The Girls' Book of Priesthood

by Louise Rowland

  ‘Let us offer one another a sign of peace,’ Roderick reedily instructs the congregation.

  There’s no way she can follow him down the aisle to shake hands with the end seats. He scowls as she backs away from him, but she wheels round towards the table bearing the consecrated bread and wine, to the confusion of Steve, the beanpole acolyte. Time is with her: the sidesmen are taking longer than usual with the collection plates, thanks to the size and generosity of Team Oscar. Margot breathes in and starts to prepare the communion chalices, hands betraying her. She looks down into the ruby reflection at the amount of wine she’s just poured in. Steve starts giggling. This is my blood of the new covenant, which is shed for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins. There can be no pouring of any extras into the jug or down the plughole after communion. Any dregs will be hers to drain. It looks like she might have to down the equivalent of several glasses of port before the final hymn.

  By the time she and Roderick are processing back behind the crucifer and choir at the end of the service, Margot’s head is papier mâché. She trains her eyes on the fire exit.

  ‘Well held, Vicar,’ Hugo bellows a few minutes later, grabbing another champagne flute from a passing tray, as the guests mill around the food tables at the back of the church. The orange squash she’s just filched from the children’s table is churning inside her.

  ‘He’s full of beans, isn’t he?’

  He raises his glass in salute.

  ‘Don’t worry about the Bonpoint dress. I always said it was a waste of four hundred quid.’

  Her hand flies to her mouth. Hugo laughs.

  ‘Just kidding. Carmen borrowed it from someone. Oh, hey, Felix. You made it? Wasn’t sure we’d ever be able to drag you in here.’ Hugo turns towards her. ‘Sister Margot, meet Felix, an old mate of mine. Lives around here, so he’s come for some free booze.’

  She rotates slowly to face him.

  Felix smiles at her, eyebrows raised.

  ‘He needs cheering up,’ says Hugo, in a mock whisper.

  ‘Good to see you again, Sister Margot.’

  Hugo frowns.

  ‘You two know each other?’

  ‘Reverend Goodwin, can I have a word?’ Gwen has hold of Margot’s wrist and starts to pull her towards the west end.

  ‘Hang on, Gwen.’ Too sharp. Too late.

  ‘I’ve got a wonderful idea.’

  ‘That’s great, Gwen, but right now I need to—’

  ‘A St Mark’s book club! Everyone would love it. And you’re so educated and well read. We can plan it when we go for our spa—’

  ‘Gwen, I’m sorry but I do need to go back to our visitors.’

  Her voice sounds furry inside her head.

  ‘But we don’t have a date in our diaries yet.’

  ‘It’s top of my list. Honestly.’

  Margot swivels round and starts to walk back, glancing over her shoulder to give Gwen a reassuring smile. Gwen doesn’t return it.

  Felix is standing alone by the table. She can see Hugo with another group over to the right, holding Oscar aloft like a rugby trophy.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hey.’

  Her face is burning, her mind blurring at the edges. Several members of the congregation are pressing in on her field of vision, waiting, wanting. She keeps her eyes trained on Felix, acutely aware of the sensation of his arms around her in those few insane moments on the ice.

  ‘So I guess you don’t ever come to church?’

  ‘I don’t think Hugo does either, to be fair.’

  She smiles, before catching sight of a windmill of arms over to her right. One of the coffee ladies is waving her towards the kitchen. The verger is also making frenzied gestures further back.

  ‘You were very impressive up there, Margot.’ He reaches for a bowl of crisps and offers it to her. ‘Can’t have been easy with, well, not quite so little Oscar slithering around. Rather like us on the ice.’

  She laughs, possibly a touch too loudly.

  ‘Carmen would not have been happy if you’d dropped him,’

  ‘Today’s my first.’

  A sideman passes with another tray of drinks. Felix takes two and hands one to her.

  ‘Great. Well, here’s to, I guess, a long and happy line of wriggly infants.’ He smiles. ‘As it were.’

  She watches him raising the champagne to his lips, taking in the long fingers, the smatter of freckles by the watch strap.

