Son of a Preacher Man
by Robert Symes
Chapter 1
This story is set (mostly) in rural England in 2025. I hope that references to cars, TV shows or music won't spoil the story for those who don't know them. Follow the links provided for more information or just ignore them. (And yes, I know you can use a search engine just as well as I can. The links are for convenience, not to insult anyone.)
Some mildly controversial opinions will be expressed. It is this author's policy to have no opinions about anything, or at least not to state them. Any opinions you see on these pages are those of the characters or the site owner respectively and I neither endorse nor oppose them.
Swamp Rat
Mark Lewis was having a bad day. He'd gone for one of his regular long Sunday walks in the woodland near his home. He loved to be alone in the beauty of nature, though he knew the woodland was created by the Forestry Commission , not nature. But it was still beautiful, and quiet, and it didn't judge. He could have time to breathe, and think, and just be. His phone left at home, no-one could reach him, no-one knew where he was. As long as he was home by six no-one would care or worry. Phone signal was patchy at best anyway.
But he had somehow blundered off the path and didn't know where he was. And then he had tripped over a tree root and fallen face down into a stream. His face and hair weren't too bad and soon dried but his clothes were soaked, the water was cold, and the birds squawked and chattered in disapproval at the loud outburst of bad language, or so it seemed.
Cold, wet and miserable he decided to pick a direction and just walk in a straight line and he was bound to come to a road soon enough. The woodland was extensive but interspersed with farms and villages and criss-crossed by rural lanes. Not a perfect plan but otherwise he could wander in circles indefinitely.
The plan worked and he came to the edge of the wood. In front of him was a dry stone wall into someone's back garden. He didn't want to trespass but at the end of the garden the woodland stopped at the edge of a muddy field, beyond which he saw a car moving, so there must be a road, which must lead somewhere he could find his way home from. He set out to walk across the field.
A fatal mistake, almost literally. After ten or fifteen yards he realised he was sinking into the mud, and couldn't get traction with his feet to move forward or back. He started to panic and shout for help. Drowning in mud was terrifying, knowing that his family would never know why he vanished almost worse. "Somebody help me. PLEASE!" he screamed.
"What the..." came a voice from his right. He looked around to see a man in the garden looking over the wall. "Stand as still as you can" the man called. "Don't panic, struggle, or try to move. I'll be back." He sprinted away.
Mark hoped he'd be back soon. The feeling of sinking inexorably into the mud made it almost impossible not to panic and struggle, futile though it may be. Soon the man returned at a run, carrying a length of rope. He quickly made a loop in one end and knotted it. "Catch" he called, throwing this end to Mark. "Now, hold on tight and lean forward. I'll pull you out." Luckily the man was big and powerful and Mark was pulled quite easily to where he could walk by himself. He threw the rope back and walked towards the man, shaking with relief, the mud having reached the top of his thighs.
The man looked shaken up himself. "You stupid kid! Can't you read? Thank God I was here! You could have died!"
"Thank you, thank you, thank you" stammered Mark. "But read what?"
"The great big signs that say 'Danger. Marsh land. Keep out.' every ten yards. Haven't you heard of Talbot's Bog?"
"Well yes, but I didn't think I was anywhere near it. I must have come further than I thought. I got lost in the woods and I came to your garden but I didn't want to trespass so I thought I'd cut across the field to the road. I didn't see any signs, just a way out."
"Well, you've been very lucky" said the man, shaking his head. "You must have gone around the end of the safety fence and missed the signs. We'll have to plug that gap, it nearly killed you. That garden belongs to Talbot House. I'm getting the place ready to move into. If you'd been two hours earlier... It doesn't bear thinking about." He shuddered.
"Oh, yeah, I know" said Mark. "My granddad lives just up the road. He said some sort of gay vicar and his little wifey bought it. Are you working for them then?"
