Chapter 21 - Tom

Tom clung to sleep, fought against the sound that broke through his dreams and drew him back, up into the waking world. Fought until Megan’s shake lost him the fight, and he blinked groggily.

“Oi. Phone. Shut it up.”

He shook some consciousness into himself and reached out a fumbling hand, holding the screen close to his eyes to read the name, and then blinked properly awake and got out of bed. “I’ll take it downstairs. Sorry…”

Megan buried her face in her pillow, and he turned his attention back to the phone, climbing out of bed even as he swiped to accept the call. “Hello? Ruth?” He opened the door as quietly as possible, dodged the creaky floorboard to reach the stairs. “Ruth?”

“Tom.” Her voice was slow, slurred.

“Hi, Ruth, what is it?”

“Sorry… to wake you. Sorry. I just thought…”

“Where are you, what’s wrong?”

“Whitby.”

“Right. Why?”

“Dunno. Just… decided to.”

“Ruth, it’s three in the morning, what’s wrong?”

“Lonely.”

“Right.”

“Miss Dot.”

“I know you do.” He thought quickly, tried to work out what on earth was going on. “You’re at the Motherhouse?”

“No.”

“Are you with anyone?”

“No.”

“Where are you?”

“On the cliffs. Bit past the priory.”

“How are you feeling?” He should be listening, really, but he had too many questions. Questions which only increased with her every answer.

“Tired. Lonely. Sick. Will you... hear my confession, Tom?”

He frowned, trying to get his head around the request. This was a degree of wrong he'd never encountered before. “I couldn’t quite refuse, but I’d very much rather not, you’d be better off going to someone else, our relationship is complicated enough already and you’d be better with someone… kind of, independent? In both of our interests. Honestly I'm surprised you're asking.”

“You’re the only one I can think of.”

“You know a lot of priests.”

“At this time of night.”

“Ruth, It can wait until the morning, it really can. It'd have to, anyway; I’m over a hundred miles away.”

“We’re talking to each other now.”

“What, over the phone?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not a thing, Ruth.”

“It’s the intention. God knows the intention. Better than... nothing.”

“No, Ruth.”

“Please, Tom.” He heard her voice catch, heard her shuddering breath.

“What is it, Ruth? Why the rush? This isn't like you.”

“I can’t do it…”

“What?”

“Living. On my own. Starting again.”

“You can, Ruth, I know you can. Do you want me to come out to you?” He crept up the stairs again, to take clothes from the wardrobe as quietly as possible and scribble a note to Megan, who took it and nodded with eyes wide, before picking up her own phone. He left her to it and hurried back downstairs.

“No need.”

“It sounds like every need.”

“Over the phone is fine.”

“You don't really believe that. I'm coming, Ruth. Don’t do anything without telling me first, nothing irreversible. You can’t do that to me.”

“You’re strong, Tom. You’ve lost so many, yet you keep going. But then you have your family. They’ll look after you, you’re not on your own.”

“Nor are you, Ruth.”

“All I have is work. For two more months.”

“You have me.” He hung the cross around his neck with a desperate prayer, stuffed his feet into his shoes and half ran out to the car. “You have me, you’ll always have me.”

He could hear her crying on the other end of the phone, that the only reassurance as he started the car and jammed in the destination.

“Everything hurts.”

“It'll get better, Ruth.”

“It hurts so much. I don't know what's happening, I think I'm dying, and maybe that's good.”

“Come down off the cliff. Back to your car. Or the motherhouse. Go to the priory. Get them to call an ambulance.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why are you up there anyway?”

“I don’t know. It seemed like a good place.”

“What for?”

He listened to her shuddering breaths. “Dunno, just seemed... right. The dead… aren’t sad. Just the living.”

“I know, you don’t get to choose when you die though.”

“Some… some people do.”

“Ruth, no. Listen to me. No.” He had to keep her talking. “How are you feeling? Apart from in pain and tired and full of grief?”

“Sick. So tired. Alone. Like I'm… not all here.” If anything, her breaths were getting faster.

“You’re not alone, Ruth, I’m coming.”

“So alone. I want Dot.”

“I know you do. You buried her today?”

“Yeah.”

“If she were here now, what would she want you to do?”

“Be with her. Stay with her.”

“No, Ruth, she’d want you to look after yourself. You need to go to hospital.”

“Be with her. Happy with her.”

“No, Ruth. It’s not your time.”

“It might be.”

“You don’t get to decide.”

“Yes I do. I do. I do.” A long silence, so long he started to fear the worst, and then she spoke again, words slurring together so that they were barely intelligible. “Let me confess, Tom.”

“No. Not over the phone.”

“It’s fine.” A hint of her usual authority.

“No, it is not. As you know.”

“You can’t... refuse.”

“Yes, I can, I just did.”

“And then what if I die?”

“You’re not going to die.” He tried to sound certain. Still two hours to drive. How about the emergency services, were they almost there? He had no way of knowing.

“I want to. So I will. It’s my choice.”

“Ruth.” He considered the different ways he could respond, uncertain what would get through to her in this state. “Ruth, please. For me. Wait until I get there.”

“You don’t have to come.”

“I’m coming. If nothing else, you can make your confession. Prepare.” And he could hold onto her and drag her to a hospital.

“How long?”

He hesitated a second. “An hour or so. I’m coming as fast as I can. You can wait that long.” Though he really hoped someone else got to her first.

“Over the phone is fine.”

“I can’t give absolution over the phone.”

“It’s the intention, God knows the intention… please…”

“Be patient, Ruth, be patient, it’s a permanent thing.”

“I can’t take it… that long.”

“You’re talking to me.”

“Please. It hurts.”

“Not for much longer. Come on, Ruth. For me. Walk down towards Whitby a bit, so I’ve less far to come.”

