Epilogue: Manchester

Manchester. The spiked tower staring down tower blocks in defiance, as though reminding them that it had seen out centuries, had stood through war and peace, had seen them rise and would see them fall. Election adverts playing across multi-purpose facades, a figure with red rosette calling to a straggling crowd through a loudhailer. Ruth shoved her hands in her pockets and climbed the cathedral steps, Tom shadowing her as ever. He wasn’t wearing clericals, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to leave them behind, had just hidden them with coat and scarf. Habit.

They made it past the welcomer without recognition – “just having a look around”.

“Have you been here before?”

“A few times.” Ruth glanced at Tom as she said it, saw him struggle to stifle a laugh.

“Well, welcome back, I expect you know your way around, tours are every half hour if you do want to join one. Otherwise, enjoy, there’s a new exhibition…”

Nobody saw you unless they expected to. Ruth drifted up into the choir, brushed her fingers over the carved tracery of the cathedra. How many times she’d sat there, in that seat, when everything had been simpler? Not that it had really been much simpler, just that it felt that way looking back.

“Ruth! And Tom! I didn’t expect to see you…”

She turned quickly. “And I was doing my best not to be seen.”

“I almost didn’t recognise you. Don’t think I’ve ever seen you without clericals…”

She pulled her scarf down with a finger to give a glimpse of the collar. “Just passing through, I’m giving a talk this evening, over in Liverpool, but thought I’d stop off en route. See the old place. Don’t give me away?”

“Of course not. Everyone’ll be so sorry to have missed you.”

“You don’t have to tell them…” She shook her head. “Go on then, Roody. How’s it going?”

“Oh, very smoothly. Night shelter well established. Only minor repairs in need of funding. Old Nicholas is still here, though talking about retiring. Congregations are good.”

“I’m glad to hear it. And you, you’re well?”

“Oh, well enough, for my age.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Now, it’s good to see you, but if you could just pretend you didn’t see me..?”

“Of course.”

It was good to pray here again, after so long. But to do so without any pressing concern to call her away, without the knowledge that others were watching her, waiting for her. Roody had recognised her, but he was Roody, he’d leave her be, pretend she was just any other visitor.

Anonymity was nice. Anonymity let her cry for a while, silently, and then wipe tears away with a sleeve to stare up at the stained glass with a smile. All would be well, even if it didn’t feel like it. She was tired, but she was not alone, and it would be okay in the end. People had died, and were dying, but that didn’t mean there couldn’t be comfort too, didn’t mean that joy wasn’t allowed. Emotions were okay, all kinds of emotions.

And then the hard bit, where roles reversed and she shadowed Tom between rows of granite and marble markers. He stopped in front of one stone, and she wandered along a little further, reading the names and leaving him be, finding a bench and sitting down to wait as he stood looking down. Nothing for her to do but watch as he traced the scar on his arm with the tip of his finger. This trip, their last outing before he went to Nottingham, was personal and precious for both of them, and seemed to embody the shift that had been taking place over the past few months, as they had moved from colleagues to something deeper, something that would last after Tom’s contract came to an end.

He sat down beside her, in the end, and she placed her hand over his, squeezing it gently. Watched a blackbird peck in the grass.

“At least they're together,” he told her. “It was hard enough to manage a burial but mum wasn’t letting anything else happen to that poor, battered body. Put it in the ground, safe and sound, where she could come and visit and leave him flowers, do more than he let her do when he was alive. Then… you remember when she died? I had a week off, to be with her in the hospice, and then... those weeks after she died. The funeral. Her ashes went in there with him, that's what she wanted.”

She nodded. “We prayed for you. There wasn’t much more we could do, losing a mother is hard, especially like that, at your age.”

He watched the blackbird hop to another patch of grass. “Empty, more. Mick was hard, mum was just… the end of an unending road. We had a year, they dragged it out that long. When it’s someone else’s relative, you can be there, offering comfort. When it’s your own… they still expect you to be holding it together, dispensing wisdom, bringing that calm reassurance. You’re hurting just as much as anyone else, you just have to hide it.”

She sat there beside him, silently, nothing to say.

“It’s weird, coming back when so much has changed. It’s like I’ve left them behind, and I’m looking back, but they’re in the past and they’re looking for a different Tom. The Tom who can’t walk without a crutch, who plans everything based on how well his knee will hold up. The young priest, newly ordained, struggling to find his way. I was your chaplain when mum died, a different job then – bare minimum, everything I could spare went to her, you had a lot of patience. But yeah, much less involved, less responsibility. Archbishop’s chaplain is a different job, and I’m doing it differently – doing my job properly, which I wasn’t then. But it’s close enough, I have the same employer as when she knew me, I feel like I can tell her about it and she remembers you and everything. I can pretend it’s the same. And now…. I’m leaving that too. I’m not a newbie fresh out of curacy. I’m about to be an archdeacon. She’d have loved it, she’d have been there at that installation service, so proud of me, worrying about what she should wear for the service like she did for my ordination. And that… and that little sad look, as she tries not to let me know that she’s thinking about Mick.”

“She was proud of you, already. Never mind your job, she was proud of you for who you were, and she’d be even more proud of who you are now. But parents aren’t going to be there for every milestone. They don’t need to be, there’s no need to prove yourself.”

“Mick thought he’d ruined my life,” Tom said abruptly, then fell silent, tracing his scar. There was a long silence before he carried on. “The hardest thing is I can’t tell him. He wrecked his life, he died for a lie that he thought was true. I want to be fourteen again, I want to call out to him from the wheelchair and tell him to come here, tell him not to leave me, tell him I need his help until I get better. He’d have done it, and then he might have forgiven himself.”

She loosened her scarf absent-mindedly, taking her time. “Or he might have run away anyway, and hated himself even more for doing so. It’s not your fault, you can’t change what you did at the age of fourteen. Sometimes… things go wrong. And sometimes nobody can find a way to fix them. There’s nothing you could have done, just let it be a tragedy that happened. Like Emily Grace. Something that shouldn’t have happened, but did, and there’s nothing we can do now, only trust that God is greater than humanity’s surrender. I don’t often talk about eternal life, because our mission is in the world here and now, and because it makes guilt out of grief. But it remains a promise that all will be well, in the end, even when we’re too late to fix it. All will be well, and you and Mick will have your peace.”

He wiped his eyes with the palm of his hand. “All these years and I’m still struggling with it.”

“Of course you are. And that’s okay.”

“I’m so tired of it.”

