The People on Privilege Hill by Jane Gardam Read Free Book Online

we’re alone. Listen. I wonder if you realise the filth the police have to face? The videos? The Internet muck? You don’t hear of what it does to the police. You don’t hear of the nervous breakdowns. Do you think the police enjoy it? The foul age we live in?”
    â€œAll ages are foul. All ages are also glorious. And Mr. Jones has no videos and no Internet. No child has been across his doorstep.” And he drove away.
    â€œPriests have to watch it,” said the inspector, “as we know full well.”
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    Half an hour later Mr. Jones opened the door to the vicar, shaky, but immensely pleased to see him. They sat in the schoolroom, the priest with his back to the shelves of children’s books. “Mr. Jones,” said the priest, “I’ll stop this if it’s the last thing I do. I can’t have policemen calling here and going for you.”
    â€œHe was a decent man,” said Mr. Jones. “I didn’t know what he was saying.”
    â€œBefore I take this to hell and back,” said the vicar, “tell me this. We don’t go in for the Sacrament of Confession at our church, do we? We are Low. You know that?”
    â€œOh yes. My mother was always Low.”
    â€œI want you, even so, to treat this talk we’re having as secret as the Confessional. Answer me, Jones, as you will have to answer on the Dreadful Day of Judgement. Tell me the absolute truth. Have you something to tell me that frightens you? Of which you are ashamed? That troubles you deep down in yourself? That you do not understand?”
    Mr. Jones stared his blue stare for a long time. He seemed to be trying to read the titles of the books behind the vicar’s head. “Yes,” he said at last. “I have.”
    There was silence.
    â€œI am troubled. I have always been troubled somewhere. I think it is a sort of shame. Yet I don’t know why. I could never talk about it. My father died when I was eight. I could never have asked Mother.”
    â€œGo on.”
    â€œWell. I can’t understand what is meant by ‘sexual urges.’”
    â€œSexual urges of any kind?”
    â€œYes. You see, they don’t happen to me. And I’m afraid that what I understand of them disgusts me. It was the only thing about the dogs I did not care for. On the Common. Yeoman. Oh, I could not even think about it!”
    â€œAnd your childhood?”
    â€œOh yes. I understand childhood. I’ve always wanted childhood again. I’m so sorry.”
    The priest stood up, put his hand on Mr. Jones’s shoulder and said, “God bless you. We’ll blast them all to hell.”

    It was Christmas time and at eight o’clock one morning there was a ring at Mr. Jones’s doorbell, and eight policemen were on the steps and police cars prominent in the road. A handcuff was fastened on to Mr. Jones’s wrist and its other link round one of the policemen’s. Two policemen went upstairs and two more disappeared into the schoolroom. “We have to ask you to come to the station, sir.”
    Mr. Jones had just finished breakfast and had not yet put on his shoes. He turned pale as his moustache. “I am still in my slippers.”
    â€œSlippers will do, sir. Do you want to sit down for a moment?”
    â€œI have to ... I have to go to the WC.”
    â€œYou can go at the station, sir.”
    â€œIt is urgent. I have just had breakfast and I am well brought up. I am like clockwork. There will be an accident.”
    They removed the handcuff and the lavatory door key and let him go in. “Don’t pull the chain, sir.”
    Then they took him away to charge him, offering to contact his solicitor. Mr. Jones could not remember the solicitor’s name. It would not come. “I must see my parish priest. He will want to be here.”
    â€œWe’ll let you see him later. First you must hear the charges made against you. Shall we read them out to