Chapter 9 - Megan

Megan threw the last white school shirt into the washing machine and slammed the door, before scooping up the full basket of clean laundry and stomping upstairs. Hooray, another mountain of clericals to iron. “I’m not going to be ironing your shirts for you…“ Ha! Just another way in which her resolve had collapsed since she’d known Tom. “I’m never going to keep house for any man”, “I’m never going to give up my life to look after kids and rely on someone else to keep me”, "I'm going to make my own decisions about how to spend my life". She could just imagine what her younger self would think if they could see her now. Was it that society's deeply ingrained sexism had finally caught up with her? Was this an inevitable result of the constant subliminal messaging she'd been subjected to all her life? There was that tea towel Auntie Hannah gave her for her nineteenth birthday, A woman's place is in the house of bishops. It seemed her place was in the house of a bishop, cooking his dinner and ironing his shirts.

The ironing board filled the only space left in a sea of boxes. Early to have done this much packing, but what else did she have to do? Okay, she’d looked at a few jobs, and spent several hours wrestling unsuccessfully with her CV… she’d have to call Liza, and take her up on that offer of help. If it was worth it. It’d been hard enough getting a job before, when she was right in there with years of relevant experience and a great track record. Now? Five years out of work, looking for a change of career in a brand new city. Who’d she even ask for references?

Squeezing through to the socket to plug in the iron, she cursed the baby weight which still clung on. Like there was still a baby growing there. Like it didn’t know. Like ruining her mental health wasn’t enough that it had to mess with her body as well. She paused to kick a box, and then to hop around and squeeze her stubbed toe. Grabbed the iron and rammed it down on the shirt, still muttering swear words, straightening the fabric and running the iron over it in a way almost guaranteed to leave it worse than it had started. And then she reached to turn the shirt over, and a sharp pain grew in her hand, and she swore at the top of her voice and squeezed it and shoved the burnt finger in her mouth, doubling up for a moment as the heat coursed up her arm. A singeing smell hit her nostrils, reminding her of the abandoned iron. Shit.

Iron off, she spent ten minutes in the bathroom with her finger under cold water before returning to examine the damage. Shit. Well, that was one fewer shirt for Tom’s wardrobe. Because apparently she couldn’t even iron shirts now. And it had to be one of his better ones, too, not even one of the ones he’d redyed five times that were starting to fray around the edges. And they weren’t exactly cheap, these things.

Fighting back tears, she pushed it aside and turned the iron on again, scowling at it reproachfully. Stupid inanimate objects. Her finger smarted. She should probably dress it but couldn’t be bothered; the burn wasn’t deep, it wouldn’t have bothered her when she was working in the camp kitchens. Now, come on, Megan. Concentrate. Before Tom comes home and finds you making a fool of yourself over ironing a stack of shirts. Though she really ought to make him iron his own bloody shirts. To be honest he’d probably be better off doing them, if she was just going to burn them. 

She did her best to forget that thought and just work down the pile, one after another de-creased and hung up in the wardrobe.

“Fuck.” She put the iron down quickly, careful not to burn herself again, and glared at Tom. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Sorry?”

She grabbed the ruined shirt from behind her. “I’m so sorry. I was distracted…” She held it out to him.

He took it, studied it for a couple of seconds in something of a daze, then looked her up and down with a frown. Then he had her wounded hand in his, holding it up in front of his face to examine it before fixing her with a reproachful look. “What are you doing?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Stop this.” He ducked past her to unplug the iron, and then put a hand on her waist to steer her out of the room. She tried to pull away, but his hold was firm, and he guided her to the stairs.

“That was the first one I did. I was distracted. Sorry. Why it had to be one of your better ones…”

“I don’t care about the shirt, why did you carry on?”

She shrugged. “The rest needed doing. I ran it under cold water.”

“You know I can do my own ironing, and have no objection to doing so. Anyway, I have more in the wardrobe.” He steered her into the kitchen. “But thank you. How’s that feeling?”

She shrugged. “Not a big deal.”

“We literally have burn cream. For putting on burns.”

“I can manage fine.”

“You don’t have to.” He shot her a wicked smile, though his concern was clear underneath. “Come on, let me show off my amazing first aid skills?”

“Help…”

“I know what I’m doing, honest.”

She laughed weakly. “I’m not reassured. Go on, if you must.”

He raised her hand to examine it again, and then kissed it gently. “First step: kiss it better.”

“Don’t even try to pretend that’s what they teach you on courses.”

“Nah, it’s only for special people.” He was opening the tube of burn cream with one hand so as to keep her hand in the other. “Now, we maybe give it another rinse, and then I apply some of this. And then cling film.”

“Don’t go over the top.”

“For you? I’ll pull out all the stops.”

She laughed but smiled too. Was this what it took to make him flirt again? “Good day?”

“Passable.”

“Is that all?”

He shrugged. “Parochial Visitation. An easy one, as they go. Archivist knows how to file. And then I made a start on the report. And then I decided to come home early, since I’ve meetings this evening.”

“Oh yeah, you said.”

“…and I’m glad I did.”

“I’d have been fine doing the rest.”

