Chapter 17: Disability

Ruth fell in beside Tom on the way up from Morning Prayer. “How was it?”

He shrugged, powering up the stairs. “Over. It’s all life experience.”

“Do you want to post-mortem it? Or should you?”

 

“I’m fine, don’t worry. Just... in a bad mood.”

 

“Sure. I take it you’ve had a rejection?”

 

“Not yet. I’ll know some time later today, apparently.”

 

“In that case, don’t jump to conclusions. If you’re disappointed in how you did, remember they’re experienced in seeing through nerves and the like. They also have your references and application form, and you don’t know what they’re looking for. If you haven’t got it, there will be plenty more chances, I’m in no hurry to lose you! Try to distract yourself with work or something, until you find out, there’s nothing you can do now but wait. Let me know when you get confirmation either way and I’ll give you the appropriate pep talk, okay?”

 

He shrugged again, but stopped with his hand on the handle his office door. “It’s like… I was a disabled person and now I’m not. I’m still the same person, but people treat it like I used to be broken and now I’ve been repaired, and if feels like disabled people… are somehow inferior. And we’re- they’re not.”

 

She waved him into his office and followed him in, pushing the door behind her before leaning against a bookshelf. “This has been bothering you for a while?”

 

He nodded.

 

“Well… it had never occurred to me, but I understand what you’re saying, and I only hope I’ve never made you feel that way; I already knew you well enough that it hasn’t changed how I see you or anything, except obviously I’m glad to see you in less pain. If there is anything I'm doing subconsciously, do let me know so I can fix it…”

 

“Most people are fine really,” he told her, sitting down behind his desk. “I’m just sensitive.”

 

“Demanding respect for disabled people isn’t being ‘just sensitive’.”

 

“No.” He kept his eyes down. “Can I be... really open?”

“Of course.”

“There’s a part of this which is a response to… not knowing who I am, exactly. Like, I’m used to planning everything around a crutch. Take a backpack when I go shopping for balance reasons. Allow time to pause for rests. Work out how much I can carry in one hand and not be in danger of stumbling. Calculating time between meds, how long since or until a meal. Remembering to shift position every half hour so it doesn’t seize up. I keep trying to do these things and having to remind myself that I don’t have to: that I don’t need to find out who’s going to assist me in a service and make sure they know what to do. Sometimes I quite liked the sense of proving... why it's worth making things accessible. And then I quite liked being visible, showing other disabled people it’s possible to do whatever you set your mind to, showing everyone else that disabled didn’t mean useless, that it didn’t define my life. I could kind of forget about it, even, I was so used to it. Adjusting at fourteen… that was hard. But it’s like I’m doing it all over again now, after I’d finally gotten used to it. And… yeah, sorry, that’s not what you were asking about.”

 

“No, thank you for telling me. Adjusting… it just never occurred to me, but it must be a challenge. And on top of that, people treat you differently?”

 

“It feels like that, yeah. Though logically they’ve got to be pleased that I’m no longer hobbling around and high on meds.” He turned on his computer, still avoiding looking at her. “And then there’s getting a grilling on how your plans have changed now that you’re no longer being held back. And how your experience of disability has altered your approach to ministry. Etcetera. Inspired by nothing more than a couple of passing references in my application. This following the not-particularly-fun topic of why I left parish ministry in the first place, the biggest challenges I’ve faced in ministry. And far too many questions about my time working for you requiring me to find non-confidential examples. So overall, a waste of time and waking up far too many emotions I’d rather have left dormant.” He paused for a second. “Yup, I think that’s all the things I’ve been trying to forget about since yesterday.”

 

She shook her head. “I can tell you how much I’d like to write a stiff letter…”

 

“Yeah, don’t.”

 

“I’m not going to. But I’d like to. And would, in another situation. Might at least manage to subtly demand refresher courses in equality and diversity, and a little reminder of what questions can legally – and reasonably – be asked.”