“You shouldn’t. You have work tomorrow.”

“But I am. Wait for me.” I can’t lose you as well. Especially not like this, for no reason, in a feverish delirium. Not after mum, and Mick, and Justin, and Grace.

A long, long silence, just her shaky breath on the other end of the phone.

“You’re still there?” Just to check, after about five minutes.

“Yeah. Hurry up.”

“Walk back towards the car park.”

“Too tired.”

He carried on driving. Another five minutes. Another “are you there?” Another yes. And again, and again, her voice quieter each time. Then a crunch, which it took him a minute to realise was the sound of her phone hitting the ground. His heart seemed to stop for a second.

“Ruth! Ruth! Are you okay?”

Silence. A long silence. He called her name again, and was met with nothing, and he knew that he should pray but didn't know how. “Ruth! Ruth, are you there? Ruth!”

Then there was clattering, a mass of noise that he couldn't process, followed by a voice from a distance which finally became clear.

“Tom?”

“I'm here.”

“What... happened?”

“I don't know. Did you drop the phone?”

“I... think so. Don't... remember. Head... hurts.” There was a second's pause. “I'm scared.”

“I'm coming, Ruth. Hold on.”

“Can't hold... phone. Put it on speaker.”

“That's sensible. I'm right here, I'm coming.”

“Why am I here?”

“I don't know, but I'm coming.”

“Okay.”

A long silence, as street lamps flashed by outside the car, hiding the stars from sight.

“Ruth?”

“Yeah?”

“Just checking you're still there.”

“Yeah.”

“Hold on.”

Her breathing was the only answer, and the night wore on. On the other side of the road, an ambulance raced past, siren wailing, and then silence again. There was nothing he could do, other than sit here in this car and wait.

“Tom?" Her voice came as a whisper. “Are you there?”

“Yes. Still here.”

“There are people coming.”

At last. “Go to them.”

“I’m on my own… there are a lot of them.”

“I’m coming.”

“I’m scared.”

“Don’t be scared.”

“What if they hurt me?”

“They won’t.”

“But they might.”

“They won’t. Breathe properly, calm as you can.” He could hear her hyperventilating, wished he was closer. “Shh. It’s okay.”

“There’s police.”

“There you go. You’re safe. Call out, if you can.”

“What if they arrest me?”

“I’ll come and get you. Like last time.”

“But then…”

“Shh. You've done nothing wrong, anyway.”

Her breathing was fast and ragged, and he heard a call in the background.

“They’re looking for me.”

“Answer, then.”

“But I don’t... want them to find me.”

“They’ve already found you. I told Megan to call them. You're ill, not thinking straight, you need help. I’ll be with you soon, Ruth.”

“What if they take me away?”

“I hope they do, Ruth, to somewhere you'll be well looked after. I’ll come and find you there.”

Ruth? It’s Ruth, isn’t it?

Her shuddering breaths filled the car.

Ruth, it’s okay, we’re here to help you. We’re going to get you somewhere safe, okay?

“I can’t go, Tom’s coming.”

“Go with them, Ruth.”

You have him on the phone there? Yes? No, it’s okay, I’m not going to take it. We’re taking you to Scarborough Hospital, Ruth, tell him that, he can meet you there...hush, don’t be scared, we’re here to look after you...Tom’s wife Megan told us you were here… can I take your wrist a moment? Look this way for me... steady there! We'll get you to hospital, there’s an air ambulance coming…

The conversation faded into a murmur, too soft for him to pick up more than odd words. Not that it mattered, anyway, all he needed to do was change his destination.

“They’re making me move…”

“Good. In a helicopter. I heard. Go with them, don’t be scared.”

“Why did you tell them?”

“Because I was too far away and you’re ill and I needed to make sure you were safe.”

“I do... feel ill.”

I bet you do. Here, drink this, little sips. It tastes a bit funny but will help you feel better - you've got all the signs of heatstroke, no wonder with the heat we've had today... you must have been feeling horrendous for a while now. Let me get this around you... Well done, Ruth. You know, most people would just collapse at home, not go for a long drive and a midnight stroll! I bet it's pretty confusing, all of it, but don't worry we've got you, lie back now...

It was like a knot had eased in Tom's chest. “Let them look after you, Ruth. I’ll see you at Scarborough. I’ll be there in… about an hour, hopefully.”

“Am I very ill?” Her voice was small. “If they’re... calling a helicopter…”

“You’re up on a cliff away from a road. It’s easier to bring in a helicopter. And you’ve been up there a long time, with heatstroke, which is a nasty thing.”

“What if I... die before you... get here?”

We’re here to look after you, Ruth, don’t worry.

“Hear that? Don’t worry, let them look after you.”

“I’m scared.”

“I’ll be there soon, Ruthie. I promise.”

He could hear the helicopter arrive perhaps five minutes later, said a goodbye and a final word of reassurance, and then he was free to focus entirely on the road. Ahead of him, the sky was starting to gain a pink tinge, and the first cars were on the roads with him. He prayed as he drove, as the sky grew lighter and the sea grew closer, as Scarborough appeared first on the signs and then on the horizon.

And then he parked the car, took his visiting kit from its compartment, entered the reception and went up to the front desk. “I’m here to see Ruth Harwood. It's Tom Carter, she was asking for me.”

“Of course. She’s in a private room upstairs…”

He listened to the directions and then took the stairs two at a time, pressing against a wall to allow a couple of nurses to pass. The signposting was clear, making it easy for him to find and tap on the door, and then be welcomed in by a nurse. They weren't asking him to wait for visiting hours, he noticed, and that wasn't reassuring. Hopefully it was just the collar working its usual magic.

