Chapter 3 - Ruth

Retirement, when it became a reality rather than a dream, seemed to lose so much of its appeal. Just as work, when the end drew near, lost so much of its monotony. Not that Ruth’s work was really monotonous, but emails were emails and school visits were school visits and charity functions were charity functions, however much the packaging varied.

The final months were slipping by, plans starting to fall into place. “If I’m still in the job when I turn seventy, it’ll be time for me to step back and make way for a younger person” – something she’d said in multiple interviews, in response to questions following the increase in the mandatory retirement age. Maybe she was now allowed to carry on to seventy-five, but that didn’t mean she should. Or wanted to. Really, it was a miracle she’d hung on this long…

But now, that big birthday was hanging on the horizon. She’d chosen her end date - when she’d hand in her resignation, step back, make a cup of tea and watch keenly to see who would be called up to take her place... Nah, step away and find something else to do.

“It all depends on you, doesn’t it?” She ruffled Dot’s ears, and the dog stretched languidly beside her on the sofa. “Poor old girl. Old bones all full of aches, eh?”

First, secret discussions, long journeys down to Cambridge and a college which still seemed familiar, even so long after those happy PhD years. Could she really return? Yes, she reckoned she could. It had been long enough. If she was honest, she was looking forward to it – young minds, intellectual challenge, just being in a place where the Church’s future was being built. Where the Holy Spirit was so clearly at work. Where people still had the energy to believe in change.

And before she got stuck into that, a chance for a break, most of a year completely free to do whatever she wanted. And so now this evening she was back on the internet, researching for decisions she couldn’t yet make. She could, perhaps, spend Christmas in Rome, experiencing the great pageant of celebration. And then Holy Week and Easter in the Holy Land, reliving the story in the place where it had happened, from the Mount of Olives to Holy Sepulchre, amid the remnants of a too-recent war which had felt sadly natural in a place so famed for bloodshed. Good Friday, in a place where the concept of violent death felt far too present.

All that depending on Dot, on the vet’s estimate which counted down months. The dog who coughed a chesty cough and laid her head down on Ruth’s lap, content to just be. Dot wouldn’t be leaving the country, which meant that if she were still here, nor would Ruth. Time at home with her dog was an option which appealed at least as much as globetrotting anyway, so she wasn’t booking anything yet.

She shut down the tablet and sat, running her fingers through coarse fur. “So, old girl. If you keep hanging on, what shall we do? So many lovely things we could do. We’ll go up to the Lakes, yes? And we’ll stay there, for a quiet few months, and go for long walks when we’re feeling good, and short ones when we’re feeling creaky. And we’ll have a little log fire, and you can lie by it and dream of chasing squirrels… no, that’s beneath you, isn’t it? You’ll be dreaming of driving those flocks over the hills, of being a champion herder, of glory and adulation and red rosettes - or will it just be squirrels after all? It’s all about the simple things, really, isn’t it?”

Dot’s ribcage rose and fell, milky brown eyes blinking slowly. What was she thinking, Ruth wondered, did she know? It made Ruth feel guilty, to be planning things to do once she was gone… but then the end was inevitable, and likely to come soon. If Dot were still here, well then she wouldn’t go after all. But the worst prospect was one of being left alone, no dog and nothing to fill the hole left behind.

“We’ll have to organise you a birthday party, so hang on for that. Fifteen years old, eh? A very respectable age for a dog, especially one that’s worked as hard as you. And you hanging on with that gammy old leg. What do you want, then? Something nice to chew on? You’ve moved on from squeaky toys, haven’t you, really? And material goods in general; you always seem quite content as you are. How about an entire day where we just sit on the sofa and cuddle? I’d be up for that, and I bet you would too. Or we could get a couple of people over to help make a fuss of you? People you like – though that’s everyone, isn’t it?”

It was from there that her mind managed to drift on to godchildren, and to Mika. A promise made to Tom, as she’d tried to persuade him to promise certain things to her. Best if she set an example by keeping her word… she checked the calendar and took out her phone to give Tom a call while she had her diary open.

“Hi Ruth.”

“Tom. How are you doing?”

“You and Luke taking turns to check up on me?”

“No!” She pushed away the slight sting of guilt, the sense she'd betrayed his trust. “No, this call is unrelated to… all of that. I was just calling to see what you’re doing two weeks on Thursday.”

“Working, why?”

“In the evening?”

“Being at home, with my family, doing any leftover work, why?”

“And Mika?”

“Mika? Oh!”

She smiled to herself. It was fun to mess with him, just a little bit.

“Um, she has… gymnastics, finishes at half four, that’s it.”

“Great. Know any good places to eat near you, preferably dog-friendly ones? It’ll be about four days off the anniversary of her admission to Holy Communion, by the way, it’s the closest I can get and a good excuse for me to insist it’s my treat.”

“We can cook for one more…”

“But I insist, and you know me…”

Tom groaned. “I do. Giving up now.” A pause. “You know I’ll get you back though.”

Was that humour? Almost? “No doubt. Suggestions?”

“Um… I’ll text them to you? Once I’ve checked with Megan? She knows the area…”

“Good. And will Mars and Megan both be free?”

“You don’t have to take us all out…”

“I thought you said you’d given up.”

“Ugh! I’ll check.”

“Good, let me know. How are you doing, anyway?”

A long silence, one which promised at least some level of honesty. “Not great. But working on it.”

“Luke helped?”

“I’m still not sure I’ve forgiven you for that. Setting my bishop on me…”

“I’m afraid I’m not sorry, so you’ll just have to get over it. I can leave you to him, though?”

“Stop worrying, I’m tough.”

She paused. That’s why I’m worrying, she wanted to say. “You’re still human.”

Tom sighed down the phone. “Luke’s been helpful.”

“Good.”

“Can you stop worrying about me now?”

“I’ll stop worrying about you when I’m dead.”

“Well that’s cheery… what if I predecease you?”

“Don’t.”

The finished the phone call laughing, which was more than Ruth could have hoped for. She hung up and buried her head in her hands to pray, for Tom and for all his family, and for others suffering such loss. And then she retrieved her phone to search for small gifts for eight-year-olds.

Two weeks went by so fast, as time always did when it was packed full. And then the long-awaited day off dawned, with the promise of a lazy few hours wandering through some woods and then an evening with friends. As Isla had said to that description, it was just the way Ruth ought to be spending her days off.

