Chapter 4: Lucy

It was funny, Lucy mused, how quickly her parents had made themselves at home, and how willing they were to do all of the work even when visiting – they’d planned the meal, done all of the shopping, and worked out timings. Now, as Lucy sat on the speed limit between two churches, she knew they’d be hard at work in the kitchen.

It had been strange, giving communion to her own parents and grandparents at the midnight service. But she'd seen on their faces that it meant as much to them as it did to her. She was a priest, properly a priest.

The last service of the morning was at St Luke’s, a good way to finish off the Christmas run. Facing the congregation from behind the altar, rather than standing with her back to them. No thurible to fumble with, no chasuble weighing down tired limbs. She grinned out and bounced up to the lectern.

“Happy Christmas everyone! The Lord be with you!”

An enthusiastic response from the congregation.

“Thanks Rob and Stephie for starting things off, I could hear that last carol from the car park! Now of course we all know the story, but it’s time to hear it again. This is the story of how God came to earth and became human, like us, to share in our lives and set us free to live to the full. In a minute, I’m going to talk about how that works, and what Christmas really means to us, but first let’s hear the story again… Hear the gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ…”

Her other morning services had all had the same sermon, a normal one, but this was St Luke’s all-age service, and that meant fun. It meant gathering all of the children on the steps in front of the altar. It meant lying across a row of chairs to illustrate the idea of welcome, of being able to make space but choosing not to do so.

Afterwards she texted Tim to tell him everything had gone well and then drove home, struggling to keep her foot steady on the gas, stumbling through the front door into her dad’s outstretched arms.

“Look at my girl! Come in, come and sit down, dinner’s almost ready and your sister and Uncle Ben are here, so that’s everyone. Family Christmas, not at our place!”

“You’ve still done all the work.”

“Well, you've had more important things to do. And you can help wash up afterwards.”

Lucy pulled her clerical collar out of its tunnel. “Which of those parcels is an article of tasteless festive knitwear? I need to get less formal, without the trouble of changing.”

“Now, that’s cheating…”

Lucy rolled her eyes and grabbed a squashy package from the top of the pile. “I’m taking a wild guess. And saying that presents are now, if we can extract Grandma from the kitchen…”

Grandma was extracted from the kitchen for a couple of minutes. Then dinner was served, and it was a game of squashing eight people into Lucy’s not-particularly-large dining room, on chairs retrieved from all over the house. Eventually, stuffed full of two courses of everything, accompanied by no small amount of wine, they slumped in front of the TV, squashed onto sofas or sitting on the floor, for the King’s Speech.

The next thing Lucy knew, she was being shaken gently. “Lucy… Lucy-lu… Lu-lu…”

She blinked. “Wassup?”

“The ceiling. No, Silver Shoes is on, we thought you might be annoyed if we let you miss it.”

“Oh. Thanks.” She hauled herself to sit more upright. Three hours gone, and she was still struggling to keep her eyes open. But it wasn’t Christmas without a classic Christmas movie on the telly.

It wasn’t until later that evening that she checked her phone. A string of unread messages.

Hi Lucy happy Christmas hope u have a great day

U doing Xmas services?

Wish I could

It's Sam btw

How r u?

Samantha. Samantha from college, who had seemed like an okay person back then. Lucy deleted the messages without replying. She had nothing nice to say, and it wasn’t a day for saying not-nice things. Samantha, on her first Christmas as a priest, was not presiding at a single service, and by Lucy's reckoning that was pretty fair.

After Christmas, St Stephen’s Day. Lucy woke up at eleven and said morning prayer in bed, reading from her phone. Jeans and baggy jumpers, that was the boxing day dress code. They slopped around the living room, round mounds of bedding heaped on the floor and the end of the sofa, while grandpa made turkey pie.

Light drizzle didn’t stop the walk – that would take a blizzard – though it did somewhat conceal the views. Lucy felt the buzz of her phone in her pocket and hung back to take it before seeing the name on the contact.

“One of those scammers?”

“No. Someone I don’t want to talk to.”

Grandpa shook his head. “Pickiness, from a priest?”

“She used to be a friend from college.”

“Used to?”

“Yeah. Before she… yeah, I don’t want to talk to her.”

“Not very charitable.”

“Maybe in a few days.”

Grandpa tutted softly. “Well, it’s up to you.”

That afternoon, after the walk, they watched the Christmas sermon from the Bishop of London, now Archbishop of Canterbury Elect, on catchup.

“Hair to match the cathedral,” commented Uncle Ben, to be shushed quickly as Lizzie Graves began to speak.

“Do not be afraid, for I bring you glad tidings of great joy… how often do we long to be told that, do not be afraid? There is so much in this world to be afraid of – ill health, redundancy, discrimination, violence. This time last year, thousands of people were camped in tents and cardboard huts just outside this city. We live in a world that is broken, where the joy of Christmas can feel something of an irrelevance compared to the basic concerns of food, shelter, and healthcare.

“And yet this is why we need the Christmas message: do not be afraid. Suddenly we are faced with an extraordinary hope, that we have not been left alone. This is a message we need now, just as the Jews at the time of Jesus’ birth needed that reassurance. Then, they were an occupied nation, under the oppressive fist of the Roman Empire. A tyrannical ruler, for whom the slaughter of every baby boy in an entire city was not out of character. Today we celebrate the birth of Jesus not into a great palace, or some Garden of Eden, but into our own messy, broken world…”

More texts, momentarily disturbing her focus.

