Mia, Page 2

  “Yes.” replied the priest. The audience applauded vigorously, whilst Henry Tomlinson rolled his eyes.

  “Henry Tomlinson. Did you go to church today?”

  2

  The last time Professor Henry Tomlinson was asked that question was one week after his wife’s funeral. It was the first Sunday for almost forty-three years in which he hadn’t. It was his first weekend alone in the house which only he now inhabited. He was still in his dressing gown, he hadn’t shaved or showered and was fruitlessly trying to find something to watch on terrestrial television on a Sunday morning which didn’t involve God or antiques. He had finally settled on some kind of Indian historical epic film when the telephone rang. Henry tried to ignore it. He closed his eyes and sat back on his favourite chair. The same chair which his wife used to mock him about, by claiming that it was a sign that he was getting old. It didn’t matter, whoever was calling wasn’t going to go away. With all the enthusiasm of a teenager being told to go to school, Henry shuffled over to the telephone and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello Dad, is that you?” The words were a reminder of his new found loneliness. Who else was it likely to be? It wasn’t going to be Mum. She’s dead. It’s never going to be Mum again thought Henry.

  “Ste...” Henry tried to reply. The phone felt as if it was burning through his ears. “Steph. How are you?”

  “So so. More importantly how are you?” she asked, her voice wobbly with feeling. She heard him take several deep breaths. The truth be told, Henry wanted to say terrible, he wanted to find the words to explain to his daughter that the emotional equivalent of an atomic bomb had exploded in his life, that the emptiness inside of him was so unbearable, that he felt as if a worm was living in his body and eating him from inside out, most of all he wanted to say that he wished it had been him.

  “B-bearing up. It’s not easy mind.” The static on the telephone line served to mask the sound of two adults 130 miles apart suppressing the sound of their tears. “How are David and the kids?”

  “He’s okay. He has taken the kids to his parents for a few days. I am not much fun to be around at the mo.” Her voice quivered on the word parents. The static returned. The seconds grew, increasing the distance between them.

  “I should...”

  “Did you go to church today?” asked Steph as she cut him off. She heard him sigh at the other end of the line and then the phone went dead. “Dad, Dad, Dad?

  3

  “From 220 people in the audience, 46 went to church today, which is just over 20%. Does that not suggest that the reports of the demise of religion are greatly exaggerated?” blustered the presenter.

  “In my case certainly.” Susanne Bambridge jumped in. “I don’t actually know anyone who doesn’t go to church.” Reverend Walton smiled at her.

  “That’s not an argument which supports religion, that’s an argument which suggests you need to broaden your horizons.” Henry couldn’t help himself; he had a natural aversion to stupidity. Susanne’s face flushed in anger.

  “Am I correct in thinking that in your opinion religion is dying out?” Oxlade-Smythe enquired.

  “What do you mean by religion? You asked the audience if they went to church. The only religious cleric you have here is a Reverend. It’s hardly a fair representation of religion when you are only talking about Christianity.” grumbled Henry aggressively. The presenter decided to try to change tack as the atmosphere had clearly taken a turn for the worst.

  “What about you Jacob? Do you foresee the end of religion?” asked Oxlade-Smythe.

  “Actually no.” replied the comedian in a tone which was distinctly uncomical.

  “And why not?” The presenter was quick to follow up.

  “Because I am Jewish.” On cue the panel turned to look at him each wearing an expression which failed to mask their surprise.

  4

  The question the smarter amongst you may be asking is what on earth was a microbiologist doing on a debate show when the subject was religion. The answer is so simple it’s actually impossible to explain in one sentence. Therefore I ask you dear reader to bear with me as I swear that all will become clear in the end.

  After Henry Tomlinson hung up on his daughter he tried to return to the Indian epic drama which was blaring out from his TV, but he quickly realised that his heart was no longer in it. The conversation with his daughter kept echoing through his brain. He tried in vain to understand her but it was like trying to put a square peg in a round hole. Deep down he knew that his wife would have wanted him to keep going to church. At that moment he was unsure of the reasons why he didn’t go. Part of him said that it was because he didn’t want to have to face friends, family or colleagues and hear how sorry they were for his loss. The rest of him said that it was due to the fact that the last time he saw the vicar he swore at him. As the memory floated before his eyes he smiled, for the first time in quite a while.

  To say that funerals aren’t any fun is a massive understatement. Not for the person who died, not for their family, and usually not for the vicar leading the sermon. This unspoken truth creates quite a problem when the life the gathered masses are meant to be commemorating was a life devoted to hedonistic pleasure. How on earth do you do that memory justice?

  On that faithful day Henry was reminded of what it felt like to misbehave at school. Sat in the front row, sandwiched between his son and daughter, he couldn’t help but wish he was somewhere else. Yet somehow he had to find the strength to put on a brave face for his twins. Alan, tall and awkward like his dad, hair already thinning despite the fact he was only 31. There was no disputing ownership; he had the misfortune to be gifted with the Tomlinson family nose. When Henry was at boarding school, the other inmates christened him Griffin, due to the common opinion that his nose was shaped like a beak. Whereas Stephanie took after her mother. A fragile, slight beauty, her straight strawberry blonde hair only served to frame her face in youth. Her body so slim and slender, it was a scientific miracle that she already had two kids of her own.