Just as well they’d chosen woods today, because the sun was blazing down, baking the back of Ruth’s neck even just crossing the car park. They took it gently, a dawdle to the edge of a field, where they could sit on – or lie by – a bench in the shade. Ruth took a pig's ear out of her bag for Dot, followed by a sandwich for herself. She ate slowly, watching the passers by, before checking on Dot.

“Go on, girl, almost there…” The collie gave her a baleful look, flopping down on Ruth’s feet. Ruth reached down, shoulder clicking, to ruffle her fur, as Dot laid her head down on her front paws and closed her eyes. This was how lunchtimes always went, at least when Ruth was around; chew for a while, take a nap, then get back up and if necessary finish chomping. A bit longer to rest, and then they might be able to wander on. Dot had stopped herding sheep with the injury to her leg five years before, and now it was nigh on impossible to imagine her chasing down a rebellious ewe. Time to relax and enjoy the reward for those years of hard work; at least, that was how Ruth hoped that Dot saw these years with her.

They managed half an hour before the next pause, the heat definitely making a difference. And guilty as it made her feel, Ruth did have to suppress the tingling frustration, the desire to march off on a proper hike, swallowing up twelve or thirteen miles in a day without room to really think.  She and Dot had done it together for years, it was only now… and she could be patient, because Dot needed her to be, and this time would be over all too soon.

“Godmummy Ruth!”

She’d acquired that ridiculous name early on, a classic confused child mash-up of name and title. Best to just put up with such things, she told herself yet again, as she remembered to smile. “Mika! How are you?”

“Is Dot okay? She looks sad.” Mika was crouching down, hand held out. Dot nosed up to it tiredly and then lay down, conserving energy until greetings and other such human delays were over.

“She’s just an old dog,” Ruth told Mika. “Old and tired. She’s quite happy, though.” Except for the arthritis in her legs, treated with an array of painkillers each day, and the increasing problems with her internal organs. Many might have had her put down by now, and the vet had offered, but Ruth couldn't bring herself to make that call yet. Would it be kinder to end the pain? Maybe, but they managed it with medication, and Dot still wagged her tail at the sight of friends, and just seemed so contented when she lay with the sun warming her fur. She didn’t need an escape just yet.

“Oh. Is she going to die?”

“Yes, soon. Dog years are shorter than human years.”

“And then she can go to heaven.”

“Yes indeed.” Ruth bent down to scratch behind Dot’s ears. “Alright then. We should go and have dinner, and while we eat you can tell me all about what you’ve been doing since we last met…”

She could listen to Mika while holding a silent conversation with Tom, proof of how long they’d known each other. Eyes meet – are you okay? Tom looks away and back – not great but facing up to it. Small nod both acknowledging the problem and confirming that yes, he’s getting through. Reassuring smile – you can do it. And Megan? She’s trying too. You look after her. I’ll do my best. She looks after me. Yes, I know she does.

“And daddy’s going to be a bishop like you, isn’t he?”

She glanced at Tom, and he looked away properly this time. 

“God willing, Mika." She said slowly. "It’s not simple. A lot of people would like him to be a bishop, but until he is we won’t know for sure, or exactly when. It’s a big discernment process, and nothing's certain until it's actually happened. But that is the plan.” She met Megan’s eyes and blinked slowly. That’s right, Megan, whether Tom’s told you or not, it's not going smoothly. She'd have to talk to her later. Although this was supposed to be her visiting as Mika’s godmother, as family friend, not as Archbishop…

But then, it was a part of her, far more than just a job.

Usually, she let Tom lead these occasions; after all, she did not really know how to deal with kids. But now, looking at him slumped on the other side of the table, how could she ask anything of him? It couldn’t be that hard, especially now Mika was that bit older, about old enough to have a conversation and certainly able to express her own interests. Just eat and listen to her chatter on about school, computer games, church, Brownies… stare pointedly at Tom as he pushed food around his plate so that he went pink and ate properly.

“Don’t let it get cold, Mika…”

“Does Dot want some? We’re all eating without her…”

“Dot will eat when we go to your house, I have her food in the car. We have to be very careful about her food. If you give her anything it might upset her tummy.”

“Even a little bit?”

“We have to be very careful with her. No eating between meals, and this isn’t dinner time for her!”

“Oh.” Mika peeked under the table at the dog, asleep on Ruth’s feet with head on paws. “Mammy always says eating between meals spoils your appetite.”

“Indeed it does,” Megan confirmed, and Ruth nodded support. Not that she could lecture anyone on healthy behaviour.

“Except snack. Snack time is okay.”

“Well that’s like a mini mealtime, isn’t it?”

“I guess.”

“Come on, eat up!”

“Do you follow the cricket?”

Ruth finished chewing the mouthful she’d just taken and turned to Mars. “Swung a bat around with the diocesan team when I started as a bishop, wasn’t up to standard to play in the match though. Just watched from the sidelines. And apart from diocesan I can’t say I follow it too closely. You're a fan?”

“Yeah, I play for the school team. And I’m going on Saturday, Trent Bridge, load of us taking the evening out – it’s only a T20 so, like, not too long, decent revision break with exams now, y’know. We’re doing really well this season, you know."

 "Mm."

"Like we’ve got Parker, you know he just got picked for England? And if we win this one and Durham lose tomorrow we’re in the semis already, I reckon we’ve a decent chance, especially since we’re at home and we’re definitely better home than away. Then if Durham win as well as us we can still get it, it depends on next Friday though and that’s away…”

Ruth smiled playfully. “I take it by ‘us’ you mean Nottingham?”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot you’re not local. Who do you support?”

“I don’t, really, I'm afraid. I guess if I had to choose it would probably be Yorkshire, though?”

“Oh yeah, ‘course. They’re decent, White and Priyash are a solid opening pair, bowling’s not much though. There’s so few decent bowlers right now, Parker’s like the only decent spinner on the side for England. I mean Smithson was good but he did his shoulder, and Karman’s unreliable, they’ll drop him end of season I reckon…”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“If you could meet, like, one celebrity – like, singer, sportsperson, comedian, whatever - who’d it be?”

She smiled to herself. “One I haven’t already met?”

“You’ve met a lot? Oh yeah, ‘course you have. Yeah, or meet again. I guess it’s different… or who’s the most famous person you’ve met?”

“Most famous? Probably the King, if he counts as a celebrity. My personal highlight, Richard Mitchins, you heard any of his music? Very niche and before your time, probably. Who’d I like to meet? I’ve never actually met Pope John Paul, and I’d rather like to, he seems to be an interesting guy. I know, boring, sorry. Really not on top of my sporting or pop stars, though. Oh yeah, I’d like to meet Kate Carson, actually – you know, the artist? She went to Jerusalem in the middle of the conflict and produced a lot of work which really got what was happening in the public eye, opened up new inter-faith dialogues and so on.”

