Chapter 3 - A new dawn

Godfrey's patience paid off. Exactly three weeks after Cloud Berry and River Boy had left the Cult, the Small Pixie Woman disappeared.

She left no note. Instead, she left a symbolic sign - a shoe pointing north on the kitchen floor. Draped over the sink was a single sock. And balanced on the hot tap was an apple.

Godfrey did a little jig as he hurled the apple out through the window, kicked the shoe under the table and threw the sock into the bin. Peace was his at last.

Although it was now early July, he lit a roaring fire in the study. He banged on the barometer and noted approvingly that the barometric pressure was falling. He thumped on the thermometer and registered that the digital display showed that the outside temperature stood at sixty-four degrees Fahrenheit. But he didn’t believe it, of course. More than likely, a blizzard of unusual ferocity was on its way and the thermometer had been corrupted. Why else was the barometer falling so rapidly? It was dropping like a stone!

Contentedly, he dug his ancient radio out from its hiding place at the bottom of a cupboard and tuned it into Radio 4. It was ten o'clock and the news was on. Godfrey sat back in his armchair and nodded approvingly at the various disasters that were going on in the world. Yes, the end of the world was approaching much more rapidly than people had anticipated! Soon people would have no choice but to sign up to the only option left to them...the Godfrey Simmons Cult. All was going very nicely. Suddenly, he leapt up.

“What am I thinkin’ of?” he roared. “A smoke! This very minute!”

It was only a matter of minutes for him to dash out to his old pick-up truck, roar off to the nearby village of Millsford and buy three packets of Marlboro Reds. It wasn’t so fast returning home again though. Godfrey was not what might be called a courteous driver. He was Godfrey Simmons – and that meant that everyone else on the road should give way to him. Unfortunately for Godfrey, while hurtling along one of the narrow country lanes, he met a farmer driving a big tractor coming the other way who did not share this view. The farmer had a wide trailer loaded with hay and Godfrey could not pass. The farmer refused to join the Godfrey Simmons Cult and give up alcohol and television. He also refused to reverse his hay into a field.

In vain, Godfrey raged and threatened and even hinted darkly about a plague falling suddenly upon the farmer’s cattle. The farmer sat there calmly, ignoring the blasts of Godfrey’s horn and then got out a pasty and proceeded to chew solidly on it.

Time was on the farmer’s side – Godfrey was dying for a cigarette and he had no matches on him. It would have been impossible to smoke in public anyway. The farmer might report it to the old Cult members!

His face burning with humiliation, Godfrey reversed his old pick-up truck into the hedge. He refused to acknowledge the farmer’s laconic wave as he drove his tractor and trailer past. Red with fury, he raced home and skidded to a halt on the dusty concrete of his farmyard.

He flung open his front door and ran into his study. He grabbed a box of matches off the mantlepiece, tore open a packet of cigarettes with fumbling fingers and began to smoke furiously.

For perhaps half an hour he was in bliss. For about fifteen minutes after that, he wasn’t so sure. Ten minutes after that, he was certain. His mouth was dry, his throat parched and his lungs painful. He hated smoking.

“Damn it!” he roared, flinging the remaining offending cigarettes into the open fire. “They ought to be banned! Bad for your health – and bad for your pocket! I shall ban it! I, Godfrey Simmons, of the Godfrey Simmons Cult, hereby ban tobacco! It shall be prohibited!”

He glared around the study. His eye fell on the clock on the far wall. He stared unbelievingly for a moment and then let out a bellow of rage.

“Quarter past two!” he roared. “Lunch is almost an hour late! I’m starving!”

He limped out into the hall. “Fiona!” he shouted up at the carpetless stairs. “It’s nearly three o’clock!”

There was no reply. Godfrey’s face twisted with fury as he inserted his middle finger into his right ear and twirled it furiously. He sniffed vigorously at a fingerful of old earwax and then stared angrily at it for a moment.

“Where the hell is she?” he demanded furiously. Then he remembered that there was no Fiona. He wiped his finger on his holey jumper and shuffled towards the kitchen.

“Where’s that stupid Irish Woman?” he grumbled. “Damn it! I’m hungry!”

He tripped over a shoe that had been left lying in the kitchen doorway and staggered, cursing, against the counter.

“Who left that shoe there? Who was so unmindful…? Oh, yes… yes… of course…”

He paused and held a heated debate with himself, his bearded face contorted. Perhaps… well… perhaps… no… well, yes. Perhaps being alone wasn’t so good after all. Besides, he didn’t like smoking now.

His face cleared. I need followers, he decided. I need followers to lead along the difficult path. I think I’ll go out and get some. Yes, I’ll get some disciples!

Once he had made up his mind, Godfrey was a man of action. He banged on his barometer (“Steady – don’t believe it!”), ignored the thermometer and then ate a meagre lunch of some cold leftovers from the night before. He returned to his study and set to work.

First, he wrote out some leaflets.

Fed up with your Job?

Ever wonder what It’s All About?

The Godfrey Simmons Cult is the fastest growing Cult in Europe!

Join us and discover your True Potential!

He added his address at the bottom and then nodded approvingly.

“That’ll bring ‘em in!” he told the barometer happily as he rapped sharply on the glass. “Still steady – don’t believe it!”

He drove to the town of Falmouth, where his long black cloak and shaggy grey beard drew many curious glances. His sister lived in Falmouth but he did not call upon her. Right from the start, she had been openly hostile and contemptuous about his Cult. She was a particularly bigoted kind of strict Catholic and regarded him as a devil worshiper.

Godfrey went to a copy shop and got five hundred leaflets printed. Then he drove back to Millsford, which was the closest village to his farm, and started distributing.

“Get the whole village to join!” he muttered as he pushed leaflets through letterboxes. “This’ll wake ‘em up a bit! Take their minds off shagging sheep for a while, this will! Get off me, you horrible little dog! How dare you bite my cosmic cloak!”