“Tom? Yes, she kept saying you were coming. She’s asleep now, hopefully recovering.”

“What is it, if you can tell me? I know she was feeling rough and very confused, I think the paramedic said something about heatstroke...”

“It seems to be primarily heatstroke and dehydration. We’ve managed to bring her temperature down and are doing tests to check the state of her organs but so far medication and fluids are helping a lot. Still not out of the woods, she’s not young and she was out on that cliff a long time before we got to her, but heatstroke's less dangerous now than it was twenty years ago and… well, we’re keeping a close eye on her.”

“May I go and sit with her?”

“It'd probably be best if you're here when she wakes up, so yes. Let her sleep, she desperately needs it.”

“I will.”

There was a seat there ready, and he took it and looked down on Ruth as she shifted in uneasy sleep. Grey hair sticking to her face, damp with sweat. Bare wrinkled arms on top of the covers, the clear tube of the drip disappearing into her skin, an oxygen mask over her face and a small array of monitors tracking her vitals. Suddenly she looked all of her seventy years.

He placed his visiting kit on the table beside the bed, beside her glasses and cross, and then took the cross in his hands to examine. Silver, four purple gems, the chi-rho symbol in the middle with ornamentation around. The corners worn, the shine dulled. He turned it over to see the back, the side he’d never seen, holding it close to his face to read the inscription. Thy Will Be Done. Returning it carefully to the bedside table, he wondered whether he should have picked it up without asking her first. Well, he’d done it now.

Watching her chest rise and fall, he prayed, giving thanks and also pleading. Because he couldn’t lose her too, he just couldn’t, not after everyone else. Not so soon after Grace, and not over something so pointless. Please, God. One pointless death is enough for one year. Or indeed for a decade. I’ve lost enough, don’t steal her too, not yet…

Ruth shifted, her eyes blinking open for a second and then narrowing against the gentle light. Her right hand reached towards her left arm, towards the IV, and Tom placed his hand over hers to stop her. She blinked at him, squinting.

“Hey, Ruth. I promised I’d come. Lie still now.”

“Tom.” Her voice was muffled by the mask.

“That’s me.”

“I feel shit.” Her voice cracked, and she shifted uncomfortably to prove her words. But she was lucid, or at least close, and a trickle of relief ran through him.

“I know. Lie still. You’re being well looked after.”

“In hospital?”

“That’s right.” He nodded to the nurse, who’d crossed the room at the signs of Ruth’s stirring.

“You’ll stay here..?” There was fear in the words and in the desperation with which she clung to his hand.

“I will.” He stroked a few wisps of hair out of her face with his free hand. “I’ve texted Megan and emailed the office so I can stay, and I’ve texted Isla and Kath to tell them about you. Everything’s in hand, you just need to sleep.” He squeezed her hand. “Would you like me to anoint you?”

She tried to move her head in a nod. “Yes. Please.” Then she smiled. “You’re wearing purple.”

“I am.” He turned his head to murmur to the nurse, to get approval for his actions, and then looked back, opening his visiting case with one hand so that she could continue to hold the other. It was harder to hang his stole around his neck, this the only challenge as the book was well enough worn to fall open on the correct page and then lie open on the edge of the bed. He checked that the oil was on hand, swallowed, and then closed his eyes for a moment to make his own private prayer. In all his ministry to Ruth, this was something he had never needed to offer her.

“Blessed are you, sovereign God, gentle and merciful…”

She closed her eyes as he read the prayers, her hand still clinging to his, whispering the responses but otherwise still. He eased his hand free of hers to lay on her head, laying on hands just as she had done for him at his ordination - the same symbol, for quite different purposes, he thought. And soon he would lay hands on others to commission them to this very ministry.

He dipped his thumb in the oil, marking her forehead with the sign of the cross before taking her hands again, to hold them for the final prayer. Her eyes flickered open, and he met their fear with calm, and with a smile, as he wiped his thumb clean and packed away his kit and finally stroked her hair smooth again.

“Now. Sleep.”

“Where’s my cross?”

“Here, beside your bed.” He held it up for her, and then let her touch it before taking it back. “It’s on your bedside table, with your glasses. Safe.”

“Good.” She blinked several times and shifted. “What happened?”

“You didn't take as much care of yourself as you should and ended up with heatstroke - on top of all the sleep deprivation and dehydration. And then because you're a stubborn brat who didn't want to let anyone help you, they're having to make sure you haven't given yourself extra complications. Certainly your brain’s very tired and confused, and you need to give it a break to recover.”

“I’ll be okay?”

“Be good and sleep and let your body fix itself. You’re in a safe place being well looked after.”

She shut her eyes obediently. “I hate this.”

“I bet you do. Just ride it out.” He laid a hand on her arm. “Hush now. Sleep, don’t speak. I’m right here, you’re safe, and you'll feel better soon. Now sleep.”

© 2022 E.G. Ferguson

Chapter 20 - Ruth

Ruth piled the last shovel of earth onto the mound and then stood, spade in hand, shivering and helpless. It was the hottest day of the year so far, and barely cooling as the sun started to sink towards the trees. From above came the clatter of a squirrel’s claws, and out of sight a crow made its presence known with a shattering cry. She crouched and patted down the dusty soil, mostly for want of anything else to do. Then the two Sisters took the paving slabs lying nearby and laid them on top, in case of foxes, and Sister Helena gave Ruth the improvised wooden cross and a mallet, and with blow after blow she forced it down into the hard soil. In a few months, once the ground had settled and before she left, they would replace it with a small stone, but for now Sister Helena said that this would do.

The cross cast a shadow, reaching up the wall, dark amid the evening gold which lit the bricks. It was done, time to move on, time to leave Dot behind and go on with life. More and more, it felt like a short intermission, the four years with Dot merely a break from the rest of her life without. And now it was time to turn her back and walk away, to carry on alone. Nothing but beautiful memories, reminders of these beautiful years which were now gone.