A look of disgust came over the man's face. "I should have left you to drown. I ought to let you walk home like that, but you'd catch your death and my husband wouldn't approve. So I suppose I'm stuck with you, worse luck. Just for the record my husband is Reverend Dennison, a Methodist minister not any sort of vicar. And I am not anybody's little wifey."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything bad. I was just repeating what my granddad said. I never would have said that if I'd known. And he doesn't mean any harm, he's just a bit old fashioned. But I'm really sorry if I insulted you after you saved my life. "
"Whatever. Well, bigot or idiot, either way you need a hot shower and a change of clothes. I hope you're not going to be stupid about it or I will throw you out. I'm not interested in boys your age and I won't be in the room. Afterwards we can phone your parents to come and get you."
"Thanks. It's very kind of you. And I promise not to be stupid. But can we ask them to bring me some clothes and a towel before I shower? I don't think I'm going to want to put these back on." Mark gestured to his sodden, filthy clothes.
"I don't blame you" said the man as he helped Mark over the wall. "Yuck, even your hand is filthy. Come on, this way. I think you need to get warm very soon, you're shivering. Don't worry, most of our stuff is here. We can lend you a towel and dressing gown, you'll be quite respectable.
Mark didn't argue. His clothes weren't just cold, wet and uncomfortable; they stank. He couldn't wait to get rid of them. Arriving at the back door he took off his shoes and socks as directed, washed his feet with a cloth, and followed the man through the kitchen and hallway, upstairs and into a large bathroom.
"Wait here, stand still, and don't touch anything" instructed the man before leaving the room. He returned shortly carrying stuff. "Dressing gown, slippers, towel, and a plastic bag for your clothes. I put your shoes in already, add the rest and then tie it, you stink."
"I know" agreed Mark. "Jesus, that's rank!"
"You really are an offensive young idiot, aren't you? Do I really have to tell you not to talk like that in a clergyman's house?"
"Oh my... I mean, sorry. Again. Perhaps my brain will function again when I get warm. I usually try not to upset people."
"Right. Shower's in there. There's soap and shampoo in it already. Lock the door behind me and come downstairs when you've finished, I'll be in the kitchen."
Fifteen minutes later Mark walked into the kitchen, clean, warm and grateful carrying a sealed bag. "Thanks for that" he told the man, who was sitting at the table doing something on a laptop. "I feel much better now. Did you phone Mum?"
The man smiled. "Brain still not warm yet?" he mocked good-naturedly. "How can I? I don't know your name or number, we haven't been introduced. I'm Aubrey Sinclair by the way. Here." He passed Mark a cordless phone.
"Thanks. I'm Mark Lewis." He entered his home number in the phone. "Hi, Mum. Now don't panic, I'm absolutely fine, but I fell in Talbot's Bog... I said don't panic... No I'm at Talbot House with the new owner but I need clothes... Don't be silly, nothing like that, but I had a shower and my clothes are disgusting, I don't want to wear them. This is turning into a grand day out, as Granny Dublin might say. Can you or Dad come over here? I need shoes, shirt, trousers, all of it. And a lift home would be nice, I've had enough walking... Okay, see you then. Thanks Mum." He handed the phone back. "She'll be about half an hour, Mr Sinclair, is that okay?"
"Aubrey, please. I'll put the kettle on."
"Well now, what have we here?" asked a voice from the doorway as they waited for it to boil. Mark turned to observe the new arrival, who observed him right back. The boy was about Mark's age, but a bit taller, and had an olive-skinned Italian look about him, strange and exotic, in a good way, in lily-white rural England. And he was dark haired and very good looking. The two boys stared at each other. "Daddy, you shouldn't have" the boy smiled. "A blond bombshell in easy-to-open gift wrap. And it's not even my birthday. I thought I heard voices. The TV's all tuned in and working by the way. And I set everything else up."
"Don't call me 'Daddy' you horrible brat" laughed Aubrey. "This" he explained "is our adopted son, Jared, for my sins. He moved down here with us from Milton Keynes. And this" he told Jared "is a swamp rat I pulled out of the bog earlier. Less bombshell and more chemical weapon before he showered. Now he's waiting for Mum to bring him clothes. And he's a homophobic swamp rat so don't start getting ideas."