“What?” He shook his head. “Okay. Just to be absolutely clear. The shirt is just a shirt, it’s fine. It’s not even any great loss, especially as I’ve ordered a stack of purple ones. I can tell you all is forgiven if that helps. My only concern is you.” He wrapped both arms around her and pulled her in. “And I’m sorry if I’ve let you forget that. If I’ve been selfish – no, not if, I know I have. I’m sorry.”

She was tense for just a moment before leaning in against him. “You don’t have to apologise.”

“But I do.” He released her and knelt down, holding her hands in his. “I love you. And I’m sorry.”

She shook her head, laughing, and started to turn away. “And I love you too. Now stop being silly.”

“I’m never silly!”

Not often enough recently, she didn’t say. “So what do you call this?”

“Deathly serious.”

“You wouldn’t know deathly serious if it rode in on a skeletal horse dressed in a hooded black robe and carrying a scythe.”

“That’s not deathly serious, that’s just death.”

“Just get up already.” She gave him a tug, and he did as he was told.

“How’s it feeling?”

“Much better, don’t fuss.”

“Good.” He released her and headed for the door, turning back at the last minute. “Don’t touch the rest of those shirts. I probably have enough to do the next week and a half, if not I’ll do them myself - as is only fair, given I'm the one who'll be wearing them. And then… they’ll only be folded up to pack anyway.”

“It’s only ironing. Not a big deal.”

“Then it won’t be a big deal for you to not do it. Have a rest, do something fun. I’m just going to make a phone call.”

And then he was gone, leaving her shaking her head at the door. I thought you were back early to take a break, she thought, or to spend time with me. And then the obvious successor to this: if I injure myself again, will that make you interact with me again?

She retreated back upstairs, to look helplessly at the abandoned ironing. She could do it if she wanted. Only three left anyway, what was she supposed to do, leave them there? Cluttering up the place, when they could be hung up neatly?

“I told you not to bother.” Tom came to find her later, while she was making dinner, his tone full of disappointment.

Megan didn’t look around from the boiling pan of soup. “But I did.”

He leant on the counter next to her. “I mean, you can do what you like…”

“Thank you.”

“Are you okay?”

“Never better.”

“And the non-sarcastic answer..?”

She stirred the soup to delay answering. “You want me to ask you that question?”

He sighed. “If there’s anything I can do…”

“What’s changed?”

“What?”

“That you’re asking now.”

“You just seem… I dunno.” He shuffled towards the door. “Sorry.”

“Where are you going?”

“I should get Mika from school.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Back soon.”

She turned the heat down and rummaged for a lid. Right. What else? Bread, butter… is there time for the butter to soften? Yes, probably, it’s warm enough, threatening to hit thirty by the end of the week - in early June! Bloody climate change. Cheese? Yes, get that out too. Mika’s day to lay the table, though it’d be easier if she just did it herself. No, don’t steal chores. Warm the bowls. Wait. Why did she spend all her life waiting for her family to come home? Waiting for them to need her? Waiting to be useful?

She picked up her phone, found Liza’s number, and sent a text.

             Any chance of that CV help? Any time you’re free.

After that she couldn't stop checking, just in case she’d missed the vibration, even though Liza was almost certainly at work and wouldn’t be replying until her shift finished. And there she was, waiting on family again. No, Megan, come on, don’t just wait for other people, you can do some things yourself…

This time she heard the door open, and logged off the computer quickly. Not that she had any reason to keep this a secret, just that… what? She didn’t want to explain? Didn’t want concern and encouragement and well-meaning offers of help? Meh, just didn’t want to explain, especially when it was only ideas. Learning support assistant, experience with SEND desirable. Did Mika count as experience? They probably meant professional experience, not parenting. She should just stick to “catering operative”, or whatever they called it now. She could mass produce food and serve it to kids. Unless it involved some kind of cooking qualification… also yay, more of what she did at home. But job. Independence. Pride.

Yeah, pride. In a classic mum job, running around after more snotty children for minimum wage, while her husband carved a career as a prince of the Church. What happened to “I’m going to be the successful one, I’m going to stand on my own two feet and other people can work around me”? Fuck you, Tom. If I’d never met you…

If she’d never met him. The quiet cleric with the smile and the limp, following in Ruth’s shadow. Awkward gifts of sweets to children, that classic gesture of needing to do something even if it meant nothing. And then coming back later, without crutches and barely a shadow of the limp, slipping through quietly as Ruth made herself known, away from the hive of activity to talk to the children on the sidelines, and to her, to enquire after a child he’d met once before, a child now an orphan.

The same man who’d driven down again late at night, car laden with every gift he could find to give, no plan, no place to go, just that wordless cry, “let me help, let me do something too”. And she’d found him a place to sleep, and gone away shaking her head and smiling indulgently.

And then that terrible night, when he’d found them a place of shelter, and offered his plan, and suddenly he’d been someone else, not just a wet follower, and there was something to him after all. Not just a joker but a protector. Someone who cared, and who not only cared but acted.

She met him in the hall and smiled, and he smiled back, that shy useless sheep-smile that made her seethe inside. She wanted things to happen, and that was never going to happen while he was stuck in wet follower mode. The quiet cleric, hiding in the shadow of Mother Church. And she loved him and hated him all at the same time.

