by Phil Rickman
‘Where’s that, exactly?’
‘Oh... the city. Country people think they’re tough because they can pull lambs out of ewes and have to walk further for the bus. Because they can shoot things and watch foxes get torn to bits without feeling pity. Is that tough, Jane? Is that what you’d call tough?’
Jane wrinkled her nose. ‘I think hunting’s totally psychotic, and a waste of time and money. But then, so do a lot of country people, on the quiet.’
‘Do they?’ Ben was either surprised or disappointed.
‘Nobody really likes having their land churned up and their cats killed, like, by mistake. Most of them keep it to themselves, because hunt people can turn nasty when they’re threatened. And country people don’t like confrontation.’
Ben did, though. Ben was into drama. And although he didn’t seem to be aggressive in a violent way, you got the idea that he actually needed to feel a lot of people were against him – needed this to fire him up, maintain his energy level. Needs to succeed against the odds, Amber had said.
Which, when you thought about it, made him a dangerous sort of person to be living here on the Border. Like actually on the actual Border. Jane had theories about the Border and what it meant, what it really was. This excited her most of the time, but now her cheap maid’s outfit was blotting up the wet, and she was clammy-cold and starting to shiver and actually wish she was in her apartment back at the vicarage – how wimpish was that?
‘You’re a smart girl,’ Ben said. ‘I’m awfully glad we’ve got you here. Amber’s a hugely talented woman and very... very decent. But she needs support. And because we can only afford part-time staff, you and Natalie, you’re...’
He didn’t finish. He smiled and turned away, opening the main door for Jane, who noticed the rain coming into the glass porch through the gaps in the putty.
‘They were very close last night,’ Jane said.
‘Who were?’
‘The gun club. There was one shot... sounded like it was just outside the window.’
‘Really,’ Ben said.
3
What Consultants Are For
ON THURSDAY MORNING in the church, the Holy Ghost was waiting.
Alice Meek, from the chip shop in Old Barn Lane, was doing the flowers on the altar. Dusty pillars of white light were dropping from the upper windows and Alice’s voice was carrying like a crow’s across the chancel.
‘My niece, the one in Solihull, she did one of them Alpha courses at her church, did I tell you? After the decree nisi come through, this was – big gap in her life, usual story.’ Alice was smoothing out the altar cloth, replacing the candlesticks. ‘This Alpha, she reckoned it d’creep up on you somehow. It don’t seem like much at first, but near the end of it she felt the Holy Spirit was in her heart like a big white bird, and you could feel its wings fluttering. That’s what she said, vicar. As if this big bird was trying to escape from her breast and’ – Alice spread her arms wide – ‘fill the whole world with love and healing.’
‘That’s nice.’ Merrily went on dusting the choir stalls, wondering where this was going. It was the first time she’d encountered Alice since the Prossers had told her about Ann-Marie.
‘But we prevents it happening, see.’ Alice came back to the chancel steps for the pewter vase that she’d filled with flowers. ‘We don’t let it out. It’s the way we are. We’re all scared to open up, so we keeps him in his cage, the poor old Holy Spirit. I never quite got that before, see.’ She scuttled back and set the pewter vase on the altar. ‘Nothing like freesias, is there? You en’t thought of having one of them Alpha courses yere, Vicar?’
‘Well, it’s—’
‘No. You’re dead right. It’s not necessary.’ Alice came stomping back down the chancel steps, a fierce-faced little woman in a pink nylon overall. ‘I yeard as how Jenny Driscoll, God rest her poor soul, used to say there was angelic light around Ledwardine Church, and now I know exac’ly what she meant. It’s crept up on all of us, it has. Like me – I only come to your Sunday night service because somebody said there wasn’t no hymns. Voice like mine, you don’t wanner do no singing if you can help it, do you? Scare the bloody angels off the roof.’
Alice cackled. Was there a new energy about her, or was that imagination? Merrily sat down in one of the choir stalls. As with most parishes nowadays, there hadn’t been a choir here for years. Some ministers even liked to condense their congregations into the stalls now. More intimate.
