The Girls' Book of Priesthood

by Louise Rowland

  ‘A passing Samaritan, you tosser.’

  Loud barking breaks out right behind Margot. A Dalmatian tied to the fence.

  ‘Time you buggered off, mate,’ Felix warns, through the driver’s window. ‘Mind you don’t get pulled over on the way home, know what I mean?’

  Margot is shaking so violently, she has to hold onto the railings next to her.

  ‘You’ll pay for this, you bitch.’

  Felix holds up his phone. ‘Photographic evidence. And, like I said, Islington is crawling with police cars.’

  Fabian spits out of the window and slams his foot on the accelerator. Felix stands watching him from the middle of the road.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she whispers.

  ‘Didn’t take a genius.’

  The future rears up in tabloid block headlines. She starts to sob.

  Felix takes off his jumper and wraps it around her. Cyd or Nathan could walk out of the house at any moment.

  ‘Come here, it’s over now.’

  ‘You can’t come in.’

  ‘Obviously.’ He strokes her hair. ‘Come on, let’s get you a drink. What a prick.’

  She allows him to lead her back towards the Fields, sanctuary and peril all wrapped up in one.

  Felix pulls the duvet higher over his shoulders. She likes nothing more than watching him sleep.

  How can something this good be wrong? Love lies at the heart of life; God wants us to be happy and fulfilled in whatever form that happiness takes.

  She sits up hugging her knees, drinking in the way his cheeks dip and curve, the sweep of lashes against the freckles. Every time she looks, some new feature reveals itself. That tiny scar under his chin, the curl above his ear that refuses to lie flat, the shape of the shadow where he has yet to shave. It’s almost impossible to resist tracing her fingertips across his lips, the endless thrill of touching his skin. Instead, she shrugs back down under the cover and moulds herself against his shoulder, her breath rustling his hair. She kisses the small mole just above where the bone peaks.

  How many times have they managed this? Six, at most. An abnormal couple in so many ways. Why does he bother? She knows how he loathes all the concealment, as if she’s ashamed of him. When she’s alone, she dreams of him pulling her against him, owning her even in sleep. She lays her head back down on his chest, inhaling his biscuity warmth. Just one minute more.

  Everything is silent; no consoling thrum of small-hours traffic, no night buses intimating other, less complicated lives.

  Felix’s foot is dangling over the side of the bed. He turns and mutters something. These nocturnal monologues were disconcerting at first; sudden flashes of his subconscious self. Now she cherishes the unguardedness.

  Loving him, feeling so completed in his presence; why should there have to be any conflict with her other world? Sex is the deepest expression of love.

  She turns over to face the wall.

  Adultery.

  She hears him breathing next to her, the comforting rhythm of it.

  The pressure is growing stifling. Three and half weeks to Petertide.

  It’s like being at the twenty-three-mile mark in a marathon. She turns back and absorbs Felix’s warmth, tears prickling. Just a minute more.

  Lord, I pray that my love for this man, greater than any I have known for anyone, is not sinful in Your eyes. If it be Your will. Amen.

  Vic-i-leaks: Scenes from Parish Life, 14 June 2017

  Wish the clergy wouldn’t go on about cash all the time. What was the point of Jesus throwing the moneylenders out of the temple? I mean, surely a couple of the Care Bears must have a few grand stashed in the drawer under their incontinence pads?

  She inhales sharply.

  Gwen.

  The address is at the far end of Balls Pond Road, a mile or so on from where Arthur used to live. She swallows as the bus passes his old block. They carry on past scrappy front gardens, litter-scattered pavements, a crop of ‘for sale’ signs. She gets off a couple of stops early to walk the rest of the way. She needs time to prepare herself.

  Friends close, enemies closer. Somewhere along the line, Gwen has swapped roles without Margot even noticing the transition.

  Fabian, on the other hand, has been a wolf in satin shirts from day one. Felix’s insistence that she report him, that she owes it to every other female curate, to every woman who wants to have anything to do with the Church, to all working women everywhere, is all perfectly legitimate. And completely out of the question. March up to Jeremy in the vestry and tell him his favourite fundraiser is a sexual predator who jumped on her in the front of his BMW? He probably wouldn’t even believe her.