  ‘You’ve always been an atheist?’ Her voice echoes in her ears. How much communion wine has she downed?

  ‘I’m a historian, I’m afraid. We’re all about stuff that actually happened.’

  He looks down at his glass.

  ‘Sorry, did that sound rude?’

  ‘Plenty of historian believers out there.’

  ‘Absolutely. No, no, you’re right. Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.’

  She waits, amused. Then suddenly takes a step back. Prissy Pamela is barrelling towards them from the other end of the aisle, arms pumping, jaw set in an ominous line.

  ‘Sorry, I’m monopolising you,’ he says in a half-whisper, leaning in.

  Pamela is now two pillars away.

  ‘Would you like a drink some time?’

  ‘Oh, well, I––’

  ‘I dunno, tonight, maybe?’

  The disciple in the stained-glass window above them is glaring down at her. She looks back at Felix.

  ‘Can’t, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Sure, no problem.’ Her cheeks are on fire.

  ‘My dog’s sick.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’ She frowns. ‘Should you be here?’

  A tiny pulse around his mouth.

  ‘My wife’s looking after him.’

  Pamela’s hand grabs Margot’s arm, diamonds digging into her flesh.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt.’ She nods briefly at Felix. ‘The dishwasher’s leaking, Reverend. Did you not see us calling you?’

  Margot looks from Felix to Pamela and back to Felix. The San Andreas Fault might just as well have splintered open.

  ‘I’ll be there in two ticks, Pamela.’

  ‘Now would be better, Margot.’

  Pamela lifts her chin and marches back toward the kitchen.

  ‘Almost ex-wife,’ adds Felix quietly.

  Pamela scowls back over her shoulder.

  He takes a tiny step forward.

  ‘It’s a bit complicated.’ He stops. Margot’s head is throbbing.

  ‘We’re living in the same house but kind of separately?’

  ‘O-kay,’.

  Her poker face is failing her. Over by the kitchen door, Pamela looks like she’s guiding a plane onto a runaway.

  ‘I must go.’

  He lays a finger on her wrist.

  ‘We’ll do that drink some other time soon?’

  ‘Margot!’

  She rushes towards the group at the kitchen door without looking back over her shoulder.

  Chapter 9

  Early February

  Married.

  It’s like a swarm of hornets.

  Why now?

  Divorced would be bad enough. Still married? Off the radar of ‘no’. Apart from being a breach of God’s will for the rite of marriage, a boyfriend of any description during this make-or-break year would be challenging. Whatever Clarissa may think. Unless, that is, you’re male yourself and can slip him in through the lodger loophole. But a female curate with a still-married guy?

  She shudders. This may be 2017, but many people in the Church of England still abhor divorce and adultery. Not to mention the visceral terror of ‘knickers and vicars’ tabloid disclosures or the idea of ‘defrocking’, with its soundtrack of saucy-postcard sniggers. A friend at Wilhurst had to go through the faculty trauma with the bishop’s advisor, just because her fiancé had been briefly married to someone else. Apparently, there are three categories of rule-breaker: she knows which would apply to hooking up with the not-yet-divorced deputy head of your landlord�
�s daughter’s school while you’re halfway on the road to priesthood.

  There’d be disciplinary proceedings. She’d probably be asked to resign. Or have her licence revoked. Conduct unbecoming to a priest.

  She looks at her reflection in the dusk.

  And yet, his arm around her waist, whirling with abandon in the freezing air. The weightlessness.

  He briefly made her feel normal again.

  She shuts her eyes.

  The only way she will make it through to July is by focusing totally on her work at St Mark’s. Head down, heart closed.

  Starting with tomorrow’s visit to see Arthur.

  Seven months in, she knows that these weekly outings to Highbury’s neediest – the infirm, the elderly, the lost – are just as valuable as all the sacramental duties, sometimes even more so. Offering a sympathetic ear, reassuring lonely people that someone still cares about them, making phone calls or writing letters or even grocery shopping for people unable to do so can be more to the point than standing at the lectern on a Sunday.