“Of course you are. How many years have you spent blaming yourself? It’s not your fault, but you still blame yourself, because you’re human and we’re very good at guilt. It’s okay to be tired, it’s okay to still be struggling… it’s okay to admit it.”

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. “How many more times am I going to cry over this? Nothing’s changed, I feel better for a while and then I’m back here again.”

“You know there’s no answer to that.”

“I just want to be able to move on.”

“Moving on isn’t the same as being okay. You are moving on, you’re carrying on with your life, you’re just taking memories with you.”

“If I could leave them behind, I would.”

“You wouldn’t.”

He turned to stare across at the stone. “No. I wouldn’t.”

“It’s funny, that we spend every effort trying to prevent unnecessary deaths. But once they’ve happened, we talk about how they’re on another shore and in a greater light, and how they’re happier now. Yet we still try to slow people down from going there, and we’re sad once they’ve gone.”

“Because they’re going to get there in the end anyway, but we want them to make the most of this life first.”

“That’s right. But once they’ve gone, even though we trust that they stand in the presence of God, we still grieve. Because this life does matter, it’s the only one we know right now.”

“Just because pain is temporary doesn’t mean it isn’t real. Just because Mick might finally have peace, doesn’t change the fact that he was desperate enough to stuff himself with drugs, that he was in so much pain he just gave up.”

She took his hand between hers. “But it’s still not your fault, Tom. Remember that.”

“They were still my family.”

“We might devote our lives to helping others, that doesn’t mean we can help our own families.”

“Remember your sermon, when you told us that if there was anything we could do for others and we did not do it, we had fallen short?”

“Remember when I told you that every one of us falls short of this ideal, that we can live and work only by the grace of God?”

“He was my brother.”

“Which only makes it harder.”

“I didn’t do anything, so now I’m stuck with the guilt forever. I didn’t even tell mum I was sorry, though I had the chance.”

“She would have told you it wasn’t your fault. If anything, it would have given her more guilt, to know how much it was hurting you. You think you should have protected your brother, don’t you think she felt she should have protected you both? She got to see you building a life, that’s the biggest thing you could have offered her.”

“Every time I come here, I think… how much more I could have done. And it’s too late now. And yes, I know I can’t change the past, I know it’s pointless, I know I’m wasting energy which should go into the here and now.”

“But most of the time, you’re managing that. It’s still weighing on you, but you’re not letting it destroy your life.”

“I almost didn’t have that operation because of it.”

“But you did.” She looked across the rows of graves. “Don’t feel guilty about feeling guilty. That’s the way you really waste energy.” She sighed. “You’re so good at forgiving others, why can’t you forgive yourself?”

“I don’t know.”

“You deserve it, I’ll tell you that a million times if it’ll help. Is there anything I can say that might make a difference?”

“I’m sorry, I know it’s stupid. I’m trying…”

“I know, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound frustrated, I just hate to see you hurting.”

“Aren’t we all hurting, somewhere inside?”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“No, but we have to accept it and get on with life.”

“We shouldn’t have to accept it.”

“Emily Grace shouldn’t have died at a week old. She did.”

Ruth sighed. “Don’t give up. Emily Grace’s life here is over, yours isn’t. I know you won’t let this hold you back.”

“Oh, I’ll walk out of here and be back to normal. I’m good at putting things in boxes. It’s just moving, making me think about it.”

“Don’t get too good at that.”

“I’ve had practise.”

She shook her head. “I wish I knew what to say. If there’s anything at all I can do, any time, just say.”

“Including a daily mass of the dead..?”

“Including a conversation about how the love of God is not dependent on arbitrary actions and the harm caused by such misconceptions.”

He laughed. “I pray thee, look mercifully on this poor soul!”

“Always. I pray thee, do the same!”

He sighed and looked away. “You don’t let it go, do you?”

“No. I’d offer you absolution, if you want, but you have to forgive yourself. Seven times seventy times, if necessary.”

Chapter 22: Consecration

The drive to the Minster was short, although they sat in the car a few minutes before braving the dash through driving rain to the door. It was a cold, miserable day, if a pleasant change to see the last of the muddy snow washed away. A shame, that they wouldn’t be able to pour out for photos on the Cathedral steps after the service. The weather felt most inappropriate for a feast of the Church.

Shoes wiped carefully on the mat, Tom led the way to the vestry, Ruth drifting behind. Not many of these big services left – he’d be off to Nottingham shortly after Easter, and Ruth would have a short gap before his successor arrived to take his place here. It wasn't what she needed right now.

A smile teased onto his face. Stephen’s wife was here with him, bouncing on her heels as she murmured to a small figure in her arms. That small figure, peering through dark curls, waving regally at them as they approached.

“Lizzie!” He grinned at Anya, her mother. “Hasn’t she grown!”

Anya Winterfield smiled back tiredly. “Oh yes. I expect you want a cuddle?”

Tom grinned. “That’s one I could never say no to.” He accepted the baby eagerly, amusing her for a moment by pulling faces. “Those are teeth I see?”

“There’s a reason we’re all tired.”

“Of course.” He smiled sympathetically, then distracted himself playing with Liz. She was definitely one of the things he’d miss about York Minster. There’d be babies in Nottingham, of course. But it was a shame, he thought - not for the first time - how he didn’t have a family of his own. Why not? Most people did. Had he written himself off due to disability? Or been held back by not having known a father of his own, not having had an example or anyone to share relationship wisdom with him? Or had he just become so distracted with work that he hadn’t thought about it? Years had just sort of… disappeared. Of course, he hadn’t met anyone he really liked, or at least not that he’d noticed. There were plenty of people who didn’t need relationships, Ruth being a prime example, and relationships weren’t all about families, and he could play with babies without them being his own…

“Tom!” Ruth’s call snapped him out of his reverie, little sharper than usual. “Rehearsal?” She was fidgeting with her ring, eyes focused somewhere behind his head the same restlessness he'd noticed ever since her arrest. He sighed inside, feeling helpless.

“Sorry.” He returned the baby, beeping her nose one last time. “Two secs.” He rolled his eyes at Rachel as he passed her, combining it with a smile - they'd had a couple of conversations since his appointment, and while he didn't know her well, it was a connection. Then he stepped into a cassock and emerged from the vestry still buttoning it up, annotated service book tucked under his arm.

Ruth shifted half a step closer to him, but otherwise ignored him. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

Stephen stepped up. “Right. Welcome, everyone, thanks for being here – especially Ruth, and an especial welcome to Rachel! A couple of apologies - Julia’s stuck in traffic on the way down from Durham. Plus the deacon’s come down with something, and I’ve found another but she’ll be a bit late, we’ll do a quick run-though of her sections when she arrives. Anyway, we’ll get started without them. Shall we get down to the West end and work out the line for procession..?”