 

He took a deep breath and then shrugged. “Well, it’s over. And most of it… well, I know it’s going to come up, I have plenty of answers relating to St Andrews which don’t involve Mick. Doesn’t entirely stop the memories… and most of them were fine, just a couple being very pushy… but yeah, it’s over, give it a couple of days and I’ll forget about it. There are more jobs out there, it was a long shot anyway…”

 

She smiled encouragingly. “Bear on through. You know where I am, okay?”

 

“Thanks. Anyway, since I wasn’t working yesterday, I’m sure there’ll be plenty to keep me busy. See you shortly, let me know if there’s anything you need from me…”

 

“Alright. Don’t push yourself too hard.” She paused. “If they do offer it to you, do you want it?”

 

He rested his head on a hand. “I dunno. I mean, I did, but then yesterday…”

 

“Understandable. You’ll have to work with the people who interviewed you. But wherever you go you’ll work with a lot of people, and the interviewers won’t necessarily be representative of them. You looked around the place, right, when you applied?”

 

“Yeah. And visited before, with you, obviously. I did like it.”

 

“Pray about it, think carefully, so if you do get asked you don’t hang up regretting your answer.”

 

He nodded. “I’ll… I’ll do that.”

 

“Whatever you do, you’ll put a lot into it and get a lot out. Being an archdeacon is hard, you’ve seen the kind of things Janice deals with, but you also know how much she enjoys her job, and how much good she does through it. Pray about it, work out what you’re called to. And if they ring up with a rejection, there’ll be something else out there. Come and find me if you need to.”

“Thanks. Will do.”

When she saw him after lunch, and he shrugged yet again in response to her raised eyebrows, she toyed with picking up the phone and asking what they were playing at. But no, that wouldn't be helpful. So instead she just followed Tom to the car, looking for topics of conversation that might distract him. Pancake day, and so on.

Their conversation was interrupted by the buzz of his phone, and he glanced back at her. “Okay if I pull over?”

“Please do.” Her fingers found the rosary in her pocket. He opened his door, holding his phone to his ear as he got out. A "hello, Tom Carter speaking..." before the car door closed and the sound was cut off. She tried not to watch him through the window.

It was several minutes before he returned to the driver's seat, and his expression was unreadable. She kept moving the beads, kept praying, planning what she'd say. If he told her; she couldn't ask.

“That was the bishop.”

“Thought it must be.”

He swallowed hard. “Still secret obviously but... I said yes.

The relief flooded through her. “You got it? I'm so pleased!”

“You thought I should? You could have told me, would have saved some agonising…”

“Of course I couldn’t. I’d have been happy whichever you went for, provided you’d thought about it properly, but I know you wanted this job and I’d have been sorry if yesterday had put you off.”

“I knew I’d regret turning it down.” He grinned. “Now I can learn the secret of the archdeacon’s glare!”

She laughed, shaking her head at him. “I’m so pleased.” She grinned. “I look forward to calling you Venerable.”

“You're not in a position to be playing that game with people.”

“That's true.” She sat back. “Well, I'm sorry to be losing you, but this makes it worth it.”

“You think?”

“I really do. It's right for you, and you'll be an absolute blessing to the diocese of Southwell and Nottingham.” She met his eyes in the mirror. “I mean it.”

“I mentioned to the bishop how I felt about some of the things I was asked. The disability stuff.”

“She took it well?”

“I mean I kind of... wanted to check I wouldn't have to deal with those attitudes if I took the job. She apologised, and is going to organise some senior staff training.”

“Good.”

“It was after how you talked to me this morning and asked if there was anything you were doing that you weren't aware of. I thought... if she's willing to hear it I'm willing to work for her. If not then it's not the environment for me.”

“That's brave, and a great decision on your part. You've started as you mean to go on, and you can feel confident in having made the right decision.”

“That's what I thought.”

“Well done. They're going to be so lucky to have you.”