  Nevertheless, she dreads most of them. Casual socialising was always an alien concept to the Goodwin family. And sitting with someone with early-stage dementia sucks away at her emotional reserves, as does royal family chit-chat with a lonely spinster, when she’s always shrinking from that moment when you glance up at the clock and face the ‘could you just stay a bit longer, love?’ plea. The hardest thing – the greatest relief – the click of the door behind her.

  But Arthur is different. He may be seventy-seven and as good as imprisoned in his flat, reliant on the sporadic visits of carers, but he’s managed to keep both his impish humour and his ramrod dignity intact. Something about him reminds her of her grandfather on her mother’s side, the ‘mustn’t grumble’ mindset, the quiet courage. Arthur was never a very regular churchgoer even when he was well, but good ‘ordinary’ people like him are a lesson to everyone. Clergy more than most.

  ‘What’s a young slip of a thing like you want to be doing a job like this for?’ he asked her the first time they met. ‘I’m happy you are, though, love. Perks an old boy like me up no end.’ He laughed as Roderick glowered over at them.

  She knows all about the two sons, the five grandchildren, the promotion to the school first eleven, the merit in grade three trumpet, the holidays in Madeira, the £1 million-plus houses. Yet the pride in his voice saddens her. The family’s promises to visit, to take him to see a match at Highbury or for a spin in the new Audi never materialise. Maybe the sons have no idea how frail he is. Sometimes, as she retraces their steps down the dingy stairwell, she’s considered picking up the phone to put the paragons in the picture. Except that would be stepping into forbidden space.

  ‘How are you, Arthur?’ He’s in his usual spot by the three-bar fire, the mug of coffee that Margot’s just made on the table next to him.

  ‘Bearing up. Leg’s a bit dicky this week. But all the better for seeing you, missy. And better still, no Grumpy Guts. What have you have done with him?’

  A lightning wink.

  ‘Back trouble.’

  Arthur rolls his eyes.

  ‘Can I get you another cushion?’

  ‘Go on then, lovey. You spoil me.’

  She bends down and retrieves the crocheted patchwork blanket – handiwork of St Mark’s knitting circle, she recognises the colours of the wool – and lays it back across his knees. He’s appreciative of anything she does, however small. It makes her feel she’s getting the important bits right.

  ‘All those old hens still clucking round the vicar, then? He loves it though, Jeremy, doesn’t he? Perk of the job.’

  She laughs, thinking about yesterday’s Residents’ Association coffee morning, when he was surrounded by a dozen shiny-eyed pensioners.

  ‘All the volunteers are incredibly generous with their time, Arthur.’

  He catches her eye and starts to laugh.

  ‘Some of them grating on you a bit, are they, ducks?’

  He hands across the plate with the Swiss roll he’s just chopped in two.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But?’

  She sighs.

  ‘Sometimes it can be a bit delicate, sort of turning down some of the help when there’s too much of it.’

  Stop right there.

  ‘Ah, I get you. One or two of the old birds want to be your best friend, that kind of palaver?’

  She bites into the wedge of sponge.

  ‘Be glad it’s not old whatshisname.’

  Margot’s head jerks up.

  ‘Thingamajig. Flowery shirts, long hair, think’s he’s God’s gift.’

  His chuckle sounds like a bag of gravel.

  ‘You mean,’ – she hesitates – ‘Fabian?’

  ‘That’s the one.’ He taps the side of his nose. ‘Got a bit of a trouser problem, so they say. Knew a couple of blokes did some work for him a few times. Randy old bugger. And I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.’

  The Swiss roll is soaking up all her saliva.

  Arthur pushes his glass back up his nose.

  ‘You watch yourself, lovely.’

  She’s saved from having to reply by Arthur breaking into a harsh coughing fit. Asbestos. All those pre-regulation loft conversions.

  ‘Lungs like a pair of ruddy black sponges.’

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘Pop into the kitchen, there’s a good girl, and fetch me a glass of water. Oh, and there’s a box of Dairy Milk the boys sent for my birthday. We can have a go at it while we plan how to spend this week’s Lotto millions.’

