Chapter 17: Ruth

Ruth’s eye stung gently, vision even blurrier than usual, the plastic shield taped to her face a very necessary precaution as she instinctively reached up to rub it. A few days and it’d be fine, until then… it wasn’t that bad, really, nothing like she’d feared in the worst moments leading up to it. Though she’d had quite enough of being prodded around with rubber-gloved fingers.

“Archbishop, it's good to see you back safely.” A welcoming party, there to meet her as Sister Helena guided her up the steps from the car.

“Sister Antonia?”

“That’s me. Would you like an arm?” It was proffered already, and Ruth took it gratefully.

“Thank you, it’s most appreciated. All of your care is, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’re most welcome, I’m delighted you felt comfortable to come here – and I hope you’re willing to let us care for you.”

The corners of Ruth’s mouth twitched. “I’ll do my best. And I’m sure I won’t be like this too long.”

“Where would you like to go? Back to your room, or into the common room perhaps? Work has finished for the day, we’re enjoying recreation before evening prayer, do come and join us.”

“That would be lovely. Though Sister Helena has my prescription… should take it to my room first, really.”

“Or you can take it up later, don’t trouble yourself.”

“Lead on, then.”

There was something humbling about entering the common room on the Prioress’s arm, being settled into a seat and having everything arranged around her, having the position of each Sister told to her as though it were perfectly normal. And to sit there, surrounded by these grey shadows, knowing that they could see her far better than she could see them. It was good for her.

“Well. I’m glad you all got to see me yesterday, so you know I’m not a complete invalid. But it’s most wonderful to be back – and I’d like to reassure you that in spite of appearances, all went very well.”

“Tea, Mother?”

“Thank you… Sister Joan? That would be lovely. No, no sugar.”

“Now, as we were saying, the retreat guests will be arriving on Sunday night, apart from three who will be arriving at around ten on Monday. Sister Angelina will lead the first talk on Sunday night, I will lead the second on Monday morning once the rest have arrived, and then they will go into silence – though of course they will have been invited to approach any of us as needed. Your Grace, don’t at any point feel obliged to talk to them, this is your retreat as much as theirs. And then from Thursday, Archbishop Ruth will lead the Liturgy of the Last Supper and preach the Triduum for all of us. Sister Margaret is in charge of preparing the Garden of Repose and will enlist help as required, and on Saturday afternoon we will all play our parts in the mammoth cleaning operation, while taking care to observe the solemnity of the day, Sister Angelina is in charge. Have I missed anything?”

“Just to add,” Ruth spoke up, “that while I may not feel obliged to talk to the retreat guests, I am here for you. I’m not sure how to organise it, but I’ll speak to Sister Antonia later and come up with a system.”

“This is your retreat, don’t feel you should do anything.”

“I won’t be able to read, at least for the next couple of days, so I need something to do. Besides which I’ve found, since my first visit here when you welcomed me as Bishop Visitor to the Community, that I learn as much or more from you than you do from me. It’s my privilege if you’ll take the time to meet with me.”

“Of course. We can discuss later and find a system.”

St Hilda’s Priory. Quiet constancy – at least now that building work was done and the convent garden established. This was the best kind of work, as Bishop Visitor to the Sisters, and she could happily offer a few hours to meet with each Sister individually, could lead a few services and preach some sermons. In between that, once her eye had healed, time to read that stack of books, to take long walks along blustery clifftops and attempt to sketch a diving seagull as it dropped towards the waves. Praying the hours, sometimes, at others doing her own thing. Tea in the morning, instead of coffee. Silence.

Samantha was still here, quiet and solemn, watching Ruth across the dining table but avoiding her outside. Ruth caught her briefly, that second day, with vision still blurry but recovered enough to allow independence.

“Samantha?”

The slow response, awakening from some dreamlike state. “What? Sorry, yeah?”

“I just wanted to ask how you’re getting on.”

“Um…” She blinked a couple of times. “Thanks for… organising this.”

“How are plans going, long term?”

“I’ve… applied. For a couple of things. Library jobs, like I used to do before… training. And some basic stuff, supermarkets, y’know. Only rejections so far.”

Ruth smiled encouragingly. “Well done. Don’t give up, tell me if there’s anything I can do. Rejections are difficult, but you only need one to say yes and you’re sorted. It’ll work out in the end.”

“Thanks.”

“Is there anything you want to talk through, while we’re both here?”

She dithered. “No.”

“Sure?”

A shake of her head. “I talked to Tim, before I left Lucy's, like you said. It... did help, a lot. Things are much better.”

That wasn’t what I asked. “I’m here for another week. Until Wednesday night. I’ve seen all of the Sisters, and will see some of them again, I’m more than happy to see you too.”

“Yeah.” Sam looked at the ground. “Thanks.”

“You’re still on the waiting list for counselling? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Sam? Phone call for you. Oh, sorry, your Grace…”

“Don’t worry.” Ruth nodded to Samantha. “I’ll catch you later.” She watched her disappear around the corner of the cloister. So closed off, so unreadable, this was why she’d messed up before – not realising that Samantha’s emotions were present but hidden.