Please reply Lucy

I miss u

I thought we were friends

There were so many replies Lucy could give to that, which she very much shouldn’t give. She focused on the soon-to-be Archbishop as best she could. Lizzie was talking about love and hope, a message Lucy had both heard and given herself more times than she could count, just in the past week. Something about discrimination, about the need for open dialogue, about the hope contained within the celebration of a birth. She checked her emails, something she’d somehow managed not to do since Christmas Eve. Wow, her inbox filled up quickly.

Dear Lucy,

I hope you are enjoying a wonderful and blessed Christmas, and would like to take this opportunity to thank you for all your ministry not only in this season but throughout the year. May the Holy Spirit continue to equip you and strengthen you in your ministry, and may God's blessing be upon you in all you do.

With love and prayers,

+Ruth

One of these days, she might get used to getting personal emails from the Archbishop of York. Drafting a reply, while listening to the end of the sermon, triple-checking before hitting send. Just a generic “thank you, it’s been amazing, hope yours has too, thanks for your support” typed email. Did Ruth expect replies? Was it just an email she sent to all the clergy in the diocese? Well, no harm in replying, better than being rude and ignoring it.

Tim had given her the rest of the week off, a welcome holiday after the long Christmas run. Then in January she’d take over as he took a few days. They’d have their regular catch-up on Monday when she returned, when he’d talk through all the things she’d have to handle in his absence, a challenge she was quite looking forward to.  But first, an escape back home, for more time with family and to see friends – and to return to her sending church for a Sunday.

A morning which began with overthinking, holding up various outfits. Clericals or no clericals? They’d been so encouraging, she’d like it to be immediately clear how far she’d come, they’d like that. But she didn’t want to be too obvious, like she was showing off… she found one of her tops which looked okay with the collar removed. She could slide the plastic tab in after the service, when she was meeting people over coffee. That’d be fun.

The band were good, better than she’d remembered. Hands in the air, cheering with an enthusiasm she’d last heard at Night Out in the Cathedral. While Foxley would be resting from the exertions of Christmas, this place had kept up the energy. How good to be back, to be reminded that however comfortable she was with old-fashioned hymns and liturgy, she was most at home in churches like this.

“Lucy!”

“Hey, Lucy!”

“Welcome back!”

She beamed and bounded over to the coffee table. “Hey guys! You remember me!”

“How’s life treating you? What’s up?”

“Fabulous. Definitely picked up in the past couple of weeks. It’s been a busy Christmas, it’s great to be back – and at a service where I don’t have to robe and stand at an altar!” She took the plastic slip from her pocket and slid it into place, grinning at their amazement. “Yup, it really happened, even if I’m not sure I believe it myself!”

And then the minister was beside her, arms outstretched.

“Hey, Michael.” She accepted the hug.

“Reverend Lucy! Looking good! So good to see you again… and to see you've made a full recovery… We need to catch up.”

“We do. It’s great to be back.”

“Post-Christmas break?”

“A full week, yup. Tim decided five services in two days earned a break…”

“Oh, very much so. Rural ministry, eh?”

“It’s certainly experience.” She laughed. "Half the Eucharist I've done since becoming a priest have been Christmas ones! That's quite cool!"

“It certainly is. Still enjoying it?"

"Absolutely."

"We’ll have to get you back to preach some time. You always used to be good, and I bet you’re better now. Five years and a degree later.”

“I’d love that. You should come see me in Foxley. East facing with incense.”

“They’ve corrupted you!”

She shrugged, pretending nonchalance. “There’s a lot to be said for it.” Back when she’d agreed to it, it had been that or lose her license, but she was used to it now. “Good Christmas?”

“Great, thanks. Big congregations, really enjoyable services – and everything  else. Great conversations.”

“How are the kids?”

“Evelyn’s looking forward to secondary school. Thomas…”

“Wait, Evie’s starting secondary?”

“This summer. You’ve been away longer than you think, haven’t you?”

“I mean… I’ve seen them, but it didn’t really register.”

“Oh, I know, I keep wondering where the years have gone…”

Where had the years gone? Driving back that night, Lucy plugged her phone into the car speakers and sang along. It was weird, actually being a priest. Easy to forget, in Foxley, where she was ‘the curate’ and very much in training. But going out from here… she didn’t feel like a minister, if anything she felt less like one than she had as a deacon at CKC. When she’d been running the place, doing every service, trying to keep it all going. Foxley was more like an apprenticeship, and though she was mostly left alone at St Luke’s, Tim still kept an eye on things.

The music dropped as the phone rang. Samantha Karner, the name popped up on the dash. To answer, or to reject it? It was the memory of grandpa's disapproval which won out: she didn’t want to talk to Sam, didn’t want anything to do with her, but she hit the “answer” button anyway.

“Evening, Samantha.”

“Lucy. I’m so glad… thank you for answering.”

“Just so you know, I’m driving.” She always had to warn people, the sound quality of her car’s hands free system leaving something to be desired.

“I was really worried you didn’t want anything to do with me.”

“I’m not sure I do.”

“I’m getting that from everyone. I just… I just had to follow my conscience.”

“I really don’t care. I’m not sure why I’m talking to you.”

