The Girls' Book of Priesthood

by Louise Rowland

  That would have clinched it.

  ‘I’ll be OK, Jeremy, But thanks for checking.’ She sighs. ‘Anyway, I promised.’

  ‘Sure?’

  She won’t crack. She owes it to Arthur. Also, to Jeremy and everyone else to at least get something right.

  People always assume funerals will be the hardest. But she knows from watching Jeremy how much weddings can come freighted with enormous expectations, the church packed full of non-church people, the services complicated by all the additional choreography, the musicians unsure where to play or the guests where to sit, the clench-jawed happy couple praying the whole day will be worth two years’ savings.

  She’s taken three funerals so far: all of them were emotionally and physically draining but still also amongst the most rewarding things she’s done in the role. Supply the dignity and compassion, Cranmer’s beautiful liturgy will do the rest.

  ‘No one cares about you or your mistakes,’ the principal assured them when one of the ordinands worried about pressing the wrong button at the wrong time and turning a sad day into a farce. ‘Nor is it your opportunity to start trying to convert a captive audience. Every life is precious to God and a funeral gives us the space for our own individual memories, our own very personal feelings of love, sorrow and respect.’

  Arthur. A truly good man. One less ally in her world.

  The sons sit staring at her in the vestry, unsure what to say or do. Their pained bewilderment takes her by surprise. They hadn’t seen this coming, either of them. Paul, the elder of the two, some big shot in property, pale blue eyes and aquiline nose like his father; Tony, the time-is-money-trader, jittery in his seat, probably not used to having to confront his emotions in this way. Margot offers some suggestions about hymns, a reading or two, who might sit where, as they both listen, nodding, stunned at this sudden twist in the script of their lives.

  ‘I was going to come up and see him next week,’ Paul says, after they’ve finished with the formalities.

  ‘Yeah, he never said anything about how ill he was,’ adds Tony, a small tremor in his voice. ‘We only found that out when the hospital got in touch last week.’

  ‘I see,’ Margot replies. She could have contacted them. Why hadn’t she?

  ‘We were going to take him to Paris for his seventy-fifth,’ says Paul. ‘He’s always wanted to go. We’d talked about it, hadn’t we, Tone? Up the Eiffel Tower, ride on a bateau mouche, all that. Swapped a couple of emails a while back about the whole thing.’

  His palms are raised in supplication.

  ‘I understand. And I know your dad would have done too.’

  Simple, shortish, nothing too preachy, they’d said. A sending-off fit for an ordinary, extraordinary man.

  As the final verse of ‘Abide with Me’ draws to a close, Margot worries her voice might betray her. But it holds steady for Arthur, for all the fun and laughter they shared.

  It’s only afterwards, when the guests have filed out into the sunshine and the wreaths have been taken away and she’s left alone to lock up the chapel, it’s only then that her tears come. It will take her time to process it. That image of the two sons, inconsolable in their remorse, has hooked under her skin. All those things that should have been said and done before it was suddenly too late.

  Grief, the price of love.

  She came home from New Milton Community Church afire that day.

  ‘Jesus wants to welcome all those you love into His arms, just as He has with you,’ Gilly had told them that afternoon. ‘If there’s anyone special you can think of – a friend, someone in your own family – whom you haven’t yet told about God’s love moving in your life, put their picture in your head right now and take a snapshot of it. Click! Hold that image tight, go home and talk to them, tell them about what the Lord has done for you. Be one of Our Lord’s disciples in your own small, yet ginormous way. Can you imagine anything more wonderful? I know I can’t. OK, so who’s thinking of someone they’d like to share God’s love with? Margot, why don’t you start us off?’

  Margot had been plaiting the ends of her hair and looked up, shocked by the sudden attention. She shook her head. Gilly paused, then asked Roger to speak to them all instead. She wasn’t going to say it out loud, but Margot had made up her mind. She would go home and tell her mother her big secret at last, all about her other life at the Community Church and everything she’d felt over the past two years. How God’s love had taken hold of her and shaken her by the scruff of the neck – that’s how Gilly said to describe it – and how it would do the same for her mother too. Free her from the pain and make her happy at last.

