Lamplight in the Shadows

by Robert Jaggs-Fowler

  Before he could answer, he felt Michael’s firm hand on his elbow and was escorted further into the crypt.

  ‘Now, let me introduce you to the Director of Ordinands.’

  He was led towards a rather stout and slightly red-faced priest with a shock of almost shoulder-length white hair and a closely trimmed black beard, who was deep in conversation with a much taller and thinner priest of considerably younger years. The latter wore a full-length, black Victorian-style clerical frock coat that, along with his own shoulder-length black hair, gave him the air of being not quite of this world.

  ‘This, James, is the Reverend Dr George Morgan, Director of Ordinands for the Diocese of York and Canon Prebendary at York Minster. A man you will come to know very well in due course and indeed he you, for it is this man upon whose shoulders ultimately sits the spiritual weight of guiding all the new ordinands within the Archbishop of York’s jurisdiction.’

  ‘James, delighted to meet you.’ The reverend doctor’s face took on a rather jocular appearance and a somewhat heightened colouration as he effusively shook James’ hand. ‘We must have a chat about how things are progressing with you. Michael did say where you are studying, but my memory fails me, I am afraid. Is it Mirfield or Cranmer Hall?’

  ‘Actually, I didn’t, George,’ Michael interjected before James could respond. ‘All in good time. He has been following his calling for the past couple of years, but has yet to apply for a placement at a theological college. I have invited him here this evening to help him focus his mind on how he might wish to proceed. I thought you would be able to assist him in your own inimitable style.’

  ‘It will be my great pleasure. Hopefully, my talk this evening will give you a few pointers, but perhaps we should meet privately and discuss this at greater length?’

  As he spoke, James found his eye wandering to the various stains marking the black clerical shirtfront of his interlocutor, stains actively added to by the effusive use of his arms as he punctuated his speech with total disregard for the contents of the glass of wine held in one hand.

  ‘Here is my card. Ring me on my home number and we will book a suitable date.’

  He plucked a beige business card from his jacket pocket and wrote a number on the back before passing it across.

  ‘Thank you, I will—’

  Before he could finish his sentence, Michael again deflected his attention.

  ‘One more introduction, if I may, and then we will get the main event underway.’

  He turned him to face the taller priest in the Victorian coat, who had earlier taken a couple of steps backwards in order to avoid being sprinkled with wine.

  ‘The Reverend Luke Palfreyman, Warden of Norton Abbey. Luke… Dr James Armstrong.’

  ‘Thank you, Michael, though I think Dr Armstrong deserves a drink.’

  The Warden of Norton Abbey forsook the customary shaking of hands as a greeting, placed an arm around James’ shoulders and guided him away towards the table. He picked up one of the wine bottles and peered carefully at the label.

  ‘A claret from a little-known château, but knowing Michael its quality will surpass its lineage. You’ll partake, I assume?’

  He barely glanced to see whether he had assent before pouring two large glasses and passing one of them across.

  ‘You were beginning to look a little fazed by the combined enthusiasm of Michael and George. Take no notice, they mean well. But tell me, James – I may call you James?’ He did not wait for the nodded assent. ‘Tell me – two years? That seems a fair while to be “following your calling” as Michael put it; at least without, or so it would seem, not actually going anywhere.’

  He eyed James pensively over the rim of his glass as he took a prolonged draught of the wine, glanced around before leaning closer and lowered his voice.

  ‘Do I detect a barrier of some sort? A psychological impediment, perhaps?’

  ‘Well, I… eh… I am not sure quite how…’ He took a mouthful of the wine, as much for Dutch courage as the need for refreshment, and started again. ‘I’m sorry; you took me quite by surprise. Is it that obvious? My ambivalence, I mean. If that is what it really is; I haven’t really thought about it in such terms.’ He took another sip of wine before continuing. ‘It’s a little difficult to talk about here.’

  ‘Take no notice of those around you here. Novices all, and possibly only one or two with any significant intent of pursuing the priesthood. Not that they realise that at present, but they will in good time. However, I do not mean to pry and I certainly do not want to embarrass you. Perhaps now is indeed not a good moment to talk. Nonetheless, I can recognise when a man’s mind is in turmoil and I sense a deep unrest in you. Might I suggest that you ring me before contacting George Morgan?’

  James was passed another business card.

  ‘A spell at Norton Abbey might be just what you need to clear your mind.’

  He topped up James’ glass, ignoring the raised hand of self-denial, and proceeded to do the same for his own.

  ‘You’ll need it as sustenance to get through his lecture. Oh, and by the way, if you do meet with him alone, be aware that he is a “Friend of Dorothy”, if you follow my meaning – and if you don’t, then look it up.’

  He winked and then turned to speak to a couple of young men who were standing quietly on their own at the periphery of the room. James watched his retreating back, perplexed by the reference to Dorothy, whoever she happened to be. However, before he could ponder the issue any more, there was a knocking noise as Michael tapped a spoon on the refectory table in an effort to gain everyone’s attention.

  ‘Gentlemen. As we are all here, I think we had better make a start. If you would be so kind to take a seat and I will call upon the Reverend Dr George Morgan to enlighten us as to the Archbishop of York’s plans for the training of priests up here in what he would like to think of as the true premier province of England.’

  Polite laughter scattered through the crypt at Michael’s somewhat heretical dig at the accepted primacy of the seat of Canterbury within the Church of England, followed by a general scraping of chairs as the guests settled themselves in anticipation of their speaker. Only George Morgan remained standing, a freshly charged glass arcing through the air in front of him with every new sentence.

  ‘Archdeacon, Michael, welcomed guests all. It gives me enormous pleasure to be amongst you this evening, especially in such a remarkable place as this. When I knew that Michael was planning this evening’s event, I spoke with the Archbishop and…’

  * * *

  A few hours later, James arrived home to discover that Janice had already retired to bed. He switched on a standard lamp, poured himself a generous helping of Laphroaig’s Quarter Cask and plucked a copy of the Oxford Dictionary of English from the bookshelf before settling into an armchair. Savouring the rich, peaty aroma of the whisky, he took a sip, allowed the fiery liquid to pleasure his taste buds for a few moments and then swallowed, enjoying even more the trail of warmth it left on its passage downwards through the centre of his chest.

  ‘What did he mean by a “Friend of Dorothy”?’ he asked the otherwise empty room.

  Placing his glass to one side, he opened the dictionary and flicked through the pages. It was on the off chance that he expected to find the answer in the OED. However, Luke had instructed him to look it up, as though he knew the answer would be easy to find. Finding no reference to ‘Dorothy’ under the section D, he turned to that for F.

  ‘Friend of Dorothy,’ he read aloud and then continued quietly.

  Friend of Dorothy: a homosexual man – origin: from the name of Dorothy, a character played by the actress Judy Garland (a gay icon) in the film The Wizard of Oz (1939).

  ‘Well, we live and learn – I wonder whether Jules knows that? Twit, of course he probably does. Thanks for the warning anyway, Luke.’

  Curiosity sated, he put the book on the floor and retrieved the two business cards from the breast pocket of his jacket. The
first, buff-coloured, was that of the Rev’d Dr George Morgan MA (Oxon), DD, Director of Ordinands, Diocese of York, and evidently a friend of Dorothy, James thought to himself. The second card, a more sober white, announced the Rev’d Luke Palfreyman LLB, BTh, MA (Cantab), Warden of Norton Abbey, and identified the address of the abbey as being in the northern-most reaches of the Yorkshire Dales.

  He took another sip of whisky and read the card again.

  ‘Well, you are full of surprises, Luke. A lawyer as well as a theologian; not to mention a mind-reader. Just what was it that you detected in me?’

  He sat there contemplating as the whisky started to take effect, slightly detaching him from the immediacy of the room.

