‘I’m looking forward to the whole build up to Easter and—’
‘You know there was another candidate in the running for the curate’s job?’
She places her mug back down. Maybe she misheard?
‘Very strong contender. Didn’t bother with a Ph.D. and all that malarkey. Just wanted to roll up his sleeves and get stuck in. Top man. Knew all about modern media, Twittify and all that business as well.’
‘Oh?’ She struggles to control the tremor in her voice. ‘But St Mark’s has to take its curate through the Common Fund and the bishop put me forward as the candidate, so how––’
‘SSM, Margot. Self-supporting minister. Independent means. No need for the Common Fund. He was family, too.’ He crumples the hankie in his hand. ‘I will have that piece of cake, in fact.’
Margot waits until the waitress has left.
‘How do you mean “family”, exactly?’
He attacks the slice of fruit cake with his fork.
‘I was away visiting my sister in Widecombe, but the PCC decided to go for the PC appointment.’ He sniggers. ‘No offence.’
‘None taken.’
‘As I always say, good for the oldies and all those kids to have a female on board. Someone’s got to do it, and rather you than me.’
He stuffs a piece of cake in, then gives a smile full of grizzled innocence.
‘In what way was this guy family, exactly?’
‘Who?’
She waits while he tunes in.
‘Oh. He’s Fabian Spence’s nephew. What was his name again? Gideon or something. No, Oliver. That’s it. Pity, really. When I came back it was all a done deal.’
She takes a quivering breath. She got the slot Fabian’s nephew wanted. Why hasn’t he mentioned it to her? Or Jeremy, come to that? Maybe he’s biding his time until she screws up. One foot wrong and he’ll be in. She fiddles with the string on her teabag.
‘And what happened to Oli— oh, I’m sorry, excuse me a sec.’
Roderick’s mouth twists as she pulls out her phone.
‘Boyfriend?’
‘Dad, sorry, I’m just in a meeting.’
‘Don’t have much luck, do I?’ says Ricky. ‘Linda and I are in London for some show soon. You can get to know your new mother. Got a pen?’
Roderick’s lips are cross-stitched shut.
‘Twenty-eighth March. We’ll meet you about six. Ok?’
We. She drops her phone back in her bag rummaging about for a tissue, anything.
‘Sorry, Roderick. My Dad. He’s––’ she swallows, ‘getting married.’
The beetle eyebrows shoot upwards
‘What about you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Your plans to swan up the aisle? After you’re done with the job?’
She shakes her head in confusion.
‘I mean, mine and Jeremy’s is a vocation. Yours is just short-term, I should think.’ He smiles at her. ‘Nothing wrong with that. More hands to the pump, the better. The vicar has needed a secretary for years.’
Ten, nine, eight, seven. Her father’s call has already knocked her off balance. All she needs is Roderick launching into his views on women dating, back to Eve’s original sin.
‘No plans on that front, Roderick,’ she trills.
‘Anyway, I’ve enjoyed our little chat.’ He brushes the confetti of crumbs off his chest. ‘Better get back to base.’
He scrapes his chair backwards and unhooks the dusty jacket, wincing as he struggles into it. He’s vulnerable, frail, old. As alienated by her world as she is by his.
The waitress comes up with the bill and pushes it towards Roderick. Margot pulls it back.
‘My treat.’
He inclines his head.
‘I’ll meet you back at St Marks. Just got a few bits and pieces to do.’
Extended time with Doddery feels like a pastoral visit in its own right. And she needs space to think about his curate hand grenade. Why hasn’t Fabian mentioned it? Or, more to the point, Jeremy?
Vic-i-leaks: Scenes from Parish Life, 10 February 2017
Trouble at t’mill. The Vic doesn’t think we’re raking in enough dosh from the collection plate. He asked me to make an appeal during the sermon. The old trouts weren’t happy. One snapped at him, ‘This is a church, Vicar, not a street market.’ In his defence, he’s thinking of that damp patch over by the organ. And, come to think of it, what wouldn’t he give for a sniff at the income of the average market stallholder. Beggars can’t be snoozers.’
