“I’ve been thinking…”
Tom laughed. “Always dangerous.”
“Shut up!” He was watching the road, but could imagine her eye roll. “I want to get out and do stuff. Wendy is out working in the camps, running her food banks, yelling at the government…”
“Don’t yell at the government. Right now that would be… unwise.”
“I’m not an idiot,” she snapped.
“Sorry.”
“I know protesting would be unhelpful. But I want to go and help, on the ground, in the real life business of feeding people and washing pots and handing out sleeping bags. I’m not used to sitting still, I needed the break but now I need to get back to work. I have time, I should be using it.”
“You have your book.”
“Yeah, I have that, if I can actually concentrate enough to produce anything worth writing. It's not exactly ministry, though.”
“Christmas is next week.”
“Obviously. You’ll be leading twelve services over the course of two days, no doubt.”
“Something like that.” It was grating on her, he should have realised. That he could carry on working, and she couldn’t.
A long pause. He glanced across to see her staring determinedly out of the window.
“Hey,” he said gently. “It’s only a couple of months.”
She didn't look at him. “I was supposed to be presiding at the Minster. It’s one of the few services where I start thinking about the sermon months in advance – I have a document of ideas, and now we’re in Advent I keep thinking of it and it reminds me I won’t be doing it. And then all the carol services, charity lunches, turning on of lights, nativity plays… could I have timed it any worse?”
He didn’t have an answer. He knew what she meant – the endless stream of functions, with lights and singing and happy faces. His challenge was always to keep Ruth grounded, to help her keep Advent when the world had moved on to Christmas.
“On a purely selfish level,” he said in the end, “it saves me the embarrassment of not being able to do my job properly. Don’t want to imagine trying to take your crozier and mitre and then stay upright right now.”
She hiccupped. “True.” A pause. “Heard anything about the operation?”
“Did I not say? End of January, the twenty-second.”
“No you didn’t say! That’s very soon, I’m pleased.”
“They had a cancellation. Probably some poor sod who lost everything and couldn’t afford it.”
She fiddled with her episcopal ring.
“And yeah. Janice said the waiting lists didn’t apply to people who’d spent ten years putting it off.”
“Janice is a wise woman.”
“I should be gone three weeks at most. One in the hospital after the operation, up to two in a care home, though I almost certainly won’t need the whole time. It’s just until I can make the journey back up to York.”
“There won’t be any rush.”
He shrugged the comment off. “Anyway. At least I won’t be embarrassing myself in front of a packed cathedral. Round here, they’re happy to have a priest at all. Apparently there was a part-time non-stipendiary too, but she couldn’t afford to keep it up.”
“How is the Church still standing?”
“Um, barely?”
She shook her head. “Anyway, I want to go and do something. Anna thinks the court summons will come through in the next few weeks, but obviously they’re busy with all the charity stuff.”
“And not sure how to handle something with this much publicity.”
“That too. She said they might be waiting for public attention to fade. Once we actually get there, it won’t take long, since I’m pleading guilty. It’d save so much time and hassle if they’d just get on with it.” She managed to say it so casually.
“You are?”
“I stood on a wall and egged on a bunch of dissidents, in front of at least ten police officers, didn’t I?”
“I guess…”
“Anyway, if they’re going to drag their feet, I don’t want to hide up here stewing.”
“You’ve only been here a week.”
“I haven’t had two days off in a row since September. A week is a long time.”
“That in itself suggests you need it. Advent is a time of waiting. Just keep being patient.”
It was the wrong thing to say, and he knew it before it was out of his mouth.
“Patient? You want me to be patient?”
“Sorry. Sorry, that was a shit thing to say.”
“Yeah, it was. If I’d faced it when it first broke then I wouldn’t be worrying about it now. I wouldn’t be hiding, afraid of being recognised, like I am now. You've still got your job, and all the stuff round here, you barely stop moving and you're preaching to me about patience and waiting? Really, Tom?”
He concentrated on the car, wishing the automation were less advanced so he’d have something to do. They’d wanted to get her out of the limelight until she was ready to deal with it, but in doing so they’d taken her away from everything, and made decisions which should have been left to her. Had they gone too far?
The car pulled into the drive outside the cottage, and he felt a sudden rush of anger at his own uselessness. He fumbled for his crutches, found and then dropped them and had to scramble again. Damn his stupid knee. Damn that stupid accident. Damn it all.
Ruth found them for him and stood beside his door to help him out. “Sorry.”
He shook his head. “Don't apologise, you're right. I’ve been a useless friend.”