  “June Margaret Tomlinson lived a principled, honest life.” began the priest. Henry swore under his breath, he couldn’t believe that Reverend Donnelly had got his wife’s name wrong, at her funeral for God’s sake. He felt Stephanie slip her arm into the crook of his elbow. When he made eye contact, she silently scolded him with a look which was like a photograph of his deceased wife. “A pillar of the community, a woman of God, a devoted mother and loving wife. Would everybody please rise for the singing of the first hymn.” It was a relief for Henry to be standing. As he stood he glanced around to see that the church was almost full. He felt hundreds of eyes bearing into him. In his imagination he heard a chorus of ‘poor bastards’ and ‘poor souls’. There was nothing he wanted to do more than get up and run from that church. And keep running, without ever looking back.

  It happened at the wake. In front of a house full of guests at least in a figurative sense. Henry stood in the corner of his kitchen, drinking what was quite possibly his 8th or 9th glass of wine, he had lost count a considerable length of time ago. He stopped in the doorway to his living room and saw a throng of strangers engaged in conversation, like absolutely nothing had changed. As if it was normal for all of these people to be in his living room. That was the thing he couldn’t fathom. The light of his life had gone. Yet everything continued. It was like throwing a stone into a river and not even seeing a single ripple on the surface.

  In the cold light of day funerals are a sadistic method of torture. Who on earth had the idea that the best thing for all concerned was to surround the sad and the suffering with far and distant friends? Each member of the group looking at others for some kind of guidance as to what exactly they should do or say. All the while the remaining family do their level best to hold it together until the last guest goes home. Sadness is like diarrhoea. The longer you hold it inside of you the more da
ngerous it becomes.

  As Henry stood in the corner of his living room, at the funeral of the woman he had spent the best part of 42 years with, two thoughts ran through his mind. The first was when are you bastards going to go home? The second was if another person approaches me and tells me how sorry they are for my loss I am going to punch them in the face. Thankfully Henry realised that he was sweating up a storm and decided to step into the garden to cool off.

  Residing in the village of Little Farker had some benefits. The sky was dark already, a clear night with stars which looked as if they were winking at the fools beneath. For the first time since he was in his early twenties he craved a cigarette. It felt like a blink of an eye ago. It was funny how life really did happen to people. He wanted to cry, to wail, to open the floodgates and let it out. Deep down he knew he couldn’t. Not yet anyway.

  “You know it’s funny to think that she is up there now with God.” Henry turned to see that Reverend Donnelly was standing beside him. In the moonlight the priest resembled an overweight balding dwarfish brown bear. Henry looked to where he was pointing and couldn’t help himself.

  “What? On the moon?” Henry muttered. The Father let out a wooden laugh.

  “Hah! Good one. I am sure that June loved your sense of humour.” Reverend Donnelly stepped in front of Henry, and stopped so that they were face to face. The evening shade did its level best to hide the grimace which was plastered on Tomlinson’s face. “You know she is in a better place now. Surrounded by people who love her. In time it will get easier.”

  “A better place. A better place! This is her place. Honestly what the fuck do you really know about her? You don’t even appear to know her fucking name. It’s Julie. J-U-L fuck it!” Henry pushed the priest out of his way, opened the garden gate and walked away from the wake of his dead wife.

  5

  “The fact remains that evidence of God is everywhere and we need him in our hearts. It’s no coincidence that as the immoral nature of society increases, belief in God diminishes.” interjected Bambridge. The priest smiled at her once again; as a spectacle it was beginning to look rather creepy.

  “So you are admitting that people are losing faith in faith?” Oxley-Smythe was like a wolf scenting blood. The excitement was apparent on his face. Reverend Walton sat up and leant towards the microphone and sat back again.

  “No, you are twisting her words. What Susanne meant was that people lack guidance. Without God in their hearts they don’t see the difference between right and wrong. If more people believed in God there would be a great deal less evil in the world. Isn’t that right?” Susanne beamed a smile back to him and nodded.

  “What absolute nonsense.” barked Professor Tomlinson as he tugged at his shirt sleeves. He was glad he had elected against wearing a jacket. “A large proportion of the evil in this world is done in the name of God. Our moral compass is designed by our parents. It isn’t related to our religious beliefs.”

  “Didn’t you cover this in one chapter of ‘The Futility of Sheep’?” asked Oxley-Smythe.

  “Indeed I did. The fact is that when you introduce religion into a child’s life and allow an early association towards normality, the child’s moral code often becomes more twisted. In a survey I organised with a thousand 5 to 8 year old children I tried to identify common links between morality and religion.”

  “And did you discover anything eye-opening?” enquired Oxley-Smythe overenthusiastically.

