Tom asked to accompany her to the camp the following week, so they both left work early. Comfortably into February, and snow was falling yet again. The roads were busy, traffic at a crawl down a large chunk of the M1, though it was worse the other way.
They sat in silence for most of the journey. A welcome space to reflect, valuable at the end of a hectic week. She'd ended it with a phone call with David, Wendy's curate, about a confirmation service he was organising for a couple of weeks' time. He'd been excited, upbeat, clearly thriving on the responsibility. No doubt Wendy was still there in the background, and even if she wasn't David clearly had no problem with asking for help. She ran through other curates in her head, the ones she was worried about and the ones whose training incumbents had gone the same way as Wendy. Curates like Lucy, only a deacon since the summer, left alone since Mark West had decided to put his night shelter first. They'd sent an advisor in to support her, and Mark was probably still around too; Ruth certainly hadn't heard anything bad. Still, she should probably check on her when she had time.
“How do you remember your curacy?” she asked Tom casually.
He yawned. “It was good. Nice bunch, at the Good Shepherd, a pretty classic town parish. Good range of worship, too, generally on the low side but eight o’clock communion was BCP and we had some solemnity in Holy Week. On the other side, evenings of café church and experimental youth services. And then the parish… it was a varied one, some very good areas and some of the more challenging estates. The vicar was very good at being inclusive, making sure we were all one family and that means didn’t matter. And yeah, I had my challenges and heartbreaks, that’s necessary though. Gave me what I needed to get through St Andrew’s.”
“That was a tough one?”
“There were some… difficult pastoral situations, yes. Besides the fact it was dying when I joined. People were keen to improve, but, well, jokes about change... it did improve, a little, but it’s combined into a benefice with a larger church now, which is a shame because the parish was huge and a lot needed doing.”
“We need to stop cutting,” she agreed.
“How about you? You’ve had an exciting career…”
She laughed. “You could certainly say that. Supermarket area manager, straight into residential training – that was a shock. Well, I went from area managing about thirty stores, to studying for my first degree in Oxford of all places - a much better experience that I’d expected - and from there to rural parish ministry. Full high and spiky Anglo-Catholic. My first mass: east-facing, incense, oversized altar party. They wanted everything Catholic. Suited me perfectly at the time. They weren’t overly fond of having a woman at the altar, but they let me in, which is something I guess.”
“Oh. Ugh.”
She shrugged. “I was about used to it. As a deacon, there were a couple who wouldn’t receive the chalice from me. Quite a few nasty comments. Only from a few, there were a lot more who got on just fine, several who said how much they liked women being priests, or “I wasn’t sure about it but you’re okay”. My training incumbent was good, he told me not to worry about it and that some people were just very traditionally minded.”
“Seriously?” Tom shook his head. “Not really my idea of reassurance.”
“It was a while ago. I just got on with it, I’d got used to it at college anyway. Made sure to do everything exactly the same as Father Robert, so they didn’t have complaints, and just let them get used to my presence. Got more compliments than criticisms on my sermons.”
“Wow. Just… I can only hope things have improved.”
Yeah, apart from the protesters at her enthronement. “It was… must be thirty years ago? Several years before women could even become bishops, and in a pretty conservative diocese. It was already getting better at that point. Anyway, I did my first incumbency in a town parish not far off, took a break for the PhD, and then Liverpool. Did some prison chaplaincy alongside a parish, that was one of the high points, became Area Dean with a few bonus responsibilities in the diocese. And then I was a bishop. The area manager experience proved useful.”
“You’re playing all that down again.”
“There are many people with many callings. Mine just happens to have been public.” She tried not to sound too defensive.
“Of course.”
She tapped her fingers on the wheel. “I’m thinking about our curates, the ones in York. And the new ones to be ordained in the summer. They should be getting more support than they are…”
“…but there aren’t enough training incumbents around." He nodded. "Have you thought about reinstating the suspended clergy?”
