A Foreign Affair Read Online Free

lot; social occasions go with more of an emotional swing when I’ve had a few.
    Mrs Rev was keen to set me straight: ‘Neither of us has ever had a drink problem, thank you very much, dear.’ Her flair for turning a ‘dear’ to a sneer was remarkable. She continued ‘- we don’t touch the stuff because we’d hate to offend our Moslem neighbours, wouldn’t we Keith?’
    The Rev, who was busy scooping the last trace of ice-cream from the sides of his bowl, went red and nodded. I guessed that he’d enjoyed the odd tipple until hen-pecked out of the habit; otherwise, why had the gin been so well hidden away?
    At that point my risk-taking daredevil took over: ‘But don’t you think one can bend so far over backwards not to offend anyone that one ends up flat on one’s back, asking to be walked on,’ I queried, ‘ I may be wrong but it seems a bit strange to be sitting here in a church a mere hop, skip and jump down the coast from their holy places, angst-ing about whether you can risk offending Moslems by having the odd sip of alcohol!’ A long, cold silence greeted this sally, but I had the bit between my teeth and plenty more to say, ‘More to the point,’ I continued, ‘didn’t our saviour himself perform a quick miracle to sort out an alcohol supply problem at a wedding? Chin, chin!’ I left them no choice but to clink their plastic water cups with my glass, ‘Lovely to meet you both and thanks for supper. I’m only rather sorry,’ I couldn’t resist adding, because I’d suddenly noticed a pale, wet stain to the left of my right nipple, ‘that you’ve managed to splash ice-cream on one of my favourite garments – “for behold how clumsy is the handmaiden of the Lord”, I joked, wagging my finger at my hostess in mock admonition.
    The Rev’s pale face turned a shade alarmingly near to burgundy as he leaped to his feet and began swabbing at my breast with his napkin. ‘You’re making it worse, Keith!’ barked Mrs Rev, in the tone of voice dog-owners use to say ‘Down boy!’ Then she turned her back on us both, to set about the washing up. No sooner was she done then it was ‘Well, time to turn in – 6 o’clock start tomorrow, communion service at 7. I imagine you’ll be joining us, dear?’
    ‘Thank you but no. I’m Anglican by birth but a practising Russian Orthodox Christian by choice,’ I declared.
    I think I’d already gathered that Mrs Rev was a muscular evangelical sort of Christian, in other words about as far a cry from my beloved Russian Orthodox as she could be, which meant that our fledgling enmity was, almost from the outset, as much sectarian as personal. Suddenly, I was helpless with laughter, visited by a vision of ‘muscular Christian’ Mrs Rev hauling me out of bed the next morning and heaving me fireman-fashion downstairs to church. She had the shoulders for the job – the thick neck, broad back and mighty chest.
    Narrowing her eyes at me, stony-faced, she made a little sign to her husband, as if she was flicking some imaginary insect off her forearm, before leaving the room.
    ‘I’m afraid none of the guest apartments is going to be free tomorrow...’ the Rev began. Hint taken. Round one – the first of many, it turned out - to Mrs Rev.
    But what a bore to have to pack my suitcase again so soon. Never mind. A new day had dawned and my native optimism with it; I was sure that something a good deal more pleasant than rationed gin and yellow poly-cotton sheets awaited me in this land I hadn’t even begun to explore.
    Yes. While showering I happened to notice that the bathroom supplies were of a decent quality so, once I’d dressed and almost repacked my wheelie treasure chest, I was careful to cram in a pair of soft loo rolls. Next, just as I was checking I hadn’t forgotten anything, it struck me that the room’s black-out curtains would make an excellent, bargain of a do-it-myself balto so, tugging two of them down, I packed them away too. Finally, Mrs