon noticed other changes. His mum still collected him from school, but instead of meeting her as she talked and laughed with his friends’ dads, she now stood across the street, away from the mums who had started appearing again.
They no longer attended Sunday mass at St. Peter’s, which was a big blow to Jake. He had only recently been made an altar server, a job which he both enjoyed and took seriously. He enjoyed the Catholic rituals of his mum’s church, the hymns, the idols.
His dad had never shown any objection to Jake’s growing devotion; but he did now. One night, Jake was dragged out of bed. He sat in a corner and watched his dad size up the bedroom.
Holding aloft a bible, Angus opened it, tearing down the spine. “Lies! Hypocritical fucking lies!” He threw the remains at Jake.
Angus then seized a statue of Mary, tossing it from one hand to the other. “Virgin my arse,” he said, shattering the head against the wall. “Whore. Hypocritical fucking whore.”
He turned to see Jake being cradled in his mother’s arms, shielding her son from the violence. Angus tossed the headless Virgin at her. “You’re welcome to her, son.”
At sixteen, Jake became the youngest Acolyte in St. Peter’s history. At church, he was often asked why his mother no longer attended. He smiled, and made references to his handicapped brother keeping her busy. At home, he kept his bible under his mattress, and committed passages to memory despite his dad chanting could you go a chicken supper Bobby Sands? whenever there was an Old Firm game on the radio.
His mother’s complexion began to resemble that more commonly seen in Govan. And when he went into Peter’s bedroom, Jake would make his little brother do things; penance for robbing Jake of his mum and dad.
About the Author
Stewart Wright was born in Dumfries to parents of opposing religions. He loves cycling, and has had a couple of recent publishing credits in The Ride journal (issue 5) (http://www.theridejournal.com/) and The Waterhouse Review (http://waterhousereview.wordpress.com/current-issue-2/). He’s the author of many, many more unpublished stories, but he says that doesn't matter because there are worse things he could be doing in his spare time than writing.