  This morning’s visit, however, is different. On this, she has no choice.

  She checks the scrap of paper yet again for the address she scribbled down from the electoral roll. A train passes below the fence opposite with an unnerving roar.

  She stops again a few feet away, takes a few deep breaths, and then walks off the pavement. up a couple of steps and presses the bell for 40B. Her stomach is roiling with nerves. She shouldn’t have come alone.

  She bites her lip. Enough. The woman’s a 63-year-old do-gooder, not a violent psychopath. As far as she knows.

  No answer.

  She buzzes again, more firmly. Still nothing. She’s starting to retreat down the steps, when a light comes on in the hall and the door opens an inch or two on its chain.

  The face peering out at her isn’t Gwen’s.

  Margot stares back down at the paper in her hand.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I must have made a mistake.’

  ‘Hello, love. You must be the girl vicar she’s always on about.’

  The chain rattles out of the lock and the door opens. David, of course. The husband whose existence Margot so often doubted.

  ‘Come in, Vicar.’

  It’s such a violent derailing of the scenario she’s rehearsed, Margot’s at a loss for a reply.

  ‘Gwennie’s just popped out to the post office. She won’t be long. How about a cuppa while you wait?’

  ‘Maybe I should come back another time?’

  ‘Oh no, she’ll only be a minute. She’d be so disappointed to miss you.’

  She sleepwalks along the dark corridor, noticing the slight limp, as well as the powerful blend of beef extract and beeswax in the air.

  ‘Give us a sec while I put the kettle eon.’

  He gestures her towards an olive-green two-seater covered in home-crocheted cushions. Margot worries she’ll snap in two if she attempts to sit down, but forces herself onto the sofa.

  She looks round the small room and its commentary on the Gwen. A large collection of royal tat stretching all the way back to the wedding of Princess Margaret, an anaemic watercolour above the fireplace, a scuffed wooden bookcase with two shelves of thrillers and several potted cacti.

  Her eyes flit to the other end of the room and stay there, stunned. It’s covered wall to wall in photos of six or seven different children at various stages in their development, from babies all the way up to late teens and beyond, hairstyles changing and features maturing as they moved from primary school onwards, dressed as Brownies and Scouts and Guides, sometimes singly, sometimes in twos or threes, gummy, gappy smiles right through to the guarded self-consciousness of young adulthood.

  ‘Sugar, Margot?’

  ‘Oh, no, thanks.’

  ‘That’s right. You’re sweet enough, aren’t you?’

  His face betrays nothing as he hands down the Charles and Di mug, the liquid inside a rusty brown.

  There’s an ancient computer on a small table in the corner, its keyboard concealed under a pastel crocheted cover.

  She forces her eyes back to her host.

  ‘So, David, have you and Gwen lived here––’

  ‘She never shuts up about you, you know.’

  Her mug is balanced on her knee, the surface of the liquid trembling.

  ‘Margot this, Margot that. Sometime
s it feels like there’s three of us in this marriage.’ He gives a short laugh. ‘She even loves hearing your voice messages. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s called you once or twice on the sly just to hear you say you’re not there.’

  His tone is neutral. She’s not sure whether she’s expected to laugh.

  ‘Wow.’

  He shrugs.

  ‘Gwennie likes mothering people, that’s the thing. Always has.’

  Margot is sinking out of her depth.

  ‘She’s so incredibly generous with her time at St Mark’s,’ she says, hearing her voice rise an octave. ‘The vicar thinks she’s a superstar.’

  David considers this.

  ‘We all do,’ she adds quickly.

  ‘Generous, too.’ He drops two lumps of sugar into his mug. ‘That massage thingy you two went on, she paid an arm and a leg for it. You have no idea.’

