Priest's Cottage Part 2 of 2

Right.

My room in the Priest's Cottage. I needed clean (I hate that - why are the definite articles so often dropped, as in "He's in hospital," or "I'm going up to University"). And I needed changed.

Not really a "cottage" - at least what I would imagine. It was actually part of an ancient defensive outer-work for the Manor: a gothic fortress. It remained, I suppose, after the dark days, because it was handy for housing servants. Now it housed priests and gardeners.

Right in front were what once were the stables. Now, it housed my tractor and a priest's silver lake-blue Bentley. Yes, a Bentley. Have you ever sat in one, reader? I have. It's true. That thing represented the sum total of all the money I would ever make in a lifetime. Every piece hand-made, glorious to ride. Especially that time when I was allowed to - oh, more about that later.

Right. I opened the door and headed to the 2nd floor to my room. Below me lived John, the priest and owner of the Bentley. John - not the real name, reader. Middle-aged. Handsome, very troubled, and from an extremely wealthy family (they owned half of Scotland once, it was whispered). He had, I suspected, a very rakish past. The 70s, London, clubs, too much money, perhaps a bit of the white stuff. Something happened (more on that later) and he abandoned his fortune and his family and entered the priesthood. He left it all behind. Except for that Bentley.

Occasionally, there would be people from his past who would visit the Cottage. These visits would invariably end with a scream from John like, "You traitor!". Door slamming. Yes, I could hear it.

I could also hear something else.

You see, John subscribed to that medieval Catholic tradition of Flagellation. Look it up, it's true. He whipped himself to atone for his sins. Mortification of the Flesh.

It was awful - and very awkward when I had a guest. This self-abuse would usually start during the Shipping Forecast, on BBC, just after midnight. So, "Sailing By" would begin, and then shortly:

"Humber. Southeast. Variable at 5 or 6."

Loud slap. "Uhh!"

"German Bight. Northwest. Backing southeast later. 5 or 6."

Crack. "Ohh!"

"Dogger. Gale warning. 7 or 8. East."

The worst was always Trafalgar. Loud smack and whimper. Something must have happened there once.

It was if John was sailing himself - as if he was trying to find forgiveness for all the sins he committed by circumnavigating the entire isle of his past. Perfidious Albion. Perfidious Patmos.


http://www.victorianlondon.org/publications2/gaslight-15.htm


I simply turned up the volume. And so, that is how my evenings often ended.

Next, a bit about my room there on the second floor. And, oh, that Bentley (S1 Continental):

And this is an example of the entire broadcast. It would put me asleep every night for 2 years. Hypnotizing.

(Ed. that sentence needs fixed).