She had a book to finish, a couple more chapters and a preliminary edit before it went to her editors at Church House. Eucharistic Presidency, taking on that role - In Persona Christi. She’d been asked a couple of times if she could produce something meditative, something for the laity in Lent reading groups or something, but there were plenty of other people writing such publications, no need to produce another unless she had something of value to add – which she didn’t. No, better to stick to her own field. Font size sixteen she was on now, it felt ridiculous but at least she could tell what she’d written.

Days had begun to lengthen, occasional evenings clear enough for dramatic sunsets. Snow at Easter dropping on and off the forecast, memories making her shudder. Last year, the problem had been obvious. Now? They might not be living in camps, but that didn’t mean they weren’t still out there, the hidden homeless. Homelessness, the death sentence of an uncaring world. Snowfall, the means of execution. But first, winds beginning to pick up, air tingling with the promise of a storm. Storm Kathleen, they were calling this one.

She blinked her eyes away from the window, back to the words on the screen. It was funny, the way she could never stick to a plan, but her conversation with Samantha back in February had given her new inspiration: the balance of duty between honouring the Sacrament and remembering its function. She typed a couple more sentences and then rewrote them. She was supposed to be on retreat, not working, but this wasn’t really work, was it? Not in the normal sense. It was a change, a kind of study and reflection; a good thing to be doing on retreat.

The chapel bell broke through her concentration. Stay and carry on, or go down for the afternoon office? The joints in her fingers clicked as she flexed her hands, but she was in the zone now. Get it done. She’d take a walk after dinner, in the long twilight, be back in time for compline…

She took her usual path out of the back gate, up the cliff. Cloudy, today, rain threatening, the sun bleeding dimly through a little above the horizon. Grey sky, grey sea, the whisper of wind which promised a storm. Down below, lights beginning to spark. She carried on round, following the coastal path, skirting around the chasm where a cliff fall had stolen the track ahead. The clouds bled red, Christ’s blood painted across the sky, nature’s own memorial. The glow of the lighthouse struggling to push through grey mist, the fog horn making doleful cry across the bay. The wind was picking up, and Ruth turned around. Not a place to be caught alone in a storm, on the edge of a cliff with eyesight still faded and blurry.

Back to the stillness of the priory, to sit and just listen to the plainsong. Samantha was on the other side, head buried in her arms, not moving even at the end of the service. She’d been quiet since the phone call. Ruth thought about waiting and talking to her, checking that everything was alright, but didn’t. She’d offered to talk enough times, Samantha knew there was help available. And now the Greater Silence had fallen.

About an hour after compline, she lay awake in bed, rain lashing at a securely fastened window. A low rumble, the room momentarily lit day-white. They could hear the waves from here, slashing against rock, battling with the howl of the wind. In the distance, carried in snatches by the wind, the lifeboat siren. How many were out, tonight? Every atom of skill and strength focused as one on the mission of living, driven by the full might of the waves towards the coast’s rocky teeth. Oh Lord, who didst calm the storm before… The bible just laid down was beside her bed, and she took it up again, caressing the worn cover before reopening it. She wouldn’t sleep, not until the storm had died down. Below, a door opening and closing, footsteps on gravel - no doubt one of the Sisters, perhaps going to check on the hens.

And then she laid the bible down, and slept, and woke, and all was quiet once more. A day begun in the chapel, with silence and then the Office, with prayers for those lost in the night and for those who would now have to rebuild. Moving into the Eucharist, celebrated by Sister Antonia, a welcome change to worship and kneel and receive among the congregation. Her eyesight was bad this morning, the President a distant shape in purple, the chalice a gleam; lack of sleep definitely had an effect.

Finally, breakfast, in silence. She scanned the tables – all present but Samantha, probably sleeping in after a night disturbed by thunder. Ruth was tempted to retire again herself, especially when she retreated to the bathroom to do her eye drop and then had to face the embarrassment of finding Sister Margaret, who’d trained as a nurse, already at work gathering scraps of plastic blown in from the ocean.

“Sister?”

“Your Grace?”

“Just a… request, if I may.”

“Of course.” She straightened immediately. “What can I do for you?”

“Just a… silly thing. I can’t keep my hand steady.” She held up the little bottle of antibiotic fluid.

“I’ll wash my hands…”

Effortless, when Sister Margaret did it, supporting Ruth’s head with one hand and squeezing the bottle with the other. Ruth smiled ruefully.

“It’s an exercise in humility, medical care.”

“There are many things for which we need each other, we weren’t made to be independent.”

There was a gentle reproach there, which didn’t need to be made explicit. If asking for help with an eye drop was an exercise in humility…

“Such as your medical care and your wisdom. Thank you.”

“You look,” said Sister Margaret as she placed the bottle in Ruth’s hand, “as though you did not sleep particularly well.”

“I enjoy storms, but they do keep one awake rather.”

“There’s no shame in going back to bed.”

Ruth did so, for an hour, lay quietly and stared at the ceiling and then sat up to read a book. Sleeping in the daytime was not one of her strengths, sadly. Outside, a chainsaw, and she looked out of the window to see a grey-habited figure making short work of a fallen branch. Work was being done, and looked far more fun than lying awake in bed, so she got up again.

Not that she was much use, but she helped to pile the remains of Sister Antonia’s freshly-chopped branch into a wheelbarrow, and then served tea to the Sisters to soothe the morning’s aches as Sister Angelina updated them with the news.

“The boat is heading back in. They’ve attended four calls, and been out all night. One was a fishing vessel on the rocks a few miles up the coast, they couldn’t get the lifeboat in. Sisters Margaret and Joan, would you come across with me and offer any support needed, to crew and any rescued sailors on board?”

Ruth stood with them. “I’ll go too, if I may.” She went to find clericals, then joined the small party of habited nuns in carrying bundles of food the short distance to the lifeboat station. A moment to admire the flotsam washed up on the beach – already being picked over by enterprising youngsters, treasures gleaned away and timbers stacked for firewood. The great doors of the station were open, the sea licking at the harbour wall below with a dark predatory innocence. The boat was still out, somewhere across those treacherous waters.

“Good morning, Joanne. Sister Angelina told you we were coming? We’re here to do whatever we may – if I might introduce Archbishop Ruth, who is staying with us and would like to help. I hear it’s been a bad night.”

“It has, worthy of the autumn. That’s the way of it, these days, sadly it’s no longer particularly remarkable, and it’ll be getting worse in the years to come. And they said it was warming we'd to worry about!”

Ruth nodded sympathetically and followed Sister Joan. “You do this a lot?”

“After every storm. We’ll go around the town later and find anyone else who needs help.”

“You do good work, the whole Order. I know that well enough from our two at Bishopthorpe, but you’re properly showing me now.”

“It’s good of you to help.”

Help. Ruth did just that, joining Sister Joan in organising the tiny station kitchen, turning on the great boiler ready to fill mugs the moment the heroic vessel returned, as the cry came from the doorway, “there she is!”

And so she limped in, still reeling from the ocean’s final kick, until at last she rested in the harbour wall’s embrace. Her little companion nudged behind, bruised and splintered and grateful. The Sisters were there, scant regard for pristine grey habits as they welcomed staggering sailors into reassuring arms, drew them up and into shelter where the ground at last did not reel beneath them. The lifeboat crew were still at work, sluicing down decks, coiling ropes, making a thousand checks as to their beloved vessel’s wellbeing. As though they had not worked the night through, in rain and bitter wind and constant peril of death. How could Ruth complain about work, when volunteers offered such single-minded devotion to their own tasks? And oh, the frustration at her own weakness, held back by blurred and misty vision from any job except talking to any who wished to talk – though that had its own importance, offering even a little help in coming to terms with the night’s horrors.

It was not until evening that they heard the names, listed for prayer. A rusting, tattered fishing vessel, crew of six, desperate for a full catch before return to harbour and the demands of creditors. Creditors who now bemoaned their claims, of course, but too late. The little boat, caught up in the wind-blown surge of tide, carried helpless to the point of no return. She’d sat and listened to the lifeboat crew describe it, dark ghosts showing pale faces in the beams of torchlight. Cries of relief turning to despair as their saviour faltered, the tug of the current too strong to risk crossing, swimmers striking out in desperation and whisked away beyond the reach of the life-ring. The rest left clinging to a rock, promises of return offered through the loudhailer, before the boat moved on to another mission less futile. Returning in the morning calm to a rock devoid of any life but seagulls. The coastguard was out now, searching.

“Your Grace, please come…”

She followed without hesitation, dread growing as she saw the police, waiting by the priory door.

“It’s Samantha,” Sister Antonia told her. “We didn’t want to worry you earlier...”

© 2022 E.G. Ferguson

Chapter 16: Lucy

“…better than that daughter of mine, haven’t seen her around, like I didn’t put the best years of my life into bringing her up. But then what can you expect? Young people these days, all off worrying about themselves, not a thought for their old dad…”

Lucy checked her watch surreptitiously; still twenty minutes before she could make her escape. There were days when she loved pastoral visiting, and days when she wasn't so sure.

“I’m sure she cares, she’s just busy. You said she has children, didn’t you?”

“Her and that Indian boy of hers. That’s what we was worried about, them coming over and taking our girls. Not that them Indians are too bad, usually, they’re good and hardworking. Not like…”

“You wouldn’t say we’re all the same because we’re all British, would you?”

“Ah, you young people. I used to think like you, but you see when you get older…”

Lucy tuned him out for a while. She was going to see Lily after this, a nice meeting to cheer her up after Zachary. At least, it’d be difficult, but more encouraging than Zachary’s moaning.

“…and when you’ve a bladder like mine, I keep saying to the nurses…”

She was preaching on Sunday. What to say? And then there were the Palm Sunday preparations to finish, a big benefice get-together if they could persuade anyone from the other churches to come to St James’. The palms should be arriving today, in the church office, Tim had agreed to her suggestion that she get some people together to have a go at weaving some into fancy designs to decorate the church, his agreement enthusiastic enough to make her regret the suggestion. She’d have to have a go tonight, see what she could come up with, and then hope a few people turned up on Wednesday…

“…anyway, I’m not too into these woman bishops, but I have to say, she’s as good as any man, knows how to speak up, good solid voice. Can’t abide it when they’re shrill, it’s just hard on the ears. Not so sure about the hair, it's not exactly modesty. But she talks well, too, actually seems to know what she's on about. Better than that Richard bloke, it’s a shame, they used to be able to find such good ones. Danger of letting women in, of course, it puts the good men off…”

How was Sam getting on? She’d called Lucy a few days ago, and they'd had a good chat over the phone. It was nice there, apparently, the nuns kind if rather stifling at times. She was frustrated, that they always seemed to be keeping an eye on her – a relief for Lucy, to know that Sam was safe, that other people were doing what she couldn’t. She should call again in a few days, make sure Sam knew she cared. Check in, for her own peace of mind.

“…and now he’s taken himself off to Europe, for a holiday, where they find the time or money for all these holidays I don’t know, it used to be one in summer, maybe a few days at Christmas or Easter or half term. When you’ve got kids you can’t do any of that running off when you feel like it, you’ve got to be there or the school’ll have you for it, like they’ve got rights over your own children. But he’s gone vanished off to another country leaving me here, for all he knows I might not be here when he gets back but does he care?”

Yeah, because you’ve been in the same state for at least six months and yet there’s a high chance you’re going to pop your clogs in the two weeks your son takes a break? “It’s only two weeks, and think of all the extra things you’ll have to talk about when he gets back.”

“Oh, no doubt I’ll be treated to the holiday snaps. Lots of photos of cocktails and foreign food and neon lighting, like that’s what seeing the world is about, you can get all that right here without running off to foreign parts.”

“But no doubt he’ll have experiences that don’t fit in a photo, to tell you about, things you can’t find in this country.”

“Britain’s quite good enough for me, thank you. I suppose you’re into this globetrotting lark too?”

“Never left the country, actually. Except to France, once.”

“France, huh? Well, I’ve always thought…”

Ten minutes. Then on to Lily’s, where there would no doubt be tea and cake to test Lenten resolve, and a string of pretty things to admire. I was looking through an old album and found this one. I thought this might interest you. This one made me think of you. Look at these lovely little creatures, aren’t they sweet? Now what do you think of this?

“…not that you want to be spending time with a crotchety old man with me anyway, right? You youngsters, no understanding of what it’s like to be old. Now, when Martin used to come and see me…”

She let him ramble on for a while, and then interrupted at the next break. “Now, Zachary, I’m afraid I’m going to have to be going. Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?”

“Oh, is it that time already?” An exaggerated drama as he fumbled for his clock, looked at it, and then returned it to the table beside him. “Ah, I suppose you’ve a lot to be doing. Life to live, all those things to be seen. All so urgent when you’re young. Well, come back soon, no doubt I’ll still be just as you left me, twiddling my thumbs. Not much to do, nobody cares to spend time with a crotchety old man like me. You can show yourself out?”

She most certainly could, and did, only a hint of guilt at her eagerness to leave. She wanted to help him, but if he didn’t want to be helped? She could hardly blame his children for avoiding visiting, she’d do it herself if she could. But that wasn’t acceptable for her, she was a priest and everyone mattered. And it was literally her job.

The rest of the day seemed fun, always the way after a meeting with Zachary. Even meeting with a family to plan a funeral, and then calling the undertaker; at least in such situations, she could feel useful. And finally, meeting Tim for evening prayer, being asked how her day had been.

“Lots of visiting. Marge, Zachary, Lily, and then William’s family. Marge was having a bad day but perked up, her cat’s wandered off so I promised to keep an eye out. Lily seemed good. Zachary much as normal. The funeral’s all in hand.”

“Good work - though a very busy day! Watch that. How are your sermons going?”

“Um…” well, she’d thought about them… “I’ve written down some ideas, and started the reading.”

“For the Triduum, yes? Not this Sunday?” A twinkle in his eye.

“I’ve a plan for this Sunday already. The reading’s mostly for Maundy Thursday.”

“You’ve found enough material to read?”

“Um… I think so. You’ve got suggestions?”

“Far more than could possibly be practical. Frederick Campbell’s The Servant King is good, of course, and Melissa Warner on Gethsemane, and I assume you’ve read Ruth Harwood’s book on Sacraments in the Church of England?”

“No…”

“Really? I thought they’d have assigned it to you at college, that’s why I didn’t give it to you before your First Mass. There’s some good stuff on the Eucharist – and the other Sacraments, of course, but they’re less relevant to this.”

“I read her book on learning from monasticism, that’s all.”

“I’ll lend it to you. It’s quite long, very rigorous, and extremely good - besides the fact it's always a good idea to know all you can about your bishop's theology. A bit more of a catholic approach than you’ve had at that college of yours. And if you haven’t read that, I bet there’s a lot else you haven’t read either, I’ll have to go through my bookshelves…”

Lucy groaned. “Very considerate, thank you…”

“Any time.”

She glared at him, as he smiled sweetly in return. 

“Elsie wants you to ring, her, by the way,” she told him innocently. “I saw her when I was leaving Lily.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

It was a good relationship they had, one built mostly on gentle bullying – which was okay, because it went both ways. At least, he seemed to spend most of his time watching her adventures with mild amusement, contributing guidance when it suited him but mostly leaving her to her own devices. She, in return, took great pleasure in dragging him into conversation with his least favourite parishioners, in slipping overtly evangelical mannerisms into sermons and intercessions, and in making fun of the various trappings required for benediction. He had only once taken revenge by making her do it – an experience requiring a full hour’s practise – with the excuse of “it’s good experience”. In return, she’d ordered a light blue clerical shirt and worn it on Sunday – for practical reasons, of course, since it was so much cooler than a black one in this unseasonably warm weather.

Her next adventure: weaving palms. One begun with an enthusiasm which quickly faded as the palms proved less than simple to manipulate. Just as well they’d only ordered a few plain ones, and would use ready-made crosses… but in an hour, she’d managed to make a decent crown of thorns and half a simply woven leaf, and figured she was getting the hang of it. A nice thing to know how to do, even if she’d never do it again.

“Hi, Sam.” She liked to call every week, just to prove she still cared. And to satisfy the nagging voice in the back of her head that yes, Sam was still alive...

“Lucy! How’s it going?”

She shook herself mentally. “Palm leaves are vicious, as are certain parishioners. Apart from that, great. You?”

“Okay. Applied for a couple of jobs, it’s hard without references though…”

“You can get references, surely? Ruth would give you one…”

“Yeah, a favourable one, though? Anyway, I still have to answer the bit on the forms where it says ‘reason for leaving your last job’.”

“Oh. Yeah. Apply for things that only need a CV? Though disagreements on church teaching are hardly a massive issue for most jobs anyway…”

“Being told to resign is though.”

No answer to that. “Well, apply with just a CV. Or get some full-time volunteering, then you can list that as your most recent job.”

“Yeah, it’s not a job though.”

“Doesn’t stop you listing it as one. Especially if it’s full-time instead of a job.”

“I guess.” A pause. “Doesn’t pay, though.”

“Just do your best. It’ll work out.”

“My savings are about to go on health insurance excess. Full-time volunteering is for people with means.”

“I know, but… it’s better than nothing? The government’s changing things, they’re bringing back benefits and stuff…”

“For people who actually deserve them.”

“You’re a person, you deserve to live!”

“I don’t deserve stuff other people have to work for.”

“You don’t deserve to starve in a gutter.”

“Sleeping in gutters is illegal anyway.”

“Sam! Work with me here…”

A short silence on the other end. “Sorry. It’s just a bit frustrating.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” Lucy wasn’t sorry that Sam was now being looked after by someone else, but she was sorry that she couldn’t at least be there sometimes. Maybe she could visit on a day off, though not this week as she'd need the break for herself.

“I’ll keep trying.”

“You do that. What are you doing with yourself, when you’re not looking for jobs.”

“Um… living in a convent? Yeah, relaxing really. Helping with chores – they’ve put me on rotas for stuff, cooking and gardening and cleaning and washing up and all that. It’s quite fun.”

“Still getting on with the nuns?”

“Yeah, some of the novices are fun. Even if Sister Angelina’s strict – she’s the novice mistress. And they’re all really nice. And then we have all the prayers every day, and communion – I don’t have to go to things, but I usually do, not much else to do, and it’s useful. And walks on the cliffs, it’s a nice spot. There’s a lot of silence, it’s weird but you get used to it.”

“I’m not interrupting it now, am I?”

“Nah. I mean, it’s silent most of the time, talking is only really for recreation and when necessary. But Greater Silence is only after Compline. And next week, since it’s Holy Week. There’s more people coming, for a special retreat thing, Archbishop Ruth’s going to be here and preach, the nuns are all excited about that. Sister Antonia said I could join the retreat stuff, I probably will, may as well.”

“I bet it’ll be really good, make the most of it.”

“I mean, this whole thing is like a really long retreat.”

“Or like being a nun?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Fancy being a nun, now you’re finding out what it’s like?”

“What?” Sam laughed. “I’m not nun material.”

“Well, I dunno, what is nun material?” At least this had found some levity.

“Dunno. They do as they’re told… all very nice and very good at being quiet and always happy about everything. Even cleaning, and soup for lunch.”

“Do you think that’s because they’re nuns, or because those are the people who get picked to be nuns? If that makes any sense. Like, they’re happy because they’re nuns, or all nuns are naturally happy people?”

“Dunno. It’s a bit weird, anyway. Though fun, when they get to talk or play games or whatever.”

“Nuns play games?”

“Yeah, football and stuff. The younger ones, not Sister Mary or Sister Margaret or Sister Antonia.”

“In habits?”

“It’s a sight to behold. They’re really good, though, I’ve joined in a few times…”

“Being a nun sounds great.”

