For his part, Tom cruised through emails for an hour before opening the news. Ruth shuffled the last of the Lords files into a stack, tucked them in her briefcase, and then leant back and yawned - a familiar signal that she could, for the next couple of minutes, be disturbed. He pinged across an email of links to the news stories she most needed to know about.
“Another earthquake off Haiti, poor souls. Conflict continues in Rwanda, not much change from earlier this week. Locally, a riot last night outside a food bank in London, and three churches in trouble over taking donations against the new legislation. Several others which agreed to comply when cautioned. A group of hospices have negotiated an exclusion while they update to the new system – ridiculous that they had to ask, but I doubt anyone would have been willing to shut them down anyway.”
“At least they have the exclusion.” She found his email and clicked open the first link, skimming it as she listened.
“There’s a rally outside Parliament this afternoon, bishops of London, Southwark, and Exeter due to attend. And a statement from the Archbishop of Canterbury. Best read it before you see Richard this morning.” Tom had already read it: talk about patience, about difficult transitions and how the Church was looking to adjust to the new system and charitable operations would soon be back to normal. An attempt to sooth the flames by distracting from the immediacy.
A car met them outside the station, the tube too busy at this time of morning, to take them down to Lambeth. At the palace with forty minutes to spare, they started with a visit to the chapel, to pause for silent prayer and then say the daily office. London days always disrupted their normal habits, the archbishop sometimes said morning prayer on the train but preferred to wait until she made it to Lambeth or Westminster where possible.
Eventually Ruth stood up, and so did he, and they left the chapel together.
“I’ll meet you at Westminster. Couple of errands to run first, let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks. Have a good morning.”
“You too. Hope things get sorted.”
She sighed in response and headed up a flight of stairs. He continued along the corridor, waiting until she was out of sight before letting his limp become more pronounced. The arthritis, threatened during his first post as vicar of St Andrews and held back desperately for the fifteen years since, was now well and truly established. This was inevitable, since a car accident in his teens had shattered his left knee, and since there was nothing he could do about it he just put up with it. The other impact, beside the pain and the limp, was having to submit to a search every time he went somewhere with a metal detector, particularly tedious now that his job involved regular visits to high-security venues. Again, that was life.
Across the river, first, over Lambeth bridge and up to Parliament Square. Just as the photos on the news sites had shown, it was covered with banners. Surrounded by the milling tourists, a band of young people chanted protests towards the spiked fences and stone walls of Westminster Palace, “Save our charities! Save our charities!” Big Ben boomed out in reply, and church bells all around joined it in a wild clamour to sound the hour. Two police officers watched the students from a distance, postcard-worthy helmets earning them a place in countless tourists’ selfies.
He took in the scene then carried on, skirting round Westminster Abbey to Church House and the first of his many errands. They hadn’t originally planned to be in London this early, which meant that if he got on with things he could have some free time this afternoon. He’d called Rose, his formidable old churchwarden, and was planning to meet her later for a catch up, once the archbishop was settled for the long haul in the House of Lords.
Having a key to the archbishop’s office in Westminster Palace meant that he could settle in and do some work until she arrived. And arrive she did, just after twelve, flinging her coat over a chair. He looked up, raising his eyebrows.
“Not entirely productive?”
“Bah.” She opened her briefcase and rifled through it without looking at him. “In summary: the Church will follow the new measures. Several dioceses have hired specialists already to sort out their reporting, though with the nature of it we’re all having to pay a premium. He’s contacted the bishops marching today to encourage them not to get too engaged. We’ll carry on with the petitions and lobbying from inside, and trying to keep people from panicking. And he reckons we should wait for the initial tensions to die down, so we can see the bigger picture and evaluate the long term impact. We just have to keep our clergy calm for the next couple of months, then it’ll all be fine, that’s the theory.”
