A Blessing In Disguise (26 page)

‘Good-afternoon, Bishop!' I greet him.

‘Hello, Venus!' he replies pleasantly, following me into the hall. ‘How are you? Are you settled into the house yet? Is there lots to do?'

‘Not too much,' I tell him. ‘I'm doing it a little at a time.'

‘Good!' he says. ‘That's the best way. It took my wife and me several months to get everything sorted in the palace!'

But he's not here to talk about my domestic arrangements, or his, and we go into my study and sit ourselves down.

‘Now, my dear,' he says, wasting no further time, ‘what are we going to do about Miss Frazer, eh?'

I don't have any useful answer because I can only guess at what she's said. I'm waiting for him to tell me. ‘I'd be glad of your advice,' I tell him. ‘I'm not yet sure what her complaint is.'

‘Of course you're not!' he agrees. ‘And you need to know. Well, I had this letter from her – I shan't show it to you because that would be wrong – but without quoting her word for word I shall tell you what she said.'

I say nothing.

‘First of all,' he says, ‘she tells me of her – and her family's – long association with St Mary's, and with the village. She also points out that she has supported St Mary's in many ways, not least financial, but not only financial. She was active in the Sunday School and, though not a mother, in the Mothers' Union, and in Missionary activities. She was a long-serving member of the PCC, and she and her family have given a great deal, in money and in kind, to the church.'

He looks at me as if waiting for an answer.

‘I'm sure all that's true,' I agree. ‘I've been told that by more than one person. Her family have been great benefactors.'

‘I think,' he says, ‘that part of the problem is that she no longer has a hand in most of these things. I'm told – and though I don't know Miss Frazer myself there are a number of people at Diocesan House who do, or know of her – that she's no longer on the PCC, the Mothers' Union has closed down and I suppose younger people are now – quite rightly – running the Sunday School. So it has left her with not a lot to do, not as many spheres of influence – except financially, of course.'

I nod again, in agreement, though I'm not sure where he's going.

‘But her chief difficulty, as I see it,' he continues, ‘is that she is totally opposed to change of any kind. She will fight it tooth and nail. This is not unusual in the Church, is it? And with Miss Frazer the crux of the matter is that she cannot and will not accept women priests.'

‘She made that abundantly clear to me,' I tell him. ‘I don't see how I can change that.'

‘You can't,' he agrees. ‘Nevertheless, she thinks
she
can. What she wants, in short, is for you to be moved from this parish.'

I am horrified! I'm sure it shows in my face – I couldn't hide it if I tried. How dare she!

‘Don't worry!' the Bishop says quickly. ‘That's not going to happen. But I thought I must tell you so that you know where you stand with Miss Frazer. But that is
not
where you stand with me. Not at all! And before I reply to her letter I would like you to tell me your side of the story.'

‘She hasn't told you?' I ask. ‘She hasn't told you what she did, how she demonstrated what she thought of me . . . ?'

‘I think not so much of you as of women in the priesthood,' he interrupts. ‘But you happen to be in what she regards as her territory. So tell me.'

And I do. I try to tell it as unemotionally as I can, which is difficult. I'm aware that he's watching me intently. He pauses for quite a while before he replies.

‘That is appalling,' he says. ‘I'm sorry you had to go through that.'

‘It wasn't the hurt to
me
!' I tell him. ‘And it wasn't only the hurt to God. It was what was done to those others who observed it on the Sunday.'

‘Yes. I understand that,' he says.

Then after a minute or so in which neither one of us says anything, he speaks.

‘I shall write to Miss Frazer. I will do it tomorrow, I have a meeting this evening. I will not let you see a copy of the letter, that must be private to her, but I shall tell you now what I'm going to say to her. And you are at liberty to discuss this with your churchwardens, in confidence of course.

‘First of all I shall thank her for all that she and her family have done for St Mary's. That mustn't be overlooked. And then I shall tell her that no matter what she thinks or feels on the subject of women priests, there is nothing she can do about it. It is the law of the land, and has been for more than ten years, that a woman who has the necessary qualifications and is of a suitable character can be ordained to the priesthood. I shall tell her how much I regret that she cannot come to terms with this. But she cannot change the law.

