The familiar flat Hertfordshire landscape slides past. Even after three years at Trinity Hall and four at Wilhurst, Cambridge still exercises its magic. This, for her, was where the story began.
Her first year in college was the textbook experience that they all mostly had: random parties, essay crises, a couple of brief try-out relationships, dipping in and out of various different versions of herself to try and find the one that fitted her best, the oblivion they all shared to anything outside the eight-week bubble.
What she didn’t have – want – was any involvement with the college chapel or any other church of any kind, including the university Christian Union, no matter how hard they tried to pull her in. The previous couple of years had put paid to all of that: she’d had her fill of granite convictions that didn’t help when you most needed them. Her faith hadn’t just been shaken, it had been obliterated. And, if anything, the monochrome certainties she’d found so appealing as a teenager fuelled her fury.
Then, a term into her second year, something shifted within her. Even now, she can’t say exactly why. It was subtle, whispering at first; so quiet she barely noticed. She was studying the metaphysical poets one week and was awestruck by the brilliant showmanship of John Donne, starbursts of language punching holes in the universe. But it was when she discovered George Herbert that the world hushed and something fingertipped her soul. Heart-work and heaven-work make up his books, said one of his other contemporaries. She couldn’t have agreed more.
That I may run, rise, rest with thee.
She read and reread Herbert’s The Temple over the next few weeks, aware she was somehow being reeled back to somewhere she had been before. Dare to be true. The silky tug of the thread, sinuous and strong.
Later that term, a friend invited her to evensong at King’s. As they kicked through the frost-encrusted leaves carpeting Burrell’s Walk, the postcard-perfect silhouette rising above them, she realised this would be the first time she’d stepped inside a church in more than five years.
The chapel’s interior was lit by flickering candlelight. She sat back, absorbing the extraordinary physical beauty – the Renaissance rood screen, the chequerboard floor, the griffins and unicorns staring down from the walls, the clarity of the boy sopranos – above all, the warm, maternal hush.
Lighten our darkness, we beseech Thee, O Lord; and by Thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night.
As the congregation recited the rest of the Third Collect for Aid Against All Perils, she knew at that moment, she was experiencing an overwhelming sense of the transcendent presence of God.
Over the following weeks and months, that feeling continued to strengthen inside her. She didn’t confide in anyone, unsure how much she wanted to open up about this newfound sense of faith or what it even meant. But she felt alive to a feeling of possibility in a way that was completely new. She’d read somewhere about a humble, questioning faith, ‘marbled with doubt’, a groping towards the light rather than the glare of the halogen bulb, and knew that, this time round, this was who she was. She was being given the space to be less than sure, trusting rather than dissecting God, understanding that there were no handrails to faith and that you have to ask questions to get answers.
It was in this this quietly searching place of faith that she had finally found her own personal spirituality.
The call to serve in ministry, when it came, was unmissable, no matter how much she tried to deny it.
Margot Goodwin, priest?
It was like a voice on a loop inside her head, catching her off guard, as seductive as if someone was whispering in her ear – gentle, persuasive, insistent. It was terrifying.
It must just be the cosmetics, she kept telling herself. She’d been seduced by the hypnotic beauty of the liturgy, the shimmering glamour of the medieval chapels, the soaring Bach or Monteverdi, the allure of the alliterations. History was glad-handing her in its fleecy folds and she’d fallen prey to its charms.
But she was fooling herself. The call she was hearing – which would never leave her in peace – was visceral, intimate, unanswerable. She was a tuning fork against a table, resonating to her core.
By the time, the following summer, that the chaplain asked her to read ‘God’s Call to Samuel’ one Sunday morning, it was all over. The passage might just as well have been ‘God Tells Margot to Get a Move On’.
Doors kept opening, obstacles falling away: green lights on the runway enabling her soar.
