Getting Religion
by Liza Granville
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“Praying? You?” smirked Kev.
“That’s right,” snapped Trace, ladling tea into the pot, “Praying. Just us girls. Every afternoon from two to four. And I want you out the way.” She narrowed her eyes. “And you can take that gormless grin off your face pretty damn quick and all, unless you want me to do it for you.”
Kev stepped back, hastily re-arranging his features. Trace was a big, strong girl. “But you’ve never gone in for all that carry-on,” he protested, keeping the table between them, “We never even got hitched in church.”
Trace looked up from chumbling dunked biscuits. “I never needed no religion then, did I? You was working so we managed OK. Now there ain’t no hope in hell of you getting a job and this bastard government’s threatening to cut the dole for the second year running.” She sloshed out second cups. “We’re at rock bottom, so I thought I’d give it a bash. Might work. Might not. Don’t cost nothing. You got any better ideas?”
Kev shook his head. “It’s just that I don’t see how getting down on your knees, pleading to God the Father…”
“God the Mother,” Trace corrected him, sternly, “That’s why it hasn’t been working up to now. God’s a She. I had a dream about it.”
“Oh,” he said, eyeing her bunched fist, “Yes, I see.”
“It’s not that I mind having to clear out every afternoon,” grumbled Kev, moodily examining his new trainers, “It’s just her attitude. She expects me to jump to it every time she lifts her finger. Always issuing bloody orders, these days.”
“Aw, come on, Kev,” Sean leaned back, squinting through a cloud of cigar smoke as he flicked channels, “Look at the way we’re living. Don’t have to do much for it, do we? Be honest - would you rather be down the pickle factory doing what some jumped-up charge-hand tells you? Have another drink. Any of that beluga left?
Kev dispiritedly passed the caviar and chocolate digestives. “Yeah, all right, but you can’t tell me you’re happy doing every little thing your Sharon tells you.”
“Yep. If our Sharon wants me to hang upside down off the washing-line wearing a tutu and farting God Save the King that’ll be fine by me.” Sean grinned. “Know what your trouble is, Kev? Short memory. Remember how it was every fortnight, waiting for the next credit? Blummin’ nipping backwards and forwards to the cash machine to see if it’d been paid in? Nothing to eat but bread and scrape. And a tin of beans if you was lucky.”
“Yeah, but…”
“Remember that desperate feeling when it was a day late? You want to go back to that?”
“No, but…”
“Well then. Look at us now. New clothes. Latest gear for the kids. So much food the women use it instead of cash. Don’t it make you lie back and smile and praise God the Mother yourself?”
“OK. Wouldn’t be human if I didn’t. But I still like to know what’s what and it don’t make a lot of sense. Something ain’t right. You think about it. Six months ago we had nothing. Now we’re living off the fat of the land…”
“Yeh.” Sean sighed his contentment.
“But I’m supposed to believe the only thing that’s tipped the balance is that they’re praying every afternoon.”
“Well?” Sean selected another cigar. “That’s the whole point, ain’t it? That’s their motto, like – Have faith, God will provide.”
Kev nodded, flushing bright scarlet from mental exertion aided by liberal quantities of Johnny Walker. “Yeh, yeh, yeh. And have you seen any food parcels descending from the clouds?”
“Don’t be so bloody daft!”
“Where’s it all coming from then?”
“How the hell should I know? It ain’t our job to know. We just do the housework and mind the kids. That’s how it is these days. If it’s getting to you that bad, ask your Trace.”
“I did.” Kev pulled up his shirt to reveal a large area of mottled bruising over his ribs. “There’s more, but I’ll spare you the rest if you don’t mind.”
Sean blinked. “Right.”
“It was so sore last night, I couldn’t sleep. I got thinking and I worked it all out. I reckon they’re on the game.”
“You what?” Sean’s jaw dropped. Kev shuffled up the sofa, glancing furtively over his shoulder.
