The following story is 2,161 words long. It is the story I submitted for my TMA2 on the OU course A215. It has has some minor edits applied following feedback. I am happy with the score I got and am of the mind that all the mistakes that I made were silly ones that one doesn't spot due to getting to close to the text. OU policies mean I can't tell you the score or any of the feedback however, I would love to hear your thoughts on this piece.
Also, a quick note about the vicar: he is used to up the ante and this entire piece is not meant to be a pop at religion or in any way to stereotype any religious/community individual, though I accept that, to an extent, this is an inevitable outcome. I invite you, therefore, to read it in the spirit in which it is offered.
‘Pamela. What you’ve done is nothing short of blasphemous.’
‘Only if you believe in God, which for your information, I do not. For crying out loud, dad I’m twenty-two years old. Please don’t suppose to tell me a, what I can and can’t do, and b, whether anything I do is blas-phee-mous,’ said Pamela, in a calculated attempt to provoke her father, before adding, ‘besides, if I want to blas-, or any other bloody pheme, I will, thank you very much.’
‘Margaret, tell her.’
Margaret was standing next to the door into the hall fidgeting with her hands. ‘Pamela... please, love, don’t be rude to your father; it’s not necessary.’
‘I’m sorry, Mum but I won’t be smothered by his pious nonsense; not anymore.’
‘He’s just concerned, my darling… aren’t you love?’
‘It’s a disgrace, is what it is, a proper disgrace… heaven only knows what will happen when news gets out,’ said Roger.
‘The news,’ said Margaret, ‘appears to be out already, love. After all, you said yourself, that’s how we know.’
‘The fact remains,’ said Roger, ‘that she what she’s done is sinful and that as a sinner she must atone…’
‘...I’m not like you, Dad. No one is. Not anymore. You’re so out of touch. No one believes in God these days except you… and especially not me. So please, spare me the holier-than-thou mumbo-jumbo claptrap. Look around you, dad: the world is full of people enjoying themselves, having fun and, yes, even having sex; we don’t flagellate ourselves with birch sticks anymore. Christ.’
‘Young lady, I am your father and in my house you will show some respect.’
‘Respect? Respect? Oh, and when, pray, do I get to be shown some respect, eh? When do I get to live my life, my way, instead of having to pretend all the time just to appease your Victorian sense of what’s bloody right and proper. You know, dad, you need to get out sometime... venture beyond the graveyard and take a look at what the people of this eon are doing. You know what? People don’t wear sack cloth anymore.’ Pamela stood up, threw the magazine on the sofa, and looked at him. ‘It’s my body… it’s my life… it’s my brain… I’ll do what I want…. where I want… with whomsoever I want…. and neither you, mum, nor anyone else can stop me.’ She walked out of the door pausing to add, ‘sorry mum,’ as she passed through it.
***
The radio alarm had gone off at 6AM, as usual, that morning. Margaret turned away from him and pulled the duvet over her head. He silenced the radio, got dressed, and went downstairs. Passing the front door he pulled the newspaper from the letterbox and went into the kitchen.
Twenty minutes later Margaret came downstairs. Roger was sitting at the breakfast table in his dressing gown, reading the paper, and drinking a cup of tea.
‘More tea?’ enquired Margaret.
‘I’m fine thank you.’
‘As long as you’re fine, love. Any news, love?’
‘Not really,’ he said, gesticulating towards the paper. ‘In fact, I think we should change our allegiance; this one seems to be obsessed with sex. Look, someone called “Lady Gaga” has “confessed” to having had sex with another woman. Leaving aside the fact that whoever she is she has quite the most preposterous stage name, and that, frankly neither I, nor I imagine, half of Christendom actually cares what she does, it can’t be right to report someone’s bedroom antics in a family newspaper.’
‘No, love.’
‘I mean, does anyone actually care? I’m mean, actually?’
‘I dare say not.’
‘Sometimes, Margaret, I think we’re living in a cesspit of iniquity.’
‘Maybe that would make a good topic for your next sermon, love. When is that again?’