Sure, after 6 except Thurs, or Sat PM. What’s good?

She looked up and swallowed. “Tom?”

“Yeah?”

“Doing anything Friday evening?”

“Don’t think so, why?”

“Great, you can stay with the kids.”

“Um, can do, why?”

“I’m going out.”

He raised his eyebrows questioningly at her. “Sure.”

             This Friday? 7.30?

She smiled back awkwardly. “Mika? Table?”

“I’m doing it!”

“Sorry. How was rehearsal?”

“Miss Anderson got stressy about it being in two weeks, it’s fine though.”

“Ah yes, you’ve got our tickets?”

“Yours. Daddy can’t be there.”

“Oh yes. Well, I’m looking forward to it.”

“I’m only a munchkin, it’s not much. But Di’s good, she’s the wicked witch. Katie’s Dorothy, she still hasn’t learnt all her lines, at least she kind of has but she keeps forgetting them or not knowing when to come in. Also Bishop Luke is coming to school on Monday, are you going to come to school when you’re a bishop, daddy?”

“Probably. If I’m invited!”

“Luke always says hello to me when he comes. It’d be embarrassing if you did that, though.”

Megan shook her head. “I hope you don’t call him Luke when you meet him at school.”

“He doesn’t mind. I call him Luke everywhere else.”

“You don’t call your teachers by their first names.”

“He’s not a teacher, though.”

“How’s the table going?” Megan brushed past Tom so she could mutter in his ear. “This is all your fault…”

Mars appeared too, just as they were sitting down to eat, throwing his bag down in the hall and then sprawling triumphantly on a chair. “Two more done! I’m shattered and starving, what’s for dinner?”

“Lentil soup, there are sausages in the fridge if that’s not enough.”

Mika perked up at that. “Can I have some?”

“Soup first.”

“Mars doesn’t have to.”

“Mars is doing exams.”

“I have a spelling test tomorrow.”

“And I hope you’ve practised. Sit down. Mars, do you want them?”

“Yes please.” He went to get them himself, and warmed them up in the microwave.

“What was it today?”

“RS and History. Went round town with Matt and that after, that’s why I’m late. Figured we’d celebrate. RS was nice, dunno about History, we’ll see.”

“Any tomorrow?”

“French. Afternoon. Get a lie in.”

“And a morning to revise.”

Mika glared between them reproachfully. “Mum I’m hungry…”

“And you will be fed, just be patient! Mars, have you got everything? Okay, sit down then. Tom, pass that plate…”

Ugh. Yeah, maybe being a dinner lady was not going to be the way forward. She checked her phone while she had her back to the family, to see that Liza had replied.

             Yours or mine?

She typed quickly, then stuffed the phone back into her pocket before anyone noticed.

             Yours.

© 2022 E.G. Ferguson

Chapter 8 - Luke

 “So that’s about everything?”

“Looks that way, yes.”

“Fantastic.” Luke leant his chair back on its two hind legs, folding his hands behind his head. “Well, maybe not the right word considering… but…”

“It’s the right decision.”

“Indeed.” It was supposed to be his job to build up his diocese, not to go around closing churches. But no, Luke, he told himself, it’s to free up resources to use where they're more needed. He landed the chair back on all four legs. “Can I ask how you’re feeling about… the big day?”

Tom carried on packing papers back into his briefcase. “I’ll think about it on retreat.”

“It’s a lot to save for the final week.”

“I could spend a year trying to process it and still not manage. But a week will have to do.”

“Don’t save it all up.”

Tom flicked the clasps on his briefcase closed before looking up. “It’s the only time I’m going to have.”

“Work?”

“If I’m going away for a week I need to get ahead.”

Luke shook his head. “You’re not thinking of it as coming back after that, are you?”

“Well, I’m still going to be doing the job.”

“Not really - just helping out behind the scenes until I appoint an acting archdeacon. And that’s generous for you to have agreed to.”

“I haven’t kept it in order this long to just let it fall apart.”

“You’re not entirely indispensable. You'll have to start stepping back anyway, since you won't officially be in the job anymore, and that has legal ramifications. We'll find someone competent to fill in what's essential; I have a name in mind. Sheffield’s managing without a bishop right now.”

“But I might as well do as much as I can to ease it through.”

“Very noble of you.” Luke leant back on his chair again, digging a hand into his pocket to find his rosary. “So long as it at no point hinders your personal development. You know, I’ve seen you a lot but haven’t really asked, how has your prayer life been since our conversation?”

Tom fidgeted. "I... should have told you. Friday. I missed morning prayer." He looked at the table. "Can I... explain why? Not that it makes it excusable, I know."

"Go on."

"That was the day I, um... tried to withdraw from consecration. I had this... really strong sense of God trying to talk to me, in the night, and eventually... I pushed God away. Emailed Ruth in the morning to tell her I was withdrawing. She summoned me to see her that afternoon, she made me listen to God and agree to be ordained and I did pray all the way home and said evening prayer and everything. But I missed the morning and didn't tell you."

Luke nodded slowly. "I see."

"Sorry. I... thought of it a few times."

"Oh, Tom." Luke pinched his brow with finger and thumb.

"If it happens again I'll tell you straight away. Sorry."