“Orgies. Every afternoon they kick me out, right? Whole load of punters must move in. And they got to be butchers. Paying in kind. Because it’s mostly meat the women use for trading.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” said Sean, with the air of one choosing his words very carefully, “But your Trace ain’t exactly, well, she ain’t exactly page three, if you see what I mean. ‘Course some men like big women with muscles - bondage and all that. Mind you, our Sharon ain’t much to look at either.”
Kev subsided, deflated. “You explain it, then.” There was a short silence. “I got to know,” he croaked, piteously, “Can’t go on like this.” Sean gave a resigned sigh. “Tell you what, Kev, there’s no way your missus or mine or any of them other old biddies could be running a knocking-shop. But if it’ll put your mind at rest, we’ll sit inside the kid’s hideout in them bushes opposite your place tomorrow and keep watch. OK?”
“You’re a real friend, Sean,” gulped Kev, close to tears.
“There – look! Two of them.”
“Where?” muttered Sean, “Mind your head.” Scrambling forwards, he peered through the small, leafy opening. “Don’t talk daft, Kev. Bible-bashers, ain’t they? Look at the way they’re dressed. Pick them out a mile off. Bloody nuisances. Place is over run with them these days. Some bright spark on telly said gloom-and-doom-soon was the only growth industry.”
“Maybe they’re butchers in disguise,” said Kev, unwilling to abandon his theory, “Look, look, your Sharon’s even coming out on the pavement to invite them in. It’s a set-up, I tell you.”
“Nah. They’re not the type. Too young, for a start.”
“How would you know? Anyhow, there’s such a thing as young perverts.”
Sean shook his head. “You got it all wrong, mate. See, Sharon explained it to me. They invite them in to their prayer meetings to put them right about God being female. Trace’s very good at explaining, Sharon says.”
“I’ll bet,” growled Kev, feeling his ribs, “Tell you what, I see those bedroom curtains close, I’m going in there.” “Count me out. Last thing I want is your Trace laying in to me.”
They sat in silence for a while. A few drops of rain fell. Snails began to slime over the paddled earth floor. Sean shifted uncomfortably.
“We could be watching the footie instead of squatting in here.”
“Give it a bit longer. Another quarter of an hour. Then we’ll sneak over and look through the window.” Sean groaned.
An electrical hum was faintly audible above loud chanting as the two men sidled along the wall. Through the nets they could make out the figures of a dozen or so women, busy about the kitchen.
“God made woman in her image,” roared Trace.
“And she is generous to Her daughters,” wailed the chorus.
“Jesus Christ!” breathed Kev, nose pressed against the glass.
“No,” whispered Sean, “Sharon explained that and all. She was a She too. She was really called…”
“Sharrup!” snarled Kev, “Can you make out what’s going on?”
The kitchen was a hive of activity. May, from number seven, was busily packing two sets of gents’ clothing into plastic bags and attaching price stickers. Sharon was supervising the loading of the freezer with several packages. Two other women were folding up plastic sheeting and mopping the floor. Another was carefully disassembling the electric carver. After a few minutes, Trace emerged with a bucket of something that she proceeded to spread along a newly opened trench lying parallel to the heavily laden raspberry canes. After forking it over, she stood for a few minutes, looking thoughtfully up at the sky as she sampled the fruit. Then she slammed back into the kitchen. From behind the door, her voice rose in a final, full-bloodied hosanna.
“All praise to the Great Mother! God helps those that helps them-se-elves. Ah-women.”
“There you go,” said Sean, “What did I tell you? No orgy.”
“I had to make sure. Thanks, mate.”
“No sweat,” Sean glanced at his watch, “Better pick the kids up from school. May as well come back to ours. My turn to cook the tea tonight.”
©2005 Liza Granville
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Liza Granville lives in the West Country. Her work has appeared in many magazines and anthologies. A novel, CURING THE PIG, is published by Flame Books.