Chapter 10
Late February
The clatter of wood on wood echoes around her as she walks down the diamond-carpeted stairs. The last time she was in one of these places must have been an outing with Gilly’s group from New Milton Community Church, a glittering addition to Margot’s non-existent social life. She has a clear-edged memory of scoring a strike and earning herself a round of high fives. It was like gulping down helium after the carbon monoxide of home.
This place is a would-be American diner, young staff in quiffs and string ties or miniskirts and retro hair bows crossing the floor in a gingham whirl. How will she even recognise him? Clarissa just said a shaven-headed guy in his forties who’d be wearing a white t-shirt. She can’t believe she allowed herself to be talked into this. And yet she owes Clarissa so much.
A trio of teenage boys assesses her as she walks past the jukebox.
Twelve minutes late.
She can just walk out. Tell Clarissa she assumed he’d bailed. Go home and watch the Kardashians on YouTube.
‘Mary, right?’
She takes an instinctive step back. He doesn’t look like a serial killer, but they never do. He’s wearing a tight white t-shirt, receding hairline slicked back with something pungent.
She switches on her professional smile.
‘Lenny.’
‘Saw you scanning the room. Maybe hoping for a better offer?’
She waits for the snorting to subside.
‘What can I get you?’
‘You’re joking. No chick’s buying me a pint. You grab a seat, Mary. What’s your poison?’
She watches him swagger off to the bar and walk back with their drinks, arms chunky as a weightlifter’s.
‘You done this before then, darling?’
‘Online dating?’ Did she just say those words?
‘Nah, bowling. We’ve all done the online stuff, right? Tho’ this is my first time on Soulmates. A mate said you get a better class of bird.’
She sips on her Bacardi and Coke. ‘I haven’t done this since I was about fifteen.’
But as she curves the ball behind her and swings it forwards in a fluid arc, it turns out she still remembers how. She can feel Lenny’s eyes on her as she bends to pick up another ball.
‘Not bad.’
For a girl.
‘You’re pretty good yourself,’ she observes, as he obliterates an entire row of pins yet again.
‘Dead-eye Len, the boys in Kandahar called me. Could hit a moving target at fifty yards.’
Margot heaves up a twelve-pounder from the chute, places her thumb and two fingers inside and chucks it forwards with as much violence she can muster. Dante couldn’t have devised punishment enough for Clarissa.
An hour later and she wonders how many more squaddie derring-do she can take and thinks what a shame it is that Roderick isn’t sitting here in her place to swap notes, when Lenny leans forward and puts his hands on her knees.
‘So, hon.’
She drains her glass.
‘Tell me about you. Can’t remember your profile blurb, to be honest. You’re my fourth this month.’
‘Tell you what, why don’t I grab us a couple of hot dogs first?’
‘I like a girl with a healthy appetite.’
She walks towards the food counter. She could be a primaryschool teacher or a social worker. Which wouldn’t be far off the truth.
A meaty hand grabs her shoulder.
&nb
sp; ‘Didn’t want you to get lonely.’
He wraps an arm around her waist, treating her to the full Lynx effect.
‘What are you then? A secretary?’
‘Not exactly.’
The ketchup dispenser burps in sympathy as she replaces it on the counter.
‘Estate agent, right? You’re quite posh.’
‘Er, no.’
‘Go on then, what?’
Absolutely no way.
He pokes her in the ribs.
‘You’ve got me going now. Hey, you’re not a lap dancer?’
‘I work with people in a sort of pastoral capacity,’
He tips his head, confused.
‘Shall we go and sit over––’
‘Come on, put me out of my misery,’ he grins, a glob of masticated pork glistening on his tongue.
‘Well, I visit people in hospital, hospices, even prisons.’
‘Shit, anyone would think you were a priest, from that description.’
She’s never been any good at lying. He gapes at her.