“Just? I take it he hasn’t met our Wendy…”
“Yes, I’ve had more emails from her. They’re reopening Daily Bread tomorrow. And she’s pushing Mark to proceed as planned with Open Churches, ready to start on the first of December as planned - which, of course, won’t leave time to get the paperwork through, not with an untried system under so much pressure. I’ve cautioned them that it’s down to individual churches to decide whether to open the doors or not, and reminded them again that breaking the law is a bad idea. Richard says we’re to threaten the clergy discipline measure on top of the legal implications, since it’s better to avoid priests getting arrested.”
“I can see you’re delighted about that.”
“I just can’t wait to tell Janice and Winston. They’ll be delighted.”
Tom pictured the archdeacons' reactions. “You’d better tell Janice now, while you’re in London – out of reach. Letting her know that her job’s about to get ten times bigger, and that’s just from dealing with Wendy.”
She shook her head, letting him know that she wasn’t in the mood for humour. “We’re stretched to breaking point anyway. We need a bishop for Selby, for a start, then they’d stop bothering me. Wendy’s looking after twelve churches, at least two charities, and an assistant curate. And involved in more. If we have to discipline her – or if she gets in trouble with the law – who’s going to cover it? Yes, there’s David, but he was only priested in the summer. He can hardly keep things running on his own!”
He thought about it for a moment. “He’s pretty much doing it anyway, isn’t he? The day-to-day, at least. St Stephen’s and St John-in-the-wood can look after themselves, they’re supposed to be in interregnum anyway. Daily Bread and the rest are going to be shutting down, whether by court order or Wendy’s absence. Disastrous as that is, it’s looking inevitable right now.”
“Then there’s Mark. Lucy’s only a deacon, she can hardly take over. Only two churches, but Christ the King’s huge and Holy Trinity not much smaller.”
“It’s CKC. You don’t need a priest for alternative worship, which is most of what they do.”
“I know. Services of the Word and a visiting priest every month, most of the rural churches have that anyway. It’s just such a mess.”
“It is.”
She bent her head in silent prayer, and he did the same, peeking up to see the sag of her shoulders. His job was to make her life easier, to pray for her, and to look after her as subtly as he could. He’d been doing that long enough to know when she was finding things tough.
“Lunch,” he said, when she straightened up. “Let’s go hobnob with politicians. You can do your Lord Spiritual thing and scatter seeds of wisdom as you sip your soup.”
“Remind them that people are starving.”
“Might cast a bit of a downer, but I’ll leave that to your archbishoply judgement.”
They headed down to the nearest cafeteria, meeting the Bishop of London on the way. Tom walked a couple of steps ahead, letting them talk. In the cafeteria, Ruth requested her accustomed bowl of soup, and Tom snuck a plate of cherry pie onto her tray, liberally smothered in custard. She shook her head at him and smiled.
The bishops were joined by a couple of others, and Tom kept himself inconspicuous. He was well known, and friendly enough with many of these people, however it was more productive for him to stay out of it and let them talk business with Ruth. He had other things on his mind anyway, the rucksack by his feet containing medical documents including an appointment letter for the hospital. He stood up with the group, and accompanied them most of the way to the Peers’ lobby.
“See you later, Tom.”
“Will do. I should be here when you finish, but if not then go on to the hotel and I’ll join you there. You know what hospital delays are like.”
“Of course. God bless you, Tom, I hope it goes well.”
He forced a thin smile in response. “And I hope your afternoon is productive. And yours.” He nodded to the Bishop of London. “Hope all’s well with the march.”
A few minutes later, he scanned his Oyster and joined the dribble of people on the escalator, balancing with care. He took the tube out of the city centre, grateful for the priority seat, then changed to a bus, gazing out of the window as the scene grew more and more familiar, until he disembarked across the road from St Andrew's Church, where he’d served for six years. The wall of the church was still covered in graffiti, new stuff, including a big rainbow arching over the door. He smiled. Nice to see there were still some decent characters among the local vandals.
