The first snow fell on the seventh of December, wild flurries prophesying what was to come. It settled for a couple of hours, and Tom made sure to take a walk around the Palace garden beside the river. He chose his moment well, the only other person outside a member of the social media team armed with a camera. The stone and brick medley stood behind white-sprinkled trees, the rough edges soothed.
Then the snow melted and the frost arrived, and as the cold bit deep Tom gave up on hiding his limp. The pain was worse than last year, worse than he’d known it before, impossible to mask. Ruth’s looks of concern pushed him to make the call.
The hospital took his booking. He mentioned it to Ruth a couple of days later, after she’d had to help him out of the car, earning a soft “well done”. He emailed Janice to find an appointment.
He turned up at the archdeacon’s house with two crutches, cursing the cold. She took one look at him and ordered him into a chair, plying him with tea. It was their second meeting.
“You’ve booked the operation?”
“I have the assessment next Wednesday. I couldn’t get a date when Ruth’s in London.”
“Are you okay to travel alone?”
“I’ll be fine.”
She gave him the notorious ‘archdeacon’s glare’, as renowned among Yorkshire clergy. “How are you getting to the hospital?”
“Tube, as usual.”
“In rush hour?”
“It’s an afternoon appointment.”
“And afterwards?”
“Same journey, in reverse. I’ll be back by nine.” He tried to ignore her look. “I’ll be fine. I’m used to a gammy knee, it’s just the cold making it play up. I’ll take plenty of codeine, I keep it for special occasions like this.”
“What else constitutes a special occasion, out of curiosity?”
He avoided her eyes. “Important jobs. Bad pain. Cold weather days like this. Just where I need to take the edge off.”
“How are you feeling about the whole thing? The operation? I know we talked before about your last operation, and the wheelchair.”
The chair. The helplessness, strapped in, mum straining to push him. Struggling round the school, classes moved downstairs just to accommodate him. PE lessons sat on the side. Mick, further down the road, staring. Staring at each other, and then Mick was gone.
Trauma sucked.
“It’s a long way off, that’s what I keep having to tell myself. When it arrives… I guess I’ll get through it somehow? I’ll just get on with it, and turn up at the hospital, and let them do their thing, and follow orders. It'll stop Ruth worrying. Hopefully I can trust it all to God and distract myself with other things until they stick the needle in to knock me out, at which point I won’t be able to go back.”
Janice looked at him for a minute. “What happened last time? Obviously, something’s bothering you, the trappings might be the trigger but there’s something more behind it. You’ve tied it up with something.”
He thought for a long time. Was it the boredom of lying there? The amusement of classmates, the shame of the chair? The pain? Scenes from home floated through his head: Christmas, the three of them around the plastic Christmas tree which came from a charity shop when he was a toddler, he and Mick having a tug of war with a strand of tinsel, leaving glittering strands all over the threadbare carpet. A summer day, running around in the park, kicking a football as far as they could and laughing when the other had to chase it. Balancing on a wall. Serving in church, he and Mick both carrying the candles so proudly.
He ignored the memories. “I was lucky. We still had the NHS then. All the stuff I had, not just the operation – that’s emergency – but the nursing home, the physio, the meds and the wheelchair and the crutches – insurance wouldn’t have covered it, not the level we could afford. I’d have been in one of those charity homes, probably halfway across the country, if they could find space. Mum couldn’t have visited. Between travelling and physio and the new insurance premiums, she’d have sold the house, she’d have done whatever it took.”
“You do have the insurance now, all clergy do, and we’ll make sure you get the follow-up care you need. We can book you into one of the clergy homes if necessary.”
“They’re for the elderly.” A scheme which had arisen when clergy savings couldn’t keep up with mounting costs.
“They’re assisted living environments with trained nurses. But if your insurance will cover alternatives, you may as well take them.”
“It’s a long way off anyway.”
“Is it really costs that are worrying you? Honestly?”
He hesitated and then shook his head.
“Go on. I think you know really.”
He shrugged. “Before the operation, I could live a normal life. Occasional headaches, short-lived bruises and cuts which faded quick enough. Then after, I couldn’t walk. Well, in the end I could, but it’s always hurt, and I’ve needed the crutch. Suddenly I knew all about disability allowance and ‘equal opportunities’ and old people were offering me seats on busses. Obviously that had an impact.”
She watched him silently until he looked down, picking at his trouser leg.
