Every time she lifts the lid now, Gwen comes into her mind. How could she ever have suspected her? Sad, unfulfilled Gwen, with her food parcels and her mothering and her jackhammer offers of help. Gwen and her Wishing Wall. She feels another hot wave of guilt. She could have done so much more to make her feel appreciated. It wouldn’t have taken much. One day soon, she’ll write to her, try to make amends somehow. But she knows it won’t bring her back to St Mark’s.
She gets up and walks to the window for a few moments to steady herself, then comes back to her bed and clicks opens her emails.
There’s an email from Clarissa, with the subject line Female Priests: The Final Frontier.
We might not get the chance to chat later, M, after you’ve moved over to the Serious Side. I’ve been to a couple of these things before. The battle for the grub makes David’s tussle with Goliath seem like a conker game. So I thought I’d send love and luck and all the rest of it via e-pigeon. I may not have found your Soulmate but you’ve still got your Bestmate. ROFL.
Thanks for your support last week over the dearly departed thesis. You know what? Thesis schmesis. The future lies in Vic-Lit. Guess who told me to get writing a novel? A healer called LINDA!!! Her card must have fallen out of your bag that day you flounced out of my room. She’s the BEST. I know you’re not into any of that whacky stuff, but then the stuff you are into is whacky enough anyway, right?!
Mucho hugs
Laters, Vicigator
P.S. A woman’s place is in the House of Bishops
She takes a last look in the mirror, makes a tiny adjustment to her collar, adds a slick of lipstick. She looks down at her handbag on the floor: time to invest in a new one. She hooks it over her shoulder and walks out of the door.
What’s the collective noun for a cluster of about-to-be-priested deacons? A batch? A jelly? A breath-hold?
The impression here in the robing rooms of St Martin-in-the-Fields is, of course, overwhelmingly male. But she’s here, isn’t she? One of a small clutch of female curates, together with Hadley and the half-a-dozen women incumbents amongst the group of clerics from the candidates’ home churches: the touchline team here to cheer them on.
She exchanges ‘do-they-mean-me?’ glances with a few of the POTTY lot, all of them, she’s sure, experiencing the same churning mix of terror and exultation. This is the most important, magnificent day of her life.
Being Christ for the people.
She flicks through the service sheet to distract herself, reading the abbreviated CVs of all the candidates. Rupert, that Anglo-Catholic with the nice line in tweedy waistcoats. Rob, the chirpy Mancunian who used to ask her out at the end of every POTTY session. John-Anthony, the Nigerian evangelical always up for a joke, even though they disagree on virtually every theological and philosophical point in existence. Tallulah, the Belfast bombshell who, Margot’s thrilled and envious to see, has donned pink satin heels under her surplice.
They all start to process up the aisle, the bishop toweringly resplendent in his gold brocade cope and mitre. It feels, looks, like a coronation ceremony. She glances up at the chandeliers above their heads, the dark wooden upper balconies, full of friends and family cheering them all on. They’re being crowned and anointed. Prepared for the greatest privilege of all: taking their places at the communion table and performing the full sacramental role, acting directly in persona Christ.
She sneaks a look at the pillars on both sides of the church, just in case Roderick is hiding for a last hurrah. She pulls her eyes back towards the altar. This is her moment.
She glances up at the window high up behind the altar, where a slanted white egg sits at the centre, distorting the steel fretwork within which it floats. It’s unlike any other church window she’s ever seen, as though someone has pushed their way through it to heaven.
The bishop’s voice is sonorous and slow, full of ancient certitudes.
‘Today is an important threshold for all our young curates here this morning.’
She catches the eye of the sixty-something woman standing next to her, who winks.
‘In this beautiful place of worship, we’ve gathered together to watch a kind of miracle: new priests being made. In just a few moments, I and this great company of priests here behind me will act on behalf of the whole Church by laying hands on the candidates and praying for the Holy Spirit to enter them as they begin their sacramental priesthood.’