A touch on her hand made her look down and accept the offered tissue, to wipe her eyes and try to keep her composure.

“Would you like me to pray?”

She was ready to go, but nodded anyway.

Sister Helena stepped forward and stood still and silent for a moment before speaking. “Father, bless this place and all who come here. We ask you, be with all who mourn Dot’s death, and let us remember her example of unconditional love which helped us to see you. Thank you for the joys of her life, and for the peace in which she now rests. Through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.” She kept another moment of silence before reaching out a hand to Ruth. “Come with us until compline?”

Ruth took a deep breath and nodded, very slightly, but remained still as the Sisters moved away. Out of the corner of her eye she could see them stop and wait as she knelt, slowly, tears seeping out as she closed her eyes. Even now, with her hand on the edge of the slab which covered the grave, she could see Dot standing beside her, cold nose nuzzling against her wrist, bouncing away to crouch in the grass and wait, eyes on ball or stick or Frisbee or whatever toy they were playing with today. Eyes on Ruth, waiting for her to respond, waiting for her to play, waiting for her to come and see whatever Dot had found that she so eagerly wanted to show. Waiting for her.

“Goodbye,” Ruth whispered, swallowing past the lump in her throat. “My darling, darling Dot. Goodbye. I miss you already, I’ll always miss you. Goodbye.”

There were no more words, only tears, and had she been alone Ruth would have curled up in a ball and shed them. But she wasn’t, so she just stayed where she was and let them fall, her posture still even as her teeth chattered and her shoulders shook. Her head and her heart both hurt, and she was alone once more. And she would go home to an empty flat, to sit alone on an empty sofa, to eat alone and prepare for bed and sleep. And then wake in the morning, with nothing but work to fill her day. Nothing, and no one.

And in barely more than two months, she wouldn’t even have that.

The Sisters hadn’t left, and slowly she became aware of them again, now sitting together in a patch of shade. She wiped her eyes with the cuff of her shirt and stood up, to turn resolutely and walk towards them. “Sorry about that.”

“Funerals are a time for sharing in tears.” Sister Helena rose to walk close beside Ruth, Sister Joan half a step behind. “She was a special dog, that makes it hard to say goodbye.”

“I never thought it would be this hard.”

“If you had thought about it, you would have known.”

Ruth sighed tiredly. “I suppose I guessed, a bit. When we knew it was coming, from how hard it was, just the idea. But now…” She shrugged. “At least she loved it here. She’ll never have to leave.”

She wouldn’t have to build a new life elsewhere. Wouldn’t have to find new friends, new communities, new reasons to live. Wouldn’t have to say goodbye. Ruth followed Sister Helena silently, the weight settling on her heart. Dot would not have to find a way to live alone. Wouldn’t have to get used to an empty house. Wouldn’t have to take that step backwards, into a darker time, wouldn’t have to seek a new solution after her perfect solution had failed – well, not failed, perhaps, but had run out. And while perhaps she could get a new dog, it wouldn’t be the same, it wouldn’t be Dot. And in the end, she’d just have to face the same thing again, twofold.

She shouldn’t be jealous of Dot, but she was.

They wouldn’t let her go back upstairs, but took her through into the small sitting room that the two shared, and offered her tea and a blanket to wrap around her shoulders as she continued to shiver. The weight at least was comforting, and she brushed off the Sisters’ concerns.

“I’m tired. Haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Since she died?”

“Yeah. Last night especially.” She made a concerted effort to sit still, blinking several times, ignoring the sick feeling in her stomach. “Should be better now we’ve… buried her. Some kind of finality. I can get used to…” she dug for words, “the idea.”

Sister Helena looked at Sister Joan. “We have a room down here, if you want a night somewhere else. Just to get a break. Or you could take a few days in Whitby. Just while you get used to the idea of living without her.”

“My diary isn’t that flexible.”

“Surely it can be, if it needs to. Your hand is hot to the touch, you're not well.”

“I’ll be fine in the morning. Though if you have ibuprofen or anything, that’d be great to tide me through…”

Sister Helena nodded to Sister Joan, who disappeared for a moment and then returned with a large glass of water and a small box of tablets.

Ruth swallowed them with experienced ease and leant back. “Sorry. I’m being useless tonight. It’s just… hard, you know? Losing her. I know she was only a dog, but still…”

“Humans are not the only ones we love,” Sister Helena interrupted her. “Everyone who works here can tell you that, you are not the only one who misses her – although you miss her most, because you knew her best. You loved her the moment you met her, and that has only grown stronger since.”

Ruth sighed. “I often wonder whether it’s easier not to love. I’ve seen so many people hurt.”

“Perhaps, but then what is life without love?”

“Easier. Far easier.” Ruth pulled the blanket from around her shoulders and laid it beside her. “It saves ever feeling like this.”

“But wouldn’t it be empty?”

“I’m empty now. If you make a place for someone, and then they’re gone, there’s a space left behind. An empty space.” She forced herself to shrug. “Well, filled with memories, I guess.”

“With God hiding right at the bottom.” Sister Helena smiled at her. “Don’t forget God, Ruth, God’s important here, when you’re sad.”

Ruth shrugged again. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.” If only God were here. If only God were here, to clear her brain, to make space, to help her think again. Or even just to be there, instead of this vast emptiness. If only God cared.

She moved on, hiding the thoughts from the Sisters. “I’m going to miss Bishopthorpe.”

“You will, and we will miss you, but Cambridge will start to fill the space. You can’t stay anywhere forever.”

“You’ve taken vows to do just that.”

“It doesn’t just mean geographically.”