“It’s occurred to me. And I’ve raised it with the archdeacons.” Trouble she didn’t need. Then again, it would help the situation, to have them back. There must be at least twenty in York diocese, and even if half of them were dealing with legal proceedings that still left a lot. A lot of excellent priests, those with a faith they dared to stand up for. The ones they needed most.
The pulled up in the parking lot. Tom climbed down with her, coming round to help her unload, and she saw him wobble. “Take it easy…”
“Muscles… aren’t used to it.”
“Still.”
“I know.” And he was sensible, only taking the lighter things.
“Ruth!” Esther came hurrying up to help unload. “You know, I find it impossible to get used to…” she waved vaguely at the collar just visible under Ruth’s coat.
“Oh, same.”
Esther laughed. “I bet.” Then she shook her head sadly. “I can’t believe this is your last visit.”
“I haven’t served here for nearly as long as I wish I could. I’m sure I will come again… but not properly. So let’s get on with some work while I am here.” She put out a hand to steady Tom, who’d slipped trying to pass her. “I told you, careful.”
“Sorry. Patch of ice.”
“We’ve had snow for a month and a half now, of course there’s ice.”
“Sorry.”
She shook her head. “Stop apologising and just look after yourself.” She took his load from his arms. “Go find another job, and I really think you should take your stick. Why don't you serve food or talk to people or something?”
He found his stick and went, more cautiously. She got on with the unloading, then grabbed supplies to clean the portaloos. Then they were sorting supplies, checking dates, finding out what should be eaten immediately and what could wait for a harder period. Looking across later as she went to help unload a van, she saw Tom sitting in the school tent with a couple of children, pointing at something on a page.
She met him later, as they left for the night. He was quiet.
“I talked to Hope,” he said in the end. “Poor kid. ‘I miss Daddy’, she told me, I just... didn’t know what to say.”
Ruth didn’t have an answer. She didn’t spend nearly enough time talking to people, there were always too many jobs to be doing. But people who were suffering needed to talk.
Tom tapped his stick against the floor. “What happens, the people who die? The funerals?”
“It’s reported to the authorities, who come and collect the body. Pauper’s funeral, unless someone offers to pay, and nobody ever can.”
“And people go?”
“I… don’t know that we ever get the date, actually. They take the body away and that’s it.”
“That’s criminal.”
“It’s all criminal.” She stared forward blankly. “You’re right. It’s a small thing, a small and cruel thing…”
“And you’re going to do something about it,” he finished. “I know you.”
“Yes,” she said slowly. “I suppose I am. I just need to work out what.”
“Publicity would be a start.”
“I need to start with finding out what exactly the procedure is. Could you look into it?”
“Of course. And publicity… if people knew about Hope… individuals always have more impact.”
“She’s a child. Is it fair?”
“She lives in a fucking camp. I mean…”
“You mean exactly that.” She shook her head. “I see your point. It depends on her, though.”
“Obviously.”
They continued in silence for a short way.
“I’m doing a baptism tomorrow,” said Ruth eventually. “A baby born in the camp this week. Can’t hang around, in an environment like that. And the mother’s visually impaired, we can hardly be telling her she needs to go to the nearest church. It’s a couple of miles away, across chaos. Anyway, her community is here, in the camp.”
“It’s good, though, that people are looking to faith in a place like that. That they’re finding hope.”
“I think they need to.”
“True.”
The following morning, they were back early. Ruth did various jobs, helped serve lunch and wash up, and then went to the car, signalling Tom to follow her, passing him a bag as she pulled a cassock alb over her head and knotted a rope cincture round her waist to raise the hem a few inches. “It’s an old one,” she told him, “so don’t worry about mud, I’ll have a clean one for tomorrow.”
“This was all planned, then?”
“We’ve talked about it before, I was asked a few weeks ago. Then the birth was announced on social media – we like to share what’s going on, get engagement – so though nobody contacted me I thought I’d better come prepared.” She took the bag back, rummaged inside, and passed him a pen, a folder, her tablet, and two candles. “There’s another child too, the parents heard about the baptism and came to me this morning. I’m glad I put in extra supplies, I had a feeling something like this might happen. I’m going to give them the baptism certificates too, but with directions they can contact Bishopthorpe directly when they’re older if they need replacements, no charge. It’s unlikely a piece of card will last long in these conditions. We’ll go to the local parish church later to record them, it’s unconventional… like everything. I decided to bring vestments so that it feels special, to show they matter.” Kissing the cross on her stole, she hung it around her neck and checked it was straight. She tugged the pectoral cross out so that it hung, visible.
