The twenty-third of December was the coldest day of the winter to date, dipping down to minus twelve just before dawn. By the time Ruth checked the news, four of the Cathedrals had opened their doors. By noon, three more had joined them. It was something parish churches, besides synagogues and mosques, had been doing some time, but the cathedrals had held back.
Tom was dashing from service to service in the manner common to rural vicars on Sunday mornings. Ruth had been to the 10am at St Mary-on-the-hill, where the congregation had treated her as normally as could be expected. She memorised what they said about Tom, to pass on to him later, and nodded as they talked about the following couple of days of Christmas events and the news.
“It’s criminal, it really is, for people to be out in the weather.”
“Good on the cathedrals opening their doors.”
“About time too.”
“It’ll be awkward with all of the services.”
“It’s that or people freezing to death.”
Ruth passed the green teacup from hand to hand. She’d just about decided what to do on Christmas Day – she’d be going to York in the afternoon, once Tom was back and they’d eaten lunch. Wendy and Mark were organising dinner in the Minster, and she could help. Then after that… she was thinking of heading down to London. That was where the worst of it was to be found.
She walked back to the cottage, which took about forty minutes. Tom had offered to make a flying pass on his way to the next church, but she’d turned him down - he’d have a job not to be late anyway. And the walk was nice, nipping over a hill and then following a path around the edge of the lake. It was more direct than the roads, and might have been quicker without the concern about slippery ice beneath the three-day-old snow.
The following day, Christmas Eve. The news showed clips of choirs visiting camps to sing carols, and later in the day a couple of pictures of homeless guests at the backs of services, sleeping bags piled against the walls behind them. It might be messy, but that wasn’t a bad thing. She wondered how many sermons would draw inspiration from it that night and the following day.
Tom’s sermon, at midnight in St Mary-on-the-hill, certainly did. He spoke about an incarnation amongst outcasts, bringing light into darkness. Candles glimmered through scented smoke. Let all mortal flesh keep silence, they sang, a hymn far too rarely used at these midnight services. The bell chimed out the hour a little before the Peace. “Peace be with you! Merry Christmas!”
Peace? What was peace, where was peace? Surely not this silent suffering?
Hark the Herald still ringing in their ears, they poured out into the churchyard, where the silent snow was falling once more. Yea, Lord, we greet thee, born this happy morning. Had he been born today, would it have been in a stable, or would his mother have lain on cardboard boxes, under a blanket held out by neighbours? If they were lucky, someone might run to call a volunteer medic. And then they’d be left out, not even a tent between them and the snow, the father keeping anxious watch as the exhausted mother slept, a desperate effort to hold the child on the narrow line between freezing and smothering.
Hopefully, they’d at least have had a cathedral floor beneath them.
Tom was gone before she woke, leaving her feeling guilty. With the fresh snow, it might be a forty-five minute drive to his first church, the first of four today. Today, licensed lay readers or wardens would start each service, and he would race along icy roads to arrive in time for the gospel, pronouncing the blessing and leaving before the final hymn. The churches shared vestments, perhaps four decent sets left between the nineteen churches in the benefice, so he might not even take the chasuble off before getting into the car. Hopefully, he’d remember to leave the radio mic. Much as it hurt to know he was doing what she couldn’t, she felt for him, and raced to open the door at the sound of the car crunching on snow outside. There he was, in the driver’s seat, a bundle of white and gold, fast asleep. Automation was a great thing.
It seemed cruel to wake him, but she did, tapping on the car window until he stirred and then unlocked the door.
“Did I..?” He blinked blearily.
“You were fast asleep. Come inside.” She found his crutches and gave them to him, helping him to his feet and then staying alert in case he slipped. She’d been planning to get him to drive her to the station, but mentally scrapped that plan.
She helped him remove the vestments, ignoring his protests. He could barely keep his eyes open, he wasn’t going to be balancing unaided.
“I thought you were only helping out, while we’re here.”
“There’s a lot to help with.”
“You need to learn to set limits.”
“Pot, kettle.”
She accepted that. After all, she’d worked at least three months without taking two days off in a row. Three months of twelve hour days, frequently more.
“Eat.”
He managed half a plateful before slumping. She woke him up and sent him to bed. “Look after yourself. Sleep. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Don’t do anything rash.”
