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.
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