Chapter 7: Distractions

It was quiet now that Wendy had gone. She’d be back in York now, or somewhere around it, working on one of her million voluntary projects. Delivering supplies to the nearest camp, working out how to run food banks without premises, advising and encouraging others throughout the country on how to stand up and serve.

Ruth walked down to the lake, pausing to admire the tracks of a squirrel on the clean snow. A light dusting fell from the trees as the wind whispered through. A robin chirped, from a perch between the spikes on a barbed wire fence.

The water was dark and uninviting. She thrust her hands into her pockets and stared across it, at the hills rising up on the other side, like miniature Alps under all the snow. She turned and trudged back up the hill. Tom would be back tonight, leaving again tomorrow afternoon. He had a weekday service at one of the local churches while he was here. So busy, making her feel all the more lost now that she wasn’t.

She read ten pages of the psalms, set up the food ready to cook, laid the table, then rearranged everything three times until it was television-worthy. She looked through the games cupboard, and pushed aside a one thousand piece puzzle, then changed her mind and took it out. Assembling a blue sky was as productive as anything else she could be doing.

She started to look at her watch. Six o’clock. Six thirty. Seven. Seven thirty. Quarter to eight. She’d sorted the puzzle pieces into “sky”, “roof”, “wall”, “grass”, “road” and “exciting stuff”. She’d finished the edges, and done all the people and most of the houses, and she’d made a start on the sky. He should be here by now, and she wondered if she should call him. Probably he’d just been kept late at Bishopthorpe, or the roads were bad. Was it snowing again? She got up to look. No, but it might be between here and York.

He knocked on the door at twenty past eight, mumbled a greeting, and dropped a crutch as he attempted to take his coat off. She helped, before going to the kitchen to get things going.

“You’ve turned into a chef.”

“No, you've just not seen me outside work before.”

He slumped down on a stool, gulping down the glass of water she set in front of him.

“Long journey?”

“I took a detour. Unplanned, just decided while I was driving… went down to Manchester.”

Her old See, before York. “That’s quite a detour, on an impulse.”

“It’s where I grew up.” He was silent for a while. “It’s part of why I first came to work for you. Mam was still living there, I came back to look after her.”

“Oh. Yes. I remember. How are you feeling?”

“I went to the crem., where she’s buried. She and…” His voice caught, and she nodded, remembering. There was a brother, he’d died young. Tom had mentioned it once. There was nothing she could say.

He turned his back on her, leaning on the counter. “He thought he’d destroyed my life. He’d wrecked his own, certainly, but I think he could have dealt with that, enough people do. But he wouldn’t see us, me and mam. He saw me when I was still in the wheelchair, that was the last time, and then he disappeared. Was couch surfing, a few of the people he stayed with let us know he was okay. He got back in touch for a while, sent a couple of emails and the one phone call, but he never came back. There were a couple of his old friends, one of them told us he was in jail, but he never wrote back, wouldn’t take visitors. I went to uni, then ministry placement, went to BAP, training, got ordained… we never knew where he was. Well, we did while he was in jail. But in the end we didn’t even know if he was in jail or not. No idea, until the police came knocking on mam’s door at two in the morning. They got her address from the letters, he had them all folded in his pocket. Old letters, they had to chase to find her new address – she wanted to keep the old flat, in case he came back, but it was a council house and they moved her out when they knocked them down. These days she’d be in one of the camps.”

She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. A long silence, fiddling with saucepans. “You don’t have to say but… what happened? In the end?”

“Drugs. Probably suicide, but they don’t really know, did he do it deliberately or just not care? Or both? Three days before anyone discovered him, he was living in a squat and kept to himself, a couple of other squatters knew him vaguely and one of them said he never talked.”

“I’m so sorry, Tom.”

He shrugged vigorously. “Don’t be sorry for me. I’ve got enough, a good job and a life and I’m about to get my movement back. He should’ve known – mam wrote and told him about my going to uni, graduating, the ministry experience thing – all of that before he disappeared completely. She told him how I’d got my movement back, how I could get around about as well as anyone else, and it wasn’t holding me back. He could have come back and seen, but he never did. It was his life that got wrecked, because I ended up in hospital.”

She started loading food onto plates, a stalling tactic while she looked for an answer. “So this is what you think of when you think about the operation.”

He looked at the table for a while. “The last one killed Mick, that’s how it is in my head. It’s not true, but it’s still there in my head. Without it, everything would have been fine. Then at the same time, I’m erasing the last thing that ties me to back then. Not that back then is good, but he was alive.”

“Have you talked about this with anyone?”

“Janice, a bit. But I called her today and she was busy. She told me before to see a counsellor but I, uh, didn’t.”

She shook her head, carrying the plates through to her perfectly laid table. “I’m sorry. No doubt everyone but me is snowed under right now.”

“I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Nonsense, stop protecting me. I got your logic before, but now I have time and attention for all your problems. You said we were friends, when all this kicked off, and maybe that's why I care. Now, come and eat.” She sat down and waited for him, knowing it’d make him feel awkward for her to watch him struggling.

He sat down. “You’re pulling out all the stops. I hope you’re not feeling you have to turn housewife on me, because I…”

“That, Tom, is quite an assumption, and borders on rude. As it happens, this is what I enjoy doing when I have time, which I certainly do right now. I’m used to working for twelve hours on a good day, pretty much solid.”

“Sounds like a rest is what you need.” He prodded at his food with a fork, until she narrowed her eyes at him and he took a bite.