‘Sunday, of course.’
‘Really, love?’
‘Yes, of course, it’s always Sunday, isn’t it?. I mean, when you stop and think about it, it’s everywhere: the papers are stuffed full of the stuff; it’s splashed across television and cinema screens; you can hardly walk down the street without encountering a suggestive advertising hoarding; and half my congregation seemed determined to have it off with the other half. I’m sure it never used to be this way.’
‘Quite, quite. Are you sure you won’t have more tea?’
‘No. I’ve the morning service to attend to and besides I shan’t be grateful to have to deliver it on a full bladder.’
***
Coming into the hall from morning service, Roger picked up the pile of letters that were on the hall table. There was a fair amount. Most of them were official looking or junk mail but in amongst them was a large, C4 envelope on which the single word ‘VICAR’ had been handwritten.
He went into the drawing room, sat on the couch, and dropped the post next to him. Picking up the C4 envelope, he slit an opening along the top and pulled out the contents. It was a top shelf magazine that had been folded open to a page that displayed a pair of legs at the top of which was a vagina being held open by a lone female hand. Garish bright pink text informed him that the legs, vagina, and hand belonged to a young woman named Nikki, from Newcastle.
‘Bloody kids,’ muttered Roger and he put the magazine back on the sofa, covering it with the envelope before going through the rest of the post. As he did so he piled anything he deemed not worth keeping on top of the magazine and its envelope.
He reached over to pick up the pile to take it through to the recycling but instead managed to knock it on the floor. He bent down to pick everything up from the inverted pile. The magazine was now at the top presenting a view of Nikki’s breasts and smiling face, her pouting lips, and smouldering eyes staring straight at him. Roger dropped the pile again. Nikki wasn’t Nikki. And she wasn’t from Newcastle; she was from his house. Nikki was Roger’s daughter: Pamela.
Roger called out. ‘Margaret.’
A muffled reply came back. ‘Yes, love?’
This time, he yelled. ‘Margaret. Come here.’
‘Can it wait, dear? I’m pressing the bed linen.’
‘No it can’t. Come on, I need to talk to you, now. It’s urgent.’
Margaret scurried in from the hall and looked at him, eyes open, fidgeting with her hands.
Roger gave her a stern look. ‘Sit down,’ he said.
‘Whatever’s the matter, love? Has someone died?’
‘No, it’s... it’s just…’
‘Well then, whatever’s the matter?’
‘Margaret, despite the many years’ experience I have had administering pastoral counselling to my congregation, there are times when even the most delicate matters must be addressed in indelicate ways.’
‘Roger, you’re not making any sense. Please, just tell me what it is, love.’
He pushed the magazine at her, breast side up.
Margaret glanced at the magazine, and then looked at Roger. ‘I don’t understand, love. What are you, of all people, doing with this?’
‘Margaret… our daughter is a slut.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Margaret...just… just.. oh for heaven’s sake, just look at the dammed thing will you?’
Margaret looked again. ‘Don’t be silly, love. It says quite clearly here that this is someone called Nikki.’
‘Oh, please, Margaret. Don’t be naïve. That’s patently some kind of stage name. Of course it’s Pamela.’
‘Oh, I see.’ said Margaret. ‘Let me look at it again.’
Before he could protest, she was studying the magazine. ‘My goodness. You’re right. Look, you can see her birthmark. I’m quite shocked, love…. she never said anything, not even to me. Roger, love, where did you buy this magazine?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t buy it. It was hand delivered with the post.’
‘Oh. Do you know who it came from?’
‘No, like I said, it was hand delivered.’
‘Does anyone else know, love?’
‘How should I know? Oh for goodness sake, clearly someone does. Someone sent it.’
‘Yes, but I mean…’
‘Well, no one was sniggering at this morning’s service, if that’s what you mean but you can bet that if we know, then others must too. Pretty soon everyone will. Anyway, that’s not what I’m worried about. Well it is but the fact is she’s sinned and I’m going to have to talk to her when she gets home.’