They did so, marshalled efficiently by a swarm of vergers. Tom shadowed Ruth, as always, at the back of the procession. The Minster’s rough sleepers squashed themselves against the West door out of the way and looked on with mixed expressions of interest and bemusement.

The procession took far too long, as always, but eventually all had found their way into place, Ruth standing before the altar to greet the people and a server holding the order of service for her. Not that she was reading it out loud now, but she ran her eyes down it, making sure that everything was as expected. Standing beside her, Tom saw her twisting at the ring on her finger, pulling it half off then pushing it back into place again.

“I go through… the calling of a bishop. And then the declarations, to which you respond… we don’t need to go through them all, do we? And the last one… I say, “Will you then, in the strength of the Holy Spirit, continually stir up the gift of God that is in you, that the good news of Christ may be proclaimed in all the world?””

“By the help of God, I will.”

“And now you turn to face the congregation…”

Rachel turned, to face a congregation represented by a swarm of bishops, and there was a second’s silence. Ruth’s hand shook. She looked at him, and he took the hint, slipping through to her side, leaning close enough to murmur in her ear. “I'll cover if you need a break.”

She swallowed and nodded slightly. “I do. Follow.”

“Okay. Go.”

She took the invitation and left, briskly, while he turned to the Dean. “Sorry, could you give us a few minutes? Stephen, maybe you or one of the chapter could stand in for Ruth until she gets back, for Rachel’s sake?”

“Of course… is there anything..?”

“No. Thanks Stephen, we’ll be fine.” He emphasised it with a look, before following Ruth out, catching up just around the corner and falling into step beside her, trying to work out what was going on. “Crypt?”

She nodded, and he stuck to her side, to and down the steps. It was cool and dark down here, and most importantly they were alone. Ruth came to a stop, and he turned sideways so he wasn't staring as she fought for control, hand tapping against her leg as she started to shake. Should he say something? He wasn’t sure, so he stayed silent, watching and waiting. He'd seen her struggle, but not like this, and it was strange.

The silence was thick, oppressive, broken only by Ruth's breath as it caught in her throat. She ripped the ring from her finger and threw it away from her, before gripping the cross around her neck with one hand and doubling over, her other arm hugged tight around her chest, rocking. He hesitated a moment, before stepping across to pick up the ring, tucking it safely in his pocket. Then he stood in front of her, looking down. Memories of himself after the accident, wrapping his arms around himself in a similar way.

Slowly, he held his arms out, a subtle invitation, and she edged closer, responding to his raised eyebrows with a nod. He put his arms around her, squeezing tight, enveloping her as best he could. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

She just sobbed into his chest, so he held her like that, waiting, waiting for the sobs to ease and the silence to descend. A slight movement and he released her, guiding her to a step where they could sit side by side, waiting a couple of minutes more.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“No. I’m sorry. I… I…”

“Ruth.” He shushed her gently. “Ruth.”

“Sorry.”

“Ruth.”

She blinked, swaying silently.

He found a tissue and offered it to her, waiting for her to take it. “You’re okay.”

“Sorry.”

“Ruth. It’s okay.”

She blew her nose. “I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“I can’t do it.”

“What’s ‘it’?”

A short, delirious burst of laughter. “It. You know.”

“I don’t.”

“I shouldn’t be here. It’s all a joke.” She blew her nose again. “See, I’m proving it.”

“Ruth.”

“Richard should have suspended me. Should have got rid of me the first time. I shouldn’t get special treatment, I only ruin more things. It’s not even my calling…”

“Ruth.”

“What?”

“Shh.” He waited for her to quiet. “This is your calling - no, listen. You are a Christian through your baptism, an adopted and beloved child of God. You are a deacon. You are a priest. You are a bishop. That is your calling.”

She shook her head.

“Yes, it is. It is. And no, you cannot bear the weight of this calling in your own strength, but only by the grace and power of God. To how many people have you told exactly that? And yet you think you’re somehow capable enough, experienced enough that it doesn’t apply to you? Your calling is heavier than most, of course you’re struggling.”

“Richard left, it should have been me, I’m the one who messed up. I should have resigned before, I can’t do this.”

“Yes you can. However unworthy you might be, however many mistakes you might have made, we need you and we want you. God has called you, you’ve never run away before – and that’s a sign of strength in itself. And yes, it’s difficult right now, but that doesn’t mean you’re not still called to it. You love your ministry, it’s hard but you love it. It fits you perfectly, it's life in all its fullness. Don’t tell me you’re not called. You’re as worthy as anyone else, and if that’s not very worthy then… well, we’re all unworthy but God calls us anyway, that’s kind of the whole point.”

“Yeah.” She picked at her nail. “Yeah I… I guess.”

“Take your time. We’ll go back when you’re ready.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Yes you do.”

“Julia can. As my deputy.”

“You're not doing that.”

She brushed her hair out of her eyes with a fumbling hand. How old was she, he wondered? Over sixty, he remembered the party a few years ago… right now, she looked it. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t.”

“Why not? And don’t give me the “not worthy, might not be valid” nonsense, you know better than that. Is God really going to base the bestowal of grace on your worthiness – or lack thereof?”

She hiccoughed. “The unworthiness of the minister… which hinders not the effect of the sacraments.”

“Good. I didn’t think I’d ever seen you leave any buttons undone.”

That made her laugh. “Sorry about… you know. What will... they think?”

“Um… probably not much. You got out, that’s what you needed to do, and they will simply accept that archbishops move in mysterious ways.”

“I knew it was coming. Hasn’t happened for… twenty years? I think more? It was... being arrested, put me on edge.” She shuddered, lost again in her own world for a few seconds.

“But you saw the signs. That's good.”

She shrugged. “Thanks for… you know.”

“That’s alright. I just admire you for dealing with it so well.”

“Yeah right.”

“Come on. You’ve seen me cry enough times, even have a couple of panic attacks. You've never judged me for it, have you?”

“No. Obviously not.”

“Well, this doesn’t change how I see you. Helping you is a privilege.”

“Thanks.” She swallowed and hesitated. “That… helps.”

“Good. Now, pull yourself together. Kath’s been muttering about having to cut into your next retreat, but I’m not having any of that. Might even manage to steal you a couple of extra days, though it’s unlikely.”

“Feels like I’ve been messing things around more than doing any actual work, I hardly deserve it.”

“We’ve talked about worthiness already. You need it.”