“I’ve done an embarrassingly large part of a one thousand piece jigsaw, just this afternoon,” she told him, once he was eating. “I’ve been out and admired the wonders of nature and the fact that yes, there is still snow everywhere. I’ve read ten pages of the psalms and meditated on them and decided that lying down in green pastures sounds like an incredibly boring thing to do, and that’s for someone without hay fever. Not to mention the ants. What do I do, write a novel? Erotica, maybe, to liven things up?”

He snorted. “From archbishop to erotic author? I wish the Church of England press team luck with that one.” He focused on his food, then looked up abruptly. “Come to church tomorrow. It’s a nice one – permanent smell of incense is always a good start, right? The congregation will be small.”

She focused hard on finishing her mouthful. Going out, particularly to a church, a normal church. Maybe they wouldn’t recognise her, but what if they did? “You trying to keep me on the straight and narrow?”

“What? Oh. No, funnily enough I wasn’t particularly thinking of the erotica. I’m just considering things you could do, if you want to get out.”

“I’ll… think about it, okay?”

He nodded, smiling, and then thought of something. “I have a box in the car for you, fan mail. There are mountains at Bishopthorpe, but we picked out the nicest. Also, I had a letter from an elderly lady who I met at the hospital the day of your TV appearance. I think I mentioned her, she said you were bringing her back into the Church?”

“Before I got myself kicked out of it…”

“Well.” He found the letter in his pocket and passed it across.

She read it, first smiling and then staring, a frown gradually creeping between her eyes. “I’m… I don’t know. Flattered? But Richard didn't ask for this, he's doing his job, I'd have done the same.”

A look flickered across his face. “I think you'd have handled it slightly better.”

“I was arrested. The precedent's been set; of course it has to apply to me too.”

“That's not what I mean, actually.” There was a long pause. “You realise we found out from his press release, those of us in York? That he published that before he told us? And we had to work out what to do, who to involve. I was in that meeting, with the Suffragans and Archdeacons and Kath and Stephen and a couple of others, and... it's not just people like Sandy who feel that way.”

“I didn't think about that.”

“Of course you didn't, I wasn't sure whether to tell you or not, but I guess you should know. Janice was especially... eloquent.”

“I can imagine.”

“Threatened to lodge a CDM against him for it, actually.”

Ruth rolled her eyes. “That wouldn't really help right now.”

“I know, that's why she didn't do it. And we pointed out it should really be your choice. You could if you wanted, you'd have plenty of grounds.”

“And who would I lodge it with, myself?”

He shrugged. “Just telling you how things are.”

“Yeah, thanks for telling me.” She stood up before he could say anything else.

Tom positioned himself in front of the dishwasher before she could get to it, loading it as she cleared the table. She eventually pushed herself to say it out loud. “Was it wrong, really? Rash and stupid, I know, but it wasn't wrong, was it? Besides being illegal.”

He started the dishwasher before answering. “Personally, I don't think so, but it's not up to me.”

“Thanks.”

“How are you feeling, really?”

She shrugged, but that wasn't enough for him, and she had to verbalise it. “I dunno.”

“Can I help you, in any way at all?”

Ugh, the sympathy. “You are helping me.” She filled the kettle. “In loads of ways.”

“I'm glad you feel that.”

“Tea?”

“Thanks.”

“You know, at least I know what being on this side is like now. I do it to enough other people.”

Tom glanced at her. “Yes, I suppose you could look at it that way.”

She finished making the tea, then carried both mugs through to the living room and sat down in front of her jigsaw again, making herself do a bit more before stopping and fiddling with one of the pieces. She glanced behind her at Tom, who was prodding at his phone. “I bloody hate jigsaws.”

“Why are you doing it then?”

“I dunno, beats doing nothing?”

“I suppose. Rather watch a film?”

“No.”

“Read a book?”

“No.”

“Write your erotic novel?”

She glanced back at him, sprawled on the sofa. "You're being really annoying right now.”

“I guess. Sorry.”

She came and joined him on the sofa, grabbing a blanket and wrapping herself in it so that only her head peeked out. It was thick, comforting, just what she needed, and if Tom hadn't been there she might have pulled it over her head as well. “What if this is it? What if I've...” there was a lump in her throat, “done my last Mass?”

He glanced at her, briefly. “That's very unlikely.”

“But possible though, isn't it?”

He looked down at the mug in his hand. “You could appeal. I reckon you'd have excellent grounds for it.”

“What, and undermine Richard?”

“We're talking about you being barred for life because you spoke at a protest against the government letting people starve. There is absolutely no way that's an appropriate sanction.”

“But it might happen.”

He shook his head. “Richard might have handled this badly so far, but I really don't believe he'd go that far. I honestly don't. He wouldn't want to, even if he had the grounds for it - which he definitely doesn't. And if he even tries, you know you have plenty of people who will take your side. It's not a real danger, it's just a temporary situation which sucks right now.”

She huddled down in her blanket. “Makes sense I guess.”

“Janice explained it at length in that meeting I mentioned.”

“Oh. Right. You've been talking about me a lot.”

“I always do, it's part of my job.”

“Ugh.”

“Only professionally, you're our boss.”

“I know.”

“And we miss you, and we pray for you. That's all.”

She picked at the inside of the blanket. “I know. Sorry I made so much work for you.”

“It's how things are. Not your fault.”

Except that it was. She thrust the blanket aside and stood up. “I'm going to bed. Thanks for praying.”

“Night. Sleep well.”

“You too.”

The following morning, she got up to find him already reading the news, an empty plate in front of him. Her body clock had slipped, or perhaps it was more that she hadn't got to sleep until about five.

He looked up as she came in. “Morning. Sleep well?”

“Not really.” She found a glass of water and gulped down a couple of paracetamol to dull the pounding of her head.

“Worrying?”

“Yeah.”

He shook his head sympathetically. “Breakfast and then morning prayer, let's try and keep some form of routine.”