“Apart from getting up at four in the morning.”

“Less great…”

“Anyway, I should go. Dinner.”

“Sure. Look after yourself, call me if you want a chat.”

“Thanks.”

Lucy put the phone down and shoved food in the oven. Time to it down and make a proper attempt at that Maundy Thursday sermon. So much to talk about, so little time in which to say it… why did she have to do this now, after a day of both Zachary and Sam? Because she’d put it off too long, and she’d regret not starting it now.

Servant ministry. Modern-day servant ministry. It was all very well to carry out ceremonial foot-washings, but how did you really serve people? She scratched her shoulder absent-mindedly. Deaconing, that was servant ministry… doing whatever needed doing. Doing whatever needed doing. Being there for people, in anything, all the things you didn’t want to have to deal with, dealing with them anyway. Serving. Cooking and cleaning and washing up and gardening. And being happy with it.

She smiled. Thanks, Sam. She might not feel ready to preach on the Eucharist, but she could talk about servant ministry. Offering of self. And then, maybe, move on to Gethsemane…

© 2022 E.G. Ferguson

Chapter 15: Tom

The house was quiet, for a while. Shock, mostly, everyone walking on tiptoes as though the slightest tremor would bring the whole thing crashing down. They’d built a life together on a bed of sand, and now a wave had come along and washed it away, so that it hung over nothing.

“I’ve talked to a few people.” Liza found them downstairs, after the others were in bed.

Tom looked up sharply, saw Megan do the same.

“People I know from the... the camp. They want to help with the wedding, if they can. I know it’s not much, but…”

Megan answered first, reaching out a tired arm. “Come and sit down.” She sighed. “That’s really thoughtful, thank you. It’s just… with everything going on right now, Tom and I would like to have as little fuss as possible. What matters is the service, the fact that we actually end up married. The rest is just a party, just one evening.”

“Can I do anything, to help? I know you’ve got other things to think about, but I… I can’t help with Charley or Mars or any of that, but I can make a few bookings, write invitations, make decorations, come up with ideas… I can figure it out for you.”

“That’s really sweet of you.”

“Why don’t you show me what you’ve got so far?”

Tom met Megan’s eyes and she nodded. “You don’t have to. You have work, and school, and it really doesn’t matter. But if you know what’s going on too, it’ll save stress. Don’t make anything complicated.”

Tom pulled his laptop towards him. “It’s all on here… I’ll put it on cloud or something for you. We have guests, we sent the invitations already. And who’s doing what, and what we’ve booked, and an idea of timings, and the budget.”

Liza took the laptop from him. “Have you got bridesmaids? Or a best man?”

“We’re keeping it simple.”

“Just ‘cause… if you don’t want the fuss of asking anyone else, or you don’t have anyone, there’s always us. We’ll help. Charley and me can be bridesmaids… me at least. Mars can be an usher or a page boy or something. Mika can be a flower girl.”

Tom nodded. “Makes sense, but no gendering.”

“Well, whatever. We can carry bouquets, arrange dresses, look after the rings, hand out programs… or you can ask your friends. You should. People who won’t make fuss.”

Megan sighed. “You’re an angel, Liza. How are you doing, how’s everything?”

Liza shrugged. “I’m getting Bs now, and Cs in maths. Better than last term. And work’s fine.”

“That’s not really what I meant.”

Confusion. “So..?”

“How are you? Are you happy?”

“Of course I am.”

“And Charley and Mars? It must be bothering you.”

She looked at her shoes. “I don’t really talk to them. I mean, what would I say?”

“That’s okay,” Megan reassured her. “We don’t expect you to do anything, you know. We’re only worried about whether it’s upsetting you.”

“Oh.” Liza shrugged. “Don’t worry about me, I’m fine. How about you?”

Tom and Megan looked at each other. Typical Liza, just wanting to help them. Like she herself wasn’t still a child, with her own problems and concerns.

It was Tom who took Mars to counselling, and picked him up afterwards. Ruth was paying, having insisted, and Tom might have refused but Mars was only a kid and deserved help from whatever quarter they could get it. Charley had almost come to blows with the counsellor the first time they’d taken her and had refused to go back since. She was still waiting, still grounded, still beyond any of their ability to deal with. The police were investigating, another shadow over a scene that was already dark enough. The school searched her bag when she arrived every morning, and Megan searched it every time she came home. There was no moving on.

“Tom?” Mars drew his attention back to the present.

“Yes?”

“What are you? To us? Like, we don’t call you Dad, you’re not an uncle or anything. You’re not just a person who comes to visit, but you don’t live with us either.”

A difficult question, which Tom thought about as they waited at the traffic lights. “I suppose I think of myself as your foster dad, though I'm not officially. Megan’s your foster mum, she looks after you, and we’re going to be married soon, I’m trying to be as much like your foster dad as possible before then.”

“But what’s the difference between a foster dad and a real dad?”

“Well…” Even harder, not to make Mars worry about the future while not taking liberties. “Part of it’s legal. We aren’t legally your parents, we’re just looking after you for now. Like Joel and the others, we looked after them for a while before they went to live with permanent families.”