“That’d be awesome. And like… you meet normal celebs all the time, you’re kind of like a celeb yourself, aren’t you? So it’s like different level. What’s it like, being famous?”

Ruth shrugged. “It’s in the nature of the job. I’m not that famous. I can walk down the street and maybe a few people will recognise me but… it’s in a nice way, too. The kind of people who recognise me tend to ask for advice, or help, or blessings – or just stare a bit, maybe say hello and carry on. It was a bit crazy when I got the job but… you get used to it.” She glanced at Tom again.

“That’s awesome.” Mars shovelled pasta into his mouth. “I want to meet Jos Parker. Hopefully get him to sign my bat on Saturday, I’d love if he’d stop and talk to me but he won’t obviously, there are loads of people who want to meet him and he couldn’t talk to everyone. Not as impressive as like that artist or the Pope or whatever but you know he’s gay and spends a lot of time supporting gay teens and like doing Pride and stuff? And talking about mental health too, ‘cause a lot of young people really admire him and like he uses that well, y’know?”

“He sounds like a good role model to have.” Ruth scanned Mars quickly. Nothing to awaken concern, at least on the surface, and certainly he was far more normal than anyone could ever have hoped, considering all that he’d been through. And that although he’d always seemed a sensitive child. Although, or because? Had his sensitivity served him well in making him open, in allowing him to cry and to share his doubts and to get that help, from Tom and Megan and then from counsellors. She'd paid for most of that counselling, and looking at him now she was gladder than ever that she had.

“I want to meet Captain Catalyst,” Mika interrupted, her plate now almost empty. “You know, from Lab Rats? I want her to come to school and teach us Science, like properly, like they do on the show. Like they have Bunsen burners and all sorts of glass stuff and they do real experiments and actually measure things, and they have lasers, and there was that cloud thing too that she showed everyone, it was like magic but science and I bet it’d be awesome in real life where you could be sure it wasn’t just camera tricks, because like you never know…”

“Oh, we did that last year,” Mars told her. “The cloud chamber. It’s a radioactivity thing.”

“Yeah, and then you get the other ones that just appear, not from the rod, and that’s like coming from the stars and stuff. Even though they’re so far away.”

Ruth took the opportunity to catch up with her food while the two children talked science across her. Gave Megan a reassuring smile across the table, raised her eyebrows when she saw Tom picking at his food again. It was so hard, finding conversation when it had been so long since they’d seen each other last, especially with all that had happened in between.

“So.” Back at Megan and Tom’s house, away from prying eyes, she let herself fall back onto the sofa, Dot flopping on her feet. “Mika, anything you want to do? While you’ve got me captive?”

“I’ll go find a game. Watch this first though. Mammy, look!”

“I should go revise.”

Ruth smiled up at Mars. “All right. Good luck with the exams, and enjoy the cricket.”

"Are you watching?"

"Yes. Go on, Mika." She watched the child walk a few steps on her hands then do a forward roll. "Very good. You were going to get a game..."

She watched Mika skip out and then glanced critically at Tom. “You’re limping.”

A rueful smile. “We can't all be as bouncy as Mika. Yes, the other knee's playing up - can’t spend twenty years hopping around without some excess wear on the good leg. I’ve had five years good, and I’ve got plenty of time left before this gets bad enough to need a new one. Life, eh?”

“Keep talking to your doctor.”

“I know…”

Ruth gave him a small nod and then turned to Megan, who was loitering by the door. “So. Megan. I have no intention of talking work with your husband, I’m going to talk life with you. How’s life?” Hopefully that wasn't a completely tactless question, she thought after she'd said it. She nodded to Tom’s signalled offer of tea.

Megan shrugged, sitting down on the other end of the sofa. “Oh, you know. Ups and downs.”

“Like a rollercoaster where you can’t see what’s coming?”

“Would you believe I’ve never actually been on a rollercoaster?”

Tom stuck his head back round the door. “What?”

Megan raised her eyebrows at him. “What? I’ve never been on a rollercoaster. Go make that tea!”

“Even I’ve been on one. Even Ruth has, right?”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Ruth answered, at the same time as Megan repeated,

“Tea!”

“Yes, alright, alright. Don’t talk about anything exciting without me!”

Both Ruth and Megan shooed him out of the room and then looked at each other, the atmosphere instantly lighter.

“Yeah, ups and downs. I’ll have to start thinking about packing soon, ready for the move. And maybe looking for a job in Sheffield, once we get there.”

“Reckon it’s time to go back to work?”

“Well, I was trying before… since the BAP thing fell through.”

Awkward. Because Ruth couldn’t talk lightly about such things, but she didn’t want it to get serious either.

They were saved by Mika, coming up to them with some kind of trivia game and then standing on one leg to present it. 

“We’re playing teams. Because it’s not fair that you’re all older than me and have had more time learning.”

“Right, sounds fair. What are the teams?”

Mika looked Ruth over. “How clever are you?”

Both Megan and Ruth burst out laughing.

“Well. That’s a loaded question," Ruth answered in the end. "How are we measuring?”

Mika glared, and then turned to Tom as he came back in. “Daddy, is Ruth clever?”

He put the tea down quickly. “Um, she’s a literal genius, why?”

“Cleverer than you?”

“Why am I not in this comparison?” Megan cut in.

Mika ignored Megan and looked between Tom and Ruth for an answer.

“Teams,” Ruth explained.

“Ah. You usually go with me.”

“I went with Mars last time. And we won.”

Ruth met Tom’s eyes and avoided laughing. “It depends on the questions. If there’s a lot of sport or literature, your dad’s definitely the one to pair up with.”

“Team up with Ruth for… no, never mind, there won’t be any questions on dead languages. Or Canon Law.”

“I hope we’d be well matched on that!”

“Not a chance. Nor are we likely to get anything on Sacraments in the Church of England, which Ruth would crush us all at.”

Ruth rolled her eyes at Tom. “No, you’re not going to get a straight answer out of us, Mika. Probably just as well, it’s better if we’re more evenly matched, isn’t it?”

“You could play with your mam for a change?”

Mika grabbed Tom’s hand decisively. “No. I’m having daddy.”

“Which leaves you and me.” Ruth smiled at Megan. “You’ll have to explain the rules…”

© 2022 E.G. Ferguson

Chapter 2 - Luke

“Ruth? What can I do for you?”

“Good morning, Luke. How are you?”