“You haven't said it yet?”

“No, I was waiting for you.”

She poured a bowl of cereal. “I’m wandering round the kitchen at half nine in a youth camp t-shirt. It’s like being a student again.”

“I guess if that’s as bad as it gets, I’ll relax.”

She ate, they said morning prayer, and then she pulled out her laptop.

“I’ve been thinking, about time I wrote another book.” A thought which had occurred to her last night.

“Mmm-hmm.” He was busy with his own emails, and she felt a pang of jealousy. He had actual work to do.

But she could make this work, if she wanted. Hadn't she been complaining about not having the time for this? She started to work through her list of possible ideas, looking for one she was in the mood to work on. Nothing about sacraments, not right now, though that was usually her topic of choice. Perhaps it was time to get more into the psalms, despite her sarcastic remarks yesterday - if nothing else, it was a good starting point which might lead to inspiration.

About an hour later, she looked up. “Can you bring me some books next visit? I made a list, they should all be on the shelves in my office - except two of them might be in the overflow stacks, I marked them for you.”

Tom held out a hand and took the list, glancing down it.

“I should read some of these.”

“I've told you before, help yourself to whatever. So long as you put it back.”

“Thanks, I should actually do that.”

“The Hebrew dictionary might be on my desk, or the floor next to it.”

“Oh great, buried in the chaos. I thought I wasn't allowed to touch that.”

“I’ll make an exception. Try not to move too much.”

“I’m more worried about being buried in an avalanche.” He stowed the list in the front pocket of his bag. “I'll bring them for you next time. But first, I’m leaving for St Mary-on-the-Hill in about five minutes, are you coming?”

Her previous excitement was brushed away in a second. She took a deep breath. “I guess. I’ll see if I have anything more... church-worthy.” She indicated the youth camp t-shirt.

“You’ll be lucky if you get to take your coat off. But sure.”

She went into her room and opened the wardrobe. Dressing for church… it was so long since she’d had to think about it! A purple shirt, then whichever skirt or trouser suit came most easily to hand. There were nice things available – dresses, and bibstocks for wearing under dresses, and fashionable tops – but she was a traditionalist. It was cheaper and easier, and avoided comments. Before consecration she'd hardly been seen out of a cassock.

She found black trousers and a smart jumper, and then hid the effort with her better coat. Back out, just as Tom called. “Hop in the car,” he told her. “It’s about twenty minutes, in this weather. Are you happy to be introduced just as a friend of mine?”

“That’s great.” She was going to a parish church, just because. She wouldn’t be asked to do anything, as she usually was. It wasn’t a Sunday morning, but it was a step towards it.

The church of St Mary-on-the-Hill would have felt fair-sized had she been less accustomed to cathedrals. As Tom had promised, the smell of Rosa Mystica hung heavy and cloying in the air, a scent which carried her back more than thirty years, to curacy and even further, to before she started training. She saw the presence candle burning in the sanctuary and genuflected, making the sign of the cross. Battered gilt everywhere, an East-facing altar, a statue of the Virgin and Child in the corner with a vase of flowers and a burning candle before it. Tom waved her towards the Lady Chapel, where an elderly gentleman was already kneeling in prayer. Service sheets were in a clear stack. She chose a seat and looked around, seeing the cassocked server making final adjustments on the altar. Tom had disappeared into the vestry.

Her first Mass had been in a church like this, if bigger and less worn. She had a complicated relationship with Anglo-Catholicism, especially given the mixed memories of her curacy, but that memory was a special one. Tom wouldn’t know that, of course – it had been at least twenty years before their first meeting, when she’d already been a long way from that terrified curate too enthralled to notice that several of the regular congregation chose not to receive.

No, she didn’t want to go down that route. Better to remember swinging the thurible, surrounded by a cloud of smoke, representative of both the cloud of witnesses and the ascent of prayer to heaven. Better to remember gratefully the solid grounding in tradition and the minutia of celebration, knowing the correct orientation for one’s hands at every point of the Liturgy of the Sacrament, the resulting confidence carrying her through her first service behind a cathedral altar.

The Lady Chapel had filled up while she was lost in memories. Twelve, maybe fourteen people. They probably didn’t get this mid-week service very often, she thought. And then she thought, at least if she lost her episcopacy she might be permitted to come and help in a place like this, just as Tom was doing now but more permanently. It would give her time to write that book.

She stood at the ring of the bell and watched Tom struggle in. In a way, he was transformed, sunk fully into the solemnity of his role. At the same time, on top of everything, she could see his pain. She wished that she could take his place, let him sit and rest. Until she saw him stop before the altar, bow instead of genuflect and then straighten his back. He might be disabled, but that was only in the trappings.

After the service, as Tom was in the vestry changing, the questions began, together with the first odd looks from one or two of the other congregants. She tried to ignore them, sticking to the answers they’d agreed. “I’m a friend of Tom’s, we’re staying in the area for a while.”

“What do you do, then, day-to-day?”

“I’m on extended leave for a month or so, getting some things sorted.”

“Oh? What’s your job?”

A second’s hesitation before she made herself answer, wishing she could avoid the half-lie. “Management. How about you?”

There was a drifting towards the community room at the back for coffee, and as soon as Tom appeared he was dragged over to join them. No easy escapes, then. Conversation was wide-ranging, from weather to politics. A lot of focus on Tom, the exciting development of having an extra priest in the area – and the inevitable, asked quietly by the person next to her.

“I’m going to say it, even if it makes me look stupid. I feel like I’ve seen your face a lot recently. It’s Ruth Harwood, isn’t it? No offence if you’re not!”

She met Tom’s eyes across the table and sighed inside. “You’re correct.”

