Margot gasps, shaking her head.
‘That was nothing to do—’
Someone starts clapping. She moves her head a fraction. Gwen. Margot holds her breath. Surely any second now the whole story will come raining down on her head in front of them all. But Gwen’s clapping peters out as she walks down to join the rest of them. Still no public denunciation.
All of a sudden, Roderick starts to move towards her, slowly at first, then breaking into a charge. He stops right in front of her, stubble held up to her face. She can hear his lungs creaking. She reaches for the end of the pew for support.
‘The moment you arrived here, Margot Goodwin, it all started to go belly up. With your Ph.D. and your polysyllables and your bloody nail varnish. You’re like a cross-dresser, playing the part of a man. Why don’t you go and get married and pop out some babies just like St Augustine said, there’s a good girl.’
‘Twenty-first century, Roderick. Time you—’
She feels the sting a moment before the screams of those around her. She’s not fast enough to reach him. A sweep of his cassock and he’s hurried out through the porch, followed by his ragbag of support. The door bumps on its hinges and squeaks to a halt.
No silence could ever be deeper than this.
Yet she’s throbbing with adrenaline. If Roderick was bottling up that explosion, so, she realises, was she. All those years of good behaviour and biting her lip.
Hundreds of faces are watching her, eager for Act Two. Margot slowly turns to look behind her. Jeremy is clinging to the lectern as though he’s just survived a Force Eight. His hand is shaking as he beckons her towards him. He steps back and points her to the lectern. He’s inviting her to speak, but she doesn’t have the strength. He motions at it again, insistent.
She steps up and positions herself behind it, just like that very first time all those months ago. That first sermon, when she was so full of hope, as well as terror, about what lay ahead.
‘I’m so sorry you had to witness that, everyone.’ She stops, biting back the tears now. ‘I’m well aware that I’ve fallen short of your expectations in so many ways.’ She stops again, swallowing. ‘You, all of you, entrusted me with this most precious of roles in your church, in your lives, and I’ve managed to make a complete mess of it. I can only apologise for having let you down.’ She pulls out a crumpled tissue and waits. ‘For having set such a poor example of what a priest can and should be.’ She blows her nose hard and lifts her chin. ‘But thank you for welcoming me into your community in the way you have over the past year. And now, if anyone else would like to join those who have just voted with their feet, please follow your conscience. I know I have.’
She steps back from the microphone and closes her eyes.
There’s not a sound in the church. Then a light tapping sound starts, like rainfall on forest leaves, gaining momentum. It takes her a moment to realise. Applause, growing more and more thunderous.
She opens her eyes. The first person on her feet, leading the ovation that follows, is Pamela.
One of the last of her Christmas candles is flickering in a jam jar at the side of the bath, its powdery scent only adding to her sense of nausea.
Gwen and Roderick. Guilt is what consumes her most of all. She knows now that all Gwen wanted was a friend, some purpose and meaning to fill the emptiness in her life. How much would that have cost her? And she knows the same was true of Roderick. Even though he’d have happily tied her to the ducking stool given the chance, he was a crouched, scared old man who didn’t recognise his world any more. St Mark’s was their home. They’ve exiled themselves because of her.
A visceral need for Felix sweeps through her. For his humour and wisdom, his acceptance of her exactly as she is: his tireless efforts to try and understand the universe into which she’d dragged him.
Surviving the rest of today without Felix. Surviving all the rest of her days without Felix.
Salty tears slip down into the lukewarm water. She slides below the surface and holds her breath.
It’s very late, pitch dark, when her phone flashes on the rug next to her. She flicks on the bedside lamp.
Jeremy’s voice is thick as he confirms that he’s lost a fifth of his flock: his prized congregation built up over decades, decimated in the course of a single hour. Gone for good, all thanks to the black sheep in their midst.
She’s quiet after he’s finished. She’s entirely in his hands.
‘Who’d have thought that St Stephen’s, Finsbury, would be more exciting than us?’
She shudders.
‘St Stephen’s also happens to be where that famous nephew of Fabian’s pitched up, so my spies tell me.’
The fey-faced weasel with the iPad under his arm. She stares at the wall. Of course. Vic-i-leaks is probably his handiwork as well. Not that that matters now.
‘Roderick’s been planning this since the start of Lent, apparently. People have been calling me all afternoon to tell me they suspected something. Quite why they didn’t think to say anything before, you may well ask. Seems it was a very professional job. Flyers, phone calls, emails, undercover Twitter, the whole works to encourage people to defect. Fabian’s nephew again, no doubt.’
‘I’m sure.’
Roderick and Fabian. The ultimate odd couple, Mr Groomed and Mr Grime.
‘Even the evangelicals have gone to St Stephens?’
‘Not them, no, they’ve scarpered to that Alpha place at the back of Holloway Road. But both ends worked together on this – an unholy alliance of high and low, with the common enemy of St Mark’s. We’re far too liberal and easy-going for either camp.’ The bitterness of his laugh is new to her. ‘Seems we underestimated Roderick, Margot. There was plenty of Pentecostal fire left in that ancient belly.’
‘I’m so sorry, Jeremy.’