“Yeah, I know that really.” Ruth leant her pounding head back against the cushion, trying to ignore the general sense of nausea that had been getting worse all afternoon. “I don’t really want to talk about feelings anymore.”

“There are only twenty minutes before compline, we can sit quietly for a bit and then go and light the candles.”

“Is that what you normally do in the evening?”

“Yes, we normally meet and have a time to talk. And then we go to the chapel and pray silently, and then compline, and then to bed. So yes, that is what we are doing today.”

“Okay.” Ruth tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You must have other things you talk about.”

They looked at each other, and Sister Helena answered. “Of course. We talk about what’s happened in the day, here and in the world, and sport, and the garden. There’s little to be said today, except about Dot, and it would be artificial to try. We could do a crossword, perhaps, or a jigsaw – that’s a good way to spend an evening. Would you like to do that?”

“Perhaps a jigsaw, my brain’s too tired for crosswords…”

Not that, in fifteen minutes, much could be accomplished, but it was something to focus on, training eyes to patterns and colours, pretending the world wasn't swimming in front of her. A few short rows of edge pieces were left on the table when Sister Joan rose to lead the way out, Ruth following with a sense of guilt. She’d broken into their evening and they’d offered her every care, and she had nothing to offer in return, only tired and frustrated sadness. All they’d done to uplift her, and she’d just brushed it off so to continue wallowing. And their concerns about her health, she should listen to them, she just didn't want to.

She took her seat in the chapel, too tired to kneel, still-aching head leant back against the wood of the stall, eyes on the flickering candles which lit the altar. She was tired, and empty, and the silence held nothing for her. The two Sisters had each other, and the rest of their community at Whitby and elsewhere. She had nobody, just a borrowed community in this place, one which she was already preparing to leave.

She sang with them at first, then gave up and just listened to the chant pass backwards and forwards across the chapel. Timeless worship, heard throughout centuries. Her hand trembled and she clenched her fist to still it. The sick, clammy feeling was only growing stronger. Compline, and then bed, and perhaps she would sleep tonight.

May the souls of the faithful, through the mercy of God, rest in peace…

Rest. Peace. She clung to the words as she climbed the stairs, hand on the banister to steady herself. It was as though the burial had released the barrier which had kept the tiredness at bay. She filled a glass with water, first, drained and refilled it, before carrying it through to place on her bedside table. Shoes off, she curled up on top of the duvet, aching head laid down on the pillow. A stroke, a nuzzle in return, a soft goodnight, that’s what she was missing, and would now always be missing. The apartment was empty, and she was alone. This was her life now.

It was dark when she woke, still in clericals, cross digging into her chest. She sat up with a grimace, drained her glass of water to ease her parched mouth, and then wandered through to the bathroom. And then back to the bedroom again, pausing at the door of the living room to gaze at the empty corner in which a ghost lay, head on paws, unmoving. And then faded again, into nothing. The ibuprofen had worn off and the pain was back, drilling through her skull.

She stood at the window with head pounding and looked out and down, at the garden bathed in moonlight, at the shadowy corner where a wooden cross stood above freshly dug earth. She was alone in the flat and she shouldn’t be. She was alone in her life and she shouldn’t be. But she was. Always had been, always would be. It would be easier if she’d never known an alternative.

And soon, she would leave, and there would be nothing left. How much easier it was for Dot, safe at rest, no need for change, not having to face the loss that her passing had brought. And all of a sudden Ruth couldn’t stand to be here anymore, couldn’t face the empty flat, had to go, had to get in the car and pick a destination and let it carry her away from there, away from the memories. It was two in the morning, and the roads were silent, the moors lit by moonlight all around. This place was where she belonged, why had she ever thought to leave?

The sound of the sea filled her ears as she got out of the car and climbed a familiar path, legs trembling with each step. At least moving took her mind off the hot-cold sick feeling. She stumbled once, hauled herself back up, then the nausea became too much and she clung to the railing as she retched up whatever was left in her empty stomach, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. She should have brought a bottle of water. The beam of the moon reflected along the water, towards the horizon the lights of so many ships. They that go down to the sea in ships… but what did that have to do with anything, except as a sign of her straying mind? What was she doing, why was she here? The questions teased at the edges of her mind, woven in with whatever was driving her to keep moving.

And down below, waves lapped against the rock, and she passed a patch of fence bedecked with ribbons and cards and flowers and prayers, and went on, until her legs gave up and she sat down on a bench beside the path and considered the sea. Here, she was alone, and that was normal, because she was always alone. Because people came and went and then she was alone again. And soon, she would move, and then she wouldn’t even have work, and then what would she have left? Memories? What were they worth?

Ruth took out her phone and stared at it, blinking hard at the brightness of the screen, feeling the blood racing in her ears. She’d have to be back at work tomorrow, though what was the point, when she felt like this? What was the point, when there was no joy in anything? When she’d be even more tired from another lost night, and would have to just drag herself through with pounding head and blurring eyes, and do it all in the knowledge that she was about to lose this too? When everything was fleeting, near as gone already? What was the point, when she was losing it all, everything she had to live for? What was the point in living, when it felt like this? What kind of gift was life, when all it held was emptiness?

The night was hot, so hot, even with the sea breeze. She was too tired to walk back down, and her legs hurt too much, so she just shut her eyes to hide from the moonlight, feeling her empty stomach cramp. She felt sick still, but wasn’t that just what life felt like now? Useless, empty, fleeting, lonely and in vain. A world where she made her home but didn’t really live, didn’t really belong. Was this perhaps something like how Samantha had felt, when she’d climbed up here in a storm? As she’d taken those final steps out of this cold world and into God’s embrace? When, having lost everything, she’d looked for something else, something that might actually last?