Others had heard, and passed the information on, and there was silence. She shouldn’t have come, she wasn’t ready for this.

“Ruth is currently taking some time away from the public eye, while we wait for things to be settled,” Tom took over, seeing she didn’t have any answers. “Just like anyone else she needs a church community, so I was hoping that even if you did recognise her you’d be willing to welcome her without fuss.”

“I know it’s awkward,” Ruth added, “and I’m sorry about that. I was hoping you might not recognise me, but clearly you are far too attentive.”

There were nods of sympathy round the table, and her neighbour looked embarrassed.

“Sorry. Your face is all over the news right now, that doesn’t help.”

“And we’ll keep it to ourselves, won’t we?” One of the older ladies looked around the group then beamed at her, making her feel a bit better. “You’re most welcome. I hope this young man’s looking after you well!”

She nodded. “He’s been a great help, going above and beyond the call of duty. And yet he still finds time to help out round here!”

It was a suitable distraction, as several of the others beamed at Tom.

“It’s an absolute treat.”

“Yes, thank you, Father.”

She caught Tom’s eye and had to look away before either of them laughed.

“It's my pleasure,” he said in a slightly strangled voice. “Now, come on, you were telling me about the building. Something about the East window..?”

“I guess I'll come back here,” she told Tom, once they were back in the car. “It wasn't too bad.”

He glanced at her briefly. “I did hope you'd like it.”

“Nice to see that side of you too, Father, we'll make an Anglo-Catholic of you yet.”

“Don't tease. I have plenty of ammunition on that line.”

“Sorry.”

“No you're not.”

“No, I'm not.”

He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, and she looked out of the window. She needed more distractions, and maybe she was starting to find some. A bit of academia, and a parish church. Not much, but a start.

© 2021 E G Ferguson

Chapter 6: Suspended

Wendy arrived on Friday afternoon, a wet and grey day on which everything felt damp, even inside. The cottage, though lovely enough, was quiet and sad. Until she walked in, that is. Then within half an hour she’d found the scrabble and persuaded Ruth to play, and now at long last there was noise coming from the living room as Tom buttoned his coat.

The Bishop met him in Penrith, where he would later be visiting a youth club for a slightly early Christmas party. They had a short conversation, mostly about the churches Tom would help with and only a brief exchange regarding Ruth.

“It’s a shame, and bad luck. She doesn’t deserve it, if anything she’s proved herself a better Archbishop for it. As she reminded us, we have a higher law.”

“But unsurprising, given the precedent that's been set recently,” Tom replied. “It’s not permanent, and at least she’s getting a break.”

The Bishop nodded sympathy. “Well, shall we do this, then? There’ll be a bible here somewhere…” he found it quickly enough, and took it to the front of the borrowed church. “Um, are you comfortable standing?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, with the rather peculiar nature of your presence and role here, we’ll get on with it, if you’re happy.” He sat down in the president’s seat and waved Tom in front of him, before fiddling about with his tablet. “I’m one of those modern priests who uses this for everything.” Showing your age, thought Tom, if you see that as modern.

They passed it backwards and forwards between them so that Tom could make the affirmation and oaths. All necessary documents were signed, and they were done in ten minutes.

“I’m sorry to rush it, but you know as well as anyone that these are busy times. We’re lucky here, not too short-staffed, but helping out in other dioceses, especially while cover gets sorted for York.”

Tom dipped his head. “This is the fourth diocese I’ve been licensed in, and I know what a bishop’s diary looks like. I’m not missing out through not having all the trappings, especially since this is only temporary. I'm actually surprised you're even seeing me yourself. Anyway, we talked about the extraordinary provisions for Ruth?”

“Yes, that’s all fine as we agreed. Anything you or she needs, let me know. Otherwise I’ll stay out of it, I won’t be any help. Thanks for helping out when you’re here.”

“It’s no trouble. Justifies me coming over, and the fact we’ve gone through all this licensing fuss. I’ve rather missed normal parishes, Bishopthorpe chapel is something special but not the same.”

“I’m sure.” He shook Tom’s hand. “All the best. I’d better go and find this party.”

Tom had four services on Sunday morning, from eight until around half past twelve, the vicar having leapt at his rather naïve offer to do whatever would be useful and apparently taken the day off. He, Ruth, and Wendy were early risers anyway, so they set out just before seven, a short way up the hill behind the cottage.

A convenient rock made an altar. His home communion set, which had sat unused in a case for at least four years, came out. He had his own purple stole, though no chasuble. They stood on the frost-covered grass, and balancing by force of will he lifted up his hands to intone the prayer to the accompaniment of the dawn chorus. Early sunlight shone around him to light the faces of the two women before them, and he imagined it glowing around the edges of the consecrated Host as he raised it high. Ruth knelt down on the frosted grass, and after a hesitation Wendy did the same.

He managed to walk around the rock with only one crutch, in spite of the uneven ground. Wendy was nearer, so he administered to her first, then stood in front of Ruth, only now seeing the drenched cheeks and trembling shoulders. When she didn’t move to hold out her hands, he placed his hand on her bowed head, feeling just how matted she'd allowed her curls to become. If only he knew words that might reach her and bring back the life, the brightness that she’d lost. But words couldn’t do it, so he prayed silently instead.

He traced the sign of the cross in the air above her and whispered a blessing, then waited, the consecrated wafer in his hand. He wouldn’t force it on her, but she needed it. She raised her eyes, slowly, and that was all the sign he needed.

“The Body of Christ,” he murmured, “keep you in eternal life.”

She half raised her hands, and he could see them trembling. She dropped them and opened her mouth instead, so that he could place it on her tongue. Another tear rolled down her cheek, and he moved away.