‘For what?’
Being a woman. Being the wrong kind of woman. For daring to imagine she had what it takes.
‘Funny old world,’ he mutters.
There’s another pause.
‘Do you know what, Margot? Gutted as I am to lose so many parishioners – it’s a big dent in our annual income, one or two were amongst our biggest standing-order givers – I somehow feel it’s for the best. That level of bad feeling will always burst out sometime, showering everyone in stinking pus.’
‘It wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been here.’
‘Maybe not. But the next curate might be female too, or the one after that. In any case, for Roderick, it wasn’t just about you being female, but also you being a much better priest than he is. Well, bugger off, Roderick, you foul-breathed old bore. St Stephen’s is welcome to you.’ He bursts into a quieter version of the familiar chuckle. ‘You know what William Booth of the Salvation Army said, don’t you? “My best men are women.”’
Her turn to laugh now. But the relief is brief.
‘I’m sorry Fabian’s gone, though Jeremy.’ She stops. ‘I know how much you valued his help.’
‘Well, since you’ve brought that up, there’s a story there. Two, in fact.’
Her skin prickles.
‘He came to see me a week or so ago.’ Jeremy clears his throat. ‘About you.’
Margot looks down at her hands.
‘Claimed you’d made some sort of lunge at him. Said you were probably a nymphomaniac, given all the other goings-on, but that he hadn’t told me earlier because he didn’t want to destabilise the congregation. He also said he was sure his nephew could be parachuted in to help if need be.’
Margot looks over at her reflection in the mirror on the back of the door.
‘Ridiculous, of course. But is there anything you want to tell me?
So she does. The whole tawdry tale. She even mentions Arthur’s early warning.
‘Just as I thought. That’s why I laughed and sent him away with a flea in his ear. But I don’t understand, Margot. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Golden-Boy Fundraiser’s word against mine.’
‘You know me better than that.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Yet another miscalculation.
‘Anyway, the second story is just as lunatic. Pamela tells me that Fabian was hatching some plan to turn St Mark’s into a high-end nightclub-cum-casino money-spinner. They had a huge row about it a few days ago. That’s the real reason he walked, I suspect. Business plans not on track. He must been hoping to cream off some serious money from it. All his “big I am, finger-in-every-pie” routine, was just that – a routine. And I completely fell for it.’
He clears his throat.
‘I had heard something about the nightclub idea. Lunatic.’
‘Turns out he was already talking to contractors and so on. The bloody cheek of it. I know we all obsess about funding around here – needs must in a building as old as ours – but there are limits. Sexing-up St Mark’s? He was planning to change the name to Marky’s Place, Pamela said. Can you imagine?’
Margot can. ‘Well, he and his nephew will have many happy hours slagging off St Stephen’s.’
‘Exactly.’
They fall silent for a moment. She can hear him yawning.
‘Jeremy?’
He grunts. She closes her eyes.
‘Has the bishop been in touch?’
‘No.’
‘I thought that maybe Gwen or Fabian or even Pamela – you know?’
He pauses, apparently refilling his glass with something.
‘Fabian was too busy trying to turn us into Stringfellows, Margot.’ He sighs. ‘Someone like Gwen would never criticise St Mark’s in public, no matter how much we’d disappointed her, and Pamela, well, it seems she’s now your number-one fan.’
‘Really?’
‘She liked your gutsy rejection of the loadsamoney scheme. Fabian told her during their big showdown.’
Perfect Pamela.
‘And Roderick?’
‘My hunch is that Roderick was too preoccupied with plotting his coup d’état to expend any effort on your love life. He had you down as a hussy from day one, so you didn’t have far to fall.’
Another light chuckle.
She allows herself a small smile.
‘Now that Roderick’s legged it to the lacy end of things, the church flat is free, of course. Let me know when you want to move in.’
Her heart leaps for a second before reality kicks back in. She’s nowhere near out of the woods yet.
‘Do you mind if we leave things as they are for now?’
‘You’re kidding? I thought you’d be biting my hand off for the keys, after all your whinging.’
‘Can I let you know in a day or so?’
‘Oh, there is one other thing. Went out of my mind with all this other stuff happening. He coughs. ‘I did hear from the bishop’s office, actually. As did all the north London incumbents with a female curate. About that website.’
The sense of safety had lasted five minutes, at most.
‘There are only six female curates in the diocese. Unfortunately, the other five are all in their mid sixties. There are rumours of a full-blown investigation. We may not be Roman Catholic, but we do love our inquisitions.’
‘I understand.’
‘Chin up, Margot. We’re a team, you and I.’ He pauses. ‘But it would help if we come up with a head for their platter.’
She’s making coffee just before midnight a few days later when the house phone rings. She hesitates, then decides to answer it.
Nathan’s voice is tight.
‘Sorry to call so late, but we’ve got a problem, Margot.’
Margot sinks onto a stool.
‘It’s Cyd.’
Her heart starts to race.
‘I left her with my sister in Lincoln while I went off to a work meeting for a few hours. She’s done a runner.’
Margot gasps.
