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You wouldn’t think that getting through a single lunch with your friends, your found family, should be so difficult. Especially when the conversation topics seem to be staying suitably mundane.
“They seemed such a perfect couple,” said Barbara, seemingly unprompted. “Mr Amos is so very handsome.”
Oh, well - there goes mundane. Time to focus on not grimacing. Focus on eating. Listen, but focus on eating. One, fork, two mouth, three, chew, one, fork, two, mouth, three, chew.
I make a quick glance at Barbara.
Must look natural.
Phyllis pipes up. “Don't make that your criteria for men. My mother always said: find a plain man. He'll be eternally grateful and never stray.”
Ah, thank you, Phyllis. We can keep this mundane. We can keep this safe. Maybe if I stare into my plate slightly longer, I’ll be able to manifest some sort of alternate universe with entirely different small talk.
Must remember to chew.
“I always thought the essence of crime is that some harm is done to someone,” adds Sister Monica Joan.
Damn. It’s true, though. Don’t react. I wonder what Delia would say to that? No - don’t - just focus on the food.
“You might try putting yourself in Mrs Amos' shoes,” Phyllis responds.
And there goes Nurse Crane from being on side. Why does that make me angry? Still not grimacing. This is good, you’re doing good. Gosh, I want Delia right now. Or just… someone on side. Dammit, you’re going to bend the fork, relax your shoulders, please.
“Fornication too was once a crime. Punishable by stoning. Perhaps we could stone Mr Amos.” Another excellent contribution from Sister Monica Joan.
Fornication: what a fun word for the dinner table! Maybe stonings aren’t all that bad. They’d certainly put an end to the public trials. Hang on a moment, isn’t it supposed to be a sin to work on a Sunday? Perhaps we should stone all midwives. What a shame the mob don’t think logically. Chew slowly. Breathe. Stop thinking so much. Did I just think of Sister Monica Joan as logical? Maybe queerness really is as debilitating as they say. No. Stop. Just stop.
Looking up for a moment towards Sister Monica Joan, I see that she is a little breathless. Her eyes look pained.
And here I am, just sat here, staring my plate. Numb. Cowardly. Lord, this is pathetic. I want to throw this plate across the room.
Focus. On. Chewing.
Then, Sister Winifred speaks. “Sister Monica Joan, sodomy is a sin. God himself tells us it's a sin.”
I am going to be sick. Focus. Blink. Swallow. Do not gag. Breathe. Do not gag. God, I am going to be sick. Why does chewing have to be so difficult? And this is what the world thinks? What they accept? Six years in a Catholic school and I could probably name more Bible verses that contradict this than I could tropical diseases. So much hatred. I hate them. I hate this. I hate this so much. Damn I think brow is sweating. Stay calm, be still. Do not be sick. Do not cry. Just focus on eating. Alas, hello there, my complete lack of appetite.
“Well, quite frankly, I thought we'd fought a war over fascism. And that's what this is. Telling people who they can and can't love.”
Not quite what I was thinking, but at least that’s something. Always taking scraps. Maybe if-
“Love?” Responds Sister Winifred.
The cutlery drops out out of my hands and clatters down onto the plate, startling the whole table, breaking as much tension as it creates.
I place my hands down on the table to stop them from shaking.
I look directly at her. Probably with a look of contempt, or anger, or incredulousity, or insanity - I don’t know.
“Yes. Love.” There is no room for questions with that response, with that tone. So I make some room. “What else?”
Trixie fixes me with the sort of look one has when figuring out the last few clues of a crossword. Let her scrutinise me. Delia’s not going to believe my gall. I don’t believe it, either. At least I don’t feel so physically sick anymore.
“Well, it’s… well, it’s sodomy!” Comes Sister Winifred’s response.
“And?” I don’t think my tone has ever been so icy.
Ever a peacemaker, that’s when Sister Julienne gives her tuppence, “A judge will try Mr. Amos, not us. Nurse Mount, will you pass the piccalilli?”
“Of course. But you are wrong. There is not a soul who won’t try Mr. Amos. That is, perhaps, the issue.”
I pass the damned pickle and rise.
“Do have a good evening.”
Time to go and panic about speaking out.
Will this life ever become less tiring?