‘So much worse than that.’ Clarissa blows her nose on the other end of the line. ‘But in a spirit of extreme, entirely selfish generosity, I’m prepared to forgive you and try again’
‘I miss you too,’ Margot says.
The weight falls back on her shoulders the second she comes off the phone.
Twelve o’clock. Not a word from Nathan.
She arrives back at Aberdeen Avenue half an hour later to find the front door unlocked. She steps inside slowly.
‘Hello?’ She walks forward a few steps. ‘Hello?’
‘Fuck, why aren’t you at church?’
Margot sags against the wall in relief.
‘I’ve been sick with worry about you.’
She steps forwards to hug her, but Cyd’s too quick.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’
She looks dreadful, her hair unwashed, grooves and shadows as though she hasn’t slept for weeks.
‘Does your dad know you’re here?’
Cyd tries to shove past Margot up the stairs, but Margot gets the better of her this time.
‘Does he?’
Cyd shrugs.
‘Call him right now. Or I will.’
‘Still issuing orders in spite of everything?’
Margot turns pale. Thirty seconds ago, seeing this pinched, furious face was a moment of pure joy.
‘I hate hypocrites.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Cyd’s face twists into a grin.
‘Porter will make a great vicar’s wife. Or would, if he didn’t already have one.’
Margot gasps.
‘Did you think it was a secret?’ She laughs in Margot’s face. ‘Even the twins saw you out together. Oh, and the champagne in the fridge.’ Cyd leans in closer. ‘A boy in my year even caught you in the toilets. How gross.’
Cyd tries to push past again, but Margot whips her arm out and pins her to the wall.
‘Ow, that hurts.’
‘Your turn to listen to me, and you’re going to listen properly – got that?’
Cyd jerks her head away.
‘You’re right, Felix Porter and I were seeing each other.’ Her mouth is parchment. ‘He and his wife are getting divorced, not that it’s any business of yours. But we’re not together now and you want to know why? We had a huge row and all because of you.’
Cyd cocks her head and smiles.
‘I’m flattered.’
Margot just restrains herself.
‘Because you thought it was so clever to go in and trash his room – don’t even bother denying it – I had to tell the police that it wasn’t you, that it couldn’t have been you, because, because—’
Cyd’s eyes are wide. Margot is breathing hard and fast.
‘I told them you were with me.’
Margot drops her hands, anger draining out of her.
‘Except I think they don’t believe me and the school won’t drop the charges.’
She sinks down onto the rug, burying her hand in her hands.
Much later – she’s lost all sense of time – there’s a knock on Margot’s door. She drags the duvet higher over her head.
‘Margot?’
She can’t move a muscle.
‘Can you open the door?’
She turns to face the wall.
‘Please can you?’
She hesitates, then forces herself to unpeel the covers.
Cyd shuffles from one foot to the other like a ten-year-old. ‘You look terrible.’
Margot closes her eyes, swaying.
‘I wondered, you know, if you wanted to, like, get something to eat?’
Margot opens her eyes and stares at her.
‘I guess I kind of owe you.’
Margot’s head is throbbing, her legs made of pipe cleaners.
‘Please?’ Cyd asks. There’s a tiny flicker of something in her eyes.
Margot sighs.
‘I know somewhere we can go, Cyd. It’s a bit further away, but it’s worth it.’
Neither of them attempts to talk as get off the bus and walk down Gray’s Inn Road, as though they’re both holding something in reserve.
They continue on into Sidmouth Street and then Tavistock Place. A few minutes later, Margot stops outside an unprepossessing red-brick building set amidst a terrace of Georgian houses. There’s a large glass frontage, through which they can see tables and chairs arranged inside.
‘OK, this is it. We’re here.’
Cyd looks down at the board next to her on the pavement.
‘Fuck, no, you’re joking. Why have you brought me here?’
‘Relax, Cyd, no one’s going to drug your coffee and convert you when you’re under the influence. That would be a waste of decent drugs.’
The scowl’s going nowhere.
‘Look through the window. You can see people in there drinking coffee. Do they look like they’ve been brainwashed?’
Margot peeks in again, just in case.
Suspicion radiates from Cyd, but she gives a tiny shrug of submission. Enough to work with.
‘Only because I owe you.’
They step in through the automatic doors. Cyd steers to the left but Margot touches her arm.
‘Just a sec. I want to show you something first.’
Cyd steps back.
‘Cross my heart and hope to die, I’m not going to kidnap you and pack you off to some Midwestern cult. I just wanted to show you something that I think is very beautiful and serene. I think we could both do with that right now.’
Cyd’s eyes narrow.
Margot smiles to herself. Another tiny victory.
She reaches behind her for Cyd’s arm.
It was a freezing day, a day bleached of colour, when she first came across the Lumen United Reform Church the first time. Walking into this space, being drenched in light, took her right back to that first afternoon in New Milton Community Church, that same sense of being dazzled by possibility, of bathing in radiance.