"Mark Lewis" Mark introduced himself, reluctantly dragging his mind away from the vision of this boy opening his 'gift wrap.' "And I already apologised for that. I thought you were a builder or something, and I was quoting my granddad. And he doesn't hate you, he just doesn't know any gay people living around here so he gets his ideas from old sitcoms or trailers for Ru Paul's Drag Race. I told him to watch ' Cucumber ' online but he just laughed and said 'I don't think so son' so..."
"Well, that's not exactly a great role model either is it?" said Aubrey. "They should make a programme about people like us. But I suppose that makes boring television."
"Doesn't have to" said Jared. "Trail blazing Methodist Church accepts gay people, then marriage equality even for ministers, minister marries childhood sweetheart, adopts disowned youth and moves to boonies to scandalise the peasants. Great drama, I'll write it one day and be rich and famous, and show that Russell T Davies how it's done. After my GCSEs of course. But don't you think this guy looks a bit like Freddie?"
"I look nothing like Freddie" insisted Mark. "Look beyond the blond hair. And I hope I'm not being rude again but you don't look like a Jared. You look like you should be a Luigi or Giuseppe or something."
"Is it that obvious? Well, I wasn't christened Jared, I chose it. Ever seen ' Boy Erased ?' That's me. But no dodgy therapy and no reconciliation. This is my happy ending. My birth family are strict Italian Catholics and I'm not part of that family any more. Their choice, not mine, made when I was fourteen. Say ten Hail Marys and reject your child says the priest who's probably" – he glanced at Aubrey – " fornicating the altar boys. So to cut a long story short I found these guys, disowned my sperm donor and incubator, and changed my name. Jared from the film, Dennison from gratitude. So I'm Jared Dennison now."
"I know you're bitter and it's understandable," remonstrated Aubrey, "but please don't talk like that, especially around Trevor, he hates that kind of cynicism. Unless you have evidence to the contrary your parents' priest is almost certainly not molesting anybody and you shouldn't slander him."
"Whatever. He can't hear me and Trevor's not here. But it's interesting that Mark's still talking about 'Cucumber' years after it was shown. That was 2015, he'd have been in primary school. Me, I'm a big Russell Davies fan, but what's your excuse? And why that one? ' It's a Sin ' is more recent and better known. Are you a friend of Dorothy too? Is that why you're looking at me like that? Not a 'side' are you? That would be a waste."
"You can't ask questions like that!" Aubrey was appalled. "Ignore him, Mark. But you two should get on well, neither of you has any tact."
"It's okay" replied Mark. "I don't mind, really. Thing is, I don't know for sure. I've never met the lady, but I think I'd like her if I did. And I don't even know what a 'side' even is . There's over a thousand kids at my school so statistically dozens of them must be friends of hers but I don't know who any of them are. This isn't California, or Brighton, or even Milton Keynes, and it's not a TV programme either. This is a small c conservative area. They pay lip service to equality because they have to but they don't mean it and you'd be well advised to keep your head down.
"But I'd like to get to know you. And Reverend Dennison. I didn't know Methodists had gay priests and I've got a million questions. And it is why I'm looking at you like that, I think, but I'm not sure and I don't know what to do about it."
"Well you're not going to do anything about it today" remarked Aubrey. "Your mum will be here soon and we need to get back to the flat in time to support Trevor at the evening service. We're right on the border line of catchment areas here. Do you go North or South to school?"
"North, to [town] Comprehensive."
"Ah, we go south. That's why you two haven't met before. And won't meet again unless you come here after we finally move in here next Saturday. All the work's done now and we've got power and water so we can stop camping in a rented flat and move in the first day we're all free. Jared, write your number down for Mark so he can text you when his phone dries out."
"It's fine, I didn't bring it with me. I like to get away from distractions sometimes. But you can text me your e-mail address to 07XXX XXXXXX and we'll sort something. Maybe I can come over Saturday and help you move in if you like."
Jared sent the text, they finished their drinks and Mark's mum turned up with a suit of clothes for him. He got changed, thanked Aubrey again and they left for home.
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