Chapter 11 - Tom

“No, it’s beautiful, perfect.”

“You’re happy for me to cast it?”

Tom turned the plastic model over in his hand, then hung it around his neck to look in the mirror. Apart from the colour, and the fact it was 3D-printed plastic… he took it off again quickly, and just admired it in his hand. “Absolutely. It’s better than I could have imagined, at least if it looks anything like this. Thank you so much.”

“And you have the metal you’d like me to use?”

He swallowed at that. “I do.” He pulled the bag out of his pocket and made himself hand it over. He’d examined each piece earlier, no need to do so again, they were nothing special and he had plenty more… he looked back down at the model in his hand. She’d have loved it.

“You’re certain you’re happy for me to melt down all of these pieces?”

“I am.”

“I hope it’ll be really meaningful for you, it’s a privilege to be involved. It’ll take me a few days to clean and polish but should be ready for you to pick up on Saturday, is that okay?”

“It is. I look forward to it.” He looked down again at the model in his hand. “I’m okay to take this?”

“Certainly, it’s all yours. If I might just take the chain, since it’s the one to be used for the final piece…”

“Of course. Thank you.”

Back home, he threaded the plastic cross on a piece of string and hung it around his neck. A strange feeling, even stranger to see in the mirror. And to imagine it in silver, on a purple shirt… he took it off quickly and dropped it in his top drawer. Too real.

Not as real as Saturday, though, when he felt the weight of the silver in his hand and stood, frozen, eyes on the points of the nails where they met at the centre, bound in place by the tendrils of a leafy vine. And the chain ran through his fingers, and he imagined putting it on but didn’t do so, just turned it over and over in his hands. Simple. Brutal. Beautiful. And so much more than an ornament.

He blinked slowly. “Perfect. Thank you.”

“The chain is the same as the prototype, although the weight may make it feel different. Would you like to try it?”

He shook his head. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.” And to put it on now… it was too early, and this was too real to just be trying for fit.

“Of course. If I put it in the box for you…” she produced the container, and took the cross from his hand to lay in its bed of velvet. Snapped the lid shut, hiding it from view. “And now for the boring bit. How would you like to pay?”

“By card, please.” He dug out his wallet and waited for her to pass him the reader.

Such worldly matters broke the spell a little, but not enough not to feel the weight as he stowed the box safely in his pocket, a weight heavier than simply that of silver. It felt kind of like buying his first stole. And the very thought of that parcel, due to arrive on Lindisfarne next week. Vestments he knew well but had never even imagined wearing. And the crozier, which he would carry with crook forward rather than towards him…

He drove home, to find Megan waiting for him as he opened the door.

“Go on, let’s see…”

His hand tightened on the box, and he took it slowly from his pocket. It might be easier to let Megan open it without looking, but he couldn’t let go, so opened the box and tilted it towards her, letting her lean in and express admiration so far from his own frozen silence. Pretty, detailed, delicate, a lovely job, so different, such a good idea, could she hold it?

“Yeah, go on.”

“Is it fragile? It looks it.”

“Not especially, the back’s built up at the centre though you can hardly tell from the front. It’s functional.”

“How much of it was your idea?”

“The nails. The vine. Well, I got it from a picture.”

“It’s so different. I was expecting… you know. Twisty bits. Jewels. And it’s silver?”

“Yeah. I was thinking pewter but… some of mam’s old jewellery. Those big bracelets. The silversmith who made it, she said… sometimes people reshaped old stuff, especially for this kind of thing. And I thought of it. It’s better than keeping them in a box.”

“She’d have loved it.”

“I hope so.”

“She’d be so proud.”

“I haven’t even made it to the service yet.”

She placed the cross back in the box. “When you do.”

“Yeah.” He looked past her at the wall. “Are you going to be okay? Next week?”

“Of course. Will you?”

He shrugged. “Silence. Lindisfarne. What’s not to like?”

“You love talking to people.”

“And silence. Silence is also good.”

“For a whole week?”

“It’s guided. Direction each day, not complete silence.”

“Oh great. Direction to do more thinking in the silence. Perfect.”

“Real silence doesn’t involve thinking.”

“Let’s get out of idealism and back in reality.”

He shrugged and sighed heavily. “I’m trying not to dread it too much.”

“Sorry. I get that.”

“You’ll be okay, though?”

“Obviously. You want me to help you pack?”

“I’ll do it on Friday night. Or Saturday morning.”

“I can help. Or watch. Make sure you don’t forget anything.”

“I did manage such things before I met you…”

“Still. In case you’re distracted. Unlikely as that may be...”

He pulled a face. “If you really want to. There’s no need.”

“It’s no trouble.”

“If you’re sure. We can see on Friday.”

She reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “No worries. Now, we should be doing something with the kids. Before you start working again.”

“If we can drag Mars away from his desk.”

“He’s sensible, he’ll come. Go put that thing somewhere safe. And tell me where, in case it’s too safe…”

“My dressing table, top drawer.”

