Dear God
Authors: Josephine Falla
Dear God
Dear God
Josephine Falla
Copyright © 2012 Josephine Falla
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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For David and Michael
Contents
It was during one of his periodic bouts of smouldering resentment at the way his life had turned out that William Penfold first thought of emailing God. It seemed more modern than praying, somehow. More up to date. Anyway, he didn’t want to pray. He wanted to protest. He’d been on this earth about 70 years or so, he thought, give or take. He wasn’t quite sure of the exact length of time. The point was, he did not like the way he was living. It was not comfortable enough. Most of the time he was angry about things. He didn’t want to be perpetually angry. He wanted serene comfort. He would tell the Lord about it all and see if He could put it right.
Informing the Lord about his situation by email meant deciding what the best address was. He gave the matter some thought.
[email protected]
didn’t seem right, somehow. Neither did
[email protected]
; he had a sudden feeling that ‘orgs’ were something to do with websites, not emails. Besides, who was to say that God resided in the UK? He could be any nationality, surely? Or, even more likely, not of any nationality. Nor of any particular gender, either.
That idea startled him. He paused to consider if he wanted anything to do with a female god. On the whole, he thought, no. Having a woman in charge might take him back to the days when. On the other hand, if that was what he had to deal with, he had no choice. He would have to assume it was a male god unless proved wrong. So what did he want to deal with?
He wanted to deal with the Boss. The Boss of all Bosses. Were there any other gods? There were certainly other religions, other beliefs, each of which was convinced that it was THE one. Each belief had its own god. There must be dozens of gods. Might be, anyway. Well, he couldn’t send emails to all of them, on the off chance.
In the end, he settled for
[email protected]
. It seemed to cover all situations. He took a slow, leisurely drink, sat back in his chair and considered what he wanted to say. The anger was still bubbling inside him but was partially suppressed on account of the need to consider the correct choice of words. Words that would convey his sense of fury and despair. Words that would spur the Almighty to act in a compassionate and helpful way. Eventually, he typed:
Dear God
You useless bloody waste of space – why don’t you help me? I can’t stand any more and what the fuck do you do? Nothing, sod all!
William Penfold
He took another swift drink and considered what he had written. He wasn’t pleased with it. It could be improved. He gave it some thought, then altered it to:
Dear God
You useless bloody waste of space – why don’t You help me? I can’t stand any more and what the fuck do You do? Nothing, sod all!
William Penfold
Manager
He read it again. The capital letters definitely gave it a more respectful tone. He was surprised to see that he had added ‘Manager’ to his name. He had forgotten that. That belonged to the days when. He couldn’t remember, however, what he had been ‘manager’ of. But it didn’t matter.
He clicked on Send and set off for the pub. There he met up with Jimmy Donovan; they downed a few pints, at first in a convivial mood. As the evening progressed they became more morose. Jimmy said he knew where they could get some really good stuff that would cheer them up but they would need money. Real money. Neither of them had more than the price of a few more pints. William became inwardly angry again. He left in a bad mood and set off towards his home, mumbling and swaying slightly. As he turned into his street, a downwardly mobile row of rather grubby terraced houses, he saw his nextdoor neighbour, Mrs. Brenner, on her doorstep, letting in her cat.
“Evening,” he said, “cat’s alright then.” Why he said this, he didn’t know. He loathed Mrs. Brenner. And her cat. Interfering old biddy.
“Drunk again, then, Mr Penfold.”
“Mind your own bloody business.”
Sod her. Sod the lot of ’em. He got into his home, searched round for something to drink and found an already- opened can of lager which still had some left inside. He sat down in front of the telly.
Question Time
. It must be Thursday. Bunch of tosspots arguing over something or other. Incomprehensible. He switched channels but found nothing remotely watchable. The computer. He’d do something on the computer. If it still worked. He’d find an interesting website to look at. He lurched, stumbling, towards his PC and half fell into his chair in front of it. He opened his email programme.
Christ! There was a reply from God!
God had sent him a reply!
Some stupid bugger from Google! Must be. Someone who was going to fine him for something or other.