‘Fuck, you’ve got to be kidding me.’
Lenny staggers backwards. Ketchup stripes his cheek like a dueller’s mark.
‘Count me out, OK? You’re a bit of a looker, but I’m not into any of that kinky shit.’
She watches his dash to the exit with a twinge of sympathy. All he wanted was a no-ties quickie. Instead of which she comes with more strings attached than the London Philharmonic.
She turns away, her eyes starting to smart. What is she doing here in this garish, thunderous hellhole, duping lecherous strangers, when she should be focusing all her physical and spiritual energy on the task ahead?
When what she craves right now is someone to hold her, stroke her cheek, enfold her into him like two halves of walnut in a shell.
Vic-i-leaks: Scenes from Parish Life, 23 February 2017
If one more person – just one – says something about the way I dress, I’m going to punch their lights out. It’s a free world, even after you’ve signed your life away to the C of E. Not everyone thinks M & S and Debenhams are catwalk chic. So what if I sometimes daub on one of Grazia’s lipsticks of the week or have turquoise nails? Last time I checked, we’re in England, not some mountain village in Afghanistan.
Cyd is curled up on the sofa in the study, curtains drawn, earphones in, when Margot gets home from work a couple of Sundays later.
‘Hey, Cyd.’
She doesn’t even look up.
‘Got much homework?’
The house hisses around them. The twins must be at football practice, judging by the stud-shaped diamonds of mud she saw on the inside mat.
Margot walks across the rug and stands in front of her.
‘I thought I’d go for a wander round Camden Market. Fancy coming along?’
Cyd finally looks up and shrugs.
‘OK, no worries. Just wanted to check.’
The front door reopens behind her just as she’s stepping onto the pavement.
‘Wait.’
Margot forces a smile.
‘I’ll get my stuff.’
Cool, stay cool. She grinds her heels into the cracked paving stones, tangles of weeds thrusting up between them. No wonder Nathan never brings any clients here. One glimpse of this scrubland and he’d be disbarred from RIBA. A garden must be looked into and dressed as the body, as George Herbert wrote.
‘Fuck, I’ve left my wallet in my locker.’
She’s halfway down the path, her sole protection against the freezing wind a ratty black hoodie.
‘I can lend you some.’ Margot hesitates. ‘Bring a jacket, maybe?’
Cyd ignores her and turns right onto the pavement. Margot stands still, collecting herself. She could have spent this afternoon on some rare me-time. Gone to the Tate Modern or Oxford Street or just sat in a café and read.
Keep an eye on her for me, Nathan had pleaded. It’s like hugging a porcupine.
They rock together side by side on the crowded tube. It’s a wall of noise, no one talking.
‘So what’s up with your Dad?’
Margot stares at her. It’s the first thing Cyd has said since they left the house.
‘Your voice goes all stiff when you speak to him.’
‘Oh, no, I––’
‘He thinks it’s weird you’re a vicar.’
Several people seated below are now gawping up at them, checking out the deviant in their midst.
‘He’s still sort of getting used to the idea,’ mutters Margot.
There’s a groaning sound and a creak of brakes. The train grinds to a halt in the tunnel. Total silence and then a crackle as the intercom spits into life.
‘Sorry about the delay, people. Train stuck in front of us. No one’s telling me anything.’
A high-pitched screech from the intercom and then silence.
Margot blows at her fringe. The carriage smells of sweat and grime.
‘Look at it from his point of view,’ Cyd says, swinging herself back and forth from the rail. ‘Daughter’s a religious nutter.’
Margot closes her eyes.
‘What about your mum?’
She snaps her eyes open.
‘Another time, Cyd, yeah?’
Cyd scowls and shoves in her earphones.
The moment the train finally staggers into the station at Camden Town, Cyd springs into life, shoving her way out of the carriage and up the escalators two at a time. Margot can see her drumming her fingers at the top as she threads her way upwards through a pack of French teenagers.