“Because you’re open minded. Please, I just want… someone to talk to. And you’re the nicest person I can think of.”

“Thanks?”

“It’s been a terrible Christmas. Sorry for all the texts, I was kind of… drank a bit much. Nothing to do, couldn’t go home.”

“If you expect me to be sympathetic, I’m not.” She should just hang up. “I should go…”

“Please don’t, I have to see the Archdeacon again tomorrow.”

“Janice? I’d hate to be in trouble with her.”

“It was bad enough last time, I told her it was all exaggerated and I was only doing as my conscience demanded, according to the Bible, I told her I wouldn’t actually excommunicate someone… she still suspended my license…”

“Did you, though? Deny them?”

A long silence. “Yeah. But… they can’t receive in a state of sin, you know what St Paul said. I can’t just…”

“You’re a fucking idiot, Samantha, and a bigot, and I’m really not sympathetic. I’m only talking to you because I was in a good mood, I’m frankly disgusted. And then as if it wasn’t enough, lying to Janice? Have fun tomorrow. You’ve asked for it.”

“Lucy…”

Lucy hung up. She should, maybe, have tried to educate Sam in why she was wrong, but her good post-holiday mood was already ruined. Anyway, the Archdeacon could do a perfectly good job. Sam had dug her own hole, Lucy didn’t need to help her get out of it.

© 2021 E.G. Ferguson

Chapter 3: Tom

Tom parked and then nipped round to bang on the front door. There was an immediate rush of noise from inside, and a short wait, before the door opened.

“Come on then, come on in.”

He did so, leaving his shoes by the door and grinning around at the rest of the welcome party. From surly fourteen-year-old Charley, skulking by the living room door, to nine-year-old Joel bouncing on his toes, down to four-year-old Mika, toy kitten clutched tightly in her hands as she peered round from behind Megan's legs. He greeted them all, before following Megan through to the kitchen.

“What’s my job?”

“You brought the potatoes?”

He deposited two large shopping bags on the counter. “Affirmative.”

“Better get them mashed then.”

They had several large pans, taken when the homeless camp kitchen had been closed down. Tom set to work, food for two adults and five hungry children, only talking once he’d settled into a rhythm.

“Liza home yet?”

“Yup. Revising.”

“And Mars?”

“Football with friends. How’s your day been?”

“Busy. Nothing irregular. Yours? You were going to meet those two..?”

“For Joel, yep. They’re great. Already have a seven-year-old son, they just really want to be able to help. We've got a meeting on Saturday with all of them and Joel, so I’m banking on you…”

“I’ll be here.”

How’d they built this up? It had been a wild idea, after the Camps had closed, when they’d looked at all of the children being cast out and hadn’t been able to leave them. Megan had given up everything to move out of London, up north to a place where rent was affordable. To Nottingham, because Tom had a job there already, with three scared and isolated children, making it up to six when people found out what they were doing. They’d eventually found relatives for eight-year-old Mitch and six-year-old Hope, and others had replaced them, the most recent teen runaway Charley. Megan tried to find families, blood or adoptive, for all of them, with varying levels of success. Hopefully soon there might be rules around this kind of things, networks of foster parents and adoption agencies and social workers, but right now social services was so overstretched they'd signed it all off on a single meeting and a DBS check. Which was less than ideal, because who else might be as able to do what they were doing now, who might be able to take advantage? But they could only help these few.

Tom was there on Saturday, a passing greeting to Megan as he walked in through the door and she and Joel walked out. Mika was already holding onto his trouser leg, tugging at him to come and play. He detached her, though, hanging coat and bag out of her reach and heading for the stairs.

“In a minute, Mika. Where are the others?”

She pointed to the open door of the kitchen, then thought a second and pointed at the stairs too.

“Let’s do the rounds and go see everyone, then we can play, okay?”

An enthusiastic nod. Tom held out a hand to her and put his head into the kitchen.

“Charley, Mars. Good morning to you both. What are today’s joys?”

Mars looked up from his homework, while Charley carried on scowling at hers. “Maths,” she muttered.

“History.”

Tom grinned. “Two of my favourites.”

“All homework sucks.”

“And has to be done. Outing this afternoon, though, and we can have a film tonight for everyone that’s finished.”

“So long as it’s not another stupid garden. And I’m going out this evening. Megan said I could.”

“Then that’s fine, Charley, so long as the homework’s done. As to what we’re doing this afternoon, we’ll talk about it at lunchtime. Now you two get on, and come find me if you want me to try to help. Especially if it’s English – not sure I can remember any maths, that might have to wait for Megan to come home.”

“You'd find this easy, I'm crap at maths. Goes with being stupid.”

“You're not stupid, you've just missed a lot of school. Show me what you're stuck on.”

“Everything.”

He took Charley through dividing a couple of fractions, glanced over Mars' shoulder, then left them to it and climbed the stairs. It was impressive, really, how Megan had managed to institute homework time every Saturday morning. Though a sad side to it too, because both he and Megan had on many occasions had to deal with the tears and frustrations of children who'd missed months of school and had far too much on their minds without academic subjects. They sat down to wrestle with homework, and Tom and Megan did what they could to help them and keep them from getting in trouble even more than they did anyway. At least Charley had a friend now, and seemed so much happier for it.

Two flights of stairs to reach Liza’s door, to tap on it gently.

“Yeah?”