“I won’t.”
Guilty as she felt about getting someone out on Christmas Day, she called a taxi to take her to Penrith, allowing plenty of time so as not to miss one of the only trains making the journey today. The heater next to her seat was on full blast, almost uncomfortably hot, but she supposed that was better than the alternative. She took her book and a thermos from her bag and settled down for the journey, occasional glances out of the window as the English countryside whizzed by. They drew into York, and she stood up, shoving her hands in her pockets for the brisk walk to the cathedral.
York Minster. A hub of activity and emotion. She should have preached there this morning, heard the choristers sing soaring descants. Should have stood behind that gold-draped altar…
The nave had been transformed, a hive of activity. She saw Wendy almost immediately and headed over, and within minutes found herself setting up tables in long rows. Someone brought out rolls of banqueting roll, and then mountains of plates appeared, dragged over from the choir school on trolleys. Ruth found herself in another line, filling jugs in the vestry and spacing them along the tables. And there were tealights in coloured glass jars, and paper snowflakes cut out and decorated by the brownies and cubs. Stewards were at the door, the first guests beginning to arrive, gazing warily up at the stone vaults and clinging to possessions. Another team were laying out Christmas crackers. Wendy and Mark had pulled out all the stops, coaxing sponsorship in the form of produce from both local stores and chains.
In the kitchen, Ruth found a job for herself with mountains of carrots to chop. Across the table were the sprout-trimmers, while the ovens were surrounded by regular Open Churches volunteers and a couple of the school catering staff. Christmas dinner for five hundred was quite an undertaking, but she was impressed by how many people had turned out - and on Christmas Day too, while most of the country would be sitting in front of the television wondering whether it was time to cut the Christmas cake.
The media had arrived. Stewards kept them back, near the door. Ruth, now carrying loaded plates to the tables, glanced up a few times to see lenses pointed straight at her, and proceeded to ignore them. The dean and chapter were working too, seating guests and loading plates. Space was found to squeeze in an extra table, cutlery being scrambled from somewhere. Portion sizes were reduced. At long last, volunteers sat down on the floor in huddles with dishes of potatoes, vegetables, and stuffing between them, and the Minster was filled with animated chatter and the clatter of knives and forks on plates.
After pudding, washing up. Several of the guests wandered over and asked, could they help? Those who wanted to were shown trollies and bin bags and joined in with the great clearing of tables. Ruth pushed one of the first laden trollies across to the kitchen and then took possession of a sink. A couple of camera operators were allowed a brief glimpse inside, then herded away quickly so that they didn’t get in the way. Raucous strains of Christmas songs drifted across from the Minster.
Once the work was done, Ruth spent the rest of the evening amongst the guests. Tables were gone and replaced with huddles of sleeping bags, grubby duvets, and coats. The building certainly wasn’t warm, even with all of the body heat being given off. They sat on cold stone, swapping stories about memories from before, about hopes for after, about the great Christmas memories of childhood. Her mind shifted to Tom. She shouldn’t have left him alone – he’d probably sleep most of the day, but it was Christmas and he was alone. He’d be thinking of his family.
An impromptu round of Silent Night. On one side, parents settling their children to sleep. The elderly, lying on their backs, continuing quiet conversations as they gazed up at the ceiling. Here and there, huddles of younger people, still sitting up, chatting quietly in consideration of those around. Someone lit a cigarette and volunteers instantly descended, a short argument which was over quickly as the smoker was directed outside. Ruth left at last, gratefully accepting a lift from Wendy.
Back to Bishopthorpe, to the flat that was still more hers than anyone else’s. She hadn’t been here since that day when she’d piled possessions into cases. There was laundry in the basket, which she resolved to deal with it in the morning. Her bed was made, from the morning when she’d got up to go to London and meet with Richard and had joined a protest on the way. She was glad she’d returned now, when she was too tired to be emotional.
In the morning, she loaded the washing machine and ate dry cereal, having grimly emptied an abandoned bottle of milk down the sink. She’d intended to head back early to the Lakes, but had to wait until everything was hanging on drying racks. Apart from empty spaces in wardrobes and on shelves, the flat was the same as ever, so long as she didn’t think too much it felt normal. Like a day off, catching up with housework too often neglected. It was Boxing Day, and the Palace downstairs would be empty, but that didn’t affect her here anyway.
