Crusaders

by Richard T. Kelly

  Gore took a mouthful of jammy vinegar and gestured, grimacing, to his bookshelves. ‘Barth tells us the text itself is not the revelation – it only becomes the Word if and when we hear God speak through it.’

  ‘Oh, you hear God, do you? Personal, is it, then? Between you and Him?’

  ‘No, I mean that I read the Bible as the word of men, of fellow believers. A historical text. And I find some clues there – themes, traces of things.’

  ‘Themes? Like in a novel?’

  ‘Great themes. Covenant, jubilee. Concern for the poor. The conquest of evil.’

  ‘How about creation? Redemption? Judgement? Those themes, John.’

  ‘Well, true, I’m not so keen as you on God the lawmaker. The judge in black cap at the end of days –’

  ‘Don’t talk crap, John. You’re judging me now. You hate me just cos I’ve got the neck to say I might know right from wrong.’

  ‘I don’t hate you. I hate fundamentalism. I can’t just believe one thing to the exclusion of everything else. I know I can’t, because I know myself. I have oppositions inside me. Divisions. Cleavages.’ And Gore smiled wanly, for a certain mad notion had begun to whittle within him, a scheme to drive out his unwelcome guest. ‘God and Satan are in me, Simon. Male and female. Hetero, homo –’

  Barlow only grimaced. ‘Oh, piss off with that. What are you doing here, John? You’ve not come to learn, have you? Learn your trade, a proper working preacher? I mean, it drives me mad, it does, it’s like you come into my church without wiping your feet. Moping about, talking rubbish. It’s not good enough. These are dangerous times, everything we’re about is under attack. And what’s our defence? Eh? We’re the next generation of ministers. How many after us? Who’s going to keep the gospel alive? Keep England in the faith?’

  ‘“Old toad, old toad, help me down Cemetery Road …”’

  ‘Shut up, idiot, it’s your living too. I’m telling you, if we don’t fight then this Church is dead. We’ve got to be out there, evangelising the nation. Or else we’re irrelevant, we’re just some little sect, trying to get on the telly so people give a toss. And that’ll be your fault, Gore, you and your lot. I’m not afraid, see, I’m ready to preach the gospel like fire. You, you’ve got this … literary appreciation of it. Very nice, for you. But you don’t see the power, wonder-working power in the words. ‘“Marvel not that I said unto thee, Ye must be born again.” Let a man be reborn of water and the Spirit.’

  Barlow was on his feet and bobbing and weaving, banging away to some inner drum, fit and measured for his pulpit. Despair crawled over Gore, that this awful man wouldn’t leave him to his slumber – worse, that he might have a point. Still it would have pained him too much to grant such.

  ‘It’s not your Church, Simon – you didn’t make it, you don’t own it. You think your lot could ever get it back to what it was? Where? In a tent? Not in a million years. You’d drive away twice as many as you ever got in, I’d bet any money.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. Because you’re a bigot. It’s all just poison comes out of you. Anyone can see it a mile off. It’d be too much fun just to ignore you. You’d make me want to kiss a man on the mouth just to get you to fuck off.’

  Barlow lunged at him. For a sick instant Gore thought they would fight. Instead – infinitely worse, before he could flinch – his head had been seized between Barlow’s hands, a talon-like grip. The bristly head darted down and his mouth covered Gore’s, wet and sour to the taste, his grainy cheeks rubbing and grazing. Appalled, writhing to free himself, Gore then felt teeth incising into his lower lip, and punched out at Barlow’s chest, driving him off.

  ‘For Christ’s sake. Are you mad?’ Gore shouted, struggling to his feet, rubbing at his mouth. But Barlow was grinning, standing proud, wagging a teacherly finger at Gore as if the disgrace were not his own.

  ‘Must do better, John. Must do better.’

  ‘Get out. Get out of my room.’

  Unbowed, Barlow plucked his foul bottle of Bulgarian red from the table, swaggered to the door, slammed it jarringly behind him.

  *

  ‘I know how you feel. I’m the same, really. It’s hard.’ Lockhart bridged his fingers, staring directly ahead. Gore, sat in the wooden pew behind the master, followed his gaze down the length of the college chapel – deserted at this early hour – toward the altar that was set through a proscenium arch, bathed in the pale first light seeping through high windows, the back wall bare but for a text from Matthew in mounted letters. I AM WITH YOU ALWAYS, YET UNTO THE END OF THE WORLD.