  The house is tickingly silent as she walks in, just after four o’clock. Why wasn’t The Big Match on? Maybe they’ve all gone to the corner shop for an ice cream? But when was the last time they’d done something as normal as that? She stands at the bottom of the stairs, everything alert and echoey around her. She breathes in hard. The smell of her father’s cigarettes still hangs in the air.

  Unnerved by the whispering hush, Margot starts to waver in her plan to reveal God’s love right here, right now. Her mother might well not be in the mood. She glances over at the stack of unopened mail, the clutter of shoes, the smudgy watercolour of Venice, eternal reminder of yet another of Ricky’s unfilled promises. No, her mother definitely might not be in the mood. Proclaiming the Good News can wait until another day. Gilly will understand.

  Will she, though? Delay is the devil’s work. Now is definitely the time. As soon as her mother gets back, Margot will speak to her.

  The clicking of the gas meter in the hall cupboard is making Margot uncomfortable. She’ll go up to her room, listen to some music until they all come home. She takes a couple of biscuits from the tin on the counter, and runs up the stairs, avoiding the seventh step, as she always does.

  At the top of the landing, she sees her parents’ door slightly ajar. She hesitates then walks over and gives it a shove, just in case.

  That’s all it takes.

  Her mother is lying face down on the bed, dozens of photos scattered around her on the blanket.

  Margot’s head empties as she takes a couple of tiny step forwards.

  The pillowcase is patterned with sprigs of blue on faded pink, her mother’s favourite. The radio is on low. The picture clasped in her left hand was taken when she was in her early twenties, Portia in the leavers’ production, 1975, Bristol Old Vic.

  Did she tell her she loved her enough?

  Afterwards is a smudge of voices and images and silences.

  The legalese, the unforgiving detail of the coroner’s report, the bossiness of the policewoman asking Margot repeatedly to run through her account, as though some vital aspect might change if Margot were only to think about it hard enough.

  The depression never came up. Aneurism, they said. An abnormal ballooning of a portion of a blood vessel, from the Greek aneurysma meaning ‘a widening’. She looked it up in the Encyclopaedia Britannica because no one tried to explain it to them and Danny kept asking her what it meant.

  A widening. A rupture. A small family blown to smithereens.

  Her father planned the cremation service as low-key and private, Just like your mum would have wanted. There was a clutch of her old theatre friends, a couple of mothers from the school, a brother and his family who lived up in Glasgow, Lorraine and her parents. A small audience for someone who had missed the limelight so much.

  Her memories of it now come cloaked in colour. The crematorium gardens bursting with roses of peach and vermilion. The sky cobalt blue, huge and cloudless like an invitation over their heads. One of the actress friends wearing a vivid emerald scarf. Light pouring into the chapel of rest, so intense that she had to shade her eyes in order to be able to read the hymns.

  She and Danny read a poem together, ‘Piano’ by D.H. Lawrence. Her mother had won a recital competition at school with the same piece.

  Softly in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;

  Tak
ing me back down the vista of years, till I see

  A child sitting under a piano, in the boom of tingling strings

  And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

  Margot’s voice started to unstitch. It was Danny who held firm, his twelve-year-old’s tones childish, yet determined in the tiny chapel.

  The glamour

  Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast

  Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

  She still has that photo of her mother as Portia. It’s tucked inside an envelope, at the bottom of a shoebox full of letters, handwritten notes and cards. One of the few things that survived the Mildmay Grove blast. Even now, twelve years on, it’s hard to take it out.

  Chapter 20

  Early June

  Unlike her father, Fabian was never going to choose a pizza chain. El Inferno is definitely more his style.

  He’s installed in the far corner below a huge photo of Picasso in his bare-chested prime. As she walks towards him, she sees he’s wielding a toothpick, a plate of olive stones in front of him, the black satin shirt undone two buttons too far. Her heart sinks even further.