Margot looks down at her hands.
‘Fourteen people, at least one of whom you’ll know personally, about to assume an entirely new identity. It’s something both thrilling and, as I remember myself, intimidating, in equal measure. As those who love and support these young people, we pray for them in this moment of transition, hoping that their new worlds will bring blessings as yet unimagined.’
They approach the altar for the laying-on of hands one at a time, each candidate shepherded by his or her small posse of supporters. Jeremy steps up alongside Margot and Hadley joins them on the other side, squeezing Margot’s elbow under her surplice.
Three, two, one, in front of her. It’s her turn to kneel down on the red cassock.
She feels the light pressure of the bishop’s hands on her head. Just a few seconds, that’s all, and it’s done. She stays kneeling a few moments longer and then rises back to her feet. A ray of sunshine strikes the carpet beside the altar. Jeremy turns to her with a grin.
She makes her way back to her seat. Somehow she’s managed to dodge all the bullets and stay alive. Never more alive than this.
Her calling fulfilled.
As the rest of the priesting line continues to shuffle forwards, Margot looks to her left and spots Nathan and the boys over by a pillar, waving at her wildly. She had no idea they were planning to come. Then she realises that several members of the congregation are here, too. Sal and Kath, Tommy, most of the choir, several of the flower and coffee ladies, five Kool Gang families, plus every remaining member of the PCC, including, resplendent in a hat brim so wide that she’s cancelled out half the row behind her, Pamela.
Margot is humbled at the loyalty of their support. All these people she’s grown to respect, like, love, even, realising that whatever their foibles and quirks and imperfections, they’re all so less significant than her own. They’ve welcomed her and accepted her into the very heart of their community, no matter how grievous her faults. And what felt like intrusion and prurience when she first arrived, she now sees, in most cases, as genuine interest and care.
She looks towards the front again. Clarissa sitting in the middle of the second row: she’s always prided herself on her mosh-pit skills. She looks transformed. Who knows how much stress has been lifted from her shoulders by her decision to, at last, be true to herself.
‘Dad?’
They’re hovering over by the drinks table, looking slightly as though they’ve somehow stumbled into the wrong party.
‘I wasn’t sure you’d want to come.’
They share a long look between them.
‘How often does your only daughter get herself made into a vicar?’
He smiles and leans over to hug her.
‘My turn,’ shrieks Linda, shoving him aside and throwing her arms around Margot. A newly minted priest and his parents glance over. Linda’s hugs have the power to crush Margot’s spine into something snortable, but she doesn’t care. Linda is wearing head-to-toe white, from the feather boa to the towering platform shoes, perhaps working a Holy Ghost theme, but there’s no doubting the warmth of her embrace.
‘Welcome to the noble line of priestesses stretching all the way back to Phoebe the moon goddess and beyond.’
‘As it happens, Phebe was also the only female called “deacon” in the New Testament.’
Linda giggles, delighted.
Give and you will receive.
‘Congratulations, love.’ Ricky raises his glass. ‘Is that what you say at these things?’
She was wrong, Clarissa was right, as in so many t
hings. Linda does have healing powers.
He clears his throat. ‘Danny sends his apologies.’
A brief shadow passes over them, then she smiles, appreciating the kindness of the lie. One day, she prays.
‘We’ve decided to postpone the wedding, love,’ says Ricky.
‘Oh?’
‘We’ve moved it to the autumn equinox,’ adds Linda. ‘The planet alignment’s much better then. Saturn was way too much to the left of Jupiter before.’
Margot nods.
‘Gives us something to look forward to in October,’ he adds, lightly. ‘And maybe by then, you’ll be able to help us out?’
‘You bet, Dad.’
She’s moving across to talk to the cluster of flower ladies now inspecting the enormous centrepiece of freesias and lilies when an arm grabs her from behind.
‘Yay, you. Having a moment, M?’
