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