“Oh, fine, fine. And you?”

“Favour to ask.”

The Right Reverend Luke Bennett, Bishop of Southwell and Nottingham, smiled to himself. The archbishop never did answer such questions. “Yes?”

“Tom Carter. I’m concerned about him.”

Luke sighed and let the rosary beads slip through his fingers. “Ah yes. Obviously, it’s a horrible thing he's experienced. I’ve been keeping an eye on him, had a couple of phone calls, he’s keen to work through it – to maintain as much normality as possible - so I've been trying to respect that…”

“I met with him two days ago,” she interrupted, “and got the same attitude. I’ve been concerned since, which is why I decided to call you. He’s not been meeting to talk through things with you?”

“No...”

“I suggested that he needs to talk to someone, but honestly? This is Tom. He’s good at boxing things up, and bad at asking for help. And just between you and me, he’s not going to cope with being bishop of anywhere if he doesn’t take the time to sort out his relationship with God first. You can help him, you're good with this kind of thing...”

Once the phone was down, Luke leant back and swung on his chair. Was he good at this kind of thing? He didn't feel it. It was the kind of situation he’d been faced with in parishes, and it was always horrible, but in parishes it wasn’t senior clergy you were trying to comfort. You weren’t trying to persuade newly appointed bishops that God wasn’t evil, that God hadn’t abandoned them. And you didn’t have the added pressure of an approaching episcopal consecration.

Then again, you had all kinds of other challenges. And in the end, wasn’t grief always grief? Ordination didn’t change the basic facts of being human.

Two decades of the rosary, before he picked up the phone, found the number in contacts and waited.

“Hello, this is Tom Carter, Archdeacon of Nottingham, I’m afraid I’m unable to answer the phone at the moment but please leave a message and I’ll call you back as soon as possible. Alternatively, you can send me an email at…”

Luke waited for the tone. “Hi Tom, this is Luke Bennett, I’d like to make a time to meet up in the next few days, give me a call back or drop me a text as soon as you can. God bless.”

And then sit back and wait, or rather get stuck into work and wait, until the ringtone broke through his concentration. He picked up and held the phone to his ear, once again thumbing through the rosary.

“Hi Tom.”

“Luke. I got your message. Something’s come up?”

“You could say that. When’s good?”

“Well, if it’s urgent, I keep time most evenings for family…”

“It’s not that urgent. How’s Monday afternoon looking?”

“Out until three. Then paperwork.”

“What time do you finish?”

“Usually out of the office at three, school run then work from home, stop around five to spend time with my daughter before dinner, do another hour or two from half seven or eight.”

“Could you replace that hour with a meeting?”

“Um… it’s nice… to be flexible. For the children.”

“Of course. How about around half three on Tuesday? I’ll be in the area, on a school visit, could I drop in?”

“Um… admin again. It’s a possibility. What’s it for, if I may ask?”

Luke sighed. “I had a call from Ruth Harwood. She's suggested I have a pastoral check-in with you.”

“Oh.” A short silence. “I see. I have some gaps next Friday, it can’t wait?”

“I don’t really like leaving things to stew. Also, I’m booked solid next Friday. And before you ask, Thursday is my day off.”

An audible sigh. “Tuesday it is, I guess.”

“Tuesday. Great. I’ll drop in as soon after half three as I can manage.”

“Okay. See you then.” Tired, lifeless agreement.

It was a similar level of enthusiasm that met him on Tuesday, when he knocked on the Archdeacon’s door. Well okay, great enthusiasm from the eight-year-old bouncing at the bottom of the stairs, not so much from Tom himself.

“Afternoon, Luke. Come in. Tea?”

“No thanks, the school gave me more than enough. Hello Mika!”

“Hello Luke!”

“You’ve grown! Again!” He was in the right mode for grinning at primary school children, having been doing it all afternoon. “I’m here to have a talk with your dad, I'm afraid, I’m sorry to be stealing him…”

“I’ll play with you later, okay?”

She hugged Tom eagerly, and he hugged her back then shooed her away. Luke waited until she’d run off to the kitchen and Tom had shown him into the sitting room before commenting.

“She's growing up well, isn't she? Not the shy little thing I baptised two years ago.”

“She is. More confident by the day, almost. Do take a seat, you’re sure I can’t get you anything?”

Luke took possession of the sofa, waving Tom to sit down. “I’m fine, thanks.” He looked across. “So. I'm here to check in with you, I'm afraid, because someone has to. How are you actually doing?”

Tom shrugged, not looking at him. “It’s hard. Obviously. I just… keep putting one foot in front of the other. Keep busy. It’ll get easier.”

The answer which Ruth had refused to accept.

“And how’s it affecting you? In terms of faith, prayer..?”

Tom shrugged again. “I’ll get there.”

Right. Oh dear. “Talk to me.”

“I told you, it’s hard, it’ll get better.”

Luke kept his mouth shut. Tom tried to look nonchalant but ended up examining the floor.

“I mean… I haven’t been saying the daily office… felt too hollow… don’t want to talk to God right now… I know… canon. I always… before… except in hospital… Sorry. I’ll try…”

“Go on.” Luke had already spotted the strategically located box of tissues, and now he pushed them across towards Tom, who studiously ignored them.

“Every day I think… I should. But I just… can’t. You know? I just think… I’m too empty…” He leant back, staring at the ceiling. “I know, it sounds terrible. I’m trying…”

Luke thumbed the rosary in his pocket. What to say now? The obvious answer, offer comfort? It’s okay? “God let it happen?”

“Free will?” Tom shrugged. “God knows best? God has his reasons?”

“Bullshit.” Luke shook his head. “Those explanations have never provided any real comfort to anyone. They exist to make the hearer feel guilty about being angry.” He leant forward. “Are you angry? Really?”

Shrug. The only response Tom seemed to have to anything. “I’m not anything, really.”

“Really?”

A long pause. “Yeah. Just… sad, maybe? But mostly nothing. Like nothing matters. Like… God’s not there.”

Empty silence. Asking without an answer. The impossible question: why was God there for some and absent for others? And it couldn’t just be that some weren’t looking, because Tom believed, his whole life showed that.

“Like… when I need… like… now that… I don’t…” Tom shrugged. “Why now? Why leave… now?” He looked down at his hands, knotted in his lap.

“Why don’t you ask?”

Tom traced a finger across his palm. “I just did.”

“Not me. God.”