“I had a good family. We were happy, pretty much. Yeah, Mick was running wild and mum was worried. But after it, he was gone and mum was having to look after me, and she struggled but never said anything. Mick lost the car, got a criminal record. It ruined his chances, and mum was never the same. Especially when…”
He buried his head and his shoulders shook as he tried to hold in the tears. The phone call, late at night. Reverend Michael, the priest who’d looked after mum after the accident, while Tom was busy feeling sorry for himself.
Mick, further down the road, staring. Staring at Tom, staring at the wheelchair.
Janice leant across and pushed a box of tissues into his hands. “That wasn’t the operation, it was the accident. Without the operation, it would have been worse, even if that doesn’t feel possible…”
How? How could it have been worse? How?
“This operation is planned. It’s to make things better. You can barely walk right now as it is – yes, I know it’s only the cold, but this is the North of England and we have a lot of cold. Besides which, it’ll only get worse, you told me that yourself. You're far too young to live like this forever.”
The end of his first year at St Andrews. Woken up in the early hours, fumbling for his phone expecting a pastoral emergency. Listening in silence, shellshocked, wondering whether the world was still turning, wondering how he’d felt nothing. “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.”
He took a tissue and fiddled with it uselessly. “I guess… I’ve tied it up with what happened after. And it’s stupid but it’s still there. I’ve always been able to lock it away, out of the way, so I can get on with living. I need to find a way to do that again. I know it’s not great, but it’s the only way I can move on.”
“Have you seen a counsellor?”
He shook his head. “I was too busy, and then I didn’t want to wake it up again. I thought I was over it, anyway.”
“Well, it hasn’t gone away, and it’s woken up now. Will your insurance cover it, do you know?”
“No. That is, it won’t.”
“Then there are charities. The diocese has a list. Though I’m not sure how many are currently open to new patients, they’re struggling to adapt to the new system. I’ll email you the link.”
“Thanks.” Tom regretted having volunteered to contact the archdeacon. It was always easier to ignore the memories, to push them back into their little box and bury them behind paperwork and pastoral concerns. He could just go back to worrying about Ruth – her problems were easier, because while they were big, they were hers and not his, and he could be objective. It was hard to be objective about one’s family.
He responded to Janice’s email later with a “thanks, will look into it”, and then let it slide down his inbox.
Ruth popped her head into his office mid-afternoon. “I’m off to my meeting. If Zakir gets here early, entertain him.”
“You mean, when your meeting overruns, keep an eye on the Bishop of Manchester.”
She rolled her eyes at him and disappeared. He returned to his emails, then after half an hour hauled himself out of his chair to go for a wander. Three o’clock was widely observed as Bishopthorpe Palace’s tea break, the best time to head down and chat to the rest of the staff.
Either he took longer to navigate the stairs than usual, or the consensus was for an early tea break, because by the time he made it to the staff kitchen, almost everyone was standing around with steaming mugs, and there were at least five unrelated conversations going on. In one corner, a phone was being passed around with pictures of the HR manager’s new puppy. He pulled the requisite soppy face, oohed over it, and passed the phone on, squeezing through to the kettle. Then found himself on the edge of a group discussing that recurring topic, vacancies in sees.
“…still nothing about Selby.”
“They haven’t managed Liverpool yet, so that’s hardly a surprise.”
“Suffragans are something of a luxury now, let’s be honest. How many are we down now?”
“North, or everywhere?”
“Shall we say North? Selby, obviously. Berwick? The Durham one…”
A pause before someone contributed. “Jarrow?”
“Yeah, and Ripon of course. And isn’t Lancaster about to go?”
“Nothing official yet, doesn’t count.”
Tom said nothing. Ruth had mentioned Lancaster a few times recently, but that was between them.
“It’s four, plus Liverpool. Not sure how we’re still running, honestly.”
“Well, would you want to be a bishop right now?”
“It’s a good way of saving, too, right? Think, all of these empty posts that aren’t being paid for…”
“Cynic!”
Tom slipped out and went back up to his office. They might be saving money, but that wasn’t the reason. They just couldn’t find enough people who were willing – the moment they persuaded a bright young priest and got them consecrated as a Suffragan, Canterbury seemed to eat them up. Not that Canterbury’s situation was any better.
The Bishop of Manchester joined them for evening prayer in the chapel, and after he’d gone Tom followed Ruth back to her office. She invited him in, closing the door and then sitting down heavily behind her desk.
“He’s threatening to resign. All over this stupid law – or rather our approach. Says it's too much to ask him to be a part of it. I’m going to have to call Richard again, but fat chance he’s changed his tone, and sure the college of bishops can overrule him but how does that look?”
Tom leant back against the wall. “How long do you have?”