‘I’ve no idea whether she has any money on her or where she is or who—’
‘Tell me how I can help,’ she says quickly.
‘I haven’t called the police yet. That’s all we need right now.’
‘Shall I try and contact some of her friends?’
She swallows. She could ask Felix if he could help.
‘None of them know anything. Or claim not to.’
‘What about her mother?’
‘You’re joking.’
She bites her lip.
‘She took some of her clothes with her, so at least we know some pervert didn’t just lift her off the street. Not yet, anyway.’ His voice has started to crack.
‘She’ll be safe, Nathan. I’m sure of it.’
He blows his nose.
‘I’m not sure I can share your faith in happy endings. I’ll keep you posted.’
The line goes dead.
Please, please may she return home safe. Help her to understand that whatever pain and hurt she’s feels now won’t last for ever. That her mother still loves her even if she can’t see it right now. That we all love her. That there’s always hope. Please, God, may she come home safely.
The next few hours are the most harrowing of her entire life, every possible threat that Cyd might be facing parading at some point through her mind.
At one point near dawn, she falls into a fitful half-sleep, in which she’s on her hands and knees crawling towards a finishing line, but each time she’s almost there, the tape is pulled further and further away. She wakes with a jolt, dry-mouthed, heart pounding.
The shame she feels at her inability to help is beyond words. Camden Market is echoing when she arrives mid morning the next day. Most of the stalls are locked up and there’s hardly anyone walking around, compared to the boisterous, teeming atmosphere when she was last here.
Margot has no idea why she’s come or what she’s expecting to find here. The chances of bumping into the boyfriend are virtually non-existent. She just felt drawn here as the last place, the only place, she and Cyd visited together, and because, as she told Jeremy, she had to be doing something, somewhere, rather than just waiting at the other end of the phone.
She wanders around the Stables Market and on through the warren of Asian food stalls to the section next to the canal, most of which is boarded up. The whole exercise is pointless.
She’s close to tears by the time she walks into the Proud Gallery, just in case. She snatches for her phone the second she hears the bleep.
‘I need to speak to you.’
Margot has to double-check, she’s so taken aback. She holds the phone up to her ear, dreading this conversation as well.
‘Sun, moon, whole entire universe. It all revolves around you, doesn’t it, Margot?
‘No, no, I—’
‘The rest of us, like some supine Greek chorus, watch you weep and wail and wring your hands before we shepherd you towards your happy ending. Margot Goodwin, a masterclass in self-obsession.’
Margot’s mouth fills with bile.
‘Please, not right now.’
‘I’ve quit my Ph.D.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘Fait accompli.’
Margot slumps back against the wall, next to a row of photos of 1960s’ psychedelia.
‘But it was going so well.’
‘Was it?’ A sharp bark of laughter. ‘How would you know?’
Guilt upon guilt.
‘Well, how about taking some time out to regroup?’
‘You don’t get it, do you?’
Margot lowers her head.
‘No, I don’t, Clariss. You’re right. I’m sorry.’
She listens in silence. The writer’s block on the post-doc. The six months of swelling panic as she realised she was losing the thread, the deadline looming like an obstacle in the fast lane, threatening everything she’d slogged so hard for over the past eight years. Exactly the same time it’s taken Margot to get here.
Her eyes are hot with tears. The slow-motion derailment Clarissa is describing could so easily have been – still be – her own. No wonder she became so fi
xated on Soulmates. Then, in that instant, she sees with absolute certainty what she’s always known.
‘It’s you, isn’t it?’
Silence on the other end of the phone. The barman glances over as he wipes down the optics behind the counter.
‘Vic-i-leaks? It’s you.’
Margot’s arms are stippled in goose pimples.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You need to be honest with me.’ Margot swallows. ‘My head’s on the line. It’s really serious.’
She can hear a huge intake of breath on the other end of the line.
‘It was meant to be just a bit of fun, M.’
Everything falls into place like a child’s Slinky toy snapping back into its coils. Margot had confided all sorts of things in those first few months and Clarissa’s insider knowledge, of course, allowed her to fill in the rest.
‘A bit of light relief from all the feminist theology.’
‘You think it’s funny?’
Disgust churns inside Margot. ‘You could have trashed my entire career.’
‘Sounds like you don’t need my help on that front.’
Margot holds the phone away from her.
‘Margot? Are you there? Hello? Look, I’m sorry, OK?’
Margot leans back against the wall.
‘You’re right. I’m sorry. It was a shitty thing to do. It just sort of ran away with itself. I guess I got carried away.’ She clears her throat. ‘I was angry, OK?’
‘Angry?’ She swallows. She knows the answer.
‘You just disappeared off the radar. One minute we were mates, the next you’d sort of pissed off into your own cosy parish universe. I suppose I thought the Soulmates stuff was a way of having some fun together.’ She pauses. ‘And then that obviously didn’t happen either.’
Margot closes her eyes.
‘They’re about to wheel in the diocesan heavies, Clariss.’
‘OK, don’t worry, I’ll sort it.’ Clarissa pauses. ‘I miss you, M.’
‘I really have been a crap friend, haven’t I?’
The Girls' Book of Priesthood Page 25