He opened it enough to stick his head around. “Just coming to say hello. How’s it going?”

She rearranged papers of neat handwriting. “Y’know. There’s a lot to learn.”

“I don’t want to bother you too much, just to say hi and remind you not to stress too much. Compulsory outing this afternoon.”

“I know.”

He smiled. “I’m downstairs when you want to take a break.” Closed the door quietly behind him and then turned to grin at Mika. “Time to go and play?”

She grabbed his hand again and tugged at it, grinning back. He laughed and followed.

Mika was a dolls kind of child, and Tom had spent a good many hours over the past months lying on the floor with her, learning to work out what she wanted, when her dolls were to have a quiet tea party and when it was to turn into a brawl. Today, apparently, the brave princess was rescuing Mika's beloved kitten from the dragon, and Tom made dragon noises until she laughed and took the dragon away. The kitten was rescued, and now the dragon was sad, and it turned out that the vicious beast had actually just wanted to be friends with the kitten. Mika thrust more dolls at him and got out the toy tea set, and he helped her set the “table” on the floor, though she took things away from him to rearrange them herself when he did it wrong. It seemed it was time for a tea party, dragon and princess and kitten and all.

Megan and Joel were back around midday, the signal to start making lunch. Tom stood up, clicking several joints, and joined Megan in the kitchen, where she was checking Charley’s sums. Mars had already packed up and disappeared, leaving most of the table free for Tom to lay, before going  to the bottom of the stairs.

“Food!” he called loudly, to instant response. Mars and Joel, charging down the stairs three at a time in a dangerous battle to be first, almost crashing into him at the bottom. A minute before there was a response from further up, Liza descending far more sedately. Tom waited until she was all the way down, before holding out an arm to invite her to go first, back into the kitchen. “We’ll need to get you outside this afternoon. Look at all those cobwebs!” He wafted an imaginary feather duster round her, and she smiled to humour him.

He stayed for dinner, too, helped to chase the boys to bed, waited for the older girls to retreat too before he and Megan could sit together on the sofa.

“Christmas,” he said to her. “We’re going to have to actually deal with it soon. Next couple of days.”

“I’ve been trying to work out what they expect. Very little enthusiasm, though.”

“Maybe we just do it our way.”

“It’ll be Joel’s last couple of weeks with us.”

“Everything’s looking good then?”

“They’re lovely, he got on great with Dan – their other son. Joel’s probably going to be moving in with them around the new year, once Carys has signed it off. If it works out they’ll try to do the paperwork in February. You know it never takes long.”

“If people want to take on the responsibility…”

“Yeah.” She leant against his shoulder. “So, Christmas.”

“I’ve agreed to do a midnight and a Christmas morning.” He couldn't quite hide the excitement in his voice. Accompanying Ruth had been... extraordinary. But it had been a loss he hadn't anticipated, to assist her and not to stand at the altar himself.

Megan squeezed his arm. “Of course. Coming for lunch?”

“If it’s after one.”

“It can be.”

“Then yes. Are we getting a tree?”

“I think we should, though it’s not a priority.”

“Charity shops often have artificial ones, and I have mam’s old decorations. About time I actually got them out.”

“You don’t do a tree?”

“I’ve lived in one-bed flats for seven years.”

“I guess. Never stopped me, but I only had a small one, not enough for a place like this. You don’t want them for your place?”

“I do some evergreens and tinsel and cards on the mantlepiece. And a miniature crib. I’m an archdeacon, got a reputation to uphold…”

She shrugged. “Next year.”

He grinned. “Indeed. So, we need presents…”

“And food.”

“Have you got money for it?”

“Enough. There’s enough affordable stuff out there.”

“Enough people buy it.”

“Stop being gloomy. I’ll get one of those turkey roll things, it’s cheaper than a whole bird and less fuss. Massive quantities of roasted veg.”

He pulled a face. “I love doing roasts.”

“Should have thought of that before you went agreeing to work on Christmas morning.” She stuck her tongue out at him.

No, he couldn't have it all, and that was fair enough. “Presents?”

“Mika’s easy. Joel can get something sporty. It’s the others that are difficult. I was thinking about something to share, but with Joel leaving…”

“How about tickets for something?”

“That would appeal to the whole lot of them?”

“Or for just one of us and Liza. Make her take a break, give her some time away from the kids. Find out what’s on in the city.”

“You’d enjoy that too.”

“I didn’t say me, you should go, you do all the work…”

“No, you’d enjoy it more. And it’d be good for you to spend time with them, they see enough of me. Anyway, we still have our teens to deal with… They’ll want gadgets like their friends at school.”

“And much as I hate for them to be left out, not happening. Not for five.”

“My thoughts exactly.” She picked at her nails. “Charley doesn’t really seem to want anything. Not anything we can give her.”

“Vouchers? Make rubbish presents, but she could go out with her friends to spend them?”

“Or take her out with Liza. She’d like to be seen as grown up.”

“Mars wouldn’t feel left out?”

“They’re a world apart. I want to say get him a bike or a hoverboard or something, budget though.”

“Skateboard? Can wrap up the helmet and knee pads and all separately.”

“Good thought. I’ll do a clothes shop. They all need stuff anyway. It’ll give them things to unwrap.”

“And a book each.”

“That’s your job.”

He shifted his arm around her. “Once Joel’s placed, the others realistically aren’t going anywhere. Have you talked to them yet?”