They turned in to the car park of St Michael and All Angels, Ruth hopping out to move the cone marked ‘Archbishop’ so that Tom could park the car, and then collecting her crozier and case from the boot before he could do it. A young priest darted out of the church to greet them.

“Good morning, Archbishop…”

“Morning, David.” She reached out to shake his hand, smiling down his nerves. She was in a good mood. “How’s it all going?”

“Um, everything’s good, I think? I’ve done a practise with the candidates.”

“Good. We’ll get everything inside and then I’ll come and speak with then. It’s nice to be somewhere local, a luxuriously short drive.” David maybe didn’t see it that way, she realised, this being the far end of the benefice. Ruth worked on larger scales than most parish priests.

She let Tom take some of her things and then gestured for David to lead the way inside. It was a medium church, one of the Church of England’s heritage treasures which sometimes felt more trouble than they were worth. It was lovely, though, with all of the stained glass and gothic arches that one might desire in a church. The flower guild had clearly made the most of this last fling before Lent, too, which completed the image. At the front of the church, a small group of mostly teenagers loitered uncertainly, while parents talked in twos or threes at the back. David, with only a second’s hesitation, led them straight up a side aisle to the vestry. Good, he knew how she liked to work.

She put on her cassock and left Tom to hang up everything else while she went to speak to the confirmation candidates. Nine of them, including two adult baptisms, from half the benefice – a total of five churches. An impressive number of candidates, compared to a lot of places, but then there always were round here.

“Wendy!” Having left the candidates under direction to spend some time before the service praying, she took a direct line to the back corner and a familiar face. “I thought I might see you.”

“Well, you could hardly ask me to miss it. I’ve left all of the organisation to David, just answered his questions and checked he hasn’t forgotten anything. Wonderful things, curates.”

“Well, I wouldn’t describe this as a model curacy, but how many are? He’s doing well with it, anyway. How are things progressing for you? I haven’t been keeping track.”

“Oh, they’ve sent me a few threatening letters, I’m still waiting to go back to court. I informed them I wouldn’t be paying the fine, but they’re being slow with the jail sentence – which is, admittedly, convenient, since prison will rather hinder my work.”

Ruth shook her head. “I won’t bother disagreeing with your approach. If you’ve decided prison is better than paying up and getting on with work.”

“A stipend’s not that big, and I’ve better things to be doing with it.”

“I have many things to say to that, but I’m not going to bother. Good to see you. Don’t hesitate to shout if you need support – pastoral, I’m afraid the legal and financial is your own responsibility.” Though the church hadn’t hesitated when it was Ruth’s own legal defence, even if she’d paid the fine and court costs herself. That was just how things were. And at least she’d cooperated.

“Thank you. And obviously, I wasn’t expecting the Church to have changed that much.”

“God bless you, Wendy.” Ruth nodded to her, before returning to the vestry, to vest and check in with Tom. Glancing back across the church, the seats now starting to fill. Wendy now bent in prayer, apart from the excitement of the growing congregation.

It was a Confirmation service like any other – long, rich, laden with sacraments. Ruth did enjoy doing them, though sometimes they did seem to blend one into another. Her mind drifted to Rachel May, due to be consecrated as a bishop on St Joseph’s Day – the one opportunity to do it during Lent, normally they’d wait but Julia had put forward a convincing case for getting her new suffragan in as soon as possible. Ascension was too far away – too many things to be blessed, too many building openings and school functions and confirmations and the like before then.

Honestly. She wasn’t seeing Confirmations as a chore, was she? She shook herself mentally, sitting up straighter.

Wendy was one of the first to leave at the end, as Ruth stood by the door to greet the departing worshippers. “Not staying for cake?” Ruth asked her.

“Oh, I don’t want to hang around too much. People will start treating me like I’m still incumbent, which would be bad for David if nothing else.”

“Of course. You’re doing a good job – as is he. I take it he took all the confirmation classes too?”

