Secrets; I Tried To Keep Us Together, You Were Busy Keeping Secrets

The New Religion

It all began the day that Martin Jenkins decided to start a new religion. Martin lived at number 42, Richmond Crescent, Bath. He was 53, balding, and his chronic astigmatism meant that the lens in his glasses were really quite thick. He was deputy head of sales at a phone subsidiary in an out-of-town shopping precinct.

"I'll be a director any time now," he boasted to his wife before she ran off with the newsagent to grow strawberries in Kent.

He was an odd choice for a messiah.

He longed to work at the company's main branch in the High Street, for a desk with his name on it and for his team to call him 'Sir'. It was never going to happen. One drizzly Thursday in mid-May he heard that yet again a younger man with lustrous curls and contact lens had been promoted above him.

"That's it," he said.

Martin was not a religious man. He'd fallen out with the local vicar when she'd refused to guarantee his wife's eternal damnation. However, Martin had always had a kind of spiritual 'itch'. This, combined with his frustration and his ardent belief in the adage 'if you want something done well, do it yourself', made what happened next almost inevitable.

One evening he was surfing the net. As he ran a search for some new wellies an advertisement popped up: 'Cut Price Vestments'. He'd never seen an ad for vestments before and he laughed at first. Then he looked thoughtful. Then he started to scribble.

Some weeks later the householders in the Crescent received a flyer through their letterbox. It read:

Living in a religious vacuum?
Searching for moral inspiration?
Angry with the council spend on recycling?
Join Brother Martin this Friday at 8.00 o'clock.
All welcome.

Martin rather regretted putting in the bit about recycling, but the council did annoy him, it really did. It was as if he'd personally caused global warming by letting the bin men take his Daily Mail.

< 2 >

He'd wondered what to call himself. Saint Martin? Lama Martin? After all, as founder of a breakaway religion he could take the best bits from everyone else. Modestly, he'd opted for Brother. He could always change it later.

He decided to start small. He'd hone his ideas on his core congregation, the local householders. Not all the householders, of course. He'd taken care not to leaflet Lucien Marksbury at no 38. Lucien, who always parked his sports car in what Martin thought of as 'his' parking space. Lucien, whose son Max was so pale, so thin and so frequently clad in black that he must either be on heroin or plotting a Columbine-style school massacre. Lucien, who never bothered to say hello. He was definitely not invited.

That Friday Martin came home from work early. He put the miniature cheese puffs and spicy spring rolls that he'd bought from Waitrose into the oven and set out the glasses on the coffee table in the front room. Then he changed.

He'd ironed his new cassock the night before. He pulled it over his shirt and trousers. Wearing a long white dress gave him an unusual feeling. Lovingly, he lifted the red silk chasuble from its tissue-lined box. He slipped it over his head. It fell to the middle of his thighs, the short sleeves brushing his elbows. It was heavy, rich with gold embroidery. He straightened his backbone and pulled back his shoulders. He looked in the mirror. A stranger was standing there, a stranger with an air of authority and wisdom. But the stranger had no hat. Martin frowned. He should have bought the mitre offered on the website.

There was a ring at the doorbell, dot on 8.00 o'clock. Martin nearly tripped in his haste to get to the door. Realising the problem, he lifted his skirts delicately between his fingers. He opened the door with his other hand. It was Jessie Hicks, no 2, upstairs flat. Her hair was as wild and wispy as ever and her eyes darted to left and right as she said: