Tom pushed the door of Ruth’s office shut behind him. “I looked up the funeral arrangements like you asked. Cremation, no ceremony. They dig a hole behind the crem. at the end of each month and pour in the unclaimed ashes from the past month. Apparently they don’t need to contact anyone because they don’t have an address by which to do so.”
“Wow.” Ruth stared silently at the wood of her desk. She was a lot calmer than he was, more sad than angry. “I wish I were surprised.” She was silent for a while, thinking. “I need you to make me a list of email addresses for the crematoria for the different camps. We can at least arrange something better for the ashes. Some kind of committal, with those who knew them… a nicer plot, some form of memorial.”
“Though without funding.”
“We’ll find a way. Enough cathedrals employ stonemasons, for a start…”
He left her to get back to work, returning to his own office. Had a sleuth around to identify the email addresses she’d requested. He was quite good at research, it was part of his job. Once he’d done as much of that as possible, he moved on to checking the news, and sent Ruth the stories of greatest importance. Yet another shooting in America, a teacher who’d turned on his students. He rubbed his eyes and looked for something less emotional to do. He opened up the Bishopthorpe chapel rotas. Lent was less than three weeks away, somehow. Time slipping by, carrying away these last months.
He went down to the chapel to ensure everything was ready for the midday Eucharist. Sister Helena nodded to him as he entered, almost finished with preparing the altar. He nodded back in silence, making his way through to the vestry, where Sister Adelaide was also at work. Bishopthorpe’s two resident Sisters were a great help, dealing with so much of the day-to-day running of the Chapel and the spiritual care for the Palace that he didn’t always have time to offer, always with smiles and quiet grace. He left them to it and dressed to deacon. His stick was in his office upstairs, unneeded, and that at least felt good.
Ruth was to celebrate, so she came rushing in about eight minutes before the service. He passed her alb before she could search, waited for her to finish vesting, and then reached for her crozier to pass across. She turned back to face him, and only now did he see the tears in her eyes.
“What happened?”
She shook her head mutely. He pushed the door almost closed. They had three minutes before the service was supposed to start, and he wondered if he should leave it until afterwards, but she spoke first.
“Why can’t anything end well?”
“News from the camp?” It couldn’t just be those poor American children – sad as it was, it wasn’t personal, and they were used to such stories.
“Emily Grace. The…”
The baby she baptised, the newborn. He had no answers either. So tiny, that flicker of hope, just four days before.
“Oh… I’m sorry. I have… no answers.”
“I do.” Her eyes flashed up. “She is not having one of those horrific burials you told me about this morning. As soon as this is over, I am finding the relevant authorities and claiming the body. I will tell the world, if that is what it takes.”
Glancing at his watch, he nudged her towards the vestry door. “We’ll sort it in the car. Are you ready for the service?”
“I’m not sure I’m ready for anything, or will ever be.” She was quiet again, the passion fading. “I only saw just before I came down, I glanced at my phone… but I suppose, we must go on. And besides, the Eucharist is a proclamation of death.” She took her staff from his hand, reached past him to open the door, then gestured for him to lead in.
“On Saturday,” she began her homily, “I had the greatest privilege, to baptise two children – not the children of clergy, not in a cathedral or even a parish church. I baptised two babies in a muddy, snowy field, children born with nothing. What is the point, one might wonder. Why waste time and effort on baptism when they have so many other needs? Because baptism is important, the visible expression of a welcome and a promise from God, a source of hope.
“Today, I have learnt that one of those children has died, at just a week old. Where is that promise now? Where is that hope? The obvious answer, is that the promise is of the life to come, and the hope is in heaven. But is that why the parents of baby Emily Grace sought baptism for their daughter? We knew that Emily Grace would face a great battle to survive – she was a small baby, slightly premature. It is winter, and they had no home, only a tent for shelter. This is why we baptised her so quickly, at just a few days old. But even before her birth, not knowing whether she would be healthy or not, her parents spoke to me.
“I think a lot of the request came from a desire for belonging. Out there, there is a sense of aloneness. Yes, there is community, being surrounded by others in the same situation, but at the same time it is lonely, because these are the forgotten people. If they were remembered, they wouldn’t be out there. If they were cared for, they would have homes and healthcare, food and water. They may have a community out there, but they do not belong, because every one of them dreams of getting out and having another chance.
“But they are our community. Emily Grace was baptised into our family, making it our place to grieve for her, and to seek justice for her. Had she lived, it would be our place to stand up for her, to take her in and care for her. And no, I do not believe we have a duty only to our own… but when we long to say ‘it isn’t my problem’, this is a reminder that it is: that members of our own family are out there. Members of our own Christian family, and beyond that a wider family who, baptised or not, are all God’s beloved children.
“Now, let us remember the righteous anger which answers injustice, the grief which answers tragedy, the compassion which answers suffering. And let us use them to answer the cry of our forgotten family.” There was a short silence, as if Ruth had run out of words. Her face was set with determination. “Amen.”
Afterwards, as Tom drove her to her first engagement of the afternoon, he heard her arguing on the phone, calling one number after another.
“Done it,” she called forward in the end. “Told them I’ll pay myself if necessary. I’m going to call Esther and ask her to make arrangements, I’ll pay for the funeral directors if she can’t find someone who’ll do it voluntarily.”
She did so, and then he heard her making another call.
“Hi, Richard? Yes, I can make it quick. I’m not sure how widely it’s known, but a newborn baby died in the London camp today. Her name is Emily Grace, I baptised her on Saturday. We’ve managed to secure the release of the body, so that she can have a proper funeral. I wondered if you’d like to see to it, since it’s within your jurisdiction?” A long silence. “No, I’m not going to worry about setting a precedent, she was a week old. She’s part of our Church, she deserves more than just to be disposed of cheaply.” Silence again. “I’m paying myself, what we can’t get donated. Yes, I know that there are a lot of Christians. I’m afraid I’m one of those sentimental people who cares about babies, especially ones I’ve met.” Her voice turned sarcastic. “Maybe I’m a broody sentimental woman like everyone says.”
There was a long pause before she spoke again, softly and dangerously. “Yes, I intend to make a big deal of it, thank you for the encouragement. I want the country to see a coffin the size of a shoe-box, and I want them to realise that this is real. Because apparently nothing else will do it.”
Her sigh told Tom she’d hung up the phone.
“Still not seeing eye to eye,” he observed.
“He’s kind of right. It’s only when it’s a baby that I get emotional enough to act, and we can’t afford to do everything for everyone. We should be worrying about the living, not the dead.”
“You’ve been acting in many ways for a long time, and this was already on your mind. It’s just a catalyst. Who isn’t stirred by the death of an innocent, one who can’t through any stretch of the imagination be blamed for their own suffering? As to your other point, funerals are for the living. You’re grieving the death of a baby you only met once, how much the parents be feeling?”
“Of course. I just wonder if… there are other things they need more.”
“Let’s do what we can do. If we feed them for a week, at the end of the week they’ll be hungry again and still grieving. As you’ve said at an ordination or two, the needs of the mind and the soul are as important as the needs of the body, but more often overlooked.”
She chose the easy response. “Good to know you listen to my sermons.”
He parked at the shopping centre, in a space reserved for them. They could hear the crowd, just around the corner, and a small group was waiting here to receive them. One of those cut-a-ribbon publicity dos, before they went on to a more engaging evening with a youth club, and finally a hundredth birthday celebration for an elderly member of the cathedral congregation. Ruth had been complaining earlier, in private, about how pointless it was, and no doubt she still felt that just as strongly now. It wasn’t pointless, though, because it was being visible, and that was what she needed to do.
The youth club meeting was the toughest part of the day, the usual barrage of questions on the compatibility of suffering and God, about sin and hell and whether it was really necessary to go to church. Tom hid at the back of the room dealing with emails, occasionally catching Ruth’s eye as she wrestled with an unceasing barrage of ‘why’s. Her heart clearly wasn’t in it.
“So what would you say is the most important part of Christianity?” she asked in the end.
Many answers, including “going to church” and “the ten commandments” and eventually a call from the back of “Jeeeeesus!”, clearly said with care not to sound too serious. The response was sniggers.
“Exactly, it’s all about Jesus, but the challenge is in what that means from day to day.”
Tom turned his attention back to his emails, very familiar with this part of Ruth’s talk. Attempting to convince a bunch of young teens that Christianity wasn’t about rules, that love wasn’t a cheesy thing to snigger at, and to somehow show that the Church wasn’t all about oppression, or even at all about oppression. And then to answer the questions of “why do we need God to be good people?” Ruth had a level of patience he didn’t, to be able to sit through and answer these same questions again and again, with one group after another. It was bad enough a couple of times a year, let alone every other week.
She checked her phone on the way back to the car afterwards. “Richard says we should use the local parish church. He’ll look for a time to visit the camp and speak to the family in the next couple of weeks, and maybe when all this is over we can have a memorial in Westminster Abbey for all of the deceased.”
“Good enough idea. At least he’s doing something.”
“When all this is over…” She sighed. “It’s too early to be worrying about memorials. Memory is for people with nothing more important to be doing.”
“Memory is for learning from. But yes, definitely too early.”
There was a long silence. In the mirror, Tom could see Ruth playing with her ring.
“Can you do some research for me?” she said in the end. “Human rights. European convention rulings and stuff. I know we’re not in the EU anymore but… any precedent I can bring up in the Lords next week. Right to life, how far does it go – that kind of thing.”
“Sure. Off the top of my head, animal welfare five freedoms requires food, fresh water, shelter, and medical treatment, shall I dig into some reports on that too?”
She sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. It’s a good point, sadly. I mean, it’s not sad for the animals, but…”
No need to take that train of thought any further. “I’ll find you some bullets. Never know, one of them might get lucky.”
“I’m not the only one in Parliament who cares. There are just some… issues of priorities.”
He looked out of the car window. Night, lit like day by the reflections on the snow. “Remember those old ‘CEO sleepout’ things? All that ‘spending a night on the streets to raise awareness’? Should get the politicians doing one of those now.”
“No point in letting more people die of hypothermia than we can help.”
“Could fill their oversized mansions with homeless people while they’re doing it?”
She sighed. “I need to work with these people, not hate them. And yes, this ‘love your enemies’ stuff is hard. Individually, a lot of them are okay, it’s together…”
He dug a nail into the steering wheel. The healing scar on his knee was starting to bother him, he should have taken his painkillers before he got in the car. “When my brother was homeless it was an exceptional thing. And by all the rhetoric he was asking for it. We thought it was unfair then, how he could be allowed to get to that state. But now, the country’s desensitised. It’s not people, it’s numbers. An economics problem to be solved.”
“No need to tell me.” She busied herself with her tablet again, and Tom scratched ineffectively at his knee. It was easy to say they were trying, but they weren’t really, were they? He wasn’t, anyway. “I’ve got an interview on Thursday,” he told her, making himself change the subject.
“Nottingham?”
“That’s the one.”
“They’re certainly not hanging around. Good luck. I’ll send you the list of questions I use for archdeacon interviews here, let me know if I can help with anything.”
“Thanks.” He scratched gently at his knee. The other thoughts were still there.
On Friday night, he sat in the driver’s seat eating cold pasta on the way back down to London. The boot full of clothes he’d been hoarding for years and cheap groceries he’d bulk-bought yesterday evening. One way of getting out of thinking about the interview next week. His old motto, “I can sleep when I’m dead,” came back to him. Well, that was stupid, it was the reason his knee had ended up deteriorating so quickly, but every now and then…
The beeping of the car, summoning him to choose a parking spot, stirred him out of a doze. He deposited the car neatly then climbed out, stretching. Take it steady – dark, rain, and uneven mud weren’t the best combination even for people with normally developed muscles.
The station was quiet, faint lights coming from the medical and store tents. Tom ducked into the stores, stopping quickly as he came to a mass of small bodies on the floor.
“Evening, Tom,” came a murmur from off to one side. “Give me a second to get round…”
“Hi Megan.” He smiled as she edged around the sleeping children. “Brought them in out of the rain?”
“Poor darlings. At least it’s dry. You’re keen, showing up at this time.”
“Come from work. Stuff came up, had to stay late. Then it’s a long way, traffic out of York was a nightmare.”
“Have somewhere to stay tonight?”
“Too busy organising Ruth’s life to think too much about my own. And didn’t expect the traffic to be this bad. But I figured enough people sleep round here every night anyway.”
“Don’t make a habit of it, there’s no point. Most volunteers book hostels, usually, but you’re too late for that tonight. Come in. I’m watching the stores for the next couple of hours, JJ’s just out doing the patrol. Simon and Adam will take over at half two and finish the night. There’s a staff tent round the back, we can probably squidge you in just this once, normally it’s only for duty staff.”
He smiled. “Thanks. Should have been more organised, I will in future.”