© 2022 E.G. Ferguson

Chapter 19 - Tom

“Hey, Tom!”

“Yeah?”

“You seen this?”

“Seen what?”

Megan appeared at the door, holding out her phone. “From the Bishopthorpe feed. It got shared by… oh, I dunno, one of those church people I follow?”

He took the phone and looked over his glasses to read it.

Today we pay tribute to a very special member of the Bishopthorpe family, Dot, who has sadly passed away. Let us pray for all who grieve the loss of a pet, and give thanks to God for creating animals to be our loving and faithful companions.

Underneath, a picture of Dot in her prime, trotting across the grass with tongue lolling. Tom felt a lump come to his throat and swallowed, handing the phone back. “I hadn’t seen. Shame.”

“Poor Ruth.”

“Yeah. Maybe I should call. Though she probably doesn’t want fuss…”

“Must be weird, having stuff like that about your life plastered over the internet.”

“It probably happened a few days ago, there’s no date. But yeah. Kind of a reality of her life.”

“So long as it doesn’t start happening to us.”

He played with the new ring, still strange on his finger, tracing the detail of the engraved cross. “I really hope not.”

“Keep the kids out of it.”

“I'll do my best. And you.”

“Thanks.” She squeezed his shoulder and turned to leave. “Go on, call Ruth. She probably needs to hear from a friend right now.”

“Yeah. I’ll do that.”

“See you later.”

He buried his head in his hands and prayed before picking up the phone. This conversation might be easy, or it might not.

“Hello? Tom?”

“Evening, Ruth. How are you?”

“Any agenda to this call or is it casual?”

“Um, casual? Well, not work.”

“A crisis? Are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah, fine. No crises here, don't worry. Still getting used to the cross but…” he shrugged though she wouldn’t be able to see it. “Yeah, getting used to it. Lot of driving right now, up and down the M6. But I’m starting to get used to it.”

“Ordered your mitre yet?”

He groaned. “Not got round to it yet. I’ll ask Mars later. Or tomorrow.”

“I’ll check up on you this time tomorrow evening?”

He sighed exaggeratedly down the phone and then moved swiftly on. “How are you, anyway? I saw Bishopthorpe’s announcement, thought I'd ring since that's what friends do…”

“Oh. Yeah.” A stubborn silence.

“I’m sorry. It’s quite a loss.”

“It’s a shame, I hoped she’d make it to my retirement, but… it wasn’t to be. It’s no surprise.”

“I’m guessing it’s been a few days?”

“Yeah.”

“Since I saw you, though…”

“Yeah.”

“It wasn’t Sunday afternoon, was it?”

He had to wait for her answer, which told him it was. “She passed away while I was out, curled up in her bed, probably took advantage of the peace and quiet. I found her that evening, came home ready to walk her, when she didn’t respond to my call I knew. She might as well have been asleep, for the look of it.”

He twisted the ring, just as she always did. “I’m sorry. It’s a tough end to… that day. And that you missed it because of me.”

“I’d have been working anyway. I leave- left her like that often enough. It could have been any other day, it just happened to be that one. And, well, I could have done without any more emotions, but that’s life.”

He was quiet for a moment. Yes, it had been an emotional day. For him, of course, but it must have been for her as well. After all, she was the one who had spoken all of the words, who had led the service, who had led the act of ordination… and just from joining in with the ordination of priests, he could begin to guess what leading such a service might feel like…

…not that it would be so long before he would not have to imagine it.

“Have you buried her?”

“Tomorrow evening. With Sister Helena. We’ve found a place in the gardens here, checked that it’s allowed and it is, the staff were strongly in favour. I couldn’t really think where else, the Cambridge house isn’t mine yet and anyway, it’d be weird since she never lived there. And a long way to transport her body. So it was Bishopthorpe or a pet cemetery or cremation - and that's awful for the environment - and everyone wanted Bishopthorpe. We’re going to place a wooden cross for now, which the Sisters are making, then find her a stone later, something simple.”

“Good. Let Sister Helena lead the way, she’s wonderful. What about Sister… it’s not Adelaide any more, is it?”

“No. Joan.”

“Oh yes, I think I met her. Young?”

“She is. Two years into life profession, loving the religious life.”

“Wonderful. How’s Sister Adelaide?”

“Moved back to the motherhouse, just become Novice Mistress.”

“Ah, that’s good to hear. So, just you and Sister Helena?”

“And Sister Joan. Since she’s resident. Sister Helena asked because she always helped look after Dot when I had to leave her for work. It’s nothing much - just bury her, say a prayer, maybe light a candle…”

“And how are you doing?”

“Me?”

“Without her. Adjusting. Missing her. Filling the gap. Grieving.”

“I managed before I got her, it’s just going back to that.”

“Hard. You’re not used to it anymore.” Besides which, there was a very good reason you got Dot in the first place, he thought. “Don’t underestimate your grief.”

“She was a dog. A wonderful dog, but a dog, and we had fair warning.”

“You spent more time with her than with anyone else, the pair of you adored and depended on each other.”

“I’m fine, Tom. Sad, but fine. I’ll move on. We gave her a good few years.”

“Yes, you did.”

“It’s a shame, but I’m moving on. When I retire, we were going to go to the Lakes, have some quiet time, enjoy her last weeks or months together. Instead, I’m going to do what I couldn’t have done with her. Rome, Holy Land, maybe the Camino. Maybe Switzerland, maybe Greece, maybe even Istanbul – see the capital of our Orthodox brethren, I’ve always wanted to visit the Hagia Sophia. And then come back and get settled in Cambridge, new house, lots of decorating…”

“Sounds wonderful. And busy. So you’ve just got to get through until then, find something to fill your time in the evenings and on days off.”

