Summer

For those of you who have been waiting for another chapter in the Summer stories my apologies for the very long delay and I hope that you find these worth the wait. While this and the following story is able to be read as a standalone story the forerunners to it are 'Summer Chapters 20/21. The Church Hall 1 & 2'.

Just for the record all characters in this story were over the age of consent. Senior Guides were active in the movement well into their twenties.

Chapter 22 The Vicars story Part 1

Canon Green, our local vicar, was a huge slab of a man, dressed in black, flat faced, pink skinned and as solid and unimaginative as a side of pork. He was a petty tyrant, balding, with large fleshy jowls and hairy hands the size of dinner plates. He was dictatorial, egotistical and dangerous and he gripped the social and religious reins of the Parish tightly in his hands. He chaired the board of just about every club, association, group and committee in the village and brought his own bigoted and autocratic views bear in every sphere of village life. He was a tyrant and he wielded his position as God's representative like a club, bludgeoning and striking down anyone who opposed or challenged him. He was universally disliked and feared in equal measure. All agreed that the milk of human kindness had curdled and run sour in him years before.

He was old school, the 'do as I say not as I do' type of preacher with endless sermons taken straight from the Bible and delivered without interest; as boring and indigestible as they were long. On top of which he was as dull as ditchwater and had all the personality of a plank. He carried his religion around like a stone, which he placed on the table in front of him at meetings and gatherings and alternately hid behind it or beat people into submission with it; he didn't necessarily believe in it but he knew how to use it to his own best advantage.

Despite the fact that he chaired the all the school councils, youth committees and clubs, he actually had no idea what a young person was. He watched the growth of the new philosophies and values of freedom of expression and social revolution with an abhorrence and a growing sense of dislocation. He did not understand them nor had he any desire to. He had never had any choices as a youngster growing up in one of the many poor areas of Northern Ireland in the forties and he didn't understand why this generation should have any, let alone to demand them which was what they seemed to be doing. He had simply done as he was told and when his mother had thrust the clergy upon him as the only career open to him he had succumbed and taken the cloth; a career that he found desperately uninteresting and uninspiring but one that he found gave him status and respectability. As a Vicar he had power that no other profession he could think of would have given him. He was no fool; the church had put him through university and given him status in the community and in return he had understood what was expected of him. But he had never had any choice; choice was a luxury he had never tasted and the bile burned deep within his stomach.

Yet if the philosophies of modern youth left him cold the fashions they were adopting certainly fired his interest and the rising hemline of miniskirts and the exposing of long and shapely legs served to inflame his imagination. As a result he frequented the youth clubs of which he was chair of the committee in the oft rewarded hope of a flash of knickers as some young girl sat down or a long look, in cases where the skirts were spectacularly short, as they danced.

Neither did he understand the new music. Gone were the strict rules and formality of the dances he had grown up with, the waltz and the two-step as well as the associated romance of the words. Now it was all jumping about in darkened rooms with loud voices wailing loosely veiled lyrics about sex. When did the words of songs become 'lyrics' and stop being words? When did 'love' become synonymous with sex? When did sex between unmarried couples become commonplace rather than unusual and how had he missed it?

When he was younger the only way to have sex was to get married and any girl who broke that rule remained unmarried; that was the way it was, no self respecting man would even think of marrying a woman who had had sex out of wedlock. Women had to be virgins, pure and chaste until they were married and under the protection of their husbands; those were the rules. Their reputations, like their hymens, had to be intact.

And when had sex become enjoyable? The newspapers banner headlined 'The age of the Climax', books proclaimed 'The Joys of Sex', there was even a version with pictures! Pictures! He hadn't had sex with his wife since their son, their only child, was conceived; and he was now away at University himself. The idea of enjoyment had never entered their bedroom, they had procreated and once the need for procreation had passed they had stopped. Sex had been a duty not a pleasure. Cold and loveless couplings in a darkened bedroom. A brief and unequal struggle with a heavy winceyette nightie and even heavier, meatier, thighs. Followed by an equally heavy sense of shame and embarrassment when the act was over. He would sigh and roll over, leaving her with the damp patch and she would silently castrate him for him having asked; and now with the advent of 'free love' he felt cheated.

He watched the girls and his eyes took in their breasts and their slim nylon clad thighs. He watched the gropings and the grindings on the darkened dance floor as the young studs tried to simulate the act of sex to the beat of some unintelligible song. He noted who was more forward and who was not, keeping a record of who slipped off to the back rooms at the Church Hall with the coats and the cigarettes and who did not; keeping some undefined record of promiscuity for use at some unknown future date.

He had started to 'accidentally' walk in on the couples in the back rooms, having given them enough time to 'get started' as he thought of it and had been occasionally pleasantly rewarded with the glimpse of a hastily covered breast and even, on one occasion, the fleeting sight of some pubic hair as the discovered couples had hastily tried to conceal the results of their romantic clandestine fumblings.

He usually pretended that he had not noticed and let the couples quickly sneak away in the knowledge that they would be more desperate and therefore bolder, the next time he 'caught' them and each experience gave him more to hold over them if and when the time came to use the information. Very occasionally he would take the offensive and would severely chastise the terrified young couple, threatening them with public disclosure and parental involvement, browbeating them until the girl broke down and cried for forgiveness.