“No, you haven’t, honestly.”
He grounded the crutches and hopped forwards, towards the door. “Don’t mind my feelings.”
“But I do. You’re right, I needed space, I just don’t know what to do with it.. Waiting, being patient… it’s not me.” She took his coat, hanging it up before he could try to do it himself. “Come on. I'll light the fire.”
He sat down heavily on the sofa, prodding at the rug with his crutch. “Worrying will get us nowhere. I know that, and it doesn’t stop me either. I want to protect you, and I hate – I hate that I can’t. Why is it so hard? Why can’t I..?” His throat choked.
“You’re a wonderful protector,” she told him gently. “But I don’t always want to be protected. I’m tough, you know that.”
He was silent. Remembered her kneeling on the frosted grass, oblivious to the world around, locked in her own fear and confusion and emptiness. Remembered her shaking hand as she read the disciplinary letter, her eyes staring at him, through him.
Mick, further down the road, staring. Staring at Tom, staring at the wheelchair. Staring through him. Then gone.
“Sometimes tough makes it worse,” he whispered.
“What?” Her voice snapped through his thoughts.
“Nothing. Sorry, too much in my head.”
She sat back, staring into space for a minute, before eventually speaking, her tone resigned. “It’s less than a week until Christmas. I’ll keep this time of waiting until then; after all, you promised me a two week retreat. But I’m going to have a think and decide what to do after that, or even on the day. Are they celebrating Christmas in the camps?”
“I don’t know. You want to go and help?”
“I’m not sure how. But I know someone will organise something, and maybe I can help – not just as a publicity thing, properly.”
“It’s up to you. Be sure to check with Anna, and let me know if you need driving anywhere.” He hesitated. “We need to work out how to get your car here.”
“It'd be handy. Anyway I’ll talk to Wendy, she’ll know.”
“Yeah.” They’d laughed about Wendy being a troublemaker when this all began. Not long ago, though it felt it.
It would have been nice to go for a walk after lunch, but even moving round the cottage hurt enough, so instead they settled down with books, he on the sofa and Ruth curled under a blanket on an armchair. He didn't take in much of his own book, but every now and then Ruth read out a passage that had struck her in hers, and sometimes he'd comment. Outside, the sun went down, and Ruth had to get up three or four times to stir the fire back to life.
Eventually, he took advantage of her being on her feet to hold out a hand.
“Time I was off. Help me get upright?”
She grasped his wrist firmly, bracing so he could pull himself to his feet, then looked him up and down. “You're alright to drive?”
“Have to be. The car will do the work anyway.”
“Have a safe journey and a good few days. See you next week. And give my love to the Bishopthorpe team, Merry Christmas and all that.”
“Will do.”
Another long drive, time to think if he could focus enough. Instead he gazed out of the window and waited for the miles to drift by. It was as though the afternoon's rest had made him realise how tired he was, and now his body knew it couldn't forget, and he just had to get through it because tomorrow work would still need to be done. There were just too many emotions and too much to think about and too much pain.
When he woke up in the morning his leg had seized up, as he discovered when he tried to move. It always hurt in the morning, but today he had to grit his teeth to sit up, tears in his eyes. If he could get as far as the kitchen there were meds which would help, but he had to walk there first. It took twenty minutes before he could bring himself to even get out of bed, twenty minutes of sitting there helpless, trapped between the pain and the memory of the nightmares which had disturbed his sleep. Why today, what made today different from other days? He knew the answer: nothing. It was just one of those days that hurt.
Hopping entirely on his good leg, he eventually made it as far as the drawer where he kept his supports, taking out the strongest and sitting down on the chair to put it on. It hurt, so much, a couple of tears escaping on the way to the kitchen. He poured a glass of water and sat, staring at the pill packet. What would it take to make the pain go away? He popped out two and swallowed them, with water, stowing the packet back in the box and checking the time so he would know when he was allowed his next dose. For a very brief moment he contemplated calling in sick, but what would he do? Sit at home with the pain? He'd rather go in.
It took a long time for the drugs to kick in, time in which he made toast and picked at it until it was cold. He forced it down anyway - he needed it, for the meds. Then, once in clericals, he went to the car and drove the two minute journey to the Palace, where he let himself in and went down to the chapel. Ruth should have been there, kneeling in her stall, but instead it was empty. He paused a moment beside it, running a hand over the cushion, before adjusting his grip on his crutches and hauling himself along. He was too tired, even with the pain dulled.