He turned and limped along the street, wondering as he went whether the church was still the same inside. Had they managed to repaint yet? Or was the battered plaster still peeling from the walls? Had they had the windows cleaned? Had they got around to repairing the processional cross, bent at the top where it had been dropped one memorable Sunday? As for the brightly coloured hassocks, embroidered by Rose and her gang of helpers, had they darkened with ingrained dirt?
He tapped on Rose’s door and grinned at her sing-song cry of “coming!” There she was in the doorway, wiping hands on a floury apron and reaching out with a hug sure to leave white dust all over his black coat. “Afternoon, Father. Wonderful to see you again! How’re you doing, come in, let me get you a cup o’ tea…”
He chuckled, dusting himself off. “Afternoon, Rose. Everything good round here? You alright, kids alright?”
“Ah, y'know me. And they’re wonderful. ‘Bout grown up, now – Joel’s at university, y’know, reading his medicine. He was on one of those schemes, helped him with the interview and all, worked so hard. Noah’s working in a good bar downtown and doing his Open University – he didn’t want to go away, he likes his working, bless him. Pays me rent and all, right independent young man, and he’s dating a lad he met through one of his volunteering things. Lovely boy he is too. Now here's your tea, and I made you biscuits, since I know they're your favourite. And how’s yourself, Father?”
“As well as ever, thank you Rose. It’s a busy week for poor Ruth, and isn’t going to get easier quickly, so that’s keeping me busy. But while I’ll admit to missing you all, it’s a job that suits me.”
“Well, I’d say, Archbishop's chaplain. To think how far you've come since you first walked in our door! We like to take the credit, of course, gave you the foundations, that's what I always say.” She winked at him, ignoring the look he gave her. “Anyway, the new vicar, she's alright, proper Godly woman. All round things are ticking on well at St Andrew’s. Even with the St Martin’s lot, we’ve gotten used to doing things together. Just a shame this charity thing is really mixing us up, we’d just opened a new project and now it’s all up in the air, you know how it is.”
“I can imagine. It’s bad enough up in York.”
She nodded firmly. “We had a nice little shelter going in St Martin’s – they’ve got a good hall with a kitchen and that. Opened in September, and now we’re none of us sure what’s going on. We’re still opening up, managed to persuade Mother Nikki there’s no money direct in having the hall open and a couple volunteers there. A couple more bringing the food, we’ll go as long as we can without asking donations and hopes are by then we’ll know what’s up, or the Almighty'll point us the right way.”
“Sounds like you’re doing some good work.”
“Well that's our job, isn't it?”
They talked for a while about less serious matters, until eventually he couldn't put off the goodbye any longer but had to head outside and catch the bus back into the city, appointment letter like lead in his backpack. His chest was tight, and he made himself work through his breathing exercises, though they didn't help much. It was bad enough that he pulled out his collar tab and shoved it in his pocket, something he didn't do often, especially not since working for Ruth.
The hospital was too familiar. It would make sense for him to have moved to one nearer York, but provided he timed it carefully, he could fit appointments around when he was in London for work. This saved the hassle of changing it, particularly as he’d risk an increase in his insurance premiums if he messed with anything now. It had been different under the NHS, now under private health insurance he had to deal with the complications of a ‘previously existing condition’. And even without that, they knew him here, which saved a lot of fuss.
They were running late, of course. Almost an hour after his appointment time, he was finally called through. The old, familiar drill, of x-ray followed by consultation. How was the pain? And stiffness, range of movement?
“You should think about a joint replacement, within the next two years if you want to maintain your current lifestyle. The condition will only get worse. There are methods for replacing just the cartilage, but it’s unlikely to be viable in your case, given the bone damage from the reconstructive surgery. The procedures are well established, it’s not a last resort decision any more.”
He refused to meet the doctor’s eyes. “What are the alternatives?”
“You can continue as you are at present. The physiotherapy does help, and with care you might manage four to five years. It will, of course, grow more painful throughout that time, and there will be days when you may be unable to walk, even with two crutches. You'll need a wheelchair. You’re becoming resistant to the anti-inflammatories as well as the painkillers, and there’s little more we can offer. An operation is definitely your best option, there’s a low risk of complications and you should regain almost full range of motion – which you haven’t had since your accident. The recovery period isn’t short, as it’s a highly invasive procedure, but it would be justified by the results. You’ll no longer need your crutches. In fact in the case of an injury like yours now, we’d recommend it over the reconstructive surgery you had.”