‘Really, love? Couldn’t we, you know, just ignore it? Say nothing? Pretend, perhaps? That might be best, mightn’t it, love?’
‘But we do know, don’t we? And pretty soon everyone will know, and when they know, we’ll know they know but they won’t know we know, except we’ll know that, and she’ll know we know but not that we know she knows we know so she won’t know whether to let us know she knows that we know and, and the whole dammed thing will just drive everybody crazy. No! She must know we know, and she must be under no illusion that we absolutely will not stand for it. Margaret, you and I must stand firm, love.’
Just then the lock went on the front door. Margaret stood up. ‘Please, love, I’ll go,’ she said, and before he could reply she disappeared into the hall, returning a few moments later with Pamela.
‘Crikey,’ she said, ‘you two look serious. Has someone died?’
Roger handed her the magazine.
***
Pamela was gone. Roger had come back from evening service and he and Margaret were sat at the kitchen table, drinking tea.
Roger spoke first. ‘What are we going to do? This is serious and serious actions have serious consequences, Margaret.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Margaret, ‘we should try and refocus, eh love? Try seeing it from her perspective.’
‘Focus? Do you know how many paedophiles are going to be looking at our girl, lusting after her?’
‘That’s what I mean, love.’
‘How so?’
‘How many paedophiles? None, that’s how many. She’s a twenty-two year old woman, not a twelve year old girl.’
‘That’s not what I mean.’
‘Well, what do you mean, love? Tell me. Are you worried that normal, red blooded, heterosexual men will find her sexually attractive?’
‘Yes… no… sort of… I don’t know. Look, the men that buy these magazines, they’re... Well, they’re...’
She interrupted him. ‘Like you?’
‘Have you taken leave of your senses, woman? How can you compare me to…?’
Margaret put her hands over his. ‘I seem to remember when I first met you, you used to have magazines not too dissimilar to that one under your bed. Do you remember, love?’
‘That’s completely different. I was...’
‘What? A dirty old man?’
‘…young. Besides, times were different,’ he protested.
‘Roger, I love you but sometimes you can be a bit of a…’ Margaret squeezed his hand, ‘Twat.’
Roger tried to free his hands but she clasped them tight. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Roger Peck,’ said Margaret in a tone that surprised them both, ‘don’t be so bloody sanctimonious. You know very well that if Pammy were Michael you wouldn’t bat an eyelid. It’s one rule for the lads and another for the ladies with you, isn’t it? But, shocked as I am, I think Pammy has a point, you know: in these enlightened times geese and ganders have more of an equal say in how they live their lives.’
‘It’s smut, Margaret. Pure, unadulterated, unabashed, smut, and our daughter is in it. Doesn’t that worry you?’
‘Actually, Roger, love... what bothers me is her happiness. If she knows what she’s doing and is happy doing it, then I’m happy, if not, I’m not. Look, I want to think my daughter is pure and innocent, just like you do, but she’s not. No one is. The truth is she is a grown-up; a sexually mature grown-up who needs and wants to make her own way in life, warts ‘n’ all. We can help her, when she wants us to but the rest of the time we have to stand back and let her do her thing. Isn’t helping people to come to terms with themselves in their own way at least partially what being a vicar is about?’
Margaret got up and left the kitchen. A couple of minutes later she came back in, holding a book. She handed it to Roger who read the title: An Illustrated Kama Sutra.
‘Margaret, what’s going on?’
‘Different times, love, yet, I think maybe they weren’t so very different. Do you remember, we used to look at this together when we were courting, love?’
‘Well, yes, of course... but, I…’
She smiled at him. ‘I think we even tried a few of them, didn’t we?’
‘We did.’
‘I suppose these pictures must’ve been thought of as naughty in their time, love. You and I, we’re sexual beings, love, and God understands that, doesn’t He, love?’
‘I suppose He does, yes. I just find it so… so… so… frustrating.’
‘There’s fresh linen.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Take me to bed, will you my love?’