“A little bit. You know Liza, "It's up to you, I'm just grateful for you giving me a home." Mars and Charley... most of their response was “why don’t you just move in together now” and a bit of wondering why their opinions matter. I reassured them they could stay with us.”

“Sorry we have to do things the old-fashioned way.”

“I entirely agree with you. We’re both old enough to know how to be serious.”

“And how to know our own minds. And to know if this is what we really want, forever, and to commit to that. Do I want to spend the rest of my life with you? Yes, I do.”

She snuggled up to him again. “You hopeless romantic, you.”

How to propose? A question that had been on his mind for a couple of weeks now, with increasing weight. Not that he really needed to propose, they’d already talked about it quite seriously, but it was marriage. He wanted to do it properly.

But first, gift shopping. Taking advantage of late night Christmas opening to go after he’d finished work for the day. Studying theatre websites to choose between different shows – what would he like to see? What would the girls like to see? And the real fun, of picking out those perfect books, the one title he thought each of them would most enjoy. They had school and public libraries, but owned no books of their own, so this felt like an important choice.

It was fun, turning up three days before Christmas with two massive boxes, having all of the children gather around for a great unpacking. They'd found a good artificial tree, second hand but looking almost new, and Mika sat in the corner with thumb in mouth as Joel and Mars took charge of the assembly. Tom summoned the older girls to the other box, and Megan split her attention between watching them and supervising the tree assembly.

Layers of tissue paper, painstakingly packed. Tom swallowed as he removed them, folded them along ancient crease lines. The white yellowed to cream, the edges fragile from over eight years untouched in the box. And then the first glimpse of silver.

He hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t realised how much it would affect him. On the very top, the star, safe in its box, glass painted with highlights of gold and silver. The star which had topped the tree every year he remembered, until with mam’s illness the decorations had been consigned to lie in their box untouched.

Their tree had always been of the multicoloured variety, and it was nice to do that again. He’d bought new lights, not trusting the old ones to be either working or legal, but everything else was wrapped in memories. In the bottom, the crib, long forgotten, crochet figures needing to be squashed back into shape. He scooped them up and crossed the obstacle course of the room to join Mika, huddled in her corner with wide eyes.

“Here’s your job,” he told her, crouching down. “The extra special job. Where shall we put them?”

She blinked several times. He reached out slowly, offering her a wonky donkey. Placed it on the ground in front of her, and eventually she reached out a hand to touch it. He lined the figures up on the carpet.

“See, we have Mary, and Joseph, and here’s the baby Jesus but we don’t add him yet because he hasn’t been born yet. And here are the shepherds, and the angels, and the three wise people. The shepherds have their fluffy sheep, and the wise people have their camels.” He’d forgotten the camels, how fascinated he’d always been by them. How had she made them, out of nothing but wool and stuffing? “And this is the ox, which is already in the stable. Where shall we make the stable?”

She blinked at him again, and then touched the play table next to her.

“Up here?”

She nodded.

“Okay then. Well…” he put the ox on the table and cleared most of the figures away, slipping the baby into his pocket as subtly as possible. “Up here can be the hill, this is where the shepherds are looking after the sheep.” He lined them up on a bookshelf. “And the wise people… they come from really far away, in another country in the East. They’re not going to come until later. So I think they can live over there.” He walked across the room, lined the figures up on the window sill, and returned to explain to Mika. “They’re watching the stars, because they know all about stars, and they’re looking for a sign that something special is happening. They’re not going to get here until much later. Now, over here is Nazareth, this is where Mary and Joseph live – with the donkey. And Mary’s on her own in her bedroom when an angel appears…”

It was like taking Children’s Church again, something he hadn’t done in almost ten years. Except to an audience of one – growing to six, as the rest of the decorating drew to an end. Mika helped Mary and Joseph to make the long walk along the floor to the stable, and then he stopped the role play.

“And now they have to wait, because it isn’t Christmas yet. Mary’s going to have a baby, a very special baby, and everyone is waiting. That’s why on Christmas Eve night, we’re all going to get up in the middle of the night and go to church: so we can welcome that baby.”

Church wasn’t compulsory, of course – except for Mika and Joel, who were too young to be left home alone. Charley’d gone for a couple of months, off and on, and then stopped. Liza’d started attending when she wasn’t too stressed about work, until she’d found a part-time job that needed her in on Sundays. Mars tended to go, just to stick with Joel. And Tom never got to go with them, because he was always elsewhere, doing visitations and licensings throughout his archdeaconry.

But this time they’d talked about it together and agreed that Christmas was a time for going to church, especially at midnight. So he and Megan spent Christmas Eve in the living room, busy with last-minute gift wrapping until quarter to eleven, and then she went to wake Mika while he knocked on the doors of the other children’s rooms, stirring them to get dressed and come downstairs so that they could drive out of the city, to the church Tom had found to preside in. A small, quiet service, so different from those at Ruth's side, proclaiming the incarnation in a way that seemed to reflect the quietness of that moment. And such an added bonus, to see those five young faces watching him with fascination! There were many kinds of families, and this was his: unconventional, and wonderful.

