The Girls' Book of Priesthood

by Louise Rowland

  ‘Don’t tell me you fell for that?’

  The metallic clang of Margot’s heels bounces off the walls as she charges down three flights of stairs.

  It’s only when she’s back on the pavement that the anger gives way to shock and then to grief.

  Her best friend.

  Chapter 23

  Fourth week of June

  The vestry has become the Minotaur’s cave. This cluttered, shambolic, familiar space she’s worn like a second skin now bristling with menace. Her fears that she might not get to the end of her curacy next week are now taking shape in gothic form. Glances slide, silences are spiked, throats theatrically cleared.

  Jeremy is already at his desk when she walks in. He’s been doing this often recently, insomnia yet another reward for him putting her on his payroll.

  She absorbs the fall of his shoulders, the pile of untouched paperwork.

  He gives her a wan smile.

  ‘Jeremy, I’m—’

  He holds up a finger, as if the words hadn’t already failed her.

  ‘I’m going to collect something from the bookshop down near the Angel. Fancy joining me?’

  She nods, miserably.

  ‘Do you think we need a brolly?’

  The small café is packed with young mothers balancing toddlers on their laps. The chaos of buggies by the front door almost deters Jeremy, until Margot reminds him this place does the best cupcakes in Islington.

  They squeeze in next to a table laden with flat whites, organic muffins and sippy cups. Several of the women glance over and exchange a look with each other.

  Through the window, she can see the greasy spoon over the road where she and Roderick met all those months ago. She looks away. This is the conversation she’s been dreading most of all.

  ‘You know it’s not me who makes the rules, don’t you?’

  She concentrates on carving her cappuccino froth into small spikes.

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, we don’t live in the Dark Ages.’ He clears his throat. ‘One thing I don’t get.’

  A sippy cup lands by Margot’s foot. She hands sit back, glad of the brief diversion.

  ‘You were so keen to blend in.’

  ‘I was. Am.’

  ‘And then you launch yourself headfirst into a frankly insane relationship with a married member of the congregation.’

  She shakes her head. Where does she start?

  ‘No? Well, I know he’s married and he’s been spotted more than once in St Mark’s. In my book, that makes him a regular.’

  ‘He’s an atheist.’

  Jeremy leans away from her. ‘And that’s supposed to be a recommendation?’

  ‘No, no, I mean, he’s about to get divorced.’

  Jeremy sighs, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘Plus, someone saw you going into his flat one night. Don’t ask me who.’

  At this point, it wouldn’t even surprise her if she’s been tailed by a private detective.

  Jeremy picks up a napkin and swipes at his chin.

  ‘Let’s set aside what this guy does and doesn’t believe. Each of us has to find our own pathway. And what you get up to in your private life should be your own business, of course. Within limits. But,’ – he wipes the side of his cup – ‘we’re supposed to be setting an example, you and I, unfair though that may seem. Congregations hold us up to different standards, far higher than any they would ever set themselves. They want us to be paragons of virtue, no matter how pockmarked our virtue may be.’

  One of the young mothers on the neighbouring table is nuzzling her baby’s hair, stroking the skin on his ankle where the tiny sock has rolled down. Margot looks away.

  Jeremy nudges the plate of cupcakes towards her.

  ‘Discomfort eating,’ he says, biting off a marzipan carrot. ‘So, are you going to marry him?’ He pauses. ‘When, you know, he’s free?’

  Her cheeks flare.

  ‘We’re not seeing each other any more.’

  ‘Ah.’

  A commotion over by the door distracts them both. A woman is trying to drag a large buggy outside with a little boy on a scooter in tow. A couple of other pushchairs have got caught up in the tangle. She makes it outside with the help of a couple of young guys who then walk into the café, heads together, sharing a quick joke. They’re attractive, slim, both dressed in jeans and button-down shirts. Several heads follow them to their table. But it’s not the expressions on the other women’s faces that strike Margot. It’s Jeremy’s.

  She waits for him to look at her again. When he does, it’s all there.

  The space between them shimmers. He gives a tiny shrug.