Once dismissed the young man would gladly flee the scene with his tail euphemistically between his legs, happily abandoning the young woman to her fate, with the vicars sonorous voice ringing in his ears, the smell of sulphur and brimstone in his breath, telling him to 'beware the fruits of his carnal appetite'. Once the young man had run for his life the Vicar would then offer comfort and succour to the distraught young thing left at his mercy. Sitting next to them, his arm around their heaving shoulders, his hand would always stray a little, the odd passing feel of a breast or of a nylon clad young thigh. He had once even slid his hand accidentally between one particular young woman's legs, one that had repeatedly visited the back room with a number of boys and been added to list of 'possibles'. Surprisingly she had shown an immediate and remarkable recovery from her tear washed anguish of seconds before and displayed a gratifying lack of surprise or resistance to his 'accidental' touch by instantly opening her legs for him and allowing him a moments feel of the warmth and softness, the promise of satisfaction that lingered there. He had remained between her legs only a moment before retreating with the memory of her warmth in his fingertips and an immediate and powerful erection to remind him of the occasion. But he was also a coward and the thought of what he had done, and what could have happened had the woman reacted differently, terrified him and he had never repeated that particular operation again.

His priesthood, his position in society, the power he wielded, was a mighty double edged sword. Powerful as he was one slip and it would all come crashing down about his ears and that was a fate far too terrible to contemplate. So he watched and waited, biding his time while he stroked his erection through the hole in his pocket as he talked to the numerous women of his parish; young and old. No-one was safe from his fervid imagination and they would have been shocked to find that he had imagined them all naked and under his hands at some time or another.

Pat had been part of Church since a child; brought into the congregation by her parents when she was still at her mother's breast. Unusually by modern standards she had continued being a member long after most of her friends has dropped away. She grew up into the congregation, becoming a senior member of the choir, a Senior Girl Guide, a youth club council member and she regularly helped out with chores in the church, arranging flowers for the services and delivering Sunday school classes. All the things that young people no longer did, that were no longer fashionable or contemporary.

The vicar had marked Pat out as one of the professional church goers, a 'God groupie' as he uncharitably called them; and there were a few of them in the Parish, mainly young people, mainly keen and all devout and squeaky clean. In truth he could not stand them, they made him feel old and tired. But there was always something slightly different about Pat, a stillness about her that made him watch her; an intensity that said she was not as straight as she seemed, a hidden depth that spoke of rebellion and still waters. And so he watched her, quietly, from a distance.

Their paths crossed regularly. She was an altar girl as well as a chorister and so they were bound to meet. He began to touch her when he spoke to her, safe, easily explainable touches that would not get him into trouble. Even so she showed nothing, seemingly oblivious to the thrill he was getting from the scent of her perfume, from the soft warmth of her skin. He started positioning himself so that he could look at her breasts, taking in her shape, imagining the feel of her. If she knew what he was doing she showed nothing, revealed nothing. She was always passive when he was around, always accepting, always looking for work, looking to be helpful; and he became convinced that she was putting herself near him, putting herself in his way.

Everything changed for him the day they met together in the vestry to inventory hymn books; a standard routine that was performed once a month before the Sunday evening service. A simple task that he had performed a hundred times with one or other of the parishioners; but this time Pat turned up to help, filling in for a sick absentee.

After the count was over and the piles of books counted he was down on one knee next to the bookcase, picking up a stack of hymnals from the floor when she came over and stood close by him, hard against his shoulder. He hesitated, half down on one knee, suddenly aware of the young woman as she stood next to him; long shapely legs and short loosely billowing skirt. Steadying himself with a hand on the pile of books he suddenly noticed a fresh graze on her skin, just above her knee and without thinking he reached out and touched it. She never moved. Her skin was warm and soft, the graze a rough patch under the pad of his thumb. He stroked her knee, lightly, marvelling in the feel of her skin and she stood quietly as he softly rubbed his thumb over the small patch of damaged skin, his fingers gently resting on her leg, soft against the back of her knee. His eyes were fixed on her knee without seeing it, gazing into some sexual middle distance as his thumb began to grow bolder, following its instincts, moving in slow circles higher up her thigh.

Suddenly he shifted back into real time and his hand dropped away as if scalded. In the same moment he realised with a shock that he was hard and painfully erect inside his pants. He quickly looked up to find that she was just standing there beside him, staring down at him, her dark eyes reserved and unfathomable. He coughed in embarrassment as if from the dust and picked up the stack of books from the floor. He slid them heavily into the bookcase. He made to speak but her silent stare unnerved him and the words died in his throat and he rose to his feet, brushing his hands on his cassock, rearranging it to hide his erection.

Standing he towered over her once again and felt better, his position of authority somehow restored. Her expression never changed as she slowly looked away from his face, her eyes travelling silently down to his body to his crutch and his hastily hidden erection. For a moment there was a brief flicker of something in her eyes as if she could see his erect member beneath his trousers and cassock and he felt himself blush fiercely.

