Obstacles to Young Love. David Nobbs
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having learned what their godfathers and godmothers promised for them in Baptism…’
Auntie Flo is my godmother, but who the hell is my godfather? Oops, language, Naomi. I should be scared, using the word ‘hell’ in my thoughts in church, in the presence of the Bishop. But I’m not. Hell, hell, hell. Not frightening, because there is no hell except the one we humans make.
She’s drifted away from the Bishop’s words again. He really is a very dull bishop. Concentrate, Naomi.
‘…may themselves, with their own mouth and consent, openly before the Church, ratify and confirm the same; and also promise, that by the grace of God, they will evermore endeavour themselves faithfully to observe such things, as they, by their own confession, have assented unto.’
She looks across at Timothy. He looks swollen with good intentions, of consenting, of ratifying, of confirming, of evermore endeavouring, of faithfulness and of assenting unto.
Now the candidates for confirmation move forward towards the altar. They become more than a congregation now. They become active participants in the ceremony.
‘Our help is in the Name of the Lord,’ says the Bishop.
‘Who hath made heaven and earth,’ cry Timothy, Darren, Lindsay, Sally and all the others except Naomi.
‘Blessed be the Name of the Lord,’ exclaims the Bishop.
‘Henceforth, world without end,’ whispers Naomi, trying to join in, knowing that her feelings towards Timothy and God are inextricably and perhaps senselessly joined together on this oh, so solemn day. In a few moments she will be confirmed. It’s too late now to do anything about it.
‘Lord, hear our prayer,’ thunders the Bishop.
‘And let our cry come unto thee.’ Naomi can hear Timothy’s voice above all the others. She senses that he feels nearer to God than the others, and therefore further away from her.
‘Almighty and everliving God, who hast vouchsafed to regenerate these thy servants by Water and the Holy Ghost…’ the Bishop finds extra reserves of solemnity, ‘and hast given unto them forgiveness of all their sins…’
No longer to have to be ashamed of those three nights in Earls Court, especially the second one, and all those lies to Mum and Dad, but what’s the point of forgiveness if you can’t forgive yourself?
‘…Strengthen them, we beseech thee, O Lord, with the Holy Ghost, the Comforter; and daily increase in them thy manifold gifts of grace…’
Steven Venables has a sister called Grace.
‘…the spirit of wisdom and understanding…’
The dentist thinks I may be going to have a bit of trouble from a wisdom tooth.
‘…the spirit of counsel and ghostly strength, the spirit of knowledge and true godliness…’
The abstract words plop meaninglessly into Naomi’s abstracted brain.
‘…and fill them, O Lord, with the spirit of thy holy fear, now and for ever. Amen.’
The word ‘fear’ horrifies Naomi. She gasps so loudly that Darren Pont turns to look at her in amazement. The fear of God. It crystallises all her doubts in a second.
They are kneeling before the Bishop now, and he begins to lay his hand upon the head of every one of them, saying, ‘Defend, O Lord…’
She can’t go through with it.
She must. It’s too late.
She can’t. It’s never too late.
She doesn’t.
She stands, turns, runs from the church, flees, flees from the Bishop, from God, from Timothy.
‘…this thy child with Thy heavenly…’ In his astonishment the Bishop hesitates for just a moment, then recovers. ‘…grace, that he may continue thine for ever…’
Timothy sees Naomi go, he wants to follow, he wants to rush out and say, ‘Naomi, my darling, what’s wrong? Don’t cry.’ For he knows that she is crying. ‘I am with you. God is with you.’
But he doesn’t. He has come so far and he wants to be confirmed. He is exalted. The ritual is both exhilarating and comforting. He cannot let down his godparents, dear Uncle Percy Pickering and Auntie May Treadwell, whom he has neglected so shamelessly. He wishes to enter this hallowed world, in which the sons of taxidermists are equal to dukes in the eyes of God.
He will see her afterwards, when he is fully with God and is therefore able to help her better. That makes sense.
He is troubled, but the shared solemnity begins to comfort him, it’s so exciting to share the ritual and be as one not only with God but also with Darren Pont, Lindsay East, Sally Lever and all the other confirmees.
If he had followed her, maybe their lives would have been very different.
She walks slowly past Ascot House, where Miss de Beauvoir (Mrs Smith) is deadheading roses. She tries to smile at Miss de Beauvoir, but her face is stiff with tension. She opens the gate of number ninety-six. It squeaks. Supplies of WD40 have still not been replenished. She passes the notice with its unwelcome message, ‘R. Pickering and Son – Taxidermists’. She walks slowly, fearfully up the gravel drive, past the lawn that is so lank and studded with weeds. Weeds are beginning to force their way through the gravel on the path.
In her anxious state she can’t decide whether to ring the bell or rap the knocker. Juliet, reduced to this. She really does consider running away, writing a letter. It’s her last chance.
She presses the bell. She doesn’t hear it ring. She presses again. Again, she doesn’t hear it ring. Well, it’s their fault if their bell doesn’t ring. Call it a business, R. Pickering and Son? Can’t maintain a lawn or a gravel path, can’t be bothered to make sure the bell rings, what sort of business is this? She would be well within her rights to run away.
But she doesn’t. To tell the truth, she has such happy memories of those three nights in Earls Court, especially the second one, that she doesn’t want to run away.
So she tries the knocker. Sharply. Three times. Rat tat tat.
Roly Pickering comes to the door, shirtsleeves rolled up, hair unwashed, morning gunge still in the corners of his bloodshot eyes.
‘Naomi!’ He smiles a careful welcome. ‘How’s tricks, then, eh, Naomi?’
He casts a very quick look down towards her crotch. He always does this. She doesn’t mind. It’s irrelevant, and sad. His face approaches hers, slowing down, like a train nearing the buffers. He makes gentle contact with her cheek, apologetically, mournfully.
‘Is Timothy in?’
‘He most certainly is. You’ve caught us in mid-squirrel, he really is shaping up, but he’ll be thrilled to see you.’
Wrong.
‘Could I have a word with him?’
‘Course you can. Let’s go and find him.’
They walk up the stairs, Roly leading the way. At the top of the stairs, a moose regards them balefully.
‘All the way from Canada,’ says Roly Pickering. ‘That’s the kind of business my boy’s inheriting.’
Naomi can think of nothing to say. Her legs are weak. She feels sick. She finds herself being led up another flight of narrower, rickety stairs, past two jays and a sparrowhawk in glass cases.
By the door to the workshop there is a peregrine falcon in full flight, about to catch a goldfinch.
‘Look at that,’ says Timothy’s father. ‘See those rocks. I climbed Gormley Crag to take an impression of the cliff face, so that those rocks would be authentic. They say pride’s a sin, but I’m proud