Read Online Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit by Jeanette Winterson - Free Book Online Page B

Lord,’ she told me. ‘Look at my Wigan Work.’
    A long time ago, very soon after her conversion, my mother had received a strange envelope, post marked Wigan. She had been suspicious, knowing how the Devil tempts the newly saved. The only person she knew in Wigan was an old flame, who had threatened to kill himself when she married another.
    ‘That’s up to you,’ she had said, refusing to correspond.
    Eventually curiosity got the upper hand, and she tore open the envelope. It wasn’t from Pierre at all, but from one Eli Bone (Rev.) of the Society for the Lost.
    The crest on the paper was a number of souls gathered round a mountain, with a little arch of a text underneath. ‘
Fastened to the Rock
’, it said.
    My mother read on . . .
    Pastor Spratt, leaving Wigan on his way to Africa, had recommended my mother to the Society. They were looking for a new treasurer. The last, Mrs Maude Butler (nee Richards), had just got married, and was moving to Morecambe. She would be opening a guest house for the bereaved, with special rates for all those who worked for the Society.
    ‘A very attractive offer in itself,’ reminded the Rev.
    My mother was very flattered, and decided to accept the Rev.’s invitation to go and stay in Wigan for a few days, to find out more about the Society. My father was at work at the time, so she left him the address and a note which said: ‘I am busy with the Lord in Wigan.’
    She didn’t come back for three weeks, and after that went regularly to the Rev. Bone’s to audit the accounts and campaign for new members. She was a good business woman, and under her direction the Society for the Lost almost doubled in membership.
    Every subscription form carried with it a number of tempting offers: discount on hymnbooks, and other religious accoutrements; a newsletter with a free gift every time, anda free record at Christmas; and, of course, the discounts available at the Morecambe guest house.
    My mother regularly designed a gift of interest, available only to members of the Society. One year it was a fold-away, wipe-clean copy of Revelations, so that the blessed could be sure of the signs and portents surrounding the Second Coming. Another year, a Tribesman money box for missionary contributions. And my favourite of all, the sliding scale outdoor thermometer. On the one side of this sturdy Bakelite device was a simple temperature gauge, on the other, a sliding scale showing the number of possible conversions that could be made in a year, if every person, starting with you, brought two souls to the Lord. According to the sliding scale, the whole world could be godly within a mere ten years. This was a great encouragement to the timid and my mother received many letters of thanks.
    The Society held a regular weekend at the Morecambe guest house, once a year, just before the busy season – the busy season being around Easter, after malingering illnesses contracted during the harsh winter. Of course, there was sometimes an unexpected spate in January, but it’s surprising how long people hang on, once they know it’s the end. My mother, who has always been interested in the End, personal and general, had a friend who used to make most of the wreaths for the Fylde coast.
    ‘Our time’s coming,’ she used to say, every winter, and every winter she bought a new coat.
    ‘It’s the only time I can afford it,’ she said. ‘People live a lot longer now, and they don’t want a fuss at the end.’ She shook her head. ‘No, business isn’t what what it was.’
    She used to come and stay with us sometimes, and bring her wires and sponges, and catalogues.
    ‘It’s funny, but they always want the same, never anything adventurous, although I once did a violin in carnations for a musician’s husband.’
    My mother nodded sympathetically.
    The woman sipped her tea.
    ‘Now, Queen Victoria, that was a funeral.’
    She took a chocolate biscuit from the bottom of the pile.
    ‘Course, I was young