Seventh Sunday

On Saturday afternoon, my wife and I attended a community event in the church hall.  I may have mentioned it in my last column.  It was organised to demonstrate and celebrate the diversity of cultures and talents within the parish.  There was food from all over the world: India, Malaysia, Thailand, Africa, Brazil, Russia and France.  There were paintings, pottery, tapestry, poetry, music and in the far corner of the hall someone had erected a screen which my curiosity drew me towards.  As I approached, a man in a tracksuit appeared.
“Hello,” I said, “I know you.”
“You’ve probably seen me at 9.15 Mass” he said.
“What do you do?  What’s your talent?” I asked him.
“I teach physical education at the local Catholic boys School.  I have a background in gymnastics.”
“That’s interesting,” I said. “What talent are you demonstrating today?”
“Massage,” he told me.
“Oh,” I chuckled, “have you got some kind of a bench behind the screen, then?”
“No, no.  It’s only an upper body massage that I’m offering on this occasion and I can do that with you sitting on a chair.  Would you like one?”
“Oh no.  No.  Thank you.”
“Oh, go on.  Give it a go,” whispered my wife, “I often have back massages at the spa.  You’ve been under a lot of stress recently.  It’ll be good for you.  Try it out.”
“I suppose as Chair of the Parish Council I should show willing,” I said.  “All right.”
Behind the screen was a small table laid with accoutrements and a stool.  He made a gesture with his hand to indicate I was to sit on the stool and then passed behind me to do something at the table.  I waited while he prepared himself.
“I suppose it would help if I loosened my tie a bit,” I suggested.
“I need you to strip to the waist please,” he said.
I turned round and looked at him.
I noticed that the accoutrements on the table consisted of five or six small brown glass bottles.  He handed me a hanger.
“You can use this to hang your jacket on” he said.
“And this one can be for your shirt,” he said, as he held out another.
I took them and when I had finished I carefully folded up my tie, put it in my jacket pocket and sat down again.  I could hear him behind me, unstopping the tops from several bottles.  I could hear voices coming from the other side of the screen of people I knew from church, socialising with one another and working their way around the exhibits.  I heard a woman’s voice very close suddenly say “What do you think is behind this screen?”
“There’s somebody behind here!”  I said.
“Sorry!” she said cheerfully.
“I’ll only be a couple of moments,” the sports teacher said gently.
I could hear him rubbing some sort of fragrant lotion or oil into the palms of his hands.  I concentrated intently on the floral pattern on the screen in front for me, at the folds of the material and the tiny regular horizontal and vertical lines created by the woven threads.  He firmly grasped the muscles between my shoulders and my neck and I involuntarily stiffened.
“You’re very tense,” he said.  “Try to relax.”
He rubbed the oil from his hands into my shoulders and neck with firm, even, backwards and forwards movements and then brought them slowly down either side of my spine and round my waist and I got up out of the stool and said “That’s enough, thank you” as I reached for my shirt.
“I haven’t even begun,” he said.
“I only wanted a taster,” I said.
“I haven’t done it for long enough for it to have had an effect,” he said.
“Please,” I said.  “I don’t want to offend you.  Really.  Just a taster is fine.”
“Okay,” he said and wiped his hands on a towel.
As I was putting my jacket back on he said, “If you ever decide you would like to try a proper massage, you speak to me.”
“Yes,” I said, “Thank you,” and I bid him a good day.
“Feeling better?” my wife asked, coming over to me.
“Much better,” I said.
“My neck’s a bit oily,” I added.
I saw Mary Thomson touring the hall, collecting for the Knock Pilgrimage Fund and as she passed me I put in a folded £20 note.