Morning prayer flowed straight into work, the never-ending stream of tasks made so much worse by Ruth's absence. It was late in the morning when he sat back and rubbed his eyes, looking away from the computer screen for a few minutes. A few more things and then Eucharist. A quick check of the rota: yes, he was leading, and there was no joy at the thought. He didn't want to. For a moment he could see Ruth's longing, the emotion as she voiced the thought that she might never preside again. A glance at the locked door that led to her empty office. Slowly, he got up and hobbled down the corridor to Kath's office.
“Hi Tom.” Ruth's Chief of Staff glanced up at his knock. "What do you need?”
He swallowed hard. "I'm down to preside today, would you mind stepping in? Sorry, I know you're busy...”
“Yes, that's fine. Been called out?”
He shook his head. “No, I just... feel like I want to be congregation today, if that's okay, so I thought it was worth asking.”
She stood up and pushed the door closed behind him. “I completely understand. Can I do anything else to help?”
“I'm fine. Just... tired.”
“You can take the rest of the day off if you need it. You look like you do.”
He shook his head. “I'd rather be here.” He shrugged. “Anyway, who would I call, without Ruth here?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Me?”
“Oh, yeah, I guess.”
That earned him a look which was as much pity as exasperation. “How is Ruth?”
“Coping. She's starting to contemplate getting involved in relief efforts in some way.”
“Better warn Karen.”
“Yeah. I should do that. Not that Ruth's decided exactly how to go about things yet.”
“But Karen likes to have warning." She sat down at her computer again. “While you're here, is there anything you need to do with your operation? Everything okay access-wise?”
He shifted awkwardly. “No, it's fine.”
“And there's nothing else you need? Just checking because obviously Ruth's not here...”
“No. It's fine.”
A brief, searching look. “Good. Okay, so I'm doing the Eucharist, and I need to do some emails first. If that's it, we'd best get on.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“See you later, take care.”
He popped in to see Karen before returning to his office, and she reacted to Ruth's plans with an exaggerated sigh.
“Can she not lie low for a couple of weeks? At least let us deal with the initial chaos, before throwing us another curveball?”
A smile tweaked at his lips. “Nope. You’ve worked with her for enough years to know that.” And you're already plotting how get some good material out of it, he thought.
“Great. So now I’ll have to be constantly on my toes waiting to see what she does next.”
“She’s popular, and you know it. It's not exactly going to be bad press.”
“I suppose so. Easier to work with than the last curveball she threw us..!”
“And you've got some warning. She's promised not to give us anything until Christmas.”
“Very considerate." She shrugged. "Guess I can't complain, the press will love it. You’d think they’d have bigger things to worry about than the latest gossip instalment in a Church of England political drama. Then again, “people are dying because the government's shit” isn’t really news anymore. They must be excited for anything to break up the monotony of despair.”
“Loving the positivity, Karen. I'm sure it'll be really compelling for your readers.”
She rolled her eyes at him. "You've delivered your message. Haven't you got work to be doing?”
“Yes. Bye.”
She just shook her head in silence, and he left.
He went back to his office and sat down heavily, glancing at emails and then at his phone. What had things been like, before all this? Ruth in the next office, sticking her head into his office every couple of hours, he doing the same to hers. Enabling, following her instructions, keeping an eye out for her as she did the million different things that made up her ministry. So many of which he was only just starting to realise, now she wasn't here to do them.
And then there was the operation. Less than a month, just. Whether it went well or not he'd wake up different, perhaps especially if it went well. What would it be like, to not feel bone against bone with every step? To not have to explain his needs everywhere he went? To not have people look at him like he was broken? Not that people did, when they knew him, but strangers did. And what about all those friends, other disabled priests, who he knew because of this thing they shared? Perhaps he would wake up and never be able to walk again, or perhaps he would wake up cured, and he wasn't sure of which he was more afraid, because they were both unknown.
No, Tom, stop thinking about it.
He sent a text to Janice before he could overthink it and returned to work, checking the news first. Two more deaths, one in the London camp and one on the streets of Nottingham. This wasn’t headline worthy, it just crept in on the sidebar. He skimmed the basic details and then closed the tab, finding his emails instead, and the agenda for the first of this afternoon's meetings. Notes to make, in preparation. A couple of emails to send. Ten to twelve and he stood up, getting the lift down to the ground floor, a few smiles at other staff also making their way to chapel. Up ahead, the presence lamp burning, and he took his seat in his stall, leaning back to gaze at the ceiling. The last few whispers faded into silence. And it occurred to him, as he looked around: perhaps it was time to move on?
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