‘Religious experience comes in many guises, Margot,’ the college chaplain said when she went to see him. ‘It can be anything from a moment of ecstasy that transforms our faith and our understanding of ourselves, an epiphany if you like, to something far quieter, more dogged, even. It sounds to me like you’ve got yourself a plan.’
‘I’m still not totally sure.’
He poured out two glasses of sherry and handed one across.
‘You can try and run away from God, but the outstretched arms are always long enough to pull you back.’
‘What if I’ve misheard?’
‘God is in it, trust me. You haven’t misheard. God will carry you through and over the obstacles, beside, beyond, within you.’ He smiled at her over his glass. ‘It can be a bumpy journey, but you’re in safe hands.’
He wasn’t kidding about the bumpy bit. The application process, the push to get accepted at Wilhurst and the four years that followed were even more excoriating than she’d expected. It made getting into the Royal Marines look easy. She lost count of how many times she felt like giving up as she struggled to acclimatise to an acronymobsessed universe, which emotionally strip-searched anyone daring to want to venture inside it. All part of their so-called ‘deskilling’ process, where you were apparently broken and reborn. Nothing was off limits: her hopes, fears, phobias, dreams, the most private emotions she’d never planned to share with anyone. One of the other ordinands described it as benign dictatorship. Margot thought the Stasi must have had gentler methods. Four years of unpicking eschatological arguments, yet they weren’t even allowed out to see the dentist without three different permission slips.
From the corner armchair in Hadley’s room, Margot can see the diamond of green below, neon bright against the pale sandstone of the chapel. No wonder the whole place registered so high up on the Ricky Goodwin elite-ometer. She watches as a trickle of undergraduates moves back and forth, little clusters forming and then scattering to go their different ways.
Hadley hands across a cappuccino from the Italian coffee maker behind her. There’s even chocolate powder sprinkled on the top.
Margot glances at the family photos on the bookcase. Hadley doesn’t conform to the norm in any way – if normal even exists in this profession. She was born in the hamlet of Helena, New York State – whose Mohawk name translates as ‘the place of the thorn bush’, as she loves reciting; she worked for fifteen years as an attorney in Manhattan before hearing her own call and eventually moving her family to the UK. She’s talked about the double jeopardy of being a priest who’s both black and female, not to mention with an atheist husband and a young family in tow. But she’s also told Margot she feels that being a working mother has made her a better priest. What better introduction to unconditional love than mediating between two warring under-tens?
Hadley takes a delicate bite of her ginger snap. Margot wouldn’t be surprised if they were home-made.
‘So how are things? Keeping all those men in their place?’
They share a smile.
‘Always seems ironic to me that, if you’re male, being a priest is viewed as a pretty dull thing to do, yet if you’re a woman, you’re an insurgent.’
Not only did she strike gold with her incumbent, she also hit the jackpot with her spiritual director, Margot reflects yet again.
‘I remember how tough it is, that first year in the firing line, because you’re never off duty, are you?’
Margot nods, licking cappuccino froth off her fi
nger.
‘So anything you want to unload about today to your counsellor in a cassock?’ Hadley is dressed today in an impeccably cut skirtsuit: she’s probably the only person in the whole of the C of E who could make clerical wear look catwalk-chic.
A young couple are kissing against the courtyard wall below. Margot watches as they finally pull apart and stroll, arms around each other’s waists, towards the porters’ lodge.
‘Margot?
Hadley is watching her.
‘All OK so far, I think. Ish’
‘How about the grumpy house-for-duty?’
‘He’s a bit of a work in progress.’ She breathes in. ‘Not sure he’ll ever be convinced of the value of a girl on the team, but I’m working on it.’
‘Sorry to hear that. The Church tends to be at least fifty years behind the rest of society and it sounds like your colleague could double that. But keep plugging away and ask him for his advice. Flattery always works, in my experience.’
Hadley’s deliciously deep laugh makes it all seem so easy.
An hour later, they’re strolling out for lunch across Clare Bridge, having stopped in Petty Cury so that Hadley could admire a pair of leopard-skin wedges.