“Oh, he did all the ones for the other half of the benefice in Autumn, for the St Matthew’s service. And helped with last year’s as a deacon. Practically an old hand.”

“Well, it’s good to have one fewer person to worry about. Look after yourself.”

“And you too.”

Ruth watched her turn up the collar of a faded coat, then the crowds within the church demanded her attention. People leaving, a long string – “Goodbye, God bless, safe journey.”

Eventually they escaped, for a working lunch with the Cathedral Chapter and then a long drive across Yorkshire for a spot of guest preaching. It was on the long drive that Ruth voiced her musing – “can you sort out a meeting with Lucy Green for me? I saw her in December but it’d be good to make sure she’s found her feet… make it a nice invitation.”

“Inspired by seeing David?”

“Reminded by a combination of that, and Mark’s absence at Chapter, yes. David looks like he’s doing very well, I’m impressed. Most of the other lone curates are that bit later in their curacies, I’ve had whispers of good things coming in from their churches. Silence where Lucy’s concerned though, and not a clue what’s become of Mark. There should be enough people keeping an eye out for her, but it’s a lot for a deacon of six months, I’d like to see her in person.”

“Well, I took the opportunity to talk to David while you were busy, so I can confirm your feelings as far as he’s concerned. He’s one of those people who thrives on responsibility.”

“Excellent. And Wendy’s keeping an eye on things, so he’s not completely on his own. Right, you sort things with Lucy when you get a chance, get her in soon but not so soon she panics. If I visit her it’ll give me a chance to see how well she’s coping, living quarters are always an indicator of that. And it’ll save her the travel.”

“Got it.”

"Thanks Tom." She gave him a small smile. "You're going to be hard to replace."

"Oh, don't start."

"Sorry."

"I'll leave decent handover notes for my successor, okay?"

"That'd be a great help."

"And if I hand in my notice tomorrow, you can get the ad ready."

She looked at his face in the mirror. "You're excited for it now."

"Yup, I guess I am."

"Good. Then I'm happy for you." On her tablet, she opened the ad she'd started to draft and reread it. Don't spoil his joy, Ruth, she admonished herself. She didn't want to replace him, but he'd given her enough years. It was time.

© 2021 E G Ferguson

Chapter 16: Memorial

Tom pushed the door of Ruth’s office shut behind him. “I looked up the funeral arrangements like you asked. Cremation, no ceremony. They dig a hole behind the crem. at the end of each month and pour in the unclaimed ashes from the past month. Apparently they don’t need to contact anyone because they don’t have an address by which to do so.”

“Wow.” Ruth stared silently at the wood of her desk. She was a lot calmer than he was, more sad than angry. “I wish I were surprised.” She was silent for a while, thinking. “I need you to make me a list of email addresses for the crematoria for the different camps. We can at least arrange something better for the ashes. Some kind of committal, with those who knew them… a nicer plot, some form of memorial.”

“Though without funding.”

“We’ll find a way. Enough cathedrals employ stonemasons, for a start…”

He left her to get back to work, returning to his own office. Had a sleuth around to identify the email addresses she’d requested. He was quite good at research, it was part of his job. Once he’d done as much of that as possible, he moved on to checking the news, and sent Ruth the stories of greatest importance. Yet another shooting in America, a teacher who’d turned on his students. He rubbed his eyes and looked for something less emotional to do. He opened up the Bishopthorpe chapel rotas. Lent was less than three weeks away, somehow. Time slipping by, carrying away these last months.

He went down to the chapel to ensure everything was ready for the midday Eucharist. Sister Helena nodded to him as he entered, almost finished with preparing the altar. He nodded back in silence, making his way through to the vestry, where Sister Adelaide was also at work. Bishopthorpe’s two resident Sisters were a great help, dealing with so much of the day-to-day running of the Chapel and the spiritual care for the Palace that he didn’t always have time to offer, always with smiles and quiet grace. He left them to it and dressed to deacon. His stick was in his office upstairs, unneeded, and that at least felt good.