Luke raised a hand to stop him. "Thank you. It was clearly an exceptional morning, and completely understandable, not the kind of situation I had in mind when I insisted on accountability. And I understand why you were hesitant to speak of it, with the intensity of emotion you must have felt. If you had just said something on one of our phone calls this week, without me having to ask, you could have avoided a lot of unnecessary guilt. But for all that, you are forgiven." He paused for a few seconds, waiting for Tom to meet his eyes before giving him a small smile. "Now, what about the rest of my recommendations?"

“I did my best. Stuck to your directions, mostly. It was… well, helpful, when I’ve had time. And energy. It’s been busy.”

Luke held back a response, fingering his rosary beads instead.

“And I know I should be making it a priority, and making the time, and all, but work needs doing. And even without that, some days are just…” Tom tailed off, looking at the floor. “It’s like my entire body’s being pulled down. Like I’m trying to think through a fog. On those days, well, I don’t have the energy for the examen. Or I just don’t want to think about the past.”

“But you’ve been doing the reading?”

“Yeah. I did it.”

“And you return to it whenever you need it? And have searched for more passages which might speak to you?”

Tom looked at the floor in silent response, and Luke moved on, point made.

“Why are you afraid of the past?”

Tom shrugged. “It always goes back to… things I don’t want to think about.”

“Funny how that’s always the way, isn’t it?” Luke raised a hand to scratch his chin absent-mindedly. “You know why, of course.” He found a paternoster bead and started to pray silently, always his favourite way to listen. He gave Tom time to reflect.

“I guess… because it’s the most real. The most present.”

“Despite being in the past.”

“It’s in the present too. That’s what it means, not moving on.”

“I had another word.”

“What?”

“Unresolved.”

Tom considered for a while. “What is there to resolve?”

Luke raised his eyebrows slightly. “I don’t think anyone but you can answer that.”

For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever and ever, amen. Hail Mary, full of grace…

He glanced up to see Tom kneading his forehead with his hand. “How do I resolve it?”

…the Lord is with thee… And oh how infuriating it must be for Tom, that he wasn’t answering, but while he had ideas he didn’t have answers.

“Like, what am I even trying to resolve? The fact that losing her hurts? The fact that she’s not coming back? The fact that God didn’t answer our prayers?”

Luke met his eyes. “Are you still angry?”

“No. I don’t know.” A moment of silence. “No. I gave up on that.”

“I see.” He steepled his fingers together. “This is going to take you years, possibly the rest of your life, but it will get easier. You are going to have to engage. When prayer and reflection take you back, you need to go back. Don’t put it in a box.”

Tom laughed bitterly. “Boxes work for me.”

“Really?”

“I’ve been doing this most of my life.”

Luke looked at him gently. “Is it working?”

“I manage fine, don’t I?”

Pointed look. Rosary. Wait.

“It’s just… this. Needs a bigger box. With a key.”

Luke raised an eyebrow silently and waited for Tom to look down.

“I have work to do.”

“You certainly do.”

Tom dashed away a tear and glared at him. Luke met the glare calmly, reciting in silence.

“It hurts too much. It’ll kill me. Or at least make it impossible to do anything else.”

“When the box breaks, you mean?”

“I don’t let the box break.”

…Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our deaths…

“Anyway, what else am I supposed to do with it? Let it destroy me now, instead of just risking it destroying me later?” Tom took his glasses off and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I was doing fine, you know. Well, near enough. Managing. What am I supposed to do? It’s death, we can’t solve death. Certainly can’t undo it.” A long sigh. “I mean, I suppose… the gospel answers that, but for us today, in the world? Heaven’s a long way, and dreams don’t help much when you’re awake. And I know… this isn’t the sort of thing I should be saying, in front of my bishop, but… I dunno, I guess it’s how most people see it. Really. Especially when actually faced with stuff like this.”

Luke looked across the room, setting his eyes on the crucifix on the wall. “You’ve always felt this way?”

“I dunno. I mean, I used to believe it all. I’ve preached it enough. Death has lost its sting, and all that. But times like this?” He paused, and Luke waited for him to resume. “I dunno, when I need it most. You can believe all the promises, believe that God loves you and all, but some things… it’s a hope, that’s all. And a hope’s not much in times like this. We can say hope is everything but it’s a pretty poor everything. And maybe this is all just proving how weak my faith is, that I can’t trust… that I can’t stop feeling she’s gone forever.”

“She’s not.”

“Easy for you to say.”

Luke shook his head. “It’s not. But I believe it. Would God have created her just to let her flicker away without even a breath?”

“What if she never had life in the first place? What if she was just a bundle of cells?”

“You think someone so painstakingly knit together could just have been a bundle of cells?”

“How would we know?”

“Just like life after death. We believe. We trust. We hope. But you believe, don’t you? If you believe she died, you believe she lived. In your love for her, are you not mirroring the love of God for her? If you would do anything to keep her, would not God do more?”

“Less convincing argument, when you know what happened.”