Wendy helped him to pack up at the end, and then led the way down staying a sensitive distance ahead. Tom glanced at his watch, to make sure he didn’t have to hurry. He still had ten minutes before he needed to go, fifteen if he were willing to rush.

“Thank you,” Ruth said softly, in the end. “I just felt so... useless, like... I’ve betrayed everything I’ve been entrusted with. And… you made me feel I was still precious.”

“You are precious,” he told her. “You are still, and will always be, a child of God. A precious, beloved child. You are loved.”

She dug a tissue out of her pocket to blow her nose. “That wasn’t a conventional distribution, you know.”

“Don’t be picky. If we can’t be a little flexible in the face of hurt, it’s become a ritual and not a gift, right?”

She laughed, and then stopped to gaze out across the water. “I suppose I needed to be taken out of it. The Church has become an end in itself and not a vessel. It’s not how I’d have chosen to end my incumbency, but at least it’s shaken things up.”

He caught the shadows in her words, but deliberately ignored them. “Keep shaking. We’re not there yet.”

The remainder of the morning’s services were more conventional, in different stone-walled country churches, with purple-clad altars and robed servers. At the end of each he had to bat away the inevitable questions about what had brought him here. An “extended visit” for “complicated reasons” was the agreed explanation, and he was an old hand at fielding unwanted queries anyway.

Wendy and Ruth were in the kitchen when he returned, leaning against countertops in near silence. He wandered in and sat on a stool, prompting Ruth to turn her back and check the contents of a pan. He smiled tiredly at Wendy.

“I hope you two have been having a decent morning?”

“We went up the next mountain along and sang revolutionary songs on the peak,” Wendy told him, after a glance at Ruth. “And made bets on how many times you’ve had to sing ‘on Jordan’s Bank’ today.” Her voice didn't match the levity of her words.

He didn't press. “I’ll let you know when we get to the end, but it’s twice so far.”

“That all? Damn.” Wendy shook her head.

Ruth ignored them, her back still turned as she pretended to focus on the hob.

“They’re all nice congregations, anyway,” Tom told Wendy. “A couple of the wardens said there was a resurgence in numbers. Not sure how much is improving attitudes towards the Church of England and how much is my pretty face.”

“Oh, they all want to be associated with our wild revolutionary.”

Ruth glanced round to glare, before looking away again. Tom watched her for a second, before leaving the room. There wasn't anything he could do to help right now, just give her time.

The snow began to fall again while they were eating. They briefly discussed going out in it, but in the end settled for an afternoon in the cottage, Ruth curled up by the window with a sketchpad. Wendy peeked over her shoulder to see what she was drawing, but Tom stayed back, leaving her to it. He was happy to leave, in the middle of that afternoon, for an evensong, and Ruth and Wendy seemed pleased enough that he was going. Regardless of Wendy's forced jollity, there was a sadness underneath, and that was the whole reason Ruth had asked her to visit. Wendy understood, in a way he didn't.

By evening, when he’d finally made it back along the icy roads, they both looked calmer, and Ruth's hair was tamed again. Wendy would leave in the morning, to get back to her charities. He was going tonight, provided the roads were clear enough.

Automation was a wonderful thing. The car was a good one, programmed to handle ice well, although progress was still slow, the falling snow interfering with the distance sensors. He sat back and let it creep out of the hills, onto the open roads where they could achieve a semblance of speed. It had been a long day, since the communion on the hillside, and was going to be longer, with the time it would take to return to York.

The feeling in the office the next day was strange, and tense. Things were too up-in-the-air to make any clear plans, so for now the national side of Ruth's job was being split mostly between the Bishops of Durham and Leeds, Julia Niman and Nicholas Matlock. However who was to do what, nobody was quite sure, and Tom quickly found himself sitting at a table with several other members of the Bishopthorpe staff, all sifting through the appointments in the Archbishop’s diary. Which would be cancelled, which postponed, and which passed on to someone else?

Then on to the correspondence, to the hundreds of unread emails mounting up in his account, and the two sacks of letters. Two of the admin staff were already trying to go through the letters, but were rather overwhelmed. He joined them opening letters, sorting them into stacks: “personal”, “well-wisher”, “official”, “hate-mail”. There wasn’t much hate-mail, just a few things about “irresponsible” and “I knew women bishops were a mistake” quickly redirected to the shredder.

But mostly it was notes and cards from well-wishers, people thanking Ruth for speaking up, expressing sympathy with what had happened. Promises that they were writing to the Archbishop of Canterbury to complain. The most touching of them, they put into a stack for Ruth. The rest went into boxes. When he returned to Cumbria, he’d take the nicest ones for her to read and check what she wanted done about the rest – normally the Bishopthorpe staff would pick the most appropriate from their stack of pre-written letters and sign on Ruth’s behalf, but with everything going on right now they didn’t have time, and nor were they sure if it was appropriate. The Church was currently supposed to be dissociating from Ruth, at least officially.

He eventually got to his own letters, of which there were considerably fewer. One from his insurer, one from his hospital. He set them aside unopened for the moment, and flicked through the rest. Diocesan bulletin, the Church Times, a stock letter from the Archbishop of Canterbury to all clergy… Richard hadn’t changed his tack, there was no mention of the right or wrong in Ruth’s case but only the facts about what would happen now, and an exhortation to pull together in these difficult times.

And a personal letter, the address written by hand. A rare thing.

        Dear Reverend Tom,

I hope you do not see it as forward for me to be writing to you. We met last week in the hospital waiting room, and I just wanted to say again how much I admire the Archbishop. I’m sure she has a great many letters, which is why I did not write to her directly.