Ruth was to celebrate, so she came rushing in about eight minutes before the service. He passed her alb before she could search, waited for her to finish vesting, and then reached for her crozier to pass across. She turned back to face him, and only now did he see the tears in her eyes.

“What happened?”

She shook her head mutely. He pushed the door almost closed. They had three minutes before the service was supposed to start, and he wondered if he should leave it until afterwards, but she spoke first.

“Why can’t anything end well?”

“News from the camp?” It couldn’t just be those poor American children – sad as it was, it wasn’t personal, and they were used to such stories.

“Emily Grace. The…”

The baby she baptised, the newborn. He had no answers either. So tiny, that flicker of hope, just four days before.

“Oh… I’m sorry. I have… no answers.”

“I do.” Her eyes flashed up. “She is not having one of those horrific burials you told me about this morning. As soon as this is over, I am finding the relevant authorities and claiming the body. I will tell the world, if that is what it takes.”

Glancing at his watch, he nudged her towards the vestry door. “We’ll sort it in the car. Are you ready for the service?”

“I’m not sure I’m ready for anything, or will ever be.” She was quiet again, the passion fading. “I only saw just before I came down, I glanced at my phone… but I suppose, we must go on. And besides, the Eucharist is a proclamation of death.” She took her staff from his hand, reached past him to open the door, then gestured for him to lead in.

“On Saturday,” she began her homily, “I had the greatest privilege, to baptise two children – not the children of clergy, not in a cathedral or even a parish church. I baptised two babies in a muddy, snowy field, children born with nothing. What is the point, one might wonder. Why waste time and effort on baptism when they have so many other needs? Because baptism is important, the visible expression of a welcome and a promise from God, a source of hope.

“Today, I have learnt that one of those children has died, at just a week old. Where is that promise now? Where is that hope?  The obvious answer, is that the promise is of the life to come, and the hope is in heaven. But is that why the parents of baby Emily Grace sought baptism for their daughter? We knew that Emily Grace would face a great battle to survive – she was a small baby, slightly premature. It is winter, and they had no home, only a tent for shelter. This is why we baptised her so quickly, at just a few days old. But even before her birth, not knowing whether she would be healthy or not, her parents spoke to me.

“I think a lot of the request came from a desire for belonging. Out there, there is a sense of aloneness. Yes, there is community, being surrounded by others in the same situation, but at the same time it is lonely, because these are the forgotten people. If they were remembered, they wouldn’t be out there. If they were cared for, they would have homes and healthcare, food and water. They may have a community out there, but they do not belong, because every one of them dreams of getting out and having another chance.

“But they are our community. Emily Grace was baptised into our family, making it our place to grieve for her, and to seek justice for her. Had she lived, it would be our place to stand up for her, to take her in and care for her. And no, I do not believe we have a duty only to our own… but when we long to say ‘it isn’t my problem’, this is a reminder that it is: that members of our own family are out there. Members of our own Christian family, and beyond that a wider family who, baptised or not, are all God’s beloved children.

“Now, let us remember the righteous anger which answers injustice, the grief which answers tragedy, the compassion which answers suffering. And let us use them to answer the cry of our forgotten family.” There was a short silence, as if Ruth had run out of words. Her face was set with determination. “Amen.”

Afterwards, as Tom drove her to her first engagement of the afternoon, he heard her arguing on the phone, calling one number after another.

“Done it,” she called forward in the end. “Told them I’ll pay myself if necessary. I’m going to call Esther and ask her to make arrangements, I’ll pay for the funeral directors if she can’t find someone who’ll do it voluntarily.”

She did so, and then he heard her making another call.