‘I shall go on to tell her that your orders are entirely valid and there is no way you would, or indeed could, be asked to leave St Mary's on the grounds she puts forward. You are carrying out the job for which you were ordained and licensed and you are doing it here with my blessing and my full support.'

‘Thank you,' I say.

‘Then I shall suggest to her that if she is adamant that she cannot receive communion from you her best plan would be to attend a church where the priest is a man. There are churches in Brampton where she could go, and I would be willing to introduce her.'

‘She doesn't want to do that,' I tell him. ‘She did say so.'

‘Then she must behave herself in St Mary's,' the Bishop says. ‘As for the fact that she threatens to withdraw her financial support of the church, then I shall tell her that she is totally at liberty to do so, while thanking her for her support in the past.'

‘I didn't realize she'd threatened that,' I say. ‘I am sorry.'

‘It's not for you to be sorry,' he says. ‘The day the Church bases its judgements on money – desperately though it's needed – is the day it's lost.

‘I shall also tell her,' he continues, ‘and quite firmly, that if she does not wish to receive communion, then she should not come up to the altar rail. If she insists on coming to the altar, then she should not put out her hands to receive. Tell me, Venus, if someone knelt at the altar, indicating that they didn't wish to receive, what would you do?'

‘Almost certainly I would place my hands on the person's head and give them a blessing,' I reply. ‘I do that already, for people not yet ready for the sacrament, or who feel they're not.'

‘Quite so!' he says.

‘And that would drive Miss Frazer really mad!' I say.

‘Indeed it would! So I shall tell her that if she wants neither communion nor a blessing then she should not present herself at the altar. I don't doubt that Miss Frazer was brought up on the Book of Common Prayer and there's plenty in that about acceptable and unacceptable behaviour at the Holy Communion. I shall direct her to it.'

And then he smiles at me – a warm smile.

‘Try not to worry,' he says. ‘This is something you will learn to deal with. Unfortunately she is only one of many who hold the same opinion about women in the priesthood – and they are not all laity, as I'm sure you know perfectly well.'

‘Oh I do!' I agree. Amongst the least welcoming people I have come across are not those in the church congregations but those I met in my training, and in the theological college. And they were mostly priests, or priests in the making.

‘It will change,' he says. ‘It might take longer than you want, things move slowly in the Church, but it will change. As for Miss Frazer, she's an unhappy woman, and you strike me as a happy one in spite of the sorrows you've had.'

‘I am!' I agree.

He's obviously said all he has to say, so I ask: ‘And now can I make you a cup of tea, Bishop?'

‘That would be most welcome.' He stands up. ‘I'll come and talk to you in the kitchen while you make it. I like kitchens. My wife and I tend to eat in the kitchen when we're on our own.'

So that's where we have our tea, and he eats a piece of Madeira cake with evident enjoyment, then he springs to his feet again.

‘Reluctantly,' he says, ‘I must be off. I would have liked to have talked to you about the parish, heard what your plans are, and so forth. I enjoyed being a parish priest. There is nothing in the Church more demanding or, in the end, more fulfilling. I never intended or wanted to be anything more – but there it is, one does whatever God seems to be calling one to do. But perhaps we'll speak another time. And do let me know – don't hesitate to ring me – if there's any more trouble on the Miss Frazer front. Do you see any as yet? Any sign of it spreading?'

‘Perhaps a little,' I say. ‘Though not much. I'm sure I can deal with it.'

‘Yes,' he says. ‘I reckon you can!'

He says a short prayer and gives me a blessing. ‘And if your churchwardens want to discuss things further with me, tell Henry Nugent to contact me. Remember, Venus, that you have the cure of all souls in your parish, those who persecute you as well as those who show you love. Try to go the extra mile, Venus, and do it with love. I will pray for you, you for me, and both of us for Miss Frazer. We must all pray for each other.'

I see him to the door, where he turns around and says ‘Read Psalm twenty-seven.' Then he zooms away in his red BMW, not driving at all as I'd expect a bishop to drive. I know Psalm twenty-seven.