“Because God’s not answering.” Tom’s hands shook, and he stared determinedly over Luke’s head. “Because God doesn’t care. God’s not here. After everything, when I need him…” he waved his hands. “Poof. Nothing. Silence. God let it happen, and didn’t do anything to help. Because God doesn’t care.” He sank back into his seat. “And I know he does. And I know I shouldn’t doubt that. And I know in the end he’ll pop up… just as I’ve… dug this hole as deep… as I can manage. And then I apologise… for doubting… Sorry, I didn't mean to… say all this.”

Luke moved another bead along before answering. “It’s okay to doubt. And to be angry.”

Tom leant back, eyes closed, silent for a long while. “Do you ever feel,” he said in the end, “like God’s just playing a game? Amusing himself, with our lives?”

Hail Mary, full of grace… “I’ve wrestled with that one, yes.” The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women… A flashback, sitting at a bedside on a hospital ward. He held the memory for a moment and then set it aside, just as he had so many times before. “But in the end, I don’t believe it’s just a game. Because of the incarnation, and the cross.”

Tom sighed. “The cross. Always the cross. What if Jesus was just an elaborate part of the game?”

…and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. “Then our faith is in vain. In the end we have to decide: do we believe in the Gospel truth, or not?”

“And if I’m not sure I do?”

“Do I have to answer that?”

Tom looked at his hands. “Do you think I should quit?”

Luke pretended to think about it for a minute. “No. I don’t think so. But I think you need to take time and deal with this, properly. Everybody questions their faith at times, especially in the kind of situation you’re currently going through, but you have to rebuild - until you can say the creed and mean it, and until you can say that you love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your mind, and with all your strength - else you won’t survive in your current job, let alone as a bishop. Besides which, it’ll make you whole again, which is worth far more than any job.”

Tom dug his nails into the arm of his chair. “And if I can’t sort it out?”

“You will.” Luke held his gaze. “You will, and I will do what I can to help. Talk to me.”

“About what?”

“About anything. Your daughter, perhaps.”

“Mika?”

“Not Mika. Or Liza. Your other daughter.”

Tom stared out of the window. “Grace?”

“Grace? Go on, tell me about Grace.”

“Tell you what? She was never born, there's nothing to tell.”

“Tom. You’re questioning the very nature of God. Because of this child.”

“Not just her.”

“Well, we can talk about the rest later. Grace.”

Tom sat staring straight ahead for a couple of minutes. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Anything. I know she’s important, tell me about her. Why did you choose her name?”

Tom stared a little while longer, and then blinked, his eyes roving across Luke's face for a moment. “Because she was a gift. Because we’d decided… we didn’t expect a child. We agreed we’d quite like one, if… we conceived. Left it in God’s hands. And we didn’t get our hopes up until… sixteen, seventeen weeks? Because we knew with our age it was risky. But we started to think… it started to feel like an answer. You know Megan was rejected at selection conference? Well it was like… maybe this was why. And it felt like… a gift. And impossible gift. Another member of our little family – a child of our own, who we brought into the world – not that Mika or Mars or Liza are any less our own. Or Charley, if she wanted to be. We were going to be very careful, that they didn’t feel any different. But a baby, our own baby, a free gift… so we agreed, Grace. Weren’t sure about a middle name, we had time to decide. But we knew she was a girl, and we both loved Grace, and it felt so… right. You know, we didn’t know then… and when we did… yeah, she was already Grace.” Tom fiddled with his cuff. “You remember when I called you? That day, you remember?”

Luke nodded. Like he could forget.

“I’m taking my wife to the hospital. We’re worried about the baby. Prayers would be appreciated. Yeah. And then you told me not to worry about anything to do with work, and assured me of your prayers, and told me to call you if I needed anything, and asked if I’d like to be on the cathedral intercessions list for that day, or not. And I said yes. Because… anything. Anything for a miracle. Not that it made any bloody difference. Except for making it easier to reveal… after.”

“I’m sorry, Tom. Not every prayer gets the answer we want. Or indeed any answer at all.”

“I’m glad you clarified that. Because if God’s answer was… that…”

“I would never say that God let Grace die for a reason. God is not a monster.”

Tom sniffed. “Whatever you ask in my name…”

“I know.”

“God could have saved her.”

“I know.”

Tom ignored him, pulling out the tab from his collar and flicking it onto the table. “God could have saved her. She died for nothing. No reason. Just… because. The most stupid, pointless end. She could have lived, she could have been fine. She died. No real reason. Just bad luck. Megan could have had a healthy child. Could still have a healthy child. But Grace died. For no. Fucking. Reason. And God could have stopped it. And it’s not like we didn’t ask, so God ignored us. Or God chose to let it happen. And God… let it happen… and then left… us alone… And now she’s dead… And God. Doesn’t. Give. A. Shit.”

The last word, half-shouted, was followed by a shuddering breath, as Tom sat with jaw locked and eyes fixed on the ceiling, rocking gently. Luke prayed a decade of his rosary as Tom fought for breath. What else could he do, when there were no answers?

“I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be.” Luke cut off the muttered apology. “I feel like you have a lot of yelling at God to do.”

A slight laugh, choked off.

“Seriously.”

“I think I might as well pack my bags and start looking for a change of career.”

“I think that would be bad for everyone, especially you.

“Why does God get a free pass for everything?”

Luke tapped his fingers against his leg. He had an answer, but it was one Tom would have to find for himself. “You’ll have to take that up with God.”

“And if God ignores me?”

“Remember the old widow, demanding justice from the unjust judge?”

Tom stared through him silently, and Luke occupied himself with a couple more beads of his rosary. The more beads he got through, the more listening he’d done. It was a good way of handling meetings, he found - and indeed life in general.

“I never…” Tom shuddered to a halt and took a deep breath before trying again. “Can I..?”

“Go on.”

“It’s just… so unfair. So unfair. I… I held her. So small. So… small. But still... an actual baby. And like… she should have been alive. She rolled around, and kicked, and was so alive. And then we actually held her, and she… wasn’t. And then…” Deep breath. “They took her away. Forever.” He sat hugging his arms around him, as if trying to fill the empty space.

“And the funeral? Did that help, or make it harder?”

“I want her back.”

Luke just nodded. “I know.”

“I just want her back.”

“Which is something you won’t get. In this life.”

“What if...” Tom swallowed. “She never lived. What if…”

“You said she even moved and kicked. She was alive, just not outside the womb. Right?”

“Yeah.”

“So she lived, and God knows her by name, and one day you will see her again.” Luke glanced surreptitiously at his watch. Tom didn't look like he could handle much more in one go. “We’re going to have another meeting. In the meantime, will you try to pray?”