“Sounds sensible. Go do it.” She leant in and kissed him lightly on the lips before pushing him towards the door. “You'll be fine.”

He went, and tucked the box in safe amid folded hankies and spare collars and stoles. Megan was already in action, summoning Mika to “get yourself out of that den of yours, we’re going out” and then conversing in a quieter tone with Mars in the room next door. The first time she’d kissed him in months.

Since before they'd lost Grace.

On the dressing table there was a photo in a frame, and he picked it up subconsciously, stroked the faces one by one. Megan beside him. Liza and Mars. Toddler Mika, thumb in mouth, hiding behind Megan's leg. Joel, now happily settled with his new family. Hope, the girl who’d started this whole thing. And Charley, their lost angel. Their oldest lost angel, and the only one in this picture, because it was from before Justin and long before Grace. Where are you, Charley? Don’t forget, you can always come back…

“Tom! It doesn’t take that long, hurry up!”

He put the picture down quickly and headed for the stairs. “I’m coming!”

“Oh good, I was starting to wonder if you'd forgotten.”

“Have you even got your own shoes on?”

“I have, thank you very much. We’re all ready, shift.”

“What, it’s a race?”

“Mika’s bored, I’m bored, Mars is bored…”

“It’s been literally two minutes. Do we even know where we’re going?”

“The nearest hill.”

“Any more specific?”

“That’s very specific.”

“Are you driving or are you going to direct me?”

“You can drive. Make yourself useful.”

“What’s this all about?”

“What?”

“Bossing me about. Inspiration from whoever you met up with last night?”

“Don’t tell me you’re out of practise at being bossed about…”

“Well, it’s been a while.”

“Yeah, whatever. Shut up and hurry up.”

“Mummy that’s rude…”

“Yes, Mika. Do as I say not as I do. Go get in the car and make daddy feel slow. Mars, is that the map? Perfect, thank you. Tom, you’re the one working this afternoon and meaning we have to be quick about this…”

“Go and get in the car. I’ll be thirty seconds behind you.”

“I’ll time you…”

“I know you will.”

He swung himself into the car a minute later, checked the children’s seatbelts, and pulled out of the drive. Time for a hill... Ruth would be jealous, though it probably wouldn’t be up to her standards, even if it was a slog for him. 

It was a slog indeed, forcing him to pause every hundred metres or so to check the view and wonder whether this was a good idea, whether it was better to take it easy or to make the most of such opportunities while he still could. He paused again, watching with a twinge of jealousy as Megan powered on up about ten steps in front, and as Mika ranged freely with her usual seemingly inexhaustible energy. Mars appeared at his side.

“Alright, dad?”

“Just taking it steady. Maybe we need to get back in the routine of our early morning swims?"

"I'd like that. I've thought of going by myself a few times but... not got round to it."

"Alright. Let's find a nice pool when we get to Sheffield. How’s everything going, the exams? They going okay?”

“Decent. I'm, like, much less stressed than I thought I'd be, too. I mean the small room helps, and the meds..."

Tom smiled. "And all the work you've been doing on managing your anxiety and the strategies you've learnt are working, and your mental health is so much better than it used to be. That's really great." And it was. The anxiety, which had dominated Mars' life a few years ago, now surfaced much less often, and even when it did Mars now managed it with little input from them.

"Anyway, not many left now, like just Art and Physics and the last maths paper and then History next week.”

“And you’re done on… Tuesday?” Now moving again, Tom refused to let himself stop. Coming down would be worse, but he’d deal with that when he got to it.

“That’s right. Morning. Going for lunch and ice cream after.”

Tom felt in his pocket for a ten pound note. “The ice cream’s on me. Sorry I won’t be around when you get home.”

“Thanks dad. It’s fine, not that big a thing. Still ages ‘til results.”

“If you want to come back that night to celebrate with friends, just say. It’s not far, I’ll give you the train fare.”

“It’s no fuss, I don’t like parties anyway, y’know.”

“Up to you, the offer’s there. You can always leave early. Otherwise we’ll go out somewhere as a family.”

“We’ll wait and see what I actually get?”

Tom clapped him on the back. “Of course not. You’ll have done them and done your best and we can celebrate you being ready to move on! And if they’re amazing, then well done, if not then ah well there are other options out there. Sound reasonable to you?”

Mars shrugged. “I guess. Anyway, like I’ll worry about results once I’ve actually finished sitting them. Like, just so long as I don’t fail RS, right?”

“I’m more emotionally involved in your English mark, if I’m quite honest…” Tom paused his climb again, just for a second, before powering on. “Still looking forward to college?”

“Think so. Should be fun, like. The art department’s great, I found some photo galleries of like some of their exhibitions, bits of them, it’ll be awesome.”

“And then careers talks, and university applications… or should I not mention that?”

“I dunno. I’ll figure it out. Like if I go to uni or not. I’m thinking maybe being a teacher, like I’d need a degree for that, but like I don’t know many jobs. Like what people do, except in education. And obviously like you in the Church, like obviously I’m not planning on being a vicar.”