Alice came to sit next to her.
‘I’ll be honest, Vicar, some of us wasn’t too sure about you at first. Bit too nervous in the pulpit. Like you wasn’t too certain of what you was trying to say. But it en’t all about preaching, is it? And it en’t all about singin’ the same ole hymns and not hearing none of the words no more. It’s the quiet times, ennit? It’s the quiet times when things starts to happen.’
‘Things?’ Merrily grew nervous.
Alice winked, like there was a great secret floating in the dusty air between them. Brenda Prosser’s voice seemed to echo in the void: Alice said she lost track of time. She said she felt as if everybody there was together... and they were part of something that was, you know, bigger.
‘It’s prayer,’ Merrily said, ‘that’s all.’
‘Whatever you wanner call it’s all right with me,’ Alice said. ‘It’s like you being the exorcist. We wasn’t sure about that either at first. But when I was talking to Mrs Hitchin, works in the library at Leominster, she says it’s all part of the same thing.’
‘Oh.’
‘So anyway,’ Alice said, ‘I was planning to have a word with you about my nephew, works at the tyre place in Hereford.’
Merrily looked at her.
‘Asthma,’ Alice said.
Later, when the Ledwardine GP, Kent Asprey, phoned about next year’s village marathon, Merrily knew he wanted something else. This was how things were done in the sticks.
She took the call in the scullery, sitting at her desk next to the window overlooking the sodden, grey garden.
‘I see from my list that you haven’t entered your name,’ Asprey said.
‘It’s next April, isn’t it? Anyway, you wouldn’t either, if you had legs as short as mine.’ Merrily lit a cigarette. ‘But you could put me down to be one of the people who pushes drinks at the runners.’
‘Righto,’ he said. She could hear him writing.
She waited, looking across the lawn to the ancient apple orchard which was creeping back into the churchyard so that the church and the vicarage were enmeshed again, in a skein of hoary branches. Apple trees were not graceful and not pretty once the fruit was gone. In the old days, the cider would have been made and stored by now. The cider would see the village through the winter. The cider and the church.
But no cider was produced here any more.
‘Ann-Marie Herdman,’ he said. ‘You’ll have heard, I suppose?’
‘It’s remarkable, isn’t it?’ Merrily began to draw an apple on the sermon pad.
‘At least you didn’t use the word “miracle”.’
‘Not one of my very favourite words, Kent.’
‘I... I know Ann-Marie pretty well...’
‘I’m sure.’ This was the man who, in the cause of preventative medicine, used to lead groups of women from Ledwardine and surrounding villages on fun runs. Until word reached his wife that, for a select few, the serious fun had begun after the run. ‘So your position on this would be... what?’
‘I’d say, let them all keep their illusions. Not often people in my profession get to impart that kind of good news. And if it helps you people fill your churches in these difficult times...’
‘That’s very generous of you, Doctor. We need all the crumbs we can get.’
‘Entirely off the record, it could be a medical anomaly, but it’s my suspicion that there was an error at the hospital with those first tests. Whether it was technical or a mix-up of names is a matter of conjecture, and we’ll probably
never really know, but—’
‘You mean Ann-Marie Herdman never had a tumour.’
‘I can’t say that, obviously.’
‘But you must’ve had a reason to refer her to the consultant in the first place.’
‘It’s what consultants are for, Merrily. To take the heat.’
‘Of course.’
‘But mistakes do occur. It’s inevitable.’
‘And yet you told the Prossers you’d done some checks and you couldn’t find evidence of any mix-up.’
‘Merrily, in these litigious times...’
‘I see.’
‘Anyway,’ Asprey said, ‘I thought you ought to know. I realize it can be quite embarrassing for someone in your position when people latch on to something like this and blow it up into something it isn’t.’
‘Yes,’ Merrily said. ‘That was very thoughtful of you.’
When he hung up, she was looking at the moon over Paul Klee’s rooftops in the print opposite the desk. The moon was very faintly blue. She looked down at the sermon pad and saw that under the apple she’d printed the words SMUG and GIT.