She laughed. “Thanks.”

“Now." He held out her ring until she gave him her hand, then slid it back onto her finger. "Silent prayer, wash your face, join us when you’re ready?”

“Yeah. That’d… be sensible.”

“Alright. I’ll go cover for you, keep them in order. You’ve got here, or the Blessed Sacrament. So much choice!”

“The Blessed Sacrament. Yes.” She stood up, waiting for him to do the same.

“Say one for me.”

“Sorry I couldn’t… actually deal with it. And for… everything. You know.”

“It's okay. Go see Jesus.”

“Yes. That.”

“Bear through. It’ll get better.” He half-smiled. “You never know, we might even get another election soon…”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re spoiling the moment.”

He left her to it and headed back to the altar, collecting his thoughts as he went, planning what to say. Just as well, because subtle as he was returning to the nave, he was spotted immediately and the stares of a few attracted the eyes of others.

“Sorry about that. Ruth felt a bit wobbly suddenly and needed a few minutes out, she’ll be fine by the time we get to the service. Stephen, do you want to carry on pretending to be the archbishop or shall I..?”

“So long as it’s not whatever the deacon’s got. Anyway, I passed the job over to Andrea, she’s standing in.” Tom caught the wicked twinkle in his eye and glanced at Andrea, the youngest member of Chapter, standing awkwardly in front of the kneeling Rachel with her hands shoved behind her back. “Okay, Andrea, the archbishop now lays hands on Rachel’s head…”

“We don’t have to do that now, surely?”

“Rachel needs a proper practise. Go on…”

“Tom can take over now, surely?”

“He has his own role to rehearse. Go on…”

“I’d rather not.”

“You’re not actually consecrating anyone, it’s just for practise purposes,” Stephen told her. “Get on with it.”

She sighed and reached out her hands over Rachel’s head with a last desperate glance around, letting her fingers just brush the ordinand’s hair.

Tom shook his head, rolling his eyes at Stephen before finding his service sheet and flicking to the right page of the service sheet. “That’s it, Andrea. Rest of prayer, here it is, we’ll let Rachel hear it in its full glory from Ruth’s lips later. And here’s the end: glory and honour, worship and praise, now and for ever. Amen. Hands away, Rachel stand up, everybody clap.” He edged in to murmur in Andrea’s ear. “You’re just going through movements and it’s very helpful.”

She bit her lip. “It’s just… really awkward. All the bishops there, and what if the archbishop comes back?”

“She’ll step back in and release you. And she’ll know it’s Stephen’s fault.”

Stephen looked at his watch. “Deacon should be here in ten minutes. We’ll pause a moment in case she’s early, since there’s not much point in rehearsing the next bit without either her or Ruth. Sit down and relax for five minutes.” He slipped over to Tom’s side. “Is Ruth okay, should someone go and find her?”

“Don't disturb her, she’ll be fine for the service.”

“If you’re sure…”

“I am. She knows what she needs.”

They were interrupted by swift feet in the south aisle, as a breathless deacon came into sight. Tom raised his eyebrows. “Found yourselves a transitional deacon, then?”

“Ruth asked us to slip her in, we were just going to find her a corner to watch from but… with Colin being ill, we thought we’d rope her in. Mark would have volunteered her if he was still around.”

“And she’s okay with this?”

“She agreed.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “And this much staring is going to make her wish she hadn’t.” He moved away as he spoke, going over to greet her. “Hi Lucy, good to see you. Sorry, I gather you’ve been pressed into service, I know that’s not what Ruth intended… ready to get cassocked and join the rehearsal?”

She nodded.

“Good. Pop it on and come to join us. I’ll show you the vestry as soon as we’ve finished the rehearsal, for now just leave your stuff on a chair. We’re about to walk through the liturgy of the Eucharist, which is the bit you most need to be here for, we’ll go back and practise the Gospel procession at the end.”

Lucy nodded, wrestling with buttons. All of a sudden, there was another figure beside her.

“Lucy! Don’t tell me they’re making you do something… I just wanted for you to be in the congregation.”

“Stephen called me this morning… apparently the deacon’s ill and they wanted… a transitional deacon. So since I was coming, they thought…”

Ruth shook her head. “Take your time and come to join me as soon as you’re ready.” She headed back towards the altar, gesturing Tom to move in close. “Where have we got to?”

“About to start the liturgy of the Eucharist.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That you felt a bit wobbly but would be fine by the service.”

She shook her head. “You’re too good at not-actually-lying.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“Well, it’s useful, I guess.”

“Feeling more yourself?”

“Well, calmer. Anyway, Lucy. She hasn’t even deaconed in a parish!”

“Curacy is one big learning curve, and nobody can say it isn't a great experience for her… Anyway, I’ll look after her, you focus on Rachel. And yourself.”

“Thanks. Poor Lucy. But at least she's got you to look after her.”

Poor Lucy indeed. It wasn’t the best setting to learn how to set out an altar, with time pressure and so many people watching, but Tom guided her through as gently as he could. “We’ll do another practice later,” he told her, “after the main rehearsal. You’ll be fine.”

“Sorry. I should know this stuff…”

“You’re learning fast. Don’t forget to annotate your service book with anything you might possibly need to remember. Now, everything is sorted, step to the side. That’s right… you feel very visible, but really most people aren’t going to see what you’re doing, the space is too big and they’ll be distracted by the choir, and I can help you at least with the setting up and ablutions. Now, over to Ruth’s right, hands together like this… and focus on her.”

The rehearsal over, Tom stayed with Lucy, Stephen joining them, Ruth hesitating until Tom waved her away – she had people to talk to, or praying to do, depending on how she was feeling. As the choir took their places to rehearse, Tom and Stephen took Lucy through preparing the table again, and then through reading the Gospel, Tom standing halfway down the nave and making her project and enunciate more clearly until he could hear her even without a microphone. And then, finally, he herded her towards the vestry.

“You’ll be fine.”

“Thanks. For teaching me. Still can’t remember what anything’s called.”

“I’ll leave that to your new incumbent. So long as you know what to do with it, that’s quite enough for now.”

“It’s so complicated.”

“Definitely, but also loaded with symbolism. Complicated, but rich. All together, it emphasises the significance of Jesus’ presence in the Eucharist – even if you believe it is only symbolic, treating it with respect is a symbol of respect to Jesus’ true body, while if Jesus is present, either in spirit or through transubstantiation, then absolutely it should be treated as such. So whatever your beliefs about the Eucharist, there is reason for all of the faff, every action has a purpose: we are treating the body and blood of our Lord with the respect it is due. Plus, some are a combination of spiritual and practical. Arrange everything correctly on the altar and it will be much easier for Ruth, she can focus better and preside without distractions, which will help everyone to immerse themselves more deeply into the meaning. You get what I mean?”