He juggled the various objects into his pockets. “Anything you need me to do, other than pass you these?”
“Just… whatever you see as necessary. We haven’t had a rehearsal or anything, no time for too much ceremony. I’m going to see if someone else will read. Ah!” She dug in the bag again and found a shell, before double checking her oil stock was in her pocket. “Anything I’ve forgotten?”
“Nope, not that I can think of. I’m assuming someone else is dealing with the bowl and water!”
“Esther’s sorting that. And accounting for the fact it’ll cool rapidly!”
“Service book?”
“On my tablet. The readings, too.”
“Want to borrow my hooky stick?” He proffered his walking stick, making her laugh.
“Not my province. You can keep practicing.”
“I asked for that.”
“Yes, you did.”
A table was set up in the centre of the clearing where they usually gathered for distribution of food and for conversation. On it, a bowl from the kitchen, well scrubbed. There was a small crowd already, more looking over with interest at the sight of her vestments. Several getting up and coming over to join the gathering. She found the parents first, the mother of the new child on a chair close by, the other parents standing. The newborn was tiny, perhaps slightly premature. The other looked a couple of months old. She began by greeting each child and parent individually, before addressing the group.
“Hello! I’m delighted that we can celebrate like this today… where are the godparents?”
The godparents were summoned to gather around, and Ruth did a quick preparation class. This was very much not a normal situation – not an emergency baptism, but not a normal church one either. They had to work with what was available. And the godparents seemed keen, aware. They were all baptised Christians, they said, and she took their word for it.
Readers found, Esther brought out a pan of boiling water, to mix with the cold in the bowl. Only a small amount, in the bottom, just enough to work with – clean water was precious, needed for cooking and drinking and the medical tent. Ruth organised those involved in the service and then stepped back a moment to confer with Tom.
“The tablet?” He handed it over and she unlocked it, opening up the order of service, the readings on a separate tab. “You’re going to need to be confident with the responses, we don’t have orders of service or anything for the congregation.”
“Sure.” He arranged some of the many objects now collected in his pockets on the table. “Towel?”
“No! Good call, it’s too cold for wet babies…” She grabbed Esther and made the request.
Finally, everything set up, she raised her hands, beginning in something approaching her cathedral voice to cut across the ongoing conversations. The crowd fell silent, several more hurrying in from the surrounding area to see what was going on.
Neither of the babies cried. Probably too tired, and too cold – and no doubt the warm water was a relief compared to the air. She dried the hair of each quickly so that their hats could be replaced, only revealing just enough brow to sign them with the cross in oil. Each was bundled in a blanket, probably due largely to a lack of tiny coats.
Afterwards there were photos, taken by volunteers. The best would go up on social media, from where they would hopefully be taken by the press – anything drawing attention to the camps was good. And then children were called up to the servery, where desserts were being dished out, all of the sweet things saved up for occasions such as these. The adults would be served afterwards, and they stood watching with smiles at the rush of excitement. Tom was over there, helping to serve, and Ruth could see from his face that he was cracking jokes, pushing back his sorrow at the situation.
She felt a tug on her alb and turned to see a small boy. “Hello, there.”
“’scuse me, Miss. Granny said she wants to see you. She’s just over there, she can’t walk this far.”
“Lead on, then.” She would have liked to change out of vestments, but it didn’t really matter, so instead she followed the little boy, who led the way into the maze of makeshift dwellings. “What’s your name?”
“Benedict.”
She hadn’t been far into the camp proper before, only the station and the car park and along the clear paths which divided the camp into sections. People peering out of darkened doorways, staring. She remembered Esther’s warning, when she first arrived, about not going off alone, but she liked to trust people. “How old are you?”