She leads Cyd forwards into the interior of the building. It’s a modern, free-flowing space, stretching all the way through to a simple black-and-white stained-glass window at the far end. In its sinuous simplicity, it’s one of the most serene places Margot has ever encountered.
‘Come and look at this, Cyd.’
She points upwards to where a huge white cone has been sculpted at the centre of the space, slanting all the way up to the roof, as though a solid shaft of light has been beamed down from the heavens. She tugs Cyd forward slightly, towards an opening in the cone and they step together into the tepee-shaped area inside. There are a few beanbags scattered around, a handful of plastic children’s chairs and, right at the very top of the soaring structure, a good ten metres above their heads, an iridescent circle of light, a window onto the sky.
She turns to her right. Cyd is leaning back against the wall, arms folded, staring upwards, the start of a smile.
An hour later, they’re still in the café. ‘You know that evening I came up to your room?’ Margot pauses. ‘When we were all watching the movie together?’
Cyd continues to dab her finger into the brownie crumbs.
‘I was just trying to say – very clumsily – that I understood how you felt.’
Cyd keeps her eyes on her plate.
‘What, because your dad’s dumped your mum and is marrying Linda instead?’
Margot winces, but holds it in check.
‘Not exactly.’
She pushes her mug to one side.
‘Let me tell you something. About my mother. About me. About everything.’
The café owner comes up for a second time to their table, J-cloth in hand.
‘Sorry to have to hassle you, ladies, but we’re shutting in ten.’ He grins at them, one after the other, and walks back into the kitchen.
Cyd is still threading her scrunchie through her fingers, in, out, out, in.
‘So I sort of know what it’s like to feel as though yo
ur insides have been shredded on a cheese grater, Cyd. You can’t really know if you’ve never been through it.’
Clarissa did understand, though. So did Felix.
Cyd stops fiddling.
‘I remember how it is when all you want to do is curl up and lock yourself away to make the pain disappear.’
Cyd still won’t look up, but she gives a tiny nod.
‘Either that or running away as far as you can possibly go. In my case, when I was your age, to a happy-clappy church, which, to be honest, at the time offered me a real sense of escape.’ She smiles. ‘In yours to, well, whatever, wherever you’ve just been.’
Again, a barely detectable movement of the head.
‘It won’t always feel this raw. I promise you. Of course, no one or nothing can just somehow magic away the hurt of it all. Not even prayer, before you ask. But where there’s love, there’s always hope. And.’ She stops, hesitating. ‘A new baby has to be the most powerful symbol of hope there is, right? Just wait and see.’
Margot pulls her bag towards her.
‘We should let these guys close up.’
‘What about your dad and Linda, then?’
She stands and pulls on her jacket.
‘Margot?’
She sighs.
‘Same thing applies. It was my problem, not theirs.’ Cyd waits for her to say more. ‘And, against all the odds, Linda has helped heal us a bit, I think.’
Cyd drains the dregs in her glass.
‘Thank God for Linda.’
Margot smiles as she waits for Cyd to slide off the bench. They walk out onto the pavement together, into the warmth of the early evening.
‘I still don’t get why you did it, though. Why you were prepared to tell such a big fat lie to save me?’
Margot stops to do up her laces to buy a little time.
‘I mean, I never would have in your shoes. Fuck, no.’ Cyd drags her hair back into the scrunchie. ‘Was it because you felt guilty?’ She gives a light laugh. ‘Or because you’re so Christian?’
Multiple answers shimmer between them.
‘Well, I could say that our way of life is our belief.’
Cyd’s eyes roll upwards.
‘That religion is about doing things that change you, rather than just going on and on about them. If you’re a practising Christian, you’re practising just as much as you are Christian.’
‘You haven’t got the hang of it yet?’
Margot smiles.
‘But why did you?’ Cyd stands still, while Margot walks on a few steps. She stops and turns around.
‘Do you know what, Cyd? I just think everyone deserves a break. A second chance. That’s all. I don’t think you’ve had too many of those.’
Cyd wraps a stray strand of hair around her finger. ‘You won’t go to hell or anything?’
‘I’d have thought you’d have happily bought me a one-way ticket.’
‘I guess I do owe you.’
‘Actually, I think it’s me who owes you.’
They carry on walking up the street side by side.
‘Sorry about your sex life, Margot. Though I think he’s a twat.’
Margot bites her lip.
‘Thanks for the drink. And, yeah, the sermon.’
Margot smiles. First steps.
They’re halfway home when Margot hears the beep from her phone.
Vic-i-leaks: Scenes from Parish Life, 29 June 2017
Finally, after all the moaning, the Big Day’s here! Tomorrow’s my ordination, people. This is what it’s all been about! Sure, all the old bags will still be present and correct when I come back here newly priested on Monday morning, but, hey, I can live with that. They come with the territory. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to this next stage in my career. Priest? Me? What a high! And then I’ll be taking my very first Mass next week. Can’t wait. And so, because I’m about to become a proper grown-up responsible member of the C of E, I’ve an announcement to make. Time to say cheerio to this blog. It’s been fun, but as Bugs Bunny says, That’s all, folks xxxxx
Chapter 25
Sunday 2 July 2017
Powdery light filters in around the curtains. Margot lies completely still, cupped by the mattress, the warmth of the sheet across her legs. Is this how some women feel in the hours before labour starts? Some say they have an intuitive sense of the imminence, irrespective of whatever else they’ve been told. She looks down at her watch. Six and a half hours until she’s kneeling at the altar of St Martin-in-the-Fields, the bishop’s hands on her head. She feels slightly sick.