“It makes sense, yeah. I’m just not used to it, I didn’t really think of it… like that.”

“Well, keep asking, your new training incumbent can explore this more with you.”

After that, there was a good deal of drifting, with tea in the Chapter House for those who wished to socialise. Ruth had disappeared again, as had Rachel, and no comments were made. Tom drifted among the other clergy, accepting congratulations on his appointment and repeating the same responses – “yes, just after Easter”, “yes, I’m very much looking forward to the challenge”, “yes, I’ll miss working with the Archbishop, but it’s an exciting new step”. Occasional glances over to Lucy, pleased to see her in Andrea’s care.

And then they were lining up to process in, giving Lucy a reassuring nod as she fiddled awkwardly with her dalmatic and then accepted the gospel book from a verger. The first gentle wafts of incense scenting the air. The organ fading into silence and then making the ancient stonework ring with the introduction to the first hymn. Shadowing Ruth at the rear of the procession, a reassuring smile which she returned. “Text from Kath,” she whispered. “The prime minister’s resigned.”

“Spoiling the moment,” he reminded her, grinning.

“Oh, totally. Just thought you’d like to know.”

© 2021 E G Ferguson

Chapter 21: Resignation

 Once again, Tom met her at the police station, and she tried to smile. “Déjà vu.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Thanks.”

He shook his head. “The media are outside. Got their attention, in the end. Fancy talking to them?”

Ruth looked at Anna, who shrugged. “Your decision.”

“For the sake of dealing with questions,” Karen added from beside Tom, “you’re still in post and Richard’s resigned. It’s complicated, if they’re pushy with questions about that say you’re unable to comment at this stage. Stick to social justice and condemning the treatment of the camp residents and all that. That’ll give you quite enough to say. Also, the people love their rebel Archbishop, so work it.”

Ruth rubbed her forehead. “Um… right. I guess I’ll do that. It’s… I’d kind of like to know what’s going on.”

“Well the rest of us would like to know when you’re going to get yourself arrested, so you can hardly complain.”

“Valid.”

Karen shrugged. “It’s paying off. Protests outside Parliament, illicit charity ventures springing up everywhere. Even a tweet from the Pope about the need for Christians to stand up against governments for the sake of those being persecuted, or something like that. I know he posts that kind of stuff a lot, but this felt very much connected to our antics.”

“That’s something, then.” She let Karen straighten her coat collar. “Right, let’s get on with it, then one of you can tell me what the hell is going on with Richard…”

She stepped out into a barrage of flashes and marched straight down the steps towards the barriers, suppressing concerns about what’s happened in the past twenty-four hours. Right to the fence, to scan the logos on the microphones, Karen’s hand on her back guiding her in the right direction, holding herself together by force of will. Cameras and microphones in her face, a barrage of questions until she held up her hands for quiet.

“When the law does not serve the people, it is not worthy of being called a law. When it is not just, it is not worthy of being called the justice system. A legal system that allows armed police to drive out people whose only crime is to be homeless, not even from a street or an abandoned building but from a plot of empty land, a government which beyond not caring for those in need, tells them they are not allowed to exist. The government has to remember that it is accountable to the people. The police have to remember that their job is to protect, not to persecute.

“When the decision was made to dissolve the camp, it was made quietly. The police arrived without warning and ordered the people to leave, people who have wintered there for four months, who have built communities and found some poor approximation of certainty. They arrested many of the volunteers who have been feeding these people for three months, who have kept them alive when the government decided not to bother. Is helping people illegal now? If it is, then we should all be breaking the law. Don’t sit back, make them answer the atrocities which they have committed.

“The people being persecuted are human beings. Talk to any of them and you’ll discover a story, probably of hard work and misfortune. Are you going to blame cancer survivors because they sold their homes to afford treatment? Or single mothers who lost their jobs when the companies they worked for closed down, and then couldn’t find anything else that would make ends meet? Teenagers running away from abusive families? What have they done, that they don’t even deserve a tent in a muddy field, that police can come without warning and tear away their lives? Apparently it’s illegal for anyone to help them. Apparently we’re all supposed to turn our faces away and ignore them as they die of starvation, cholera, and hypothermia. I don’t know about anyone else, but that’s not something I’m willing to do, and if that’s illegal,” she shrugged expansively, “see you in court.”

She turned and strode away towards the car, dashing tears away impatiently with the back of her hand. Fuck it, she wanted to say. Fuck the people who thought that some humans were more valuable than others. Who thought death only mattered if the deceased had money. She could see the faces in her head, hear their stories, a clamour that left no room for thought.

They piled into the car, Karen in the back seat beside her. She stared through the tinted windows as Tom pulled out, then fumbled through her bag for a clean tissue. She could still see the camera flashes when she blinked, and her arms seemed to tingle where police officers had taken hold of her. It had been a long couple of days, way too much to process. She just had to hold herself together.

“What the fuck happened with Richard?”

The other three looked at each other, and then Tom sighed and answered.

“He announced his resignation that afternoon. Said that he was sorry he’d taken so long to act, that he was proud of the way the Church was going, that it was time for for him to hand over to... basically, someone better suited to lead in this context. Words to that effect, anyway.”

“That’s a new tack. I mean, I know he’d changed his attitudes a bit, but…”

“The Church of England is moving whether he likes it or not,” Tom interrupted. “I told you what he said, but you know what's really happening.”

She squeezed her head in her hands, trying to get her thoughts straight. “So he... doesn't actually want to go? Sorry, I... it's been a long couple of days.”

“Nobody pushed him. But the Archbishop of Canterbury can’t just decide to ignore the Clergy Discipline Measure, and you’ve already been rebuked for the same thing two months ago. Especially given his attitudes a few months ago, it would have been a massive U-turn for him, and one which would have gone against his duty as Archbishop – which includes a responsibility for discipline.”

“Oh.”

Tom glanced at her in the wing mirror. “General consensus is you have lived according to Christian teaching, so it would be wrong for the Church to take action as a result. No bishops are willing to suspend you – Lizzie openly refused, she’s willing to do that in a way that Richard wasn’t. And even without the moral side, the Church of England does not like the idea of being two Archbishops down, particularly not in the current climate. And particularly not when everyone’s running around frantically trying to cover the sudden loss of the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“Ah. So… Richard resigned so I could stay.”

