“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.
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