  ‘No righteous judgement from me, Margot. I’ve been on the receiving end of it for the past twenty-three years.’ He looks down at his plate. ‘Endless interrogations about my holiday plans, where was my vicar’s wife and all the rest.’

  The backstory unspools in her head. How did she never see? He waits a few moments for her to catch up.

  ‘Let me tell you something, since we seem to be doing True Confessions this morning.’

  She starts to fold her paper cupcake case into tiny squares.

  ‘When I was in my last parish down in Devon, I met someone. Just like you have.’

  He pauses, gathering himself.

  ‘Without wanting to sound like daytime TV, it was the bolt-from-the-blue thing we all crave but very few of us are lucky enough to get. But you know, I was – we were – lucky. He swallows. ‘It felt so good that very not long afterwards, he came to live with me. We thought it would be OK, we’d be discretion incarnate and no one would be any the wiser.’ He shakes his head. ‘How naïve we were. Someone in the congregation got wind of it somehow and that was that.’

  She looks up. His face tightens.

  ‘They threatened to expose us unless we, we—’

  ‘You stopped seeing him.’

  ‘The single biggest regret of my life.’

  She looks back down, appalled by the implications of this.

  ‘It’s too late?’

  ‘It is too late.’ There’s a catch in his voice.

  She pulls her jacket tighter. The happy babble around them in the café is a particularly cruel soundtrack to this story without a happy ending.

  Jeremy shrugs and arranges his face into bravery, straightening his shoulders and flicking the crumbs off his jacket. He reaches for the rest of her cupcake.

  ‘Don’t misunderstand me, Margot. I’ve very fulfilled in my life now, serving God and pursuing my ministry at St Mark’s in the way I always wanted to. I would never have willingly given that up. It’s the life I chose and was chosen for. Just like you. I feel that even more now than I did when I started out.’

  She tips her head. ‘But?’

  ‘But if it were today, I would fight for him. I know we could have carried on under the radar somehow, come to some sort of accommodation with the parish, if you like. And things have moved on so far now, in any case. In the rest of society. at least.’ He bites his lip. ‘We just got our timing very wrong.’

  They look at each other for a few moments.

  ‘We’re all human – even priests,’ he continues. ‘We all feel fear, rage, lust, love. I don’t know how up you are on your Leonard Cohen, but he hit it bang on when he said, “There’s a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”’

  ‘That’s beautiful.’

  ‘What’s the New Testament if not one long manifesto on forgiveness and compassion? “Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.”’

  ‘Hadley said the same thing last week.’

  ‘Did she? I’m looking forward to meeting her at your priesting.’

  Margot looks away. She won’t make it that far,

  ‘Who you are as a human being – a sexual being included – has no bearing on your role as a man or woman of God. Sin is a state without God. The most important thing is integrity in a loving relationship. You and I are as devoted to our mission as Revere
nd Bloggs with his wife and his two point two kids and bog-standard existence. More so, even, because we’ve swum so much against the tide to get here.’

  He’s right. But he’s not the one pronouncing judgement.

  ‘Not everyone sees the world the same way, sadly,’ he sighs, reading her mind. ‘Some people don’t even want a vicar’s wife to have a life of her own, let alone the female vicar. St Mark’s used to be a live-and-let-live kind of place. I don’t know what happened.’

  He touches her arm.

  ‘Let’s pray that no one makes a complaint to the bishop’s office. He tends towards the evangelical on this kind of stuff.’

  Why doesn’t she just jack it all in now? At least then she’d be in control of the decision.

  Halfway through the morning, there’s a loud tap of the vestry door, a boisterous statement of intent rather than the tentative tappings announcing the arrival of one of the flower ladies.

  Jeremy glances over at Margot and pushes back his chair.

  She gasps as a few moments later, two policemen stride inside. The sight of the domed helmets, the Day-Glo vests, the shiny handcuffs and the radios attached to their jackets jars violently in this tiny room. The taller of the two is so bulky, he topples the pyramid of tombolo donations by the door. The other one is younger, skinnier and, she realises with a jolt, familiar. She’s seen those ruddy cheeks and the wisps of strawberry blond before.