All the same, he’d better open it. He found himself curiously apprehensive. There seemed to be a lot of an enveloping darkness around him and the bright screen seemed to be compelling him to absorb its message.
He clicked on ‘Open’. The message read:
What do you think is your problem?
That was all. No ‘Dear William’, no ‘Regards, God’. Just ‘What do you think is your problem?’ He felt the fury well up inside him. Of all the stupid, patronising, brainless cretins – what an answer! If God didn’t know what the problem was, who did?
Angrily, he pressed File and then Print. He wanted to see this email, see it in all its rudeness, study it to work out its origin. Only then did he remember that he did not have a printer. Why he did not have one he did not know. But he didn’t. The email was there, but he could not print it. His anger grew, fuelled by frustration.
He needed a drink. Boy, did he need a drink! The lager was finished. He swayed along the passage to the kitchen and began hunting for something, anything, to drink. Amidst all the assorted piles of empty cans and bottles, at the back of a cupboard, he was in luck. One more can of lager. Looking round, he saw a pile of various pills behind the toaster. He could not remember what they were for or when he was supposed to take them, but he knew they were important. Blue ones, he thought. I have to have two blue ones, I remember that. And three of those little white ones. He opened a packet of capsules. They were pink. Damn.
Finally he took one of the pink ones and two white ones. I’ll have the blue later on, he thought. When I’ve found them.
There was a half-open packet of digestive biscuits on the table, so he took those back with him to the sitting room. Right. Now, what to say to God? The cheek of it! ‘What do you think your problem is?’
Well, what was his problem? He paused. Was it that he couldn’t remember what he had been manager of? Was it that he didn’t seem to be having a comfortable sort of life? Was it that he just didn’t have the sort of drink he wanted? He didn’t really care for all this beer and lager. He knew that but he couldn’t afford anything better.
So was his problem drink? Was that it?
No. He liked drink. That wasn’t his problem. His problem was that he couldn’t afford it. He didn’t have enough money.
That
was his problem.
Pleased at having solved the question posed to him on the email, he constructed his reply.
My problem is obvious. I haven’t got enough money, have I? Why can’t You do something about it? And why don’t You do something about Mrs. Brenner while You’re at it? Deck Mrs. B., she’s a nasty old cow.
William Penfold
Administrative Manager
Triumphantly, he pressed Send.
Then he lay down on the sofa and fell asleep. In the middle of the night he woke up and was amazed to remember that he had put ‘Administrative’ in front of ‘Manager’. What on earth did that mean? What
was
an administrative manager? Puzzling over this he fell asleep again.
Next day dawned bright and sunny, but that was lost on William, as he didn’t struggle off the sofa until after ten-thirty. He tottered to the toilet, which fortunately was downstairs, and from there to the kitchen. There was very little to eat in the kitchen and, more importantly, nothing to drink. Nothing that he wanted to drink, anyway. Even the milk smelt a bit funny. No tea then. No coffee. No proper drink. A few slices of bread. Small tin of beans? Nah. Most of the label had come off, but the bit that was left didn’t look like beans. He would have to go to the shop, the mini-market, two streets away.
Money. Had he got enough? A hasty search revealed a five pound note and four one pound coins. That was it. He tried to remember when the Social people would call. They usually sorted out his money. Sometimes he wrote down when they said they were coming. Sometimes they wrote and told him, gave him dates, but he almost always threw those away. He didn’t know. He would have to live on the fiver and the coins until they came. Anyway, the electricity was working. Must be. He’d had an email from God, hadn’t he? Wait till he told Jimmy Donovan! He’d piss himself laughing.
No. No, definitely not. He must not tell Jimmy or anybody else anything at all about the email. Especially the social workers. They would – what was the word? – they would section him. Again. They would take him away to that place with red curtains, where they hadn’t let him out and tried to stop him drinking and tried to get him to talk about the time when. Well, he wasn’t going to talk about the time when, so there. They were always asking him about voices, but he didn’t hear any voices, he kept telling them all. No voices. Now emails – different thing altogether. But this was private. This was real.