She leans over to release the window catch. The sky isn’t quite festooned with shafts of gold, but a sweet tang still pours into the room, the generosity of a warm midsummer day.
Sunday 2 July 2017. Petertide. Her last day as just a deacon.
She catches sight of herself in the mirror and rubs at her cheeks. Four days from now, she’ll be conducting her first Mass, performing the Eucharist, offering absolution and taking the blessing.
She flops back down on the bed, a broad smile creasing her face.
When she pitched up at Mildmay Grove a year ago, with two suitcases, a box of books and a head and heart full of naïve good intentions, she had no idea who she really was. It’s taken some of the toughest months of her life for her to understand that she’s someone else entirely.
If blisse had lein in art or strength,
None but the wise or strong had gained it:
Where now by Faith all arms are of a length;
One size doth all conditions fit.
Herbert’s words have never felt more right.
Everything, all of it, has been leading right here to this momentous morning with its subtle assurance of heat and light. The golden thread of deep conviction reeling her in like a bream on her father’s line.
She got back late on Friday night from the priesthood retreat: three days in an old house in Docklands run by nuns, along with eleven other deacons from the diocese, many of them the POTTY lot. They’d spent most of the time in prayer and contemplation, including two days of complete silence, preparing for the leap from servanthood to ministry.
Being away in that completely sealed environment had given Margot the peace she needed finally to be ready. To understand the sacrifices she will continue to have to make –and to run towards them with a willing heart.
And whatever reservations the bishop may have had about her, he confined himself to a wry observation that, while life can sometimes veer off onto a Plan B, God is in it, wherever it leads.
‘It’s only by facing up to who we are, Margot, that we fully learn all that we might do and be. God bless you and you will go on to achieve in your ministry.’
She flicks on the bathroom light and slips the collar into her black shirt.
Is anyone really sure they’re right for this, ever? No. But, she realises, the grace, the delight, lies in the unknowing and still striving towards being the best you can be.
I thought I’d never get to this point. You knew that more than anyone. Thank You for believing in me, for repeatedly instilling in me greater strength and purpose. For letting fresh air blow through my faith, for letting me question and probe and explore – and understand that we’re not entitled to certainty, because Jesus rarely answered, but instead said, ‘What do you think? Thank You for letting me get so much wrong before I finally started to get a few things right. I lost my faith in myself, but I never once lost my faith in You. Your love and grace are present in my life more powerfully than they’ve ever been. I know my sense of calling as a profound privilege and blessing. Help me to act on that blessing every day from this day onwards.
A text beeps from the bedroom.
Breakfast! Plenty of carbs!
Quintessential Hadley. Fourteen of them being ordained this morning. That’s a long wait until the celebratory lunch.
When she steps out of the shower, something shiny is sitting on the carpet outside her door: a
large silvery square shape shouting out purple sparkles. There’s a card on top: MAGGOT.
Spangles disco in the morning light as she sits on the bed to open it.
A day of gifts. Starting with the text that came through just after midnight.
Gogo, the head’s decided not to press charges against Cydney after all. Or go ahead with suspension either. It took some arm-twisting, but he accepted that zero tolerance isn’t always the way to go. Hope that also applies to me one day. Good luck for today. So proud of my beautiful girl.
Whatever ends up happening, this – this – gives her enormous joy.
She pulls at the corner of the envelope on her lap.
Happy Ordinashun, Maggot. Sam and Josh xxxx :-) It’s written on the back of a postcard showing a grinning 1950s housewife, with a speech bubble reading, Bless him, he thinks he’s the boss.
The package sits lightly on her knees. The bow needs a couple of tugs and inside is another layer, tissue-wrapped this time, with a Post-It note attached.
Go get ’em, Margot. Cyd xo
She carefully pulls back the tissue paper to find a small canvas inside. No title or other explanation.
The solid cone of light tapering up towards heaven.
The kitchen is empty when she walks in. Nathan has probably told them all to give her some space. She’d ended up confessing her nerves last night over a glass of his very-special-occasion malt.
‘Excited and a bit shit-scared, just like the day before your wedding day,’ he’d said, refilling her glass, then stopping, bottle by his shoulder. ‘Sorry, bad analogy. You’ve made a much better choice than me. And you know what, they’re lucky to have you.’
He’d clinked her glass.
‘Thanks, Margot. Your presence has worked a quiet magic in this house. More, I suspect, than I’ll ever know.’ He raised his glass to her again. ‘We’re going to miss you.’
She’s dressed an hour too early. Prowling up and down her room isn’t going to help, so she flicks open her laptop instead.
The Girls' Book of Priesthood Page 26