“I know.” Luke met Tom’s eyes. “Hope. It’s all we have, but also the most powerful thing we could have. Our hope is not in vain. You would not be here now if you did not believe that God is true and God is faithful; if you had not known the love of God in your life, even if you doubt it now. You have faced loss before, you will face loss again, and you will survive, and God will be with you throughout, even if you do not always see them. Jesus weeps with you, just as he went off alone to grieve the death of John, just as he wept at the death of Lazarus. And Jesus shares in death, even with your daughter. And she shares in his resurrection. She is safe in the arms of God, as one day you and I will be. Be sad, Tom, at the dreams that died with her. But don’t despair, only trust. The pain will be easier with time. I know you don’t believe me now, but over the coming weeks and months… reflect on what I’ve said.”

“I can’t be ordained.”

“You must.”

“After all that? When I don’t even believe the basics?”

“You are being challenged, but you have not given up. It’s hard, what you’re doing.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re still living, aren’t you?”

“Setting the bar low…”

“Letting God heal you. That slow, gentle, excruciatingly painful process that you’ll be especially vulnerable to on Lindisfarne, when you are left alone with nothing but God.”

“I can’t be a bishop.”

“You can.”

“Stop telling me that.”

“Stop making it necessary.”

“I tried to back out.”

“I’m glad you didn’t get further.”

“It’s going to destroy me.”

“That depends how you approach it. If God isn’t first, if you don’t rely on and trust in the Holy Spirit, then it will.”

“Not boding well right now.”

“Do not be afraid, Tom. Do not be afraid.”

“Easy to…”

“Not easy to say. For me to say, “do not be afraid”, I have to believe that you have nothing to fear.”

“I can’t do it. Parish was too much for me – I had to leave, I was mentally exhausted by the end. And somehow I got it into my head I could handle a diocese? I’m not tough enough, I’m not resilient enough, all those people, all those expectations… I can’t do it, Luke. I know I can’t do it. Other people keep telling me I can, and I let myself believe them, but I can’t, I’m going to end up tearing myself apart trying and it’s terrifying. But everyone else keeps saying I can, that I’m called, that I have to. I made a massive mistake and now I’m stuck in it. And Megan doesn’t want to go either, and the kids… they’re so good, but it’s upheaval for them, I’m messing things up for everyone and it’s just so stupid, I let myself get carried away a few months ago and now even what I have left is going to be swept away because of it, because I was stupid enough to let myself think I’d be able to do it, when I had no idea, and now it’s all running away with me and nobody will let me off and all I want is to go back to how things were.” He dashed a hand across his eyes and rummaged in his pocket for his hanky. “And now I’m making a fool of myself but it’s how I feel and you asked. I’m too tired for this. Too tired and too sad and I just want a break.”

Luke shifted along another bead. “How are you sleeping?”

“Terribly.”

“I guess you’re trying different ways to improve that? Not ruling out a new mattress or a weighted blanket, or even a chat with your GP. Hopefully Lindisfarne will also help.”

“What, when I’m lying awake in dread?”

“Worrying will change absolutely nothing.”

“I know that.”

Luke shook his head. “I understand your fear. All I can do is tell you you don’t have to be strong, you certainly don’t have to be perfect. You do have to be faithful and obedient, and you do have to trust in the Holy Spirit. You have to be open to God, and God will insist that you are open to others. And there is a certain amount you will have to leave behind you on Lindisfarne when you go to the Minster. You will change, just as you did when you were ordained priest. Be afraid, but don’t let it hold you back. Be sad, but don’t let it eat you up.”

“How?”

Luke played with the rosary. “Be a child with God and an adult for everyone else.”

“Which means..?”

“Reflect on it.”

Tom looked at the opposite wall in silence for a while. “So you think I can do it, too.”

“I think God can work through you, and what bigger privilege is there than that?”

“I don’t want privilege. I want easy.”

“For now, maybe. If you take easy, you’ll regret it, though. You’ll always be wondering what else you could have been doing.”

“Ruth said about the same. I dunno.”

“I think you do, really.” Luke shook his head. “Don’t worry about finishing all your work, we’ll deal with anything left after you’ve gone. Send me anything that’s proving particularly difficult. Obviously I’ll see you next week. And then... I look forward to welcoming you as my brother bishop, indeed to taking part in your consecration in the Minster. Have you ordered everything you need?”

Tom scrubbed his eyes one more time. “Well, everything for the service. Provided it all arrives in time. Which it should do.”

“Cross? Picked a nice one? Or designed your own? Not that we should be too bothered about such things, but…” he held up his own to indicate. “I remember it being the most fun bit of preparation. Just pretty things, no long-term consequences.”

Tom gave him a half-smile. “Met the silversmith yesterday, actually. Fun use of a day off. She’s working on the design, she’ll 3D print me a prototype in a couple of days and then make any final adjustments and then… get it cast.”

“Designing your own? I did the same. Well, I won’t ask too many questions, it’s always nice to admire after the service…”

“I’ve got some big silver bracelets of mam’s – a big box of her stuff, actually, more than any of the kids will ever want, especially as they never knew her. Anyway, she’s going to use them for the metal.”

“That’s lovely. And really special.”

Tom’s half-smile was still there. “I still don’t know how I’m going to deal with actually doing the job. But whatever happens, at least I’ll have something beautiful and meaningful.”

“Something special to put on each day, as you remember what you are called to do and to be.”