  ‘Margarita, Margot? Caju Amigo? Hairy Virgin?’

  Felix had warned her not to come. She doesn’t have that luxury.

  ‘I’ll stay soft for now, thanks.’

  ‘As the bishop didn’t say to the actress.’

  How many has he had?

  At least for now, she doesn’t have to talk. She makes it past the guacamole dip, the chicken chimichanga and refried rice, right through to the baked banana in cinnamon pods, barely uttering a word, while Fabian holds court on his burgeoning business empire, the myriad ways he’s outsmarted the competition, his merger plans, the approaches from venture capitalists, all the fingers in all the pies.

  He finally licks the last traces of pineapple syrup from his spoon, sucks his fingertips clean and pushes his plate away.

  ‘All sounds fascinating,’ says Margot, almost surprised to hear the sound of her own voice after so long.

  ‘The problem with you priests is you’ve never lived in the real world. I mean, take Jeremy. Lovely guy, no question, but I don’t think he’d know a P and L account if it grabbed him by the throat.’

  Margot instinctively recoils from the disloyalty, picturing the teetering stack of bills and bank statements in the vestry.

  ‘Actually, Fabian, I don’t think he has time to think of anything else.’

  He narrows his eyes, taking another swig of his cocktail. Then his hand shoots out for hers.

  ‘You and I are two of a kind. We know how the real world works. That’s why I wanted to get you by yourself.’

  His rings are digging into her fingers. She pushes her napkin off her lap and leans away as far as she can.

  ‘St Mark’s has the potential to make a big fat juicy income. You do know that, don’t you? Great location, a roomy space, a solidly middle-class local demographic. But it needs drive and business nous, plus,’ – he leans in towards her – ‘a purge of all the blue rinses. Know what I mean?’

  Her cheeks betray her.

  ‘Exactly,’ he smirks. ‘I’ve done the sums and worked out how much we could rake in – and I’m talking major spondulicks – if we market ourselves as a professional events venue.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  What’s in it for him?

  ‘I’m not talking crappy church-hall plastic glasses stuff,’ he snaps. ‘Or even just weddings and christenings and all that religious business. This is about corporate entertainment, Margot: business lunches, sponsorship launches, private parties dripping in coke, top-end stuff, right? A church by Great Portland Street tube has transformed itself into a premier gig. Wait.’ He pulls a glossy brochure out of his briefcase and slaps it down in front of her. ‘All the sexy brands in fashion, media, the arts – they’d lap up holding big events in a place like St Mark’s. Glamorous, exclusive, quirky, a little bit cutting edge, a little bit trad, all very postmodern. We just need to tart the place up, put in some funky new lights, glossy paint, cover over all the depressing stuff.’

  Her mouth slowly opens.

  ‘All those war memorials and plaques commemorating some old codger who snuffed it a couple of centuries ago, I mean, really, who cares, right? Places like St Mark’s can rent themselves out for several grand a night. I’ve already got a few key contacts lined up to come and take a look.’

  That’s part of what’s in it for him, she suspects.

  ‘All it’ll need is imagination and designer savvy.’ His fingers tighten on hers. ‘I know you’re the girl for the job.’

  She removes her hand and opens the brochure. It smells of expensive laminate.

  ‘But Fabian, this is a deconsecrated church. St Mark’s is very much alive and kicking.’

  ‘Debatable.’

  ‘It’s a totally different context.’

  He shrugs.

  ‘What does the vicar say about all this?’

  For the first time this evening, he hesitates.

  ‘He hasn’t heard the whole idea in depth as yet.’ He takes another swig of his drink. ‘Thought I’d crystallise a few things first. He’s a busy man. But he’ll be all over it like a rash. I mean, it’ll be serious dosh in his coffers. No more begging for an extra few pennies in the collection plate every Sunday morning. It’ll put a rocket under the church’s finances for years.’