A small and beatific smile creased the corners of her face, angelic, the long suffering smile of sexually abused womanhood through the ages, a contrived innocence that only the truly tainted have; and at her vulnerability, her purity, her youth, his erection strained at the front of his pants as if it had a life of its own, screaming to be unleashed and to do its worst. Shaken to his core by his reaction he muttering some incoherent excuse and pushed himself away from her and almost ran back towards the safety of his office in the vestry.

He was sweating and his hands were shaking. Looking back over his shoulder he could see that Pat had simply returned to stacking the books on the shelves, calmly, methodically, spines outwards, as though nothing had happened at all; and perhaps for her nothing had happened other than a brief touch of skin and his overactive and overheated imagination.

Bursting into his office he slammed the door closed behind him as if to shut out the devil that he now knew to be chasing him, without realising that the devil had entered with him. He lay back against the varnished wood and all he could think of was the feel of her skin under his fingertips and her smile, the soft seductive smile of the innocent; and he felt his erection, iron hard and straining in his pants. Locking the door behind him he collapsed into his chair and putting his head into his hands, he shook his head as if to clear it. He shook from head to toe, his hands trembled, and his thoughts whirled like sparks above the sudden and raging bonfire of his lust.

He had no idea how long he sat there but when he looked up he saw the fading light filtering down through the small arched window high up on the wall of his small office and he realised that it must be getting late. He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, he felt drained, weakened, like the aftermath of a fever. He was exhausted by the fire that had burned so suddenly bright, that had raged in his veins. He straightened himself up, brushing his hands on his cassock and through his short, thinning hair, he needed to pull himself together, get himself moving again. He was shocked by the strength of his desire, the power of the passion and the poisons that had suddenly boiled inside him.

Taking a deep breath he walked unsteadily out of his office and slowly made his way through the darkening and deserted church, checking that the place was clear before he left and locked up. As he made his silent rounds he felt somehow that the place had changed, or that his life had somehow taken on a tilt that left him feeling a little dizzy and unbalanced. He felt strangely that something had been let loose, broken loose from inside him; something that he had kept on a leash for so long and it frightened him. He now knew that his lust was real and dangerous, as real as the church he was walking through, that it now walked alongside him, set free, always present.

For the next couple of days he could not settle, his mind was aflame, it was alive with desire. He could not put the event behind him, he could think of nothing other than the soft, warm, feel of her skin and the shape of her knee under his fingers. But as the days passed he managed to slowly bring his fevered imagination under control, and as the immediacy of the event began to recede he calmed down, slowly getting his life back a normal pitch and routine. By the end of the week he was beginning to try to convince himself that he had imagined the whole episode.

It was almost a week later and he had just finished the last service of the day, the one he was most fond of, if he could be said to be fond of any. The best thing about the evening service was that it was short, a couple of hymns and brief sermon and no real pressure. On this particular evening the congregation was particularly sparse even for one of his services, the usual smattering of spinsters smelling of mothballs and lavender, dressed in heavy coats and hats and gloves regardless of the season. His God groupies, sitting in God's waiting room waiting to be called, that attended every service. There were a couple of old men seeking some human warmth and companionship, although he thought with a dour smile that he doubted if they would find much with the biddies that had turned up tonight. At the back a couple of young bloods who no doubt had only turned up to escort certain young ladies of the choir home, probably hoping to find a little more carnal comfort in their companionship than the older men were looking for, although you could never be sure anymore.

The church organ played a slow, quiet dirge as the choir filed out of the back to their disrobing room behind the choir stall. The parishioners slowly queued in the aisle for a few muttered last words to the vicar at the door before stepping out into the warm night air. When the congregation had all left the Vicar gratefully closed the large old wooden door behind him. He made his way to the nave to speak to the organist and choirmaster, a wiry old man of indeterminate old age who had been pumping the pedals of the organ man and boy almost since the church had been built and that was in the sixteenth century he thought wryly. As they spoke the choir, now changed out of their cassocks into their day clothes, slowly filtered by; saying their goodnights in a suitably respectful voice as befitted his position as they passed.

Once they had gone the choirmaster made his way to change in the vicars robbing room and the Vicar to his office. He picked up the collection plate on his way and grimaced at the few copper coins that were scattered on the worn green felt at the bottom of the old wooden plate. In his office he counted the meagre collection, marked the meagre total in a book and placed the coins into an old safe which was kept in an even older cupboard where he kept his vestments. Locking the safe and pocketing the key he disrobed, a ritual he had undertaken for far too many years and the symbolism of which had long ago lost any meaning.

He closed the cupboard and sat on the edge of his desk and contemplated his options, he could go home and spend what was left of the evening in the frigid company of his wife, on the other hand there was a confiscated copy of a Playboy magazine locked in the top drawer of his desk along with a half empty bottle of fine Irish whisky and a glass. The young man whose playboy he had confiscated had been to see him earlier in the week, suitably contrite, and asked if he could have it back 'as his dad would kill him if he didn't put it back where he had found it'. The Vicar had sent him away with a curt admonition to send his father to him if there were any problems. The boy had walked away muttering imprecations under his breath.