‘This is where it all started for you, isn’t it, Margot?’
She nods. Exactly this time of year.
‘It’s a journey for the long haul. I’m sure you’re already looking at your incumbent constantly fighting fires and wondering whether he’s spending so much time being a vicar, there’s no time left over to be a priest. What happened to the person of prayer?’
Margot laughs. ‘Once or twice.’
‘The key to it all is balance.’
Hadley holds her arms out as though walking a high wire. Probably another of her talents.
‘You’re doing a lot of giving right now, Margot. Socially, spiritually, emotionally. We women do a lot of self-sacrificing, one way or another. But don’t forget your own needs. Eating and sleeping properly, exercise, all the usual stuff. And most importantly, the F-word.’
Margot looks at her, confused.
‘Fun, sister. Let your hair down when you need to. Tend to the allotment of your soul. Good to have your own place as well, even if it’s only a cubbyhole.’
Margot sighs.
‘Change of plan there. There was a gas explosion, so I’m now living with a family near the church. Jeremy’s suggestion. He was really keen.’
Hadley frowns.
‘A family?’
‘Two young boys and a very angry teenage girl. Oh, and no mother. She cleared off, sadly.’
‘Not good.’
Margot’s breath shortens.
‘OK, well, hmmm. Watch out for yourself, OK? From all you’ve told me about this priapic fundraiser and the super-keeny parishioner, your hands are pretty full right now.’
Fabian and Gwen. Problems squared. The only saving grace: that he’s barely been around the past couple of months, doing deals with oligarchs or whatever it is he claims to do.
‘You don’t need me to remind you about the I/thou distinction and protecting your boundaries. You know you can only ever be a professional friend to those in your care.’
A punt glides past, its cargo of students huddled under blankets in the sharp November sun. Their laughter hangs in the air long after the punt has moved on.
Again, Hadley is watching her.
‘Whatever some people may say, you don’t have to be in role every waking minute, Margot. Get yourself some fun, girl. You’re twenty-eight, not eighty-two.’
‘True.’
‘I was lucky. I was already married when I started down this path.’
It hangs in the air between them.
‘Just choose your friends, your fun, carefully. No off-your-face photos on Facebook or “semi-naked curate” trending on Twitter, if you get my drift.’
‘Chance would be a fine thing.’
‘I’m always here, remember.’ She touches Margot’s elbow. ‘Helping you steer that path between Scylla and Charybdis as you make it through to July. We don’t want you shipwrecked on this most important of journeys.’ She smiles. ‘Now would you rather a pub lunch or the café on the Sidgwick site?’
Later that evening, Margot’s back in the basement hidey-hole researching her idea for this week’s sermon: The Priest in Literature and Popular Culture. She could take it from Chaucer to Dibley, drawing endless gags from the gap between aspiration and clay-footed reality.
It came into her head as the coach was pulling out of the station and past the crenelated skyline of Drummer Street. The time spent with Hadley has energised her, just as she knew it would. She could throw in a reference to Father Ted, check if there’s a vicar in The Archers. All references to The Archers go down well. She’s got a curacy to secure here.
She clicks open Google and runs down the links offered for ‘parish life’. Something halfway down catches her eye: Vic-i-leaks: Scenes from Parish Life, 10 November 2016.
Intrigued, she clicks again. The screen shows a drawing of a woman in a black shirt and dog collar with a Zorro mask over her face. Margot wonders whether she’s chanced upon some esoteric strand of porn, but clicks again.
Hi there! Ever wanted to know what life feels like for a girl in the C of E?? Welcome to my new blog. I’m a curate in shhhhh-who-knows where and I’m going to tell it like it is, warty flower women and all. I was going to call it Her Master’s Voice or Hello! Luja! but Vic-i-leaks does the trick! I’m looking forward to sharing my top tips about which colour lipstick works best at the altar, how to fend off randy colleagues and all the goss about the PCC! See you again soon! xxx
Margot stares at the screen. It’s as though someone is looking inside her head.