© 2021 E.G. Ferguson

Chapter 2: Ruth

Advent. A time of waiting - or, for the Archbishop of York, running from one Christmas do to another, barely time to record a video for the Church of England website on the importance of taking time to reflect. After all these years, the Nativity hardly came as a surprise, and the nation had been pre-empting it for a month before the Minster choir had even started rehearsing for the Advent Procession. Ruth would need to watch out or she'd find herself dashing off a conclusion to her Christmas sermon in the Minster vestry, something she had never resorted to as yet.

But there were so many other things to do first. While Lizzie's appointment had been announced, she wouldn't take up her post until Epiphany, and until then Ruth kept finding things landing on her desk which should really have been dealt with by Canterbury. She was getting old, the numbers were starting to blur... a hint she should start thinking about retirement? Not full retirement – she had another ten years to be eligible for that – but backing off somewhat, into a parish or maybe a university role. She had savings, too, to tide her through. She could take a sabbatical year if she wanted.

But what would she do? It wasn’t like she had a family to spend time with – her sister’s family, sure, but they hadn’t spoken in thirty years, apart from when their parents were dying. She even managed to keep them out of mind most of the time. And she’d never wanted to start a family of her own, it just hadn't seemed worthwhile. And would have required someone to start it with, anyway.

Saturday afternoon began in too much of a rush, as she was late leaving a diocesan lunch and then got stuck following a tractor for three miles, but she eventually made it to a church already starting to fill. “Afternoon, Lucy. Tim.” She nodded to them across the vestry as she buttoned her cassock.

The soon-to-be priest half smiled back, chewing her lip, nodding to her training incumbent’s words. Slightly more animated than the nervous silence with which she had listened to Ruth's charge last night. Ruth sorted out her cross and then joined them, letting Tim finish his sentence before interrupting.

“Afternoon, Tim.” She tried to reassure him with a look, before turning to her ordinand. “Lucy, perhaps you would like to spend a few minutes walking with me around the churchyard..?”

Lucy followed obediently out of the vestry door, as Ruth led the way around the winding path between gravestones. A rare dry spell meant the grass was only slightly spongy.

“Are you going to say… I mean… are you thinking..?” Lucy stuttered. Ruth cut her off quickly.

“Nothing is wrong. There’s no need to worry.” She held up a hand at Lucy’s intake of breath. “No need to speak, unless you want to. I’m sure everyone – your training incumbent in particular – is bombarding you with well-meaning advice and reassurance, but I think you've been told everything you need to. Instead, I'd just like you to walk with me out here for five minutes, and then we will find the necessary people inside and you will take your oaths and make the declaration of assent, and then we will make final preparations and go to the Lady Chapel and continue to pray until the service begins. In the words of Mother Julian, and as I told you in my charge - all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well. Okay?”

Lucy nodded, and they walked in silence, Ruth glancing at Lucy only occasionally out of the corner of her eye. It was a beautiful place, Yorkshire, when it wasn’t raining. From the other end of the churchyard, the murmur of people arriving, the slam of a car door. A pair of crows bickered, one from the branch of a nearby tree and the other from the church roof. The church bell rang the half hour.

“Right. Anything you want to ask or say? The answer can be no.”

Lucy shook her head, not looking up from the ground ahead.

“Are you ready to take your oaths and make the declaration?”

A nod.

“The others will be waiting inside. Come.”

The church was full, including no small number of children. A solid sound in the hymns, as good as a Minster congregation would normally manage, even with an amateur choir instead of the York choristers and lay clerks; at least three colours of choir cassocks indicated joint choirs. And there were almost as many robed ministers as they'd have had in the Minster too, including most of Lucy's curacy cohort.

Ruth had chosen to preach herself, on bravery and perseverance, written with Lucy in mind, but with a message to the laity too: we are your priests, we are broken too and need your support as much as you need ours. A reminder of God’s presence even when one felt alone, and of good which might be found in all things.

There were tears on Lucy’s cheeks when she stood before Ruth again, but she answered each question clearly. And then she knelt, as Ruth laid hands on her head and felt the words of the liturgy wrap around them. Finally Ruth took and and anointed shaking hands, drawing Lucy to her feet and steering her to face the congregation, for a formal welcome immediately swallowed by cheers and applause.

A little while later, they stepped out into a rare blaze of winter sun. Ruth turned to Lucy immediately.

“Happy?”

The grin answered that, really, spreading across still-wet cheeks. “Thank you. So much.”

“Thank you. For your faithfulness, in not giving up.”

“Thanks for not giving up on me.”

“Why would I do that? You’ve had a tough ride to get here, and it won’t all be easy from now on, but I pray things get better. God doesn’t have it in for you, you’re not cursed never to be a priest, you’re not a failure or wasting everyone’s time...”

Lucy laughed, dashing a tear away with frustration. “Sorry, I don't know why I'm crying.”

Ruth shifted her crozier out of the way and held out an arm. It was an awkward hug, hampered by her chasuble. “Following a vocation is hard,” she told Lucy quietly. “That won’t change, but know that God is with you, and it will come out right in the end. And that it is worth every bit of the pain.” She paused, and then smiled, with a different question. “So, Mother Lucy - priest in the Church of God - could I ask your first blessing?”

Lucy blinked a couple of times. “Um, of course?”

Ruth passed her crozier to Isla, then removed her mitre and knelt on one knee in front of Lucy, eyes closed as she felt her hands on her head and heard the words of blessing spoken in an awed voice. Then she rose back to her feet and smiled, first at Lucy and then at the registrar who stood by holding Lucy’s certificate, and finally with a brief nod to Tim.