“Thanks for that…”

Luke smiled sweetly. “Shall we pray..?”

© 2022 E.G. Ferguson

Chapter 7 - Tom

“I need to order a full set of episcopal choir dress, black chimere, for a service three weeks on Sunday, is that going to be possible? I have all of the measurements…”

“Thomas Carter?”

He smiled ruefully. “Yes, that’s me.”

“Congratulations on your appointment. Yes, we’ll be able to get that made up for you. So that’s purple cassock, rochet with cuffs, and black chimere. Cassock single or double breasted?”

“Single.”

“Fabric preference?”

“Basic. Polyester or whatever. Three pleats. Rounded collar, gap as recommended.”

“No piping? Cuffs?”

He considered. “No, thank you, to both. Thirty-nine buttons.”

“Any additional pockets?”

“No, thank you.”

“Cincture?”

“Yes, I guess.”

She laughed at his tone. “That'll be purple, with fringe. Is there anything else?”

Tom swallowed before answering. “Yes. Purple clerical shirts, please. Five to start off with.” Like he didn’t have loads of perfectly good black ones. But he and Ruth had discussed it casually, long before he’d even considered being in this position himself, and her arguments had persuaded him.

“Great, what collar style would you prefer?”

“Tunnel, please.”

“For all five?”

“Yes - no. One tonsure.”

“Any new tabs?”

“No thank you, I have plenty.”

“That’s great, thank you. Is there anything else you require?”

“I suppose a crozier. That standard one you do.”

“Of course. Screw on top?”

“Yes?”

“A mitre?”

“I’ll do that on a separate occasion.”

“Of course. I presume you have preaching bands already?”

“I do. I think that will be all.”

“Okay, that’s great. If I could take your measurements now, we’ll get those made up for you and delivered. It won't be much before your consecration service, I’m afraid, but we can deliver them to your retreat venue if you’d like.”

“Great, thanks, I'll dig out the address in a sec. Before I do that, I have my measurements here…”

He put the phone down a few minutes later, pulling a face at the price he’d accepted. One benefit of leaving all of the shopping to the last minute: no time to agonise about costs. Just use that clothing allowance, accepting that he didn't have a choice. And give thanks for helpful clergy outfitters, willing to do a turnaround like that.

The air of finality. Three weeks, just three weeks. Was he really doing this, had he really agreed? Had he really let himself be pushed into it?

He wandered through to the kitchen. “Three weeks. Just over.”

“Twenty-four days.”

“You’re keeping track.”

“Obviously.”

He leant back against the wall, staying out of Megan’s way. “Should I really be doing this?”

She shrugged without turning around. “Up to you. And mighty Mother Church. You don’t need my opinion.”

“You’re my wife, of course I do.”

“I’m not going to make your life a misery in revenge. However tempting it is.”

“You don’t want me to? I mean seriously, if you don’t…”

“What, at this notice?”

“It’s our whole lives. The whole family. We can still change it.”

“I’m fully aware of that. And I can’t wait – twenty-four days and you won’t be able to, and we can actually plan something.”

“It’s such a big thing. We shouldn’t go into it if you’re not sure.”

She slammed down her cloth and spun around. “I’m sure. We were all sure, it’s just you that’s wavering. Just stop messing around already.”

“I’m not…” he tailed off and looked around, feeling the accusation cut in. “I’m not messing around. I’m trying to make a massive choice. Because hey, people don’t just decide to become bishops. You don’t just kneel down in front of an archbishop and- poof! You are now a fully functioning bishop capable of witnessing to God in the million and one things a bishop is expected to do. You have to be called, and you have to be capable of doing it, and with all that’s happened, I have to work that out again. It’s not like I can carry on like nothing happened. It’s ordination, it’s huge, it’ll take my entire being, it has to be right.”

“And what would I know? It’s ordination, it’s huge, you have to be called and you have to be capable of doing it. Funny, I feel like I’ve been told something like that before…” She seized a full bin bag and headed for the door. “Oh, and as for carrying on like nothing happened? I know. I bloody well know, and I need you to fucking remember that. I know, and I’m dealing with it at least as much as you, but you know the difference? I’m actually trying to fucking live with it. However impossible you try to make that.”

The door slammed shut behind her, and he retreated back to the study where he could bury his head in his hands and run back through the conversation in his head. Hope Mika hadn’t heard it from upstairs. Way to go, Tom. Way to be a selfish arsehole.

How easy it was to count the sins. How easy it was to ask God for forgiveness. How much harder to approach a person, someone going through their own problems, their own challenges. To approach the person you wronged, someone who might not forgive. What could he say? What should he say?

His looping thoughts were interrupted by a gentle tap on the door, almost too light to be deliberate.

“Hello?”

Megan peeked around the door. “Can I come in?”

“Of course. You don't need my permission.” He shoved words together in his head, rehearsing conversations, deciding which tack to take. There was his thinking time, gone.

Megan pushed the door behind her and hovered, nervous. “I just want to say… sorry. I know you’re stressed. You were only trying to be considerate, I shouldn’t have… snapped. Brought that stuff up. Sorry.”