Around midday, she called Tom.
“Hiya.”
“Hi Tom.”
“Saw you on the news. The cameras love you.”
“I’ve become quite good at ignoring them.”
“I can see. You’ve come out well. Though you have far too many camp t-shirts, and the layered look makes you look like my old youth group leader.”
“What you mean is, I have far too few tops which aren’t purple clericals, and given how you've turned out I don't think being likened to your youth group leader is an insult. Anyway, it was a good evening. Lovely atmosphere, mostly.”
“I got that from the clips.”
“How are you? Sleep well?”
The hesitation that told her he’d been thinking about family. “Very. Most of the afternoon, after you’d gone, and then until nine this morning.”
“Some lie-in, really pushing the boat out there. I’m about to head back.”
“See you in a few hours.”
She’d caught the train down mostly so she could drive her own car back, and it was a nerve-wracking journey without automation to help with the ice. She didn’t drive often anyway, and while the motorways were fine, she could feel her heartrate climbing as she crawled the last few miles through the hills. Oh well, best get used to it, because if she went ahead with her plan she’d be doing plenty more of this.
Tom was slumped on the sofa when she got back, asleep again. Woke a couple of hours later and looked startled to see her.
“I fell asleep again, didn’t I?”
“Apparently.”
He groaned and stretched. “Looks like you had a good adventure. And a responsible one.”
“So long as they don’t make a fuss about soliciting goods donations from stores.”
“That wasn’t your doing.”
“I’ve made plans. There’s a local group here which is sending stuff down – it’s a good area, no camps. I’m going to drive down to London and then see what I can do in the camps there.”
“Stay safe. Keep me in the loop with what you’re doing.”
“You’re not going to discourage me?”
“I’m too tired. And you’re a responsible adult, you can make your own decisions. I guess you saw the vigil last night?”
“No?” She’d been busy, hadn’t looked at the news at all.
“For the people who’ve died this year, in the camps and on the streets. They lined Westminster bridge with candles for them.”
“Oh. I didn’t know.”
“It’s about a hundred they have named. More than twenty in the past week.”
She twisted the ring on her finger. “How did we get to this?”
He only shook his head. “There’s more snow forecast. Parliament’s out for the festive period.”
“Screw Parliament.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
If York had been uplifting, London was the opposite. Or not London, but an area of wasteland outside, where Ruth parked the car in what seemed to be a car park and set off in search of some sort of organisation.
The short winter day was done, though reflections off the snow lit the night. She followed a stream of helpers carrying crates of bread and vegetables in the direction of a large gazebo. A long line of people straggled into the darkness. There were tents here, and huts taped together from cardboard, bin liners on the roofs to keep melting snow from dissolving the card into pulp. Across from the food station, the biggest tent, from which groaning could be heard. Every now and then, a uniformed first aider would slip in or out.
Nobody had recognised her. Or if they had, they didn’t care.
“Let me know what I can do.”
“Best stick to the kitchen, over there. There’s soup to be made, go and chop everything you can lay your hands on. Don’t go anywhere on your own.”
A number of miniature wind turbines whizzed overhead, their cables connected to a battery and from there to four camp stoves. Ruth found a chopping board, a knife, and a mountain of assorted vegetables. Ripping open the first packet, she set to work, cautious in the low light.
“You new?”
“Yeah, I was told to come here.”
“Cool. Name's Esther. Welcome to the coalface.”
“Ruth.”
“Oh yeah, Carlisle group?”
“That’s right.”
“I got the email. Ask me if you have questions, I’m kind of team lead here. You seem to have figured things out anyway. Don’t peel unless they’re really bad, it’s a waste of nutrients, and obviously be careful with waste, we don’t need more rats. You’ll get used to the dark, the electricity mostly goes on the stoves.”
“Got it.”
This was not the kitchen of the choir school, cooking turkey dinners for five hundred for Christmas Day. This was an endless stream, every day. Food scrounged from around the country, boiled up together and seasoned with whatever was available. Ruth stayed as late as she could, then checked in to the nearest hostel with some other volunteers, ready to come back the next morning.