  Her cheeks flare. He’s right. She doesn’t. Of all her responses to that day, all the images that disturb her, the one thing she never dwelt on was the cost. The price to her – Margot – in terms of time and dignity and acute discomfort, she’s contemplated that long and hard. But she’s never once reflected on what such an expensive outlay would do to this couple’s limited budget.

  ‘It was such a kind gesture,’ she clears her throat, ‘and a truly wonderful day.’

  David watches her as he unwraps a toffee. The crinkling is setting her teeth her edge.

  ‘Beautiful photos.’

  ‘The wishing wall, I call it.’ He stirs his tea, ‘Not to Gwennie of course.’

  ‘Oh, why? What, oh…’

  He gives her all the rope she needs. The realisation when it comes fills Margot with an intense sense of shame. All that bravado when she was having her manicure.

  ‘Our nephews and nieces – oh, and a couple of the neighbours’ kids.’

  Margot pulls at her collar then lets him see her looking at her watch, the coward’s way out.

  ‘David, I’m so sorry, I wish I could stay, but the vicar needs me to finish something back at St Mark’s.’

  He compresses his lips.

  ‘She’ll be very unhappy if I let you leave, Margot. This would have made her day, you here in our flat.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, replacing the mug on the coaster and reaching for her bag as she stands. A fat tortoiseshell cat winds around her calves. ‘Very fancy keyboard cover, I must say.’

  Her heart is pounding.

  ‘Oh, that. Gwennie made it for me. She knows absolutely nothing about computers. Zilch. Probably thought they need to be kept warm or something. Sweet, though. Typical of her. Told you she likes mothering things.’

  Mothering, smothering. She bites the inside of her cheek. The evidence of who, what Gwen is – and what she isn’t – bears down on her on all sides. Being pushy and bossy and in-your-face doesn’t make her an identify thief: just a sad, unfulfilled woman looking for some meaning to her twilight years.

  ‘Shall I give her a message for you or something?’

  ‘Oh, yes, it was just something to do with the book club. I’ll fill her in on Sunday.’

  She turns at the door. ‘And send her my love, will you?’

  The smell of Bovril clings to her as she leans her head against the bus window, humiliated. Above all, ashamed.

  Care Bears. How many people know about that? She’d assumed it was an in-joke in the vestry of St Mark’s. But maybe she’s wrong. Maybe its common clergy-speak throughout the whole of the C of E?

  How is she ever going to prove her innocence? Who of any of them is going to believe her, other than Felix?

  Nathan’s sitting in the living room in complete darkness when she gets back from the Standing Committee meeting a few days later.

  ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ Margot says, turning the light off quickly. ‘I just thought maybe I’d left a file in here.’

  ‘Sit down for a minute, would you?’

  Margot drops down into the chair opposite, her eyes adjusting to the shadows.

  ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘I’m out of ideas.

  She waits but he doesn’t say anything else.

  ‘Cyd?’

  ‘Sam found this.’

  He holds the foil wrapper out for her to inspect, but she doesn’t need to.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Doesn’t really matter where, does it? In here. Stuffed behind one of the cushions.’

  Now would be the time to confess. Admit that she’s been the keeper of Cyd’s secrets for her, a knowing accomplice to underage sex, alcohol and, for all she knows, drugs. She goes cold with shame, looking at the misery on Nathan’s face. Because part of the reason she hasn’t said anything is her own culpability. That bottle of champagne in the fridge.

  Margot was supposed to be the adult in the room.

  ‘I’m out of my mind with worry about her. Some boy called round a couple of nights ago.’ He rubs his face. ‘Boy? Christ – man, more like. I sent him packing, but there’s only so much I can do. God knows how I can rein her in; I can’t even think of the effect this may be having on Sam and Josh.’

  He downs the rest of his whisky.

  ‘I feel totally helpless, Margot.’

  ‘Clariss, please pick up. At least text me to tell me you’re OK. I understand how mad you are, and believe me, I know why, but at least do this one thing for me and let me know you’re fine. Please?’

  Lord, I feel so at sea. I’ve messed up everything. I thought it would be straightforward to live my life in Your service, following Your example of grace and compassion. Even if I make it through the three weeks, which is looking completely unlikely, I don’t think I’ll ever deserve the trust put in me.