“Not explicitly, but essentially yes.”

“Oh.” She stared out of the window. Richard was calm, level-headed, a good politician and an excellent person to have at the head of the Church of England. He kept things running smoothly, made sure everything was properly considered, provided stability when the Church was facing crises. She was passionate and unpredictable, not what they needed at all.

“We’re going to Lambeth now, so you can meet Richard,” Tom told her. “Obviously a vacancy in Canterbury means there’s stuff you’ll need to know. Eucharist first, obviously.”

“And then you and I are going to go through what you’re saying on Newsnight tonight,” added Karen.

Of course she had a TV interview. Just go along with it.

“Has Richard gone already, or just said he's going?”

“He’s staying until the end of the month. They’re rather frantically organising a farewell service in Canterbury for his last Sunday.”

“That’s… not long.”

“Nope, but any longer and he’d actually have to tie up the loose ends.”

“I’ve really screwed things up this time, haven’t I?”

“You could say that.”

“But a lot of people wouldn’t,” added Karen, not looking up from her phone.

It was awkward, going through Lambeth Palace after the events of the past twenty-four hours. Getting strange looks, some admiring, others hostile. These were Richard’s people, after all. She’d turned their lives upside down.

And Richard himself, a half smile pushing at the corners of his lips, the bags under his eyes even more pronounced than usual. He waved her over after the service with a tired gesture, saying no more than five words until they were in private.

“Well. I’m not going to criticise.”

“Sorry.”

“Thank you. It’s my fault as much as anyone’s, for failing to read the signs, not predicting how this would develop. Anyway, it’s probably just as well I step back, I’m not the right kind of person to lead the Church in this direction – and it's going in this direction, whatever I do. You were right, of course, it is our duty as Christians to care. This isn’t the way I’d have chosen to do it – the Anglican Communion is a complex, fragile thing – but what’s done is done and if it doesn’t break it we might just end up with something stronger. I don’t envy my successor, though.”

She shook her head. “Nor do I. There’s been so much shaking, I’d almost be surprised if we don’t need a restructure, or at least for revision in some core areas. Admittedly, it’s probably overdue anyway, you can’t run an organisation on the same lines for more than a hundred years, in a shifting environment…”

“You started out in management, didn’t you?”

“Sorry.”

“It’s not necessarily a bad thing, as I remember you telling me. You know you’re probably going to get asked?”

She frowned in confusion, and then snorted. “Unlikely. I think they’ll want someone with self control.”

“You could hardly be accused of incompetence.”

She shook her head, considering the idea. “There is no way in… heaven, hell, or anywhere in between, that I am taking the job. It’d be a terrible idea. And is very much not my calling. Even if it wasn’t too restrictive for me, I’m too old for that.”

He shrugged. “Fair enough. It’s quite a job, if it’s your vocation, but I can’t say it’s a step towards retirement. Funny, how the busiest jobs always go to the people with the least energy! Well, someone will be found – I can think of a few possibilities, it’ll be very interesting to see who the Crown Nominations Commission decide on, what they decide the Church needs in my successor. But there’ll be something of a gap before then, especially as I’m leaving so suddenly, and we should talk about that. Archbishops’ Council emergency meeting on Friday, after that I hand over to you. Good luck…”

“Um, thanks?” She supposed it was her fault anyway.

“My team here will be getting in touch with yours at Bishopthorpe, passing a few things over. Easter address broadcasts and all that, you know. You’d better have a good team.”

“Wonderful. Though I’ve just appointed a new chaplain, we’ll announce it as soon as we get time…”

“Oh yes, you’re replacing Tom, aren’t you? Shame, you two seem to make a good pair. It’s not the best moment for it…”

“Don’t remind me! Right, any details to go through?”

They talked details for the next hour, before finally getting up to move on with their different days.

“Well, I’ll see you in a few days, then. I believe Kath did some diary rearranging for you, so it’s all clear for Archbishops’ Council…”

“I’ll see you there. And really, I’m sorry, about all of this.”

He shrugged, looking at his phone. “We’re all just trying to do the right thing.”

We’re all just trying to do the right thing. The words stayed with her, later, as she tried to concentrate on an overflowing email account. They were all trying, but for some people it didn’t pay off. What was the right thing, anyway?

Dear Lucy,

I’m very sorry but I will have to rearrange our meeting on Friday. Would you be able to come to Bishopthorpe at either 7.30pm on Thursday or 9am on Saturday? I know that these times are inconvenient, if neither is suitable then please liaise with my chaplain. Unfortunately I’m unlikely to have another space in my diary until a week on Monday at the earliest, as I will be out of York, though I know that it would be best for you to have this resolved as soon as possible. Let me know.

With prayers and warmest wishes,

+Ruth

Poor Lucy. Ruth took a moment to pray for her, as she’d promised. The deacon’s problems might be small compared to everything else Ruth was dealing with right now, but as far as Lucy was concerned it was her entire life in question. Everything seemed critical when you were a curate, at least from Ruth’s experience.

The reply was quick in coming.

Dear Archbishop,

9am on Saturday would be fine. Thank you for making time, I know you are very busy at the moment.

Lucy

Ruth smiled sadly as she  put it in her diary. Lucy’s early emails had been so formal, painstakingly reworded until they took a second read-through to pick out the useful content. It was good that she’d given up on that, but also a sign of just how much had gone wrong, how much communication had gone between the two of them. Ruth could have left Tom or Kath to do the rearranging for her, but it was only a few seconds to type out an email, and hopefully it would make Lucy feel more valued. Heaven knows she needed that.

Dear Lucy,

Thank you for your swift response, I look forward to seeing you. As it is Saturday morning we have Communion at 8.20 following Morning Prayer at 8am, it is possible that this will overrun and make me a few minutes late, and that no one will be around to meet you. If this is the case, just make yourself comfortable in reception until we emerge. You are of course welcome at one or both of the services, but it is very early to be coming out, and I expect that you have more use for an extra hour of sleep.

God bless,

+Ruth

She sent it, sighed, and carried on through her diary. Everything else on Friday could be rearranged by Tom or Kath, and she sent them both an email to that effect. What else wanted her attention? Invitations to speak at Holy Week and Easter events. Event launch details from the Minster to be glanced through and then ignored. News of the death of a retired bishop, aged ninety six. An unnecessary volume of stuff relating to the consecration on Tuesday. Something felt off, inside, and she couldn't settle, her mind refusing to stick to a task for more than a few seconds at a time, everything taking longer than it should. She was most of the way through when Karen appeared, and the focus turned to media.