‘The Lord is my light and my salvation:

Whom shall I fear?'

I am driving Becky to Clipton. It's a fine morning, sunnier and certainly milder than one might expect at this time of the year, and there's a nice sort of ‘Saturday' feeling to it which I think must be due to the fact that I've settled the two matters which were really bugging me, Becky and the school business, and Miss Frazer, so I can relax. But no, it would be an exaggeration to say I've settled them. About Becky I do feel hopeful, I think that's going to be all right. Miss Frazer isn't so simple, but the Bishop is on my side, and that's great. As the psalm says, ‘though war rise up against me, yet will I be confident'. So I'm feeling OK, but much more to the point, so is Becky and I hope it will last.

She is sitting beside me. The back seat is overflowing with her belongings, including several soft toys which normally live in her bedroom and which she was loath to leave, indeed her teddy bear, name of Blossom, is on the front seat with her. It might seem strange that a ten-year-old should be accompanied by an army of soft toys, but I didn't try to stop it. I know what a comfort they've been to her. She'll outgrow them when she's ready – though I know women years older than I am who are still attached to their teddy bears. In Clipton I met one who had taken one into a retirement home with her. She told me he was very happy there.

‘When will we be there?' Becky asks. ‘Will Grandma be in?'

‘In about an hour,' I tell her. ‘And of course she'll be in!'

‘What if she's not?' she wants to know.

‘Well, if she were to be out, then I have a key,' I say. ‘But really there's no question of it.'

Evelyn Sharp phoned me last evening. ‘Are you on your own?' she asked. ‘By which I mean, is Becky with you?'

‘No she's not,' I replied. ‘I saw her off to bed about twenty minutes ago, though she won't be asleep because she's too excited about going to Clipton.'

‘I'm glad it's half-term,' Evelyn said. ‘Couldn't be better from Becky's point of view. Anyway, I'm ringing to tell you I've set everything in motion. We decided at the staff meeting – where by the way, everyone was sorry to hear about Becky – that the secretary – her name's Eileen Fawcett – was the very best person to be Becky's mentor, and Eileen is pleased to do that. We also reckoned that Anna Brent would be the perfect choice for a friend. She's a motherly little soul. I thought it best if I spoke to Mrs Brent, which I did. I didn't go into the bullying bit, I explained that Becky was finding it hard to settle in at school and we thought Anna could be a help to her. She was totally agreeable.'

‘That all sounds marvellous,' I said. ‘Can I tell Becky?'

‘Of course you can!' Evelyn said. ‘I also spoke to the three young bullies, gave them a piece of my mind, told them they'd be dealt with very severely if such a thing happened again, either to Becky or to anyone else, and that Mr Beagle and I would be keeping a sharp eye open. And we shall, but I think it will be OK. I wanted to give them a second chance before I did anything more drastic. I didn't tell them who had reported it except that it wasn't Becky – which it wasn't, because you were the one who told me. You might want to reassure Becky on some of this if she's still awake.'

‘I certainly will,' I said.

So the minute Evelyn put down the phone I went up to Becky's room, and she
was
awake so I did tell her. We talked about it a little, but not much. Then I gave her a big hug, and left her. Half-an-hour later I looked in on her and she was fast asleep, and somehow, even in sleep, she looked a happier child.

And now I have a tape on in the car and I'm singing along to it as I drive down the motorway. Ella Fitzgerald. I have old-fashioned tastes.

‘This is yucky,' Becky complains. ‘Don't you have anything better than this?'

‘They don't come any better than this,' I say. ‘You don't like it?'

‘It's drear!'

I know what she means. Why should I expect her to enjoy ‘Love Is Here to Stay'? Anyway, it's not true. If it's not fleeting in one way it is in another. ‘Not for a year, but ever and a day'! I wish! And then I pull myself up sharply. Of course love is here to stay! Love itself will never die. Isn't that the bedrock of my faith? Isn't it what I stand up in the pulpit and preach about? And I don't mean only the love of God, I mean all kinds of love. Parents and children, men and women, friends. Of course it isn't going to die!