Chapter 5 - Tom

“…As an ordained minister, part of your job is to set an example of Godly living. Bishop Luke and I are both extremely disappointed and hope that there will be no more incidents of this kind.”

Tom could almost hear her laughing. “Sorry, archdeacon. I’ll be more careful in future.”

“Thank you, Victoria. I think that’s everything. You’ll receive a copy of the report next week.”

“I look forward to it. Shall I show you out?”

Tom followed her to the door impassively, said a brief goodbye and walked to his car without looking back. A moment to write a couple of notes and check the next address and then he was off. Not too fast, because you could hardly criticise other clergy for speeding if you did it yourself. Order your household after the example of Christ. Don’t drive like Jehu son of Nimshi. If you do get caught, pretend you’re sorry- and don’t say that last one out loud, he had to keep pretending it was deadly serious.

It was a long day. Another couple of meetings, a tour of a church primary school, and then time to sit in the parked car and make a couple of phone calls. Check the hard hat in the boot and drive out of the city, to an abandoned village where cranes and steel tanks towered behind boarded up houses. The church was small, with a squat tower and a gate hanging off its hinges, a warden waiting with tired sorrow that made Tom hate still more what he was here to do.

“Good afternoon, archdeacon.”

“Good afternoon, Robert. Thank you for meeting me. Are we expecting anyone else?”

“Mother Ashley’s running slightly late, she’ll join us as soon as possible, she said to get going with showing you around.”

“Sounds good to me. I’ll just get some things out of my car…”

Hard hat first, the sign which always hit home how real this inspection was. And then tablet, torch, and camera. A tape measure and a penknife in his pocket. He left the file and the laminated notices in the back of the car, for now.

“So, the gate’s been broken for a couple of years, we all go around the side this way…”

Great start. Tom snapped a few pictures of the hazard-taped lych gate and followed Robert around the short distance to the side gate, which was rusted open. Grass long, nettles nudging up around the graves. This was not a church with a devoted congregation to tend it. He took a quick glance up at the roof, snapping a picture, making a mental estimate at the number of missing tiles; those storms last winter really had taken a toll.

Tom held Robert up when they reached the down pipe for the guttering, crouched down to shine a light into the drain. Almost a shame to be inspecting in good weather, when it came to checking features such as drainage and the watertightness of the roof. The wardens and Mother Ashley had been honest in their report, though, which made this easier for him.

Inside, there was a lump in his throat, as he ran a hand along the backs of dusty pews and paused to gaze up towards the altar. Why was it always on visits like this that he longed to fall to his knees and just worship God in the space? The carvings and painted screen behind the altar, the noble eagle, the angels holding up the rafters, Christ enthroned gazing down from the East window. A fine little organ, which ought to sell well, or might be welcomed in another church in the benefice provided it was in a reasonable state of repair.

“Okay, thank you. Could I see the boiler room?”

“Of course.”

When Mother Ashley eventually arrived, he did his best to greet her with a smile, though that in itself was harsh enough. “Good afternoon. Robert’s just about finished showing me around, we’re just going to get a ladder out onto the flat roof over the vestry. I’m afraid it’s looking like we’ll be following through as suggested by the financial and community reports, though. I do agree that it seems unlikely that we’ll find a suitable buyer, due to the location and state of the building, so when you put together the inventory you will want to include details of all fittings including the stained glass. Do you have full photographic documentation of the church as it is now?”

Robert and Ashley looked at each other. “A fair amount, we’ll get it done properly,” said Ashley.

“Good. Now, obviously I can’t confirm anything now, but to give you an idea of the likely procedure from here… we’ve streamlined it in recent years. I’ve already had the PCC recommendation for closure. The next step is that I have notices of closure in my car, to be displayed on notice boards, gates, and doors, with others designed to post on other churches in the parish. You will also need to feature a notice in the church bulletin or pew sheets, and announce it in Sunday services. There will be an opportunity for public consultation. I’ll meet with the PCC. A final report will be produced and submitted to the bishop, I will make a recommendation, and if the final decision is for closure then the date for that to take place will be publicly confirmed.”

He dug through his bag as he continued. “If we do end up in that position, I’ll send you all of the details of where to send any registers held here. After the closure date, an auction of contents or private sales may take place, in consultation with the benefice, or contents may be donated. I can help you with offering the building for sale but a suitable purchaser is unlikely to be found unless the Churches Conservation Trust are willing to take it on. We no longer have all of the old listing legislation requiring the building to be preserved, so although it may not be deliberately demolished it can be left to deteriorate. The graveyard must remain accessible, the building locked unless supervised. I’ll send you all of this information formally, to be presented to the PCC, of course. Now, if you could sign this as a record of my visit…” He passed the form around the pair of them. “Thank you, and God bless you both. I hope that this can provide more opportunity than loss.”

“Thank you, archdeacon.”

“Thank you.”

He shook their hands, opening the driver’s door of his car. “Paperwork will be forthcoming. If you have any questions or concerns, do get in touch.”

Not that he could move on immediately, of course. Back in the office, an afternoon writing a report on that visit, searching through the pictures he’d taken for every flaw that supported the recommendation. Really, the drains and heating issues would be enough, with such a small local congregation, but making this kind of decision was a big deal.

He answered some emails, too. Reports of broken windows, complaints about grotty carpets and leaking pipes and cracks in walls of clergy housing. No hurry, filing those reports into the folder of “things to deal with when important stuff goes away.” How could he be so callous, when these were people’s homes? The reality was they just – and feeling guilty didn’t change this – weren't at the top of his to-do list.

He really should deal with them though.

Megan was quiet when he got home, distracted. Should he ask how she was? No, he’d just get his head bitten off, as he did when he asked her if he should pick Mika up from school. Nope, conversation wasn’t happening tonight, but maybe some lucky clergy would get their new carpets, have plumbers come to fix their pipes and structural engineers to inspect the cracks in their walls. And then there were the curates’ houses, being prepared in parishes across the archdeaconry, not much time left to finish that. He muttered under his breath about useless diocesan housing officers.

When he looked at his watch it was after ten o’clock. Oops. He’d been so good, obeying his bishop’s instructions for prayer, would it hurt to leave it tonight? Just go to bed? Sleep was a form of prayer, right?

Jesus stared down from a picture on the wall, and Tom shifted uncomfortably as he took out his phone. No, be good, at least obey the canon if nothing else; the alternative would be having to confess his failure to Luke tomorrow. Did he have to say both evening prayer and compline if he was doing it at this time of night? He was only doing compline because Luke had told him to, and then with meditation, and examen… no, he just didn’t have the energy. It was only one night.

He finished evening prayer and climbed the stairs, slowly. Meditation could happen in bed. First, though, he set a hand on the door handle to the other room, the usual weight in his chest. He should lose this habit but he couldn’t, it was just…

Even in the shadows he could see the boxes, the empty shelves. The cot still there, the mobile hanging above it, but empty. Without the stacks of tiny clothes, or the row of soft toys. He groped for the light switch, longing not to see but unable to stop himself from looking.

There would be no baby. Even the baby room, the room in limbo… even this last sanctuary knew. Everything was moving on. 

Except him. Because he couldn’t.

He was sitting on the floor, head resting against the bars of the cot. It hadn’t been a conscious move, really, not much more conscious than the tears soaking into his shirt. Than the silent plea, God, Father, please… Please. Make it stop hurting. Please, give her back. Let me be with her. Let me die too. Make it stop hurting. Please…

He wasn’t sure of the point when the tears died away, when the calm descended.  Just that it happened, and everything was quiet, and he was alone. But not alone. He was safe, and words popped unbidden into his head. Fear not, for I have redeemed you. I have called you by name, you are mine.

You are going to be a bishop.

Was it his thought? A memory, of someone else saying those words? He must have heard them enough times, after the announcement… why think of them now? Did he really have to make a decision now, of all times?

No, I can’t. No. I’m going to pull out, I’m going to say…

He kneaded at his forehead, against the pressure growing there. God, go away. I’m not going to. I don’t want to. I can’t… you left me. You left me alone. You let her die… why should I? You do nothing for me… He buried his head in his hands, words falling into the silence.

The pressure was stronger, and he was crying again, a weight pressing down on his head… a weight like hands.

No!

Yes.

No!

Silent, waiting. Give up, Tom.

I’m going to call Ruth first thing and tell her. Or maybe text her now, in case she’s awake. Tell her no, she already knows it’s coming, she pretty much told me…

The words were swallowed up by that same thick silence. A car, speeding past on the road outside, momentarily destroyed the peace. When it was gone, a word echoed in his head.

Bishop.

He pushed himself up, away from the cot, so that he was kneeling on the floor. Do I have to?

Not a question he needed to ask. He’d heard a call like this before.

Why now? I’m not ready, give me time. A last ditch effort which would get him nowhere. It hurts too much. I can’t. I’m not strong enough, just let me go, give me a break. Why can’t it be easy, just for once? Why? Please?

Silence. He stood up, slowly, took faltering steps towards the bathroom. He’d have to make the decision soon, have to tell them. The dates were getting too close to leave it. It wouldn’t be fair on anyone else to leave it. It was easier to flee, though. Easier to run away from God.

Yeah, right.