“I told him I’ll talk to Richard, that I’m sympathetic, all that. But like all of them, he’s pretty straight that sympathy isn’t enough anymore. Says he’s sorry for me, that’s why he’s giving me some warning, but he's fed up with this bloody governance-by-ad-clerum nonsense we seem to have got stuck in. We’re already stuck over Liverpool!”
“And four suffragans down, including Selby. Any sign of progress towards filling any of them, off the record?”
“Ripon were close, but their preferred candidate’s in trouble over a financial advice charity, so that’s back to step one. Liverpool’s a hopeless case, nobody wants to go near it. Nobody wants any of the diocesan positions. It’s a joke, we’ve plenty of vocations but so many of them are non-stipendiary, which means they’re not getting the experience we need. And then the ones we do find don’t stick. All off to work in theological colleges or run charity foundations, even going overseas. I don’t blame them, it’s an impossible job. Carry on as we did thirty years ago, but with half the priests and surrounded by vacant sees.”
“With half the staff. And most of those staff also looking after parishes.”
She shook her head. “I can see the problems. I just have no idea how to fix them.”
“You’re a pastor, a politician, a celebrity, an HR manager, and a CEO. It’s hardly a simple combination.”
She thought for a second. “That’s it. I don’t know what I am. What are my priorities? Right now, keeping things going. It’s stupid, I want to be pushing forwards – somebody needs to, right? But to do that I have to let go of the fraying edges, and then the whole thing falls apart.”
“A friend once told me that Christ will look after His church,” he said. “Though I wonder if that’s an irresponsible way to look at it, if it’s used to absolve yourself of responsibility. It’s certainly true that we can only do our best, and trust in Him to make up for our shortcomings.” He scrolled absent-mindedly through her diary on his phone. “How’re the plans for the TV thing next Wednesday?”
“Basic arrangements confirmed. I’ve been talking to Karen and the team about scripting, but we’re still not sure what I’ll say.”
“Plenty of time yet. The news might have change completely by then.”
“Oh, if only.” She paused. “You’ve seen the camps?”
“On the news, yes. It’s like Calais twenty years ago, only in our own country.”
“And they’re not trying to get anywhere. Just banding together… for company, I guess? You’ve heard about the aid plans too? All the faith groups are doing it, and Jonathan’s been discussing it with others in his diocese. It’s a good part of why he’s resigning.” A moment of silence. “When it was Calais, we praised people for going.”
“It was legal then.”
“Screw the damn law!” she snapped. “There’s a part of me wants to drive a van down there myself. They could have a few tonnes of Church of England paperwork for fuel, just for a start. Could go round soliciting donations, pestering supermarkets for their sell-by-date goods, just like the good old days.” Then she glanced at him. “Off the record, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“What would you do if I started wreaking havoc?”
“Pray for you, as I do in all things. Beside that, we will see should the situation arise.”
She snorted, gathering together papers. “You’re a good chaplain.”
“Try not to do or say anything stupid while I’m away next week.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Have a good weekend, see you on Sunday.”
“I hope that isn’t work to take to bed?”
“Nooo…”
He rolled his eyes. “See you on Sunday. The Blessing of the Church Roof – always a crowd pleaser. I’ll bring the safety mitre.”
“Oh Lord. It’s the one with the cherry picker, isn’t it?”
“That’s the one.”
He mock-saluted, then picked up the crutch he’d leant against the desk. One under each arm, he swung across the room, and she rushed to open the door before he could.
“Helpful meeting with Janice?”
“Yeah. Night.”
“Night. God bless.”
“And you.”
Tom navigated the stairs by force of practise. There was a lift, which he never used, in spite of Ruth’s objections. It was a short walk home, but he was glad to have a good coat, and for the insulation provided by the compression support around his knee. Ice glittered like fairy dust on the tarmac, and the grass was already frosted. Winter had definitely arrived.
Puddles were frozen when he arrived at the station on Wednesday. He was early for the train, which was definitely a mistake today, as he stood on the platform surrounded by the white fog of his own breath. There were some benefits to crutches, as the rubber feet gripped tightly on the ground, better than the smart shoes of many of his fellow travellers.
Glancing out of the window by chance, just outside London, he caught his first real glimpse of the camps. Just the edge, a straggle of cardboard huts. The mounds continued beyond, out of sight, growing more dense. Fine columns of smoke drifting upwards, surrounded by the hunched ghosts of the residents. From the news footage, he could bring meaning to the more distant shapes. The improvised stations, from which food and other vital supplies were handed out, and where people could gather in solidarity with one another. He used his phone to take a photo through the train window and sent it to Ruth. “They’re real.”