  Part IV

  A Time of Reckoning

  Chapter 21

  Mid-June

  It’s a sultry day, the banked-up clouds swelling with menace. The Fields are still of people soaking up the warmth of summer’s flamboyant arrival. But Margot finds it a headachey heat, the pavements of Upper Street burning beneath her feet, the air torpid and relentless.

  Walking into the cool, airy silence of the church this evening gives her a sense of physical as well as spiritual relief. The freesias’ sugary greeting an antidote to the sweltering fumes outside.

  The oboe ushers in the choral anthem, ‘Domine Deus Rex Coelestis’ from Vivaldi’s Gloria. Its reedy perfection pierces the air, the melody curving like a ribbon around them all.

  Kyrie, Kyrie eleison. Lord, have mercy.

  The beauty of it brings tears to her eyes. She’s loved evensong ever since Cambridge: its quiet, reflective nature, the liturgy both tender and powerful, the sense of solace intense. Never has she needed it more.

  Gwen is sitting a few rows over to the right. Margot turns to her and smiles. Gwen looks at her blankly and then turns her head away. She can’t have seen her. Margot tries again a few minutes later. Again, nothing. Margot’s heart starts to race. Gwen, who until now has hung on her every word, now treating her like the Medusa.

  ‘We heard a few weeks back about Jesus’s humanity when He ascended up to heaven,’ says Jeremy from the pulpit. ‘He was flesh and blood, just like we are. Jesus was one of us. He never claimed to be perfect, just as none of us ever can.’ He frowns over the yellow frames and scans the small number of people scattered around the pews. ‘I think we’d all say Amen to that.’

  This time, Margot does catch Gwen’s eye, but she wishes she hadn’t. She bites her lip. She’ll track her down after the service, find out what’s wrong, make amends for whatever slight to Gwen’s pride she’s delivered this time. She can’t have any idea of Margot’s Vic-i-leaks suspicions, but she nevertheless needs to atone for them. A friendly chat, a big push on the book club, even an invitation to lunch. Whatever it takes.

  ‘May the road rise to meet you,’ says the vicar, his hand held high in blessing. ‘May the wind be ever at your back, may the sun shine warm upon your face and the rain fall s
oft upon your fields and, until we meet again, may God hold you ever in the palm of His hand.’

  Gwen is drying sherry glasses in the kitchen when Margot finds her. There’s usually half-a-dozen women wielding tea towels in here, eager to please the vicar, but tonight Gwen is rubber-gloved and alone.

  ‘Let me help you, Gwen.’ Margot reaches for a tea towel covered in self-portraits of the Kool Gang 1998.

  ‘That’s wet,’ snaps Gwen, snatching it out of her hand, and turning back to the sink.

  Margot bites back her response. She opens the cupboard under the draining board and rummages amongst the Tupperware boxes.

  ‘Did David tell you I popped by the other day?’ she asks, pulling out a couple of clean cloths.

  Gwen’s shoulders hunch further.

  ‘What a lovely man.’

  Gwen wheels round, a soapy plate in her hands.

  ‘Why didn’t you just phone?’

  ‘Oh. Well, I was nearby, so I just sort of dropped in.’

  Gwen doesn’t even bother to reply. Margot’s head pounds harder.

  There’s a click behind them. Pamela has just walked in, shutting the door as she does so. The tiny kitchen is clammy and oppressive. The small window above the sink looks terminally shut.

  ‘Margot, I must speak to you.’

  Margot places the tea towel over the back of the chair carefully.

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘In my capacity as head of the PCC.’ Pamela’s voice has tightened.

  Margot glances at Gwen, but she doesn’t move. Nor does Pamela ask her to. Instead, she swells her chest and steps closer.

  ‘I’m afraid we have a problem.’ She clears her throat. ‘You have a problem.’

  Margot’s knuckles are white from gripping the counter behind her. Pamela licks her lips, places a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘It has come to my attention that––’