At dusk, Merrily went to lock up the church, glancing, on the way out, at the prayer board on which parishioners could write the names of people for whom they’d like prayers to be said.
There were twice as many as usual. One had the final sentence underlined; it said: THIS IS FOR SUNDAY NIGHT.
Walking back through the churchyard, an isolated spurt of sleet hit her like grit from under lorry wheels, and she hurried under the lych gate.
What did you do here? What did you do about healing? How did you explain all those times when there was no cure, when the condition worsened? What did you say to them when, after the quiet times, after the unity, after the being part of something bigger... what did you say to them when, after all that, God appeared to have let them down badly?
Back in the scullery, with about twenty minutes before Jane’s school bus was due on the square, she prodded in the number for Sophie at the Hereford Cathedral gatehouse. Time to make an appointment with Bernie Dunmore.
‘Gatehouse.’ Male voice.
‘Bishop...?’
‘Merrily Watkins, as I live and breathe.’ Bernie sniffed. ‘Well, with slight difficulty at the moment, seem to be developing a cold. Sophie’s just popped across to Fodder to get me some herbal thing which she insists is going to deal with it.’
‘Echinacea?’
‘What’s wrong with Sudafed, I say.’
‘It’s a drug.’
‘And?’
‘Bernie,’ Merrily said, ‘where do we stand on healing?’
‘As in...?’
‘Spiritual.’
‘We brought out an extensive report,’ the Bishop reminded her. ‘It’s called “A Time for Healing.”
“A Time to Heal”. No, when I say we, I mean we, the Diocese. As distinct from we, the Church.’
‘Bugger,’ said the Bishop. ‘Have you no pity for a man with a cold? Your department we’re talking about here, isn’t it? Healing and Deliverance. Remember?’
‘Is it, though? My job description says Deliverance. Healing sounds like the C of E spin doctors softening it up. Less bell, book and candle, more touchy-feely caring.’
‘You have a specific problem with that?’
‘Possibly.’
The Bishop didn’t reply. He would know better than to quote St Mark’s version of Jesus’s parting message, pre-ascension; as well as the Church’s healing mission, it appeared to advocate picking up snakes, cause of many deaths in the US Bible Belt.
‘All right, I’ve been doing this slightly experimental Sunday-evening service,’ Merrily said. ‘Loose, open-ended. I thought it was working. I mean, it brought in some of the villagers who normally wouldn’t notice if the steeple fell off. Even Jane’s been a couple of times, when the weekend job allows. So... a modest success.’
‘What I like to hear.’
‘People actually saying they’re reaching something deeper in the way of understanding and awareness. And discovering you can actually learn meditation for free. But it wasn’t meant to be... I mean, it didn’t start out as a healing session. We did pray, though, as you would, for a woman who’d been told she had a malignant tumour. A week later she was told that she didn’t have a tumour at all.’
‘Congratulations,’ the Bishop said.
‘Don’t get me wrong, I couldn’t be more delighted—’
‘But you can’t help wondering if it was an answer to your prayers, in the strictest sense.’
‘The local GP rang to point out that it was probably a misdiagnosis. Or a technological problem with the scanner. Or an administrative cock-up, or – at worst – one of those very rare medical anomalies. Now, he could be entirely wrong, or covering something up. And he’s massively out-numbered by all those people who would clearly like to think that something did happen...’
‘Obviously.’
‘But... Bernie, they’ve started to bring out their sick. They’re recalling lesser ailments prayed for and subsequently eased. This morning I was asked if I’d mind curing someone’s asthma, even though he doesn’t live in the parish.’
‘They believe you’re a latent healer?’
‘I stress that if it’s happening it’s not down to me, but I suspect there’s a feeling that the Deliverance minister has a hot line. Like the fourth emergency service? The nature of the Sunday-evening service has been... misrepresented.’
The Bishop breathed so heavily into the phone that it was like the germs were coming down the line.
