Last time we saw our hero Rev. Clockslip, he was taking advantage of the hospitality of yours truly while embroiled in a messy doctrinal dispute with his incredibly orthodox wife. The situation has now changed dramatically, whether for better or worse I’ll let you decide.
On Sunday the good Reverend once again took his place in the pulpit and his wife dutifully sat in the front row, their marital strife safely hidden from the worthies of the congregation. Like every Sunday, Clockslip appeared from behind the choir loft after the special music and walked, stumbling slightly, to center stage.
This time though, the crowd could sense a difference. They sat in uneasy silence while he shuffled his notes, one sheet on top, then the other, then the first again, staring down at the faux wood of the pulpit without saying a word. It may have been a full five minutes before he looked up, and when he did, he was staring right into his wife’s stern blue eyes.
I could tell he was drunk. He’d taken to lifting the alcohol straight from my cupboard, instead of waiting for me to supply him.
“Petunia,” he slurred in a pathetic tone that did nothing to relieve the congregation’s mind, “I want to tell you, right now, before I forget, or you go away, I love you very much.”
Mrs. Clockslip sat up straighter in the pew, every inch of her on the alert, no doubt planning how she could play this all off to the parishioners.
“I love you, Petunia, and I need you. I can’t live without you. I can’t do anything by myself,” Clockslip’s plea continued, the words running together into one long mushed-up sentence.
“And I brought you this,” he finally declared, and from his stack of papers on the pulpit, he pulled out a sheet of brown imitation parchment paper.
There was a sharp intake of breath from Mrs. Clockslip. As the congregation looked on, by now completely horrified at the proceedings, Reverend Henry Clockslip stepped deliberately down from the podium, got down on one knee in front of his beloved and solemnly gave her his gift.
She sat shocked, looking down at it, then finally with a sob threw her arms around the penitent preacher in a spasm of affection.
The lookers-on reacted quizzically, but a few applauded, and I joined them. After everyone had left I finally got a look at Clockslip’s peace offering. It was a copy of the last page of the Westminster Confession of Faith, with his signature scrawled on it in a large unsteady hand. I suppose this indicated his full and complete acceptance of proper orthodoxy.
So they’re back together again. Petunia’s heart was softened by the Reverend’s weakened state and she took him back into her care. What a story. Divided by doctrine, reunited by alcohol. Someone ought to make a film.
