Page 11

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He was born in the Welsh seaport of Swansea in the last decade of the nineteenth century. Nobody expected that boiling cauldron of race, politics and religion to be a cushy kindergarten especially for a child born of a mother like Elizabeth Parnell - a diminutive Irish virago whose trim loins whelped seventeen brats.
Times were dangerous for fertile women. She was steel made flesh thanks to her Catholic God.
The Parnells had been comfortably off since William Parnell secured the position of local postmaster.
On Wednesdays his wife entertained the priest. Father Damian's shabby clothes were forever in need of repair and he regarded his weekly visit as a timely respite from the politics of parish poverty. Elizabeth's nifty needles danced through every trick in the seamstress's craft. Her breasts, saucily displayed by a neat bodice, heaved hypnotically causing a dalliance of minds. It was he after all who had officiated at the altar when she'd wed; drawn then to her neat dugs he'd ever after been beset by carnal torments. She knew his weaknesses. Judgement Day checkmated his unruly dick and kept it firmly buttoned. Free to play the whore fully dressed Elizabeth trusted God to weigh in His holy scales her penitent needlework, her griddle cakes and her finely brewed tea. The priest was drawn to her vicious nature. It spiced her appeal.
"Elizabeth, I marvel how your body clings to the Lord's given youth."
The priest's well-thumbed old Testament proved God was
nothing if not lecherous. In the kingdom of angels why condemn man to Satan's sticky coupling? Sweet tea freed him to eye her over the rim of the cup; noisy slurps tracked his own lechery.
"The Lord has preserved your firm dugs, Elizabeth. 'Twas what the Serpent ached to get his teeth into wi' fleshy Eve, the twin o' ye, not a spit from the tree. The Divil's apple is a mite hard to swallow."

His spittled mirth was not contagious and she tipped her nose. Serial pregnancy ravaged his flock and no man with a lewd tongue would survive long without feeling an exhausted woman's nails ripping his face. Still she warmed to saucy talk and felt easy, moving among tasks, rippling her buttocks, aware of the incitement to heated speculation. Her detailed fantasies had his risen snake juggling unspeakable acts, and girly arabesques at the oven had him spilling tea and dripping dunked griddle cake down his cassock. She paced him with a harlot's skill.
"Ferther, wi'ye share the sittle wi'me?"
He wedged into her pneumatic thighs and her camisole inflated.
"I've said we could do wit'a bigger sittle in the parlour. Will's mam was a tiny ting but his da' was Kerry born an' a great lump. Will has his bones an' nose. Tis a sturdy sittle an' we took it willin' when his mam went to her glory."
His eyes became unfocused as she wriggled, frotting his thighs.
"I've not a pinch more flesh since our last was born."
"A woman's body is a hymn of praise to high purpose."
"Ferther. . . ye really tink so?"
"Indeed tes d'holy instrument of sinful man's salvation."
She detected scrotal stress and felt his buttocks clench. He was so mean and bony. His dentures were dreadful. She couldn't say why she fancied him but the fact that he was a close friend of God weighed in his favour. Her mind was a sexual bedlam and she gladly offered Satan the hospitality of her listening ear. The priest, as urgent as a whippet, turned her on despite the slaver on his thin lips. It wouldn't take but a minute to lift her skirt in the outhouse - she'd been assured her fecund womb should secure her place in glory - but could she sink to the level of Anglicans roasting in the fires of venal sin? And what if she strayed on one of God's spiteful days?

This is a page from Milk and Honey by Gerald Moore, available for purchase from Lazarus Press.

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