“Oh, I’m sure I can find some strenuous walks. Dot wasn’t up to those towards the end.”

“And you can remember her as you do them, and give thanks for the good times together. Look after yourself - just to reiterate, I’m here for you any time. I mean, unless I’m literally celebrating the Eucharist or something, in which case I’ll call you back.”

“Is that your standard disclaimer?”

“…maybe?”

She laughed. “Thanks, Tom. It’s nice just hearing your voice, actually. Things are a bit lonely at home without… you know, without Dot. And it’s especially hard to move on with my life here when I’m about to move completely anyway. But… whatever. How’s it feel, being Right Reverend?”

“More reverend than I was, still less reverend than you? Weird. Seriously weird. A bit of that probably because of being in between, still doing odd bits of archdeaconing while being a bishop… people sort of don’t know how to treat me, even though I’m the same person? I still wear a black shirt for Nottingham stuff, but with the cross, that seems appropriate. But a purple one to Sheffield, I’ve been up there a few times, meeting people. A very strange side of the job I’ve had there so far, too, all being welcomed by one group after another, just… being sent to look pretty, or something?”

“Be inspiring and uplifting? Be a mirror on whom people can direct their focus and see God reflected? Be a pastor, a protector and a guide? Ensure that every one of your flock feels valued as a child of God and member of the Church?”

“You shine a whole new light on smiling and waving…”

“You are a walking sacrament, your entire life dedicated for the promulgation of the gospel, including the smiling and waving! People want to get a feel for you, they’re curious, they want in some cases to know who they’re working with, in others be able to go away and tell their friends about their new diocesan bishop. They’re deciding whether they like you or not.”

“Hopefully that they do…”

“Live according to the example of Christ and if they don’t, it’s because you shine a light on a part of them they don’t want to acknowledge.”

“And if they don’t like me because I’m just really bad at being a nice person?”

“Oh, you’re likeable enough, don’t worry. And at the end of the day, there is only one whose expectations you should be worrying about living up to.”

“You?”

“Behave…”

He rolled his eyes, though she couldn’t see him. “Thanks. You said you'd mentor me as I get going on it?”

“With pleasure. By mentor you mean person you can rant at?”

“I mean… not entirely.”

“I’m joking, of course. You have me and I’m sure the entirety of the college of bishops ready to support you, and I am expecting a lot of phone calls from you in your first few months. Oh, you’re not going to be at Synod, are you?”

“I’m not. First time in… twelve years? Plus?”

“Losing your streak!”

“Well this is your actual last, ever…”

There was silence on the other end, making him regret saying it, but he couldn't take it back.

“I suppose it is,” Ruth said in the end. “And I suppose by the time you take your seat in the House of Bishops, I will have gone.”

“It’s… when? September?”

“And I leave at the start of the month. It wasn’t deliberate, honest!”

“Sure…” He played with a piece of paper. “Time’s going to fly.”

“Don’t remind me…” She sighed audibly. “It’s weird, to think talks are already happening to choose my successor. I mean, that’s why I announced it well in advance, to minimise the gap, but… still. Epiphany enthronement, maybe… and that’ll be weird. I’ve come to feel quite at home in the Minster.”

“You’ll get used to it quickly enough.”

“I suppose so. You know, this is the longest I’ve been in any one job…”

“Because it’s been perfect for you. But there are bright things in the future too, don’t forget that.”

“Students. So many students.”

“You’re looking forward to it, admit it…”

“You know I went there to visit and ended up yelling at a bunch of ordinands?”

He snorted. “Of course you did. Poor things.”

“It was deserved.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

She sighed. “I don’t want to be the one everyone’s scared of.”

“You won’t be.” He paused. “Okay, maybe you will, but not in a bad way. They’ll admire you, they’ll want your approval. You’ll do so much good.”

“It’s a lot of responsibility. All those young people, all those future leaders.”

“You’re the flipping Archbishop of York and you’re worrying about responsibility?”

That made her laugh. “I suppose. I guess it’ll be fun. I’m going to do some lecturing too, that’ll be great – finally, a chance to do some proper academia! I might write another book or two, now I’ll have the chance. Proper theology with cross-referencing and citations, that’ll be fun.”

“You have a strange idea of fun.”

“Oh, I know. But it’s satisfying, right, doing things properly?”

“You’re talking to an archdeacon…”

“Bishop. But yes. You must kind of get it.”

“I think we’re quite different in many ways, but yes.”

“You sound like you’re getting on well, by the way.”

“By which you mean..?”

“Just… well, you know when I last saw you. You seem calmer.”

“Oh yeah. I guess. Well, it’s happened, it’s a bit late for freaking out. I can have another round in a couple of weeks?”

“Been to see the King yet?”

“No, two weeks.”

“How are the kids? How are they feeling about the move?”

“It’s just a fact of life for them now. That’s how we’ve presented it, that’s how they’ve accepted it. Mars is being relentlessly positive. Mika’s putting a brave face on it, mostly. Not happy to be leaving her friends, at school or Brownies or church or anywhere. Megan’ll need to find a good church to take them, one where kids can take part; Mika’ll be pretty grumpy if she ends up missing out on the chance to acolyte, when she’s just been allowed to start here. Obviously, that’s a big deal for her.”

“Of course it is. Well, give her a few years and you’ll be able to put her in the cathedral choir, if she’s interested. And get her involved, maybe even in the big services. Though they’re going to look for a normal parish?”

“Definitely.”

“Wise. Although cathedrals can be very like parishes, on Sunday mornings. Complete with children’s ministry, you know, Messy Cathedral and all that.”

“Oh, she’s not into that kind of thing. At least, she gets very stuck in, but complaining right through about how children shouldn’t be treated differently from adults, all that. And pointing out every issue with, you know, oversimplifications and stuff. Terrifies the teachers, asking them questions they haven’t a hope of answering. I blame her godmother.”