A few more photos, before they were interrupted by the descent of Lucy’s family, and Ruth stepped away. A familiar pang, at seeing Lucy surrounded by parents and grandparents and siblings, all congratulating her and overflowing with emotion. Was it jealousy? No, Ruth was happy for Lucy; she deserved every bit of this joy, and it was good to see her parents in this far happier context. She went to speak to them, briefly, both parties avoiding reference to that hospital meeting. How close this ordination had come to not happening.

Pushing the thoughts aside, Ruth took a glass of bubbly and continued circulating. It was good to be able to stay a while, to wander around the church hall greeting joyful congregants. They were from all different churches within the benefice, and a few from Christ the King and Holy Trinity where Lucy had had her first curacy, as well as college friends and fellow curates and a lot of other local clergy. Cake was cut, handed round, and enjoyed, and then Ruth made eye contact with Isla and jerked her head. Her chaplain was over by her side in a moment.

“Best get on. I’m just going to say goodbye to Lucy.”

“Anything left in the vestry?”

“No, it’s all in the car.” Ruth hovered in Lucy’s line of vision until the new priest extracted herself.

“You’re looking to talk to me?”

“Only to tell you I’m off, to wish you the greatest joy and say that I’ll be praying for you tomorrow as you celebrate the Eucharist for the first time. It is a wonderful duty and a privilege, I hope that it will be a joyful experience. Remember that it is a prayer, an act of worship, and that it is Christ himself who you take in your hands. And if you fall over the words, don’t worry, Jesus understands.”

Lucy pulled a face. “I’ll try not to…”

“Obviously, but it's not something to be concerned about. Anyway, I’ll see you around. Remember you can email Isla any time if you want to talk to me. God bless you, Lucy.”

There were no tractors this time, as they made their way back to normal sized roads, the short distance back to York for whatever Christmas event she’d agreed to attend this week. Followed by Night Out at the Cathedral, all techno-carols and funky lighting. It was the kind of thing Lizzie loved, but that just made Ruth feel old, and she couldn't help glancing at her watch as the evening wore on. That said there was something special in those fifteen minutes where teenagers who had been jumping up and down a moment before sat or lay on the stone floor attentive to her every word, and in hearing them discussing some of the things she'd said as they poured out at the end.

Sunday dawned reluctantly, the sun barely outlined through mist. It would be a clear day, eventually, and this was already showing when Ruth left Bishopthorpe’s chapel after morning prayer and joined Sunday staff and the resident Sisters for breakfast. Sister Helena and Sister Adelaide, of the Order of the Holy Paraclete, were the constant of Bishopthorpe, against the coming and going of Palace life. A kind of family, at times, who like Ruth knew the place as more than just an office.

Her conversation with Sister Helena was brought to a close by the interruption of Isla. Work should not be done on the Lord’s Day… unless you worked for the Church. For Ruth, it would be a day filled with driving as much as services, or rather with working in the back of the car as Isla drove. A farewell service every week, so it seemed, this week the Bishop of Lancaster finally stepping away as he had threatened for the past two years. He had just turned seventy-five, so it was fair enough, if inconvenient.

Her phone rang. She grimaced at the archdeacon's name and picked up.

“Afternoon Janice. Something wrong?”

“Afternoon Ruth. Could be. Apparently a curate has refused communion to a same-sex couple. The media fallout may be nasty, fortunately the churchwarden told the incumbent who informed me immediately. I’m investigating, thought you should know.”

Ruth took a deep breath, already mentally running through possible candidates. “Who and where?”

“The curate is Samantha Karner, priest since June. St Nicholas, Millsden - James' curate. From what I understand, the couple in question were married and then received a church blessing yesterday. Curate criticised the incumbent’s willingness to do the blessing, incumbent expressed concern at her intolerance and told her not to attend the service. Curate presiding in that same church this morning is alleged to have recognised the couple and refused to administer to them.”

Ruth tapped her fingers on her knee. “Thanks for letting me know. You believe it’s true, from the reports given?”

“All I have to go on is my conversation with James. You'll probably receive a formal written complaint in the next couple of days, and then we can deal with it properly. Meanwhile James assures me that she has been relieved of all duties today and until further notice, and that he is providing pastoral care to the two men affected. For now just be aware and ready to make a statement.”

“Right. Thank you, Janice.”

Ruth put down the phone and forced herself to take five minutes of prayer. Why now, the busiest time of her year? She’d like to go in like a storm and make it clear to this curate – and to anyone else, by example – just what she thought of such behaviour. Then again, perhaps best not. Better to leave it to Janice, who was extremely capable in these situations, her anger cold as Ruth’s could be hot. And remember, innocent until proven guilty.

But first, a farewell, to a man who had served faithfully in this particular post for over fifteen years. The suffragan bishop of Lancaster, frail at seventy-five, struggling not to spill the wine as he raised the chalice in shaking hands. He’d been talking about retirement for a couple of years, it was disgraceful that they hadn’t let him go. That the Church was so willing to drive people like Stuart to the ground. There was nobody to replace them, that was the issue, but then who’d want the job?

The party afterwards was good, not a mince pie in sight. She recognised several friends from theological college, and others she’d come to know since, and generous quantities of wine. Isla would keep an eye out, Ruth trusted, as she took her second gin and tonic and joined a small circle of old friends.