“Hi, Richard? Yes, I can make it quick. I’m not sure how widely it’s known, but a newborn baby died in the London camp today. Her name is Emily Grace, I baptised her on Saturday. We’ve managed to secure the release of the body, so that she can have a proper funeral. I wondered if you’d like to see to it, since it’s within your jurisdiction?” A long silence. “No, I’m not going to worry about setting a precedent, she was a week old. She’s part of our Church, she deserves more than just to be disposed of cheaply.” Silence again. “I’m paying myself, what we can’t get donated. Yes, I know that there are a lot of Christians. I’m afraid I’m one of those sentimental people who cares about babies, especially ones I’ve met.” Her voice turned sarcastic. “Maybe I’m a broody sentimental woman like everyone says.”

There was a long pause before she spoke again, softly and dangerously. “Yes, I intend to make a big deal of it, thank you for the encouragement. I want the country to see a coffin the size of a shoe-box, and I want them to realise that this is real. Because apparently nothing else will do it.”

Her sigh told Tom she’d hung up the phone.

“Still not seeing eye to eye,” he observed.

“He’s kind of right. It’s only when it’s a baby that I get emotional enough to act, and we can’t afford to do everything for everyone. We should be worrying about the living, not the dead.”

“You’ve been acting in many ways for a long time, and this was already on your mind. It’s just a catalyst. Who isn’t stirred by the death of an innocent, one who can’t through any stretch of the imagination be blamed for their own suffering? As to your other point, funerals are for the living. You’re grieving the death of a baby you only met once, how much the parents be feeling?”

“Of course. I just wonder if… there are other things they need more.”

“Let’s do what we can do. If we feed them for a week, at the end of the week they’ll be hungry again and still grieving. As you’ve said at an ordination or two, the needs of the mind and the soul are as important as the needs of the body, but more often overlooked.”

She chose the easy response. “Good to know you listen to my sermons.”

He parked at the shopping centre, in a space reserved for them. They could hear the crowd, just around the corner, and a small group was waiting here to receive them. One of those cut-a-ribbon publicity dos, before they went on to a more engaging evening with a youth club, and finally a hundredth birthday celebration for an elderly member of the cathedral congregation. Ruth had been complaining earlier, in private, about how pointless it was, and no doubt she still felt that just as strongly now. It wasn’t pointless, though, because it was being visible, and that was what she needed to do.

The youth club meeting was the toughest part of the day, the usual barrage of questions on the compatibility of suffering and God, about sin and hell and whether it was really necessary to go to church. Tom hid at the back of the room dealing with emails, occasionally catching Ruth’s eye as she wrestled with an unceasing barrage of ‘why’s. Her heart clearly wasn’t in it.

“So what would you say is the most important part of Christianity?” she asked in the end.

Many answers, including “going to church” and “the ten commandments” and eventually a call from the back of “Jeeeeesus!”, clearly said with care not to sound too serious. The response was sniggers.

“Exactly, it’s all about Jesus, but the challenge is in what that means from day to day.”

Tom turned his attention back to his emails, very familiar with this part of Ruth’s talk. Attempting to convince a bunch of young teens that Christianity wasn’t about rules, that love wasn’t a cheesy thing to snigger at, and to somehow show that the Church wasn’t all about oppression, or even at all about oppression. And then to answer the questions of “why do we need God to be good people?” Ruth had a level of patience he didn’t, to be able to sit through and answer these same questions again and again, with one group after another. It was bad enough a couple of times a year, let alone every other week.

She checked her phone on the way back to the car afterwards. “Richard says we should use the local parish church. He’ll look for a time to visit the camp and speak to the family in the next couple of weeks, and maybe when all this is over we can have a memorial in Westminster Abbey for all of the deceased.”

“Good enough idea. At least he’s doing something.”

“When all this is over…” She sighed. “It’s too early to be worrying about memorials. Memory is for people with nothing more important to be doing.”

“Memory is for learning from. But yes, definitely too early.”

There was a long silence. In the mirror, Tom could see Ruth playing with her ring.

“Can you do some research for me?” she said in the end. “Human rights. European convention rulings and stuff. I know we’re not in the EU anymore but… any precedent I can bring up in the Lords next week. Right to life, how far does it go – that kind of thing.”