“It’s good to have you. Do you want me to show you back now?”
“I’m happy to wait. Wouldn’t want to disturb the others.”
He followed her back into the tent, edging carefully around the children and then lowering himself to the ground as she settled back on her camp chair. The lamp with its tinted casing lit everything orange-red. You used red lights when you went star gazing, he remembered, to avoid ruining your night vision. It was a strange vibe, but felt rather warm, at odds with the sound of rain on canvas.
At half past two, she stirred him out of his doze and steered him out of the store tent. “Anything to get from your car for tonight?”
He blinked sleepily. “Nah.” He had pyjamas, but it was too cold to be changing – and awkward, as he didn’t know how much privacy this tent would offer.
“Any blankets?”
“No… I’ll get a coat.”
He did so, bundling it into a plastic bag to keep it dry, then followed her. The tent was, indeed, small, with crates of assorted stuff – Tom saw batteries and a torch – piled up in the porch. A couple of metres away, an open umbrella, forming a shelter over the heads of two sleeping men. That the first in a sea of shadowy mounds.
JJ led the way in, sitting on the edge of the sleeping compartment to remove his boots. Tom grimaced as he bent down to untie his own laces.
“Not much privacy, I’m afraid,” Megan whispered to him. “But more than out there…”
“Sure. Sorry to be taking up your space.”
He crawled in after her, and she shoved a blanket at him from the mass in the corner. “That’s Tina and John. Medics on site just in case.” Neither of the two stirred.
Tom squeezed himself as near the edge as possible without touching it, wrapping himself in the blanket with the coat as an extra layer over his feet. He should have done his physio exercises, he was usually careful not to miss them. Oh well, it was only one day…
He stirred slowly in the morning, aware now of just how hard the ground was. The patter of rain on canvas was a constant. A cold breeze tickled him through the open tent door, and he raised his neck to see JJ putting on his shoes. Megan was sitting up, shoving tangled curls into a messy bun. He sat up, clicked a couple of joints, and massaged his knee. Both medics were gone.
“Morning, Tom.”
“Morning Megan, JJ.”
Just a couple of minutes and they were in the kitchen. Esther, back in charge, homed in on him immediately. “Tom. What are you doing here?”
“Came late last night. Traffic. Megan took pity on my disorganisation. Have some stuff in the car, mostly old clothes but some groceries too, and a few mobility aids I don’t need.”
“Great. How long are you staying?”
“Until evening, if I can be useful.”
“Sure. We’re doing breakfast now, will go through your carload after. Cling to JJ or someone.”
A few hundred bowls of porridge later, Tom handed over the contents of the car then tracked down Emily Grace’s parents. They were huddled in a tent, watching the rain, blinking at him vaguely when he approached. One of those impossible pastoral situations where you could only offer love and sympathy. The conversation was long and difficult, and Tom felt strangely calm afterwards. This was why he was a priest.
When he eventually left them, he found Megan sitting under a marquee surrounded by children. Hope was there, intent on drawing. “These kids… how many of them are parentless like Hope?”
“Two of the little ones here, Alfie and Hope, have no relatives. Then there’s the twins over there who’ve become separated from their parents. Of the older ones, several runaways, or teens thrown out by abusive parents – it’s mostly them you saw sleeping in the stores last night. But most of them have relatives, it’s just nice to get them together during the day so they can be kids and their parents can have a break, go looking for work, whatever.”
“And you keep their spirits up?”
“They keep each other’s up, mostly. But yeah, engage with them, educate them, encourage them to keep dreaming. And keep them safe as best we can. It’s not a good situation to grow up in, they’ll have trouble finding a way out, it’s all dependent on somebody’s goodwill.” She shook her head and looked tenderly around her young charges.
Tom left her and crouched down beside Hope, had a short conversation with her and the other children around her. She showed off her picture, with a sun and a tree and two smiling stick figures. Tom admired it and then moved on to talk to some of the others, his attention quickly caught by a boy staring straight at him.
“You were with the bishop.”
“That’s right. You came to talk to her last week, didn’t you?”
“For granny.”
Tom remembered Ruth telling him about it. “How is your granny?”
“She’s very ill, but she says she’s old and it’s how things go.”
“She sounds like a very wise lady.” And very brave. “I’d like to go and see her before I leave, if you’ll tell me the way.”
“She would like that.”
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