Ruth snorted. “Yeah, sure. Well, it’s a fair enough point. No reason for her to go out if she’d rather stay in.”

“Yeah, we let her choose. More and more she’s staying with us.”

“Which is very positive for her future in the Church.”

“It’s good for her. She’s mature, especially for her age.”

“Yes, I’ve always thought that. Though she’s got better at being a child, well done for that.”

“Being in a stable environment. It makes so much difference. And not being afraid, not having to be grown up.” He gazed into space for a moment. “Somebody meeting her now, they wouldn’t have any idea. They wouldn’t guess. And yet if we hadn’t been there…”

“And people say miracles don’t happen.”

“Yeah.” He sighed. “I hate moving her. Upsetting that stability. What if it undoes all her progress? All those years of building confidence? Takes away her safety net?”

“She moved house before, after you got married. This is a bigger change, but she’s older. She’ll be okay.”

“Moving still sucks, however old you are.”

“But it’s also exciting.”

“That’s what we’re trying to stick to.”

“As am I.”

Tom stood and wandered over to his shelf, to pick up a photo in a frame. The day Ruth had first taken her seat in York Minster, a day that his memory slowly rebuilt in his mind. Her fear, her joy, her steel and her bliss, as she rose to take the job she was made for. Would he feel something like that, in Sheffield in just a few weeks?

“Sad to be moving on?” he asked, quietly.

There was a moment's pause before she answered. “I am, rather. You know how many years I’ve been talking about it, I’m still sad though and it’s not for a couple of months. Moving into the unknown. Losing everything I love-“

“Not everything.”

“I mean, I’ve even lost Dot…”

“I know, and it’s hard. But you still have me, and everyone else. You’ll still have a voice and the opportunity to guide, you'll still celebrate the Eucharist. You’ll still be a priest and a bishop.”

“I know. I shouldn’t be so sad, but I am.”

“Nothing wrong with being sad, especially for good reason. Well done for making the step anyway.”

“It’s what I said I would do. Though if I’d known then, I might not have done!”

“It’d be hard now or in five years. No use working yourself to death, it’s a good time to step back really, even if it doesn't feel like it. And so perfect, to get this thing in Cambridge! That’ll fill a gap.”

“I said I wanted a break but I kind of wish I was starting in October. A year’s a long time, especially on my own.”

“It won’t feel it. Particularly not with all you have planned.”

“But there’s so much good I could be doing.”

He twisted his ring. “Christian living isn’t all about doing good.”

“I suppose not.” She was silent for a while. “I suppose it’ll be useful.”

“And it’ll make you a much better tutor, when you come back.”

“It's kind of remarkable, that I can take a year out while so many people can’t even afford to live while working.”

“Yeah. Think of it as all of the evenings and weekends you’ve worked through, rammed together? That must add up to a year.”

“Yeah.” She sighed. “Sorry to be so down.”

He laughed. “Come on, Ruth. Of all the things to apologise for…”

“Well, it’s not exactly uplifting for you.”

“But it’s human, and there’s nothing wrong with admitting you’re human. However much you try to pretend you’re not!” And then he was well and truly serious again. “There is nothing wrong with sorrow, or grief. You told me that. Emotions are always valid, and they matter.”

“They don’t need to be shared with everyone, though. Especially when you have so much to deal with yourself right now.”

“Maybe. But in this case I asked. I literally rang you up to find out, so thank you for sharing with me. For trusting me enough.”

“Isla’s been trying to check up on me and kind of… encourage me to admit I’m upset, and stuff. To look after me. I’ve been rather defensive with her.”

“And how’s she taken that?”

“She’s backed down. Or at least, become somewhat more subtle.”

“I like her. I was thinking that on Sunday - in a brief gap in being terrified.”

“She’s great. A bit too pushy this time, but she realised. And did help a lot too. Like she offered to tell the staff, which I was dreading. It’s lovely, how much they care.”

“She was a very good dog.”

“She was. So, you’re about ready for Sheffield? First confirmation service in the diary?”

He screwed his eyes up. “Yes…”

“It’s wonderful. You’re a successor to the apostles themselves.”

“Help?”

“Just make sure you think about what you’ll say to the candidates before the service. And don’t forget the certificates in the rush of emotion afterwards. Planned your sermon?”

“Still working on the one for my installation…”

“Ah, yes. I look forward to that.” A brief pause. “I should let you get on. Go and order your mitre and cope. Or I’ll do it for you, as I warned you before. You’re a fool to leave it this late, they take time to make up and you’re cutting it tight.”

He groaned loudly. “Yes, your Grace.”

“Thanks for calling. I didn’t realise how much I needed a friendly voice.”

“It’s been lovely to talk. Properly, without the whole ordination thing looming overhead. Look after yourself and call me whenever.”

“I will, thanks. And the same message to you. Now go make an appointment to design your gear, it’ll be embarrassing if you don’t.”

“I guess. See you.”

He put down the phone and went to the bottom of the stairs to call up. “Mars!”

Thumping like a young carthorse, and then Mars’ head appeared over the bannister. “Yeah?”

“I need you to help me design my mitre and cope. You’ve got taste.”

“Just ‘cause I’m gay doesn’t mean I know fashion…”

“I don’t think this could ever be described as fashion - not since the sixteenth century, at the latest! Just come and give me your opinion and stop me freaking out. It’s just deciding which fabrics go well together really.”

“Um, I can look over your shoulder?”

“Come on then. Let’s go figure out how this whole thing works, you can give me moral support. It’s too much money to be doing any of it on my own…”

“Um, help?”

© 2022 E.G. Ferguson