She rereads the page several times.
Just someone letting off steam, she decides, writing in caricature to keep their insanity intact. She knows the feeling. All the POTTY lot like nothing better than a good bitching session when they meet up for their training evening every month. The girls in particular.
She’ll look forward to following this blog very much.
Part II
Another Self
Chapter 7
Mid-December
Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without the curate taking on all the elves’ activities, with the nativity play the crowning glory of the holly wreath.
Margot knows from masterminding the Harvest Festival production what a big deal these set-piece occasions are for Jeremy. What the vicar wants, the vicar gets.
She flicks on the light in the store cupboard behind the organ. The musty smell in here hits her like a left hook. She needs to track down Mary and Joseph from wherever the verger hid them last January: they’re already well behind schedule in embarking on their tour of parish families.
She drags down a large cardboard box from the top shelf and leans back as a cloud of dust billows from the coils of last year’s balding tinsel. Yet another spending request for when the vicar’s in the right mood. She tries several more boxes but still no luck. She’s about to concede defeat when she comes across the happy couple swaddled in a red-and-white-striped towel in a wooden box marked ‘spare chalice’. She admires the verger’s solicitousness, but if the original shepherds had had this much trouble, the last two millennia might have turned out differently.
She unwraps the wooden figures and holds them up to the bulb. They could do with a refresher coat of paint. She closes the cupboard, excited at the prospect of the children’s faces. Despite everything, she still loves every minute of it.
‘Success!’
Jeremy and Roderick glance up. Roderick’s eyes are bleary. Maybe he’s just woken up from one of his power naps.
‘Excellent, Margot,’ Jeremy says, placing Mary and Joseph on his desk. He points at the advent calendar on the windowsill. ‘Do the honours for us, will you?’
She peels back the little window for today to reveal a small toy drum. No chocolate calendar this year, as the
vicar’s on a preseason regime.
‘The season of giving and Gift Aid.’ He chuckles, as happy as a camel approaching an oasis. ‘Those cracks in the roof tiles need fixing urgently. A healthy dose of Christmas cash for all those jobs always helps.’
Just sometimes she feels uncomfortable with all this talk they have to have about money. No man can serve two masters. But Jeremy loves telling the old joke about the vicar on a plane that hits heavy turbulence: when someone pleads that he ‘do something religious’, he starts taking the collection. And she knows he’s right. No stonking cheque from the Church Commissioners is going to drop onto St Mark’s doormat any time soon. The days when the national Church had money sloshing around its vaults went out with Wolsey. Jack of all trades, guarding the purse strings, or curer of souls?
‘Four drinks dos next week alone. Hope my liver’s up to it,’ Jeremy sighs, signing his name one by one in an enormous pile of Christmas cards.
Margot sits down opposite him, and clicks open her mail. Then, on a whim, she clicks again.
Vic-i-leaks: Scenes from Parish Life, 6 December 2016
Here we are again then, the season of Slade, muddled wine and dry-as-a bone mince pies. My head is exploding at all the jobs I’ve been given – curate’s privilege – but at least this is party season and I might get some nice smellies out of it. Awesome xxxx
She exits the screen and chuckles as she pulls up the treasurer’s end-of-year accounts.
The Aldwych is twinklingly festive as Margot heads towards the bar in Covent Garden where she’s meeting Clarissa to hear the Big Idea she insists on disclosing in person.
It’s a cold evening, the air needle-sharp. A huge spruce covered in white lights stands outside St Clement Danes, like a belle ready for the ball. Most of the window displays she passes, though, seem to bear only a tangential connection to the Divine nativity of the Christ Child. In fact, a visitor from Zog might well assume the celebrations were about the latest Son of Apple: behold, the iSaviour is nigh.
The Girls' Book of Priesthood Page 6