A strange week, definitely. Dozing in the car after the Newsnight interview on the long drive back up to York, only to catch a train down again on Friday morning and back that evening. Plenty of time on the train to dash off a confirmation sermon and work on what to say at Rachel’s consecration, and then to go through a veritable mountain of stuff connected to Archbishops’ Council and the formation of the Crown Nominations Commission - there was definitely a reason she travelled first class, even if she sometimes felt guilty for it. Then Friday night, getting back relatively early, looking at the unassailable stack of work to be done and deciding instead to return to the first of the books she was attempting to read for Lent. Taking the book to bed and falling asleep, waking up when it dropped onto her face, taking that as the signal to go to bed properly.

She stifled a yawn as she stepped out at the end of Morning Prayer on Saturday to throw on stole and chasuble. Returning to find the skeleton congregation increased by the addition of a young, lost-looking figure, Ruth hesitated by the door as David, one of the part-time receptionists, helped Lucy to get settled.

After the service, she stripped off vestments quickly and handed them to Sr. Helena to deal with.

“Sorry to rush. Meeting.”

“Of course. Go.”

Ruth did so, throwing on her jacket as she went, to catch the last attendees drifting from the chapel.

“Lucy! Good to see you, come with me. Coffee?”

“Yes please.”

“I must say, dedication to have made the service…”

“I was awake so I thought…”

“I was very pleased to see you. Now, this is the staff kitchen… Saturday is quiet as you can tell. Milk, sugar?”

“Yes please.”

“There you go… Now, let’s go up to my office.”

A few minutes later, Lucy was installed in an armchair opposite Ruth, who had a small stack of papers on the table to one side and was flicking quickly through tabs on her tablet.

“Okay, excuse me while I get myself in order… so I’ve had several emails from Janice and Angela, about their meetings with you. They seem pleased with the plan, I just wanted to get you in and check it’s all okay before I sign it off. So, you’ve met your new training incumbent, any hesitations there before it all becomes formal?”

Lucy shook her head. “No, I like Tim. Though it’s not what I wanted, originally, it’ll be fine. Good experience.”

“Yes, I know it’s not quite your own tradition, and it’s rural, which you didn’t originally want. But Angela says here you’re happy to go for it. Is that right? Don’t be pushed into it if you’re not comfortable, it’ll just be more trouble in the long term…” Though if Lucy wasn’t happy with this one, she wouldn’t be getting a new curacy until the next batch started in the summer, and Ruth would have to revoke her license until then. As, no doubt, Lucy knew.

“Some of the churches are more my style, Tim says I can particularly focus on them. And rural ministry’s important too, there’s a lot going on. Anyway, something different won’t necessarily be a bad thing.”

“So long as you can have a good relationship with Tim, you’ll be okay. There are a lot of people for whom curacy doesn’t match up to expectations, but it’s still a learning process which gets you to where you need to be, and in fact from my own experience, a more difficult curacy can really help you to develop as a person and as a minister. Not that it’s ideal, but God finds good in everything. If I hadn’t learnt to deal with the conservative and sometimes deeply unpleasant attitudes to women’s ordination in my own curacy, for example, I would have been far more affected by the opposition to my appointment to this job. It’s also useful to understand and to be comfortable leading worship in all different traditions. For a start, because the state of the Church at present means you probably won’t be able to start out doing exactly the job you want – stipendiary positions are not that common, and a lot of them are like this curacy you’re going to, encompassing a wide range of churches in all different traditions, based simply on geographic location. You might find a charismatic church that suits you well, and the job also happens to include celebrating the Eucharist twice a week in a traditional church around the corner. We need priests who can lead both churches well, and this kind of willingness to look beyond your first choices will get you a long way.”

“I’m sure God has a reason, for all of this.”

“Hmm. That’s remarkably close to saying God has a reason for causing suffering.”

“I mean…”

“I know. For whatever reason it happens, we can recognise God’s presence with us in it, and God’s ability to use anything for good. So you’re happy with the curacy change? Any lingering concerns?”

“No… only, some of the churches, I’ve never really been in that kind of service before. Except a couple of times, when my DDO sent me. And kind of this morning. I mean, I’m used to communion, but not so… formal?”

How did they get through theological college without becoming used to that, Ruth wondered. “You’re worried about not being familiar enough with the worship style?”

Lucy nodded.

“That’s why you have a training incumbent. Tim will introduce you to it gently, make sure you’re comfortable with and understand everything. There’s a lot of richness in the tradition of the Church of England, I’m sure you’ll start to love it when you’re more used to it. Have you been to the Minster?”

“Well, ordination, obviously. And Night Out on Saturday quite a few times, and some of the other events, especially before Christmas, with Mark. And evensong, once.”

Ruth hesitated a moment. “Have you got anything on Tuesday afternoon?”

“Um, not until four, I don’t think. I was going to do admin. And since I’m about to leave…” she tailed off.

“How would you like to come to Rachel May’s consecration? Tickets are already distributed, so no promises, but I might be able to slip you in, if you don’t mind being tucked in a corner somewhere. If Mark were around, he’d have got you in, since he’s a canon. It’ll be full ceremonial – more than your ordination – and just really fun. And uplifting.”

“I… really?”

“Sure. It’s my cathedral, I get to make cheeky requests.”

“You’re busy, you don’t need any more trouble.”

“I make trouble for myself as a matter of course, it’s nothing. The offer's there if you want.”

“It’d be… amazing, I guess. Not something I ever thought about, but it must be awesome.”

“Oh, it will be, it's one of my favourite services - after the Triduum. I’ll drop a line to Stephen, ask him to find somewhere to squeeze you.” She smiled. “It’ll give you something to talk about. Which, I’ll admit, will probably be very welcome with all the questions you must be getting about the curacy shift.”

“It is a bit difficult. Especially not having any answers to give. Like all the questions of whether I’ll still be priested this summer… I mean…” she looked down awkwardly.

“Sure, that’s understandable, it’s horrible to be in a position where you don’t know, even if the strongest answer anyone can ever give is ‘God willing’. Barring unforeseen circumstances, though, yes I do expect for you to be ordained, if not at the start of Petertide then Michaelmas, a couple of months later. The exact timing being a matter for me to discuss with Angela and Tim in a few months, to work out what’s best for you.” She twisted her ring. “Is that… reassuring?”

“It’s good to know I haven’t screwed everything up completely.”