  ‘It would be nice sometimes, just to be left alone with the faith.’ Lockhart sighed. ‘But – that’s not the job, is it? Unless you want a post with the divinity faculty over the wall.’

  ‘It’s just … some of the people I’m here with, we have nothing whatever in common.’

  ‘I see that, yes.’

  ‘Well, doesn’t it bother you?’

  ‘I’ve lived long enough. What we do is disagree. Almost by definition. Ever since the Greeks and Latins. The Great Schism of the West. Martin Luther. It’s just split after split, isn’t it? We talk about holding the centre together, it’s a lovely notion. But a pipe dream, really. It defies our history. What would it take? Fiat after fiat. Endless Acts of Supremacy … No, the more we try to unite, the sharper our differences seem. We’re a bit like your Labour Party, I suppose. I don’t think the public will swallow it.’ Lockhart chuckled softly into his chest. ‘And here I’m supposed to help you.’

  True, thought Gore, it was a fool’s predicament. ‘It wouldn’t matter. If I really felt certain I’ll be effective. Out in the field.’

  ‘Oh, I thoroughly expect you will, John. Really. I’m sure you’ll make a good fist of whatever comes your way. Right now you’re a bit low. Well, part of the job is absorbing that. Coming to terms with it. Just how low a person can feel. The sadness in life. It doesn’t go away. The thing is knowing you can help others with it.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like the greatest lot of use …’

  ‘You’d be surprised. People don’t generally give as much of themselves. Not as a priest has to. It’s really a stern test, you know. Shouldering the sorrows of others … rarely a chore that works to one’s own advantage. Quite the opposite. That’s why it’s so Christian. Why are you smiling?’

  ‘You make it sound like martyrdom.’

  ‘Oh no, not martyrdom. No, that’s a concept I can’t stand. That’s a million miles away from the purpose of the faith.’

  ‘Which is?’

  An indulgent smile. ‘Oh I thought you knew … Fellow-feeling, John. To foster our best attributes, none of which we understand well enough or practise sufficiently. You could have fifty million God-fearers and not a kind soul among them. No, God’s kingdom on earth will be here when we’re all just a bit kinder to each other.’

  Gore touched the raw spot on his lower lip and nodded without cheer.

  Chapter IX

  PRINCIPLES

  Friday, 27 September 1996

  His father was peering at him patiently, clad in his old V-neck and slippers, a mild smile tugging his lips above a mug of instant coffee. Gore stole glances in turn, scrutinising Bill for signs of the creeping decrepitude to which Susannah had condemned him. But then Bill had always been anxious. Time could be as readily blamed for his sunken eyes and slowed reactions, just as it had thinned his silver hair and consigned him to a partial deafness.

  The spinning carriage clock tossed light around the living-room walls. Audrey’s Doulton ornaments were powdered with dust. The arm-cloths on the settee were sadly frayed, there were crumbs in the carpet, the kitchen linoleum loosening from its tacks. The want of a woman’s presence was palpable. More doleful for Gore was the evidence of odd jobs ignored or started then abandoned. The coffee table was stacked with pamphlets of technical reading matter, and the dining-room table suggested some new fixation. Laid out upon an old bleached-out bath towel were stray bit
s of lighting equipment familiar to Gore from his days as a college thespian – a lantern and a Fresnel spotlight, a console of sliding switches, strewn yokes, clamps and safety chains, and a clutch of coloured filters.

  Gore spoke up, as best and fully as he could, about his mission in Hoxheath. He wished to sound practical, purposeful, not like the feckless caretaker of some cowboy operation. His father only continued to smile and nod, but asked no questions, and seemed to make no assumptions. After a while it became clear to Gore that Bill was not truly interested, but had retained the civility to hear a man out.

  He left the lounge to urinate, and found himself absorbed in the slow-peeling paper on the cloakroom ceiling. On his return, Bill rose, crossed the floor with a shuffling gait, unsettled a glossy brochure from the pile on the coffee table and tossed it onto Gore’s lap. On its cover was an unnerving close-up of a chameleon.

  ‘I found out what’s been wrong with us at long last. Just from a read of that there. Have you heard of the British Disease? Your owld dad’s got it.’

  Nonplussed, Gore began to turn the page leaves.

  ‘All of ’em at BT got sent one of these, every bloody employee. My old mate Don Cox sent it on to us. Now can you tell me, but, what the hell they’re on about?’