Many of us agree that she is what gives us hope in the Church, and I would like her to know that we are fighting to get her back. Next weekend a number of us in London are going to march to Lambeth and bang on the doors with our walking sticks and tell them that we want our Archbishop back - it might do nothing, but there's no harm in making our feelings known.

I hope that she is not suffering too much. It must be a great shock. I see that she has disappeared, and we do not blame her, but do hope that she is okay. She is in my prayers, and those of a great many others.

I hope that your appointment at the hospital was worthwhile.

Yours sincerely,

Sandy Tillerman

She’d added her email as well as her postal address. Very practical. He decided to dash off a quick reply.

Dear Sandy,

Thank you for your letter. As you can imagine, we are currently very busy, so my message will be short. I will show Ruth your letter next time I see her, and I’m sure she will be gratified by the support. Please do not worry about her - she is well, but is spending some time away from the public eye as she processes the change.

With prayers and best wishes,

The Rev'd Tom Carter

Chaplain to the Archbishop of York

As for banging on doors with walking sticks, he laughed and made no comment. After the way Richard had handled the whole thing, Tom wasn't going to defend him - he could at least have told Ruth first, before the rest of the country. He remembered for a moment the crisis meeting, when Richard's press release had been spotted, seemingly before he'd even bothered to tell anyone in the diocese. Someone needed to make their feelings known.

Finally, he opened the letter from the hospital, started reading and then froze. Slowly, he picked up his phone and dialled the archdeacon’s number.

“Morning Tom. What can I do for you?”

“Hi Janice.” He picked at the edge of his desk. “Sorry to bother you, but do you have any time? I’ve just got a letter from the hospital. The assessment says I’m a severe case, and they’ve had a cancellation at the end of January, they’re offering it to me… I’m not sure what to do. What if this thing with Ruth is still going on?”

“What if you’re booked in for six months’ time and something comes on then, or this legal stuff drags on? You're not indispensable. Anyway if you leave it, you’ll be in so much pain you can’t think straight. What’s the recovery period?”

“It’s about a week in hospital, then they recommend two weeks in a convalescent home, though it’s also possible to go home. Given the number of ads in here, that’s just a money-spinner…”

“But you can’t travel all the way from London to York as soon as you’re discharged.”

“I guess.”

“So that’s three weeks.”

“Another three or four to stop needing walking aids.”

“You use crutches anyway. You can always work part time, especially at first, and someone else can do the physical parts of your job, if you really can't face taking the time off. You’ll be able to talk to Ruth, I know that’s your main concern.”

“I suppose so…” he was silent a moment. “I didn’t expect it this soon. Waiting lists can be up to two years, they said.”

“I assume that’s for people who can still walk. Not people who should have had it done ten years ago but decided to hide.”

He sighed. “Ever sympathetic, Janice.”

“I’m busy, especially right now. Book it and put it in your diary. The sooner it’s done, the less time you’ll have for worrying.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise, just do it.”

“Yes, Madam Archdeacon…”

He put the phone down and buried his head in his hands. Their faces swam in front of his eyes, Mick and mum. No, this time was different. It wouldn’t harm anyone. It would be okay. The only person who’d really be bothered was Ruth, and she was tough, she had other people, people with whom her connection was personal and not professional. Anyway, it would be fine.

He signed the form before he could worry any more, filled in the details and rummaged through a drawer for an envelope. Everything inside, check the address. Add the date to his diary and email Kath to let her know. Then he shoved the envelope in his jacket pocket and got to his feet, managing it on the third try. Down the stairs, wondering when he wobbled halfway down whether avoiding the lift was just irresponsible at this point.

“Hi Holly. Could you post this for me, please?”

“Sure thing.” The receptionist franked it and dropped it into a tray.

He got on very well with Holly, and often took the opportunity to check in with her. Couldn't face it right now, though. He climbed the stairs, pausing on each step, glad that the Palace was quiet. On his desk, his diary was still lying open, the dates blocked in. Only two things to rearrange, assuming Ruth hadn’t been reinstated by that point.

“Hi Tom, it’s Michael, I’m here with your mum…”

“Michael? What is it? Is she okay?”

“It’s Mick, Tom. I’m so sorry. The police called, they’ve found him, he’s dead. They haven’t confirmed the cause yet, but he was under the influence of drugs. I’m with your mother, you should get here as soon as possible. You should call your bishop and tell him what’s happened, as much as you can bring yourself to say. Tell me when you’re coming up and I’ll meet you at the station. I’m so, so sorry.”

Mick, further down the road, staring. Staring at Tom, staring at the wheelchair.

He shook his head and opened his emails, filtering out the bulletins and junk mail that poured in. There wasn’t much else, somehow. And he didn’t have anything else to do for Ruth, because she wasn’t working. Everyone else was working overtime, and here he was, drifting around. He’d be better off back in the Lakes, helping with those nineteen churches.

© 2021 E G Ferguson

Chapter 5: Rebellion

It had been a long morning, and they weren’t yet at the hardest part. Ruth saw the protest out of the car on the way to the station, and called Tom to stop. Then, with a deep breath, opened the door and got out. Placards waved in the air, a massive banner proclaimed ‘people over money’.

“It’s the archbishop!”

“Archbishop, archbishop!”

“Hey, archbishop!”

Whistles and cheers greeted her. Screw Richard, she thought. She didn’t need to go to London for another argument with the Archbishop of Canterbury. She’d listened to him enough.

She grabbed some railings and pulled herself on to a wall. A placard was held out to her, and she took it, raising it high in the air. ‘Lives matter’.