Tom shrugged helplessly, clenching and unclenching his fists. “I’ve tried.”

“Let me phrase that differently. You’ll try to pray.”

Shrug. “I guess.”

Luke paused, considered carefully. “Can I ask, have you tried talking to Mary?”

“Like..?” Tom shook his head. “Never been into it. “

“Can I suggest it?”

“I’ve always kind of felt… why talk to Mary when you can talk to Jesus? You know?”

“I know.” Luke swallowed, phrased it carefully in his head. “It’s just that… we’re talking about a woman who saw her child die and held his lifeless body in her arms. Not an instruction, just an idea. When you need a break from cursing God.”

“Her child came back.”

Luke exhaled heavily. “Okay. Stick to the psalms. You don’t need your own words, plenty of people have come up with good ones we can crib from.”

“You’re not going to tell me like Job’s friends did, curse God and die?”

“Curse and let God answer.”

“And if God curses me back?”

“Like that’s bothered you so far…”

Tom snorted. “I’ve always hated Job.”

Luke shrugged in return. “It has its merits. Some find it helpful.”

“Everything that sucks is because God’s gambling with Satan?”

“Clearly not you.”

“No.”

Luke took his hand out of his pocket, wrapping the rosary around his fingers. “Would you like me to set you homework?”

“Pray the rosary?”

“No. Unless you want to.” Luke leant back on the sofa, looked up at the cross on the wall. “Read the passion narratives, properly. Find some psalms you relate to. Daily Office, including Compline. Ten minutes of silent meditation at some point during the day. Examen before bed. Keeping a journal would be a bonus.”

Tom groaned. “I can’t even do Morning Prayer right now.”

“Yes, you can, and you will. Most of what I have said might be recommendations, but I expect you to say Morning and Evening prayer daily, and for your remaining time in my diocese I would like you to tell me if you fail to do so - not because there will be consequences, just because I want to know if you need more support, and because I do not want this to become a source of guilt for you.” He gave Tom a minute of silence, to reflect and come out with anything else on his mind, before sitting up straighter. “I’d like to pray and ask God’s blessing on you, if I may.”

Tom nodded, and Luke closed his eyes in a moment of silence while he found the words.

“Father… I ask you to be with Tom now and in the weeks and months to come, as he struggles with grief and loss. Loving God, send your Holy Spirit, the comforter, to be with him. Let him, and all who mourn Grace’s death, know your love which is beyond all telling, and lead him as he struggles to discern the path ahead. I ask this through Jesus Christ, who died for us and who reigns with you now and forever, Amen. Tom, may God’s blessing be upon you now and through the challenges to come, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” He traced the cross in the air, the greatest gift he could bestow, that promise of God’s love... if only Tom could feel it.

Once he'd left the house he called Ruth, and she picked up almost immediately.

“Luke?”

“Good evening, Archbishop. I just wanted to let you know, I’ve had a conversation with Tom.”

“And?”

Straight to the point, as always. "I got him to talk. Your concern was well placed.”

“I’ve known him a while.”

“Obviously.”

“You’ve made plans to follow up?”

“Yes, and I've got some monitoring in place.”

“Good. Let me know if I can do anything.”

“Will do.”

“Sorry, I’m at this thing, supposed to be socialising…”

“Of course, sorry to disturb you…”

“No, thanks for calling. Anything else?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Good. God bless.”

“And you.”

He hung up the phone and shook his head. What would they do without her?

© 2022 E.G. Ferguson

Chapter 1 - Tom

“Tom. Oh, Tom. What can I say?”

He fixed his attention on the dog lying placidly at her feet. “You heard.”

“Of course.” 

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry to be intruding. If you don’t want to think about Sheffield now, that’s fine and very understandable.”

He shrugged. “I’ve got to think about something, right?”

“Distractions can be a healthy way of coping, or a very unhealthy one. Make sure you know which this is. Though I’m afraid this is something that will require your full attention, at some point – you are, after all, an ordinand again. Second thoughts are okay, especially in the circumstances. Get them out in the air now.”

Tom sighed. “We have the other kids already. Anyway it’s not like she was even… born yet. Not like we’d met her.”

“Isn’t that hard in itself?”

He shrugged and then shook his head with a forced laugh. “I thought we were here to talk about bishopping.”

“And I’m sure you have other people you’re talking to.” She gave him a pointed look. He made a non-committal noise in return, which she met with a pointed stare. “Like your bishop. Spiritual director. Friends. Counsellor. You and Megan, both.”

A bitter laugh. “Look, we’re both used to shit. I lost my brother to drugs and my mum to cancer. One of our foster kids is God knows where, maybe going the same way as Mick. Then there’s the one we nursed for a few weeks and then buried. I said his fucking funeral. I know how to deal with shit.”

A small signal with her hand, and the Dot rose to limp heavily across the room. He glared at Ruth, but rested a hand on the elderly collie’s head. She pressed up against him, milky eyes gazing up, simple comfort only a dog could give.

“God can’t be a dog,” Tom muttered, “or He’d be less of a dick.”

Great thing to say in front of your Archbishop. Ruth sat back, wiry hands steepled together, eyes mercifully on the collie rather than him.

“How’s my goddaughter?”

He fussed with Dot’s ears. “Good. Getting on well at school. Never silent.”

“You’ve done some truly amazing work there.”

He shrugged. “Time. That’s all she needed. Time, and a safe place.”

“Which is harder to give than you think.”

“You coming to see her soon? Your goddaughter…”

She sighed. “You never let it rest, do you?”

“No. You signed up to be involved in her life…”

“As you’ve reminded me several times. Fine, at some point we’ll find a date. You could come to me, or I could take everyone out. What I'm not going to do is make more work for you and Megan.”

Tom sighed, looking at the floor. “We were meeting to talk about consecration. And Sheffield. And stuff.”

“Do you want to?”

I want you to shut up and leave me alone. “We should.”

She shook her head. “You just called God a dick.”

He squirmed.

“We can postpone the service, while you take compassionate leave. Or you can overturn your acceptance and take a sabbatical, take time to regroup. Or you can carry on as if nothing happened.”

“Totally my free choice.”

“Oh, I’m not hiding the strong hint in there.”

“It depends on you in the end.”

“On the contrary, it depends on the Crown Nominations Commission, and on you. And if I put up a fight it could go to Julia, or you could go to London and be done by Lizzie. I’m not going to put up that much of a fight.”

He sighed. “Yeah. It’s shit. I’m used to it, life goes on.”

Ruth raised her eyebrows. “Really?”