“Sure. Off the top of my head, animal welfare five freedoms requires food, fresh water, shelter, and medical treatment, shall I dig into some reports on that too?”

She sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. It’s a good point, sadly. I mean, it’s not sad for the animals, but…”

No need to take that train of thought any further. “I’ll find you some bullets. Never know, one of them might get lucky.”

“I’m not the only one in Parliament who cares. There are just some… issues of priorities.”

He looked out of the car window. Night, lit like day by the reflections on the snow. “Remember those old ‘CEO sleepout’ things? All that ‘spending a night on the streets to raise awareness’? Should get the politicians doing one of those now.”

“No point in letting more people die of hypothermia than we can help.”

“Could fill their oversized mansions with homeless people while they’re doing it?”

She sighed. “I need to work with these people, not hate them. And yes, this ‘love your enemies’ stuff is hard. Individually, a lot of them are okay, it’s together…”

He dug a nail into the steering wheel. The healing scar on his knee was starting to bother him, he should have taken his painkillers before he got in the car. “When my brother was homeless it was an exceptional thing. And by all the rhetoric he was asking for it. We thought it was unfair then, how he could be allowed to get to that state. But now, the country’s desensitised. It’s not people, it’s numbers. An economics problem to be solved.”

“No need to tell me.” She busied herself with her tablet again, and Tom scratched ineffectively at his knee. It was easy to say they were trying, but they weren’t really, were they? He wasn’t, anyway. “I’ve got an interview on Thursday,” he told her, making himself change the subject.

“Nottingham?”

“That’s the one.”

“They’re certainly not hanging around. Good luck. I’ll send you the list of questions I use for archdeacon interviews here, let me know if I can help with anything.”

“Thanks.” He scratched gently at his knee. The other thoughts were still there.

On Friday night, he sat in the driver’s seat eating cold pasta on the way back down to London. The boot full of clothes he’d been hoarding for years and cheap groceries he’d bulk-bought yesterday evening. One way of getting out of thinking about the interview next week. His old motto, “I can sleep when I’m dead,” came back to him. Well, that was stupid, it was the reason his knee had ended up deteriorating so quickly, but every now and then…

The beeping of the car, summoning him to choose a parking spot, stirred him out of a doze. He deposited the car neatly then climbed out, stretching. Take it steady – dark, rain, and uneven mud weren’t the best combination even for people with normally developed muscles.

The station was quiet, faint lights coming from the medical and store tents. Tom ducked into the stores, stopping quickly as he came to a mass of small bodies on the floor.

“Evening, Tom,” came a murmur from off to one side. “Give me a second to get round…”

“Hi Megan.” He smiled as she edged around the sleeping children. “Brought them in out of the rain?”

“Poor darlings. At least it’s dry. You’re keen, showing up at this time.”

“Come from work. Stuff came up, had to stay late. Then it’s a long way, traffic out of York was a nightmare.”

“Have somewhere to stay tonight?”

“Too busy organising Ruth’s life to think too much about my own. And didn’t expect the traffic to be this bad. But I figured enough people sleep round here every night anyway.”

“Don’t make a habit of it, there’s no point. Most volunteers book hostels, usually, but you’re too late for that tonight. Come in. I’m watching the stores for the next couple of hours, JJ’s just out doing the patrol. Simon and Adam will take over at half two and finish the night. There’s a staff tent round the back, we can probably squidge you in just this once, normally it’s only for duty staff.”

He smiled. “Thanks. Should have been more organised, I will in future.”

“It’s good to have you. Do you want me to show you back now?”

“I’m happy to wait. Wouldn’t want to disturb the others.”

He followed her back into the tent, edging carefully around the children and then lowering himself to the ground as she settled back on her camp chair. The lamp with its tinted casing lit everything orange-red. You used red lights when you went star gazing, he remembered, to avoid ruining your night vision. It was a strange vibe, but felt rather warm, at odds with the sound of rain on canvas.

