He smiled. “It’s that obvious?”
“You’re usually the life of the party.”
He looked at me, biting his lip. “Well, to tell the truth, I think I’m being followed,” he said, and then returned to the table bearing three pints.
I stared after him, then resumed my seat.
Later that night, more to draw Matt into the conversation, I asked him, “How’s the congregation looking these days?”
Most of Matthew’s flock were implanted, which I found bizarre. They seemed to see no contradiction in worshipping at St. Luke’s and throwing in their lot with the Kéthani: hedging one’s bets, I think it’s called.
Matthew waggled a palm above the table.
“We stay the same. We stay the same. But, the important thing is, we’re no longer falling in numbers.” He looked around the table. “I tell you, the turn around is beginning. The Kéthani offer compassion, but it’s a cold and mechanistic thing. Nobody who has not been reborn really understands it. We view the returnees from the home planet with suspicion.”
I exchanged a smile with Khalid.
“Nobody who has not been reborn?” I said. “You’re mangling the English language, Matthew. Besides, aren’t you paraphrasing a line from the Bible?”
He nodded. “Well done. Still, the Kéthani gift has fallen too easily to us. Anything that is worth having has to be worked for.”
“Many would disagree, Matthew,” Khalid said. I nodded, feeling mellow, halfway through my second pint in the warm bar. Through the leaded window, the sight of the snow sifting down only added to my sense of wellbeing.
“Many would, indeed,” Matt said. “But I wonder if they still feel that truth in their hearts? People used to toil in the fields to stay alive. Now their daily bread is handed to them on a plate,” he smiled, “quite literally! And so they grow fat. Some exercise to burn that off, but others look for the quick fix: liposuction to suck the fat from their bodies and low calorie meals so they can commit their acts of gluttony and not feel the consequences.”
He nodded his head slowly. “Now, as we seek to expand our sugar-free life, where we taste the pleasures and forgo the pain, we are told that we can be resurrected without any sacrifice on our own part.”
I laughed. I knew Matthew that well by then, I knew when I could speak without causing offence. “There’s a strong puritan streak runs through you, Father Renbourn. Are you saying that man must sacrifice his pleasure in this life to achieve happiness in the next?”
He laughed loudly at that and shifted in his chair in an exaggerated fashion.
“This horsehair underwear prickles the backside,” he said, and laughed again. He took another drink and then settled back with a reflective smile.
“Ah, you have a point, Andy. You have a point.”
Khalid bought a round.
“But don’t underestimate the human need for balance,” Matt went on, smiling his thanks at Khalid. “The conscious mind goes for the quick fix, but the subconscious knows that everything has a price.”
He held up his pint. “I was talking about diet. We now face the prospect of eternal life, but still the need for healthy eating exists in our society. The doctors say a little alcohol is good for the body, but how many heed the call and drink a glass of good red wine each day? The Hollywood stars that act as our new messiahs preach self-deniaclass="underline" they prefer the truth of lettuce and low sodium diets to the gospel of Timothy Taylor.”
He folded his hands as in prayer and looked to the ceiling and I started to laugh. Despite the relatively small quantities consumed, I think we were both farther along the road to drunkenness than we suspected.
“Maybe you have something there,” I said. “I feel guilty if I don’t devote at least an hour a day to practice.” I patted my battered cornet case, tucked safely on the seat next to me. “It’s not just that my embouchure suffers.”
“Puritanism is hardwired into the brain,” said Matthew. “Resurrection is not enough. Don’t underestimate the Church’s ability to adapt and absorb, Andy. We took the winter festivals and made them Christmas, we brought the marriage vows from the doorstep to the altar, we took the rite of the funeral pyre and made it into cremation.”
Khalid looked up from his pint and winked at me. “So how are you going to make the Kéthani your own, Matt?” he asked.
“The Kéthani are but tools to achieve God’s purpose,” Matthew said. “As are we all.”
I was stunned.
“Surely that’s not the papal line?” I said.
Matthew smiled. “Not yet,” he said.
Last orders were called, and conversation turned to a different topic.
The following evening I tramped through the snow to the draughty village hall. My way was lighted, once, by the shaft of light from the Onward Station as it beamed the remains of that day’s dead to the orbiting starship.
I had intended to have a word with Matt about what he’d told me at the bar the night before, that he thought he was being followed. That had to wait: as I arrived he was mediating a dispute between the band and Katherine Emmett. Davey, her mentally handicapped son, wanted to play the triangle in the orchestra, but the rest of the band was not happy about this. Naturally, all sorts of reasons were being given, except for the real one: we don’t want the dummy in the band.
“He keeps putting me off,” said Kelly Wrigley, resting her flute on her knees.
“He hits it too hard, especially in the pianissimo sections.”
“He doesn’t always keep time,” said Graham Leicester.
A lesser man would have pointed out that Graham didn’t always keep time either. But not Matthew. He gazed mildly at Graham and the noise of the complaints just drained away. When he was sure he had everyone’s attention, he spoke quietly.
“Graham, why are you in this band?”
Graham looked confused.
“To help raise money for the restoration fund.”
“Why else?”
A pause.
“I enjoy playing,” he said eventually. He was blushing.
Matthew stared at the band, the uncomfortable silence lengthening.
“Why are you here, then, Matthew?” asked Graham, gaining courage.
“For the same reasons as you, Graham, but I also play to the glory of God.” This reminded me of something Matt had once told me after a few pints: “You know Andy, Benjamin Britten said of J.S. Bach that to truly understand his music one must realise that it was all written to the glory of God.”
Now Graham gave a clever smile. “Shouldn’t the music sound good then, if it’s to the glory of God?”
Some of the other band members nodded their heads. Graham had scored a point.
“Of course,” said Matthew, and something in his tone meant that the nodding suddenly ceased. He spoke in his softest voice. “But even without Davey, will the music we make be perfect?”
Graham dropped his eyes and shook his head.
“Then let him play.”
The music resumed. Davey, thirty years old and like his mother not implanted, sat on a plastic chair at the back of the hall, enthusiastically, if ineptly, bashing away at big steel triangle.
Oh, and just in case I am giving the impression that Matthew is some sort of saint, let me point out that I saw him wince, just as painfully as the rest of us, every time Davey tapped off the beat.
By nine o’clock, the time we usually packed up, Matt was on a roll.
“That was good. That was very good…” He looked around us all. “But it could be better! Guitars, we need more energy. Stab out the chords. Keep them short! Dit! Dit Dit! Not der-der-der.”
It was a piece without piano accompaniment, and I sat out, leafing through the local paper and looking forward to a pint at the Fleece after the rehearsal.