“Different forms of shit.”

“You get used to it?”

“I didn’t come here for a lecture.” It was out of his mouth before he thought about it, and he cringed at her obvious disappointment.

“No. Of course not, and I’m sorry if it’s feeling like one.”

He looked at the floor in sullen silence. It was that or cry, and he wasn't going to cry in front of her and add credibility to her concerns.

“Tom.” She broke the silence in the end, almost too gentle for his wavering self-control. “Whatever you decide to do, I’m not talking to you about consecration right now, or Sheffield, or any of that. Okay? Rebuild the foundations first. Go and shout at God. Find someone to talk to about your child. Spend time with your wife. Work out what’s going on in your head, get it all straightened out, figure out your faith. It’ll...”

“Grace,” he interrupted her.

“Yes, and many other things. Strength…”

“No. Grace. Grace Carter. My child.”

“Ah.” Her fingers woven together, her eyes closed in a moment of silent prayer, a calm that made him want to throttle her. “It’s a beautiful name,” she told him, eventually. “I’m sorry, Tom, I really am. That there isn’t anything I can do. At least, I’ll pray, but I doubt that feels like much right now.”

He adjusted his glasses, surprised that his eyes were still dry. Prayers didn’t bring back… no, not finishing that one. “Thanks.”

“Would you like to go?” A tiny, sad smile. “Find someone to talk to. I don’t expect that to be me, though it can be. And take it gently. Okay?”

He nodded, looking down to give Dot a final rub. A cold, wet nose pressing into his hand. The urge to spill all, to open the floodgates to the rush of pent-up emotion, to raise the bolts which had dropped at the moment he’d taken his daughter in his arms.

“Yes, boss.”

She sighed and stood, and Tom did the same, Dot hauling herself to her feet with a similar amount of effort. And then there was that moment of silence, as he waited – for the final urging to speak, for the closing prayer, for the blessing…

She held the door open for him, and he stepped through in silence. A word from him and he could have any of those things, it’d be her joy to give. What was the word, though?

Driving, driving, driving. The silence, shaken up by Ruth, settled back down, that thick blanket of smog muffling every pore. Life in black and white, on silent film, in the dust and shadows of an empty cinema. Picking Mika up from school, pushing the smile from his lips to his eyes, asking the questions she expected of him…

“How was your day?”

“It was good.”

“And what did you do?”

"We had history. History’s fun, did you know Elizabeth the First was so greedy she stole one of her maids’ dresses? And wore it herself? I think that was mean, don’t you, because she had lots of dresses herself and lots of money to buy more, and isn’t it like that guy at church who stole the poor person’s lamb even though he had lots of sheep? But like everyone says Elizabeth was a really good queen and stuff but like she was greedy and mean and I don’t think it’s fair. And I think the maid should have taken it back but I guess she couldn’t because she was only a maid and Elizabeth was a queen and queens can do whatever they want and that isn’t fair, is it, it’s like teachers, they don’t have to follow the school rules but they make us do it and they get to go to the front of the line and not queue at lunch time but we’re younger and hungrier and they’re bigger so they can wait longer so they should let us eat first really, shouldn’t they? And it isn’t fair. What’s for dinner?”

“I don’t know, you’ll have to ask mummy when we get home.”

“Oh.” A brief pause. “I hope it’s chips. I like chips, especially with mayonnaise. Lots of people like ketchup but I don’t, do I, daddy? Also I like chips with chicken – chicken nuggets are best, I don’t like it with the bone in. Or sausages. Not those pork things… what were they called?”

“Pork chops?”

“Yeah. They’re hard to chew, it’s effort. Sausages are better. Or burgers, nice ones, school does rubbish burgers. Fish is okay, especially fish fingers, I like sausages better though. I hope it’s… sausage and chips. With peas and sweetcorn. I like sweetcorn, it’s yellow, yellow’s a happy colour. Though other colours are nice too. Jasmine has a rainbow bag, it’s got all the colours on it. That’s a good idea, isn’t it? Then you don’t have to choose one colour, you have all of them. Holly has everything pink, I think everything the same colour would be boring, don’t you? I don’t know what colour I’d have if I could only have one colour. I used to like pink but now I like yellow and orange better, or maybe purple. Or red. But I like green too. What’s your favourite, daddy?”

“Hmm…” A few seconds to process the question, a few more to think. Colours, favourites… likes… dislikes… “I don’t know. I like lots too.”

“If you had to choose one.”

“But you didn’t, did you?”

“Ugh… fine. Yellow. No, orange… no, purple. Purple’s my favourite. But I like orange too. But not together. Now you have to choose.”

“Okay… black.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Really?”

“I wear it most of the time, don’t I?”

Eyeroll. Judgement, from an eight-year-old. “It’s boring. You should wear different colours.”

“It’s like a uniform. Like you have to wear blue for school. I wear black for work.”

“But most grown-ups don’t wear uniforms. Why do you have to?”

“Because I’m a priest. Nurses do too, and police officers, and pilots, and workers in shops, all sorts of people. It’s so people can recognise us.”

“Oh.” She processed. “And when you’re a bishop, you’re going to wear a purple shirt, like Godmummy Ruth? And Luke and Graham?”

Ah yes, on first name terms with the bishops of the diocese. Clergy kid life. “Yes, bishops get to wear purple. Though some of them wear black instead.” And I’m maybe not going to be a bishop at all, so don’t raise your hopes too high.

She pulled a face. “Purple’s better.”

If only it were simply about colour.

“So Jasmine was talking about this new spell, so apparently you only get it at level twenty and it means you can teleport through like a whirly black holey thing and there are like hidden realms with treasure and also boss monsters to fight and like you can also teleport back out at different places so it’s less travelling you know how it takes so long to walk when you’ve discovered more places but this means…”

An easier topic, and one he didn’t need to contribute to. Pull up in the drive, switch off the car, open the door and get out, still half an ear on the chatter as it merged effortlessly from computer games into a review of the earlier dinner monologue and a description of lunch.

“Okay, Mika… no, bag doesn’t go there… uniform off first, go on…”

A tired half-smile at Megan, as Mika took the stairs two at a time. The thumping of footsteps upstairs, drawers opening and closing. Half an hour and they would chase Mars up there too, to shower and wash away the grime of a successful cricket match, calling him back to tidy away the bag of kit left blocking the hall, as Mika reappeared in Brownie uniform to request a snack and ask if mummy could do the password on the computer, please.

Tom pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll do it.” An easy way to earn a beam. “Homework check?”