  Gore peered at the spare layout, reams of text trailing across whiteness, punctured by bold headlines and pull-out quotes. ‘“The Customer is King”. Sounds like you, dad.’

  ‘No, that bit I understand. Where’s me favourite? Where’s that bugger? There.’ His finger alighted on EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS WRONG. ADAPT OR DIE.

  Gore shrugged. ‘Who’s responsible for this then?’

  ‘Management consultants. We were behind the times, apparently. It’s to do with communication, don’t you know? Funny, that.’ He took the brochure back out of Gore’s hands and threw it on the table. ‘Bloody nonsense. That’s why I took early retirement, right there. You know as well as I, John, it was never owt to do with could I handle the work. It’s the discourtesy of it, man. I won’t be spoken to like that. It’s like owld Tommy Cooper said. It’s not the principle I object to, it’s the money.’

  Gore was pleased to laugh, for a gag from Bill was a rare grace.

  ‘Y’knaa what I’m saying, but, don’t you?’

  ‘Wasn’t that the idea?’ Gore felt old reflexes stir. ‘When it was privatised. Wasn’t that the way it was headed from then?’

  ‘Aw, it wasn’t ever meant to gan this far. Naw, John. And before that, y’knaa, we were second class, we were. Fodder, man. We were taken for granted.’

  The sentiment struck Gore as so wilfully blind he lost his savour for pursuing the point. Bill in any case was looking distant. Gore clapped his knees. ‘Well, anyhow. You’ve time for more in your life now. Interests. Maybe you should get involved with town council.’

  Bill made a sour face. ‘Oh, I’m not stopping work, no fear. I’m barely sixty, son. Don’t you worry, I’ll not be asking you to look after me. You will get a proper job, but? One of these days?’

  Gore ducked the jibe, a little riled, and jerked a thumb toward the junkheap of the dining-room table. ‘So what’s all that then, Dad? What are you up to?’

  ‘Aw, this fella I know at the cricket club, he got laid off from Thorn over in Spennymoor. Bit younger than us. Anyhow, he’s all into this lighting. “Design”, he calls it. Sort of decoration, like, for places what get visitors? He got us interested.’

  ‘Sounds a bit – arty.’

  Bill sniffed. ‘Nah, just common sense, really. This fella, he’s done the odd thing at Beamish Museum. The other week we did the rig for a little concert they had up by the old priory at Finchale. He showed us the ropes. It’s not hard.’

  ‘A concert. How was that?’

  ‘Brass band. Wasn’t poison. We might do something at the Cathedral. An exhibition they’ve got, some lad does wood carvings …’

  ‘You sure you want the hassle?’

  ‘John, son, I’m not going to be one of them buggers sat in the pub at three o’clock on a working day. I’ll not be taking up bowls neither.’

  ‘You’re entitled to have it a bit easier.’

  ‘Aye, and you’re a long time dead.’ Bill was toying with a slender remote control for the television. ‘Shall we watch a bit of the cricket?’

  ‘Who’ve Durham got the day?’

  ‘Leicester. Getting trounced, last I looked. They’re poor, man. Beat Yorkshire, mind you. That Brown’s got wickets in him. Wants to cut his hair, but. Shall I put it on?’

  ‘I’m not so bothered. Don’t follow it much.’

  ‘Whey, come on then. Shall we’s walk?’

  Gore gathered his things and they left the house. Susannah, he concluded, was quite wrong. Bill was more or less fine, about his business as usual. He had expected the needle of political difference to rub raw between them, but all that discord just seemed to have died a natural death. How had he come to think of his father as such an irritable man? He wondered now if his memory hadn’t betrayed him, or whether he had simply failed to pay attention. Was that possible?

  On they trudged, up Finchale Road, past Carrgate School and down a narrow lane to the Carrs, obscured from passing traffic behind houses and industrial works, twenty acres of dry acid heath and marshland, with trails for biking and dog-walking scored out in criss-cross between clumps of bracken and yellow-flowering gorse. At last they took a pause, turned, surveyed the distance they had come.

  ‘You’ll have seen your sister, then?’

  ‘No, actually. Not since I got here. We’ve talked. But she’s full of busy.’

  ‘You ought to talk more, you and her. There’ll come a time, y’knaa? When you’ll just have each other.’

  Gore frowned. ‘That’s a bit of a bleak way to look at it, Dad.’

  ‘Well, it’s not like the pair of you’s are looking like settling. Families of your own.’

