– and here Norman’s thoughts drifted back to his own bitter experiences as a married man – “one can never expect much common sense from women.”
John’s eyes rested upon the full-colour photograph of a voluptuous young female in leather corsets and thigh boots wielding a riding crop. “They have their uses,” he said lecherously. “Can I borrow this magazine?”
“No,” said Norman.
“And where is this Church of the Second Coming then?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Norman, “news of it apparently travels by word of mouth. The ladies I have questioned have been loud in their praises for the place but reticent about its location.”
“Oh?” said John. “I’ll bring this back in half an hour.”
“No,” said Norman, “it is well known that you photostat them at the library and sell the copies in the Swan.”
“Merely satisfying a need,” said John. “Your prices are too high.”
“Get out of my shop!” said Norman, brandishing a lemonade bottle. Omally made a rapid and undignified departure.
As he tramped up the Ealing Road towards the Flying Swan, John’s thoughts turned back towards the Church of the Second Coming. Hard times always brought out the religion in people, and this long hot summer with its rationed water and rising temperatures was enough to set the nervous and susceptible legging it towards the nearest church. There was a good deal of money to be had in that game, and after all one was serving the community by fulfilling a need. Any rewards could be said to be of a just nature. It was a thought, and not a bad one. By the time he reached the Flying Swan his mind was made up. He would seek out the Church of the Second Coming and insinuate himself into a position of responsibility. He would gain respect and prestige, might even become a pillar of the community.
Yes, Omally could feel the call of the mother church, he was by now completely certain that he had a true vocation. He pushed wide the saloon bar door and entered the Flying Swan.
“God save all here,” he said, “and mine’s a pint of Large please, Neville.”
The part-time barman did the business and counted Omally’s coinage into his hand. “It’s gone up another penny,” he told the Irishman.
Omally smiled pleasantly and produced the coin. “How are things with your good self, bar lord?” he said. “It is another beautiful day is it not?”
“It is not.”
“Makes one feel good to be alive.”
“It does not.”
“God is in his heaven and all is right…”
“Turn it in, Omally.”
“Just remarking upon the splendours of creation.”
“Well, do it elsewhere.”
Omally removed himself to a side table where old Pete sat leaning upon his stick, his dog, Chips, belly up before him.
“Good day to you Pete,” said John seating himself. “It is another beautiful day is it not? I thank God to be alive.”
Old Pete spat in the direction of the cuspidor, which was the last relic of Cowboy Night, having been retained owing to its overwhelming popularity. “You should take to the wearing of a hat, Omally,” said he. “The harsh sun has befuddled your brain. I have an old homburg I might sell you.”
“God is in his heaven,” said Omally.
Pete was lining up for another shot at the cuspidor. “A pox on God,” said the surly old bastard.
It was clear, thought Omally, that the joys of the Church of the Second Coming had not yet made themselves manifest to the barstaff and patrons of the Flying Swan. A more direct approach was in order.
“Don’t you ever go to church, Pete?” he enquired.
“Never,” said the ancient. “I have a straw boater if you don’t fancy the homburg.”
“Listen,” said Omally, who was rapidly losing his patience. “Just because I feel the need to extol the glories of God for once it doesn’t follow that I’m heading for a padded cell in St Bernard’s.”
“Glories of God?” said Pete in a sarcastic tone. “You are an ungodly womanizer, Omally, with about as much religious inclination as young Chips here.”
“Ah,” said Omally. “That may have once been true but I have seen the light. I am mending my ways.”
“I have a very inexpensive cloth cap I might let you have.”
“I don’t want a bloody cloth cap.”
“Go down to Father Moity’s then.”
“No,” said Omally, “I need to find a church of a new denomination, one which would offer an honest godfearing man a chance to be at peace with himself and his maker.” Young Chips made one of those unholy noises he was noted for and his elderly master chuckled maliciously.
“I can see I am wasting my time here,” said John. “A seeker after truth is not welcome hereabouts, a prophet is without honour in his own land so he is.”
“Listen,” said Old Pete. “If you really feel the need for something a bit different in the religious line why don’t you go down to the Church of the Second Coming, I hear they have rare old times down there.”
Omally pricked up his ears. All this waste of breath and he might just as well have asked the old fellow straight out. “Church of the Second Coming?” said he. “I don’t think I’ve heard of that one.”
“Well, all I know is that two old dears were talking about the place in the supermarket. Seems that there’s some sort of New Messiah fellow started up in business, very popular with the ladies he is.”
“And where is this church to be found?”
“Search me,” said Old Pete. “I didn’t overhear that.”
What Omally said next was a phrase in Gaelic which his father had taught him when still a lad for use against the Black and Tans.
“And you,” said Old Pete as Chips set about the Irishman’s trouser bottoms. He might not have much religious inclination, that dog, but he did speak fluent Gaelic.
Omally shook the mutt free from his ankles and finished his drink at the bar. He began to understand how saints came to get martyred. It wasn’t all tea and crumpets with the vicar this getting into the church. And then a pleasant thought struck him; amongst the many ladies of his acquaintance there must surely be one who had taken up within the new church, and even if there wasn’t it would be a pleasure finding out.
Omally took out his little black book and thumbed at the pages. Where to start? A for Archroy’s missus. He would pay her a visit that very night.
“Another pint please, Neville,” said the Irishman jovially, “and to hell with the extra penny.”
Archroy stood in his back garden gazing up at the colossal mesh-covered construction which all but engulfed the entire yard. The deafening chatter of a thousand gaily coloured birds filled his ears.
Archroy’s worst fears had been realized that very morning when the dreaded lorry had arrived, bearing the exotic cargo which now flapped and twittered before him.
He had never seen birds quite like them before, nor had he seen such a lorry, black as death and seemingly without windows. And the driver – Archroy shuddered, where did his wife meet these people?
There must be a thousand of them in there, thought Archroy peering into the cage. The din was appalling, the neighbours weren’t going to like this one. Mrs Murdock appeared at the garden fence, a bundle of limp washing in her arms and a clothespeg in her mouth. “Lovely aren’t they?” she mumbled. “Just what this neighbourhood needs to brighten it up.”
“You
Mrs M. nodded enthusiastically. “Them’s lovely.”