  His cack-handedness is breathtaking. Yet even as she thinks that, she detects a kernel of truth in what he says. The church is always short of funds, and 150-year-old buildings don’t mend themselves. He leans forward, his breath pungent.

  ‘Some of the old bags are bound to be a bit queasy about it because of the whole religious thing. That’s where you come in again, darling.’ He drops his voice. ‘We’ll have to lose the pews to make way for stacking chairs and that’s bound to get the pensioners’ backs up. But this is 2017. They need to get with the programme. One of my suppliers has already signed up to take them off our hands and recycle them as retro chic.’

  He waves over the waiter.

  ‘So where are we going on to?’

  ‘Sorry, I can’t, Fabian.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘Thanks for a great evening.’

  He rattles his car keys close to her face.

  ‘All work and no play makes Margot a very dull girl.’

  She holds her poker face steady.

  ‘It’s been fun. Another time, definitely.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that. And in the meantime, I’ll give you a lift home.’

  She starts to protest, but he raises his hand. The conversation’s over.

  The inevitable black BMW reeks of Italian leather and emetic aftershave.

  ‘Lonely life,’ he says, roaring out of the Design Centre car park. He puts his hands together in mock prayer. She holds her breath until they rejoin the steering wheel.

  ‘Ten-thirty on a balmy June evening and our glamorous curate’s going home to don her bedsocks.’

  They screech to a halt at a set of lights at the top of Upper Street. Fabian leans his arm across the back of her seat, fingers grazing her neck.

  ‘There are three hundred and fifty people in the congregation to look after, so not much time for being – you know – lonely.’ She tries to keep it light, pulling away as his hand leaves her to change gear.

  ‘The shepherdess and her flock.’ ‘Shepherdess’ with added shhhhh.

  Please God, no snarl-ups at Highbury Corner.

  ‘You don’t fool me, Margot.’ His voice has thickened. ‘Young girl like you. Must be so, you know, frustrating.’ He sucks his teeth.

  ‘May I?’ She reaches forward quickly and flicks on the sound system.

  Springsteen. Her father’s favourite. She considers twisting the dial, but Fabian’s fingers seem to be performing some kind of foreplay on the steering wheel.

  ‘Woo-hoo I�
��m on fire,’ Fabian howls.

  Central locking, she realises.

  ‘Thing is with you, it’s all about the virgin whiteness, isn’t it?’

  A car has stopped on the inside lane up ahead, its hazard lights blurry bursts of orange in the windscreen. She’s reliving the image of Jeremy’s hand clapped on Fabian’s shoulder right back on her first day last July.

  ‘Many men would find the idea of a woman at the altar ball-breaking,’ he continues. The gears change with a crunch, before the car bolts across Upper Street and takes an illegal right. His eyes are conducting, at most, a cursory relationship with the road. ‘I’m not most men.’

  ‘If you go straight ahead here, and take a left turn, we’re almost there.’

  Two minutes later, they screech to a halt a few doors away from her house.

  She starts to pull at the door as soon as they’re stationary.

  ‘Hey, what’s the hurry?’ He tucks the keys into his breast pocket and swivels to face her, arm draped back on her headrest.

  ‘Thanks for the lift, Fabian, but I really need to––’

  ‘You’re hot, you know that, Margot? Uptight, but hot.’

  He leans closer, garlicky breath in her face.

  ‘I’ve seen the way you look at me.’ She fumbles at the door. ‘It’s always the quiet ones.’

  ‘No, sorry, you––’

  He drags her face round and with one move his tongue is deep inside her mouth, lashing from side to side, bathed in boozy saliva.

  She pushes him back as hard as she can and manages to snatch the keys out of his breast pocket.

  He leans across the passenger seat as she stumbles out onto the pavement.

  ‘Hard-to-get is always best,’ he slurs. ‘Little Miss Virginal, I don’t—’

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  Margot hauls herself upright, her whole body trembling. Felix has his hand clamped around Fabian’s arm.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ shouts Fabian, wrenching himself away and moving across to try to open the driver’s door. Felix gets there first and pushes him back inside.