The clinical blue walls bore in on him, the sterile smell. He knew what long recovery periods were like, he’d experienced it from the age of fifteen. The idea of being trapped in a wheelchair again, even just for a week or so… and what if there were complications? He’d had complications before.
The joint grated as he shifted his leg, and he suppressed a reaction. “I suppose I should look into it.” He thought about Ruth, and the challenges of this charity thing. He couldn’t leave her until it had settled down, at least. But then there wasn’t much chance of anything happening in the next couple of months anyway. “How long is the waiting list?”
“It depends on severity, and on your healthcare plan. It’s around two months for premium patients, up to two years for regular.”
“I suppose… I shouldn’t put off deciding, then.”
“Contact the hospital when you’ve made a decision, and they’ll add you to the waiting list. I’ll give you our information pack now, you'll need to contact your insurer for details of costs.”
RIP National Health Service, thought Tom, as the doctor reached across to a shelf and searched along it for the correct documents. He took the thick booklet and stuffed it into his rucksack. The front cover had a picture of an old man out for a run, a collie at his feet. ‘Feel young again’, read the tagline underneath. Rude.
He texted Ruth when he got back to the hotel, and she met him in the restaurant. Often after meetings in the Lords she’d go out to dinner, usually for strategic reasons, but today with the rally in Parliament Square everybody had decided to get away. Apart from the Bishop of London, of course, who’d headed outside to join them.
“How did it go?” She got in first.
He shrugged. “Nothing unexpected. It’s bad, it’s getting worse. It’s only a knee, I can manage.” He should contact the insurer, find out more details, read the information pack.
“And there’s nothing they can offer? With all our modern medicine?”
“Only joint replacement. It’s a big operation, I can manage. How was your day?”
She brushed off the question. “I hope you’re looking into it. I know you’re good at hiding it, but that’s not the same as coping.”
“It’s my job to look after you, not the other way around!”
“I’m an archbishop, I look after everyone. Unless you’d rather I set Janice on you?”
He grimaced. “You’re threatening me with the archdeacon?”
“Yes, I am. Look into it, and let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Yes, archbishop…”
“Behave.”
He pulled a face at her. “And your day? How’s it been?”
She picked at her food. “Long afternoon of pointless bickering. Archbishoply duty… I could have done more duty in York, the only consolation is that I had to be here anyway for Richard. Lizzie tried to get me to join them on the rally, but I wished them well and headed off here, I think Richard would lose it if I started on that kind of thing as well. There was quite a crowd. People do feel strongly, and I’m not so sure that standing with them is a bad idea. But there are at least three bishops out there, that’s enough representation.”
“I’ve been out of the loop, fill me in. It’s all stayed peaceful?”
“Lizzie got up and spoke very well, I caught a clip on the news. There are a lot of emotions, but it’s all very civil. People are concerned, but the protesters are generally not the ones being put at risk. There are quite a lot of faith leaders, from all faiths, and beside them it looks to be mostly fine upstanding volunteers. They were waving placards with charity names and have some heartwrenching pictures of the people they’re working to help. Police everywhere, obviously, but they’re mostly just standing round keeping an eye on things.”
“That’s something to be thankful for. Let’s pray it doesn’t get worse over the next month of transition.”
They both fell silent for a couple of minutes to get on with their food. Then he moved on to another concern. “Have you called the archdeacons?”
“They're not happy. But will do their jobs, of course. They're drafting a joint email to the clergy of the diocese to remind them where the Church stands on illegal activity.”
“Better them than the police.”
“This way’s easier to reverse once things settle down.”
He shook his head. “It’s going to be an interesting couple of months.”
“That it certainly is.”
© 2021 E G Ferguson
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