She took it as her inspiration. “Lives matter!” she called out, using the full force of projection learned in packed cathedrals. The irony at the slogan wasn't lost on her: so close to one used twenty years ago by those seeking to escape responsibility. We should look after these people first, or these people. Well go on, do it then, or perhaps you could just admit you don't give a shit about anyone at all? Cheers boomed back, and she soaked up the energy, letting it inspire her, taking the opportunity to collect her thoughts even as her heart hammered in her chest. She hadn't done anything like this before, but she did know how to speak in public, and clearly they wanted her to.

“We cannot sit back and watch our neighbours starve. People are freezing in the streets and torn apart over profits. When did money become more important than human life? Obviously I'm a Christian, and I believe in a radical, transforming love. To stand up for what you believe in, to fight for those you love, to give everything you have in the cause of justice. To persevere in the cause of righteousness, just as you are doing. So yes, be angry! Use it to do good. Speak out for those who need you, stand up to injustice. It is a hard task, but a worthy one, and together we can make change happen!”

She was breathing hard, she realised, as she waved the placard in the air and then threw it back to its owner. And there was Wendy, out in the crowd, grinning at her as they marched on. And Tom, struggling to get through.

She waited for him to join her, feeling her heart hammering in her chest. She was alive, she thought. Life wasn’t about politics or formality, it was about passion. It was about every now and then doing something wild and reckless.

“York City Police. You’re under arrest for civil disobedience. You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” He was holding handcuffs, and she looked at Tom in confusion, his expression of shock mirroring her feelings.

He recovered quickly. “Cooperate,” he told her quietly, speaking fast. “Think before you speak. Stay calm. I’ll brief the staff and call Richard, and then come and find you.”

She shook her head in confusion, offering her hands and feeling the cold metal click shut around her wrists. Hands on her arms, pushing her forwards, sensations filling her head so she couldn't think. There were police cars in the side roads, and suddenly she was sitting in the back seat of one. Across the road she could see Tom watching, and then heading back to the car, putting far more weight on his bad leg than he usually did these days. He slipped on the snow, making her wince involuntarily, but he managed to save it. The police car started moving, and she stared out of the back window helplessly. His phone was at his ear, his lips moving quickly, eyes on her until she turned the corner.

And then she was alone, adrenaline seeping away. Just a short drive, to the towering concrete-and-glass monolith. There was a memorial stone outside, which she’d unveiled at a short ceremony.

The car door opened, and she was ordered out, and immediately a hand touched her arm, making her recoil before she could catch herself.

"Sorry," she said quickly, then took a breath and tried to hold herself together. Cooperate, like Tom said, grateful that they didn't try to touch her again but trusted her to walk between them. Inside, eyes stared as they took her through. She was searched, her phone and keys taken. Perhaps she’d been slightly rash.

Left alone in a cell, she was given a leaflet on being in custody. In the distance, doors slammed, occasional snippets of footsteps and voices all too far away to be properly distinguished. Tom was out there somewhere, telling the staff. No doubt the church’s legal teams were already at work. Would he be allowed to see her?

There was nothing to do. For the first time in her episcopal – possibly her clerical – career, there was nothing to do. It was a strange, creeping calm. The constant cycle of meetings, emails, and functions, broken. And when she got out, it couldn’t just go back to normal. She’d have shifted the focus.

Time drifted. She sat for a while, letting her brain reset, and then knelt on the hard floor. Closing her eyes, it was a little like being on the steps the chapel at Bishopthorpe, only warmer. A time for prayer, not carved out of a busy schedule but freely available. She didn’t have words, but that was fine.

Footsteps in the corridor outside, and then the lock on the door turning. She stood slowly, surprisingly stiff.

“If you’ll come with me, please, Your Grace.” The title surprised her. She did as she was told, followed the officer and her companion back along the corridor and to a small room. There was a desk, one chair on one side and two on the other. She sat down.

“You have the right to legal advice. Would you like to request or refuse it? If you refuse, you may change your mind at any point in future.”

“Request it. The Church of England will send someone. I expect them to be in contact soon, if they haven’t already.” Maybe she shouldn't assume, but they'd want to send someone, for damage limitation purposes.

“Right. We need to take some more details.”

A solicitor would be here soon, and nothing could happen until then. It was almost exciting, actually, now that she was over the initial shock. She’d broken out of expectations, proved that she was still alive and kicking. At the same time, she’d like to see Tom soon. He always seemed to know what was going on.

Her legal advisor arrived several hours later, straight from London - the Church of England had sent the best, in the form of Anna Mitchell. The conversation was long and confusing – Ruth answered her questions, tried to follow her explanations, and committed as much as she could to memory. From room to room, backwards and forwards to her cell. Left alone, she prayed or stared at the wall, until it started to get late and she went to bed instead, clinging to what routine she had left. Helplessness could be quite nice, doing as Anna and the police said, lost enough that she didn’t feel like she should be doing more. The world outside had disappeared, Ruth’s world was just a couple of rooms and a corridor and Anna. Suddenly in this emptiness she could tell how tired she was, nothing left to block it out.

And then, the moment she'd started to settle, she was released on bail. At least Anna was by her side, in control- and there was Tom, sitting just inside the door, dragging himself to his feet, too many emotions for her to read. She gave him a smile, which he didn't return.

“The press are waiting outside.”

“No shit. Let’s go.”

“Say nothing,” Anna cautioned her.

Ruth nodded understanding. “Into the car and away.” She led the way, slowing down to help Tom keep up. The automatic doors swung open. Down by the road, just off the premises, camera lenses reflected the sunlight. She did her best to ignore them. The car was there, and she climbed into the back, grateful for the familiarity. They drove in silence.

But the route they took wasn't familiar. “Not to Bishopthorpe?” she asked at length.

