"So." It seemed that Michael the Vicar had a nervous habit of adding extra length to the word. "Mrs. Bucket."

Hyacinth, in a black dress complete with a sheer veil did not even flinch at the god-awful mis-mispronunciation. Indeed it was quite a scene, the vicar in black, and the flower in black. The clergyman was sat on a chair. It's softness would have, at any other time, been appreciated, but now it was being loathed as the Vicar tried his beast not to relax into the chair. Elizabeth was there too, sitting on the settee with Hyacinth. Elizabeth had chosen to wear something in a delicate pink the clashed unpleasantly with the morose mood. Liz's hand was resting on Hyacinth's hand. All three individuals were as pale as ghosts as they sat in the living area. Contrary to the long established tradition, the drapes were closed completely letting, but a sparse amount of light through.

"Mrs. Boo-kay I would like to preface this by saying-"

"You needn't say anything. My husband and son are dead. That's all."

"NO," he boomed, his usually mild temper exploding, "they are not dead."

"YES," she shouted, still as imperious as ever, "My husband and son are dead."

"How can you say such a vile, wicked thing?"

"And how can you… How can you force a woman," she pivoted her speech, "a bereft woman, a widow, and a woman whose only son has died to take a stroll about in her pain? This is not a riparian festival or a county fair that one may trifle with and revisit in robust reverie, this is grief true and palpable. It is not something I can just wash away in water, holy or otherwise. I may just spend the smoldering, disintegrating remains my life frail like this."

"Hyacinth," a now tense Elizabeth started, "I had no clue that you felt so strongly."

"I must. I must rise for the moral rectitude of the West Midlands, of the United Kingdom. Europe has allowed all manner of odious and unsavory vices to metastasize in her. I say that as for me I shall neither condone nor harbor those who tear away our values. As for this, if my husband, may God Almighty have mercy on his soul, should continue to love he who has taken all of my love and thrown it away, then I shall be husbandless and childless."

"Why do you say that your son has thrown away your love?" The Vicar had relaxed, or rather, had been sucked back into the chair, for it was plush.

"My social standing has been destroyed."

"How?" That came from Liz.

"What do you mean how?" Hyacinth was cunning. She asked as if she were prepared to answer the follow up. "My social standing has been obliterated. My son comes to me and tells me that he is some sort of homosexual. We are British, there is no homosexuality here, except on Channel Four, and most of that programming is imported."

Elizabeth and Michael both rolled their eyes at that silly comment. Elizabeth did not, however, relinquish the hold on Hyacinth's hand.

"I mean really," Hyacinth continued, "You never hear of homosexual aristocracy."

"No, Hyacinth never," the vicar said trying not to let any derision slip through into his voice. He failed.

"You mock me, Vicar."

"I bloody do not," he declared vehemently. He had the urge to put his hand over his mouth; he ignored it. Elizabeth put her free hand over her mouth while the other hand grew cold. Hyacinth had not flinched.

"You do mock me. You must be one of those continental thinkers. You chuckle heartily at blasphemers. You disregard those who commit sodomy. You, Vicar, and people like you are the reason why all of these things that used to be done in obscurity, in the night, in the dark places, are now done in the street in the light of the morning. Just the other day, I saw two men holding hands walking down the street, and only two or perhaps three yards behind I saw a mother and young son on the pavement. The little boy said, 'Why are they holding hands, mommy?' The poor child was confused. She said to him, 'Those two men love each other like mommy and daddy love each other.' What kind of thing is that to tell a child?"

"Hyacinth, I'm sure, I know, that the child will not become gay because of that." The vicar was still hot around the collar. In fact he loosened it.

"How can I be sure of that?"

"Because I am sure of it." Michael's voice was flat.

"Then, what did I do wrong when I raised him?" Hyacinth's voice was distant as turned her gaze from the cleric and to one of the pictures of her son on the wall. "I thought I did everything right. I prayed each night for a healthy, happy, normal son."

"He is happy and healthy and normal," Elizabeth almost whispered. At that moment she was remembering a heat wave in the early eighties, maybe '82 or '83. She remembered how, to get cool relief instantly, he got the garden hose, turned it on and put it down his shirt. Soon, he and Gail were having a full fledged water fight. That was normal enough.

"He is not normal, Elizabeth. Fifty short years ago he could have been imprisoned for what he now, so openly, flaunts in the streets."

"Was that right to lock them up Hyacinth?" The vicar needed to establish Hyacinth's views on the social issue, not the personal issue.

"No," Hyacinth said. There was a glimmer of hope in the tired eyes of the Vicar and Elizabeth. "There ought to be some corrective treatment for them." The tentative smile, which coincided with the hopeful eyes that had graced Liz's face, disappeared just as quickly as it came.

"Well, Hyacinth, we'll be doing some treatment," The vicar said with only he and Elizabeth knowing that it, the aforementioned treatment, would be on Hyacinth.


"Okay, dad, you finally get to meet him," Sheridan said. This was the first time Richard had seen his son smiling since the saga started. Right now they were standing right outside of the restaurant that Tarquin had invited them both too.

"You seem anxious to see him," Richard remarked. With the expression on Sheridan's face, Richard was surprised that his son wasn't doing back flips on the pavement.

"Oh, I am."

"Why?"

"I just want to give him a big hug is all."

"Alright let's go in then." Richard was hungry.

They walked into the American Southwestern barbeque style restaurant, with Richard following his son. He, of course, had no clue what his son's boyfriend looked like. Richard simply walked behind his son to a table in the back of the restaurant. Once Richard put together where he was sitting, he looked at the young man who was already seated. In the distance he could tell that the man was a redhead, which was no a surprise. The man also looked to be of a muscular build, but it wasn't clear if that was the truth or just an effect of the cut of the suit. As he approached he saw that Tarquin was indeed muscled and was about the same height as Sheridan, maybe an inch or two shorter. Tarquin stood up from the table when he noticed his boyfriend. Sheridan, as promised ran to his love and hugged him. The two exchanged a few words before Richard arrived on the scene.

"It's nice to meet you Mr. Bucket," Tarquin said in his deep voice, shaking Richard's hand firmly

"So you are the famous Tarquin." To that, Sheridan blushed in mortification. "I've heard about your embroidery and needlework," Richard said trying hard to change the topic of the conversation.

"Yes, it's very restful."

Richard detected something strange. IT did not put him ill at ease, but it made him think. Something was different. "You're American, aren't you?"

"Yes sir, born and raised in Dover, Delaware in Kent County. Sorry for stealing your British names." Tarquin hoped that Mr. Bucket would laugh. Mr. Bucket did laugh, heartily in fact.


Thank you Womenreligiousfan for your reveiws. I'm glad that you've been reading this story so closely. I always thought that Hyacinth had an ugly prejudiced side to her, so that's how I wrote this so easily. In your second comment I'm glad that I could convey her disgusting attitude accurately. I'm glad that that you can at least sympathize with her. Again thank you for taking the time to read and review.

Also thanks to Karen19 and guns-and-lipstick for following!