‘Where shall we start?’ Margot pants, out on the pavement. ‘Stables Market, maybe?’
‘Sorry, can’t.’ Cyd shoves her phone into her jeans. ‘Change of plan. I’m meeting some friends.’
What was Margot expecting? A Damascene conversion to niceness?
‘Could you lend me twenty quid?’
She’s tempted to refuse but instead pulls out her wallet and hands over the note.
‘Why don’t we grab a coffee first and then you––’
‘See you.’
Cyd snatches the cash and dashes off into the crowd. The guy at the neighbouring stall glances over at Margot, smirking.
She turns away, furious, just as her phone buzzes in her bag. She has to reread the text three times.
Margie, this is your new mum!! See you next week! XOXOXO
Margot stomps across the road under the blank gaze of a giant mermaid sculpture, perched above discount shoe shop. Half woman, half beast, welcome to the club. Her father’s found someone who makes him happy, he says. She swallows; she needs to man up, welcome this new woman in his life with love. Hadley, the principal, Jeremy, anyone at St Mark’s, would expect nothing less.
She wonders around the market aimlessly for half an hour, weaving in and out of the stalls, listless and lost. She finally settles on a café near the canal and is perched on a stool watching the crowd pass by, when she realises with a jolt that Cyd is a few feet away from her at a Thai food stall. Standing right next to her is a heavily inked guy, maybe ten years older than she is, hat tipped back on his head, his arm around her waist. Margot mustn’t be seen, yet is unable to look away. A moment later, Cyd glances over laughing and spots her. She lifts her chin, pulls on the guy’s arm and they disappear through the food stalls, his hand now in the back pocket of her jeans.
Margot watches them go, in shock, unsure if there’s anything she can or should be doing about it.
It’s still preying on her mind when she gets home an hour later to find Nathan and the boys in the bathroom surrounded yet again by delousing paraphernalia. The relief of Nathan’s face when she walks in is almost comical.
‘”Every single egg must be removed if you’re to avoid a second infestation in ten days’ time. You’re looking for tiny white beads that resemble a drop of hairspray,”’ he reads as she sits down on the side of the bath and runs the nit comb across Josh’s scalp.
There are so many tripwi
res in this family, she thinks, swallowing the irony. But, nevertheless, it still feels strange never to mention their mother, no matter how much Elspeth has edited herself from their lives. She remembers how she hated the ‘stand well back’ signs people erected around her and Danny. It always felt like they were for other people’s benefit rather than theirs, all those subject skirters who fought shy of any awkwardness, as though grief was contagious.
‘When are you next off to Hastings to see your mum, boys?’ she ventures, when Nathan is out of the room
Both boys stiffen.
‘Easter, maybe?’ she asks, already committed too far.
Sam looks up at her in disbelief.
‘Nice place to visit. I grew up by the sea and loved it. All those long summers playing on the beach, windy walks right through the winter.’
Neither of the boys answers.
‘Does Cyd like it?’
Sam glances at Josh.
‘She stays in her room all the time and Mum says, “Why does she bother?”’
‘Cyd knows where Eric hides the keys.’
Another look between them, broken by the slamming of the front door.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ Margot has never heard Nathan this angry. She moves to close the door to the bathroom but stops.
‘I told you that you were grounded.’
Margot walks back and picks up the spray again.
‘Come on, boys, let’s get this killing spree over and done with.’
‘The vicar asked me to show her around Camden Market and then she bailed early.’
Sam wheels around to look at Margot.
‘Dad’ll kill you.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Cydney.’
Margot’s chest tightens.
‘Why don’t you ask her if you’re so bothered?’
Should she go down? Too late. There’s a thumping on the stairs all the way up to the attic, and then the crash of the door.
Josh eyes her in the mirror, wielding a nail clipper at the end of his fringe.
‘Did you, Maggot?’
She smiles yet again at the nickname.
‘Take your fingers out of your mouth, Sam. This stuff is highly toxic.’
All of it.
The Girls' Book of Priesthood Page 10