He blinked slowly, reached up a hand to pull the tab out of his collar. That couldn’t make it easier for her, seeing him wear it all the time.

“You don't need to apologise. I’ve been… inconsiderate. Unfair. Horrible. Of course you understand what I’m going through, and more, and I’ve been just useless, making everything harder, not thinking about you. I’m so sorry. And if you don’t want me to take the job just say, that’s absolutely fine. I’m not sure I should anyway. Just say, don’t let me do that to you, it’s your life too and you deserve to make some of the decisions.

He saw the emotion flick across her face before she suppressed it. “The decision’s made. It was made long ago.”

“It can change…”

“It’s not changing.” She took a step closer. “Everything’s sorted. It’s happening. We discussed it all, we know it’s the right decision. And yes, things have happened since, but that doesn’t change who we are, or what the next step should be. Baby or no baby, it was always going to happen, we’ve got to keep living.”

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“You know. Deal with it. Carry on like normal.”

“You call this normal?”

“Well, you know. Getting on with life. Moving on.”

She took a deep breath and let it out again, and he wondered how to draw back the question. Words couldn’t be taken back.

“I try, Tom.” She forced him to meet her eyes. “I work at it. And it hurts me every bit as much as it hurts you, but I actually do something with it, and I get help, and I refuse to give in.”

He looked away, down at the ground. “You’re stronger than me. You always were.”

“I’m a survivor.” She put her hand on the door handle. “You’re doing the bishop thing. Now pull yourself together.”

She was halfway out of the room when he called after her. “Megan?”

“Yeah?”

“I have to go on retreat. The week before. Sorry.”

“Of course you do. It’ll do you good, I’d take one if I could get it. Where?”

“Lindisfarne. Remote as they come, pretty much.”

“Lucky you. Make the most of it.”

“You should go on one. If you want. Individually guided or whatever. You know, once the move’s done and we’ve settled down in Sheffield.”

“And what about the kids?”

“We’ll manage.”

“With you bishopping?”

“Never mind me.”

She gave him a wry smile. “We’ll see.”

“Are you really okay with it?”

“I’ll make it work.”

“Don’t let me drag you around.”

She shrugged. “I knew when I married you that this would happen. I decided it was worth it, and I still feel that way. And don’t worry, I’ll make it work for me too. It’ll be fine, we’ll be fine. It’s exciting. It’s going to be amazing. And we’ll look back and wonder why we ever hesitated.”

He laughed. “I’m not sure about that, but thank you. I don’t deserve you.”

“And yet here I am.” She started pulling the door behind her. “I’m going to pack.”

He ought to be helping her pack, of course, but an overflowing email account had other ideas. Cancelling appointments for an impromptu trip to York did tend to make for more work the next day, and so he picked up the phone with a sigh. Time to restore everything to order - and still leave time to visit a silversmith. He should not have left everything to the last minute.

It was funny, when he had so much to do, how much time he still seemed to have left to image search all of the different kinds of crosses. Celtic? Contemporary? With gems or without? Simple or filigree? Wheat, vines, chalices, doves… so many options, so much meaning. So many beautiful things – and then, of course, the brightly coloured monstrosities Ruth had started sending to him.

He minimised the tab and returned to the report he was checking. Was he really doing this? Was he really leaving behind a life of faculties and formalities to take up the cure of souls for an entire diocese? Not that archdeaconing was all about rules and paperwork but… he’d left parish ministry because he couldn’t stretch himself to meet the needs of so many people. Was he really ready to go back, to serve a community of people so much larger? Could he really handle it? Or was he just going to kill himself trying?

His eyes drifted off to a picture on the shelf, half-hidden behind a small statue and a postcard from Rome. Why that one in particular, when he had so many? Christ laid in his mother’s arms, eyes closed in the sweat and blood of death. Another woman easing off the crown of thorns, not a thought for the pain as it pierced her own hands, her frozen grief a contrast to the mother’s tears. The angel stood behind, eyes of compassion and hands on the pommel of a sword. The pierced hand, trailing in the dust, the empty sag of death. Black nails, abandoned in the shadows, almost lost behind the vine which bordered the image. The vine, tangled with thorns, purple grapes pierced and weeping red blood…

He opened the tab again and did another search. The Coventry Cross, the cross of nails. The cross of pain, and of forgiveness. Simple, stark beauty, because Passion was wild and alive and cruel and beautiful, all at once.

Back to the image search, an idea starting to grow. The wheat and vines… imagine those vines, weaving up around nails, life in death. The desolation of a lost child, embraced in the hope of everlasting life. A lost mother, too, and a brother, and so many friends, and so many more. A cross that meant something to him, wasn’t that what Ruth had said?

But Mary’s child came back.

He found a scrap of paper and a pencil and doodled, sketching out ideas. How to arrange the nails… there was the Coventry version, but he didn’t have to stick to it. Especially since he was adding the vines. How hard would it be to make? How fragile would it be? Would it be doable, in the little time left? Best start by just jotting down ideas, and then he’d be ready to meet the designer, who’d no doubt work magic with it. Now, if he had four nails of equal length… or three, one long and two short. Some people probably had strong views on how many nails were used at the crucifixion, best to check… he picked up his phone and sent Ruth a quick text.