  ‘Norton Abbey,’ he muttered, and started to flick the second card repeatedly between his fingers.

  26

  Bishopsworth, Lincolnshire

  ‘Good morning, ladies.’

  James greeted the receptionists en masse and picked up a pile of prescriptions for signing.

  ‘Good morning, Dr Armstrong.’

  He smiled, the chorus of simultaneous greetings from Sandy, Christine and Anna reminding him of a class of children greeting their teacher; not that he was brave enough to share that thought with them. Hesitating on the pretext of looking through the scripts, he waited for the other two receptionists to be engaged on answering the telephones before speaking again.

  ‘Anna, could I please have the telephone number for Lady Winsonby-Folcroft at Helliton Hall? She’s asked me to call but only left part of her number.’

  He started to leave and then turned, as another thought occurred to him.

  ‘Oh, and I think you were looking for this.’

  He pulled a long white envelope from his pocket and passed it to her on his way out of the reception.

  ‘I’ll be in my room when you have found that number.’

  As he walked through the waiting room he glanced back to see the look of surprise on her face, well knowing that, having opened the envelope, she was now staring at two tickets for the Bolshoi Ballet’s production of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake at the Hull New Theatre.

  It was only a matter of a few moments before there was a knock on his consulting room door. Not waiting for a response, Anna entered and closed the door behind her.

  ‘You’re fantastic!’

  He looked up from his desk, a smile of amusement substituting for speech.

  ‘You wonderful man, you.’

  ‘I’m not sure wheth—’

  His response was cut short as she hoisted him out of his seat by the knot of his tie.

  ‘Anna, you’re throt—’

  This time it was not strangulation that cut his sentence short, but a powerful, very passionate kiss as she draped her arms round his neck and pulled his lips to hers.

  ‘How did you do it?’ It was she who finally surfaced for air first. ‘I thought you were already going with Janice?’

  He grinned again, straightened his tie and pulled her back to him.

  ‘Which of those two questions would you like me to answer first?’

  With his arms now around her waist, they were both very conscious that her kiss had elicited a significant state of arousal. She wriggled her hips in acknowledgement of the fact, an action that only exacerbated the situation. He smiled, enjoying the mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

  ‘It is true that I have to go on the Friday night. However, as you will see from your tickets, I am taking you to the matinee performance on the preceding Thursday afternoon. Consequently, the first time I will have ever seen the Bolshoi Ballet perform live will be in your company.’

  ‘You’re impossible – and I love you.’

  ‘No, you don’t; you’re just infatuated with fortune and power.’

  She wriggled for a second time, but this time in an indignant attempt to escape his hold.

  ‘Call it an early birthday present.’

  She kissed him again, but this time more as punctuation to her former sentence.

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  Another kiss followed, slightly longer than the previous.

  ‘I must get back to the desk.’ As she spoke, she broke free of his arms and groped the growing bulge in his trousers before walking away. ‘We’ll speak about that later.’

  ‘Of course; as you wish.’

  She had the door half-open before he again spoke.

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting something important?’

  She half-turned to face him.

  ‘I said we would deal with it later.’

  ‘No, something that is going to rescue me from a far more serious predicament?’

  Puzzlement now became her dominant expression.

  ‘Lady Winsonby-Folcroft’s telephone number?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  She laughed and passed across a piece of crumpled paper from the pocket of her skirt.

  ‘Sorry, Doctor. My mind was on other matters.’

  She winked and was gone from the room. James took a deep sigh, straightened the paper, picked up the telephone and dialled the number. After four rings, an answer-machine cut in with the voice of the High Sheriff’s personal secretary requesting a message be left. He was somewhat relieved not to have to make his excuses directly.

  ‘Hello, this is James Armstrong. Perhaps you would thank Lady Winsonby-Folcroft for her kind invitation but let her know that, unfortunately, I am on duty for the practice on Saturday week and therefore unable to attend on this occasion. Thank you.’