His arms were stiff by the time he made it through the hospital door. There was a queue of about twenty people in front of the desk, and he watched the captions on the plasma screen in increasing horror and disgust. As soon as he was checked in and sitting down – on the corner of an overcrowded bench – he took out his phone and quickly scrolled through news sites to find the best version of the story. He linked it to Ruth. “You may already have seen. If not you need to know about this.” He checked the time. She’d be on the way to the studio now.
On the plasma screen, he watched the uniformed figures lifting the stretcher into the ambulance. Blurred at the front of the video, a young man held a child close, and all around were others looking similarly in shock.
The woman, known to those around her only as Annabelle, appears to be around ninety years old, and passed away quietly in her sleep. Police say they will not be opening an investigation, the cause of her death having been recorded as natural.
His phone buzzed in his hand, and he hesitated, looking at the “no phone calls” sign on the wall, then picked up.
“Hello, Ruth?”
A number of people in the waiting room glared at him disapprovingly. He put a crutch under his free arm and tried desperately to haul himself up.
“Tom! I’m sorry to bother you…”
“Give me a minute, I have to go outside. I’ll be with you in just a second.” He dropped the phone into his pocket, the call ongoing, and managed this time to make it onto his feet. “I’m so sorry,” he said quietly to those around him. “My employer…”
There were several sympathetic looks, and he felt a little guilty. He hobbled to the door, where a security guard was watching him disapprovingly.
“I’m really sorry, I have to take this. I’ll only be a second.”
The guard shook his head. “Should have done it before.”
“It’s something of an emergency.”
“What, you got a bloody prince on the other end?”
“Something like that. My boss.” A Prince of the Church, he didn’t say.
“Oh, get on with it.”
He nodded thanks and hurried through the door held open, finding a wall to lean on to retrieve his phone. “Sorry Ruth. I was in the waiting room.”
“Ah! I’m so sorry about the timing. I shouldn’t bother you, but I don’t know. It’s so horrible, I have to say something. They make it sound like she wasn’t even human. She froze to death in a cardboard hut in an open field, surrounded by others in the same circumstance, and that’s not suspicious? I have the stuff from Karen, but I can’t say it now.”
“You’ve contacted Bishopthorpe?”
“Kath called me to tell me the same as you did. And I texted Karen, she’s on it. But the questions we considered, all that, this’ll change everything.”
“Of course, of course. Keep calm. It’s difficult timing. But you can do it. This is a sign of things to come, you’re going to have to respond. We’re not good at relying on the Spirit, at least not without checking the Spirit’s words in advance, but we should be. You can do it.”
There was a short silence from her end of the phone. “There isn’t time to speak to Richard.”
“I know, but it's not like you have to anyway, he's not your boss. You can only speak for yourself. Think carefully, get Karen over if you can, call her if not. The government has done the harm here, you're only responding.”
Another silence. “Thanks, Tom. I’m really sorry I had to disturb you. I really hope all goes well. See you tonight.”
“Don’t worry about me. Go and do what you can. Good luck.”
“Thanks. God bless you, Tom.”
The security guard let him back in. “Boss a bit of a dragon?”
Tom was glad not to be wearing clericals. “She’s lovely, just a bit of a crisis.”
“It better be, disturbing you like this. Day off’s a day off in my book.”
He smiled and nodded genially, hurrying back into the waiting room. By some miracle, his corner of the bench was still free.
The elderly lady beside him leant in. “Still got your job?”
He prickled with embarrassment. “Oh yes, it’s fine. Emergency at work, all hands on deck. Exceptional circumstances.”
“Very unfair, if they won’t even leave you alone in hospital!”
He deliberately changed the subject. “Cold out, isn’t it?”
“Oh, it is! You know they’re predicting snow later this afternoon? I’m glad of a roof over my head, I can tell you! You know, the winters get longer every year. They’re saying this will be the worst in fifty years, and after they said the same about last year’s!”
He agreed, and they talked about the weather, and memories of snow back when it was a cause of excitement. Mostly he nodded along and murmured affirmatives, letting her do the bulk of the talking. By her enthusiasm, he wondered when she’d last had a decent conversation.
“Ooh! It’s the archbishop, I do like her…”
He looked up to the screen to see Ruth being greeted by the host, taking a seat. Captions flicked across the screen. “We’re lucky to be joined today by Ruth Harwood, Archbishop of York.”
“Hello!”