An email popped up, drawing him back to what he should be doing. From Luke’s chaplain, confirming their next meeting and reminding him of the work to be done before then. He put down the pencil and went back to the forms. Somehow, he’d have to put everything into a fit state to hand over when his successor was appointed. And do that while starting to pick up episcopal duties in Sheffield, and with the lost time of a house move and a week’s retreat.

He signed the form with a flourish and stuffed it into a plastic wallet, ready to file away in the office tomorrow, then affixed a signature to the electronic copy and emailed it out. Almost time to pick Mars up from cricket training, a necessary excuse to get away from his desk for half an hour. Oh, and then dinner. Then come back, check that everything’s in order for tomorrow’s parochial visitation, and then…. Oh yeah, that sermon for Sunday. Better get that written. A full day at the office, and he still had this much work to do at home… transitions were always like this, though, weren’t they? A full time job and then a whole load of extras, with even less time than usual in which to do it all.

“You are going, then.”

“Of course. See you shortly.”

She gave him a distracted half-smile and disappeared back into the kitchen, and he went out to the car musing. He’d never expected her to turn into the dutiful clergy wife, to trap herself in the kitchen. She’d always had her own projects, he’d always kind of assumed that as soon as the children were old enough she’d be out coming up with something new. Was it Grace that had crushed her? Or was she simply content as she was?

He looked out of the window. Was she content? She didn’t sound it, not with the bitterness that laced every conversation about the move. They’d discussed it all, she’d been excited when he’d accepted. But Grace… of course that had changed everything. Him too, he supposed. He could hardly read anything into her loss of enthusiasm, when he’d suffered the same thing, when he was only doing it because Ruth - and perhaps God – had browbeaten him into it. Because it was easier than backing out. And what could he do to help her, when he felt this way himself?

The car pulled up outside the school, the end of a long line of parents. Children starting to appear, the rattle of cricket bags wheeled behind them. And then Mars tapping on the window with a grin and a wave, ducking round to dump his bag in the boot and then swinging into the front passenger seat. “Hi dad.”

“Hi Mars. Good day?”

“Yup.” He fell quiet, face against the window as Tom pulled the car away and started back down the school drive. Tom glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, but didn’t push him, made himself wait as Mars tapped his fingers on the edge of the seat.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“The church, like, doesn’t really believe people should be gay, does it?”

Tom raised his eyebrows without looking around. “A position held by increasingly few other than fundamentalists - just look at our Archbishop of Canterbury, for a start. Unfortunately, we’re still fighting to get fully equal marriage, but… in the five years, hopefully. And generally, the Church teaches that love in all forms mirrors the love of God and should be celebrated.”

Mars stared out of the window a little longer. “In real talk, though?”

“It’s not a problem. I certainly don’t have a problem with it.”

“I think I’m gay.”

“Awesome, there’s someone you like?”

Mars twiddled his fingers. “Maybe.”

“Do I need to give you the talk?”

“No!”

Tom looked in the mirror, his face tweaking into a smile at Mars’ flushed cheeks.

“You don’t think it might be anything to do with… y’know?”

The smile was gone, and Tom stared at the road. “I’m not a psychologist but no, I don’t think so. I think it’s a part of who you are. And yes, I know your past is always going to be with you, but try not to second-guess everything. Especially not when it’s something with the potential to be so wonderful. Can you remember some of the things your counsellor said?”

“Yeah. Some of them.”

“If you ever want to see someone again, just say. We’ll organise it, or give you the money.” He paused. “I’m only saying that because you indicated it’s still hanging over you, by the way. I’m happy you’re finding out about yourself, it’s exciting. Be careful, be happy, is that what I should say?”

Mars smiled shyly. “Coming out’s, like, easier than the stories make it sound.”

“One day, coming out won’t be a thing. For now… yup, and you won’t have to worry about mum either.” He looked out of the window. “Though… if you like someone here…”

“We’re about to move.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

Mars shrugged. “There’ll be other people. Like he’s probably not interested in me anyway.”

“And there’s nothing to say you won’t meet again in a few years.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry. About moving.”

“It’s fine. Like, everyone’s changing schools anyway, it’s the best time. New place… that’s exciting, right? Like, Sheffield looks cool.” Mars picked at the cuff of his shorts. “Are you looking forward to it?”

Tom pulled a face. The question everyone had to ask. “It’s a big step.”

“What, being a bishop?”

“Yeah.”

“You nervous?”

“You could say that.”

“You’ll do great. They wouldn’t have chosen you otherwise. It’ll be well cool. You’re going to do confirmations and stuff, right?”

“Amongst other things.” Ah yes, confirmations. Wow. Rather too awesome to think about at the moment.

“But like you’ll still be dad at home.”

“I will. And I’ll be busy, but you tell me if I’m forgetting that. Any time, if you think I need to spend more time at home, and I’ll make sure I do.”

“Does that apply to right now too?”

Tom grimaced. “Transitions are busy. I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all it is?”

“What do you mean?”

Mars shook his head. “Nothing. Never mind.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I was just going to say something about… but it’s silly.”

“Right.” Tom glanced at him quizzically but dropped it. Mars would say another time if it were important.

© 2022 E.G. Ferguson