She should never have come.
‘Do you still love her?’
He breathes out slowly.
‘Do you ever stop loving someone if you’ve once really loved them?’ He looks up. ‘Isn’t that what love’s all about?’
She focuses on the tiny balls of light.
‘We were both just going through the motions by the end. No heirloom smashing or revenge attacks on Facebook or any of that.’ His voice sounds tight. ‘And no one else either.’
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry.’
Felix stares at her.
Clarissa.
She swipes to answer by mistake.
‘Hey, M, what are you up to?’
‘Can I call you back a bit later?’
Felix motions asking if he should leave. She shakes her head.
‘You’re going to be so made up about the next guy. His name’s––’
‘Can’t talk now. I’ll call you.’
Margot throws her phone into her bag.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Duty calling?’ There’s a catch in his voice.
She shakes her head. Clarissa won’t be happy. She’ll call her later, say it was an emergency. Clarissa likes to be chief choreographer at all times.
There’s still a faint line on Felix’s ring finger where the band used to be.
‘Sure you don’t want to call back?’
‘It’ll keep. What we were saying?’
He laughs lightly.
‘I think I was asking for absolution.’
‘To err is human, to forgive, Divine.’
‘Right’
‘No one’s perfect.’
‘Even priests?’ he smiles.
‘If only you knew.’
‘“Thou art all fair, there is no spot in thee.”’
She laughs, weightless again.
‘Song of Solomon?’
‘Full marks.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘How is a barbarian like me able to quote from the Bible?’ he asks. ‘You ain’t heard nothing. “The Lord delights in those who fear Him, who put their faith in His unfailing love.”’
‘Wow.’
‘So here’s my dirty secret. My mum was a regular at the local Congregational Church in Consett. Still is, in fact. Not my dad, mind. We had framed samplers up on the mantelpiece, passed down from my great-grandmother.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘The church was a community of miners’ families and the preacher was one of those real fire-and-brimstone types. During the strikes, I remember the church rolling up its sleeves and getting stuck in, organising food banks, that kind of thing. That was very cool.’
They’re walking back towards the canal, the sky now a bruised mulberry.
‘Not all bad, then?’
‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some anti-religion nutter.’
‘Could have fooled me.’
She giggles at the look on his face.
‘No, no, don’t get me wrong. I love the music, the art and architecture, the spectacle, all that sort of high-end stuff.’
‘The pretty bits, in other words.’
He smiles.
‘Not just that. Also the Church’s total lack of squeamishness in helping those people most of us would cross the road to avoid.’
‘I’ve had someone spit at me on the bus.’
‘Christ.’
‘They used to roast priests on the spit. I got off lucky.’
He lays his arm around her shoulder. She doesn’t pull away.
‘So you’re not quite the hopeless case you make out?’
He sighs.
‘I’m no fan of celebrity God-bashers. I guess I just feel that science has taken care of most of the hardest questions for us. The fundamental questions as to who we are, why we’re here and all the rest of it.’
‘The two can co-exist.’
‘Somehow, I just can’t see that we need to have a God, any God, lighting the blue touchpaper.’
He lifts his arm and turns to face her.
‘I just haven’t heard what you’ve heard, Margot.’
She nods and walks ahead in silence, competing narratives shadow-boxing inside her head.
We’re not responsible for another’s soul. Unless you’re a curate, in which case isn’t that the whole point?
God wants you to be happy and fulfilled, to lead a life of joy.
He’s still married.
Why is she here?
‘Does that make me untouchable?’ Felix asks, quietly.
She carries on walking a few steps, then stops and retraces them.
His face is a question mark.
She closes her eyes, then guides his face down until his lips are touching hers.
Everything’s subtly different. The darkened shops by Highbury Corner, the flashing street signs, the rubbish bins stuffed full of polystyrene cartons, the chewing-gum mosaic on the pavement; everything has acquired a sheen of possibility. The street sweeper who catches her eye and smiles. The huddle of shaven-heads just turfed out of the pub. That woman in the striped tracksuit emerging from the twenty-four-hour store, plastic bag swinging on her arm. They all feel it too.
The smell of his aftershave, coriander and lime, clings to her in confirmation.
She feels burnished with happiness.
The house is sunk in darkness when she turns up on the doorstep, even though it’s not that late. She closes the door with a quiet click behind her. Happiness must be radiating off her. The last thing she needs, on any level, is Cyd slouched against the wall, taking notes.
She’s halfway to her room when she remembers that she’s run out of toothpaste. Nathan’s bound to have some in the cabinet upstairs. She’s reached the landing when she stops. There’s a low whimpering sound coming from Sam’s room. She pulls the door ajar and waits until her eyes have adjusted to the low glow of the night light. He’s on his knees next to the bed, hands together, his head bent, his shoulders shaking.
Sam suddenly realises she’s there and jumps back under the covers.
‘Sammy? Are you OK?’
His face is shut. She pulls him towards her, his small body shuddering against hers.
‘What’s happened, Sam?’ She wipes the damp hair from his forehead.
‘Were you praying just now?’
He turns his head away.
‘You don’t have to tell me.’
She strokes his back with the flat of her hand.
‘Doesn’t work,’ he says, swiping his fingers under his nose, leaving a glistening slick across his cheek.
‘Well, it still might, you know.’
He starts crying harder.
‘Were you praying about your mum, Sammy?’
The pillow is wet where he’s been lying.
‘Praying’s stupid.’
She pulls him closer against her, stroking his hair.
‘The thing is, Sammy, it’s not like a vending machine. You don’t just pop a coin in and out pops your bag of Maltesers. Sometimes our prayers aren’t answered in the way we want or expect them to be. It’s a bit more complicated than that. But that doesn’t mean no one’s listening or that they won’t be answered, ever.’
He’s wearing the Spurs pyjamas he got for his birthday.
‘It’s like when you’re doing one of your jigsaws. You hold up one or two pieces and you have no idea how the whole thing will fit together. Then everything starts to slot in place and, yay, it’s done, one complete team photo.’
He finally looks at her.
‘Praying can change our lives, Sammy. Believe me, I know, I’ve seen it happen. Everything will be healed one day.’
‘Mum’s not coming back, is she?’
Margot buries her face in his freshly washed hair.
‘I don’t know,’ she mutters.
‘See?’
‘God knows that we get angry and frustrated at what happens to us sometimes, but He is with us, on our team
, nevertheless, Sam. Tell you what, how about you and I pray together that everything will work out in the end?’
There’s a sudden sound by the door. But it’s not Cyd leaning against the doorpost.
‘What’s up, Sam-Sam?’
Nathan flicks on the light by the bookcase and rubs his eyes. He’s wearing a baggy t-shirt and shorts. Margot gives Sam a squeeze and tucks the duvet in around him.
‘Just having a bit of trouble getting to sleep,’ she says. ‘Ready to drop off now, I think, aren’t you, Sam?’
He wouldn’t want her to say anything. She remembers those pockets of secrecy, your own personal hope bank.
Nathan touches her elbow as she slips out onto the landing.
‘Thanks, Margot.’
She smiles and walks down the stairs, catching the ghost of her reflection. Thought you could escape yourself? Yet, today, somehow, she has. The light pressure of his lips, his fingers running through her hair, cupping her chin. Leaning into him under the lamplight.
She falls backwards onto her bed, singing inside.
No one must know. She pulls herself back upright.
God knows.
Almighty God, to whom all hearts are open, all desires known and from whom no secrets are hidden. Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts, by the inspiration of Your Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love you and worthily magnify Your Holy name.
She feels a shiver of uncertainty. What exactly has she started here?
She likes back down and closes her eyes.
Part III
Unravelling Threads
Chapter 14
Late March
Surely three months’ supply of Kool Gang refreshments can’t add up to such a hefty hit to the St Mark’s current account? Tommy the verger doesn’t know either, and holds the statement up to the window as though that will shed some light.
‘Maybe we should drop the chocolate biscuits and just serve plain ones, Margot?’ he asks.
It’s exactly this kind of detail that Felix loves. The daily nap and weave of her job, just as much as the life or death issues they’re all dealing with. Storing up these tiny nuggets to pass on to him all adds to the sense of plenty she’s had these past few weeks. Loneliness has been lifted from her life like a veil.
They’ve only been able to see each other a few times: a couple of snatched meals a few bus stops away, a covert trip over to the cinema at the other end of the Victoria line. Yet, already, even on those few showings, it somehow feels like this is someone who has reached in and found the heart of her. The speed of it winds her sometimes. Stops her in her tracks, But then she reminds herself that the situation they’re in inevitably ramps up the intensity.
‘I think there’d be a riot if we did that, Tommy.’
The vestry door slams open, making them both jump. Jeremy ignores them as he walks past straight through into the hall. Tommy’s eyebrows shoot up.
Margot’s stomach knots. She’s started carrying a notebook to stay on top of it all, but still forgot to put in that call a few days ago to the bishop’s office about the date for the confirmation ceremony. Maybe someone’s complained?
Or perhaps the vicar’s being pestered again by some parent clamouring for him to green-light their child into the Church school? Back in January this was happening at the rate of five requests a week.
Maybe she forgot to turn off the immersion heater after lunch yesterday? It has to be something she’s done.
By mid morning, she can’t stand it any longer.
She pushes open the door to the small back office.
‘Jeremy? Is everything OK?’
He looks up at her and pushes his glasses up his forehead.
‘I’m sorry about that oversight with the Bishop’s office.’
‘Sanctimonious bastard.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Always was an uptight bugger.’
She stares at him.
‘Martin Kennedy,’ Jeremy says. ‘Priest in charge at St Stephen’s, Finsbury. He’s been there over thirty years. Lifetime member of the smells and bells brigade.’
He nibbles at a hangnail.
‘The whole place is so high, it makes you wonder, is the Pope really a Catholic?’
She knows better than to smile.
‘You must know all about the theology of taint, Margot?’
She sinks back against the filing cabinet, dislodging a pile of old service sheets destined for the reincarnation bin.
‘Of course,’ she whispers, shivering. A.k.a shunning or disfellowshipping. Practised by people – men mostly, but not always – who avoid all contact with women priests and any bishop transgressive enough to ordain one. Spiritual contamination is how they see it: all other sacramental acts poisoned by the bishop’s willingness to sanctify the unclean.
‘I was by the post office on Highbury Corner and he sprinted across three lanes of fast-moving traffic to avoid me. Saw me, looked away, looked back and scuttled over Holloway Road between a taxi and a number thirty-eight bus as fast as his scrawny legs could carry him. Can you believe it? I shouted over to give him the benefit of the doubt, but there was no doubt, spiritual or otherwise. It was a bloody blackballing.’
Her head drops.
‘Because of me.’
He gives a weary shrug, the battle fatigue of someone who understands how steep the gradient is.
She’s grateful on a daily basis for the risk he’s taken on her. But the idea of him being cold-shouldered on Highbury Corner at 10 a.m. on a Wednesday by a fellow man of God? This is N5 in 2017, not the climactic scene in a Russian classic.
Unease bears down on her like a soggy tarpaulin as she heads out later on some parish errands. Her situation would be marked ‘fragile, handle with great care’, even if she were the perfect curate. Two and half months off her priesting, she still makes so many mistakes. And now, exploding into her life like a forbidden firework, Felix.
She glances up at the flamboyant performance of the magnolia tree above her head and offers a silent prayer for help.
Halfway back to St Mark’s, she decides to take a detour. She needs to see for herself.
Stepping out of the sunshine into the glutinous gloom feels like crossing into enemy territory. She pulls off her collar quickly and throws her cardigan over her shoulders.
St Stephen’s is empty apart from a pair of elderly women sitting in the front row. She stands waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark interior. Italianate statues dressed in copes. Roman missals stacked up by the front door. Pinned-up photos of the parish priests in lace and red pompommed birettas, Latin chasubles over their cottas during last year’s solemn procession of the Blessed Sacrament, rose petals scattered in their path. Which one is Kennedy, she wonders, inspecting the pictures closely.
She moves forwards towards the altar. Most non-Church people walking in here would assume it was Roman Catholic, rather than huddled at the very highest Anglo-Catholic end of the Church of England’s capacious tent. As she inhales the traces of incense, Margot wonders whether she’s in fact misunderstood the whole issue. Maybe the group most under attack isn’t so much the women wanting to become priests, but this throwback world trying to buttress itself against the insistent tide of modernity? The blustering baroque interior in here, a final curlicued stand against the horror of that tide of oestrogen.
She sits down at the end of the nearest pew and looks up at the light filtering in from the windows at the top. Nevertheless, there’s a sense of peace in here you can almost taste. She closes her eyes for a moment, then stands and walks back towards the front door. There’s a large laminated notice propped up on a chair that she hadn’t noticed earlier.
St Stephen’s is proud to be part of the Forward in Faith movement.
She scans down the page.
Worldwide association of Anglicans unable in conscience to accept the ordination of women as priests or bishops … practice contrary to the scriptures … a schismatic act … we are bound to repudiate
… wilfully placed a new and serious obstacle … it’s often said we must be sexists and misogynists.
‘Hi there.’
A young priest comes over, head slightly dipped. Early twenties, prominent cheekbones, moppy black curls; a choirboy in man’s clothing. Wilhurst was full of them, primed to soak up the attention of female congregants of all ages and probably some of the male ones as well. Just flirtatious enough to keep all persuasions guessing.
‘Can I help with anything?’ he asks. She recognises the professional smile.
She points to the notice next to her.
‘Pretty punchy stuff.’
His smile stays in place.
‘It all seems a bit hostile speaking as a – you know – woman.’
The smile wobbles slightly. He crosses his arms across the lacy cotta.
‘Well.’ He clears his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing. She wonders whether he’s got – has ever had – a girlfriend, then recoils from her own hypocrisy.
‘It’s very uncompromising.’
‘We’re not setting out to offend anyone,’ he answers, voice rising. ‘It’s a matter of biblical teaching. You know, there in black and white.’ He smiles, not quite apologetically.
‘Offence is in the eye of the beholder, I guess,’ she answers, then coughs. She doesn’t want to blow her cover.
A delicate flush stains his cheeks. It’s like kicking a puppy.
‘We’re following two thousand years of precedent.’ He bites his bottom lip. ‘But of course women play a huge within our church in all kinds of different ways.’
‘Well, that’s a blessing.’
He holds out his hand.
‘Reverend Spence. I’m the curate here. Nice to meet you.’
‘Oh.’
She scans his face. Yes, it’s there.
‘Everything ok?’
‘Yeah, yeah, sorry, I just, oh it’s already half twelve. I need to dash.’
She nods at him and steps outside.
Fabian’s nephew. Serving his title in one of the most hardline churches in the diocese. And still waiting, no doubt, to pounce on the job at St Mark’s.
The Girls' Book of Priesthood Page 13