At half past two, she stirred him out of his doze and steered him out of the store tent. “Anything to get from your car for tonight?”

He blinked sleepily. “Nah.” He had pyjamas, but it was too cold to be changing – and awkward, as he didn’t know how much privacy this tent would offer.

“Any blankets?”

“No… I’ll get a coat.”

He did so, bundling it into a plastic bag to keep it dry, then followed her. The tent was, indeed, small, with crates of assorted stuff – Tom saw batteries and a torch – piled up in the porch. A couple of metres away, an open umbrella, forming a shelter over the heads of two sleeping men. That the first in a sea of shadowy mounds.

JJ led the way in, sitting on the edge of the sleeping compartment to remove his boots. Tom grimaced as he bent down to untie his own laces.

“Not much privacy, I’m afraid,” Megan whispered to him. “But more than out there…”

“Sure. Sorry to be taking up your space.”

He crawled in after her, and she shoved a blanket at him from the mass in the corner. “That’s Tina and John. Medics on site just in case.” Neither of the two stirred.

Tom squeezed himself as near the edge as possible without touching it, wrapping himself in the blanket with the coat as an extra layer over his feet. He should have done his physio exercises, he was usually careful not to miss them. Oh well, it was only one day…

He stirred slowly in the morning, aware now of just how hard the ground was. The patter of rain on canvas was a constant. A cold breeze tickled him through the open tent door, and he raised his neck to see JJ putting on his shoes. Megan was sitting up, shoving tangled curls into a messy bun. He sat up, clicked a couple of joints, and massaged his knee. Both medics were gone.

“Morning, Tom.”

“Morning Megan, JJ.”

Just a couple of minutes and they were in the kitchen. Esther, back in charge, homed in on him immediately. “Tom. What are you doing here?”

“Came late last night. Traffic. Megan took pity on my disorganisation. Have some stuff in the car, mostly old clothes but some groceries too, and a few mobility aids I don’t need.”

“Great. How long are you staying?”

“Until evening, if I can be useful.”

“Sure. We’re doing breakfast now, will go through your carload after. Cling to JJ or someone.”

A few hundred bowls of porridge later, Tom handed over the contents of the car then tracked down Emily Grace’s parents. They were huddled in a tent, watching the rain, blinking at him vaguely when he approached. One of those impossible pastoral situations where you could only offer love and sympathy. The conversation was long and difficult, and Tom felt strangely calm afterwards. This was why he was a priest.

When he eventually left them, he found Megan sitting under a marquee surrounded by children. Hope was there, intent on drawing. “These kids… how many of them are parentless like Hope?”

“Two of the little ones here, Alfie and Hope, have no relatives. Then there’s the twins over there who’ve become separated from their parents. Of the older ones, several runaways, or teens thrown out by abusive parents – it’s mostly them you saw sleeping in the stores last night. But most of them have relatives, it’s just nice to get them together during the day so they can be kids and their parents can have a break, go looking for work, whatever.”

“And you keep their spirits up?”

“They keep each other’s up, mostly. But yeah, engage with them, educate them, encourage them to keep dreaming. And keep them safe as best we can. It’s not a good situation to grow up in, they’ll have trouble finding a way out, it’s all dependent on somebody’s goodwill.” She shook her head and looked tenderly around her young charges.

Tom left her and crouched down beside Hope, had a short conversation with her and the other children around her. She showed off her picture, with a sun and a tree and two smiling stick figures. Tom admired it and then moved on to talk to some of the others, his attention quickly caught by a boy staring straight at him.

“You were with the bishop.”

“That’s right. You came to talk to her last week, didn’t you?”

“For granny.”

Tom remembered Ruth telling him about it. “How is your granny?”

“She’s very ill, but she says she’s old and it’s how things go.”

“She sounds like a very wise lady.” And very brave. “I’d like to go and see her before I leave, if you’ll tell me the way.”

“She would like that.”

© 2021 E G Ferguson