“So we’re going to move on too?”

Probably not; how could they do that to Mars, after everything? His anxiety had been worse, with regular nightmares and a jumpiness every time he left the house, but it was still better than before they'd taken him in. To move, again... how could they be confident it wouldn't break him?

“Only if you want to.”

“So I can stay?”

“If you want.”

“Forever?”

“Until you’re grown up, and have a job, or go to university, and you want to move out. And even then, we can carry on being your parents. We’ll still care about you, and want to see you, and be here to help when you need us.”

“But then, it’s not just for now.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Then… you’re like my real dad, and Megan’s like my real mum.”

“Just not legally.”

“No.” he scratched the back of his leg. “Why do we call you Tom and Megan, then? Nobody calls their parents that.”

“Would you rather call us something else?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. It’s weird, though.”

“Well, the reason we didn’t ask you to call us Mum and Dad, or anything like that, is because when you came you didn’t really know us, we didn’t know if you’d want for us to be your parents. Especially as you’ve all had different kinds of parents. If you want to call us Mum and Dad, and tell people we’re your parents – unless it’s for official things, then you have to say foster parents – then… I’m certainly happy with that, and Megan would be too.” He wanted to talk about the adoption idea, but best agree that with Megan first. And wait until after the wedding, as they’d planned. This would do for now.

“Okay.” Mars was silent for a minute. “It’s just that… my counsellor was asking things. It made me think.”

Tom nodded. “I’m sure. Was it helpful?”

Mars shrugged and rolled down the window. “Dunno. We talked a lot, and he made me draw things, though I’m rubbish at drawing.”

“No doubt you’re better than me.”

“Was it bad, taking that stuff?”

Tom glanced across. “Hand inside the car, please…” He hesitated just long enough to frame his answer. “No, it wasn’t, and don’t let anyone tell you it was. You didn't know what you were taking, adults gave it to you, they're the ones at fault.”

“What if I did want it really, I just didn’t know it?”

“If you didn’t know it, you didn’t want to. You didn’t know what was happening, you couldn’t leave, that means it’s a bad thing that happened to you, not your fault.”

“Mmmm.” Mars hesitated. “What if they come back?”

They won’t. We’ll do everything we can to protect you. But what if they did? What did Tom and Megan know about protecting someone from a gang? “You’ve got my number, haven’t you? And Megan’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you call us straight away and we’ll come and get you. Whatever time it is, wherever you are. Or if it's a real emergency, call 999 first.”

“Okay.” He stuck his arm out of the window again. “And when I’m older?”

“Hand in the car. Yeah, what about it?”

Mars brought his hand back inside with a sigh. “What if I want… a girlfriend? Or a boyfriend?”

“Well, that’s up to you.”

“But if they try to make me do something I don’t want to? Like Mark did with Charley.”

“Well, obviously you have to be careful. You can meet them in public places, especially at first, you can go to cafés or the park, and you can bring them home. And if there’s something you don’t want to do, you say no, and if they don’t like that then maybe they’re not somebody you can trust. If they’re fine with it, as most people would be, then you know they’re the sort of person you want to be going out with. If you wanted to do something with someone, and they didn’t want to, you wouldn’t make them, would you?”

Mars shook his head decisively. “No.”

"So you can say no, or you can tell them you need time to think. And if they're not okay with that, you find someone who is." And you make better decisions that Charley about what you want. Tom sat back, watching Mars out of the corner of his eye as he stared straight ahead out of the windscreen. Saw his fingers moving in his pocket, where Tom knew he kept his fidget cube. They'd told him he didn't need to hide it, but he preferred to.

“Tom? Um, Dad?”

Tom smiled slightly. “Yeah?”

“Do you get bad dreams?”

You poor, poor kid. “Yes, I do, sometimes.” The squeal of tires. The clean blue and white of a hospital bed. The straps of a wheelchair, tying him down, a leg that dragged behind like a useless lump of flesh, masked surgeons, flashing lights, sirens, Mick’s face. The phone ringing in the middle of the night. Charley, going out late at night, snapping at him, storming out and running into the darkness, where strange men snatched at him as he chased after her, until she was out of sight, screaming…

“It’s normal?”

“Well, everyone gets nightmares sometimes, but that doesn’t mean the dreams you and I get are normal. Your counsellor should help, if you’ve told him about them.”

“We were talking about other things.”

“Well, there’ll be plenty of time.”

“What do you do? When you have a bad dream?”

“Well, when I was little, I used to go and find my mum and wake her up, and she would cuddle me and let me sleep next to her. Now, I get up and turn the light on, and sometimes I walk around the room a bit, and I usually pray a bit, and I’ll read a nice book or a bit of my bible until I’m ready to go to sleep again. Sometimes, I listen to music, or an audiobook, quietly so I can eventually fall asleep to it.”

“We’re not allowed to use phones and stuff after bedtime, though.”

“If you want to listen to music to help you go to sleep, that’s okay. I’ll tell Megan I said so.

“Thanks.”