The pleasure on Clarissa’s face makes Margot’s cheeks tingle.
‘You smashed it, M. All that “should I, shouldn’t I?” diva stuff at Cambridge. I knew I was right. I always am.’
Margot hugs her again.
‘So, anyway. Look who I spotted lurking behind a pillar.’ Clarissa stands back to give Margot a better view. ‘I’ll just go and get us some refills, shall I?’
Margot is afraid to breathe.
Felix looks to either side of him and takes a small step forwards.
‘You look different, Gogo. Luminous.’
He goes to move forward again, but checks himself.
‘It must be an ontological thing,’ she answers, her voice shaking. He laughs and leans in towards her.
‘You don’t mind that I came, do you? I wasn’t going to, but then I woke up this morning and thought how much I’d love to be here, that it would probably be OK if I stayed hidden from view. But then Clarissa—’
She steps forward and reaches for his hand, just for a second. The familiarity of his fingers.
‘I love that you came.’
‘You really nailed it. I’m so proud of you. Next stop, the House of Lords. They won’t know what’s hit ‘em.’
She laughs. Hadley is looking over at her from a group of incumbents in the centre aisle, smiling broadly.
‘You’re very special, Margot. I knew that right from the start.’
He lifts his hand as though to touch her face, but lowers it again.’
‘You are,’ she whispers. ‘Thank you for what you did for Cyd.’
He searches her face for something.
‘You know you can’t get rid of me that easily, don’t you, Reverend?’
He kisses her fingertips, taps the end of her nose and walks out of the crypt without glancing back.
They’re all packed onto the main steps of the church, hundreds of them, priests old and new, the bishop, incumbents from all over the diocese.
Tourists milling around Trafalgar Square gather in bemused knots, their phones raised high, a crop of one-eyed flowers. Nearly two hundred feet above them all, the bells are sending liquid peals into the summer air.
Margot is standing at the end of one of the rows and feels a sharp tug on her stole.
‘Excuse me, hello, please?’
A tiny Japanese woman is staring up at her, wielding a large black and gold fan.
‘Is this the movies?’
Margot bursts out laughing.
‘Kind of. It’s a celebration for people who have just become priests.’
‘You too?’
Margot nods, understanding the disbelief.
The woman giggles behind her hand. Margot delivers a tiny bow. Tokyo will soon be awash with this confirmation of English eccentricity.
Another hand rests on her shoulder and squeezes it.
‘You did it, Margot.’
‘Too right,’ adds Hadley, leaning around Jeremy laughing.
‘We did it,’ she corrects.
‘Never a dull moment,’ says Jeremy.
Margot looks down at her feet.
‘I know this year you’ll do an even better one,’ he continues.
Hadley reaches across and gives her a high five.
‘I’ve never been wrong about a curate yet,’ chuckles Jeremy.
A sudden rushing, beating sound breaks out by the fountain. A flock of pigeons, hundreds of them, takes to the air right in front of them. Margot shades her eyes to watch their ascent. Some carve back around to return to the rich pickings in the square, but the rest continue to soar, dipping and rising on the currents and moving higher and higher into the sky, up and over the roof of the National Gallery and on to whatever lies beyond.
Jeremy points at the flock, squeezes her shoulder and turns away to talk to someone on his left.
Margot fingers graze her collar.
This is it, then.
Margot Goodwin.
Priest.
