Chapter 10: Preparing

Tom called a taxi from the station. He was about to pay so much for this operation that these little costs didn’t matter. And the place he was going to visit was off the tube line, barely accessible even by bus.

It was the convalescent home recommended by his insurer, and he was fine to just agree but they insisted on him visiting first. Making sure it would be ‘suitable’, as if there were an alternative. And charging an administrative fee for the privilege, not to mention the travel costs. This operation was feeling more and more like a luxury, although he’d now been lent a fold-up wheelchair for really bad days. It lay in the boot of the car, a brooding presence he refused to touch.

He was shown around one of the bedrooms, and then into the ward option for those who couldn’t afford the luxury of privacy. Then to the sitting rooms, the ‘VIP lounge’ with its cash bar and the canteen-style dining room. The menu for the day was up on a screen, the price beside each item. A couple of carers dashed past, oblivious to a patient’s attempts to flag them down. What was he going to be paying for, again? A bed in a dormitory, and the right to buy food? 

He booked his bed, adding on the flexibility package that would allow last-minute changes. And then he left, quickly, because there was no benefit in staying. He’d expected it to be like the one he’d been placed in at fourteen, after his operation and before he was sent home. That one had included gardens, well maintained, with level paths for wheelchairs and a glass conservatory when it was wet or cold outside. But then that had been under the NHS, and as a child. The places for children were still nicer, he hoped.

He should have accepted a place at the clergy supported living centre. But that wouldn’t have been sharing in the lives of the people.

He went to work in a coffee shop for a few hours. Ruth would be driving up late tonight, and would pick him up. He wondered what she was doing now – probably peeling potatoes, that seemed to be most of her work these days. He only saw her a couple of times a week – she had a few different churches she went to, depending on where she was – but when he did she was always tired but happy. Well, maybe not happy, because she was often angry. But sure of herself.

She was subdued when she picked him up, though, driving for a quarter of an hour before saying more than her initial greeting.

“Another death today. He wasn’t that old, maybe a little under sixty. We’re hoping food poisoning, not something contagious, though we're careful as we can be on the cooking.”

“Look after yourself. I’m surprised the disease situation isn’t worse.”

“We’re as careful as possible. And the cold is keeping things down. How was the home?”

“Absolute rip-off, obviously.”

“Oh. Is it going to be okay?”

“It gives me an extra week before I have to make it all the way back to York, with people around just in case. It’ll do.”

She sighed and stared out of the windscreen, hands resting on the wheel. He looked at those hands. Scratched, calloused and dirty, mud ingrained under the nails. She was always so careful about scrubbing off ink blotches before going anywhere.

“You’ve changed,” he mused. “This work suits you.”

“I’ve just remembered what’s important.”

“What will you do if you’re given your position back?”

“There are many ways to do what’s important.” She drove on in silence for a while. “Richard called this my ‘homeless thing’ last week. If I do get my job back, don’t let me forget this, don’t let me forget that service is as much peeling potatoes as looking after clergy and preaching in cathedrals.”

“You’re not going to forget.”

“True, I’m not. Ever.”

The first flakes of snow touched the windscreen. The freezing temperatures had let up a little, but they just encouraged more snow, snow that would turn hard when night fell and add yet another crust to the graves of those who had died and were dying.

They were late getting back. Ruth helped him out of the car and then led the way inside, scooping a couple of letters from the doormat and carrying on inside. “Benefice newsletter,” she called from the kitchen. “In case you don’t know what’s going on…”

“They print a newsletter?”

“Apparently. And manage to find someone to deliver.” She disappeared into her room briefly, and then came out. “I need a shower. Don’t worry about cooking, I’ll deal with it as soon as I’m finished.”

“You’ve been cooking most of the day.”

“I’ve been chopping everything and piling it in a pot. You call that cooking? Anyway, I was just thinking microwave lasagne from the freezer, unless you’ve eaten it in my absence.”

“I can manage that.”

“Leave it. Go read a book of something.”

He ignored her and went into the kitchen anyway. The freezer, below the fridge… he checked the top drawer, but it wasn’t there. He looked at the bottom drawer. Maybe he should leave it for her after all.

He found vegetables instead. That way he wasn’t giving up. Sitting on a stool, peeling and slicing carrots and beans. The kettle was already full, saving him from having to fill and then carry it across from the sink. He picked a pan from the draining rack.

She took her time, understandably. “I forgot what my skin looked like,” was her greeting when she eventually returned. The lasagne was retrieved, the film pierced and the whole thing shoved in the microwave. She took the lid off the vegetables to admire his work, and then dumped the peelings he hadn’t yet dealt with. “We don’t peel the veg, in the camp. It’s a waste of nutrients.” She said it casually, no criticism.

“We’re living in the lap of luxury, here, aren’t we.”

“Mmm.”

Of course, they were really, weren’t they? Borrowing a cottage for as long as they needed it – and that as well as flats just outside York, big flats with more than one room. It was necessary because of their work, but that perhaps didn’t feel like so much of an excuse.

“How long are you staying?”

“The night and most of tomorrow. Doing the store rounds at closing time and then returning. You?”

“Early service then I’m off. The car’s at Penrith station, though.”

“Do you want to get it this evening? I could drive you to your service.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am if it avoids me having to do anything else tonight. I’m shattered.”

So was he, though it didn’t feel like he’d done that much today. About five hours on trains, when you included the long waits to change. A short taxi ride, a look around a medical facility, a couple of hours doing admin in a coffee shop, another four and a half hours in the passenger seat of Ruth's car. It had been a long day, but not a busy one.