He checked his phone. Two new messages.
Sorry to disturb you. Good luck.
No sign of Karen. Maybe for the best. No more strategy, time to trust the Spirit.
He swallowed and looked up again. There was a light in her eyes, her cheeks slightly flushed with well-concealed nerves. It was strange to see her here, rather than watching from somewhere behind the camera. Too late to reply to her text.
“…it’s been a difficult time for the Church. Our instinct is to avoid conflict, and we have been trying to do that. But this morning we woke to a tragedy which could have been so easily avoided, and I am reminded that the mission of the Church is not to support the State, or to avoid conflict. It is to stand with the marginalised and oppressed, to feed the hungry and give shelter to the homeless and to bring comfort to those who are in pain.
“So the Church must, as I do now, ask forgiveness for our failure to do so. Annabelle’s death is a sign of what is to come. I remember the days when the State cared for those in need, the days of council housing and benefits, and a health service which did not drive those unfortunate enough to need it to bankruptcy. And after that, the way in which we cared for one another, through food banks and emergency shelters, and through countless other services provided free of charge to enable others to survive.
“I do not dismiss the issues of corruption and the need for accountability which have led us here. But I have to say, is it worth it? Your money is safe. So safe that it isn’t going to where it’s needed. Why do these camps exist? Because the organisations which offered shelter, food, financial advice, healthcare, and so much more, have been disabled. And no, they can’t just tighten up on their reporting. Firstly, because they do not have the resources to do so. Secondly, how can they ask everyone who comes to them to give details, to give an account of their personal history, financial situation… and then to wait as the information is verified, and all the while they and their children are starving in the cold.
“We have said this in parliament, we have petitioned and marched. When do we turn and actually look at those who are in need? When do we stop arguing with the State and start ministering to the people?”
The host leant forward in his seat. “Of course, many clergy have already decided, and have been taking action, and the Church of England has been opposing this.”
“To our great shame, we have. We have betrayed those who have had the courage to live according to the Gospel. And I’m sorry that it took a tragedy to show me that. We are afraid of persecution, but the Church from the earliest years has been called to stand up in the face of such persecution. I would like to personally apologise to all York clergy who have faced disciplinary measures in return for their service, and to thank them for their strength. And I encourage them: keep up the good work.”
“So are you changing your advice?”
“I do have a message for all Christians, both clergy and laity: I will not tell you to break the law. I will not encourage you to take this lightly. But I will say this: we have a higher law. There is advice I gave at the start of this, which is to give directly, generously, to those in need. The law does not prevent you from doing so, and it is a call for everyone who is able. But for those who want to do more, I will say that we still need our charities, more than ever. Bringing together skills and resources to produce something more than the sum of their parts. To those people, in the words of the Beatitudes: blessed are those who are persecuted for the cause of righteousness. Be strong, for God is with you to uphold you.”
“You’re encouraging people to ignore the law? Is this the position of the Church?”
“It is my personal position, I have not yet discussed the matter with Synod or the College of Bishops and I will let Richard Greene speak for himself.”
“Well!” said Tom’s neighbour loudly. “That’s unexpected. I knew I liked her!”
There were similar noises around the waiting room, followed by the buzz of noise of those who’d watched explaining to those who hadn’t.
“She’s got guts!”
“Good on her!”
Tom took out his mobile phone and found Ruth's number, typing quickly, half hiding his phone behind his sleeve.
Good job. Was on the TV here, got a bit of conversation, went down well.
Glancing back at her face on the screen, he ignored the captions to focus on her flushed cheeks. Please don’t let the hospital run too late, he thought. He needed to be back there.
He hit send and then realised that his neighbour was looking at him.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to look.”
He sighed. “Sorry, I shouldn't have it out I know. She’s the one who called me earlier, I think you now know why.”
“You knew that was coming?”
“I don’t think anyone did. Not even her.”
“Well, it was bloody brilliant. I was getting fed up with the Church, wondering if I had her wrong, but that's much more like it.”
“I’ll tell her you said that. She’ll be delighted.”
“I’ve been nattering about the weather, and you have the archbishop’s ear?”
“I’m no celebrity! Just her chaplain. You haven’t missed the chance for any gossip, either – I don’t talk about work.”
“Well, that’s still fun…”
“Sandy Tillerman?”
Her head snapped up at the voice over the announcement system. “Ah, that’s me. Good to chat. Tell her she has us oldies on her side, right?”
He smiled, and she shuffled away. There were magazines on a table across from him, and he picked one up, a good way to avoid any more attention as he waited for his name to be called.
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