Glossary of terms
Acolyte – someone who assists the priest by performing ceremonial duties, such as lighting altar candles
Andocentric – centred on or dominated by males and masculine interests
Anglo-Catholic – the traditional, ‘high church’, end of the Church of England
Biretta – a square cap with three flat projections on top, worn by Roman Catholic clergymen
Canon law – Church law
Chasuble – an ornate sleeveless outer vestment worn by the priest when celebrating Communion
Church Commissioners – the body which supports the work and mission of the Church of England
Clerestory – the upper part of a large church, containing a series of windows
Clobber texts – slang for passages of the bible wielded as weapons by the anti-women-priests camp
Cope – an ornate cape-like garment worn by a bishop
Cotta – a type of surplice
Deacon – ordained clergy, part of the threefold order of bishops, priests and deacons
Eschatological – Christian doctrine concerning the Second Coming, the resurrection of the dead, or the Last Judgment
Exegesis – critical explanation or interpretation of a text, especially of scripture
House-for-duty – an arrangement whereby a priest receives accommodation in exchange for undertaking ministry, but without receiving an income
Incumbent – the vicar or rector of a parish
Mitre – the distinctive hat worn by a bishop
Non-stipendiary – ministers or priests who do not receive a stipend (payment) for their services
Ordinands – a person who is training to be ordained as a priest or minister
Petertide – the feast of St Peter celebrated on or near 29 June, one of two traditional times for the ordination of new priests
POTTY – the nickname given to Post Ordination Training by some curates
Reredos – an ornamental screen covering the wall at the back of an altar
Resolutions A and B – measures introduced by the Church of England as a ‘get-out clause’ for congregations which felt that women should not minister as priests in their local church
Smells and bells – shorthand for a style of worship that involves high ritual, including vestments, bells and incense
Surplice – a very lightweight blouse-like garment with sleeves. It is almost invariably white and often has lace trim
Teleology – a philosophical doctrine that says that final causes, design, and purpose exist in nature
Zombie church – unflattering slang for Charismatic churches
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank all those people who helped me in the writing of this book.
My wonderful – endlessly patient – family: Phil, Phoebes and Hellie. My father, Leslie, my brothers, Robin and Nick, and my sister, Viv, for all their encouragement and support.
I’m hugely grateful for all their generous contributions to Revd Dr Brutus Green, Revd Dr Gemma Burnett, Revd Sally Hitchiner, Revd Charlotte Bradley, Revd Dr Catriona Laing, Revd Ellen Eames, Revd Jennifer Totney, R
evd Emma Smith, Revd Frances Quist, Revd Judy Hattaway, Revd Dr Fiona Stewart-Darling, Revd Mair McFadyen, Revd Claire Wilson and the staff at Westcott Theological College. Also thanks to Revd Stephen Mason and the team at St John’s Hyde Park.
I would also like to thank Sarah and Kate Beal at Muswell Press for their belief and enthusiasm. And my tutors, Jonathan Myerson and Lucy Caldwell, and all my fellow students on the Novel Writing Master’s at City University.
Thanks to those who read and gave me feedback including Clare Allan, Viv Lipski, Alex Rowland, Graham Coster, Laura DeBruce and Kate Butchart. And thanks for their invaluable moral support to Lynn Strongin Dodds, Rebecca Dodds, Sheila Rowland, Nathalie Tubeileh Hall, Karen Ford, Fiona Oates, Berit Ashla, Katherine Dunbar, Vin Goodwin, Ann Sawyer, Helen Ainsworth, Richard Collins, Vicki Pinn, Louise Gimson, Maeveen Brennan, Sally Ann Law, Harriet Webster, Rachael Singh, Vince Howard, Ben Harding, Ann Bell, Melissa Posen, Elaine Thomas and the Cavendish book club.
And, finally, none of this would ever have happened without the love and support of my mother – the inspirational, irreplaceable, Norah.
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
Louise Rowland grew up in Bournemouth and studied English at Cambridge University. She went on to work as a speechwriter, journalist and copywriter – including 11 years in Munich, Frankfurt, Paris and Amsterdam. She has a Masters in Novel Writing from City University, where she won the course prize. She lives in London with her husband and has two grown-up daughters. The Girls’ Book of Priesthood is her first novel.
Copyright
First published by Muswell Press in 2018
Typeset by e-Digital Design Ltd.
Copyright © Louise Rowland 2018
Louise Rowland has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
“God Says Yes To Me” by Kaylin Haught ©.
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