“I don’t have any. Spellings are on Monday and times tables are on Thursday, it’s Wednesday.”

“Yes it is. Okay, only until dinner.”

“Dad, did you know the Park Hill team won the whole tournament last year? And the year before? The fact we beat them today means we have a real good chance, and I scored the third most runs out of anyone in our team, Mr Wilkins says he’s well proud of us. Also I got a hole in my whites from the grass, can I have new ones this weekend? We’ve another match next week, I need them, I’ve got my old ones but they’re, like, too short.”

“Remind us on Saturday. Well played. What did you score?”

“Thirty-three, it was a well good innings. There was this ball, see it was like this, and I, like, hit it like this, see, and – boom – straight over for six. Should’ve seen the bowler’s face, it was sick. And then Larksy, he’s the skipper, he bangs me on the back and says good shot Mars, and like he’s a well good batsman. And then there was one – they’d left this great big gap, see, and I was just looking for something I could get in there, and there was this ball, like, and I just… and off it went, straight into that hole, got a neat three off that. Best shot, though, it was Larksy…”

Blow-by-blow with mimed demonstrations. Well, it saved having to find words, when you could just react at appropriate moments…

“I mean, I know I shouldn’t be so excited, we’re all sad about Grace…”

Jerk back to attention. “What?” Just watch the scenery come crashing down, the stage laid bare.

“Like, I’m real sorry. I know you and mum… if we can, like… like maybe Mika’s too young, but if I can do anything…”

“You can be excited about cricket, Mars.” Hollow words, from the thinking side of his brain. “And everything else. It’s nice to hear about… life. That you’re happy. Megan and I are still sad, but we don’t expect you to be, we’d rather you were… excited about things. Getting on. Like this.”

A few years ago, Mars would have attached himself around Tom’s waist. Now, he stood awkwardly, the wild force of a teenage growth spurt having brought him almost to Tom’s height, with long wiry limbs he didn't quite seem to know what to do with. Oh how they grew.

“Um, right. Well, y’know… we’re here, we care, me and Liza both. If there’s anything we can do…”

“Liza and I. If… if you want to do me a real favour.” Try with the jokes, fail to pull them off.

Mars was good enough to at least pretend amusement. “Sure. So sorry, dad.”

“And don’t get me started on well good…”

A long evening, sitting in front of the TV while Mars wrestled with revision on the other side of the room. The occasional creak of floorboards, as Megan drifted around upstairs. He should make the effort to interact, but he’d already spent most of the day talking to people, and he wasn’t sure there were many words in him.

You are a dick though.

He focussed on the screen. No, we are not doing this now. Give it a few days, a few weeks. Ignore that date in the calendar, drifting closer and closer. The to-do list – buy this, buy that, like purple cassocks and gowns made any difference in this world, like he could actually bring himself to care about a stupid hat or a curvy stick. How much fuss it would save, just to say he’d changed his mind, that after “careful discernment” he’d realised it wasn’t his vocation after all. Who’d criticise, especially after what had happened? After Grace? He’d have to explain to Megan and the kids, but then if he carried on he’d have to justify that to Ruth… which would be harder? And then long term, he should think long term…

He forced himself to concentrate on the TV. Cookery shows, that timeless classic, watch people juggle a million pans at once to produce a meal barely large enough for a six-year-old. Those afternoons with Megan, in a muddy field, heaping everything they could find into giant pans, ladling soups and stews and whatever other concoctions someone had come up with into bowl after plate after mug after plastic box. If only they’d known then where this would lead, where they’d end up… though if they had, would they have done it?

If they hadn't, would they have been right?

He flipped the channel over, because of course documentaries on the state of the nation’s schools were so much better… would alcohol make this better, was that what other people would do here? No, you’ve promised yourself never to try that kind of solution, not after… he stopped the thought in its tracks. Just sit, and twist the wedding ring on your finger, half an ear on the creaking of the floorboards above…

“Night, dad.”

Blink. Look up. Smile- try, anyway. “Night Mars. Sleep well.”

Dark. Quiet. He turned the TV off and sat in the silence, in the darkness of an endless night. Watched emotions recede into the mist, colour seep away into grey. The whispers of ghosts at the corners of his vision, as he sat surrounded yet alone.

And the clock ticked around, and stood at midnight, and he shook himself out of that empty daze. Lock the door. Take the stairs one by one, slowly. Pass the bedroom door, open the one beside it, not to go in but just to look through the threshold, at boxes and piles of clothes and the silhouette of a mobile, swinging gently above the crib. A shrine to expected life. The one place that didn’t know, the one place still waiting.

Here, he could almost feel something, something that wasn’t dead.

© 2022 E.G. Ferguson

Book 3: Grace

Four, relatively uneventful, years have passed since Tom and Megan's wedding. Together they have settled and built a family, and their children - Mars and Mika now formally adopted - are thriving. Tom has made a couple of exciting announcements recently, but we will learn more of that soon enough. Ruth, meanwhile, is still in York. Little has changed there, except that she has just announced her "retirement", feeling that at 70 it is time to step aside and make way for the next generation. So she's busy figuring out what to do next.

But now, as book 2 ended with a wedding, book 3 begins with a funeral...

This story is dedicated to the babies who never grew up, and to those who mourn them.

C/W: Baby loss

*****

G

race. Grace Carter. She was supposed to have a middle name, why had they put off deciding? Why hadn’t they done it while it was still worth doing? While they could still talk about it?

A little person needed a big name. Something to make up for it, for that little white shoebox that they called a coffin. A big name, to fill the silence. A long name, in place of a lifetime. Just one thing that wasn’t small, that wasn’t measured in centimetres or weeks. Something that would last.

Like a name could make up for all of that.

There were six of them there besides the priest, a crowd. Of the family, only Liza - Mars and Mika left at school, because whatever arguments there might be for including them, there were more for being alone. Mars sixteen and Mika eight, old enough to know but not to really know. Parenthood took many forms, and maybe this was one, one incompatible with children, silence wrapped beneath a blanket of lead. Liza got it, and the other three, friends from church, didn’t matter.

Though of course over the weeks to come they would matter, if just for the food brought to the door, for the school runs and babysitting and sympathy. There with Megan when Tom got in the car to go back to work.

It had piled up. It always piled up, every holiday, every day off. Email, after email, after email… how easy to delete the lot, start again… but then what? An empty inbox, an empty heart, an empty life? If faculties could fill the empty space…

And the move, drawing closer. The consecration, drawing closer. Life, still ticking on after his heart had stopped.

© 2022 E.G. Ferguson