“For a start, it’s not your fault. Besides that, you’d be amazed just how few curacies run smoothly. I think I was crying about four times a week at one point, and I did at least have a training incumbent. It’s all about pulling yourself together before you next speak to someone. And a lot of sobbing over the phone to friends and ex-tutors. Not to mention on your spiritual director’s sofa.”

Lucy smiled slightly. “I’m seeing her next week. My spiritual director, I mean.”

“Good. You’ll need support through the transition. Ask all the really stupid questions; they’re actually perfectly reasonable, they just feel stupid.”

“It feels really weird… when you talk about your curacy. I mean… sorry…”

“No, I suppose so. We all started somewhere. It’s funny to think that thirty years ago, when I was at your stage, I had no idea I’d end up here - partly, of course, because it was still five years until the first woman was ordained bishop in the Church of England, but it was more than that. There was still a bit of me convinced it was all a massive mistake and I shouldn’t have been ordained at all. Now, of course, I’m more worried about messing up and nobody telling me. So yes, these fears are normal. Anyway, what I was meaning to say is yes, I remember it well, and no, I wasn’t miraculously more competent than anyone else. I once told a parishioner that if he didn’t feel he could receive from me that was his problem and not mine, he’d made me quite aware enough already and I would, whether he liked it or not, continue doing the job which the Church of England had concluded I had every right to do.” She shook her head. “My training incumbent told me off for calling it a right rather than a privilege, though I tried to argue the context of the remark. And for being disrespectful of the theological convictions of others. The parishioner stopped attending services at which I celebrated - which he might as well have done in the first place. In short, don’t worry that I’m going to judge you, I know just how easy it is to say the wrong thing.”

Lucy grinned. “I wish I had the courage to say stuff like that.”

“Well, I did have a few years of management experience from before ordination. But really, speaking your mind isn’t always the way to go, and if we all did it we’d never be able to live alongside one another. Society works because we’re different enough to coexist. Just be the best version of yourself you can be.” She glanced subtly at her watch. “So, curacy. Yours, not mine, mine’s long past. How are you feeling, anything else bothering you?”

Lucy looked at her hands, rolling a bracelet up and down her wrist. Oops, something Ruth had missed, hopefully she’d inadvertently unlocked it. Lucy glanced up nervously, and Ruth nodded reassurance.

“I’m… I keep feeling really angry, with Mark. Everything was going so well and then… he disappeared without a word, told me to do my best and that he believed in me and then he was off. Didn’t reply to emails or pick up the phone when… when everything was going wrong. And then I had to do it all myself and he could just… he could just have picked up the phone. I know he went to do good stuff but… I’m still angry… and I know I shouldn’t be… but it was perfect… sorry...”

Ruth sat forward. “You’re doing a brilliant job, Lucy. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but you are. Janice and Angela have emailed me, they’re impressed too – no, I’m not talking about the parish, I’m talking about how you’re handling yourself. Even just talking to me now, you’re being honest with me. You’re still determined to make it work, even though everything’s fallen apart. I’m amazed at the amount of grace with which you’re taking a new curacy which is so far from anything you’re comfortable with; I know you have the determination to make it work for you. And yes, it sucks right now, but it’ll be okay.”

Lucy used her free hand to brush impatiently at her eyes. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be so angry with him. I know why he went, I know I need to forgive him, I just… I keep on thinking I have then realising I haven’t. Sorry. There’s no reason I should have expected everything to stay perfect, but I still, like… sorry. I just… sorry.”

Ruth smiled. “You’re doing the apologising thing again.”

“Sorry. I mean…”

They both laughed, before Ruth turned serious again.

“Forgiveness isn’t easy. You can pray every day for the grace to forgive and still find it impossible, it can take years or decades and we need to accept that. Yes, we talk about it all the time, about loving our enemies and all that, but most of us don’t have enemies. The challenge is how to forgive our friends, when they hurt us, and that’s not as easy as it sounds at first. Which can make it really hard to pray “forgive us our sins as we forgive”, the only comfort is that God is much better at it than us, we just have to trust that God sees we’re trying. It’s also hard to forgive someone who isn’t even looking for our forgiveness, who perhaps doesn’t realise how much they’ve hurt us. If Mark were to come back today, would you welcome him, and be generous in spite of the hurt he’s caused you? I think you would, even if you had to hide your anger to do so. And if he asked for your forgiveness, I think you’d give it – if only he were to ask. But all this unfinished business, it is hard to move on from.”

“I keep expecting him to come back.”

“And disrupt everything just as it’s almost sorted? I’m not surprised. You should know that even if he does, the curacy change will go ahead, I’m about to sign it off. You’ve spent long enough in limbo.” Not to mention the fact that Mark would no longer be considered a suitable training minister, at least without significant further training and a several years of personal development, and then only if they were desperate. And there'd be the disciplinary actions in response to having disappeared for three months. Lucy didn’t need to think about that.

“That’s… good to know. Thanks.”

“If you’re worried about anything, ask, and chances are I can answer it and save you a lot of stress.”

“I’m sorry, I’m taking up so much of your time…”

“Keep doing it, I’d rather spend it on you than on opening fancy shopping centres. This is my vocation, not all the committee meetings and prancing around in a mitre.” Lucy laughed, and Ruth picked up a sheet of paper from beside her chair. “This is the fatal document. Any final comments, before I sign your life over to someone else?”

“Um, sorry for being pathetic and crying everywhere?”

“No, thank you for crying on me, and trusting me rather than trying to pretend everything’s okay. If you hadn’t broken down last time we met, I’d have assumed everything was fine, and let’s not imagine what state things would have been in by now if that were the case.” She found the signature box and poised her pen over it. “Serious final comments, anything else I should know? Once we’ve signed this, it’s done.”

Lucy swallowed. “Do it.”

Ruth scrawled her signature across the space, did the same on a second copy, then offered the pen so Lucy could do the same. Finally, she handed one over and tucked the rest away. “Done. You’re clear to go back to being a proper curate, with a proper training incumbent, just as soon as the last bits of admin get sorted. Someone will be in touch to arrange your licensing, given the current situation I'll probably have Janice do it.”

A grin from Lucy. “It’s… a relief really. Knowing what’s happening. I’ll have all the moving stress later but… it’s just good to know. Thanks. For everything.”

“I’m always here for you, you have my email if it’s a quick query, or go through Tom - or his successor, when… they take over - if you want a meeting. Otherwise I’ll see you before your ordination. And maybe on Tuesday, and just generally anywhere in the diocese. But for now, take care, be kind to yourself, and may God bless you, Lucy. Shall we wrap up with a moment of prayer, and then I’ll show you out?”

© 2021 E G Ferguson