  ‘I don’t know about that necessarily.’

  ‘Whey, you say yourself, she works all hours. You think she’ll ever settle?’

  ‘She gives most of her life to the member for Tyneside West.’

  ‘Well, there’s a dead loss for starters.’

  ‘I know, but – Dad, I’ve not given up myself. I’m not a monk, you know.’

  ‘Aw right. Do you still keep up with that woman in Dorset? The divorcee?’

  ‘No, we lost touch. Didn’t have the best of goodbyes.’

  ‘Funny old life you have. Funny old job.’

  Presently they walked on, in silence awhile.

  ‘And when do you start then, John? Proper, like, this church of yours?’

  ‘The first service is meant to be in a fortnight. Sunday October twelve. If we’re ready for it. Not that I’ve got any choice.’

  ‘Well now, listen, I’d a thought. I could maybe be of help to you? With your – y’knaa, your service? Maybe put a few lights up in that school hall?’

  ‘Thanks, Dad, but … I think maybe that might look a bit flash. Put people off.’

  ‘Whey never, it’d bring ’em in, I’d have thought. Just summat simple. It wants to look professional, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Honestly, thanks, Dad. Maybe just let me see how we get on first.’

  ‘Okay, well. Just so you know. I know you mightn’t think of us as … I don’t know, considerate and that. But I’m here. You know that, right? I’d not ever see you wrong.’

  ‘No, thanks, Dad, I appreciate it. I do. Should we maybe head back?’

  ‘What, are you looking to get off?’

  ‘It’s only I fancy making the midday train.’

  Bill shrugged. ‘Aw well, I’m for walking on a bit me’sel, John.’

  ‘How far?’

  ‘Maybe on up to Spy Hill.’

  ‘Bit of a hike, Dad.’

  ‘Nee bother. Do us good. Anyhow.’ He thrust out a hand. ‘Thanks for your company, our John.’

  They shook and then Bill was off and away, down the narrow lane, slow but
steady, his own man as always. Gore was momentarily nagged, unsure – should he have said something more, something better? Ought he to put on a step, catch up? Would Bill care one way or the other? Arising wind whistled and whipped at his trouser legs. It was pointless, he knew, for he had made his choice and would stick to it. At last he turned and set to retracing his tread, visible yet across the flattened acid grass.

  Chapter X

  IN GREEN PASTURE

  1995–1996

  6 September 1995

  Dear Gordon,

  I trust this finds you well. For my part I am sufficiently settled into bucolic Rodley (!) as to set down some impressions. The scale of the task is already apparent. Your advice will be taken to heart.

  As you warned, the good Reverend Trevelyan is something of a loose cannon. Replacing him, though, would be no small feat. For one thing he is a cussed farmer, preaching to fellow cussed farmers. You thought I could expect a rivalry? Not so. True, he beheld me at first with – if not quite the basilisk stare – then an evident wariness. He would grimace at any naivety of mine, and sharply set me right. But I have begun to feel it is a sincere desire of his, to impart certain definite lessons.

  He is proud of his freehold, short of respect for church governance. I rather wondered what kind of wild-eyed dissent he would shout from his pulpit. But really he is a ‘sound man’, his metaphors drawn largely from fruit and veg. None of your trendy ways, and the congregation seem to approve.

  You are wondering, I’m sure, what size is this congregation? I will confess, it’s not uncommon that the 8 a.m. service be given for five or six. But a second sitting at 10 will sometimes muster twenty. Always a smattering of couples in good casual clothes – weekending, one suspects, from a London residence. Plus the odd pair of shifty B&B tourists, stopping off from the stroll after their ‘Full English’ breakfast.

  We are a small team, our forces spread thin over the neighbouring villages, so I get about a fair bit daily on the bike. I will take the odd drink in the pub with Trevelyan – he advises that I get my face known widely – and there I hear the most vigorous views about the clash between the incomers and the ‘born-here’ tendency. The tourists aren’t even rated as human. Where I am counted in the scheme of things, I wouldn’t like to hazard. Nor is Trevelyan neutral on the matter. Another of his little lessons is that we must keep our sheep close. ‘We’re not London,’ he likes to say. ‘If we hear a cry in the street, we can’t just pull the curtains.’ Indeed, almost any local problem he defines as one that can’t be solved by ‘zooming back up to London of a Sunday’. The scold is sometimes directed at me, as if I were a symbol of the Big Smoke rather than one who finds London as appealing as the gulag.