  They give Roderick a businesslike nod and he offers an odd little wave in return. Was he expecting them?

  Jeremy pulls on his jacket.

  ‘How can we help, gentlemen?’

  ‘We’re here to speak to Reverend Goodwin, vicar.’

  Roderick’s crooked finger directs them to their target.

  Margot somehow feels calm. Something sinister has been lurking on the edge of her vision for weeks now. She just wasn’t expecting it to appear in this precise form: two Metropolitan policemen, one of them fiddling the handcuffs hanging from his belt as they wait for her to respond.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘A private word, madam, please.’

  ‘Reverend,’ corrects Jeremy.

  A gaggle has formed over by the kitchen door. Tommy, frowning in concern, two of the flower ladies, huddled and scared, and, out of nowhere, Gwen.

  ‘Somewhere private, maybe?’ the senior one asks again.

  Margot glances over at Jeremy and then steps in front of them towards the hall. Should she have some kind of legal representative with her? Maybe she’s not even entitled to that.

  ‘You having a clear-out, miss?’ the younger one asks, as they walk towards the Kool Gang Corner.

  ‘A clear-out?’

  He frowns. Margot drags one of the playgroup tables across, then a couple of the plastic chairs. The young one grins at the sight of his superior’s attempts to squash into one.

  ‘This is as private as it gets, I’m afraid.’

  The two of them nod and pause. She waits for the sound of the gavel.

  ‘I believe you know a minor named Cydney Armstrong?’

  A rush of adrenaline powers through her. An accident? A hit-and-run? Drugs?’

  ‘Can confirm you know her, please?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I do,’ whispers Margot.

  An uneven clip-clopping sound starts at the other end of the hall. They all turn to see Roderick stumbling towards them, bearing a tray with two mugs. In the eleven months and three weeks Margot has been at St Mark’s, he has never once switched on the kettle.

  ‘Coffee, officers?’

  The tray makes a shaky descent onto the table, each mug adrift in a small puddle of brown.

  ‘That’s very kind, sir. Don’t mind if I do.’

  Roderick pulls out the handkerchief, wipes his fingers, stuffs it back in his trousers and stands watching, arms across his chest.

  All three men look at each other. The superior clears his throat.

  ‘I’m sorry, Reverend, but we need to speak to Miss Goodwin in private. If you don’t mind.’

  ‘Are you sure I can’t be of any help?’

  ‘We’ve got it covered, sir. Thanks all the same.’

  Roderick’s face creases back into a scowl. They wait until he’s shuffled his way back out into the vestry, Margot suppressing a scream.

  ‘Nice bloke,’ says the young one, before taking a sip of his coffee and wincing.

  ‘So, Reverend Goodwin, can you confirm how you know Cydney Armstrong?’

  Margot takes a deep breath.

  ‘I lodge with her family. At forty-nine Aberdeen Avenue.’

  ‘Correct.’

  The younger one jots down something in childish script.

  ‘Is she OK? Has there been some sort of accident?’

  ‘Depends on what you mean by accident.’ He pauses for dramatic effect. ‘An incident, certainly.’

  There’s no sound for a few seconds, other than a roaring in Margot’s head, as the younger one makes more notes in his pad.

  ‘Can you please confirm where you were late afternoon on June the nineteenth? We’re talking between five and six p.m.?’

  The Kool Gang’s Pentecost paintings are swimming in and out of focus opposite her, scarlet and orange flames twisting before her eyes.

  Her mind has turned blue screen. She battles to control the tremor in her voice. ‘Two days ago, you said?’

  He waits.

  ‘I can look it up in my diary.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Can I ask why you need to know?’

  The one in charge sniffs, pulls a tissue out of his pocket, takes his time wiping his nose, and stuffs it back in his trousers. Red veins marble his flabby cheeks. She’s aware of the younger one watching her, mouth slightly ajar.

  ‘Cydney Armstrong has been charged with aggravated criminal damage. At Highbury High School.’

  Margot inhales.

  ‘Smashed up the head’s room,’ the other one says.

  ‘Deputy head,’ the senior officer snaps.

  Margot clamps her hand over her mouth.