“And this is my granddaughter…”

Oh, joy. Ruth nodded appropriately at the photos passed around.

“…which makes three. Millie’s delighted, of course, she’s an old hand by this point, and the other two are excited. I think I have a picture of them all together… yes, here! We’re looking forward to Christmas, they’ll all be coming to mine and we get to do a proper family Christmas.”

“I’m having mine over too. They’re that bit older, though, which is harder… what do teenagers like, as far as presents are concerned? My grandson’s just turned thirteen…”

“What’s he into? One of mine's into football, the other's a gamer.”

“At least as grandad they won’t expect you to be up-to-date. I’ve been giving mine board games and books for years.”

“Classic. I used to do so much research, though, I feel like expectations are high.”

“Ah, the greatest mistake.”

“I’ve always taken the well-I-am-a-priest tack – used to give them Godly Play stuff when they were younger, that transitioned easily into books – wholesome classics, they’re just about old enough for CS Lewis now…”

Ruth sipped at her gin and drifted away. It wasn’t a conversation she had any place in – she had godchildren, of course, of all ages, but she didn’t sent presents except for confirmations, only cards with personal letters. Prayed for them regularly, talked by email or phone occasionally, saw them rarely – and yes, she knew that wasn’t great, but she was busy.

She almost joined another group but caught the hint of another similar conversation and swerved past. Drained the glass, set it on the side, and slipped in to murmur in Isla's ear.

“Should get going. Feel free to stay, I'll see you in the morning.”

Isla glanced around briefly, then shook her head. “I'm ready to go when you are.”

A farewell and a thank you, to Stuart. A round of quick goodbyes with those in her path to the door, everyone taking for granted that she was simply busy. And then out, into a mist of light drizzle, pulling her coat tighter around her as she led the way across the car park.

“Good evening?”

“Nice enough. It’s been a long day, though.”

“It has.”

Tom would have known something was wrong. He'd have pushed her, would have read her emotions quicker than she could read them herself. Would have coaxed her to confess what was on her mind and then reassured her about it. She shouldn’t compare her chaplains – Isla was excellent – but she did it anyway. She couldn’t help missing him.

It was early, to be settling into a hotel room. They could easily have made the drive back to York tonight, but she’d wanted the freedom to stay at the party late if she felt like it. She scrolled through emails and every type of social media, read the news, and then found a number on her phone, considered sending an email or text. It was only just after nine, though, a sociable enough hour, so she caught the dial button before she could change her mind.

“Evening, Ruth. To what do I owe the honour?”

She smiled slightly. “Hi Tom. Just thought, I haven’t spoken to you in a while, wanted to see how you’re getting on.”

“It's so good to hear from you. Nottingham’s keeping me busy but treating me well; this archdeaconing lark isn’t too bad, you know. And the fostering is going well, with Megan, she’s a real genius for getting things done – and won’t take no for an answer, especially not where the children are concerned. And yeah, visitation today, such is my new life. How about you? Busy as ever?”

“Ordination yesterday - Lucy Green, you'll remember her from Rachel's consecration. Priesting delayed twice but it's done now, it was lovely. Early service at Bishopthorpe today. Confirmations. Currently in Lancaster after Stuart’s farewell do. You know.”

“Sounds like things haven’t changed much. Party ended early, then?”

“Decided to duck out gracefully. It’s been a long day.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, disciplinary issue. It’s starting to appear in the papers already, the tabloids. Only going to get bigger.”

Tom groaned sympathetically. “Sounds like fun. My sympathies to Janice – assuming it’s a York thing. Disciplinaries are the worst bit of this job.”

“Tell me about it. National news, too…”

“…so I’m guessing more than a slap on the wrist, don’t do it again, typed deal.”

“More of a license-in-the-shredder deal.”

“One of those ones where you shatter them in pieces and then send the remains out for your chaplain to deal with?”

There was a long silence, in which she picked at the hem of her skirt.

“Are you okay?”

“Not really.”

“The disciplinary bothering you?”

“Janice will deal with the investigation and the CDM, it won’t be my problem… realistically, until after Christmas, I just don’t have time.”

“Go on. What's wrong, what got you out of the party so early?”

“Just wasn’t enjoying it. The reminder that we’re all getting old, everyone comparing grandchildren. What happened to the years?”

“You spent them serving God in the Church?”

She sighed. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too. Do you want to come and visit?”

“I'd love that.”

“Then do.”

“Can we have one of your pastoral care chats where you help me talk through everything that's on my mind and tell me to be less of an idiot? The non-confidential stuff, obviously.”

“I guess so, if that's what you really want. Obviously you have a new chaplain, I don’t want to tread on her toes.”

“You and Isla are very different people, I don’t think it’s a risk. Anyway, I need it.”

“Fair enough. I guess I'll do what I can, and if nothing else it'll be good to see you. Obviously your diary is worse than mine, email me with dates and times you can manage.”

“Will do. Thanks.”

There was a pause. “Look after yourself. Sabbath rest, remember. I’ll see you soon, shout if you need anything urgently.”

“Thanks. See you.”

“Bye.”

She put her phone on the charger and flopped back on the bed. She’d done it: admitted something was wrong, sought help. Okay, not exactly admitted something was wrong, but Tom would know. He could help her work it out.

© 2021 E.G. Ferguson