‘You do have a more exciting ministry than most of us, don’t you, Merrily?’
‘Maybe I’m missing the humour here, Bishop. Young guy who gets acute asthma attacks and whose aunt is afraid that the next time it happens...?’
There was a long pause. Down the phone, she could hear the traffic in Broad Street, a door opening and closing, quick footsteps on the stone stairway to the gatehouse offices.
‘You know Jeavons is back,’ the Bishop said.
‘Jeav—? Oh.’
‘I mean, if you wanted to talk to someone about this. Someone who actually knows about it, as distinct from a knackered old admin bloke like me. I was only thinking, with Huw Owen being away...’
‘I’ve never met Jeavons,’ Merrily said.
The Bishop blew his nose. ‘You’re not the first to raise the question of healing lately. Healing groups is the normal approach. I think we all agree it’s better to share the burden. It also raises ecumenical possibilities, particularly with the Catholics, and I’m quite drawn to that. Ah... hold on one moment...’
She heard another voice. She heard the Bishop saying, ‘Well, I don’t know how to work the blessed thing.’ She thought about Catholic priests she knew and how they’d react to the idea of working with a woman.
Bernie came back on the line. ‘Sophie goes out for five minutes, place ceases to function. Did I mention Jeavons?’
‘He’s in Worcestershire, right?’
‘He’s been abroad. Semi-retired now, of course. Rather prematurely. Few years ago, there was a move to fast-track him into purple – view to Canterbury, one suspects. The little greaseball Blair was keen, for obvious reasons. Red faces all round when Jeavons tosses it back at them and says he’ll retire instead. What he wanted, we discover, was his freedom, to pursue his specialist interests, hover over psychic surgeons in Chile.’
‘At the Church’s expense?’
‘Dunno. My information is that he’s back in the country and available as a consultant to selected clerics – although I was once told it would be unwise to refer just anybody.’
‘Huw talked about him once,’ Merrily recalled. ‘Only—’
‘Because, if anyone’s on the edge of a crisis, Jeavons has been known to tip them over.’
‘Only, Huw reckoned he was mad,’ Merrily said.
Since the days when hundreds of medieval pilgrims had dragged their crippled limbs to t
he shrine of St Thomas Cantilupe in Hereford Cathedral, the Church had become increasingly uncomfortable about healing. You prayed for sick people, you might even light a candle, and if there was a cure you thanked God. Beyond that, a certain wariness crept in. Not strictly our thing.
In which case, what was the Church’s thing? The way congregations were crashing, it was clear that this was a question not going unasked. While Jane was changing out of her school gear, Merrily dug out the report: ‘A Time to Heal: A Contribution towards the Ministry of Healing’. In his introduction, George Carey, Archbishop of Canterbury at the time, referred to ‘Our Lord’s injunction to heal the sick,’ and suggested that the report might be studied and reflected upon and considered for action ‘as appropriate in dioceses and parishes’.
As appropriate. Merrily smiled.
In relation to parishes, the report recommended that clergy involved in healing should consider combining their resources with those of doctors, community nurses and carers operating according to a ‘working theology’ of the Ministry of Healing.
Oh, sure. Like Kent Asprey and Lorraine Bonner, the district nurse, who maintained she’d seen too much of life to be anything but an atheist.
The report was sniffy about some healing services. Lack of preparation, misunderstandings, unjustified claims and emotionalism leading to subsequent disappointment. It was more supportive of what it called Intercessory Groups, in which a number of ‘instructed persons’ met regularly to pray for the sick.
Laying-on of hands, by the minister, in the context of a normal service or Eucharist was also accepted, as were Services of Penance, underlining the healing benefits of forgiveness.
Merrily looked up Canon Llewellyn Jeavons in the phone book. There was a Jeavons L.C.D. at Suckley.
Mad, Huw had said, without explanation.
She knew where Suckley was – a rambling hamlet not far over the Herefordshire border and not far at all, in fact, from the Frome Valley where Lol Robinson was still living out of suitcases in the granary at Prof Levin’s recording studio.