In the morning. In the morning, he’d do it. Call Ruth first, tell her his decision, get her advice, and then withdraw. Make it public. Face it down. Nobody would blame him, they knew what he’d been through, they’d understand why… and he wouldn’t have to move on. Wouldn’t have to move. Wouldn’t have to change.

Like you can avoid that.

He stared at his puffy, bloodshot eyes in the mirror. Was this the face of someone who would be a bishop?

No!

He pushed at the thought, forced it away, but as he lay down in bed it was there again. You will be a bishop…

He pushed at it again. God, if you could stop telling me what to do, I’d really like if you’d just look after me right now…

The thought didn’t shift. He stared up at the ceiling, and the words of the bishop’s vows seeped through his consciousness. The memory of all those consecrations stood a step behind Ruth. The Minster, packed, rows of bishops moving forward, gathering around with hands outstretched…

No baby. There would be no baby. His daughter was dead, like all his family. What was the point, when he had no one left to live for? Why bother at all? Why not just join them, why not let me join them? Why not, God, you took them all, why not me too? Why not? Why leave me here, with nothing but an empty room?

Without even that. Because you want me to leave it behind.

He found his phone and rolled over, hiding the screen under the covers so that the light wouldn’t disturb Megan. Checked emails. Scrolled through social media. Watched videos with subtitles, one after another. Found a game online to play, to just click on tiles and zone in and out. Enough to fill his mind, just about. Not enough to actually require concentration. Enough to fill the time until his eyes blurred too much to focus on the screen any longer, and then he scrolled through social media and checked his emails again and set it aside. The darkness waited, empty shadows in which hung the ghost of daytime. Walls, ceiling, wardrobes, curtains, both there and not there, part of a waking world to which he did not seem to belong. Were they the ghosts, or was he?

And so he drifted, lost between the worlds of ghosts and dreams, awake but not awake, and so he waited for morning.

The walls of the Minster stretched skyward, the arches disappearing into infinite night, lost among the stars. Candles, flickering, stone hard beneath his knees. Hard, cold, unyielding, seeming to push him upwards even as he grew heavier. The touch on his head, the cross traced on his brow, the cross of baptism drawn out, growing, shining, consuming, as Ruth – for it was Ruth, of course – crouched before him and pulled him in, her chasuble enfolding him, and it was his mother’s hand which stroked his hair, her voice which murmured his name as he lay tangled in blankets, limbs immobilised with casts, so small amid the wires and tubes and the monitors beside his bed, as they began to beep, the noise beginning from nothing, swelling until the scene broke apart…

…and he blinked, eyes dry, and reached out for the bedside table, fumbled ineffectively for his phone, thumbs swiping clumsily. Silence once more, slump back onto the pillow and stare at the ceiling, only for a second. A black shirt hung on the wardrobe door in front of him. Black as the pall that covered his heart. Black as the emptiness which had replaced his hopes. Black as grief. Perfect.

Time to tell Ruth he would not be a bishop.

Dear Ruth,

After much consideration, I have concluded that I no longer feel able to offer myself for consecration as a bishop. I intend to submit my withdrawal to the Crown Nominations Commission later today but wished to inform you of my intentions before doing so. Please accept my gratitude for your guidance in helping me to reach this decision.

Thank you for your patience.

Tom

Send. Time for morning prayer. With that decision made, let the day begin.

Three minutes later, his phone rang.

“Hello? Ruth?” Sound calm. Be professional.

“Thomas. Carter.”

Thomas. Oh, crap. “Good morning?”

“I believe you know why I’m calling.”

“I could… hazard a guess. How are you?”

“You think you can tell me something like that by email?”

“Well, it’s… in writing… you’re busy…” He could feel her glare down the phone. “I can repeat it now. I intend to withdraw my acceptance…” As he had every right to do. She could hardly force him to take it.

“And you can tell me face to face.”

“Video call?”

“Let me know when you’ll get here, I’m working in the office this afternoon.”

“You encouraged me to question it in the first place.”

A short silence. “Not over the phone, Tom.”

“I have meetings. You have meetings.”

“Reschedule. What time do you want to be here?”

“Um… I’ll work it out and text you?”

“Good. See you this afternoon. Sorry I’m being brief, I ought to get to chapel. Will you be okay to get here?”

“Yeah, so long as I can reschedule. I couldn’t come this evening..?”

“If it’s not important, you can cancel it. If it is important, you probably shouldn’t be doing it today. And anyway, this is more important. This afternoon, my office. Will you be okay until then, or do I need to warn Luke?”

“I’m fine. See you later.”

“God bless you. Put everything on pause and come over. We’ll talk it through this afternoon.”

“Okay. See you.”

“Take care. See you soon.”

© 2022 E.G. Ferguson