About a week later, on New Year’s Day, it was curry. Bags of rice, hoarded until there was enough to go round. Ruth found herself and another volunteer armed with tin openers, filling giant pans with assorted pulses. They joked that it was a celebration, that was why they were breaking into the long-term supplies. In reality, the shops hadn’t been open today, so there was nothing new.
It went down well, anyway. Ruth had a bowl, and it was good, the sauce managing to bring together the chaotic mix of ingredients. The cooks here were experts at working without recipes, and she watched them carefully, learning how they did it. Those finishing touches, knowing which of the secret stash of herbs and spices would make each meal.
A couple of days later, her phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hi Ruth, it’s Anna. It’s about your summons… for the twenty-fifth? Where are you?”
“In London.”
“What? You’re supposed to tell me, so the police have your address…”
“I don’t really have an address. I go back to the cottage sometimes.”
“What on earth are you doing?”
“Feeding people. I told you”
“Oh, that. Right. I see.” She paused for a second, as if she half wanted to object. Admittedly, Ruth hadn’t told her the extent of her involvement. “We need to meet again to discuss your case. We have three weeks to get everything sorted. Where’s best?”
“I’m just outside London most of the time, I can come in if that’s convenient.”
“You’re on bail. You’re supposed to be lying low, not running all over the country.”
“There’s work. It needs doing.”
“And you’re… right, I’ll meet you in London. Does Wednesday morning work for you?”
“I’ll make it work.”
“Good.” She gave Ruth a time and a place, and then hung up.
The twenty-fifth. She hadn’t been back to the cottage for a few days, that was why she hadn’t seen the summons yet. She needed to pop back soon, really.
Tom would be having his operation then. It hit home: he wouldn’t be there to catch her. And of course, it’d worry him, going for an operation he was already terrified for and knowing that she was facing this without him. She was tempted not to tell him.
It was half an hour before her phone rang again, and she glared at the name on the screen before picking up. An eye roll to her fellow volunteers as she slipped out the back.
“Hello, Richard.”
“Good afternoon, Ruth. Anna spoke to me…”
“Make it quick, I’ve work to do.”
“What? Oh, you’re doing your homeless thing. I want you to come and see me.”
You come to me, she was tempted to say. “Helping those abandoned by the State, I think you meant to say. When?”
“The seventeenth, at eleven – though I’m coming from another meeting so may be slightly late.”
She wanted to refuse, to tell him she was busy then. But there was still the chance that her regaining her job after the legal stuff was over would come down to his influence. So she just sighed internally. “Fine. See you at Lambeth.”
“You should bring someone, a friend or a colleague. It’s policy. Someone from Bishopthorpe, or one of the other bishops. My chaplain will sit in and take notes”
“Oh yeah. We have to do things properly, don’t we?” It was too far to bring Tom, and she didn’t really want him there for it anyway. “I’ll see if Lizzie’s free. Got any alternative dates in case she isn’t?”
“Eighteenth, ten or half past two. Or nineteenth at six pm, if that’s really the only time she can manage. Otherwise you might have to think of someone else. Email it to my PA once you’ve talked to her.”
“Will do. Anything else?”
“No, that’s all.”
“Bye then.” She hung up and looked for Lizzie’s number, hesitating over it. There were things she could be doing right now, but at the same time, better to get it over with.
“Hi Ruth, everything okay?”
“Lizzie. Am I interrupting anything?”
“No, it’s my day off.”
“Oh, sorry. My apologies to Marcie.”
“I’ll pass them on, but she said I was allowed to pick up for you just this once.”
“I feel very privileged. Anyway, Richard’s called me in and I’m supposed to bring a friend or colleague. Are you willing? It’s in London but I know you’re busy.”
“Absolutely I am. When?”
“Ideally seventeenth at eleven, he says.”
“Hmm. Give me a sec.” There was a brief silence. “Right, got my diary. I’ll make it work. Meet for coffee beforehand?”
“That’d be great.”
“Alright. Old Palace at ten? Give us time to get to Lambeth.”
“Sure.”
“See you then. You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Text me if you need anything.”
“Thanks. Bye.”
Ruth hung up and emailed the confirmed date, before shoving her phone back into her pocket and returning to the kitchen. She didn’t like meeting Richard at the best of times, and she couldn’t pretend she was looking forward to this one at all. But at least she'd have Lizzie, and she knew Lizzie would be on her side, and in the meantime there was plenty to distract her.
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