  ‘Allegedly smashed.’

  ‘Allegedly.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘Nasty business,’ says the senior officer in a flat tone. ‘Graffiti all over the walls, not nice at all, Reverend. Picture frames smashed, drawers tipped out onto the floor, a right mess, to be honest. It almost looked like a professional job. I’ve seen enough of those.’

  ‘They even cut some soft toy to ribbons,’ says the younger one, excited. ‘You OK, miss? You’ve gone sort of grey. Want some water?’

  Margot pinches the skin between her thumb and forefinger hard.

  ‘Can I call you once I’ve checked my diary?’ She hesitates. ‘I’ve left it at home.’

  The senior one frowns.

  ‘My vestry diary won’t have all my movements in.’

  The officers look at each other, then the older one sighs and heaves himself up. Margot takes the card he gives her and leads them to the door.

  She watches them marching along the pavement, the world dissolving around her. Cyd’s in grave trouble. And she’s nursing some violent grudge against Felix.

  But where does she herself fit in?

  Then, in an instant, she understands. She sets off up the pavement at a run.

  ‘Wait, officers.’

  They both turn and stare.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve just remembered,’ she blurts. ‘Cydney and I were out shopping that afternoon. By the Angel. You know, that indoor shopping centre. I needed a birthday present for a friend and asked her to come along and help me choose.’

  The senior officer gives her a long, level look.

  ‘Underwear shopping. You know, officer.’

  The younger one blinks.

  ‘You sure about that, Reverend?’ the older one asks.

  She nods, unable to trust herself.

  ‘Sure you don’t need to check in that diary of yours?’ His voice stays neutral. ‘Right, I see. Well, miss, if charges ar
e pressed, we’ll have to bring you into the station to make a full sworn statement. You understand that?’

  Margot’s teeth are starting to chatter.

  ‘Clear?’ adds the young one.

  She nods again and turns away, almost breaking into a run back towards St Mark’s.

  This is all her fault. If she’d spent more time with Cyd, really tried to coax the hurt out of her, instead of devoting so much time to just pleasing herself with Felix, they wouldn’t be in this nightmare. She was put in that home for a reason. Jeremy as good as told her that.

  The image of Felix’s room haunts her: his sanctuary, all those things he loved – violated.

  Then the final nail.

  He’s the one pressing charges.

  No one’s in when she flings open the front door and rushes into the hall. The cavernous house crackles with silence.

  In the kitchen, there’s a note from Nathan on the table, tucked under a bag of hamster food.

  Margot, I’ve taken Cydney away for a couple of days. She needs a break. The boys are bunking up with friends. Sorry for the abruptness of this.

  N

  PS Could you feed Arsène and Mauricio?

  She tries his number repeatedly, but it goes straight to voicemail each time. She slumps in a chair and buries her head in her hands. Later – three hours, maybe four – as the late June day bleeds from the sky, gashes of red slashed into the clouds, Margot drags herself up the stairs of this grim sarcophagus of a house, with its leaching secrets and vindictive ghosts.

  She drifts from space to space, realising that, only now, is she seeing it properly for the first time, reading its unspoken codes.

  She walks into the boys’ rooms with their unmade beds and clutter-ridden floors, most of these toys and clothes no doubt chosen by their mother before she ran away from them. A handmade balsa-wood plane twirls dustily on its length of cotton from the ceiling lamp in Josh’s room, like a reminder of the cobweb frailty of family life.

  She walks on into Nathan’s room and stands in the middle of the navy chequered half-moon rug. The former marital bed is covered by a beige-and-brown bedspread, as though to confirm all life has been sucked out of it. Margot catches her reflection in the mirror of the dresser and snatches off her collar. On the side table, Nathan has set out a small orderly parade of aftershaves, two cufflink boxes, a pair of nail clippers, some plastic collar tabs and, on a raised shelf, a recent photo of the four of them in a rowing boat on a lake somewhere. There’s no evidence anywhere in the entire room that Elspeth ever existed. Until, that is, she spots, in a small china bowl on the window ledge under a tangle of elastic bands, Nathan’s wedding band.