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

He didn’t answer, just drove, and she could only try without success to see their destination on the console. They were in the hills, going up, no clue of their destination until Tom pulled over in a layby. Not a building in any direction, just a footpath.

“Out you get,” he told her. “See you in a bit, Anna.”

He opened the boot and indicated her coat and scarf, then put on his own rucksack.

“What’s going on?”

“We need to talk before you go back to Bishopthorpe, away from everyone. Go on.” He waved down the path. “It’s a lovely area, as good as a church, Janice recommended it.”

She set off, the sense of forboding increasing, realising that he couldn’t be pressed into telling her anything. Their conversation was sparse, he evading her questions about the fallout from the previous day, about what had happened while she’d been inside. He slipped and almost fell twice, but brushed off her concern.

They stopped at a bend, looking out across open moorland. Tom leant on the drystone wall and removed his rucksack, opening it to pull out a brown paper envelope. A Church of England logo printed in ink in the corner. He held it out and she swallowed.

“Before you open it, I’m going to tell you straight and clear. There’s a lot going on right now, ands the biggest is that you've been suspended under the clergy discipline measure. Richard’s had it announced, and that is why we didn’t go straight to Bishopthorpe.”

She leant on the wall for stability, and then fumbled at the envelope in silence. Inside was the notice, confirming Tom’s words. Of course, it was practically automatic. There was Richard’s signature at the bottom, and others below it, a list she didn’t want to read. Julia, for Durham. Nicholas, for Leeds. No Lizzie, a marked absence. But Chichester, Winchester, Chelmsford, even Jamal in Lichfield... The paper shook, then Tom’s hand was on it too, taking it from her and returning it to the envelope.

“We’ll walk a little further,” he told her, and took up his crutches again. “There’s nothing you need to say or do. You know you're entitled to pastoral support, and I've been nominated to provide that, since Richard... wasn't convinced you'd want one of the other bishops. You can have someone else if you'd rather, I won't be offended.”

She shook her head. “No, you're... good.”

A short pause before he went on. “A few of us have been talking about how we might make it possible to get out of Bishopthorpe. Ian has a house - Whitby Ian, that is - in the Lake District, which he's happy to lend you, especially as he doesn't use it much in winter. I think you've stayed there before?”

“Yes. I have.” One of the less conventional ways her suffragan bishop supported her, letting her make use of his getaway cottage when she needed a change of scenery.

“He actually got in touch to suggest it. A shame about the weather, but there’s a charm to bracing walks on snow-covered hillsides. You could go to a retreat centre if you prefer, Whitby Priory or wherever, or you can stay at Bishopthorpe, but given the dual nature of the Palace, that might be uncomfortable. It's obviously up to you, we just wanted to... do what we can.”

Ruth walked in silence for a couple of minutes, still trying and failing to digest everything. “Ian's place is nice.”

He nodded. “And he says you can have it as long as you need it, he dropped the keys off at Bishopthorpe in case you decided to take him up on it. You can choose if you’d like anyone to go with you, or if you’d prefer to go alone. I’d be very happy to keep popping in, staying for a few days here and there, to keep you company, I mean... as a friend. I mean, if you don't have anyone else you'd rather see.”

She considered for a moment. “Yeah. I think I’d like that, if you’re willing.”

“I am.” He came to a stop, pausing to lean on his crutches for a moment. “I think that’s as far as I can manage.”

“Of course. Give me the bag.” She put it on then paused with him, looking out across the dales, before they turned back towards the car. The low winter sun was throwing golden beams across the scrub, lighting fenceposts so that they glowed. The Lake District appealed. To start with, it would give her a chance to absorb the news.

Snow was falling yet again as they turned through the gate at Bishopthorpe. Staff were working late, no doubt dealing with the situation, but she avoided them, slipping around the building to slip straight into her flat. Tom had popped home to fetch an overnight bag of his own, to save driving back tonight.

She didn’t have much casual wear, actually. But there were walking boots, and slogan t-shirts she hadn’t worn for years. She changed, losing the purple clericals in favour of a ‘Fountain of Life’ t-shirt from a youth camp she’d visited a few years ago and a baggy aran jumper worn on days off. Then she packed up her bible, along with several books she’d been planning to read for months. A sketchpad, the last addition from almost three years ago, and a tin of pencils. Finally she picked up her pectoral cross, fingers tracing the familiar engraving, feeling the weight. She tucked it beside the Bible.

“I’d like Wendy to visit, for a few days,” she said when she met Tom by the car. Wendy, who knew what it was like to be suspended, though she’d gone into it with her eyes open.

“If you spend a few days getting settled, you could invite her at the weekend?”

“What about..? Never mind.” No, Wendy didn’t have to worry about taking services on Sunday. And nor did Ruth.

It wasn’t until they on the road, he in the driver’s seat and she in the passenger seat beside him, that she finally asked the other question that was weighing on her. “What about sacraments?”

“There’s a church about a ten minute walk away, in the next village. And I’ve spoken to the Bishop of Carlisle. He knows you might be coming to the diocese, and is willing to give me permission to officiate, in return for helping out a bit in the area – the vicar there has nineteen churches and only one retiree. If Wendy’s here on Sunday, we can celebrate the Eucharist in the cottage, or outside if it’s fine weather. Although if you’re there for more than a couple of weeks you should go to the village church, be part of a congregation.”

“You’ve thought of everything.”

“I’ve tried.”

Bishopthorpe disappeared behind them. The tears began to fall, and she looked out of the window to hide them. She could not perform any of the duties of a bishop, or even a priest. She had been ordained for thirty years, a bishop for fourteen of those, and she could not preside at the Eucharist. He would be able to pick up the odd service, just because he could, and she would be hiding away, waiting.

© 2021 E G Ferguson