  “The most surprising result was the answer to ‘Who goes to hell?’ Non religious kids answered with I don’t know. The most common answers from religious kids were criminals, murderers and gays…”

  “Is there something wrong with you? Are you sick? How can you justify asking children about homosexuality?” barked Bainbridge angrily. Her face was bright red; she had death in her eyes.

  “I didn’t.” growled Tomlinson defensively. Suddenly there was a stirring beside the Professor.

  “Don’t you think it’s wrong that these kids learn to associate homosexuality as a crime from an early age? That’s sick!” The comedian had woke up. As his arms flailed wildly the stage descending into raised voices, pointed fingers and baseless accusations. Professor Tomlinson had an overwhelming feeling of déjà vu.

  6

  The first time Henry Tomlinson met Julia Marigold was what the annals of history shall record as a spectacular failure. The chances that they were ever to meet had been unlikely for a number of reasons. They were from different places, with different beliefs and different hobbies. The only similarity between them was that they both attended the same university, albeit different faculties. Henry studied Microbiology and Julia studied Oriental Studies. They had different friends and socialised in different places. The reason, the spark, the chance which destroyed the rules of probability was one which has existed in many shapes or forms for centuries. The perversion of man.

  University was a breeze for Henry Tomlinson. Having grown up as an inmate at a prestigious boarding school, it was mere continuation. He didn’t suffer from homesickness; he didn’t need time to adapt and most of all he was exceptionally fast at seeking out like-minded companions. In a matter of days he befriended Michael Riley, a non-Irish Irish-named but not Irish-sounding classmate. They hit it off instantly and quickly became study partners, drinking buddies and mischief makers in general. It was during one of their particularly long lubricious afternoon drinking sessions when Michael had an idea. It had dawned on him that a career in science would be well-rewarded, intellectually stimulating but not carnally rewarding. It seemed that the girls in their lectures were not the kind who would cut classes and go to the pub on a Tuesday afternoon; therefore it was clear that what they needed was a strategy.

  Michael’s premise was as follows. On campus there were a large number of extracurricular activities. Why not sign up for each and every one of them to check out the girls in every group, and then only return to the activities containing the most attractive ladies? At seven fifteen in the evening, when they had been drinking for around six hours, it seemed that not only was it a good idea, but it was an absolutely genius plan.

  The next day, Henry found himself sitting alone in a mycology lecture. The hangover which penetrated every pore of Henry Tomlinson’s soul served as a throbbing reminder that he had almost certainly forgotten something which seemed quite important at some point during the prior evening. As Henry racked his brains trying to recall just what it was, he closed his eyes and tried to picture the previous eve in his mind’s eye. Unfortunately the only memory which returned to him was the smell of kebab meat. When Henry opened his eyes he realised that it wasn’t a memory, he had what appeared to be chilli sauce on his shoe. There is something wonderful about the early days of a new relationship with any form of acquaintance. It’s incredible how quickly norms form. Henry sat back in his chair and found himself wondering how sick Michael was. It was never a question of worrying what happened to him, it was more what tall story he would come up with when he finally did show his face. The auditorium doors swung open and Michael sped through them and up the stairs, muttering apologies his face red from embarrassment whilst carrying a grin which would have made the mad hatter proud.

  “I did it, I did it, I did it.” exclaimed Michael proudly. “Operation Pussycat is go.” Henry looked at him with an eyebrow raised in what he’d considered in those days to be his inquisitive look. “Last night?” Michael looked at him, somewhat disappointed that Henry wasn’t sharing in his excitement.

  “Last night?” asked Henry shrugging his shoulders in confusion. Michael merely stared more, then turned away shaking his head, somewhat disappointed in his friend.

  “Operation Pussycat. Woman hunting. We agreed we would start by signing up to any activities which we see.” explained Michael, every syllable carrying a hint of irritation.

  “And?” urged Henry, feeling a s
huddering sensation of impending doom.

  “You are going to love me for this. How do you feel about spending an hour drawing pictures of naked ladies?” asked Michael excitedly.

  “Life drawing. Can you even draw?”

  “Don’t worry about that. Chicks love arting.” exclaimed Michael confidently.

  The best laid plans of mice and men frequently go awry. Especially when the men are young, inexperienced, naïve and have the I.Q of field mice. When Michael and Henry finally located the Art department they were five minutes late and out of breath from hurrying along the narrow corridors. Michael opened the door to the studio and immediately turned to high five Henry. The first thing which struck Henry was that there was clearly something wrong with Michael’s arm. The second was that he was afraid that Michael wanted to kiss him. The third thought, which made his heart beat with a vigour that he had never felt before was the fact that there was not a single male face seated in the room. The tranquillity of the moment was burst by the appearance of a diminutive rotund lady with straggly red hair, glasses which seemed to magnify her eyes to unlikely proportions and a plunging neckline which could have hid a lost Amazonian tribe.

  “Hello boys, glad you could join us.” purred the woman.

  “Hi, I’m Michael, he’s Henry.” said Michael as he offered his hand. “Where should we sit?” The woman shook his hand and beamed at him.