ablaze the ancient rag rug in front of it. It was assumed that the chaplain must have been deep in prayer for him not to have noticed the foul-smelling smoke that reeked of thousands of pairs of unwashed feet. However, the truth was that he had been in his workshoptrying to fashion a miniature replica of the Spanish Armada on wheels, fitted with fully functioning cannons.
He took off his cassock and dog collar, which he deemed inappropriate attire on such occasions, and hung them on the hook on the back of the door. His heart afloat with relish for the task ahead of him, he sat on the dining chair at the simple desk and took out his writing pad from the drawer. As he unscrewed the lid of the fountain pen that had remained at his side like a trusty sword ever since school, he read the last sentence he had written, and continued with his description of the rosebud nipple.
While the clergyman’s imagination was one of his many assets, he had never envisaged becoming one of Britain’s most successful writers of erotic fiction. When he started to pursue creative writing, inspired by the effect George Proudfoot’s storytelling had had on his mother, he had assumed that if his work were to encounter success, it would be in the mainstream market. When he finished his first novel, he sent it off to the country’s leading publishers with a silent prayer of hope. It was only after waiting eleven months for a reply which never came that he assumed that there was no interest. By then he had already penned another work. Convinced that his address at the Tower was preventing him from being taken seriously, he rented a post office box and sent out his new manuscript, his heart aflutter with the thrill of expectation. The unequivocal rejection slips that eventually arrived only served to encourage him, and when each new novel was finished it was swiftly sent off with the same benediction, uttered with closed eyes.
Just as he was about to put copies of his eighteenth workinto the post, he received a number of envelopes that his fingers detected did not contain the standard printed card of rejection. Such was his excitement, he was unable to open them for a week, and the envelopes remained on the mantelpiece, glowing more brightly than the halo of the Virgin Mary above. But when he finally worked his ivory letter-opener into their spines, instead of the offers he was expecting, he discovered letters requesting him to refrain from ever submitting a manuscript again.
For a week Rev. Septimus Drew laid down his pen. But he soon found his holy fingers reaching once more for its slender barrel, and, having exhausted every other genre, he submerged himself in the musky vapours of erotica. His chastity was his advantage as there were no experiences to limit his imagination: everything was possible. Assuming the pseudonym Vivienne Ventress in an attempt to slip under the barbed wire erected in front of him, he sent his first effort,
The Grocer’s Forbidden Fruit
, to the prohibited addresses, minus a benediction. By the time he checked his post office box, several of the publishers had sent their third letter imploring Miss Ventress to sign a six-book deal. All of them had seen a uniqueness in her work: the glinting chinks left open for the reader’s imagination; the strong moralistic tone that gave her work a distinctive voice never previously heard in the genre; and her absolute belief in the existence of true love, a theme none of her contemporaries had explored. Rev. Septimus Drew assumed a position of infinite coyness, drizzling his replies with the lustiest of fragrances as he wrote to each one turning them down. The tactic worked, as the offers were immediately raised. The chaplain accepted the highest, insisting on aclause in the contract allowing good to triumph over evil in every plot. He kept the huge advance cheque hidden underneath the brass crucifix on his study mantelpiece. And when the royalties started arriving, there were
He took off his cassock and dog collar, which he deemed inappropriate attire on such occasions, and hung them on the hook on the back of the door. His heart afloat with relish for the task ahead of him, he sat on the dining chair at the simple desk and took out his writing pad from the drawer. As he unscrewed the lid of the fountain pen that had remained at his side like a trusty sword ever since school, he read the last sentence he had written, and continued with his description of the rosebud nipple.
While the clergyman’s imagination was one of his many assets, he had never envisaged becoming one of Britain’s most successful writers of erotic fiction. When he started to pursue creative writing, inspired by the effect George Proudfoot’s storytelling had had on his mother, he had assumed that if his work were to encounter success, it would be in the mainstream market. When he finished his first novel, he sent it off to the country’s leading publishers with a silent prayer of hope. It was only after waiting eleven months for a reply which never came that he assumed that there was no interest. By then he had already penned another work. Convinced that his address at the Tower was preventing him from being taken seriously, he rented a post office box and sent out his new manuscript, his heart aflutter with the thrill of expectation. The unequivocal rejection slips that eventually arrived only served to encourage him, and when each new novel was finished it was swiftly sent off with the same benediction, uttered with closed eyes.
Just as he was about to put copies of his eighteenth workinto the post, he received a number of envelopes that his fingers detected did not contain the standard printed card of rejection. Such was his excitement, he was unable to open them for a week, and the envelopes remained on the mantelpiece, glowing more brightly than the halo of the Virgin Mary above. But when he finally worked his ivory letter-opener into their spines, instead of the offers he was expecting, he discovered letters requesting him to refrain from ever submitting a manuscript again.
For a week Rev. Septimus Drew laid down his pen. But he soon found his holy fingers reaching once more for its slender barrel, and, having exhausted every other genre, he submerged himself in the musky vapours of erotica. His chastity was his advantage as there were no experiences to limit his imagination: everything was possible. Assuming the pseudonym Vivienne Ventress in an attempt to slip under the barbed wire erected in front of him, he sent his first effort,
The Grocer’s Forbidden Fruit
, to the prohibited addresses, minus a benediction. By the time he checked his post office box, several of the publishers had sent their third letter imploring Miss Ventress to sign a six-book deal. All of them had seen a uniqueness in her work: the glinting chinks left open for the reader’s imagination; the strong moralistic tone that gave her work a distinctive voice never previously heard in the genre; and her absolute belief in the existence of true love, a theme none of her contemporaries had explored. Rev. Septimus Drew assumed a position of infinite coyness, drizzling his replies with the lustiest of fragrances as he wrote to each one turning them down. The tactic worked, as the offers were immediately raised. The chaplain accepted the highest, insisting on aclause in the contract allowing good to triumph over evil in every plot. He kept the huge advance cheque hidden underneath the brass crucifix on his study mantelpiece. And when the royalties started arriving, there were
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