Megan caught him a few days later, after the kids were in bed. “Mars has started calling me mum…”

A smile grew on Tom's lips. “We had a conversation, after counselling. He wanted to know what we were, so I tried to explain, and he mentioned how weird it was calling us by our first names. I figured you wouldn’t mind if I told him he could call us Mum and Dad – only if he wanted to, which it seems he does.”

She put her feet in his lap, and he pulled her socks off, holding them at arm’s length and dropping them jokingly before massaging her toes.

“Did you mention the adoption idea?”

“No, I figured that could wait until after the wedding, and for us all together.”

“Good.” She wiggled her toes. “That’s nice.”

“When did you last sit down?”

“Um… dinner?”

He rolled his eyes. “Mealtimes don’t count.”

“Do so. They’re like a rest break.”

“What, with Mika learning how to turn a fork into a catapult?”

She rolled her eyes. “And laughing her head off when Charley gets pissed off with her. Family life, eh?”

He pushed her trouser legs up so he could reach her calves. “Lots of knots in here.”

“Cheeky. We’re not married yet!”

“What can I say, I’m a wild immoral man, already inflamed by the sight of bare ankles! Your honour is besmirched, and I shall have to go to confession…”

She kicked him in the face, lightly. “Something we’ve never really talked about. Why did you decide to be a priest?”

He caught her feet and held them still for a minute. “Well… I started doing it formally towards the end of university, but… God was kind of calling me before that, I just didn’t listen. But then at uni, I was thinking so much about what I was going to do with my life. It was a tough few years, university often is, and especially with all that had happened with Mick. And I’d kind of… found God again, after a couple of years of drifting away, just before I left for uni. That was really important. I thought about maybe taking religious orders…”

She raised her eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yeah, I looked into it, it just… wasn’t right.”

“Well, I’m glad of that.”

“Yes, I was going to say, now I know why. Well, I kept coming back to this idea of being a priest – and I had some great priests, Michael at home who did so much for Mum and tried to for me after the accident, and then the university chaplain, and the vicar of the church I went to in term time. I got involved, did a lot of exploring… I was studying English, but my course let me borrow a couple of theology papers. Was doing the discernment process stuff at home in vacations, with Michael, we finished it off in the summer after I graduated and then I was a pastoral assistant for a year, and then they sent me to selection panel and… I got recommended. And there’s a lot of “just knowing” in there, I just… can’t put it into words. I just knew God was calling me, and I wanted to go out and help people just like Michael and all the others had helped me. Never thought I’d end up an archdeacon.”

“Mmmm.” She shifted to make herself more comfortable. “Everyone keeps warning me about how awful it is, being married to a priest.”

He laughed, then was serious. “There’s something in that, I know I warned you myself, early on. We’re not known for being good at work-life balance.”

“I’ve noticed. But also, Steve’s said it, you’re a priest and that means I can’t always expect you to put me first.”

He looked across the room, at the crucifix above the boarded-up fireplace. “That’s true, too. I want to give you everything, but I’ve already promised myself to God, and… if it ever comes to a choice between you and God…”

“God wins. I know.”

“But I’m trusting that you’ll never ask me to do something that goes against what I’m being called to by God. I believe that being with you not only makes me happy but will make me a better person, a better priest. And I very much believe that our love is from God, because it’s the best thing in my life, and where else could it come from? Our marriage will help us both to grow in our relationship with God, not just each other.”

“They were definitely right, I don’t get you all to myself.”

“But I don’t get you all to myself either, do I? I mean, you’re a Christian too. And then there are the kids.”

“Of course.” She reached out to hold hands. “Getting married is complicated, isn’t it?”

“Oh, I can overcomplicate anything. Isn’t it also really simple?”

“Let’s stick to the simple version. Me, you, two become one.”

“I love you, you love me, together forever we should be?”

She kicked him. “That was terrible.”

“Why thank you…” He shifted her feet off his lap. “Do I get a massage now?”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, I suppose so. Come here…”

“So we’ve talked about me. What about you? When I met you, you hated your job and lived in a box with a draconian landlord, and spent every spare hour volunteering with people who needed you. What do you want to do next?”

“Like being mum to these four isn’t enough?”

“Yes, I can see how that's a full time job. At the same time, it won't take the older ones long to be grown up. You want to keep focusing on them, or maybe add in something else?”

“I… dunno. Go on, I’ll be honest with you, I don’t know. I’ve changed a lot, the kids have changed me and you’ve changed me and… just the past year. The day-to-day and dealing with the schools takes a lot of time, then reading and meeting people to learn more about how to help them. I’m doing stuff at church, when the kids are all at school, but going back to work… not sure. Still exploring. At my age.”

He smiled encouragingly. “People do. You’ve maybe another twenty-five years of working life ahead of you, better make sure it’s right.”

“Yeah.”

“You know I’m here if you want to… bounce ideas. Talk through things. Get frustrated and swear a lot.”

She laughed, just for a moment. “There’s… no, I’m still at the early stages. It’ll come.”

“It will.”

© 2022 E.G. Ferguson