“I’m glad for you.”

“But yeah, dunno. We’ll get careers stuff at college. And like I can always take a gap year, get a job. Make pizzas again, maybe somewhere better now I got experience. Hey, I could be, like, a chef.”

“I’m not going to fault the pizza plan.”

“What were you planning to do? Before being a priest, like?”

Tom shrugged. “Didn’t have a clue.” He thought about it. “It was probably always in line to happen, really. Just the accident kind of focused it. Closed other paths off. A bit of me wanted to be an actor, but…” He shrugged. “Probably just a kid dream anyway. But getting it cut off like that… it makes you more bitter than if it just dies a natural death. But yeah, didn’t really know – thought maybe journalism or something, I did some student paper stuff back then. But then God got involved, I started the discernment process about end of my first year, so I didn’t have to think about it much.”

“So you decided to be a priest when you were, like, nineteen?”

“Yep.”

“Why? Why’d you think of it? I mean, like, as a normal kid, not an archdeacon-almost-bishop’s son…”

Tom looked away. “I couldn’t not do it. It was just… God wouldn’t leave me alone. And so I gave in.” They stopped at the top of the hill, and Tom put his hands on his hips to admire the view, making the most of the seconds before Megan descended.

“You made it!”

“I’ll be slower going back down…”

“You’ll have gravity to help.”

“Knee.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Megan looked him up and down with concern. “You should have said.”

“It’s fine.”

“Is it okay? We can figure something out.”

“What goes up must come down. And there isn’t a road so it’ll have to be the footpath.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing much. Might as well do it while I can.”

“Look after it. You don’t have a brace or anything?”

“I have it when I need it. It’s hardly anything.”

“You’re doing damage…”

“I do damage when I climb the stairs to bed, it’s life. Anyway, when it gets bad I can just have a new one. Make it a matching pair.”

“Best make the real one last as long as possible first…”

“I know.” He forced a smile. “It’s worth it for the view.”

“It is. Fancy a sit down?”

“I was very much counting on one.”

The walk back down was indeed worse, driving him to step off the stony path onto the grass at the side just for the extra cushioning. The sensation was familiar, and the worse for it, a promise of what would come. The thoughts drifted through: I’m too young for this, it’s not fair. But then it never had been fair, the effects of one poor decision lifelong for more than just the perpetrator.

There was one guilty relief: episcopal health insurance. One of those ways in which bishops perhaps shouldn’t be treated differently to other clergy, but which he certainly wasn’t going to complain about. Even with the return of some free emergency care, long-standing health conditions were expensive. Plus, a certain amount of family cover. He definitely couldn’t object to that. One shouldn’t have to be a bishop to get it.

Back home, lunch eaten, he returned to his room and changed his shirt, buttoning it up slowly. Black. He always wore black, had for twenty years. The wardrobe open in front of him, a row of black shirts. It was easy, it was smart, it was right. And now… a whole new wardrobe. Would looking the part help, when it came to actually doing it? Would regal purple help him to be a servant to the Church?

Think of it as penitential. Purple as Advent or Lent. And just… tradition. All about tradition, like so many aspects of the established Church. Tradition was important. In the colour of a shirt – yes, in the collar he was now tucking into its sleeve at his neck. Another dimension, like liturgy and the singing of hymns and the proper observance of the liturgical year. Something with a purpose, even if that purpose wasn’t grand or ordained by scripture, just something that helped things work.

Why was he thinking about it so much anyway? One more week of normal life first, and then an entire week of having to think about ordination. Although perhaps it was too much for one week. But would reflecting on different shirt colours really help anything? Of course not. That wouldn’t necessarily stop him.

He tucked the shirt in more securely and headed for the door. “Bye all.”

“Bye dad.” Mika fixed herself to his leg.

Megan appeared at the living room door, considerably less enthusiastic. “Bye. What time will you be back?”

“Late.”

“I won’t leave you in any dinner, then.”

“No. I’m being fed.”

“Have fun.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Once upon a time it would have been fun, seeing all the different events he got to attend. Today, just a check of the venues – a primary school, and then the Cathedral. Enough information to put on the right face and show up, interact with people and read his prewritten speech and whatever other texts were required. Attend a reception, sit and listen to a concert, drive home. And then tomorrow…

Wait. His last Sunday. His valediction. Before that, his last Archdeacon’s Visitation. The last churchwardens he would swear in before he became a bishop. The last oaths he would witness before… he made his own.

Shit. Far too close. How had that not quite sunk in before? In exactly a week he’d be in a car, driving up, aiming to reach the causeway in time to drive across. And then the sea would come in and he would be trapped there, trapped in silence and his own thoughts. Trapped with the knowledge that the moment was closing in, that he would leave that island for a day at Bishopthorpe with Ruth, and from there go straight to York Minster. Next Saturday he would leave this house, and when he saw it again he would be a bishop.

No. It couldn’t really happen. It was impossible.

© 2022 E.G. Ferguson