And yet he was shattered. It was so real, now, making these final preparations. He knew he should be relieved, with the promise that soon he might be able to walk without support for the first time since he was fourteen, that he might be able to stand up and sit down without pain… he should be happy, relieved, impatient. But he felt empty, and he felt guilty for it. He didn’t really want it, why was he spending so much on it? Why not give the opportunity to someone who did want it?

And mostly, it was uncertainty. If Ruth lost her job, he might lose his too. A new archbishop would more likely bring their own chaplain from their previous see, just as Ruth had brought him, and he had to give them that option. Even if they did keep him on, it’d be a complete change, with someone new, someone he hadn’t worked with for so many years. So he had that uncertainty, and on top of it the uncertainty surrounding a major medical procedure. What if it went wrong and he couldn’t walk at all?

What if he recovered perfectly, as though nothing had ever happened? If he lost the very thing that had driven him so far, which had destroyed so much and pushed him to do so much more? What if he didn’t see Mick’s face any more, the haunted face staring at him from down the street? What if he forgot?

He traced the scars on his arms, left from where he’d thrown up his hands to protect his face. The mesh of taut skin, turned plastic in healing. The ones that were easy to hide, beneath the sleeves of his shirt. If they took away his limp, he could hide it all. Hide Mick, and the broken hearts left behind. Was it better that way?

Ruth had gone to bed already, and he went to shower. Ian had designed this place for his retirement, so it was an accessible one, a convenience he did not object to. He sat there and let the warm water run down, unstiffening ever so slowly. The cottage was well insulated, but the cold still got everywhere. He turned the heat up until it was almost scalding.

He snoozed his alarm three times in the morning, something he never usually resorted to. It was too cold outside, his blankets too warm. Too comfortable. He didn’t want to stand up, he could get on fine if he could just stay here. But he had a service to take. He had the privilege, he should be glad of it, as he knew Ruth longed to be allowed to do the things he struggled through. That didn’t make the pain go away, but it gave him something to fight the self-pity. Other people would be glad of this. That applied to the breakfast he didn’t want to eat, the cottage that failed to keep the cold out. And, of course, to the operation.

He checked the news, and it only reinforced the feeling. “No change,” he told Ruth in response to her query. “Top story is cancelled football matches, because it’s the only thing that’s new. Who wants to hear about starvation and death by exposure anyway?”

“There’s only so much sorrow we can take,” she answered quietly. “It’s too much, it’s easier to close our eyes.”

“They’re not finding anything happy, though. Just something less sad.”

“It’s normality. That’s what people want.”

“Even if they have to shut their eyes to find it?”

“We’ve been doing it for thirty, forty years. Longer. It makes it easier to enjoy what you have – guilt isn’t a fun emotion to have.”

“I suppose. It’s no surprise the world’s in the state it is.”

“It’s not new. Just more visible.”

He shook his head. “How do you have patience with it?”

“There’s nothing I can do. If they would not believe Moses and the prophets, nor would they believe even if someone should rise from the dead. If they won’t act according to what they see on the news, or hear from those around them, nor will they act if a suspended Archbishop stands up and tells them to. Not even if Richard does, or the King himself.”

“You can always hope to inspire someone.”

“Sometimes, we just have to take responsibility for ourselves. Let people look at themselves and think, is this who I am, who I want to be? I’ve said my bit, now I’ll do my bit. They can make their own decisions.”

“You’ve changed.”

“My entire life has changed.”

Just as his was about to. He reached for his crutches. “We should get going.”

She grabbed the keys from the counter. “Ready when you are.”

“We might be driving, but you definitely want a coat.”

“True.”

There was something calm, self-assured, about the way that she swung herself into the driver’s seat. She had changed, and he wasn’t sure if it was good or bad. She wasn’t worrying about other people any more. If she did get her position back, then what would she do? If she didn’t believe she could inspire?

“What are your plans for after the service?”

“I’m doing the evening run tonight, leaving mid-afternoon to go round a few stores, pick up their sell-by-date leftovers. I’ll be in London overnight, then seeing Richard tomorrow.”

“You didn’t mention Richard.”

“He insisted on a meeting. Gave me a time, warned me he might be late. Git.”

“What happened to a healthy professional relationship?”

“We don’t have a professional relationship. If we get back into one, I’ll have to work out a new attitude, but right now I feel inclined to call him a git.”

“How about you don’t do that to his face?”

“I may have changed a lot of my attitudes but I am not an idiot.”

“I’m sure. I’m more worried about whether you’ll care. Don’t destroy things before you know for sure that you’re not going back – whether because you’re not permitted, or because you choose not to. Plus, what if you want to continue serving as a priest?”

“I told you, I’m not an idiot. I’m not going to insult the Archbishop of Canterbury to his face, or in public, much as I might like to. For a start, I don’t hate him…”

“You give a good impression.”

“I find his attitudes frustrating. For his part, he doesn’t like me too much either. We’re just… different people, with different priorities and viewpoints. And I have a lot of frustrations and not enough time to deal with them, so it’s easiest just to call him names in private. Anyway, I won't be alone, I have to take someone with me so I asked Lizzie."

“Oh, she'll be a good one to have at your side.”

“Very. I'm almost looking forward to it.” She glanced at her hands. “I’ve been thinking about something else. Whether to ask him for permission to anoint you before your operation. If you want me to.”

“Oh.” He’d thought of it, actually, just hadn’t said anything, had accepted it as out of the question. “I’d like that. But… don’t worry. I can ask someone else.”

“There’s not much I can do but I’d really like to be able to do that for you. No harm in my asking.”

“No, I guess not.”

“Alright.” She adjusted her rear view mirror. “Church. You’ll have to direct me.”

© 2021 E G Ferguson