  The tiny kitchen is warm from the late-afternoon sun. Not a mug out of place, tea towels folded on the side of the sink. A handful of plants basking on the windowsill, freshly watered. She fingers the papery leaves of the busy Lizzie, looking down at the estate backing onto Arthur’s, the tiny grill-windowed flats that make her current home seem palatial. She swallows and walks back in.

  ‘Come on, Margot. Don’t polish the lot off in there. I know what you vicars are like.’

  She doesn’t quiz him further. She’s heard all she needs to.

  She walks out of Arthur’s flat checking her watch. Coffee with Doddery at the greasy spoon on Holloway Road: her invitation, despite his resistance, to try and clear the air. She arrives a few minutes late, full of apologies. He doesn’t even look up when she sits down.

  ‘Peppermint tea, please,’ she calls across to the counter.

  Roderick grunts, reaching for his mug of builder’s. He got to choose the venue. None of that lefty latte nonsense: dingy white mortuary tiles, tomato-shaped ketchup dispensers, air lardy with pork fat, far more his kind of thing

  He’s working his way through a doorstep sausage sarnie. She hopes his dentures are up to the job, then digs her nails into her arm. Fresh start.

  He chews away in silence for a few moments.

  The waitress refills his tea on her way past.

  ‘Absent friends,’ he says, lifting his mug in the air.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Naval toast. Old habit.’

  You can say that again. Small flecks of Daddies Sauce are scattered across his chin.

  ‘I can’t believe that we’re already hurtling towards Lent, can you?’

  He carries on chewing hard.

  ‘Someone at Wilhurst said, “You make it past one sacred cow on the Church calendar and there’s a whole herd around the corner more waiting to ambush you.”’

  The handkerchief comes out, now doubling as a napkin.

  ‘When you’ve been in this role as long as I have,’ he sniffs, ‘there’s no such thing as ambushing. It’s like a naval exercise. We’ve been assigned our duties. Everyone knows his place. No room for error or incompetence.’

  The hankie swipes across his nose and is then spread back across his knees. Margot swallows and spoons some more honey in her tea, watching the golden ribbon run its course.

  ‘I really appreciate all your help, Roderick. When
you’re a rookie like I am, it’s so reassuring to have a more experienced colleague showing you how it’s done.’

  RADA-worthy: her mother would have been proud. Roderick gives her a gummy smile.

  ‘Twenty eight years in the Senior Service. If that’s not going to instil esprit de corps, I don’t know what will.’

  ‘I’d love to hear about all that sometime.’

  She props her chin on her hands, avoiding her eye in the mirror.

  He purses his lips.

  ‘You’re a Guardian reader, I take it?’

  ‘Well––’

  ‘Naval chaplain on war missions, that’s where ministry comes alive. Long tours, most of them, months on end. Life or death situations where you alone are friend and advisor to all, across every rank.’

  The sudden wistfulness takes her aback.

  ‘You must have some fascinating stories, Roderick.’

  Manky hankie back on duty.

  ‘Great times, great times. The camaraderie when there was a big job on. Sailing into Port Stanley, clinging to the railing on the deck of a destroyer with a Force Eight raging around you, a huge swell rolling beneath your feet. And the subs. Nuclear, of course. Faslane Flotilla. I’ve done the lot. The spirit of fellowship on those vessels was unbeatable. One hundred and twenty officers and men, nothing but watches, work and exercise drills. Six hours on, six hours off; eat, sleep and operate assigned equipment. The happiest times of my life.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  He narrows his eyes.

  ‘There’s nothing else like it. Everything in its place. You know what’s what, who reports to whom, where everyone is in the pecking order.’

  The watery eyes bore into her.

  ‘Different world today. These days “wimmin” can even go onto the battlefield, for crying out loud.’ He shakes his head, a decrepit donkey trying to dislodge a swarm of flies. ‘But then what does an old codger like me know?’

  ‘Would you like a piece of cake, Roderick?’

  ‘No place for girls out there. Disruptive for the lads. Unsettles ’em. Why change something that’s been working perfectly for centuries?’

  The impartiality of her smile is impeccable. He’s moved seamlessly from one male bastion to another without passing Go.