“Six and a half.”
It was perhaps a hundred metres from the station to their destination, a tent made from a tarpaulin hung from a hedge and another made from sacking taped over sticks and rope. Two younger girls, adults who were presumably the mother and father and a couple of uncles, and lying in the doorway of the tent the grandmother Benedict had mentioned.
“Oh, Archbishop! I’m sorry, we told Benny not to bother you…”
Ruth smiled. “I’m glad he did. I’m told his grandmother wants to see me.”
The old lady lifted herself up onto one elbow and coughed. “I asked what was happening and they told me, and I said I wished I could go see you. So he said he’d be getting you to come and see me. I told him not to bother you.”
“That is precisely what I’m here for.” She went to the door of the tent, hitched up her robes, and crouched down. The bottom of the cassock alb was already mud-spattered from the service, and would clean. “May I ask your name?”
“It’s Margaret.”
“Good to meet you, I’m Ruth.”
“I know … it’s real happy I was when they chose you.”
“Thank you. I wasn’t too sure, myself!”
Making Margaret laugh may not have been wise, as it ended in a vigorous coughing fit. Ruth supported her, propping her up so she didn’t choke, rubbing her back.
“And is there anything I can do for you?” Apart from the obvious: get her out of here.
“I haven’t been to church in a long time, you know. When I was younger I was there all the time, I was a lay minister too. Then we found I had cancer, and I had chemo and all… they wouldn’t tell me how much it was, none of them, or I wouldn’t have let them. So we’re here now. Not worth it, for what I’ll get out of it, I’ve enough other problems.”
Ruth glanced back at the younger adults. To give up everything for an elderly relative, in the blind hope that it would work out okay, or perhaps the unbelief that the world could really be so cruel. It was folly, love was folly. And she couldn’t help thinking what Margaret must also be feeling: was it fair, to put her final years ahead of the children’s lives?
“I grew up Catholic as a kid but I’ve been CofE a long time. Makes it easier now, I don’t have to be worrying that I can’t make the Mass!”
“Of course nobody could say it’s your fault…”
“I do miss it.”
“I’m sorry. It’s hard, for anyone who’s housebound in a normal sense. I’m afraid I don’t have the reserve Sacrament with me, and I’m not sure when I’ll be here next, but whenever I am… and I’ll see the parish priest here later, I can ask them to come out.”
She hacked a laugh again. “Don’t you be going to trouble for me. I’ve had more than my share of fuss already.”
They talked a little longer, about Margaret’s life, her time as a licensed lay minister, the children, and her hopes.
“I want them to get out of this soon. There’s a little volunteer school, but it’s not the best start in life.”
Ruth nodded. “It’s a hard world.”
Eventually Margaret lay back. “I shouldn’t be keeping you so long, you’ve a lot to be doing. It’s good of you to come talk to me.”
“It’s my pleasure. Would you like me to pray with you?”
“I would, yes. I’ve not long left in me now. The cancer’s back.”
She said it matter-of-factly, an attitude Ruth was glad to hear. Accepting death as a part of life, and not too fearful. It made the end easier, for everyone.
She said a prayer, anointing Margaret with oil from the triple oil stock in her pocket, and then stood. “It’s been lovely to meet you, Margaret. I wish you every blessing and will keep you, and your family, in my prayers. I hope I can come back to see you at some point.”
Margaret smiled a thin smile. “You’ll have to be quick. You’re in my prayers too, Godspeed.”
Benedict was watching as she left the tent and said goodbye, and followed her a little way. The adults knew what was coming, and perhaps living here he did too. So young, to be trapped here. There was a surge of anger in her chest, anger that such things could be ignored, that everyone else was not angry too.
A day begun with joy would end with bitterness, that was the cycle of things. From birth, to death. She made her way back through the mess of snow and mud, the temperature dropping around her. The days were growing longer, but now the first fires were being kindled, a hint of warmth to bide the evening before bed, for anyone who could find the fuel. She took off her vestments, put on her coat, and returned to the kitchen for one last evening.