  He hung up, relieved to have had a genuine excuse not to attend on his own, or worse, to have attended with Janice in tow. The mere thought of the latter scenario caused a small shudder to ripple his back and he shook his head as though in affirmation of the undesirability of the thought. Picking up a set of medical notes and memorising the name, he checked his appearance in the mirror and walked out into the waiting room to call his first patient of the day.

  27

  Kingston upon Hull

  Summer

  Hull New Theatre opened in 1939, despite the outbreak of the Second World War. It was lucky to have escaped all but one bomb, which destroyed a props store but left the rest of the theatre intact. Less fortunate than the theatre, the city of Hull was even now still recovering from the ravages of that war. Scattered throughout the city, large tracts of land were parcels of dereliction; stark reminders of the heavy bombing Hull had endured as the price of being situated on such a strategic waterway as the Humber estuary. In places, where fine buildings had once stood, makeshift car parks had subsequently materialised on bulldozed waste ground. Other areas, like the square in front of the theatre, were turned into attractive recreational gardens, as the city’s elders attempted to capture a new age and image for their forgotten city.

  It was on the edge of the Theatre Square gardens where James found a vacant parking bay into which he reversed the MG. The July afternoon was a fine warm one; the blue sky perfectly complementing the white and pastel shades of the imposing frontage to the theatre. Sunlight reflected off the theatre’s gold-coloured name emblazoned high above the four white ionic-style columns; whilst even higher, the three ducal coronets of the city’s arms lay obscured in the limpid folds of a flag undisturbed by even the gentlest of breezes.

  ‘A summer’s day in Hull doesn’t get much better than this. Isn’t it glorious?’

  He had walked to the passenger side and was in the process of assisting Anna from the car.

  ‘Thank you, you really are a gentleman.’

  ‘At your service, madam.’

  He gave a court bow, raising her hand to his lips in the process. She giggled and glanced around.

  ‘Aren’t you afraid that someone will recognise us?’

  ‘On a Thursday afternoon in this land of culture? The majority of those living in Bishopsworth will not venture across the Humber Bridge and even if they did, it would be for shopping. As for anyone from Barminster, I doubt very much that many have ever seen Janice an
d me together and therefore wouldn’t look twice at my being seen with you.’

  He slipped an arm around her waist and kissed her cheek. Seeing her in a light summer dress made a pleasant change from her usual work uniform and the effect was not lost on him.

  ‘Come on, you beautiful lady, let me escort you to the ballet.’

  They strolled through the landscaped, tree-lined garden, enjoying its faint perfume of jasmine and honeysuckle, and crossed the square to the theatre steps on the far side. As they ascended and passed under the towering entrance of the Grade II listed portico, James pulled the tickets from his pocket and checked their seat numbers.

  ‘F10 and 11. I think that should be towards the front of the stalls on our left-hand side.’

  Inside the foyer, he glanced towards the two doors to the auditorium and affirmed his previous thought.

  ‘Would you like a programme? Of course you would; if only for a souvenir.’

  He crossed to where a theatre employee was sitting behind a desk piled high with programmes, waiting for a moment whilst the person in front of him checked her change.

  ‘Just one, please. Thank you.’

  Passing the programme to Anna, he paid and took Anna’s arm. His voice took on the quality of an East End barrow boy.

  ‘This way to the tuppenny-ha’penny seats, ma’am.’

  She laughed and slid her arm through his, walking close to his side.

  ‘I’m sure they cost far more than that.’

  ‘Absolutely! Blooming expensive they woz! It’ll take all me wages for the next munf to pay ’em off-like!’

  ‘Stop it!’ She laughed again. ‘I think I prefer the man I arrived with.’

  ‘As you wish, m’lady.’

  He mimicked touching the peak of an imaginary cap before resuming in his normal voice.

  ‘Actually, you are right. I am hopeless at accents. They all end up sounding like a posh Welshman.’

  He gave their tickets to a uniformed lady at the entrance to the auditorium, who tore off the stubs before returning the remaining portions to him.